First Blood

by Claire Rayner

  ‘You’re looking very sorry for yourself,’ Toby said. ‘Lost a pound and found a penny?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Never mind. It’s quaint old English. You’ll learn it eventually.’

  She didn’t look at him, feeling absurdly elevated at being so close to him, but stared down into her coffee cup and tried to sound lugubrious. ‘Oh, I’ve just been trying to fight City Hall. And getting nowhere. After all, why should I do any better than anyone else? It still makes me mad, though.’

  ‘Argument with the Professor?’ Toby was sympathetic.

  ‘It’s not much to ask for! Jeez, every other consultant in this place has a registrar, but me, I don’t get so much as a houseman!’

  ‘But you send out some of your work to washerwomen, don’t you? That’s why they’re so mean with you.’

  ‘What? Washerwomen?’ She was puzzled.

  ‘I thought that a lot of your stuff went out to the forensic labs,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t it?’

  ‘There’s enough pathology work for the hospital to justify a registrar, even a houseman, but the bastard won’t let me have –’

  Toby sighed. ‘You’ll never understand the corporate mind. And Professor Dieter’s as corporate as they come, take it from me. That fella’s so keen on doing things the way the powers that be want ’em, it’d make you sick. Got his eyes on the Department of Health if you ask me, and a knighthood. Fancies himself right at the top of the administrative tree. And I know exactly what he’s thinking about you and a registrar.’

  ‘Then let me in on it!’ She was sardonic, and now able to look at him. The embarrassment of her earlier thoughts about him was diminishing as she relaxed. ‘It could help me.’

  ‘It’s easy.’ He perched on the table beside her, and she could feel his arm warm against hers and the embarrassment came thundering back like a stampede of very eager buffalo. ‘He knows the forensic side of your week’s work is funded by the police and the local authority and that some of the lab work – the bits you send off to the forensic labs – is paid for that way too. That means it’s not the hospital’s business, right? Well, he can extend that none-of-our-business-is-it? to the whole of your time and convince himself that the hours you put in on your forensic work here have nothing to do with the hospital either – which means that those hours belong here. In other words, he counts your work hours as nine to six, all for the hospital, even if you have three hours of that for forensic. So you can do your own registraring in the time you’re doing forensic, on account of you’re not doing it for the hospital. Get it?’

  ‘That’s crazy,’ she said after a moment. ‘It makes no sense.’

  ‘Don’t tell me that. Tell the Prof.,’ he said cheerfully.

  ‘I’ve tried telling him any number of times.’ She shook her head a little wearily. ‘It’s like talking to a wall. He’s charming, he’s concerned, he wants everything to be perfect but he can’t extend my establishment. Fancy way of telling me to get lost. He’s useless.’

  ‘Never think it. He’s bloody clever, that man. If anyone can run with the fox and go riding with the pink coats at the same time, he can. Don’t underestimate him. Listen, why are we talking about a boring old fart like Dieter? I want to talk about something else.’

  ‘Because you asked me why I looked sorry for myself.’

  ‘Well, forget it. Try him again tomorrow. You never know, he might be having a bad day and you could wear him out. Chinese torture method. I want to know whether you’re coming to the show tomorrow night?’

  ‘Ah, the show,’ she said. ‘That.’

  ‘Yes, that. Are you coming?’

  ‘I hadn’t planned to,’ she said and then laughed. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m sick of the sound of it. Everyone keeps on and on about buying tickets and there are those posters everywhere, it’s so boring. If I could have my druthers, I’druther go some place else.’

  ‘You’re just bloody-minded,’ he said equably. ‘Never mind. You’ll enjoy it’

  ‘I will not. Anyway, I’m not going.’

  ‘Oh, come on! You’ve got to. I bought you a ticket.’

  ‘More fool you then. I didn’t ask you to buy one for me. If I’d wanted to, I’d have bought my own. I’ve worked hard at saying no. I’ve had Sheila Keen driving me crazy and I’m damned if I’ll –’

  ‘I know. All the same, come with me. There’s a party afterwards for the cast and their hangers-on and the booze’ll be free. It’s been donated by some off licence down the road and they tell me they’ve sent some pretty good stuff. And we can laugh at the luvvies poncing around being Frightfully Famous Actors, and have some fun. And you never know, maybe people’ll get smashed enough to say things to each other they really mean, instead of being polite all the time. This place is a maelstrom of intrigue, you know! Half the staff hate the other half, and everyone hates the Prof., and he never shows who he hates – I tell you, one of these days there’ll be mayhem done. And this show’s as good a setting as any other! So come and see the fun.’

  ‘It’s like that in every hospital. I don’t see why this one should be any worse than any other. Hospital parties always end in rows.’

  ‘Just you come and see for yourself then. Prove me wrong, if you like.’

  She hesitated. ‘I told Sheila Keen I wouldn’t.’

  He stared at her and his face was a little crumpled. ‘Hell, George, what is it with you? Here I am asking you out, and all I get is you bleating about Sheila Keen! Are you trying to tell me you’re gay or something? It’s not the impression I’ve had so far!’

  ‘I’m trying to tell you I’m well mannered,’ she snapped furiously. ‘If I refuse to go to something when one person asks me, to accept the same event from someone else is hardly polite. And I was raised to be polite. As for any other reason –’

  He burst out laughing. ‘Oh, you’re so funny!’ he said. ‘Listen, George, the whole hospital knows about Sheila Keen! She’s man mad – makes a play for all of us. And she’d understand better than anyone if you told her you were going with me. Then it wouldn’t be going to the show, it’d be going out with a bloke.’ He leered in a somewhat melodramatic manner. ‘And that comes first.’

  ‘Oh, does it?’ George said wrathfully and got to her feet. ‘Like hell it does! I don’t play those sort of games, mister; I don’t need to, take it from me. And you don’t have to put down Sheila that way, either. If I go to the show, I go because of her, and not with you. Even though you do wear trousers of a sort!’ And she slammed her coffee cup down on the desk and headed for the door.

  She heard him calling after her as far as the main door to the ICU as she went storming out. She would go to the lousy show, boring though she was convinced it would be, in spite of what he’d said she’d go just to show him. With Sheila Keen. He could go to hell.

  Which was why she was in the back row of the most expensive seats when the whole fuss started.

  4

  Not, of course, that she was with Sheila at all. She sat there at the end of the row, slumping as low in her seat as her height would let her and simmering with irritation. Sheila had sold her her ticket with great delight and then said cheerfully, ‘I don’t know who’ll be sitting next to you, because someone else is selling those, but it might be somebody you know.’

  ‘What?’ George had said, appalled, and Sheila had opened her eyes wide at her. ‘Won’t that be your seat? You’re only in the first bit after all, aren’t you? And I’d thought you’d want to watch the rest.’

  ‘Oh, but I have to stay backstage,’ Sheila said, pitying her lack of understanding of the way show business worked. ‘It would never do for members of the cast to be wandering about front of house, now would it? But it’s great you’ll be there. It’d never do not to be, actually. This one really is madly important, it’s not just to raise money, you see, it’s the publicity that’ll help us get even more money. They’re sending a TV crew, they say, because of all the big names we’ve got!’ And she went twit
tering away to sell more tickets, leaving George feeling as though somehow she’d been made a fool of, and having to face the unpalatable fact that if she had, she’d done it herself.

  All round her the place hummed with chatter as people came drifting in and greeted each other and changed seats to be with their friends and fussed over programmes. The audience split into two obvious groups: the outsiders dragged in by members of the charity committee who had bullied and cajoled them for months, which included people who wanted to be on good terms with the hospital – suppliers of goods and services, local GPs and others of that ilk; and those who were part of the hospital and who had been even more strongly bullied and nagged by committee members to support the event. A few rows behind her Jerry and Jane sat with their heads together giggling, and around her there was a scatter of uniforms from all parts of the hospital: nurses and physios, porters and orderlies, and even a few patients in dressing gowns and slippers. It was certainly an egalitarian affair, George thought, which has to be some sort of comfort. At least it’ll be interesting looking at the audience, even if the show itself is cruddy. Which she was sure it would be. She’d sat through enough benefits of this sort in too many other hospitals not to have a low opinion of their quality.

  Behind her someone touched her shoulder and she looked round a little warily, wanting to avoid being seen by Toby Bellamy if he had arrived in the audience already, only to find herself looking up into his face. She was furious with herself because she felt her own face redden.

  ‘So where’s your little friend, then?’ he said and grinned. ‘You might just as well have come with me, mightn’t you? It’d have been no fun to sit here on your own.’

  ‘I’m hardly on my own,’ she said frostily. ‘The people who are taking these seats’ll be along any moment, I’m sure.’

  He stretched his legs awkwardly and managed to climb over the seat beside her and sat down.

  ‘That’s Sheila’s seat,’ she said. ‘After she’s done her bit she’ll be wanting it.’

  ‘No, she won’t. You won’t get her out here when all the glamour-pants brigade are back there.’ And he jerked his head to where a stage had been set up with red plush curtains at the far end of the room, which was the main canteen, stripped out and suitably rearranged to make a space that would seat four hundred people. ‘And anyway, these are my seats.’ And he patted the empty chair on his other side. ‘I bought ’em last week, from the chap who runs the catering department. He’s on the committee too. So you see, you could have saved yourself ten quid.’

  ‘I didn’t want to,’ she said still icy. ‘I wanted to contribute as much as anyone else –’

  ‘Oh, George, do let’s stop! I didn’t mean to step on your toes. You really are very touchy, you know! No, don’t look at me like that. I apologize, I apologize. I was rude, I was clumsy. God help me, I was sexist. I admit the error of my ways. I’ll never do it again. Now let’s forget it, please, let’s, hmm?’

  She sat silent for a while and then sighed. It really was all rather silly after all; such a fuss over a seat for a concert she didn’t even want to be at; and she made a face and said a little gracelessly, ‘Oh, all right.’

  ‘That’s better!’ He beamed at her. ‘Now, do you have a programme? I have, look.’

  She took it, grateful for something to cover her embarrassment, and pored over it. It was the usual sort of thing; several pages of ill-printed advertisements for local businesses, many of them offering special discounts for hospital staff; a page of children’s names and photographs, all of whom purported to be fervent supporters of the appeal; lists of people who had to be Thanked for Making This Evening Possible. Then at last there was the list of items they were to see and hear: under the care of Richard Oxford, Famous Author and Lecturer who would compère, a well-known if rather second-rate TV comedian would tell them jokes; an even more second-rate pop singer would regale them with her latest hit (‘I wonder if she can really sing?’ Toby murmured. ‘Or will she be miming to a record? I hope so and I hope it’s cracked.’); and a couple of extremely celebrated actors would perform a famous sketch to do with photography. There was a magician; the hospital’s own Choral Society (‘God help us,’ said Toby. ‘I’ve heard them practising.’ And George, who had heard Sheila practising alone in the office said nothing but privately had to agree with him.); and what promised to be the hit of the evening, a shadow operation to be performed by a group of the medical students who were currently seconded to Old East from their parent hospital on the other side of the river.

  ‘At least we won’t get Classical Golden Alltime Hits on the pianoforte,’ Toby said and George snorted with laughter and pointed to the small print, which promised interval music by Chopin, Puccini and Mozart played on the piano by Mary Shepheard LGSM, who even George knew was one of the domestic supervisors who had been working at Old East for the past fifteen years, just to fill in until her music career really took off. They both laughed and at last George felt relaxed and glad that their spat was over. She really did rather like him, which was annoying in lots of ways but undoubtedly made life more interesting; and she settled down to enjoy the show.

  Which was taking its time starting. The audience was getting restless now, and George glanced at her watch and then raised her brows. ‘I thought it was supposed to start at half past seven? It’s almost eight.’

  ‘Mmm?’ Toby had been staring across the rows of chairs to the far side where the Dean was sitting with a tall woman wearing a shapeless outfit in deep purple with a bright red shawl and a good deal of heavy folk-design jewellery hanging about her person, and Matthew Herne, whose companion was a woman so well dressed and glossy that even from this distance she looked like a catwalk model. Sitting beside her, and looking as striking as ever, Felicity Oxford sat very upright, wearing the starkest of high-necked black with white flowers twisted into her great rich bun of hair. She looked spectacular; George had noticed her as soon as she’d come in, and been amused to see how many pairs of eyes followed her every movement.

  She had also wondered how someone as handsome and clearly capable as Felicity could even begin to tolerate the likes of Richard Oxford. She’d tried not to think about the man since he’d barged into her office all those weeks ago, but now, looking across at his wife’s serene face (was it too studied and controlled a serenity? It was hard to tell at this distance), she wondered again. Well, who could ever say what attracted a woman to a man who was essentially a pig? Hadn’t she herself been ears and elbows in love with that bastard Ian –

  Hurriedly she dragged her mind from that dangerous road and said, ‘They’re running late.’

  Toby jumped and turned to look at her. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘It’s getting late.’ George tapped her watch. ‘They’ll be slow clapping any moment.’ Even before the words were out of her mouth someone right at the back began to stamp rhythmically on the floor and in a matter of moments the low chant had started, ragged at first but gaining strength. ‘Why are we waiting, oh, why-hy are we waiting …’

  Toby peered at his own watch and then looked back at the people behind. The chant was spreading now and some of the audience was shushing the complainers. The edginess showed the two different groups of the audience clearly; people from outside were being polite and well behaved about the delay. It was hospital staff, the younger ones, who were being restless and rowdy, and at the front of the audience the Dean stood up and looked back in a minatory manner. But it made no difference, for the lighting was such that it wasn’t easy to recognize the people in the back rows and this emboldened them. The noise went on.

  The Dean went hurrying over to the side of the stage, peered round the curtain there and then disappeared behind it, and someone at the back shouted, ‘Hell, if he’s singing, I’m not waiting!’ which got a louder laugh than it deserved.

  The curtain trembled, moved and half opened. The Dean stepped out. A loud ironic cheer greeted him and, by holding up both hands, in one of which w
as a radio microphone, he appealed for quiet as the lights flickered, increased and then faded in the main hall and came up in front of the curtain. He looks devilish, George found herself thinking as the glare from the footlights accentuated the bones of his face and made the eye-ridges look over-developed and the eyes deep and dark. But then the light changed again and it was possible to see him properly. He looked concerned without being over-anxious, and at the same time competent and in control. It was as though his very pose and facial expression were capable of bringing order out of chaos, peace out of uproar.

  And indeed he did seem to have enough authority for that; the sound died down and the audience sat expectantly as he lowered his hands and spoke into the microphone.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we do regret the delay in starting this evening’s performance. There’s been a small hiccup – well, we imagine so. Unfortunately, our master of ceremonies, Mr Richard Oxford, has been detained and, much to everyone’s regret, is unable to be with us at the moment. So we feel we must, albeit sadly, start without him and hope that perhaps he’ll be able to join us later. Now, you all have your programmes, so you won’t need me to tell you who everyone is and what they’re doing. We’ll leave it, as I’m sure you’ll want me to, to the great talents who have come to help us tonight to entertain us and raise much-needed funds with no more introduction than this …’ And he began to clap his hands. After a moment the audience joined in as the Dean walked backwards to the side of the stage, still clapping, and jumped down with a nicely lissom air as the curtains parted and the comedian came on to stamps and whistles and shouts.