Steady Now Doctor (6 page)

There was also an ever increasing crowd coming in to see the main match.

It was decided to go ahead with the mismatch to give both sides a run out, and the ‘B' XV, playing before a crowd for the first time, excelled themselves. They tackled and fought like demons, even Andy, and, although they lost to the superior size and skill of their opponents, they did not disgrace themselves, and in fact gave them a hard game. In one department, the scrums, of course, they were better than their opponents, with Andy winning 75%, even when they were being bundled back by this much bigger side.

Andy did not stay on for the end of term parties. It was all too near his mother's death. He went home and worked at the Post Office during the holidays, then for Christmas Day and Boxing Day he and his father drove up to Blackpool to have Christmas with the Butchers. It was all understandingly dismal. It was a relief to get back home and to Mrs Robinson, and only when they were back home did they realize they hadn't asked Mrs Robinson what she was doing for Christmas. Now it was too late to ask, but it was almost certain that she'd spent it on her own.

Andy went back to the medical school early. His Post Office job had finished at Christmas. He hoped a week in the library might help him catch up. Christmas Day had been on a Monday. He went back on the Thursday evening to find the hostel almost empty. He spent Friday in the library studying anatomy books, which he hated. He had the communal kitchen to himself in the evening and had a huge fry-up followed by Christmas pudding and mince pies that Mrs Robinson had sent him off with.

He went to bed early with a book and the wireless, intending to sleep late, but was woken at 7.30 a.m. by a banging on his bedroom door.

He shouted, “Come in,” and in came a very harassed looking secretary of the 1
st
XV - one of the gods.

“Are you the chap who hooked for the ‘B' XV in the game before Christmas?” he said to Andy.

“Yes,” said Andy.

“Well quick, get your kit together, you're playing for the 1
st
XV against Cardiff, the train goes in thirty minutes, our hooker is in the hospital having his appendix out, you are all we've got.”

Andy couldn't believe it, but it was true.

At Paddington Station he felt sure that he had seen a very smartly dressed Joneson on an adjacent platform, but there was no time for dallying.

He scrummed down with two huge prop forwards in the area between the two toilets on the London to Cardiff train to get used to them, then the scrum half came with the ball and they practised timing.

What surprised Andy was that all these rugby gods were ordinary very nice people, they included three full rugby internationals, two international trial players, six county players and two war-time international caps.

Cardiff Arms Park in those days was not the magnificent stadium it is today. It doubled as a greyhound racing track and bursts of applause from the crowd were always accompanied by barking by the hundred or so dogs kennelled under the stand.

The game was far quicker than anything Andy could have imagined, he could barely arrive at each scrum in time. Twice they had to wait for him, but he was more than holding his own against the current Welsh international hooker.

Although the hospital lost a good game, 23–20, it established Andy as the 1
st
XV hooker for the next six years. For the last four he was the team secretary, which meant actually being club secretary, sorting out all the hospital's seven rugby sides, transport, tours, et cetera.

For the first time in his life he stayed in a hotel, and for the first time he went abroad to play in France. He played twice for Middlesex County, he was revered as one of the rugby gods by his fellow students, doctors and even consultants, only Andy knew that he wasn't.

It meant that it took him a year longer to qualify than he should have done, and that was hurriedly as an Apothecary, after failing his degree finals.

He would have left the hospital with a great reputation if it had not been for that fateful game against the London Irish in the Twickenham seven-a-sides.

Andy looked back over his medical student days. By and large he had enjoyed them. He always had two underlying layers of anxiety relating to his studies, with which he was always behind, and the other, that although he wore the mantle of being one of the rugby gods, and was acknowledged as one, he knew he wasn't.

To make up for it he took on every possible activity that he could to support the rugby club. He was the club and first team secretary for four years, normally the term for this job was one. This meant that he had to see to the laundering of the team shirts and socks, travel by either bus or train and arrange hotel accommodation for Devon and Cornwall tours. For French tours he had to check ferry tickets, see that everybody had a passport, as well as arranging trains or bus travel to France. In addition he had to make the travel arrangements for the other six teams the hospital turned out every week.

On one Cornish tour, when a game was eventually stopped by rain, he actually washed all the fifteen muddy shirts in the communal bath when the others had left.

He volunteered to work behind the bar at the first Rugby Club Ball in his first year. He became a regular fixture there, and as he was good at it, in time he also did the bar for the balls held by the football club, the cricket club, the hockey club and he fixed both bands and bar for the New Year's Eve Ball. In fact he attended just about every ball held in the six and a half years he was a student, but only from behind the bar. He wanted to be thought of as ‘Good Old Andy'.

Apart from a couple of trips to the pictures with nurses, he never really got entangled with the opposite sex.

He was neither bright nor industrious with his medical studies,. He failed his degree MB, BS twice and only with the coaching by friends did he scrape through the diploma of the Society of the Apothecaries LMSA, which meant he was licensed to practise medicine.

The Society of te Apothecaries is one of the ancient livery companies and as well as allowing Andy to practise medicine it also gave him the right to drive sheep or moor his horse or something in the City of London. It was supposed to be easier than the degree MB, BS or the Conjoint Diploma M.R.R.C.S., L.R.C.P. although the midwifery was harder, but it was looked down on as if it was something inferior.

If Andy had got either his degree or the Conjoint Diploma he could have had the pick of jobs at his Teaching Hospital, just because of his bloody rugby. All he had failed to pass was the medicine in his degree finals, each time easily passing his obstetrics, gynaecology and surgery, but with just his LMSA he had to look further afield for a job. He finally completed his MB, B.S. when he was doing a mixed Senior House Officer job of orthopaedics, plastics, ear, nose and throat, eyes dermatology, venereology, which included a ward full of girls from Holloway Prison suffering from some aspect of this disease.

It made no difference at all to his ability as a doctor, but without it he would have had an inferiority complex for the rest of his working life.

What he had unconsciously learnt with his bar work, his travel and his tour work was to deal with people, how to handle people, and how to make things work. And this was proved a good number of years later when he settled in general practice. If there were four doctors on duty and the surgery was packed with people, three quarters of them would be waiting to see Andy and they wouldn't budge until they had.

The unexpected thing, during his student days, was that he missed his mother terribly, and he later found that he always did.

Chapter 5

Into The Workhouse

It was late May, and Andy had decided to devote most of the morning in the medical school library to pore through the job section of the
British Medical Journal
, although he did not know where to begin. The turn-around dates of junior house jobs of which it was essential to do two six month spells, to become a fully registered medical practitioner were the 1
st
July and the 1
st
January.

He knew that with only an LMSA qualification all the teaching hospitals were out. He wanted to remain near London, but the only options seemed to be Wigan, Scunthorpe or industrial areas in Wales. He put his
BMJ
back on the magazine rack and wandered off to the medical school office.

The medical school was run by a bunch of pretty girls who all ended up marrying doctors, and were overseen by the Secretary of the medical school, the plump, jovial, Mary Scott, MBE, who had acted as mother, father confessor, shoulder to cry on, and chief rugby fan of the school for three decades.

Andy went into her office and found her seated behind mounds of forms and books.

“Cheer up Andy,” she said. “You look as if you've just had an offer from the Rugby League and it's not big enough.”

“That's an idea,” said Andy.

“Mary, where on earth do I find a House Physician job in London with my qualifications?”

Mary thought for a minute, dived through a lot of papers, then came up with one headed ‘St Daniel's Hospital' with a list of jobs available in every branch and every grade of medicine and surgery.

“Have you tried there?” she said.

“No,” said Andy, “where on earth is it, I've never heard of it?”

“Notting Hill,” said Mary, “are you interested?”

“Yes,” said Andy, “that's only a spitting distance. How is it that I haven't heard of it before, and do you think I would have a chance there, the situation is ideal?”

“Go out and leave it to me,” said Mary, but she said, “if you do get a job there, you must promise me that you will sit your degree again and report in from time to time, and don't stay at this hospital for too long.”

Andy went out and sat with the girls, which was no hardship. He wondered whether they had been selected because of their looks rather than their ability. He would have had to have been at least a middle grade registrar to have attracted any real attention, but as a rugby player, they did talk to him, but about rugby of course.

In about ten minutes Mary called him back in. “You have an appointment with Dr Ramsden the Consultant Physician at 4 p.m. this afternoon.”

“You are a wonder woman,” said Andy, pecking her on the cheek.

“Well, don't count your chickens,” said Mary, “and think it all over carefully.”

He was a bit puzzled by that, but hurried back to the hostel to iron a shirt, and press his only suit. Looking at the map he found that St Daniel's Hospital was not strictly Notting Hill, but its Tube station and that of Ladbrook Grove were the nearest transport to it. It was an area he knew nothing about.

He left the hospital at half past two, arriving at Notting Hill at three, then, with a street map in hand, set off for St Daniel's. The further he got from Notting Hill the greater the decline in the condition and upkeep of the houses. He passed from smart arty coloured decorated houses to row upon row of what at one time must have been smart Georgian houses, now in the later stages of decay with sagging balconies, peeling paint and boarded up windows. When he at last saw a huge red building in the distance he began to feel as if some time capsule had landed him in a foreign land. There was not a white face to be seen. The dilapidated houses were literally teeming with happy smiling West Indians. Music was drifting out of most of them, groups of children playing in the street and lots of men chatting on the pavement, all acknowledging him with a smile and a “Hi there man.”

This was 1953 and he later learnt that this was the main receiving area for West Indian immigrants. He guessed there must have been about sixty people per house. The following Christmas, when one of the hospital porters insisted he came to his home for a drink, he found there was more like thirty to a room. He was introduced to the beaming fat Greek landlord.

In the room he was offered a drink. In one corner there was a woman cooking over a stove, a dozen children were grouped round a flickering TV set, four men were playing cards, and in another corner, on a bed, two women were restraining a third who had obviously had more than her rum ration for the day, but they were all happy.

As Andy approached the red building his heart began to sink. It was as dilapidated as the surrounding houses, and looked like an old Victorian workhouse, which was exactly what it had been.

The hospital was dismal, the only thing about it that wasn't, were the West Indian porters, cleaners and ward maids. They all seemed to think that all was well with the world.

The hospital was in much greater need of a builder, painter and decorator than a House Physician.

He was interviewed by Dr Ramsden the Consultant Physician, a rather tall, stern man, and Mr Farrant the Medical Superintendent, an affable surgeon. There was no real interview, both men looked harassed and just asked him when he could start.

“Oh, oh, the 1
st
July,” said Andy surprised.

Their faces fell. “Any chance of the 1
st
June?” said Dr Ramsden. “We're a bit short.”

“Certainly,” said Andy. It all seemed to be too easy. Mary Scott must have put a lot of spade work in for him.

“Whilst you are here,” said Mr Farrant, “see the Head Porter and choose a room, as Dr Ramsden said, we're a bit short of junior staff at present.”

“What's the full complement?” asked Andy.

“Oh, eighteen,” said the two almost in unison, and rather nervously, “but we do have a full complement of Registrars and Senior Registrars.”

Andy was so excited about landing the job so easily, he hadn't taken enough notice of what they'd said.

The Head Porter was a tall loose limbed relaxed Jamaican. “Hi man,” he said. “So you want a room. You're lucky, I have the best room for you. It may not look the best room but it is, and as a bonus you have Miss World for your neighbour. She won't speak to you, but, yes sir, she sure is Miss World.”

He led Andy off through the battered building to an archway where some stone steps led up to a small landing with three doors leading off. “That's her ladyship's,” said the porter pointing to the right hand door and, as if on cue, a woman who looked as if she'd just stepped out of Vogue swept out, completely ignored the two and tripped off down the stairs.

“Phew,” said Andy, “who and what is she?”

“That,” said the porter, “is Miss World, otherwise Miss Diana Reynolds, Senior Surgical Registrar. Now, if you're still here in six months she still won't speak to you, she has her own bath, bedroom and sitting room. That's your bathroom and toilet,” pointing to the room ahead.

Andy looked in to see a rusty bath, chipped wash basin and broken toilet seat. “Lovely,” he said.

“Now,” said the porter, “the master bedroom.” He opened the door and Andy's heart sank. It was a large shabby room, with a single bed in one corner and a telephone on a bedside table. The plaster from the ceiling was down in the far corner. There was a battered old armchair, a chest of drawers and wardrobe even more battered still. A modern small pine table with two upright chairs and a gas fire with an old-fashioned gas ring. The floor was covered with linoleum with a rug by the bed and one by the gas fire.

“What is your name?” Andy asked the Head Porter.

“They call me O'Sullivan, man,” said the Head Porter.

“What O'Sullivan,” said Andy.

“Just O'Sullivan,” said the porter.

“Why O'Sullivan,” said Andy.

“Because I'm Irish,” said the porter.

“What part of Ireland,” said Andy laughing.

“Why, the Jamaican part,” said the porter grinning.

“Well, Irish,” said Andy, “what about showing me a proper room?”

“Man,” said Irish, “this is the best room. That gas ring could have been made of gold, you can make cocoa, soup, heat up beans, it's the only one - wait till you taste this hospital food.”

“This really is the best resident's room in the hospital? Fine, Irish,” said Andy, “if this is the best room, why haven't one of the other housemen taken it?”

“Well,” said Irish, grinning, “the other two housemen, are a boy and a girl and they are very, very good friends and they have two rooms close together.”

“What do you mean?” said Andy, “the other two, they told me there was a complement of eighteen.”

“Yeah, man,” said Irish, “I expect they also said they're just a wee bit short of junior staff at present.”

“Yes,” said Andy, puzzled.

“What they meant, man,” said Irish, “was that they were fifteen short.”

“Christ,” said Andy, “I'm signed up for six months now.”

“Don't worry,” said Irish, “people come and go, we could perhaps have eight by next week, or it could just be you. Lots of people seem to go rather than come.” Andy's heart sank. “Don't worry,” said Irish, “you've got a damn fine registrar. Dr Hudson, he sure is the best doctor in the place.”

Irish took Andy on a conducted tour of the hospital. It was a huge old Victorian workhouse, and although Andy was dismayed at the state of the building, he had a sneaking admiration for the Victorians who managed to build these huge buildings for the poor. St Daniel's had 600 beds, 300 were for patients with tuberculosis. Andy thought, that's 200 patients for each houseman. He was interrupted by Irish who said, “You don't have to work with the Consumptives, they have their own team.”

‘Good,' thought Andy, that means just 100 each.

The wards all looked very much the same, all in need of refurbishment. The nursing staff seemed strangely subdued, ward sisters just nodding as they were introduced.

“What's the matter, Irish?” said Andy, “are they all waiting for the guillotine?”

“No,” said Irish, “they're waiting for her majesty to come round.”

“Come on, Irish,” said Andy, “I know the Queen isn't coming.”

“She's here man,” said Irish stiffly, “you'll have to stand to attention.”

A squat square faced woman in a dark blue uniform with a white creation like a small bell tent on her head, swept into the ward. She was followed by three simpering minions in dark green uniforms with mini hike tents on their heads, the sides of the tent to the front.

“What are you doing here O'Sullivan, and who is this man?” boomed the lady. Even O'Sullivan looked overawed.

He stuttered, “This is doctor . . .” then looked helplessly at Andy for the name.

“I'm Dr Ramsden's new House Physician, Andrew Howard,” said Andy, stepping forward proffering a hand.

The matron ignored his proffered hand, pointed a pencil at him in a sort of stabbing movement accompanied by a growl like a sergeant major and said, “Housemen do not drink tea or coffee on the wards, if they want refreshment, they go to the Doctors' Mess.” She then turned on her heel and set off down the ward accompanied by her following troupe.

“Quick, let's go,” said Irish.

When they got into the main corridor Irish said, “If she ever found you smoking on the ward you'd be shot at dawn. If anyone could arrange a fight between her and Joe Louis, I'd back her.”

The tour of the hospital/workhouse was all very depressing, although he was cheered to find a diminutive Polish lady registrar who ran Casualty and was nice and friendly. She and Irish were the only two people he had met who had even been reasonable.

Irish walked out to the hospital gate with him. “Don't worry,” said Irish, “you'll be all right, I'll keep an eye on you, I am always there if you want me. I'm the most discreet man you'll ever meet, just one bottle of whisky will seal my lips forever.” They slapped palms at the gate. “See you Monday,” said Irish.

“Perhaps,” said Andy, then with his head down, he trudged off to the Notting Hill Tube.