Ken McClure: Crisis

As a medical student he had discovered that pathologists carried the smell of their profession about with them. Even on social occasions he had noticed the sweet tang of formaldehyde or some other tissue fixative clinging to their clothes. For this reason, when he became a pathologist himself, he decided that this must not be the case with him. To this end, he kept two separate sets of clothes, one for work and the other for social use. They were never allowed to mix. Each day when he came home he would strip off and shower before putting on fresh clothes and placing his working ones in the laundry basket, the All Baba basket as the cleaner called it. It was a nice allusion; he liked it. It was a ‘working’ shirt that had gone missing and it was his range of ‘working’ shirts that were looking decidedly faded. It was only Tuesday. He would put off dealing with the problem until the weekend.

Bannerman lingered longer than usual in the shower, letting the warm water cascade on the back of his neck and slacken off the tension there while he mulled over the events of the day. Uppermost in his mind was the decision he had been called upon to make on the breast biopsy. It had worked out well in the end but it had also given him more than a few bad moments. What worried him most was the fact that he had noticed a distinct tremor in his fingers while he waited for an improved prep to be made. He had had worrying moments before in his career, many, but he could not recall ever having seen his hands shake before.

When he stepped out of the shower he towelled himself down in front of the big mirror at the back of the sink and examined himself critically, something he rarely did. Perhaps the appraisal was inspired by earlier thoughts of his approaching birthday but he hadn’t really looked at himself in a long time. He leaned forward to examine his hair, thinning a bit, a state exaggerated by it being wet but undeniable nevertheless. He frizzed it at the front with his fingertips.

His clean-shaven face carried no spare flesh and his chin line was still firm — well, reasonably firm. Perhaps there was just the vaguest suggestion of a double chin there but it disappeared when he pushed his jaw out a little — so he did. His brown eyes, when examined closely with the aid of a finger pulling down the lower lid, seemed clear and bright and his teeth were straight and reasonably white. His upper body was well muscled, though softer than it had been some ten years ago, and the thickening round the middle he would ascribe to Christmas for the time being.

He had a slightly low centre of gravity which kept his height a couple of inches under six feet. His thighs were a bit too thick and muscular when they could have done with being a bit slimmer and longer, a fact which nevertheless had helped him in his rugby playing days. He had played for Glasgow University when he was a medical student there. ‘Frankly Bannerman,’ he thought, ‘you’re not going to be in demand as a romantic lead … but then,’ he reasoned, ‘you never were.’ He wrapped the towel round his waist and went through to the bedroom to dress.

The entry phone crackled into life and Stella Lansing’s voice said, ‘Come on up, Ian.’ The door relay clicked and released the lock without waiting for him to say anything.

‘It’s not Ian,’ said Bannerman. ‘I’m a multiple rapist and I’ve come to have my way with you.’ He climbed the stairs to Stella’s apartment, bottle in hand, and found the door ajar. He let himself in and closed it with enough noise to let Stella know he had arrived.

‘I’ll be with you in a moment,’ came her voice from the kitchen. ‘I’m behind as usual. Help yourself to a drink.’

Bannerman ignored the suggestion and went straight to the kitchen where he came up behind Stella and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Hello.’

Stella half turned and said, ‘I think I’ve ruined the potatoes.’

‘Good,’ replied Bannerman. ‘I’m on a diet.’

‘Since when?’ asked Stella.

‘Since this morning.’

‘It’s not like you to care about things like that,’ said Stella.

Bannerman digested the comment in silence. It deserved some thought.

‘Why don’t you pour us both a drink,’ said Stella, intent on stirring something on the hob.

This time Bannerman did as he was bid. Stella joined him a few moments later, undoing her apron and throwing it casually away as she walked towards him. Bannerman smiled at the gesture. Stella did everything with grace and panache. He was reminded of a story he had once heard about Fred Astaire. It was said that he could walk across stage smoking a cigarette, throw it away, stub it out with his foot and all without breaking stride.

Stella smoothed her brown hair back from the sides of her head and straightened her dress before sitting down. Both gestures were unnecessary. Stella always liked to maintain that she was disorganized and ‘in a tizzy’ but it was seldom, if ever, true. If she had messed up the potatoes it must have been because God had decreed that they should be messed up.

Stella sat down beside him and smiled. ‘How was your day?’ she asked. She had a slightly round face which tempered perfectly her slim elegant figure, whereas sharper features would have made her appear forbidding. A pleasantly wide mouth broke into a smile and bestowed on her what Bannerman always thought of as an air of amused detachment. An enemy might have seen it as patronizing.

‘Fair to middling,’ he said. ‘How about you?’

‘No problems,’ said Stella. ‘Routine removal of ovarian cysts. What happened about John Thorn’s patient?’

‘I’m afraid the section was malignant. What was the problem there, anyway?’

‘The patient had multiple breast lumps and John suspected from the X-rays that there was a deeper tumour which they couldn’t reach by needle biopsy beforehand. He wanted you on hand to examine it if they came across it during the op. Everyone trusts your opinion.’

Bannerman rubbed his forehead in a nervous gesture, then realized he was doing it and stopped.

‘Is something wrong?’ asked Stella. She put her hand on his.

‘No, nothing,’ smiled Bannerman. ‘I’m just a bit tired that’s all.’

‘Poor Ian,’ said Stella.

The comment was affectionate but it made Bannerman feel guilty. He felt sure that Stella had more reason to feel tired than he.

‘I’ll just check the sauce,’ said Stella, getting up and disappearing into the kitchen. ‘You could open the wine.’

Bannerman opened the wine and removed the cork slowly from the end of the corkscrew. ‘Stella?’ he said.

‘What?’ came the reply from the kitchen.

‘Why do you think we’ve remained such good friends?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Stella, coming into the room holding a hot dish with two hands and protecting her fingers with a dish cloth. ‘Is it important?’

‘Maybe,’ said Bannerman.

‘Why,’ asked Stella, depositing the dish on the table and turning to face Bannerman. ‘What’s brought this on?’

‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Bannerman.

‘About what?’

‘Life.’

‘And?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Bannerman.

‘Well, what can I say?’ said Stella with a grin.

‘Why haven’t you got married? Why haven’t I? Do you think it’s some defect in our characters?’

‘Personally speaking I’m quite happy as I am,’ said Stella. ‘Perhaps we don’t need the hassle. We both have demanding careers and busy lives. Maybe that’s enough?’

‘Yes but …’

‘But what? Who has been getting at you? Or have you been stricken by a sudden bout of middle-age?’

Bannerman reacted to the word ‘middle-age’ with a slight wince and Stella noticed. Stella noticed everything. ‘So that is what this is all about,’ she said knowingly.