Ken McClure - Donor

He became more and more despondent as he thought it through, especially when he realized that this was why Grayson had agreed so readily to his suggestion that they try for a referral. Grayson didn’t want a failure on his books either. He wished he’d never mentioned this to the Chapmans. He had unwittingly raised their hopes and now feared that they would soon be dashed. He wondered if a direct personal approach might help. Maybe talking to someone at Medic Ecosse would be better than just submitting an application form. Concluding that it could do no real harm to try, he picked up the phone and called the Medic Ecosse Hospital. The lines were all engaged.

Turner sat with his finger on the phone rest, watching the raindrops run down the duty-room window for a couple of minutes before hitting the re-dial button. This time it rang.

‘I’d like to speak to someone about your new NHS patient free-referral scheme.’

He was put on hold. He continued watching the raindrops chase each other down the window-pane, to the strains of Mozart’s Eine kleine Nachtmusik.

The music was interrupted and another female voice came on the line. Turner repeated his request for information.

‘I can send you out a form, Doctor. You just fill it in, giving the patient’s details and why you think a referral would be of benefit, and send it back for consideration by the relevant office.’

‘I already have the form,’ said Turner. ‘I guess I want to speak to someone in the relevant office about my patient.’

‘One moment, please.’

More raindrops. More Mozart. Outside in the corridor a child was crying as its mother scolded it over some misdemeanour.

‘This is Leo Giordano, administrative secretary of Medic Ecosse. How can I help you?’

Turner explained about Amanda and wondered about her chances of admission to Medic Ecosse.

‘We don’t usually take on transplant patients for free,’ said Giordano. ‘For obvious reasons. We’re talking big bucks here.’

‘Does that mean never?’

‘No,’ replied Giordano hesitantly. ‘I wouldn’t say never but, frankly, transplants are awfully expensive and our hospital is not in the best financial position it’s ever been in. You may have heard.’

‘I was rather afraid you were going to say something like that,’ said Turner. ‘But really our main problem with Amanda at the moment is that she’s not responding well to dialysis. The machines you have up there are much more efficient than ours. Putting her on one of those might give her the extra time she needs while she waits for a donor match.’

‘I see,’ said Giordano. ‘I take it she has no brothers or sisters?’

‘She’s an only child,’ replied Turner. ‘We’re checking her parents’ tissue types, but of course the chances aren’t good.’

‘So we’re talking about a kid who might not make it any other way?’

‘Yes.’

‘There’s a very real chance that she might not make it here either,’ said Giordano.

‘Of course. Look, Mr Giordano, let’s level with each other,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t make any political or commercial sense for you to say yes to Amanda. I’m asking you purely on humanitarian grounds. She’s a lovely kid with a couple of real nice people for parents. I’d like to see them all get a break simply because they deserve it.’

‘I appreciate that,’ said Giordano, ‘and thanks for being honest with me. But the final say is not up to me. In this instance we’d have to put the request to our medical director, Dr Kinscherf, and, of course, to Dr James Ross, who’s in charge of the transplant unit.’

‘Would you at least do that?’ asked Turner.

‘Sure,’ agreed Giordano. ‘If it were up to me I think I’d say yes right now. I think it’s good if the local hospitals can help each other out. The trouble is that if we at Medic Ecosse so much as ask for the loan of a pint of blood it hits the headlines as the scandal of NHS blood subsidizing the rich. You know how it goes.’

‘Yup, I know.’

‘In the meantime, why don’t you send over the paperwork anyway? It’s as well to be prepared.’

‘Thanks. I’m grateful.’

‘Think nothing of it. Hope it works out for you and the kid.’

Turner put down the phone and tapped his pen end over end on his desk. He’d done his best; he just wasn’t convinced it was going to be good enough. He finished filling in the form and signed it. Grayson as head of unit would have to sign it too before it could be submitted. He looked at his watch. Grayson would have left by now. He’d get him to do it in the morning. He was about to put away Amanda’s case notes when the lab form listing her tissue type caught his eye. He moved over to an adjacent desk with a computer terminal on it and logged on to the International Donor Register. He had checked availability that morning but there would be no harm in checking again as he had the details in front of him. He entered Amanda’s details then requested a search for a match.

DEGREE OF HOMOLOGY? requested the computer.

80 PER CENT, entered Turner.

NEGATIVE.

Turner punched in, 70 PER CENT. NEGATIVE.

Turner logged off. Maybe tomorrow. ‘Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,’ he murmured as he left the room and returned to the ward.

Sandy looked at his watch and whispered an expletive. The traffic had been heavy on the way back and road works on the dual carriageway had reduced a five-mile section to single-carriageway with no overtaking.

‘Are you going to have time for something to eat before you start work?’ asked Kate.

‘’Fraid not,’ he replied. ‘I’ll just drop you at home and then get on up there. I’ll have something later when I get home.’

‘I’m sure Charlie won’t mind if you’re half an hour late,’ said Kate.

‘Normally no,’ agreed Sandy. ‘But it’s one of his kids’ birthday today. I said I’d be on time.’

Sandy dropped Kate at the foot of the hill leading up to their cottage, at her suggestion, and drove on up to the district hospital. He was only five minutes late.

It was Sunday evening. Steven Dunbar took the airport bus from Glasgow Airport into the centre of the city. Outside it was dark and it was raining. That and the general gloominess of the dark Victorian buildings — made to seem even blacker by the rain water — did nothing to inspire good feelings in him. He was due to begin his attachment to the Medic Ecosse Hospital on the following morning.

It was something he certainly wouldn’t have bet on when he’d heard the Scottish Office contingent refuse to modify in any way their demand for swingeing cuts to James Ross’s research budget. Their intransigence had come as a complete surprise to almost everyone at the meeting. In retrospect it had been embarrassing that the Scottish Office had not seen fit even to make a token gesture in the interests of making the negotiations seem genuine. The feelings and work of an eminent surgeon had been of no importance at all.

Dunbar had fully expected Ross to tender his resignation and, in doing so, set off a train of events that would have led to the closure of the hospital and a backfire of the whole gamble, but it hadn’t happened that way. Instead, and to everyone’s surprise, Ross had acceded to the Scottish Office demands, taking it philosophically and saying simply that he understood the awkwardness of their position and the financial constraints they were operating under.

Dunbar supposed that some kind of behind-the-scenes deal between Ross and the Medic International group must have been done to retain Ross’s services and to avoid closure of the hospital, but there had been no official acknowledgement of this or of continuing research funding for Ross from an alternative source. Ross had simply stated that, as a doctor, he felt obliged to carry on with his work at Medic Ecosse. He had a waiting list of patients he felt responsible for and couldn’t let them down. It would be business as usual as far as the transplant unit was concerned.