Ken McClure: Hypocrite's Isle

‘And now he has?’

Simmons nodded. ‘And I suspect he’ll be prepared to work night and day if necessary to see it through — without any prompting from me.’

‘So why was Graham having a go at him?’

‘We ask the postgrad students to participate in the undergrad teaching programme — it’s supposed to give them teaching experience. Graham asked Gavin to take a first-year class and he refused. Now Graham’s afraid some of the others might follow suit.’

‘That sounds so like Gavin,’ said Jenny. ‘Setting out to make an enemy of the head of department... and you maintain he’s bright?’

‘The teaching is voluntary...’

‘But surely he can see —’

‘That he should play the game?’ interrupted Simmons. ‘Oh yes, he can see that. He just refuses to play it.’

Jenny shook her head. ‘On his own head be it... but surely the meeting wasn’t all about Gavin?’

Simmons told her about the BBC planning to visit the department.

‘Great. Does this mean you’re going to be on Horizon , holding up a test tube and gazing into the middle distance, while a soothing voice explains just how you made the breakthrough?’

‘No, I’ve nothing to tell them.’

‘How did I know you were going to say that?’ smiled Jenny. ‘What about Mary’s stuff? You were singing her praises the other day. She’s writing it up for publication, isn’t she?’

Simmons nodded. ‘Sure, and it’s a very nice piece of work, but it’s technical progress. It’s only relevant to scientists in the field. It has no bearing on anything that would matter to the general public.’

‘Couldn’t you sex it up to make it seem that way? You know, Edinburgh scientists in cancer breakthrough... hopefully in three to five years’ time this will lead to significant new treatments...’

‘I could but I’m not going to,’ said Simmons flatly. ‘You know how I feel about that rubbish.’

Jenny looked at him and smiled. ‘God, you rise to the bait so easily. I can never resist...’

Gavin left the flat at just after nine the next morning and set out to walk to the lab. He was sore, but the pain was offset to some extent by the fact that it was such a pretty morning, with the sun shining on the castle ramparts as he crossed Princes Street at the junction with Hanover Street and started up the Mound. The Norway Spruce Christmas tree — a traditional present to the city from the Norwegian government — was already in place near the top awaiting the night, coming soon, when its lights would be ceremoniously switched on by some local celebrity.

He couldn’t help but think that the decorations he could see on the lamp-posts in Princes Street paled into insignificance against the natural beauty of the frost on the grass in Princes Street Gardens. Their presence, however, reminded Gavin that he had still not decided whether to go home for Christmas or stay here in Edinburgh.

He knew he’d been putting it off because he’d been hoping that Caroline might invite him home with her to the Lake District — but that, of course, was now out of the question. Whether it had ever been a real possibility was open to conjecture, and he was well aware that falling heavily for someone, as he had done for Caroline, could lead to a sense of the unreal intruding on his grasp of things. He’d been finding it all too easy to fantasise about walking through snow-covered woods in Cumbria with his arm round her as they sought out holly berries and sprigs of mistletoe to bring home and decorate a room where a log fire burned bright, filling the air with its scent. He saw them sipping mulled wine and cuddling up on the couch while Caroline’s parents — who had taken to him instantly — smiled benevolently and exchanged knowing glances of approval about a possible future son-in-law.

That fantasy had been destroyed. Caroline would be going home for Christmas, but she would be travelling alone to a house where overwhelming sadness would preside like a blanket of fog, where people would find it difficult to say anything and long silences would prevail, despite forced attempts to avoid them. Cancer would be spending Christmas with Caroline and her family, not him.

‘You shouldn’t be here. I told you I would check your cultures,’ said Mary Hollis when she saw Gavin come in to the lab.

‘I just had to see for myself,’ said Gavin. ‘But don’t think I’m not grateful.’

‘How are you feeling?’

‘A lot better, thanks... and don’t say I don’t look it,’ Gavin warned Tom who looked as if he were about to say something.

Tom shrugged and returned to what he was doing.

Gavin brought out his cell cultures one at a time and examined them under the inverted microscope. Mary watched him out of the corner of her eye, trying to gauge his reaction. Tom, with his back to the others, stopped in the middle of a calculation he was scribbling and said out loud, ‘You’re not going to believe this but I’ve forgotten the molecular weight of sodium...’

‘Twenty-three,’ said Gavin, without taking his eyes from the ’scope.

‘Cheers.’

‘How are they looking?’ asked Mary.

‘Well, at least they’re not contaminated this time,’ replied Gavin. ‘On the other hand, there’s not much sign of anything happening.’

‘It’s only been a day, Gavin. Give them time.’

Gavin returned the last of the culture bottles to the incubator. He had just closed the door when Peter Morton-Brown came in, full of smiles and bonhomie. ‘Hi, guys. Have you heard about my new journal club?’

‘Frank mentioned something about it,’ said Mary, keeping her tone neutral.

‘Well, what d’you think? Are you going to come along and boost the numbers?’

‘I suppose...’ said Mary.

‘Sure,’ said Tom with his usual lopsided shrug.

Gavin had busied himself with something at his desk.

‘How about you, Gavin, are you going to join?’

‘No.’

‘Not interested in current research progress, huh?’

Gavin turned round and looked daggers at Morton-Brown. ‘On the contrary, I am very interested. In fact, I’m currently engaged in it. It’s your journal club I’m not interested in.’

‘Don’t you think it would be the perfect way to keep up to date with what’s going on in science?’

‘No, it would involve sitting through a lot of talks about stuff I’m not at all interested in.’

‘Please yourself. I just thought it would be a help to everyone...’

‘No, you didn’t. You thought it would look good on your CV.’

‘Now wait a minute...’

‘Gentlemen, please,’ interrupted Mary. ‘Just let us know when you plan to have the first one, Peter,’ she said, giving Morton-Brown his cue to leave. When he did, she turned to Gavin and said, ‘You really are the limit.’

‘He’s a bullshitter.’

‘You have to get along with bullshitters.’

‘Why?’

‘You just do!’

‘You know,’ said Tom thoughtfully, ‘there’s only one thing worse than a bullshitter...’

‘What’s that?’

‘A bullshitter with a journal club to promote.’

All three of them burst out laughing. It was a good moment, a bonding moment that none of them had seen coming.

Over the next few days, Gavin came in early each morning to check on his cultures before going off to the library to read up on everything surrounding his project. On Monday morning his customary response to Mary’s enquiry changed from ‘Nothing yet’ to ‘Wowee! Now we’re cooking.’

Mary came over to take a look at the cells. ‘Not much doubt about that,’ she said. ‘Quite a dramatic effect. What concentration is this?’

‘Manufacturer’s recommended.’

‘Gosh, it’s hard to see how a drug that can attack tumour cells like this in the lab had absolutely no effect at all in patients.’