I tried to call my lawyer, David Walkerburn, at Cardwell Walkerburn, Writers to the Signet, 48 Heriot Row, Edinburgh, but it turned out he’d taken himself off to Cape Town for a winter break. Who would blame him? Could Hester Cardwell help? Would 9am on Tuesday suit? So I arranged to Skype, 10pm Auckland time.
Something odd about the positioning of the camera gave me the impression that I was looking upwards towards a severe head-and-shoulders portrait of a grey-haired lady behind a bench. She was wearing a white blouse with an elaborate collar in lace that made me think of the poet John Milton. To her right, and just within shot, a very young woman with short fair hair, in formal court garb, was sitting as an observer. It crossed my mind she would be off to court after the Skype meeting. She had good even features, clear skin, and she wore a pair of rimless spectacles. She reminded me of Portia in The Merchant of Venice, or perhaps Nerissa, her waiting gentlewoman, who both go undercover and come to court in drag. It was as if I was up before the Court of Appeal. Indeed, I recalled David Walkerburn telling me that Hester Cardwell was shortly to be elevated to the bench. But when Ms Cardwell smiled she looked beneficent enough. She took the history from me. I stated it as briefly as I could. She didn’t interrupt my exposition. Actually she busied herself taking notes. For a moment I had the impression she was recording my entire testimony, verbatim, longhand. Even when I had rested my case, she continued to write. Then she sat and examined her record.
‘How is Ms Hodgson?’ It was a precise, cultivated, Edinburgh voice.
‘She’s good, thanks. Apart from the sprained ankle.’
She made a note. ‘Ah yes. Good, good. How do you view Professor Girdwood’s reaction?’
Why is it, that when you ask lawyers a question, they just fire the question right back at you?
‘Well, it’s way over the top. Completely out of order. I wasn’t acting in a professional capacity. This has nothing to do with medicine.’
‘You were a Good Samaritan.’
‘Maybe, but not in any medical sense. I was one aviator helping out another. Imagine if I’d chosen not to answer her distress call. Where would she be now?’ I admitted to myself that the fact that my contribution to her landing safely had barely been acknowledged, rankled.
‘That is a question we cannot answer,’ replied Hester Cardwell, analytically. ‘Subsequently, however, you did form a doctor–patient relationship.’
‘Hardly.’
‘Albeit briefly, you took a medical history, conducted a physical examination, made a diagnosis, and offered a treatment.’
‘I would argue that we already had a relationship. A pilot–pilot relationship if you like. Suppose, for the sake of argument, I have a girlfriend. We’ve been going out for three months. We go out for a hill walk. She trips and sprains her ankle. I take a look at it and put on a crepe bandage. Does that suddenly make the previous three months unethical? Or do I now need abruptly to terminate the relationship? It’s absurd.’
‘That is absurd, I agree. On the other hand, if your girlfriend of three months’ standing approaches you and requests a medical consultation, would it not be more ethical to advise she visit her GP? Doctors are advised not to treat relatives and loved ones where possible.’
‘But this was a question of necessary and immediate care!’
‘Was it? As Ms Hodgson said herself, Middlemore Hospital was only five minutes down the road.’
‘That’s pedantic. Look – I wouldn’t dream of going out with one of my patients. I fully understand it’s unethical.’
‘Not necessarily.’ (I wondered if Ms Cardwell had a professional compulsion to play devil’s advocate. Maybe that was the sine qua non of being a lawyer.) ‘Imagine you are a single-handed GP working on a remote island with a population of say one thousand seven-hundred souls. Not only your professional life, but also your social, your private life has to be conducted on the island. You could make a case that establishing a sexual relationship with one of the islanders was acceptable. It is not the establishment of the relationship itself which is unethical. Rather, it is the possibility that you abuse your status as a physician and establish an empowerment and an influence in an inappropriate way.’
She paused and made another note. It was the first time during our conversation that sex had been mentioned. It had occurred to her she had better get the whole picture. She was considering how to word it politely.
‘With respect to the rest of the evening you spent in Ms Hodgson’s company, I take it you … did indeed … as it were … have relations?’
I just let the question hang in the air.
‘Ah yes, yes, I see. Quite. Quite.’ She wrote furiously. Maybe silence is consent.
‘You remain on good terms with Ms Hodgson?’
‘You intend to see her again?’
‘If she would like to. Do you think I should?’ I always try to fire a direct question at a lawyer, in the vain hope of getting a direct answer. Of course it was a stupid question. The young girl on Ms Cardwell’s right leaned in and whispered something. They had a hurried conference, sotto voce. I think they were discussing some obscure piece of case law from the nineteenth century.
‘Jamieson.’
‘Jamieson. Ah yes, Jamieson.’
Shortly after that, the Skype call came to an end. Jamieson clearly settled the matter. At least Hester Cardwell tried to reassure me.
‘Professor Girdwood’s advice is sound. You need to lie low.’
‘You think I’ve done something wrong.’
‘You would need to test the case.’ And I remembered her colleague David Walkerburn had said exactly that to me before, on another matter. You would need to test the case. This is all about public perception. ‘But I think it unlikely it will come to that. I suspect the public will be on your side. If the New Zealand GMC stay quiet, and Ms Hodgson stays quiet, all will be well. So you must stay quiet too. Take a holiday!’ She gave me a smile and suddenly looked quite human, even warm. It must be difficult to be a judge. (I thought of her as a judge rather than a lawyer.) The professional detachment of a doctor is one thing, but that of a judge quite another. How did they do it? How did they separate their private from their public persona? Could a judge possibly go to the pub with some friends and have a few pints and a bit of a laugh? Maybe that was why judges wore wigs. It was a disguise.
I ventured, ‘If I’m taking time out, how long for?’
She shrugged. ‘Two weeks? Give it that and then give Prof Girdwood a call. Bet you get your old job back.’ It was as if she’d retired to chambers and taken the wig and gown off. I pressed her again, perhaps a little mischievously.
‘Do you think I should see Ms Hodgson again?’
Thus far and no further. ‘You may well have an opinion on that. I couldn’t possibly say.’
‘Good morning.’
‘Good night.’
The screen went blank.
I glanced at my watch. 10.30pm. Too late to make a call? I decided to risk it. I fished the heavily embossed card out of my wallet, glanced at the handwritten contact details, lifted the phone, and tapped out the number.
‘Esplanade.’
So, he was staying in Devonport, on Auckland’s North Shore. I asked for Major Forster. There was only a brief delay.
‘Forster.’
‘It’s Dr Cameron-Strange.’
‘Yes.’ It was almost as if he’d been sitting by the phone, waiting for my call.
‘Look, I’ve been thinking things over. The way things have turned out, I’ve got a bit of time on my hands. That job you offered me, the one that would take about a week, is it still up for grabs?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I’m available. Just the taster bit, mind. Not the long haul. I’d like to be clear about that. But if the offer still stands, I’m in.’