Barnabas Tales

by Denzil Lawrence

  Basil was short and of wiry Welsh border stock, but with the tendency to gloom which sometimes accompanies a liability for misfortune. He had the distinction of being stopped for speeding on the north side of a small town while returning from Scotland. This delayed him so he sped off southwards, the police car followed, and stopped him again on the far side of the same town. With two endorsements gained within a few minutes, he was then obliged to drive very circumspectly. He also had the distinction of being kissed on the top of his bald head in the middle of a clinic consultation by outpatient Staff Nurse Humphries (and “Humph” deserves a biography of her own).

  In his later retirement, Sadie died after a long period of disability. During these years, Basil learned various domestic and survival skills. He withdrew from visiting friends or attending medical meetings, but still worked for the Nature Trust. The last of a succession of Jack Russell terriers died, but his tarry old pipe continued to give sterling service. Basil continued to read widely, but his horizons drew closer, and in his eighties he developed carcinoma of the prostate. Treatment was only moderately effective and he became frail and weak, though still fully intellectually alert. The point was reached when a devoted cleaner and cooking lady could not provide enough care at home, he went briefly to St Michael’s Hospice, and then Mary and her husband Jeremy provided a bright room with full-time nursing care in their big house near Ross-on-Wye. There Basil quietly faded, failed and died in September, 1998.

  Basil served through most of the first 35 years of the NHS. He helped to teach generations of doctors in training at the Hereford General and County Hospitals, and he gave the best available advice to many thousands of patients in Herefordshire, especially those with diabetes. He was kind and thoughtful, with a penetrating analytical view of medicine and events outside, and with a self-deprecating, dry sense of humour.

  I can best illustrate his insistence for careful diagnosis and prudent advice by his comments when I gathered several huge mushrooms from a field one autumn and showed them to him before one of our Monday morning departmental meetings. As an expert naturalist I hoped he could reassure me that they were field mushrooms and good to eat. He examined them very closely - the tops, the gills and the stalks, and handed them back. His verdict was that he was almost sure they were safe. So we threw them away! This was a very physicianly opinion from a first-rate, wise and experienced consultant of the old school.

  CHARLES RENTON

  (Surgeon, Scot, Sailor, Peacemaker - Thoughts for Funeral Address)

  When I arrived back in Hereford at the very end of 1971, Charles Renton was one of three General Surgeons. Very soon we became good friends and most of my sailing stories used for boring friends refer to trips with Charles. Most years we chartered a yacht and with Bridget and a mix of our offspring we would sail either in the Mediterranean or off the West Coast of Scotland. Sadly Charles’ wife Margaret did not like sailing.

  When Charles died I was honoured to be asked to speak about him at the funeral service at Hampton Park United Reform Church, where he had been Treasurer and a most stalwart supporter. I wrote this account partly to help me with my address and partly to clear my thoughts.

  My wife Bridget, our children, and I came to Hereford in 1971, and we were especially welcomed by two colleagues and their wives – John and Jean Ross, and Charles and Margaret Renton. From then until Charles Renton retired in 1995 he and I were hospital colleagues – and also close friends who went sailing together most summers. We could never coax Margaret into joining us afloat, so my recollections and memories of Charles tend to fail to do proper justice to Margaret and her importance.

  For several recent years Charles’ health has been indifferent, and he gave up golf, squash and tough walking. His last illness from Christmas was a miserable one – an acute illness with periods of improvement and then severe setbacks – a roller-coaster which I found most distressing, and which must have been almost unbearable for Margaret. I would like to thank and pay tribute to all those who treated and cared for Charles and tried to encourage him during those weeks at the County Hospital.

  When Bridget and I heard of Charles’ death on a day of frozen traffic gridlock this month we sat down to remember some of our best memories. I would like to sketch his remarkable life and achievements, and illustrate it with some of our recollections.

  Charles was a third generation surgeon – his father and grandfather had been surgeons in Glasgow. He went to Glenalmond School, then Glasgow University, qualified in 1953 and gained his Scottish FRCS four years later. Margaret and he married in 1959. His senior surgical training was in Nottingham and Sheffield, and when appointed to Hereford in 1969, Margaret, he, and their four daughters moved to Mavis Holt, a home they made especially hospitable. While working in Scottish hospitals Charles had seen at first hand a hierarchical system whereby the Senior Surgeon allocated beds and responsibilities to less senior consultants, and he felt clearly that the English system was far better where each Consultant was treated equally. And in parenthesis he had no time for those proposing Scottish independence, and also a deep dislike of the EU lack of democracy.

  At the County Hospital Charles was one of three general surgeons, and also had his special interests in vascular and breast surgery. Within a few weeks of my appointment as a physician in 1971 I asked him late on Christmas Eve to see a man with a probable leaking abdominal aortic aneurysm*, and so I soon saw Charles dealing with a major lifesaving operation - in those days without the imaging techniques available today and with no Intensive Care Unit. I came to recognise that Charles had all the virtues one looks for in a surgeon – judgement, dexterity, technical ability, empathy with patients and, when necessary, the courage to have a go in a difficult or a desperate situation if there seemed, as he might put it, to be a sporting chance of success. Courage comes in several forms. I remember another patient. I had performed a liver biopsy and the patient began bleeding severely into the abdomen from a tear in the liver capsule. (Fortunately I had done the biopsy myself rather than one of my trainees.) At the same time a report arrived that the blood contained Hepatitis B virus and implied that that it was infectious. Charles’ Registrar of the time declined to have anything to do with the case. In theatre there was a very bloody operation until Charles could neatly place a stitch across the tear. And fortunately the hepatitis report later turned out to be incorrect. I also learned that Charles was a careful and thorough teacher of his surgical trainees, and that he would get to know them well, partly by the way in which Margaret and he entertained them at home at Mavis Holt. In committee he was calm, humorous, and sensible, and he gave years of extra service to the District Management Board (then a consensus body!) and to the Herefordshire Health Authority. Of course long ago both of those august bodies swirled down the ravenous plug-hole of continuing NHS reorganisations.

  I also saw Charles the Peace-Maker. General Surgeons are often larger than life. The necessary rugged individualism and ability to take prompt and difficult decisions sometimes permits, or even encourages them to slide towards Prima Donna states. I tremendously admired the way Charles sought, found, advocated and generally succeeded in arranging reasonable compromises which kept the whole Department of Surgery moving forward. Then, when Charles’ colleagues retired, he put great effort into welcoming and smoothing the path for the young surgeons (now no longer so young) who were appointed. Naming the Charles Renton Unit at the County Hospital after him was a splendid and fitting tribute to a person who for over 25 years kept working hard to maintain and improve services in Herefordshire. And of course in retirement Charles wrote and published the History of the Hereford Hospitals. He thoroughly enjoyed the research, the reading, talking to people, and was, I think, surprised at the difficulty of actually writing the book, although that did not put him off going on to write and publish the history of Hampton Park Church.

  Concerning the hospital, I also wish to emphasise that Charles was always someone who contributed to the collective or fam
ily activities and the hospital’s social life. Charles was a regular attender at events and sometime President of the Herefordshire Medical Society, and also of the local branch of the BMA. He was a reliable Easter Monday walker where his dog and mine, usually well behaved for the rest of the year, would have a battle during breakfast somewhere on top of the Black Mountains. In the Hospital Christmas Show there was always a Charles character or reference, and Charles (with my help) preserved a consultants’ dining room at the County Hospital – a place where very many valuable diagnoses and ideas were generated - until after we retired.

  Away from hospital work Charles enjoyed walking (he completed the West Highland Way a few years ago), shooting and fishing, golf (as you would expect with a Scot), while indoors there was Highland Dancing and Squash. I have mentioned his hospitality to trainee surgeons – part of that involved teaching them Reels, Gay Gordons and Strathspeys in the hall of Mavis Holt. I can still see the grandfather clock there swaying to and fro from the seismic effects of Strip the Willow or other dances. Eventually the clock was tethered to the wall. I never played Charles at Squash, but have heard he was a notably tough and subtle competitor specialising in sneaky and effective shots. Charles organised the Hereford Burns Club for many years, and of course in caring for and running Hampton Park Church he played a major role as Treasurer and later as an Elder And when Dot Cameron wrote her humorous religious plays for Hampton Park, there was almost always a role designed for Charles.

  To turn to sailing - Charles, Bridget and I plus a mix of our offspring chartered a yacht of between 30 and 35 feet almost every summer for about 20 years. We sailed most of the West Coast of Scotland – where Charles had an indefatigable appetite for visiting old castles. We also sailed off Southern Ireland, to Brittany, and in later years when warmth seemed more important, along much of the northern side of the Mediterranean, including Majorca and Minorca, Corsica, the Aeolian Islands, the upper Adriatic, both sides of Greece, past Mount Athos, and along the Turkish coast as far as Antalya. Our yachts were always very democratic in a rotating way. By this I mean the jobs all changed each day, so the day after being Captain you were Galley Slave, and so on. If one of our youngsters was Captain, then the Captain’s Mate would be an older hand. This system suited us. Bridget used to say that for the first day and perhaps part of the second Charles and I would discuss and chew and agonise over the Health Service, and when we had got that out of our systems the holiday would really begin.

  We had various adventures, surprises and some alarms, which of course remain more vivid than memories of perfect sunsets, starry nights with phosphorescence in the water, or even a remote anchorage such as one off Islay watching seals on the rocks and deer coming down to the shore. A chartered yacht always seems to have defects and some important part which breaks as soon as you are away from civilisation. As an example I remember journeying from Athens to Rhodes and for an hour or so while Charles and the rest of the crew sailed the yacht to and fro off the island of Paros, Daniel (Barbara’s husband) and I wrestled with failed electrics and batteries in the cramped bowels of the boat. Without electricity the yacht’s engine would not start.

  I once remember embarrassing Charles mightily in Yugoslavia. We were part of a flotilla and supped at a small village restaurant in what is now Croatia. Tito was still alive, Yugoslavia appeared solidly communist, and the restaurant service was excruciatingly slow. We made our choices from a thin menu and eventually the serving girl came who fortunately spoke English and I listed our requests. When I got to Charles I said “And the Scottish Milord will have ….” A miraculous change occurred! The waitress fawned over us.and nothing was then too good for this blue-blooded member of the Scottish aristocracy! Charles’ Scottish ancestry is very respectable – indeed Charles explored it for several years – but alas he was not titled.

  Also in Yugoslav waters after a long day's sail we anchored in a small quiet bay rather close to another yacht. Our chain rattling down must have alerted her crew because an angry and stark naked German lady leaped onto the deck of the other yacht and began upbraiding us in German. Our astonishment overcame her indignation, and she vanished to reappear later with clothes. In fact we had not anchored too closely.

  In Turkey we visited an ancient ruined amphitheatre with had, as usual, wonderful acoustics so that anyone sitting on stone seats high up on the hillside could clearly hear everything spoken on stage. Under a bright Mediterranean sun Charles delivered the full Robert Burns’ “Address to the Haggis”. Whatever can the ghosts of ancient Romans and Greeks have made of that?

  Of course there were anxious moments. Anchored during a storm behind the pier at Uig in Skye, we wanted to make a phone call. That was long before the mobile phone. There was no possible way we could row the inflatable dinghy against the wind, so Charles and I climbed into it, allowed the wind to blow us onto the beach some distance away, and with difficulty carried the dinghy to the telephone box and tied it securely to a nearby lamppost. After phoning we carried the dinghy along the pier until upwind of the yacht and chose a spot to launch ourselves from where, we hoped, the wind would blow us back to the yacht with Bridget on board. I had visions of being blown past onto the shore and going round and round repeatedly. But we were lucky the first time.

  And of course there were real mishaps. We anchored one day in the sound between Iona and Mull. Charles wearing his cap went ashore on Iona to visit the Abbey ruins. Returning on board he stepped into the cockpit and stood up under the boom, which unfortunately was lashed a little lower than usual. He sat down sharply and daughter Barbara said “Poor Dad” and rubbed the top of his cap. Blood appeared and dripped down both sides of his head - Charles had split the top of his scalp. My recollection and Bridget’s differ slightly. I remember her coming on deck with a huge curved suturing needle, big enough for mending canvas sails though she thinks she brought something smaller. Anyway, Charles turned down our kind offer of minor surgery and opted for Steristrips which pulled the edges together, and did a satisfactory job. And another year after Bridget broke a rib off Corsica she herself rejected our suggestions when we tried to leave her ashore for a few days.

  While on board we discussed lots of things. Charles was an excellent raconteur with many stories about his military service. Also I remember being impressed how Charles and Margaret had worried about the schooling of Pamela, Barbara, Fiona and Morag, and also how Charles had tried to share interests with all his daughters. For example Fiona for a time was a horsy person, and Charles took up riding, though I got the impression he never felt at ease while on horseback. Indeed he fractured a scaphoid wrist bone falling off and, as is the way with doctors, delayed getting the injury diagnosed or treated. And then I remember Charles swimming to the shore through jellyfish to rescue a youthful Morag who hated them though after long years I cannot imagine why we did not use the dinghy – perhaps it was hard to inflate.

  We also learned a bit about his Church (at Hampton Park). Charles was Treasurer for many years, and so had to wrestle with the difficulties of meeting expenses for the roof, for repairs, for heating, for the upkeep and repair of the manse, and indeed the whole finding, funding and housing of each Minister. More recently he became an Elder, and of course Margaret gave years of service to this and to other URC churches.

  I should not like you to think that Charles was perfect. When anyone mentioned cricket he would become slightly excited and extremely critical, especially if I was nearby. However I did once, just once, inveigle him into joining the team to play that despised game for the hospital. Then on holiday Charles positively liked shopping, and it was difficult to get past a cookie shop without making a purchase. And his cooking on board, though better than mine, might at best be graded beta minus, so on our Galley-Slave days whenever possible he and I would try to arrange an anchorage in the evening near to a good taverna or eating place. Charles heartily disliked blackberries and olives, and latterly was prone to fall asleep after a good supper. But these, except
possibly the cricket matter, are trivial when set against his marvellous virtues and achievements as a person, as a healer, a surgeon, as a peacemaker, a church maintainer, and a major contributor to the NHS in Herefordshire.

  I hope that I have taken a canvas and splashed a few blotches of paint to try to outline Charles – a very hard-working and a very good Scottish gentleman, fully engaged with the people around him. Margaret has not had her proper prominence today, but that is because these have mostly been hospital and sailing reminiscences. And I have gone on too long. It has been a privilege to know Charles and the Renton family.

  Most of you will have good memories of Charles. Cherish them and don’t forget!

  Tales from Abroad and Other Times

  Some of these are loosely based on places or people we have met overseas. A few concern countries we have never visited, but have imagined after our son David served there during his army career.

  ANDROCLES AND HIS FRIEND

  Memorandum to the God / Emperor

  Humbly we beg to present the results of the investigation ordered by your Imperial Holiness into the events at the Ides of September when a lion belonging to the Emperor refused to consume a miserable prisoner. We have examined the two principal characters using modifications of the usual investigative techniques.