Ken McClure: Hypocrite's Isle

‘I certainly do. Dealing with Gavin can drive a man to drink.’

The two men walked the short distance from the medical school to the Greyfriars Bobby pub at the head of Candlemaker Row. The name of the pub commemorated the legend of a little dog, Bobby, who had resolutely refused to leave his master’s grave in nearby Greyfriars Kirkyard, and stood guard over it for fourteen years. There was a statue to the dog immediately across the road with the dog mounted on a plinth at exactly the right height for tourists to have their photograph taken with him. Two Japanese were doing just that as they arrived.

With two pints of Belhaven Best in front of them and an order for scampi in the pipeline, Martin asked, ‘So what exactly is the problem with Gavin?’

‘He takes working-class paranoia to new heights and combines it with the social skills of a turnip. He’s come up with a very good idea, but his first concern seems to be that I’m going to steal it from him.’

‘Why don’t you get him to give a seminar about it? Then everyone will know it’s his idea.’

‘Gavin doesn’t rate seminars. He thinks they’re a waste of time and usually given by people who like the sound of their own voice but have nothing to say.’

‘So he is bright.’

‘That’s another part of the problem. That’s the sort of thing that we might say to each other, but would never say publicly. He does, and I constantly find myself having to argue a case that I have no heart for, simply because I’m his supervisor and have to give out the company line. It’s pissing me off. He ends up saying exactly what he thinks and I’m forced into being mealy-mouthed about everything.’

‘To see ourselves as others see us...’ intoned Martin.

‘A comfort.’

‘What’s his good idea?’

‘I asked him to work on disturbing membrane architecture in tumour cells: I suggested he try mutating the S16 gene. My thinking was that division and membrane structure have to be linked, so if division control is altered in tumour cells, maybe there are differences in membrane structure too.’

‘You’re trying to get at division control through membrane limitation?’

Simmons nodded. ‘We’ve not had too much success through the known division genes, and mutating the membrane genes was always going to be difficult, but he’s just short-circuited the whole process by coming up with an alternative.’ Simmons told Martin about Valdevan.

‘Brilliant, providing you can still get it of course. It was a bit of a turkey as I remember?’

‘A complete loser, but it’s my bet the company will still have stocks.’

‘Then the sooner you write the better?’

‘That’s where the trouble started. Gavin wants to write the letter himself; just about bit my head off when I suggested I do it.’

‘Ah, senior lecturers don’t carry too much weight in Gavin’s world?’

‘No one carries much weight in Gavin’s world.’

‘What kind of degree did he get at Cambridge?’

‘A First. His director of studies confided that they had no option but to award him a First, but most of the staff would have preferred to have seen him under a train.’

‘There are a few in our third year I wouldn’t mind seeing join him,’ said Martin ruefully. ‘What’s happened to society? Half the buggers are substituting attitude for ability. They see themselves as customers rather than students. They’re paying so they expect a degree. You tell them they’ve failed an assignment and it’s... Excuse me? I don’t think so ...’

Simmons smiled at Martin’s impression. ‘Well, Gavin’s not like that. He has genuine ability... but no common sense.’

‘Ah, if only you could teach that,’ sighed Martin.

Simmons found Mary Hollis alone in the lab when he got back. He asked her if she would be able to babysit on Saturday evening.

‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘Simon’s on call and I’m not doing anything. I could do with catching up on some reading. By the way, what did you say to Gavin this morning?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘He’s been running round the lab like a mad thing, asking questions about setting up cell cultures and rooting around for equipment.’

‘Music to my ears,’ sighed Simmons. ‘He’s had a good idea. Why don’t you ask him about it?’

‘I did. He just smiled and put his finger to his lips.’

Simmons made a face. ‘Well, I’ll tell you. He’s come up with an alternative way of knocking out the S16 gene — without the need to mutate it.’

‘How is that possible?’

‘He noticed that an old anti-tumour drug called Valdevan has been reported to target the S16 gene so we could use that instead of mutating the cells.’

‘That should save you guys a whole lot of time.’

‘Exactly. He’s had a good idea which could save us a lot of time,’ said Simmons. ‘But there’s no call for secrecy. He’s not come up with a unifying theory to explain the universe. I’ll get him to tell us all about it at the next group meeting.’

‘I should have a first draft of my paper ready by next week. Will you have time to look at it?’

‘I’ll make time. I should think Jack Martin will be asking you to give an internal seminar about it quite soon.’

‘Sure, and then it’ll be time to start thinking about writing up my thesis.’

‘No problems there. Good solid research and three publications under your belt if the latest one gets accepted. Seems like three years have just flown by. Any thoughts about a post-doc position?’

‘I thought maybe Jerry Haldane’s lab at UCLA?’

‘Good choice,’ said Simmons. ‘And Californian sunshine as a bonus.’

‘I thought maybe you could put in a word for me?’

‘I’d be happy to.’

‘But what difference will membrane changes make?’ asked Caroline, leaning forward to be heard above the din of the student union on a Friday evening.

‘If membrane structure in tumour cells was changed in some way, it might be a difference we could exploit,’ replied Gavin.

‘How would you target the difference?’

‘We’ll have to cross that bridge when we come to it,’ smiled Gavin.

‘It’s a good idea. Was it yours?’

Gavin shook his head. ‘No, Frank Simmons’, my supervisor. He’s a bright guy, nice too.’

‘So you don’t mind having him on the team then?’

‘Okay, okay... not all teams are bad. Mind you, that still doesn’t alter the fact that the research community is full of dead wood.’

Caroline screwed up her eyes, held up her finger and looked schoolmarmish. ‘Enough!’ she said, leaning forward to look into Gavin’s eyes for signs of dissent. Finally, deciding that there was only amusement there, she asked, ‘Can I get you another pint?’

‘Sure,’ said Gavin. He watched her disappear into the throng at the bar and, when she came back, holding a pint glass in either hand and making exaggerated slaloming movements to avoid exuberant groups of laughing people, he couldn’t help but smile broadly at her.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘I was just thinking how nice you look.’

‘Let’s not start all that, shall we? We agreed.’

‘It’s okay... I say that to all the girls who buy me a pint.’

‘Even the ones who subsequently pour it over your head?’

‘Just joking,’ said Gavin quickly. ‘But I meant it; you do look nice.’

Any reply was rendered nigh impossible as a wall of amplified sound came between them. The first band of the night had begun their set. ‘Shall we dance?’ asked Caroline.

‘I don’t.’

She dragged him to his feet. ‘You do now.’

‘It’s come!’ A week had passed when Gavin burst into Frank Simmons’ office holding a small, plastic vial in one hand and reading excitedly from a covering letter in the other. ‘“Five grams Valdevan... for research purposes only... not for therapeutic use. Please sign and return agreement.” They’ve given it to me. Brilliant!’