Beloved Poison (6 page)

‘And the black rose? Is that a remedy?’

‘The black rose?’ The withered petals were as droplets of dried blood on the work bench. ‘The black rose means death.’

The lower operating theatre was as noisy as a cock pit. Wooden balconies, buffed to a dull shine by cuffs and elbows, circled the walls from sawdust to skylight. They were crowded with medical students, row upon row. These galleries were accessed by almost vertical staircases, up which still more of them climbed, and the walls were alive with chattering faces and flapping coat tails. Dr Magorian pointed Will to a chair overlooking the operating table. I sat down beside him. There was no better view in the house.

Two o’clock was Dr Magorian’s favourite operating time – the light was not too bright and not too dull – though his audience had often been to the alehouse at lunchtime and the place was sometimes less than gentlemanly. Dr Graves and Dr Magorian stood in their shirt sleeves. Against the wall hung their operating coats. I heard Will take a sharp breath at the sight. ‘My God!’ he whispered. I saw his fingers tighten around the neck of the sack he held, and into which we had put the six small coffins. I took it from him and put it beneath my chair. I did not want him to crush them when he fainted.

‘Dr Graves has performed ninety-nine operations in that coat,’ I said. ‘Today is the coat’s centenary.’

‘An auspicious day,’ said Will, weakly.

Stiff with old gore, Dr Graves’s coat had a thick, inflexible appearance, and a sinister ruddy-coloured patina like waxed mahogany. Dr Magorian’s was worse, being as dark and lustreless as a black pudding. No one knew how many times he had worn it to amputate. It was said that he had stopped counting when he reached two hundred, but that had been some years ago now.

At that moment the door swung open and Dr Bain appeared carrying an enamelled bucket. He was dressed in white from head to foot.

‘Avast there, Dr Bain!’ cried Dr Graves. He tittered. ‘Have you come to scrub the decks again?’ The students laughed.

‘What in heaven’s name are you wearing, man?’ said Dr Magorian.

‘It’s his nightshirt,’ said Dr Graves. ‘Are you playing Wee Willie Winkie?’ The students laughed again, louder this time.

‘What’s going on?’ whispered Will. He had perked up, now that something dramatic was afoot, and he was watching Dr Graves and Dr Bain with interest.

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Where Dr Bain is to be found, Dr Graves is never far behind – usually with a criticism or a caustic remark.’

‘I met Dr Graves at the governors’ meeting, when the demolition of the hospital was decided upon. He appeared . . . well,’ Will hesitated. ‘I don’t wish to sound disrespectful—’

‘Oh, you don’t need to be diplomatic with me,’ I said. ‘At least, not where Dr Graves is concerned. He appeared resistant to change. Any kind of change. Is that what you wanted to say?’

‘Yes,’ said Will. ‘Though his master, Dr Magorian, was equally vocal. Look at his face!’ Dr Graves’s smile was now a grimace, his teeth bared like an angry dog. ‘Is he frightened, d’you think? Frightened of change? Or perhaps frightened of appearing foolish when confronted with circumstances he does not understand—’

‘It’s easy to ridicule what appears new and peculiar,’ I said. ‘Easier than learning how to think differently.’

‘I agree,’ whispered Will. ‘And yet it’s Dr Bain who intrigues me. He’s standing before a crowd of medical students wearing what does indeed look like a nightshirt. Does he enjoy provoking his colleagues?’

‘Sometimes,’ I said. Indeed, now I thought about it, it was hard to think who Dr Bain had
not
provoked at some time or other. Not ten days earlier he had riled Dr Magorian by daring to disagree about the merits of pus in a wound. (‘There is nothing laudable about pus, sir!’)

‘How fascinating,’ said Will. ‘And what d’you think is happening here?’

‘I think Dr Bain is out to make Dr Graves appear a fool.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. Though I admit that at first glance, the odds would seem to be the other way around.’

Before us, Dr Bain was holding up his hands for silence. When he spoke, his voice was low, but clear. ‘I have a suggestion, sir, if you will hear me.’

Dr Magorian, perhaps able to read the situation better than Dr Graves, waved a gracious hand. ‘Proceed, Dr Bain.’

‘I’ve been thinking about dirt.’

‘Dirt?’ Dr Graves gave a bark of derision, as if the subject were irrelevant. ‘Ha!’

‘Dirt, sir,’ said Dr Bain. ‘Put simply, dirt must be avoided. Especially when there’s an open wound.’

‘Well, I’d no more rub dirt into an open wound than you,’ said Dr Graves. ‘Nor would any doctor. Not even the young gentlemen of the audience would do
that
!’ There was a murmur of laughter.

‘Neither would I expect them to,’ said Dr Bain. ‘But there is dirt which we
can
see, and there is dirt which we
cannot
see. I advise that we must try to
see
dirt at all times, so that we know where it is. Only then can we avoid it. To wear these dark old coats is to hide it. To wear a white coat is to make it plain to see.’

‘But you look like a baker,’ cried Dr Graves. ‘Or a half-dressed lunatic!’

‘A baker wears white because he is dressed in old sacks. And it also happens to hide the fact that he is covered in flour. You wear a black frock coat because you are a gentleman, and also to hide the fact that you are covered in—’

‘Blood,’ interrupted Dr Graves. ‘Of course!’

‘No!’ cried Dr Bain. ‘When it flows through the veins,
then
it is blood. When it has left the place where it is
meant
to be,
then
it is dirt. But we
must see the dirt
! For this reason I urge you to put away your operating coat, and wear one of these.’

‘Excellent logic,’ murmured Will.

‘Rational, yes,’ I replied. ‘But I think it would take more than a white smock to show where the dirt lies.’

But Dr Bain was speaking again. ‘I’m aware, Dr Graves, that you’re about to undertake your one hundredth surgical procedure in that coat. But the greater the degree of cleanliness, the greater likelihood that suppuration of the wound can be avoided.’ At this point Dr Bain produced from his bucket a brass spray pump. I recognised it as the one I used in the small glasshouse at the physic garden. He turned to Dr Magorian. ‘I have made up a 2 per cent solution of pine tar oil. If you will permit me, sir, I would like to mist the site of the operation during the procedure. Miasma, sir. Need I say more? The miasma too contains dirt, I am sure of it. It must be cleansed from the area!’

‘Good.’ I nodded, impressed by his thinking.

‘What!’ cried Dr Graves. ‘Are we to be sprayed like aphids on a rose bush?’ He looked about, expecting to be supported by the mirth of the students, but now they were silent. Dr Magorian, the great man, was about to speak.

‘Miasma?’ he said, raising a shaggy eyebrow. He sniffed deeply. ‘I must agree that the river is at its worst today.’

‘If we can prevent the miasma from entering the wound then the likelihood of suppuration is sure to be reduced still further,’ said Dr Bain.

‘We close the doors,’ said Dr Graves witheringly. ‘The miasma is kept out that way.’

‘But we always close the doors,’ said Dr Bain. ‘And yet the place still stinks, and the patients still die.’

‘Miasma,’ repeated Dr Magorian. He stroked his chin, and waited for the silence to deepen. ‘It is a curse upon us. I am willing to try your ideas, Dr Bain.’

A student leaped forward to help Dr Magorian out of his famous blood-blackened coat and into the white linen smock. Dr Bain held out the other. ‘Dr Graves?’

Dr Graves snatched hold of the smock and dashed it to the ground. ‘No!’ he snapped. ‘I am a surgeon, and a gentleman, and I will wear the coat that has served me well for so long.’

‘But it has perhaps not served your patients well,’ said Dr Bain. ‘Will you not help us to see whether we can improve a man’s chance of surviving the knife?’ He lowered his voice. ‘Come on, Richard! Experiment and inquiry is the life blood of our profession. What
seems
right may well be wrong. We must test alternative ways of doing things, no matter how absurd they may seem. Change is good. We cannot fear it or we must give up!’

Dr Graves looked up at the students. They had heard every word. Not one of them was smiling now. Nor could they bring themselves to look at Dr Graves. He turned around on his heel, peering up into the galleries, searching for someone, anyone, who might meet his gaze. ‘What, no laughter now, gentlemen?’ he shouted, ‘No questions as to why or how this theory has been arrived at?’

The students looked down at their hands. Dr Graves took a step backward. But one of his boots had become tangled in the folds of the smock he had flung to the ground and all at once he lost his balance. He made a desperate bid to stay upright by grabbing hold of the table upon which rested Dr Magorian’s surgical cutlery, and then, with a great clatter, down he went, to sprawl upon the sawdust amongst a confusion of knives, saws, hooks and clamps. A mass of sugar lumps spilled from his pockets onto the floor.

There was a moment of appalled silence, and then a great shout of laughter erupted from the audience. ‘Silence!’ bellowed Dr Magorian.

Dr Bain went to pull Dr Graves up off the ground, but the man staggered to his feet unaided. Sawdust covered his coat and trousers. His face was almost purple with rage, and in his hand he gripped a long curved boning knife.

Will clutched my arm. ‘The knife!’ he whispered.

‘This is a hospital. Men hold knives all the time here.’ I saw no reason for hysteria, despite the heated exchange taking place before us.

Dr Graves was panting hard; his hair was awry and his voice trembled with fury. He pointed the boning knife at Dr Bain. ‘You!’ he shouted. ‘It’s always you! You could just as well have presented your absurd ideas in private but no, you must have an audience. You are a maverick, sir, and you jeopardise the gravitas of our profession with your persistent nonconformity!’

‘Dr Graves—’

‘And when I do not choose to follow your lead in these clownish activities, you see fit to scoff at me beneath the gaze of my students. What professionalism, what courteousness is there in that?’ Sugar crunched beneath his heels. ‘Dr Magorian,’ he cried, ‘you asked me to assist you, and I would be honoured to do so. But I will not do so if you continue to allow our noble profession to be ridiculed by
this man
.’ His knuckles turned white as he jabbed the knife in the direction of Dr Bain. ‘He will be asking you to wear your nightcap next!’

‘An excellent idea, sir,’ said Dr Bain.

Dr Graves made a choking sound. The students hooted. ‘Gentlemen, will you
be quiet
!’ shouted Dr Magorian. He motioned to me to pick up the utensils that lay scattered in the sawdust.

The uproar continued, but Dr Graves had now fallen silent. He was holding the knife tightly, his fingers wrapped around the top of the blade, so that his hand was cut and bleeding, though he appeared not to have noticed.

‘Look, sir,’ I murmured, hoping to help him save face, even a little. ‘You’ve cut your hand. You can’t possibly operate without first attending to this.’

I took the knife from him and pressed my handkerchief against the wound. Dr Graves gaped at me. His eyes were vacant, his face slack and defeated. He looked different, somehow. I stared at him. Something cold and hard, something dark, and filled with hatred seemed to be stirring at the back of his blank, glazed eyes. He blinked, and cocked his head as though he were listening, listening to a voice deep within himself that he had not understood before. Then he turned, and stumbled out of the operating theatre. The door crashed closed behind him. No one followed. No one spoke. I had been acquainted with Dr Graves for years, and yet, at that moment, I realised that I did not know him at all.

But the spectacle was set to continue, and the next moment the door opposite burst open and a pair of orderlies marched in. Between them they carried a stretcher, upon which was strapped a tall thin man of about fifty years. He lay still as he was carried forth, but on apprehending his two white-clad surgeons and possibly thinking he had arrived early at the celestial gates, all at once he burst into violent activity.