Kate did, and said as they reached the corridor outside and began walking towards the lift, ‘The other one? Which other one is that? Mr Rhoda? I gather he’s taking part as well, though I don’t know why —’
‘I really can’t say,’ the girl said vaguely, peering down at her clipboard. ‘There are various people due in make-up it seems —’ And she smiled brilliantly again over her shoulder and led the way into the lift apparently very casually, but Kate noticed how she now carried her clipboard firmly held against her so that there was no chance of Kate looking over her shoulder to see what was written there; and a little worm of anxiety wriggled in her belly.
Who else was to be in this wretched programme? Who else had they arranged to set against her? But once more she managed that mental shake. This was paranoid thinking. Oliver had said the people here were on her side, that there was no unspoken hostility at work; why not believe him? He may have seemed to her to be overly captivated by his encounter with his old colleague — and Kate had to admit that much of her reaction had been due to her own sense of insecurity in an alien atmosphere — but there could be no doubt that he was concerned to protect and help her. And he had been quite adamant that taking part in this programme was the right thing to do, and her own common sense told her the same. The trouble is, she thought gloomily as they arrived in the large, over-bright, lavishly mirrored and scented domain that was the make-up department, the trouble is I’m terrified. It makes me think stupidly and behave worse, being so frightened. And she swallowed, feeling the lump in her throat and the cold sick dullness in her chest, and tried to think dispassionately of the adrenalin levels in her blood as the cause of such nasty sensations as well as of the damp hands and shaky knees of which she was so aware. Perhaps applying a little medical academic thought would help bring the levels down — but it didn’t and she allowed the girl in the pink overall to settle her in a high chair and drape her with a matching pink cape with what insouciance she could muster.
She had to admit that she quite liked what the girl did with her eyeshadow and mascara and blushers and by the time she had finished was feeling a little better; less jellified and rather more poised. She looked good in the new dark red wool dress she had chosen to wear, and knowing that helped a good deal. And unobtrusively she tightened the belt and smoothed the fabric of the skirt over her hips. She’d show them, that she would; and there was no need to be so agitated after all: this was just an unimportant episode in her life. Tomorrow she had her usual lists to do, with a couple of prostates needing TURs and a nephrectomy as well as a couple of papillomatous bladders to tidy up; that was what mattered.
And then she frowned, remembering that there should have been Kim Hynes’ wound toilet to do as well. She had planned to get that out of the way and Kim discharged the following day, but Esther had told her this morning that Kim had suddenly asked to be discharged on the previous afternoon and had signed herself out, promising Esther she’d be back to the clinic on Wednesday and would talk to darling Miss Sayers then about the next stage of her treatment.
‘But she said she had to go and there was an end of it — had the chance to earn some money, I gather,’ Esther had told her. ‘And what could I say? She’s been a bit happier since she arranged to get all that cash from that damned newspaper — maybe they’re taking her off to earn some of it somewhere.’ And she’d sniffed and sent Kate off on her day’s rounds and said no more about Kim, clearly glad to have her bed released.
Now, standing in National Television’s make-up department Kate’s brows tightened again as she thought — Could it be? They couldn’t possibly be bringing her here as well, could they? And she remembered the producer’s vagueness when she had asked why Jimmy Rhoda was on the programme, and the clipboard girl’s evasiveness over the ‘other one’ expected in make-up and suddenly she knew she had been set up. They were bringing Kim on as well as herself, and that was the last thing she wanted; and she felt her face redden angrily as she looked around for someone to complain to, someone to check with, who could sort the whole thing out.
‘I’ve got to talk to someone about this programme,’ she said abruptly to the make-up girl who smiled sweetly at her and said, ‘Of course. I’ll get someone to take you down to the studio. They’re all there now and ready for you. You’ll be able to see anyone you like there —’
‘Right,’ Kate said and turned on her heel to follow the messenger the make-up girl had beckoned and, ignoring the silly chatter she produced, marched behind her to the lift and then on into the big studio.
It was disconcerting at first, because the girl led her behind tall walls of canvas, over snaking cables which were surmounted in places with orange plastic bridges to form walkways, and she had to concentrate to avoid stumbling in the dimness. From behind the canvas wall, which was brightly lit on the far side, she could hear the rustle and chatter of a sizeable number of people and she thought suddenly — They do this programme in front of an audience. I’d forgotten that. And all at once a renewed adrenalin surge caught her in the middle so sharply that she gasped. Her pulses began to thump thickly in her ears and she felt a little dizzy and had to stop.
The girl looked back anxiously and hissed, ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes,’ Kate managed. ‘It’s just a bit dark here.’ And after a moment managed to go on walking as though nothing had happened. But now she had stopped worrying about who else was to be on the programme with her; all she could think about was the fact that she had to walk out in front of a live audience and talk; and the idea of it dried her mouth and made her tongue feel like a piece of very thick and very unwieldy leather.
There was a sudden shout of laughter from the crowd on the other side of the canvas, in response to a blurred comment made by a heavily amplified voice, just as she reached the end of it and found her leader standing poised beside a large swathe of dark curtain.
‘Look,’ Kate hissed at her. ‘I really do have to speak to someone about this — could you ask the producer please if I could have a word? I can’t remember his name —’
‘Angus McSorley,’ the girl whispered. ‘He’s up in the gallery now — hold on a moment — Ah — now!’ And she lifted the curtain just as Kate heard her name called out in that same hoarsely amplified voice, and she was pushed forwards and found herself standing in a big space staring foolishly around.
It took a moment or two to take in what she was seeing, for there was a steep series of seats built on rostra lifting high above her on her right and occupied by a large number of grinning faces; and she remembered suddenly, absurdly, the wall-of-death lecture theatre of her student days, as everyone had called it, because from the well of the room looking up at the students, the lecturers said, that was exactly what it looked like.
On the left was a sight that was both alien and familiar and she struggled with it for a moment; staring at the tall canvas walls and the desks and chairs in front of them, all in shades of rich yellows and fawns and brilliantly lit, and above them on the canvas wall below the abrupt edging of it — for it stopped short of the dark ceiling by several feet — where the word ‘Probe’ was written in a huge flowing script. Overhead there were banks of lights and ominous brooding unlit lamps, and in front of her, a microphone in one hand and with the other crooked into a beckoning posture towards her, was a man she had never met yet knew as well as she knew her own face in the mirror. And she walked towards him obediently, thinking — Gerrard. This is J.J. Gerrard. And then thought — perhaps I can ask him —
But it was impossible to say anything, for he smiled at her widely, his teeth glinting enamel white in an obviously painted face, and then turned to the audience and with the microphone held close to his face bawled, ‘Miss Kate Sayers, ladies and gentlemen. A splendid hard-working doctor who will, I am sure, defend her reputation here tonight. If you would just sit over there, Miss Sayers’ — at which someone behind her took her elbow and began to urge her away towards the desks sitting there in their bril
liant pools of light inside the canvas walls — ‘we’ll get ourselves together! After the break, ladies and gentlemen, we’ll have another important medical story to bring you from this very same hospital — tonight, believe me, the doctors are under the microscope! Now, we have just a few seconds to go — so, settle down, studio, and all of you — be interested, be involved and don’t be afraid to ask your questions and make your comments! Just watch for the girls with the roving mikes and our eleven million viewers will be out there watching for you and listening to you. Because you and only you are the show. You are Probe, ladies and gentlemen, and I am J.J. Gerrard here to help you make the most of your programme! Over to you!’ And he tossed the microphone he held to a waiting bejeaned and earphoned acolyte and ran with carefully lissom youthful energy up the steps that led to the set where Kate, unable to resist the directions of the man who had taken her elbow, sat waiting for him, sick with fright and still not knowing who else was to be on the programme with her.
Chapter Thirty-Four
At first it was as though she wasn’t there at all. She knew her body was there, sitting in a singularly uncomfortable chair that hurt her back, and being bathed in light that made her face bead with sweat and sent trickles down between her breasts, but the real Kate, the person she actually knew as herself, was somewhere quite else, standing to one side and watching dispassionately what was happening. That Kate was scornful and amused as she watched the body of Kate sitting there so stiffly with her back hurting. She was jeering too, and Kate in the chair heard her and was angry.
‘It’s your own fault, of course,’ the watching Kate whispered inside the listening Kate’s head. ‘You should have walked out when they pushed you into that damned chair. You should stand up now and tell them what they can do with their ridiculous TV programme. You should get up, walk out now, and leave them all looking as stupid as they’re making you feel —’
And for one minute fraction of a moment the Kate in the chair felt her thigh muscles tighten and her body lean forwards ready to get to her feet and walk out, so as to stop the watching Kate’s jeers; they would meet, the two of them, somewhere out of the pitiless gaze that now glittered so hatefully in her eyes and would merge and become a whole person again —
‘That then, ladies and gentlemen,’ J.J. Gerrard was saying, ‘is the nub of the matter as it stands. We asked Miss Sayers’ accuser to come on the programme and face her directly but for reasons best known to himself he refused. But we do have the statement he issued through a press agency so we can offer his comments one by one and give Miss Sayers the chance to deal with them. Now, Miss Sayers —’
The watching Kate slid into the bright lights and moved into the sitting Kate who stared at the silly painted man as he gazed at her, a whole person again at last, a frightened person, but also an angry one. Who the hell did he think he was to set her up in this fashion and throw his questions at her? He had no jurisdiction over her, no right to pillory her in this manner. And the anger seemed to stiffen her back and take away the pain there and it dried the sweat on her body and she lifted her head and looked coolly back at him.
‘Yes, Mr Gerrard?’ she heard herself saying and was delighted with the steadiness of her tone.
‘Let us start with the first statement Mr Lemon made to the press agency.’ He turned his head and looked above and beyond, and Kate followed the line of his gaze and saw a big screen and huge words that appeared on it. A patient who was highly dangerous because of the risk of AIDS was admitted in need of surgical procedure.
‘I think we can take that as accurate, Miss Sayers?’ Gerrard asked, and Kate flicked her eyes down to look at him again. ‘This is the basis of Mr Lemon’s complaint, so of course we must assume that —’
‘Then you assume wrongly,’ Kate said crisply. ‘The patient who was admitted in need of a surgical procedure and to whom Mr Lemon was referring was by no means “highly dangerous” because of the risk of AIDS.’
J.J. Gerrard opened his eyes more widely and Kate thought briefly — Is he acting? Does he know what I’m going to say? Or is he really as surprised as he seems to be?
‘Oh!’ he said. ‘Not dangerous? But I understand that he — that his sexual lifestyle was — er — likely to give rise to anxiety —’
She leaned forwards then and grinned at him, a wide toothy grin that showed on her mouth only. There was no amusement in her eyes.
‘Mr Gerrard, according to the newspapers I see, there are a great many well-known people in this country who have sexual lifestyles of such fluidity and variety that they are indeed putting themselves at risk of a range of very unpleasant infections. No one is suggesting they are highly dangerous.’ There was a little titter then from the audience and a small part of her remembered suddenly that Gerrard’s own marital and extra-marital exploits had had a good deal of publicity. ‘It is quite unjust to suggest that this patient was at any particular risk. He has lived in a faithful relationship with one equally faithful partner for seventeen years. He is in no way a dangerous patient in any hospital.’
‘Did Mr Lemon know this?’ Gerrard asked, riding magnificently over the titters, and the audience stilled again to hushed attention.
‘Of course he did,’ Kate said scathingly. ‘He was told. But he chose to make assumptions about this patient simply because he thought he was homosexual.’ She sat up very straight then, and turned her head and stared at the audience, or at least to where she knew it to be; she couldn’t see them but there was a dull whitish blur there and she had a need to talk to them directly. ‘All because of his style, the way he talked and behaved — it’s as bad as looking at a man and saying, “He’s dangerous because of the colour of his skin, or the shape of his nose or the language he speaks —” Would any of you want to think that if you were ill and had to go to hospital the doctors there could legitimately decide whether or not to look after you on the basis of such — such blind stupidity?’
There was a little hush and then someone clapped at the far side and after a fraction of a moment more and more people joined in, and she sat there staring at the blur of white and thought — I’m as bad as the rest of them. I’m just as bad as the other people who work here that I was sneering at. Talking to the audience, putting on a performance — except that I’m not. I’m not. It’s true. I mean it, and I don’t think they do, these television people. Or perhaps they do? Perhaps I’m making silly judgements. And with her head whirling with the confusion of her thoughts she turned back to look at J.J. Gerrard.
He was sitting with his head on one side and looking at her, and above the paint-clogged lines of his face she saw now that his eyes were shrewd and far from as vapid as she had at first thought. And he smiled at her and said softly, ‘Well done, Miss Sayers. Well done. Now let me take you on to some more of Mr Lemon’s statements, if you please —’
And he turned again to the big screen upon which more words had appeared. I insisted naturally that he should have an AIDS test before I operated. He refused so I, of course, was forced to decline to operate.
But from now on there were no more problems. She felt as though she had climbed a steep hill, painfully and breathlessly, had achieved the crest and was now sliding comfortably down the other side. Her answers to the questions Gerrard put to her came smoothly and easily, and indeed in many ways the questioning now seemed perfunctory. It was as though he had decided that Kate had no further call to answer, that her trial by television was safely over and that she had won. All they had to do now, his behaviour and his manner seemed to suggest, was put in the time to underline the facts that everyone already knew were fully established.
She was almost disappointed when he smiled at her and said, ‘Miss Sayers, thank you. Your contribution to Probe tonight has been fascinating and most helpful. But now it is time to throw the question open to the floor, because never forget’ — and here he swung his chair round to face the audience — ‘never forget that Probe is your programme, your place to speak, your right
to express your views. So, over to you —’
For a moment she braced herself again, waiting for hostility, but she need not have worried. One after the other members of that semi-invisible audience took the microphone in their hands, were briefly illuminated by a travelling spotlight and spoke in her defence. One after the other they made it clear they despised the man who had complained about her, not only for what he had said, but also for not having had the courage to come and say it to her directly; and she sat there smiling and nodding at them all, not sure how to behave. Praise was something she never handled well and they were dishing it out in great dollops. It was not a comfortable experience, and again she became aware of the sweat on her body and the ache in her back from this awful chair she occupied.
‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ Gerrard’s voice came booming at her again, and she blinked, for she had lost interest in him once he had got to his feet to stand in front of his audience. ‘After the break we’ll be dealing with another medical question, and one that will touch many hearts and minds, just as Miss Sayers has already. Stay with us, and meet —’
She felt her mouth go dry and her legs start to shake. She had forgotten. How could she have forgotten her first fear? That Kim was to be brought on, that she would have to defend herself yet again and this time on a much less defensible wicket. There would be many people who would doubt the legitimacy of using scarce resources for patients such as Kim Hynes; hadn’t she herself been worried about it? To have now to wrench herself back up into the sort of mood and fluency that she had already displayed and which would enable her to cope with being quizzed over Kim — she wasn’t sure she could do it. In fact she was certain she couldn’t.
Clinical Judgements Page 38