THEY MADE LOVE THAT night. It was long, slow, silent, intense. Hardly even physical. They gazed almost unbearably into each other’s eyes. Goldblatt didn’t understand what it meant. In the morning, he left early, before Lesley was up. He went to the hospital and got himself a coffee and sat in the doctors’ office.
He pulled out Mr Lister’s notes. Two days previously, Dr Morris had finally taken the plunge and started Mr Lister on steroids on the assumption that he had some kind of low-grade inflammatory illness that they couldn’t detect, since they had excluded everything else. The previous day, Mr Lister had still run a fever. If the steroids were going to work, the fever would subside within the next couple of days. If it didn’t, they were back to square one. Goldblatt flicked through Mr Lister’s notes, looking over his test results, searching for clues, indicators, anything that he and Dr Morris might have missed as to the nature of what they were actually treating.
But staring, mostly. Staring blankly at the pages of results in front of him.
What Lesley said had scared him. What did she mean? What would she do? Was she just thinking about leaving him? Or had she already decided? Their lovemaking the previous night, had it been an affirmation or a farewell?
He flicked through a few more pages of Mr Lister’s notes.
He almost laughed, it was all so awful. He was fucked. He was so fucked. He was never going to get a substantive job.
What right did he have to drag Lesley into this world of his? Each night he brought it home with him and she was forced into it, like it or not. She deserved better. It wasn’t her world. It was sad, miserable, absurd. It was Ludo’s world, not Lesley’s.
He looked up and gazed slowly around the room. The HO had decided to stick the spiky charts of Mr Lister’s fever up on the wall like some kind of frieze. The pages ran all the way across two walls and a good part of a third, giving the office an ancient Greek look, like something out of a neoclassical painting.
The door opened. The HO came in.
‘How did it go yesterday?’ she asked.
‘No luck,’ said Goldblatt.
‘Oh.’ The HO frowned. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Thanks.’ Goldblatt smiled ruefully. He paused. ‘Listen, sit down. I’m worried about you.’
The HO looked at him uncomprehendingly.
‘The day before yesterday. You were mental, remember? The blood gases?’
‘Oh, that. I was just a bit... frazzled.’
‘You weren’t just frazzled. You were at the end of the diving board getting ready to jump head first into the deep end.’
‘At least I knew where I was going.’
Goldblatt stared at her. It was like being confronted by an auditory mirror, if there could be such a thing. For an instant he wondered if he was creating a monster. Or a second him. ‘You know, jokes like that aren’t going to help you. Take it from someone who knows. Now listen to me. It’s only a job. Right? It’s not worth dying over. Tell me if it’s too much.’
‘It’s too much.’
‘I’m fucking serious!’ he shouted. ‘Do you understand? Tell me! Tell me if it’s too much.’
The HO’s eyes went wide. She pushed her glasses up on her nose. OK,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ll tell you.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
Goldblatt took a deep breath. ‘Good.’
Ludo arrived, wearing one of her inevitable woollen skirts. She sat down. The blue fabric stretched over her thighs.
‘What happened yesterday?’ she asked.
‘He didn’t get it,’ said the HO.
Goldblatt nodded, waiting for whatever was coming next. The snide comment, the malicious jibe. Ludo’s trademark.
Nothing. Ludo frowned slightly. Then she said: ‘I’m sorry, Malcolm.’
Goldblatt gazed at her in surprise. Ludo looked back at him. Their eyes met.
‘What’s going on?’ said the HO.
Goldblatt looked around. ‘Nothing.’
He was dictating discharge summaries in the doctors’ office that afternoon when his bleep went off. Goldblatt finished the summary he was working on, released the button on the Dictaphone, and dialled switchboard.
‘Dr Goldblatt,’ said the voice on the phone when switchboard had patched it through, ‘this is Margaret Hayes.’
It was a loud contralto voice, the kind designed more for control than communication. Goldblatt had never met Margaret Hayes, but he had heard about her. He didn’t say anything in reply. Although it was obviously an important voice, full of latent demands and the threat of unmitigated retribution, he didn’t think having a name like Margaret Hayes was such an amazing announcement that it required any response.
‘It’s Margaret Hayes here,’ said the voice again.
‘I know,’ said Goldblatt.
‘How do you know?’ asked Margaret Hayes quickly, unable to conceal her pleasure. Margaret Hayes was a person whose ears often burned in the knowledge that someone, somewhere, must be talking about her and the incredible feats she performed in the service of the Fuertler’s Foundation.
‘You told me,’ said Goldblatt.
‘When?’
‘Just now.’
There was a disappointed silence on the line. ‘Do you know who I am?’
‘Margaret Hayes?’
‘I am the secretary of the Fuertler’s Foundation.’
‘Really? That sounds like a very interesting job.’
‘It is,’ said Margaret Hayes with dignity. ‘I count myself lucky to be in a position to serve.’
‘Although I suppose there’s a lot of typing involved.’
There was a puzzled silence for a moment. ‘This is Dr Goldblatt?’ said Margaret Hayes. ‘Professor Small’s Registrar?’
‘Yes it is,’ said Dr Goldblatt.
‘Dr Goldblatt, I have rung about a patient. She is supposed to come in under Professor Small and she has been cancelled three times!’
Goldblatt didn’t say anything. Margaret Hayes had been on the phone for all of a minute and already this was the second time she had made a perfectly commonplace announcement and expected him to react as if it were the most astonishing declaration. It was quite an irritating habit.
‘Did you hear me, Dr Goldblatt?’
‘Yes,’ said Goldblatt.
‘Well, what do you think about it, Dr Goldblatt?’
‘It’s not good, I’ll say that much.’
‘No, it’s not good.’
‘On the other hand, it’s not bad. Yesterday I cancelled someone who had already been cancelled four times.’
‘Who was that?’ demanded Margaret Hayes.
‘Someone,’ said Goldblatt.
‘Who?’ demanded Margaret Hayes again. ‘Was she one of mine?’
Goldblatt frowned. Was she one of mine? Now, just what was that supposed to mean? It was one of the quaint anomalies of the British justice system that there was no actual legislation specifically outlawing slavery in the United Kingdom, but for all practical purposes it had been banned indirectly by a variety of statutes for over two centuries, not to mention being prohibited under a number of more recent instruments of international law. His old colleagues at Free from Bondage, he suspected, might be interested in learning more about this Margaret Hayes and her claims to ownership of persons. She’d be an easier target than Colombian coal-barons, that was for sure.
‘Dr Goldblatt?’
‘What?’
‘I have a patient here who has been cancelled three times. Her name is Mrs Watt. I want to know when she is now planned to be coming in.’
‘Haven’t we written to tell her?’
‘Yes.’
‘When did we say?’ asked Goldblatt cagily.
‘May the twelfth,’ said Margaret Hayes.
‘Then I’d say... May the twelfth?’
‘Yes, that’s what I said.’
‘Exactly. That’s when she’s coming in.’
‘Can you guarantee that?’
Can you guarantee that? Goldblatt wished there was some way he could have recorded the conversation. Honestly, it was priceless.
‘No,’ said Goldblatt. ‘I can’t guarantee that.’
‘What is she coming in for?’ asked Margaret Hayes.
‘What did we say she was coming in for?’ asked Goldblatt cagily.
‘She doesn’t know. Why do you think I’m ringing?’
‘Why doesn’t she know?’
‘I don’t know why she doesn’t know.’
‘Maybe you should find out and give me a call back.’
‘Dr Goldblatt!’
‘Didn’t anyone tell her why she was coming in?’
‘No.’
‘What’s wrong with her?’ asked Goldblatt.
‘She has Fuertler’s Syndrome! Dr Goldblatt, I am the secretary of the Fuertler’s Foundation.’
‘No,’ said Goldblatt. ‘I mean, why can’t she ring up herself? Is something wrong with her?’
‘She has asked me to ring for her.’
‘And you agreed?’
‘Of course I agreed.’
That was unfortunate, thought Goldblatt. He couldn’t just divulge treatment information to some secretary.
Goldblatt leaned back in his seat with a sense of anticipation. This was going to be a treat, and he could certainly use one after what he had been through at the Nailwright the previous day. There were few things he enjoyed more than making an intransigent and utterly immovable ethical stand on an inconsequential and completely trivial matter before intrusive relatives, friends, officials, and functionaries, and none of the things that he did enjoy more could be done in a doctors’ office at four in the afternoon. Not by himself, anyway.
‘I can’t tell you that,’ said Goldblatt.
‘Why not?’ demanded Margaret Hayes, with genuine interest as well as hostility in her voice. She was accustomed to getting any information she wanted out of Professor Small, usually without even having to ask for it.
‘It wouldn’t be ethical. That’s confidential information. I’m sure Mrs Watt wouldn’t want me to tell you.’
‘She asked me to ring for her!’
‘And you agreed?’
‘Dr Goldblatt, I am ringing as Mrs Watt’s advocate.’
Her advocate! Ooh, that was a frightening word. Margaret Hayes was obviously an accomplished bully. Goldblatt almost admired her.
‘Is she paying you?’
‘Dr Goldblatt! I have never—’
‘Don’t worry, I also happen to be a lawyer. I can assure you that if she isn’t paying you, you’re all right. She can’t sue you.’
‘Sue me? For what?’
‘For not getting the information. I assume you told her you were going to get the information?’
Margaret Hayes hesitated for an instant. ‘Yes.’
‘And you aren’t. But don’t worry. As long as you didn’t agree on a payment, she can’t sue you. No consideration – no contract.’
‘Dr Goldblatt,’ said Margaret Hayes coaxingly, ‘why don’t you just tell me what Mrs Watt is coming in for?’
‘Mrs Hayes,’ replied Goldblatt accommodatingly, ‘why don’t you just ask Mrs Watt to ring me?’
‘She can’t ring you! The poor woman’s a wreck. She’s in tears. She’s been in tears for a week.’
Goldblatt seriously doubted that anywhere near as much lacrimation as that had been going on. As if to confirm his suspicion, ten minutes after he put down the phone, Mrs Watt herself rang. Her week-long spell of weeping had miraculously ended, she had salvaged herself from the wrecker’s yard, and sounded like a perfectly rational woman who just wanted to know what she was coming in for. Apparently the Prof hadn’t quite got around to telling her in the clinic. In the eight months that had passed since then, Mrs Watt had come to the very reasonable conclusion that if she was going to get upset when she was cancelled every twelve weeks, she may as well know what she was getting upset about. Margaret Hayes had discovered this during the telephonic sweep of the infantry that she held every year, and had immediately ordered Mrs Watt to sit tight and wait until she found out for her.
She hadn’t found out for her. Mrs Watt had found out for herself. But that wasn’t the end of it. Two days later, the Prof received a letter.
At first glance, when she saw the letter on top of the pile of mail in her secretary’s office, the Prof thought it was just another one of those irritating letters that had been arriving in rising numbers over the last few months and to which she had been tirelessly applying her strategy of ignoration. On second glance, when the Prof recognized the letterhead at the top and then quickly looked for the signature at the bottom, she realized it wasn’t like the others letter at all. To ignore this letter wouldn’t be strategic, it would be suicidal.
The letter, like its author, was blunt and bullying. It was not tolerable, wrote Margaret Hayes, for admissions for members of the Fuertler’s Foundation to be cancelled so often. It seemed to be a phenomenon that was increasing in frequency and was now becoming routine. If the Prof wanted her to write to the hospital Chief Executive about the situation, she would be happy to do so.
The Prof lived in dread of offending Margaret Hayes. Since it was Margaret who had been instrumental in promoting the myth that Professor Small was the only doctor in Britain who was capable of treating Fuertler’s Syndrome, and since this myth was the chief cause of her unit’s dizzying rise – and since it was, after all, a myth – it followed that Margaret could ruin the Prof just as easily as she had made her. She never missed an opportunity of letting the Prof know it. If Andrea Small was king, Margaret Hayes was the kingmaker. But more to the point, as the Prof realized all too well, even if she wasn’t king, Margaret Hayes would still be the kingmaker.
With one letter, the Prof realized, her entire strategy was in tatters.
But the last thing the Prof wanted was for Margaret Hayes to write to the hospital Chief Executive. The hospital already teemed with envious consultants from other units who were just waiting to stab her in the back, many of whom, she suspected, had spies in the Chief Executive’s office and knew what came and went in his correspondence, and all she needed was for Margaret Hayes to slip a dagger into their hands. She was on the phone in ten minutes to make sure she didn’t. Margaret was in a meeting and couldn’t take her call.
A meeting, thought the Prof bitterly. What could it be about? Surely Margaret wasn’t meeting Dr Jenkins from Leicester! Dr Jenkins, the Prof knew, had been putting himself about as a Fuertler’s expert for years, and it was the Prof’s worst nightmare that Margaret Hayes was conspiring to offer full recognition and establish diplomatic relations with him.
The Prof rang back. Margaret Hayes was still in a meeting. She was in a meeting for the next three hours according to the reply the Prof received to each of the fourteen phone calls she made before Margaret finally came to the phone.
‘Margaret, I don’t think that complaining to the Chief Executive would be helpful,’ the Prof whimpered.
‘It wouldn’t be a complaint,’ said Margaret Hayes. ‘I’d never complain about you, Andrea. But I could enquire about the possibility of more resources being allocated to you. Considering all that the Fuertler’s Foundation has contributed to your unit, the hospital should be prepared to invest a little more. Don’t you think so, Andrea?’
‘Of course I think so, Margaret. But we’re at a very delicate stage just at the moment. I don’t think it would be helpful at this point. Perhaps in a couple of months.’
‘But something must be done now, Andrea. Our patients can’t wait a couple of months. If you can’t handle all of our patients yourself, maybe we should consider another option. As you know, we at the Fuertler’s Foundation have always thought we should concentrate our efforts in building up your unit as the one centre of excellence for the treatment of Fuertler’s Syndrome...’
‘And you have!’ cried the Prof. ‘It is!’
‘But maybe we were wrong. Maybe one centre isn’t enough. Maybe we should consider a second centre. You know Dr Jenkins, don’t you?’
No!’ shrieked the Prof, swivelling her chair and turning instinctively to the Scale. Unable to suppress the horrible image, she visualized the column of red slithering down the wall. ‘Margaret, leave it to me,’ she pleaded. ‘I’ll handle it.’
In reality, Margaret Hayes would as soon have exchanged ambassadors with Dr Jenkins in Leicester as she would have handed over control of the Fuertler’s Foundation itself. Dr Jenkins had been making Fuertler’s passes at her for years, and had even gone so far as to hint that he had accumulated a list of forty-three patients who were not members of the Foundation that he would turn over in exchange for the Fuertler’s Foundation recommendation as a centre of excellence. But Margaret Hayes wasn’t going to be seduced by glittering baubles, even forty-three of them. Dr Jenkins was much too independent, and Margaret Hayes would have been blind if she couldn’t have seen that she would never be able to exert the kind of control over him that made her relationship with Andrea Small so rewarding. The only use she had for Dr Jenkins was as a counterweight to keep Andrea Small in a state of continual suspicion and fear, and as far as Margaret Hayes was concerned the Cancellations Crisis was merely a new and pungent condiment to spice up the threat.
‘All I want to know is how I can help, Andrea.’
‘You do more than enough already, Margaret.’
‘I can never do enough, Andrea.’
‘You’re so dedicated, Margaret. You should think of yourself a bit more.’
‘Well, it is Fuertler’s Syndrome, Andrea. If we don’t do anything for our patients, who will?’
‘No one, Margaret. That’s the tragedy.’
But that was only a minor tragedy. The major tragedy would be if Margaret withdrew the funding she channelled into Andrea’s research projects and started letting her patients go elsewhere. That would be more than just a tragedy. It would be a catastrophe.
After she put down the phone, the Prof sat in a state of catatonic stupor, staring at the Scale. The Scale was still stuck at 960. Was it never to rise any higher? What would happen if it began to fall? The Prof would have to buy some white paint and use it to blot out the red. She didn’t think she’d be able to do it. She just didn’t think she could.
And what was all the fuss about, for God’s sake? A few patients who couldn’t get in on time. What did everyone expect? It was a public system, for heaven’s sake, and it was tottering towards collapse. Wasn’t that what everyone always said? ‘It’s tottering, it’s tottering.’ One heard it all the time. Why blame her? Why not put the blame where it belonged for once? Why not put it... well, where it belonged? For once?
The Prof felt angry, bitter, and panicky. She called Emma.
Emma came straight away. The Prof told her that she had just had Margaret Hayes on the phone and Margaret wasn’t happy because of all the cancellations that were happening and as a result she might not be able to provide all the funds she had been expecting to provide. Then the Prof stopped and watched Emma’s face. The money for the MD that the Prof had hinted that Emma would be able to do in the lab with Bolkovsky was meant to be coming from the Fuertler’s Foundation. It didn’t take long for Emma to make the connection. Suddenly she was angry, bitter, and panicky. She stumbled out of the Prof’s office almost overwhelmed by the injustice of it all, her eyes stinging with tears. She went looking for Goldblatt to tell him what a filthy coward and cheat he was for keeping all those patients out of the hospital and threatening her MD, and she would have told him, too, had she not remembered just in time that she wasn’t talking to him.
The Prof felt much better. She rang the South Bank box office to book a pair of concert tickets to give to Emma as a reward.
But driving Emma to tears, while satisfying, was only a partial solution to the problem. The Prof knew that the time was past when she could simply ignore the crisis. Something else must be done. She didn’t know what it was, but she knew that it must. And it was unlikely that Emma would know what it was, since it was Emma who, as registrar, had presided over the rising tide of cancellations in the first place.
With a horrible, sinking sensation, the Prof knew exactly who she would have to talk to.