Neef shrugged awkwardly and rejoined Eddie as the woman related to her friends what had happened. Being a university, Neef was relying on this being as far as things would go. Talk but no action was the norm. He pressed the drink into Eddie’s hand.
“Thanks, Neefy old boy,” said Eddie.
“Eddie, Did I understand you right? There was case before Melanie Simpson and you reported it as bronchial carcinoma at the time?”
“Not officially. Officially it was lung congestion but I saw the tumours. I spotted them.”
“Who was this patient, Eddie?”
“Girl.”
“A girl? Young? Melanie’s age?”
“About.”
“Why didn’t you report the tumours, Eddie?”
Eddie took a drink and looked at Neef. “Come on, Neefy,” he said, “this is my party. I’m supposed to enjoy myself. Come and meet Trudy, my wife. Stood by me through thick and thin.” He made to move forward unsteadily.
Neef stopped him gently. “Just tell me why you didn’t report the tumours, Eddie?”
“Let me tell you something, Neefy,” confided Eddie, “the secret of a quiet life is... tell them what they wanna hear. That’s it my son... tell them what they wanna hear. He didn’t wanna hear anythin’ ’bout tumours so I didn’t report anythin’ ’bout tumours. Nice and simple. Didn’t make any difference. Eddie gave a giant hiccup before continuing his slurred monologue. Little kid was dead anyway. Wasn’t gonna bring her back.”
“Who didn’t want to hear anything about tumours Eddie?”
Eddie looked at Neef as if he was simple. “He didn’t,” he exclaimed.
“Who’s he, Eddie?”
“Excuse me old boy,” said a waspish, male voice behind Neef. This was accompanied by a tap on the shoulder. “My wife says you took her drink. The bar’s over there you know.”
“Piss off,” hissed Neef through gritted teeth and the man recoiled backwards. “I say,” he exclaimed.
“What’s this about you taking someone’s drink?” inquired Eddie. He pushed Neef aside with his forearm and called to the waspish man, “What’s this, Harold? Let me get you all a drink. This is my party. No one goes without a drink at my party.”
Neef saw the moment slip away as Eddie lumbered towards the three people who were looking daggers at him. He felt acutely embarrassed and turned away. He walked over to the bar and bought himself a large gin and tonic which he downed in two gulps.
“That bad?” said a voice at his shoulder. It was David Farro-Jones.
Neef shook his head but couldn’t say anything.
“What you need is a wife like Jane,” said Farro-Jones. “She’s trained to rescue me from all such occasions.”
“I noticed,” said Neef.
“Come and join us.”
“Eddie says that Melanie Simpson was not the first patient,” said Neef.
“What?” exclaimed Farro-Jones.
“He says there was an earlier one but he didn’t report it.”
“Why not, for God’s sake?”
“He says someone didn’t want to hear it.”
“Who? Why?”
“I couldn’t get any real sense out of him. He’s as pissed as a newt.”
“He’s been permanently pissed for the last eighteen months,” said Farro-Jones. “Are you sure he’s not just talking rubbish?”
“Maybe,” conceded Neef. “But I think we have to follow it up.”
“Absolutely,” agreed Farro-Jones. “He said earlier he was coming in tomorrow to clear out his desk and make his last farewells. We should get hold of them then while he’s relatively sober and see if we can get any sense out of him.”
“I’ll come over about ten,” said Neef.
“What are you two plotting?” asked Jane Farro-Jones as she joined them and linked her arms through theirs.
“How to bring an end to this fun evening,” replied Farro-Jones in a stage whisper.
“Make it soon,” pleaded Jane.
Eddie was now being physically supported by two of his colleagues from the Pathology Department, one on either side. They brought him to the centre of the floor and the Vice Principal commanded in the loud voice that goes with being a vice principal and driving a Volvo estate car, that everyone form a circle.
Strange hands were linked nervously and the Dean led off the singing of Auld Lang Syne. Eddie hung between his supporters like a de-boned chicken while a tide of academics swept in and out on him. All it needs is for him to throw up now, thought Neef but mercifully it didn’t happen and the evening ended in general back slapping, coat donning and the sounds of ‘Splendid evening!’ through the marble halls. The air outside smelt good to Neef as he walked off into the night. He’d get a taxi soon but right now he needed to be alone.
There was a note behind the door from Eve. She had come round to the cottage earlier but had found him out. She had left a copy of the newspaper carrying her story on the cancer scare. Neef berated himself for not having told Eve that he was going to Eddie’s retiral dinner but if he was honest with himself, he would have to admit that it had not been entirely an oversight. He had been a little peeved about Eve having rushed off the previous evening to work on her story. He knew it was childish but he had felt the need to express his independence. Now after the awful evening he’d just had, he no longer felt the need. He wished she was here. He picked up the paper and settled down to read her work.
Fourteen
Neef had a management meeting first thing on Monday morning. There was very little to discuss although an appeal for more night nurses was made by Carol Martin, director of nursing services. Carol had been lobbying individual consultants over this for some weeks. Too much responsibility was falling on too few nurses, she maintained. Neef had promised his support and gave it. Heaton and Phillip Danziger said they would see what could be done.
Mark Louradis was congratulated by Tim Heaton on his ‘Guide to Gene Therapy’ article. “Now that’s what I call positive journalism,” said Heaton. “It associates St George’s with state of the art research in the public perception. GPs will see that we’re a go-ahead hospital. They’ll be happy to refer their patients here.”
Neef noted that Louradis avoided eye contact with him throughout the meeting. It gave him some satisfaction to know that he felt some guilt about his behaviour in seeking publicity for himself. For Neef the time for anger was past. He philosophically accepted that some people were just made that way.
Heaton was particularly pleased that cancer-scare attention had been diverted from St George’s to the Public Health Service where it rightly belonged in his opinion. He brought up the subject and was in turn applauded for his firm stand over moving the Sunday Press briefing.
“What did you think of the Press coverage of the cancer scare by the way?” asked Heaton.
“Alarmist, for the most part,” said Carol Martin. “You’d think the carcinogen was a slimy, green, scaly monster, who hid up dark alleys to trap the unwary, to read some of these reports.”
“Might be easier if it was,” said Neef. “At least we’d know what we’re dealing with.”
“What did you think of the coverage, Michael?” asked Heaton.
“I suppose they portrayed the authorities as being less than brilliant but that’s almost a national pastime these days. I didn’t think anything was too unfair.”