She laughed. ‘No, really, you do look a bit like a gipsy. It must be the beard and those dark smouldering eyes.’
‘Don’t forget the hooked nose,’ I said, following her mood.
‘Oh yes, that too.’
It’s all true actually; my grandfather was a Cornishman and I take after him. But only in appearance. People soon realize that I’m nothing like as tough as I look.
‘Seriously, though,’ she continued, ‘don’t you find it a bit cold sometimes, at this time of year?’
I had begun to explain my plans for dealing with this, when some of the other staff arrived and there was the usual round of introductions.
I didn’t dislike Ron at first. He was a fleshy man with a slight over-abundance of North Country charm, but he seemed civil enough. I discovered his less pleasant side later.
After a brief tour of the laboratory he’d set me to work on the urine bench, which was no more than I’d expected. The new boy always gets the piddles.
It was an old, dark, high-ceilinged laboratory, long overdue for replacement; in fact, the floor above, which had been nurses’ quarters, was closed off, because it was structurally unsafe. It was quite a comprehensive laboratory, including a virology as well as a bacteriology section, and even a small research unit.
There were about forty staff altogether, but only two faces stuck in my mind that first day. There was the medical director, Dr Peter Carey, a handsome, distinguished-looking man in early middle age, with the sort of professional charm that I’m convinced is part of the medical school curriculum. And there was John Devlin.
He was shorter than me, shorter than Sally for that matter (I’m five feet ten) with a thatch of sandy hair and blue eyes. The thin chiselled face went with his thick Glaswegian accent.
Ron passed me over to Philip Snow, who passed me over to Sally, which I didn’t mind a bit. After getting me started, she would come over periodically to see how I was getting on.
It was just after twelve and she’d taken off her lab coat to go out when I’d asked her about something. She was bending over my bench to show me and so didn’t notice John Devlin coming up behind her. Without warning, he smacked her be-jeaned bottom.
She straightened up with a squeal.
‘I’ve told you not to do that!’ she blazed. ‘You ill-mannered haggis.’
‘Right, hen, an’ I’ve told you that I’ve got just the one hour, an’ you’re wastin’ time.’ His accent was more pronounced than ever.
‘One day you’ll push me too far,’ she said, and yet you knew as she said it that that day was a long way off.
‘You comin’?’
‘Oh, at once, sir. Although perhaps you’ll allow me to introduce the person you so rudely — ’
‘We already met,’ he said, not giving me a glance. ‘Come on.’ He turned away, and with a helpless shrug, she followed.
I had sat there trembling, not knowing when I had ever felt so much like hitting someone, but as I calmed down, I thought…
Yes, he was rude, intolerably rude, and yet…
And she was the first woman I’d warmed to since…
The truth was that I’d felt a flash of jealousy, sexual jealousy, and it was the first time since… since Jill.
It was so unexpected, so strange.
CHAPTER 2
It had grown colder, and mid-week had brought the harbinger of winter, the first hard frost. It also brought me my first taste of trouble. I’d settled in fairly well, I thought, finding my place among the rhythms and currents that flow through every hospital laboratory. Philip Snow, who was my immediate boss, seemed to be an easy-going enough character on the surface, although underneath you could detect a tension holding his slim frame together, a sort of repressed asceticism. I wondered whether he was part Scandinavian or German; he had very fair hair and pale blue eyes that sometimes burned with a suppressed anger if he heard something he didn’t like, deepening the lines in his otherwise attractive face. Still, he didn’t bother me.
I’ve never minded doing urines; it’s not exactly your-life-in-their-hands stuff, but you can save a great many patient hours of misery if you do it properly and that gives me satisfaction. The basic principle’s the same everywhere: you examine the sample microscopically for pus cells, then culture it on to an agar-plate for bacteria. These don’t grow until the following day, and if there are any, you then have to put up further tests to see which antibiotics they’re sensitive to. This takes two days, but there are recognized short cuts which can save the patient a day’s discomfort.
When you’re using a good microscope, it is as though you’re down there, inside the material you’re examining, and this is how I felt the next day as I examined an obviously infected specimen. It was as though I could reach out and touch the living pus cells and the bacteria that swarmed around them.
I looked at the form. Female: twenty-four years old, pregnant, back pain, frequency. On ampicillin, query sensitivity. Just the sort of patient who could use that extra day.
I looked round. The only other person in the lab at that moment was Ian Lambourne, a monkey-faced youth who had married early and was still studying for his Fellowship. I called him over.
‘Don’t you do Direct Sensitivities here?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘Ron says they’re unreliable.’
‘Surely that depends on how you do them. Look at that.’
He looked down the microscope and then at the form. ‘I see what you mean,’ he said, ‘but you’re preaching to the converted. It’s Ron you’ve got to convince.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Look, why don’t you put up a few comparison plates and show them to him in a couple of days’ time. He might listen to you.’
I agreed and during the rest of the day put up Direct Sensitivities on the more obviously infected specimens.
The next day, when the bacteria grew on the primary plates, I prepared conventional sensitivity tests, and on the following day, Thursday, compared them. They gave identical results.
I had intended to catch Ron alone and show him, but Ian, for the best of reasons I suppose, chose to bring it up in the restroom that morning.
‘Ron,’ he said before I could stop him, ‘I’ve been thinking. I wonder if it’s time we considered Direct Sensitivities again?’
Ron said pleasantly enough, ‘We’ve been over that before, Ian, they’re simply not reliable enough.’
‘Well, Chris has been telling me how well they worked in his last laboratory — ’
‘Oh, has he, now?’ said Ron grimly.
I winced and Ian blundered on. ‘Yes. He’s put up some comparison plates and honestly, you can’t tell the difference. Why don’t you come and have a look at them after coffee?’
Ron looked at me, then back at Ian. ‘The answer’s No, for the reasons I’ve told you before, and the question is closed. Right?’
He turned back to me. ‘Who gave you permission to use plates for that purpose?’
‘No one did, but — ’
‘Then I’ll thank you not to waste laboratory materials in future, and not to deviate from our laid-down procedures. That clear?’
‘Of course, but — ’
‘You’re not a Senior any more. You’re a locum and you’d better get used to the idea PDQ.’ He turned back to his paper.
I sat in silence. It’s not my way to make trouble, to lock horns with my superiors, that’s why I became a Senior — but Ron had this supreme gift of being able to ascend the mildest of noses.
‘Excuse me, Ron,’ I heard myself say. He looked up. ‘I obviously owe you an apology for using the plates without asking, but I’d like to point out that I wasn’t deviating from your procedures, because I didn’t report my results.’
His eyes widened in astonishment. ‘Don’t argue with me, Chris.’
‘I’m not arguing with you, I just — ’
‘Yes, you are, you’re arguing with me. Cut it out, right?’
I shrugged and was about to agree, wh
en John Devlin intervened.
‘I don’t think he was arguing with you, Ron, he was just trying to make his point.’ It was said perfectly politely, and yet it was unmistakably a challenge.
‘I don’t remember asking your opinion, Mr Devlin.’
‘I’m sorry, Ron, I don’t want to interfere, it’s just that he wasna’ arguin’, he was just makin’ a point. A guid point, as it happens.’ The accent grew stronger as he went on.
Ron held himself back with an effort. ‘As we already know, Mr Devlin, you were employed directly by Dr Carey for “research” purposes and are responsible to him, so I can’t discipline you. But I can insist that you keep out of my affairs. All right?’ He stood up as he finished and swept out.
John gave me a wink before turning back to his book.
Friday used to be the day when the younger and more extrovert staff would go to the pub at lunch-time to limber up for the weekend; however, the practice has been discouraged in recent years because of the increased complexity of the work, and latterly the chronic shortage of staff.
John Devlin was evidently an old-fashioned type; he swaggered in at just after twelve to inquire loudly, ‘Who’s comin’ down the boozer, then?’
Sally shot him an irritated glance and Phil quickly crossed over to him.
‘For God’s sake, John, give them a chance to finish their work.’
John looked round. ‘Looks to me as though they have finished.’
He was right and one or two of the juniors were trying to hide grins at Phil’s discomfiture.
‘Even so,’ said Phil, swallowing, ‘I’d rather you didn’t just come barging in like that…disrupting everything.’
He was quite within his rights, yet still managed to look foolish.
John said, ‘Why don’t you come with us then, keep the troops in order?’
Phil quickly glanced at Sally, then said loudly, ‘I might, at that.’
‘You do that,’ John said, then turned to me. ‘You comin’, Chris?’
‘I don’t think so, thanks.’
He came over. ‘Come on, we need you for an antidote.’
‘No, thanks.’
He stood over me uncertainly, not used to being refused. Sally, who had been looking distinctly unhappy, said, ‘Come on, Chris, it’ll do you good.’
‘Oh, OK,’ I said after a pause, to make it clear that it was she who’d persuaded me.
A few minutes later, I found her waiting for me as I came out of the locker-room.
‘Just making sure you don’t change your mind,’ she said, grinning.
I grinned back, then said, ‘I can’t understand why John asked me.’
‘Oh, that’s obvious. He can’t bear Ron, so you’re automatically his buddy, since you stood up to him yesterday.’
‘I’m not sure I want to be his buddy,’ I said, buttoning my overcoat. ‘Sorry,’ I added quickly.
She smiled wanly. ‘That’s all right.’
‘I’m rather surprised that Phil agreed to come,’ I continued. ‘I wouldn’t have thought that was in character.’
‘It isn’t,’ she said curtly, as we made for the stairs. ‘John asked him so as to get at me.’
‘Why should that get at you?’
‘Oh, never mind.’ Her lips tightened, then relaxed into a grin as a tall, dark-haired man emerged from the virology corridor.
‘Charles,’ she said, ‘have you met Chris yet?’
He smiled at me. ‘I believe we were introduced briefly by the Herr Gruppenführer, weren’t we?’ He was very well-spoken, almost self-consciously so. He held out a hand. ‘Charles Hampton.’
‘Chris Randall.’
‘We’re going to the Turf for lunch,’ said Sally. ‘Why don’t you come with us?’ ‘Aren’t you going with John?’
‘Yes, among others.’
He considered for a moment. ‘Well, since you asked me so nicely, why not?’
The others were waiting for us outside.
‘About time — ’ John began, then stopped and scowled as he saw Charles.
We set off. It was one of those beautiful November days that make you forget about frost and winter. The bare knobbly branches of the pollarded limes in the streets stood out against the vivid blue sky, and you could feel the sun on your face and shoulders. John walked ahead with Ian and two others, a pretty girl called Mary and a boy whose name I forget. Phil was talking to Sally a little way ahead of Charles and me, and as I watched his face, I saw in a flash what Sally had meant. He was crazy about her. It was so obvious that I wondered why I hadn’t spotted it before.
Charles was asking me about locum work. I told him briefly, then asked what he did.
‘I work for Parc-Reed, the pharmaceutical firm. I expect you’ve heard of us.’
‘Who hasn’t? You’re a rep, I take it?’
‘I am not,’ he said frostily. ‘I’m a graduate scientist.’
‘Oh,’ I said, a little taken aback. ‘No offence intended. When you meet people from the commercial sector, it’s usually safe to assume that they’re reps.’
‘Maybe so, but I’m not.’
‘So what brings a graduate scientist to Oxford National Microbiology Laboratory?’ ‘I’m installing a comprehensive system of Hepatitis and AIDS testing. We’ve developed a completely new range of products and Oxford has agreed to run a trial. I usually work in the research labs in London.’
‘Oh,’ I said again. ‘Sounds interesting.’
‘It is.’ We walked a few more paces, then he said, ‘Did you go to University? I know some of you people have degrees these days.’
‘No, I didn’t, although our Institute Fellowship is generally accepted as a degree equivalent now.’
‘I wouldn’t necessarily agree with you there.’ He smiled tolerantly. ‘I don’t blame you, or your Institute, for trying it on, but we both know that your Fellowship can’t compare with a good degree.’
‘I dare say you’re right,’ I said easily. ‘It rather depends on what you call a good degree, though. How many universities in this country produce decent Science graduates these days? Half a dozen?’
He chuckled. ‘Oh, I’m sure you’ve got a point there.’
‘Where did you get your degree?’ I asked innocently.
He looked around. ‘Here in Oxford. That college over there, actually, Sarum.’ He pointed to an ancient ivy-clad gateway, through which you could see a grassed quadrangle. ‘Would you count that among your decent ones?’
Well, I suppose I’d walked into it.
John fell back and joined Sally. Her face brightened as Phil’s grew darker. It was imperceptible — unless you knew.
‘I wasn’t trying to be offensive,’ Charles was saying to me.
‘Sorry?’
‘No offence intended.’
‘Oh. None taken.’
We walked in silence for a short while, then he said, ‘How long will you be working here?’
‘Until Christmas, or so Ron indicated.’
‘Seems a long time to be away from home, though I suppose you go back at weekends. Are you married?’
‘Not any more.’
He gave a short laugh. ‘Join the Club! Where is home?’ I told him and his face broke into a smile. ‘Small world, I went to school near there.’
He’d been to one of the public schools scattered around Somerset. We exchanged a few remarks about the area, then he suggested we go for a drink one evening the following week. I didn’t particularly want to, but it seemed churlish to refuse, so I accepted.
We were crossing a wide tree-lined street with old-fashioned shop windows along the far side, when I noticed a white cross embedded in the tarmac.
‘I wonder what that is,’ I said idly.
‘That’s a piece of Oxford history. You remember Bloody Mary who burned the Protestants?’
‘Vaguely.’
‘Well, that’s where the Bishops Ridley and Latimer were burned at the stake for refusing to accept the Catholic faith.�
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Sally and John had fallen back so that they were just ahead of us and I heard John mutter something that sounded like ‘Serve the stupid fools right.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ inquired Charles coldly. ‘Oh, of course, you’re Catholic, aren’t you?’ He made it sound like an illness.
John turned and their eyes met briefly and expressionlessly.
‘I don’t have a religion,’ he said. ‘What I meant was, how stupid to die for so meaningless a principle.’
Charles ignored this and we walked on.
We turned into an alley named St Helen’s Passage. Some wag had inserted the word ‘back’. It widened into a courtyard of which the Turf Tavern formed one side. It was old and crowded. We ordered food and beer and found a table.
‘I needed that,’ said John as he finished some minutes later. He stood up and bought another pint, then sat down and lit a cigarette.
‘Not while the rest of us are still eating,’ said Sally.
‘Why not? It’s a free country, isn’t it?’ He blew an elegant smoke ring.
‘Surely freedom relies on self-restraint by the individual,’ said Charles conversationally. ‘In other words, good manners.’
‘My God, he’s got a conscience,’ said John, looking around. ‘We’ll be makin’ a socialist of him yet.’
Charles’s eyes hardened but Sally intervened before he could say anything.
‘Oh, shut up and stop acting like school-children, both of you.’ She turned to me. ‘Talking of history, which you and Charles were earlier, did you realize you were sitting on a piece of history?’
‘Really?’ I peered down at my chair.
‘No, you fool,’ she said, laughing. ‘This pub, the Turf Tavern.’
‘Oh. No, I didn’t know.’ I smiled back at her.
‘Well, you obviously haven’t read your Thomas Hardy. This is where Jude the Obscure got drunk after being turned down by Bibliol College; he stood on that table and recited the entire Creed in Latin to the students, ’cos they didn’t believe he could do it.’
‘What, that very table?’
‘Well…’
‘It was the most profound part of the book,’ said John, who obviously couldn’t bear to be left out of anything. ‘Jude was more intelligent than any of the students there, but they turned him down because he was working-class. At least that doesn’t happen so much now.’
Bad Medicine- A Life for a Life; Bed of Nails; Going Viral Page 22