‘Waal,’ George said drawling with as deliberate an imitation as she could manage of her New England mother’s voice, ‘can’t say as I do …’
Sheila swelled happily, delighted to be relieving her ignorance. ‘Richard Oxford, the novelist? You must have heard of him. He’s hugely famous. He wrote Devil’s Eyes Down, and The Cattermole Variations – that was a fabulous film, wasn’t it, Richard Gere, super – and of course the best of the lot, I think – so does he, actually, told me himself – Morning of the Darkest Night. Oh, yes. Everyone’s heard of Richard Oxford.’
George could not deny that she had. She had in fact read one of his books once in Corsica. She’d found it left behind by another English-speaking visitor and, for want of anything else to fall asleep over on the beach, had picked it up, and to her own surprise enjoyed it. It had been an adventure tale involving Arctic exploration, deposits of gold discovered under the pack ice and a battle between Americans and Russians to get it; a lot of preposterous nonsense really, but immensely readable and absorbing. She’d read it all through one long hot day and been sorry when she’d finished it. But then, after she’d gone home, she’d come across an article about him in the Guardian in which he revealed that he never stirred from his flat in Docklands to write his adventurous epics, set though they were all over the world. ‘Wouldn’t be caught dead in the Arctic,’ he’d said cheerfully, ‘let alone the Mojave Desert or the Brazilian rain forest,’ where he’d set several more of his books. ‘A great researcher, that’s what I am,’ he’d told the journalist, ‘with exceptional knowledge of the London Library.’ George had read the article, furious with herself for having been so taken in by the man’s book. She’d actually believed some of the stuff he’d written, thought he had to be describing scenes he’d observed with his own eyes. He’d made a fool of her; and after that she hadn’t made any effort to read more of his books.
Now she said only, ‘Oh, yes. That Richard Oxford. You said the Oxfords. There’re a few of them?’
‘His wife,’ Sheila said. ‘Such a glamorous woman, you’ve no idea. She’s Felicity. I don’t know too much about her, except that they’ve been married for ages. But they live quite – well, busy lives and she has some sort of business of her own apparently, so naturally they aren’t in each other’s pockets. It caused a bit of gossip, but I don’t listen. It’s none of my business.’ She looked down her nose, trying to display virtuous horror, but George wasn’t in the least convinced.
‘What sort of gossip? Tell me.’
‘Well …’ Sheila mimed reluctance but not for long. ‘She’s supposed to have had affairs, you know the sort of things people say, and I’ve heard that Richard got mad about it and – well, I never found out really. The gossip stopped fairly quickly. It was a year or two ago. Anyway, I don’t know more than that.’ It was clearly a painful admission for Sheila but she carried it off with aplomb. ‘The thing is, I see most of Richard. He’s very active in our drama group, and does so much to help us. He’s in our show. Did I tell you that?’
‘I’m not sure,’ George said diplomatically. ‘So, he’ll be there, and his wife. Who else?’
‘Hard to say. The consultants, of course. They always turn out.’ Sheila giggled. ‘I think they have to. They’re sort of expected to. It’s very important to Old East to get the children’s unit properly up and running. It’s been madly shabby for far too long. Anyway, I’ll point them all out tonight. Introduce you and so forth. If it’ll help.’
‘Oh, I’m sure it will,’ George said with a pretty show of gratitude. ‘I’ll meet you then, shall I? Just tell me where and what time.’
The room was extremely handsome, George thought, and for the first time since she’d arrived at Old East found something of which she could genuinely approve. It was in the administration block, housed in the original Georgian building which had been the first hospital almost two hundred years ago; a massive double cube of a room with faded blue and pink and green paint on the plasterwork panels of the walls and the elaborately moulded ceiling, and a vast turkey carpet in subdued shades of red and brown and blue to highlight them. There were spindly chairs and tables in mahogany and fruitwood that belonged entirely in the period, as did the long Governors’ Table. For this occasion it had been pushed from its normal central position under the elaborate glass candelabra to the side of the room to be spread with the inevitable crisps and peanuts and Twiglets as well as wine and bottles of water. What was it about meetings of intelligent people in England, George asked herself, that they couldn’t be held without the accompaniment of these over-salty, usually stale bits and pieces that created thirsts that couldn’t be quenched on the amount of wine provided? She thought nostalgically of the sort of event this would have been back in Inverness, where more substantial food would have been on offer, together with much better wine and probably whisky; and thoughts of Inverness brought her perilously close to thoughts of Ian and back even further to memories of her parents’ parties for the faculty of her father’s university, with their great bowls of dips and crisp home-baked biscuits and canapés, and she felt a thick melancholy settle on her. Maybe it had been the big mistake she’d made in the first place, leaving Buffalo to come to the UK. And then wanted to shake herself with irritation, for who could possibly be homesick for a dump like Buffalo, for God’s sake, even when they were in a dump like Shadwell?
‘Well, now.’ Sheila was back at her side with a glass of white wine clutched in each hand. ‘Here you are. Now let’s see who’s here.’ And she looked round the room with a sharp and considering air.
George sipped the wine, which was warm and slightly vinegary, and, resolving to abandon it as soon as she decently could, followed Sheila’s gaze. Some of the people she did recognize: the three people who had been on the Board when she’d been interviewed, and she trawled her memory for names. The stocky one with the petulant expression was Keith Le Queux. Genito-urinary? Yes, that was right. He was talking to the rather thin man who had asked her sharply about her own health and then said little more. He was Agnew Byford. Hearts, she thought vaguely. I’m not sure but I think he’s the senior cardiologist. And then there was the only woman who’d been there, a good-looking person of perhaps forty, maybe less; it was hard to tell because she tended to frown rather a lot in a harassed sort of fashion. She was clearly as preoccupied now as she had been on the day of the interview, because she was the only person here in her white ward coat; plainly about to rush off again. At the interview, George remembered, she’d been sympathetic and concerned about her housing problems in London if she got the job, and George had warmed to her. She obviously knew how tough it was for women to be consultants. She had been in her whites then too; and George smiled to herself. Maybe it was a way of not having to wear good clothes to work. A little white starch covered a multitude of sartorial sins.
The woman had seen her and came over. ‘Hello, it is Dr Barnabas, isn’t it? I’m Kate Sayers. We met when –’
‘Of course,’ George said and held out her hand. ‘As if I could forget. You were kind. Worried about me having to live in the residence.’
‘Now you’re in maybe you can see why,’ the other said drily. ‘I lived there myself for a while and hated it, though it’s not as bad as it used to be, believe it or not. There’s so little money around for non-essentials. And doctors’ comforts are very low in the list of essentials, I’m afraid, Dr Barnabas.’
‘Call me George,’ George said as Sheila hovered beside them, clearly annoyed at not being included in the conversation. George, aware of that, turned and smiled at her. ‘You know Sheila Keen? From the lab? She’s –’
‘Of course,’ Kate said. ‘Everyone knows Sheila. She’s the one you call if you need something done in pathology in a hurry or the reports haven’t come through in time for a clinic. And she’s the best person we know for stirring up the typing pool.’
Sheila wreathed herself in smiles and bobbed her head. ‘Well, I do my best.’
‘And do it well. But then women always do, don’t we?’ Kate looked at her watch and made a little sound of exasperation between her teeth. ‘It’s no good. I can’t hang around for the speeches. Got three kids on dialysis. And I so badly want them to have their own special paediatric beds instead of being mixed up with my old daddies! I’d have liked to put in a special plea for them. Oh, well, another time, I suppose. Glad to have another woman here, George. Why George, by the way? Not that it’s my business, of course. Short for Georgina, is it?’
George sighed softly and shook her head. This always came up eventually; it said a lot for Kate’s pleasant manner that George didn’t immediately hate her for asking.
‘I was named after my grandfather. He insisted that my mother’s first child was given his name exactly, or he wouldn’t leave any of his money to us. So, I’m George Postern Barnabas, and that’s all there is to it.’
‘I hope the money was worth it,’ Kate said and grinned. ‘You must have had hell at school.’
‘I did, and yes, it was worth it in the end. It put me through medical school and a good deal of postgrad as well, including my forensic course here in the UK. So the old devil got his comeuppance anyway. He only did it because he didn’t like women, and never forgave my mother for being one.’ She laughed then. ‘We won, though, Ma and me.’
‘Didn’t you just. Hell, I must go. The speeches are starting. See you around. Glad you’re here. You were worth fighting for, I’m certain.’ And she touched George’s sleeve and went as the room, now rather full of people, settled to an uneasy half-silence.
Worth fighting for? George wondered. Had it been so difficult to persuade her fellows on the interviewing Board that George Barnabas was the right person for the pathology job? Had Kate Sayers pushed for her because she was the best or because she was a woman and Kate felt the need of female reinforcements on the staff? It was a sobering thought, and not one designed to inflate the ego, George thought ruefully, as she made herself listen to the speeches.
It was routine stuff, lauding the skills of the brilliant medical and nursing staff struggling to cope in inadequate premises, begging all present to put all they could into the fundraising which was now moving into its second phase at a time when the recession was biting even deeper. ‘Only a million left to raise,’ the speaker said brightly. ‘We can do it.’ And everyone applauded politely and looked unconvinced.
George stopped listening to the words and started studying the speakers, leaning over and asking Sheila in a whisper who they were when she needed to. Sheila was only too happy to tell her, in an equally subdued tone, so that by the time the talking ended on a last impassioned plea from Professor Dieter, the Dean, George had a pretty clear idea who everyone was.
There were various local businessmen and representatives of Trusts, and George dismissed them from her attention. The ones who mattered were clearly those standing close to the Dean, Richard and Felicity Oxford. They’d been introduced already by Professor Dieter, who had treated them with obvious deference, and that had fascinated George. There had been nothing deferential about the Dean when he’d shown her round the hospital and introduced her to her department. Now, amid the shuffling as the people grouped round the microphone rearranged themselves, she could study them both more clearly.
Felicity was a good-looking, extremely elegantly dressed woman with primrose-yellow hair which she wore plastered close to her skull and then pulled into a rich smooth bun at the back; an old-fashioned, indeed period look that made her very striking. A strong face, George thought, with heavily marked bones. Got some Norse in her somewhere, she decided, remembering her year of work in anthropology and the extra papers she’d done on racial characteristics. She could have been a Scandinavian princess in a third century saga.
The man at her side looked far less well made, but none the less was equally striking. He looked blurred where she looked sharply defined. His chin was softened to a jowliness with equally soft but well-shaven and talcum-dusted cheeks, and beneath his rather muddily grey eyes there were pouches of drooping skin. His hair was a strong iron grey, thick and bouncing, and he was wearing a pale grey suit that shone almost silvery in the light thrown by the candelabra above his head. He had a perky crimson bow tie and a matching waistcoat, which was well displayed by his non-chalant one-hand-in-trouser-pocket stance, and George thought, He knows exactly how to make the best of himself; and was a little repelled by the calculation of it all. And then was amazed at herself. Why shouldn’t he be self-aware? With his fame it was obvious that he must spend a lot of time in public situations like this, being looked at and pretending not to care, or even to notice. He had every right to stand any way he liked. She was being irrational, and she straightened up and looked at him attentively as he took the Dean’s place at the microphone and began to speak. But it was a moment or two before she could stifle her feeling of dislike and concentrate on his speech.
‘… This hospital has always mattered to me and mine,’ he was saying. ‘Haven’t I lived here for the past twenty years and never gone further than a cottage in the Cotswolds?’ There was a ripple of approving laughter. Clearly everyone knew his much vaunted travel-adventure books were based on total fantasy and didn’t mind in the least. Perhaps I’m just a bit pompous? George thought. What does it matter, after all?
‘That’s why I’m working so hard with all of you to raise the necessary funds.’ He had a good voice, well pitched, with, in true London style, a hint of a nasal accent, and he knew how to use it. ‘I want us here in Shadwell to have the best children’s ward in all London. Our children deserve no less. As you all may know, my wife and I’ – here he made an expansive gesture in her direction and she bobbed a pretty little mock curtsey – ‘are producing a little show – music and sketches and so forth, with both local talent and a few of my professional friends …’ And he reeled off a string of names of very well-known actors and television performers in a studiously casual manner. ‘So I do hope as many of you as possible will buy tickets and join us. The details are on the handout sheets you’ll find by the door as you leave, together with covenanting forms for your donations.’ He smiled with conscious charm. ‘Don’t let our children down. Please. They can’t appeal for themselves, but I speak for them. They need you. We all need you. Thank you so much.’ And he stepped back to a warm spatter of applause.
He was followed by the hospital’s Chief Executive Officer, Matthew Herne, another very self-aware man in a rather too-well-cut navy blue suit and shoes so highly polished they made George blink. She thought, Ex army, you can spot them anywhere, and was childishly pleased with herself when, as part of his own appeal for funds, he threw in comments about his days in the Services, helping to enthuse the troops, as he was hoping to enthuse his listeners today.
He was followed by yet another administrator, this time the one mainly responsible for the actual plans of what was to be done in the children’s unit. He put them through a tedious ten minutes of looking at almost indecipherable ground plans and artists’ rather exaggerated impressions of how the finished work would look, as George went on learning from Sheila who among those present were hospital people.
There were several: an untidy and rather round woman who was the psychiatrist, Barbara Rosen; a handsome tall creature with lots of Byronic curly hair who was, Sheila said in a yearning whisper, Dr Neville Carr, so nice and caring, a real darling; and, in pride of place today because it was her speciality that stood to benefit from the proceedings, the paediatrician, a severe woman in her fifties with pepper and salt hair cut in a hard fringe that did nothing to improve the jutting effect of a strong nose and chin. ‘They call her Judy sometimes,’ Sheila whispered. ‘Cruel, isn’t it?’ And George nodded and looked at Sheila and both of them grinned. Susan Kydd really was remarkably like Mrs Punch to look at.
‘There’s Lawrence Bulpitt,’ Sheila continued. ‘He’s neurology. Bit of an experimental type, likes to come down and pick up this and that in path. You’ll
get to know him fast enough. And the rather fat man there, he’s Gerald Mayer-France, general surgery; and that untidy one is Toby Bellamy, he’s the gut man; and Peter Selby, who’s ENT, and –’
‘I’ll never remember them all,’ George said and then relaxed as the last little burst of applause ended and the audience shimmered into movement, heading back for the drinks table and, some of them, for the door. ‘I’ll get to know them eventually. But thanks for the run down.’
‘My pleasure,’ Sheila said. ‘I’ll have to go now, though. Mr Oxford’s actually coming to the rehearsal tonight, you see. We’re only chorus and so forth, we’re not famous like the real performers, but all the same …’ She laughed a little breathily. ‘It’s all rather exciting. So, I’ll see you tomorrow …’
She was itching to get away, watching over George’s shoulder as the Oxfords made their way to the door, talking to the Dean and Matthew Herne as they went. She was clearly longing to be with them, looking for the chance to chat directly to the great man himself; and George was amused. She’s a star-screwer, our Sheila, she thought indulgently, remembering one of her mother’s more astringent remarks. Likes to chat up the most important people wherever she is. Well, it’s a harmless enough foible. And she patted Sheila kindly on the shoulder and said, ‘You go. I’ll be fine. See you in the morning.’ Sheila threw a grateful glance at her and darted away.
George stood looking down at her glass, still full of the vinegary wine, made a small face at it and turned to put it back on the table before escaping herself, and almost bumped into a man of her own height, with a rumpled suit, a shirt that looked as if it had been introduced to a hot iron only in the most perfunctory manner, and a cheerful face under uncombed hair which was thick and the colour of dust in long empty rooms. He laughed at her and held out his hand for her glass.
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