Kingsley's Touch

by John Collee

  'Ready for the next patient, Mr Kingsley?'

  She took his coffee. It was untouched. Kingsley crumpled the sheet of paper as she bent over his desk. Then he threw it in the bin.

  He tried to persuade Sheila to take some time off school but she insisted on carrying on. She found something infinitely consoling in the history of the tea trade, long division, and that state of mind where all the tragedy of the human condition can be wrung from a grazed knee.

  Two days later she went in for a bone scan. Tony Cullen showed her the result – a glossy photo of her entire skeleton. Over her right femur there was a small, bright area, apparently over exposed. Here the radioactive tracer they had injected into her blood stream was concentrated – a hot spot, probably cancer. Significantly it was the only hot spot on her skeleton. The isotope had not been concentrated elsewhere. The cancer seemed localized to one bone. There was a chance that it had not yet spread. Tony Cullen immediately booked her a bed on the ward for bone biopsy.

  They gave her a private room. Kingsley came with a bunch of roses to find her already surrounded by flowers.

  'Where did all these come from?'

  'My school kids – they've been trooping in with vegetable produce all day. I feel like a harvest festival. How did you get these past sister?'

  'What?'

  'These flowers.'

  'Does she object?'

  'She says I can't have any more. They're supposed to reduce the oxygen in my little room.'

  Kingsley forced himself to laugh. McReady shared that tenet.

  'Seriously – she's going to take them all out at night and put them in the bathroom.'

  'Where will you pee?'

  'God knows. It's going to be pretty crowded in there.'

  They continued to skirt the real issue. Kingsley picked up a label. 'Brian Oliver,' he read; 'that's not one of your kids?'

  'You've not met him. He teaches English in the senior school. He said it was difficult for him to mourn for me. He said the dramatist becomes accustomed to counterfeiting all the great emotions – misery and anxiety and all that. When something really affected him he couldn't get emotional without feeling fraudulent. For people like you it's exactly the opposite. You get used to dealing objectively with tragedy. When one comes along that affects you personally, it takes you completely off guard.'

  'That pompous balloon doesn't have the first idea how I . . .'

  She took his hand.

  'You look tired,' she said.

  'Working hard.'

  'No, I mean tired as if you've not slept these last couple of nights. You're not worrying are you?'

  'Of course I'm worrying.'

  'Don't.'

  Time passed. Below their small white capsule the taxis and ambulances ferried to and from the accident centre and figures flitted between the university and the hospital. Pedestrians were straggling up the tree-lined avenue that separated the two buildings. When Kingsley stood up some students were disappearing into an archway, shouting and laughing. Their happiness seemed fantastically callous.

  Kingsley drove home. Empty all day the house was perceptibly colder. He fried himself some mince, ate half of it and fell asleep in an armchair.

  Sheila Kingsley was still sleepy from the premedication when they came to take her for theatre. They woke her up and she gathered after a while that she was supposed to roll onto the trolley by her bed. She did so. As she moved across, the rather inadequate theatre gown rode up over her bottom. She pulled it down again. Even after twenty-four hours in hospital she had still not got used to discarding her modesty.

  They seemed to rush down the corridor. Maybe the drugs gave her a distorted impression of speed. On the ceiling, high above, the neon strip-lights raced past.

  There was a clanking noise she recognized from somewhere – a lift. The spotty, disembodied face of a theatre porter loomed over her.

  'You all right?'

  Her mouth was dry and tacky. She found it impossible to speak. A lot of bumping, then they were off again. More people in the corridor – she was vaguely aware of their distorted shapes falling away to either side. Her trolley turned a corner and through a set of swing doors. She screwed up her eyes against the glare. When she opened them there was another face above her. She recognized that moustache. 'Richard.'

  'The very same.'

  'What are you doing here?'

  'Well, they do let me out of the Douglas Calder now and again, strictly on parole. I thought if you had to have an anaesthetic, it might as well be the home team. Alistair came to see you this morning but apparently you were asleep. He'll be late this afternoon. There's a meeting of the management committee. How do you feel?'

  'Pretty good, I've got a dry mouth. You look all blurred.'

  'All right, don't get personal. I'm just going to give you a little prick, as we doctors say.'

  She smiled. Behind her head Richard Short was already rummaging in the shelves for a butterfly needle. He drew up a syringe of thiopentone. The needle slipped into a vein on the back of her hand.

  'This'll knock you out. Tell me if you feel anything.'

  'Just a singing stench . . . a sing . . . a singing . . .' she said.

  The stinging sensation crept up her arm. She forgot why she was trying to describe it. Her eyes closed.

  'Nitrous on,' said Short.

  He gave her a few lungfuls of nitrous from the mask, then uncoupled her from the anaesthetic machine. They wheeled her into theatre. Two porters lifted her onto the operating couch. Her leg was painted and draped. Anthony Cullen cut down to the bone. Then he started the drill.

  Kingsley sat in the hospital boardroom. It had been built in an age when administration was still regarded as the occupation of the higher echelons, and even the modern light fittings could not undermine its heavy opulence. A portrait of Douglas Calder stared down from the panelled wall opposite Kingsley. It had been executed as late signs of syphilis began to distort his noble features, corrugating his brow and lending his stare a grim, accusing overtone. Kingsley chose not to look at it. He gazed through the chandelier, observing instead the continuing struggle between his intellect and his conscience.

  Funding for Mukesh's research had temporarily scotched plans to close the hospital. The committee had now plunged into the trivia of hospital running with renewed enthusiasm. Kingsley, as chairman, was dimly aware of the issues: modernization of the staff cloakroom, reopening Bowman ward . . . he looked at his watch.

  At four o'clock he was called to the phone.

  There was a chamber between the great hall and the boardroom occupied by three red plush chairs and a telephone. Kingsley picked up the receiver and stood looking out over the cobbled road between the wrestling hall and the betting shop. A small troupe of ragged-haired kids were tossing fireworks into the water.

  'Alistair?'

  'Yes, hello Tony.'

  Cullen cleared his throat, then plunged on. 'We did Sheila's biopsy this morning. They examined it straight away. I'm afraid it's bone cancer all right – quite a nasty one, a chondrosarcoma.'

  'Yes,' said Kingsley.

  'I don't know how you feel about it but I think we should go ahead with the amputation pretty soon.'

  From behind the closed door, Kingsley could just hear the muffled voices of the management committee discussing canteen prices and nurses' uniforms.

  Cullen said, 'The treatment of choice would be to disarticulate her hip. That minimizes the risk of recurrence from tumour which has already spread within the bone.'

  'Disarticulation.'

  'That's right. The artificial limb would strap around her waist; you'll have seen that kind of thing.'

  'Yes.' Kingsley had seen that kind of thing. 'What about chemotherapy?'

  'Only as an adjunct. The only hope of cure is amputation.'

  Kingsley looked out onto the street. Seagulls bundled and fussed over the harbour water. He saw now that the children were throwing them firecrackers wrapped in bread. The gulls
waited until the booby traps had exploded then swooped down for the pickings.

  'We'd like to operate in, say, three or four days; might as well keep her in hospital.'

  'Sure, sure,' said Kingsley. 'Thanks. I'll talk to you.'

  '. . . I'm sorry it's turned out like this.'

  'That's OK Tony, goodbye.'

  He replaced the receiver carefully. Behind the oak doors of the committee room the conversation continued. He could recognize the voices: Frazer's Ayrshire semi-tones, McReady's Highland skirl.

  He forced himself to confront his own immediate dilemma. The hours of sleeplessness had clarified nothing. The crazy Indian he had once met in the Carriage Bar now, in fact, seemed less substantial than ever. Kingsley retained little more than sketchy memories of their conversation. Dhangi was, however, responsible for the tiny seed of mystical belief that had implanted itself so perniciously in his mind. In the end, he rationalized, it was only by confronting Dhangi in the flesh that he could ever be completely free of him. With these thoughts in mind he dialled his own extension.

  'Hello, Rhona. Can you do me a favour, get hold of Personnel and ask them if they have a record of a chap called Dhangi.'

  'In what context?'

  'He may have applied for a job here. If they don't have any record of him, then phone round the district hospitals. You know, the Western, the Eastern, the City, Bangour, Fife – maybe he's applied there. I just want his address.'

  'Have you tried the medical register?'

  'He's not in it. I'm not even sure he's qualified.'

  'When did he apply?'

  'About a month ago.'

  'Are you going to offer him a job?'

  'I . . . well . . . I don't know right now, I just wanted to contact him, so if you'd just do that little thing for me . . .'

  'You sound worried. Is it terribly important?'

  'Yes, crucial.'

  'Why don't you get the police to trace him?'

  Kingsley was silent. 'It's not a police case,' he said at length, embarrassed by his own deviousness. He was looking out of the window, watching Cranley limp across the street. He could envy Cranley. There was a man who could never be entangled in abstract dilemmas, whose sense of reality was as unshakeable as his daily routine. That thin black gaberdine, straight and inflexible as the spine of a Bible, seemed to represent all the rectitude and conviction which Kingsley had somehow misplaced.

  Sheila was sleeping when he entered her hospital room. Kingsley sat beside her bed and stroked her forehead. The eyes opened slowly, then her head turned and she focused on his face. Her lips moved, she swallowed some bitter mucus and grimaced. Kingsley stretched out and angled the bedside light away from her face. 'How do you feel?'

  'I've slept most of the time,' she said.

  'Leg sore?'

  'Not much - they give me injections.'

  'You know what they found . . .?' he asked.

  'Yes.'

  'I. . .'

  She reached out and touched him. 'It's all right, really it's all right. It's what I expected.'

  The street droned in the distance.

  'They'll amputate next week,' she said. 'Tony said three days.'

  'I know.' Kingsley stroked her earlobe with the back of one finger. 'But I don't want them to.'

  'I know you don't, but don't be sad. I'll get over it.'

  'No, I mean I'm not going to let them operate on you.'

  A frown crossed her brow. 'But Tony said . . .'

  'I want you to come out of the hospital tomorrow. Come home.'

  She grimaced, shifting position. 'You can't be serious, darling. I've got cancer. You know about cancer. The longer you have it the worse it gets. They'll operate in a couple of days. Tony's got it all planned.'

  'I'll talk to him.'

  She recognized his tone and changed the subject.

  'You managing at home?'

  'Yes.'

  'Eating all right?'

  'Yes.'

  'Remember to put the clocks back.'

  'I'll try to.'

  The problem of tracing Dhangi had continued to ferment in the back of his mind. Now, walking back through the echoing black-and-white tiled corridors, an idea bubbled to the surface. The Health Service had its own facilities for tracing people confidentially. Kingsley turned on his heel and walked back through the length of the hospital. The Department of Venereology occupied a high, turreted block at its west end. At the deserted reception desk Kingsley scribbled a quick note, sealed it, and left it for the attention of Dr Elspeth Stevenson.

  When he came the next day Sheila looked better, sitting up in bed surrounded by new foliage. The 'Get Well' cards were now falling off the edges of her bedside closet; Kingsley could see the children's messages, hand-crayoned in round, telescoping letters. The pain-killers still slurred her speech.

  As he left, the sister cornered him.

  'Can you pop into the office a minute, Mr Kingsley? Mr Cullen wants to have a word with you before you go.'

  'Hello Tony.'

  Cullen returned a rather anaemic smile and closed the door. They were alone now.

  'I think we should talk this over, Alistair . . . I think you're making a mistake.'

  Kingsley leant back against the desk. 'You don't want me to take her home yet?'

  'I want to amputate.'

  Kingsley studied the parquet flooring. Tony Cullen's hands were in the pockets of his capacious grey suit. A solid shelf abdomen hung over the waistband. He jingled some change in his pockets. His voice softened. 'Consider if she was any other patient . . .'

  'She's not any other patient.'

  'I just can't see what you're looking to gain by delaying. The diagnosis is indisputable. She knows that leg's got to come off. If you take her home she's just going to brood about it. Psychologically it's easiest for her if we bash on. She'll adjust to it after the operation – they do.'

  'I don't care about what they do, Tony, we're talking about my wife.'

  Cullen remained impassive.

  'I'm sorry,' said Kingsley.

  'That's OK. I can imagine what you're going through – I think I can. If Carole got something like this I'd be up the wall. But you've got to face it, man. There's no sense in delaying the inevitable.'

  He studied Kingsley's face. 'The inevitable, Alistair. I hope you're not banking on anything coming from that research down your way. If there's anything in that it's going to take months to come to the surface. You know that.'

  'Of course I know that. I just want time to think a few things over. Anyway, my research worker Dr Mukesh is on study leave – we won't be pushing back the frontiers of science again until mid-November.'

  Cullen smiled at the joke. His face flattened again. 'I'll tell you what I'm afraid of. The drugs we can give her for this are pretty primitive. They'll knock her for six and they're no guarantee against further infection. If we allow that tumour to spread into the head we'll need to take half her pelvis away. You've seen results of that.'

  'Yes, I've seen that.'

  'It's not a pleasant operation.'

  'Give me four weeks.'

  'That's maximum,' said Cullen.

  Chapter 12

  Kingsley had always thought it rather appropriate that the Chambers Street staff-club should be situated adjacent to both the Students' Union and the Museum. In atmosphere it fitted rather neatly between the libertine chaos of the one and the reverent silence of the other. It had been recarpeted since his last visit and the modem art on the walls had been replaced with new, but equally anonymous paintings. Above the rubber plants and groups of armchairs there hung the buzz of earnest conversation, punctuated by the forcibly suppressed cries of other people's children.

  Elspeth Stevenson had arrived before him. She had entrenched herself in a corner behind a copy of The Times from where she was sending up smoke signals.

  Kingsley tipped the newspaper gently and she looked up. 'Alistair!' she exclaimed, extinguishing the cigarette butt. 'So n
ice to get your note. Nobody takes me out to lunch any more. Do you want to get yourself a drink?'

  'I won't bother.'

  'Of course,' she said, 'I don't suppose you can do your job after a couple of these.' She took a liberal swig from her own glass of gin. 'Personally, I can't do mine without them.'

  Kingsley smiled. 'You're an evil lady.'

  'I'd like to create that impression.' Elspeth Stevenson ran a hand through her hair – silver-grey but for a strand in the front stained yellow by nicotine. 'Unfortunately I no longer have the equipment.' She nodded to a passing colleague then fell serious. 'Bloody bad news about Sheila,' she said, 'bloody bad. I rang up that butcher Cullen and told him to put away his hacksaw till he'd had a second opinion. You poor thing, Alistair. You must be shattered. Hell, if I had legs like Sheila's I'd be shattered.' She lifted up the hem of her tweed suit. 'If Tony Cullen wants a leg he can have this one. Christ knows nobody else wants it.'

  'Thanks for the offer, Elspeth.'

  'It's the least I can do.' She scrutinized him closely. 'You look bloody tired, Alistair, you poor soul. You must be worried sick. It's the pits isn't it. Headmistress of mine used to say, just before she beat the living daylights out of us – the old pervert – she used to say "Stevenson – only the good die young". She was right, too. I've got a long life ahead of me. I'm sorry, I talk too much. Here, have a cigarette.'

  'No thanks.'

  'I forgot, you smoke a pipe don't you.' Dr Stevenson lit another cigarette with a slim gold lighter and inhaled furiously. 'I only smoke these things to make my patients feel at ease. Half of them are so crippled by guilt by the time they get to the department. It must be a great relief to find a degenerate old bag like me at the helm instead of a real doctor. You still golfing?'

  'I've not played for a few weeks.'

  'I have. That bugger Richard Short gave me a round the other day. His game has gone to pieces. He insisted on bringing his new woman along. I took four holes off him. He couldn't keep his eyes off her tits. Nice enough girl though. Have you met her?'