Джеффри Арчер: This Was a Man

‘How do you think Giles and Grace will react?’

‘Uncle Giles is spending most of his spare time running up and down the country visiting marginal seats in the hope that Labour can still win the next election. Because if Margaret Thatcher becomes our next prime minister, he may never hold office again.’

‘And Grace?’

‘I don’t think she’s ever read the FT in her life, and she certainly wouldn’t know what to do if you handed her a cheque for twenty million pounds, remembering her present salary is about twenty thousand a year.’

‘She’ll need your help and advice, Seb.’

‘Be assured, Mama, Farthings Kaufman will invest Dr Barrington’s capital most judiciously, well aware that she’ll be retiring in a few years and hoping for a regular income and somewhere to live.’

‘She can come and live with us in Somerset,’ said Emma. ‘Maisie’s old cottage would suit her perfectly.’

‘She’s far too proud for that,’ said Seb, ‘and you know it, Mama. In fact, she’s already told me she’s looking for somewhere in Cambridge so she can be near her friends.’

‘But once the takeover goes through, she’ll have enough to buy a castle.’

‘My bet,’ said Seb, ‘is that she’ll still end up in a small terraced house not far from her old college.’

‘You’re getting dangerously close to becoming wise,’ said Emma, wondering if she should share her latest problem with her son.

‘Six months,’ said Harry. ‘The damn man should have been hanged, drawn and quartered.’

‘What are you going on about?’ asked Emma, calmly, as she poured herself a second cup of tea.

‘The thug who punched an A and E nurse, and then assaulted a doctor, has only been sentenced to six months.’

‘Dr Hands,’ said Emma. ‘While I agree with your sentiments, there were extenuating circumstances.’

‘Like what?’ demanded Harry.

‘The nurse concerned wasn’t willing to give evidence when the case came to court.’

‘Why not?’ asked Harry, putting down his paper.

‘Several of my best nurses come from overseas and don’t want to appear in the witness box for fear the authorities might discover that their immigration papers are not always, let’s say, in apple-pie order.’

‘That’s no reason to turn a blind eye to this sort of thing,’ said Harry.

‘We don’t have a lot of choice if the NHS isn’t going to break down.’

‘That doesn’t alter the fact that this thug hit a nurse —’ Harry checked the article again — ‘on a Saturday night when he was obviously drunk.’

‘Saturday night is the clue,’ said Emma, ‘that William Warwick would have discovered once he’d interviewed the hospital matron and discovered why she turns on the radio every Saturday afternoon at five o’clock.’ Harry raised an eyebrow. ‘To hear the result of the Bristol City or Bristol Rovers match, depending on which of them is playing at home that day.’ Harry didn’t interrupt. ‘If they’ve won, it will be a quiet night for A and E. If they’ve drawn, it will be bearable. But if they’ve lost, it will be a nightmare, because we simply don’t have enough staff to cope.’

‘Just because the home team lost a football match?’

‘Yes, because you can guarantee the home fans will drown their sorrows and then end up getting into fights. Some, surprise, surprise, turn up in A and E, where they’ll have to wait for hours before someone can attend to them. Result? Even more fights break out in the waiting room, and occasionally a nurse or doctor tries to intervene.’

‘Don’t you have security to handle that?’

‘Not enough, I’m afraid. And the hospital doesn’t have the resources while seventy per cent of its annual funding is spent on wages, and the government is insisting on cutbacks, not handouts. So you can be sure we’ll face exactly the same problem next Saturday night should Rovers lose to Cardiff City.’

‘Has Mrs Thatcher come up with any ideas for solving the problem?’

‘I suspect she’d agree with you, my darling. Hanged, drawn and quartered would be too good for them. But I don’t think you’ll find that particular policy highlighted in the next Conservative Party manifesto.’

Dr Richards listened to his patient’s heartbeat, 72bpm, and ticked another box.

‘One final thing, Sir Harry,’ said the doctor, pulling on a latex glove. ‘I just want to check your prostate.

‘Hmm,’ he said, a few moments later. ‘There may be a very small lump there. We ought to keep an eye on it. You get dressed now, Sir Harry. All in all, you’re in pretty good shape for a man approaching his sixties. An age when many of us are considering retirement.’

‘Not me,’ said Harry. ‘I’ve still got to deliver another William Warwick before I can get down to my next novel, which could take me a couple of years. So I need to live until at least seventy. Is that understood, Dr Richards?’

‘Three score years and ten. No more than the Maker’s contract. I don’t think that should be a problem,’ he added, ‘as long as you’re still exercising.’ He checked his patient’s file. ‘When I last saw you, Sir Harry, you were running three miles, twice a week, and walking five miles, three times a week. Is that still the case?’

‘Yes, but I have to confess I’ve stopped timing myself.’

‘Are you still keeping to that routine between your two-hour writing sessions?’

‘Every morning, five days a week.’

‘Excellent. In fact, that’s more than many of my younger patients could manage. Just a couple more questions. I take it you still don’t smoke?’

‘Never.’

‘And how much do you drink on an average day?’

‘A glass of wine at dinner, but not at lunch. It would send me to sleep in the afternoon.’

‘Then, frankly, seventy should be a doddle, as long as you don’t get run over by a bus.’

‘Not much risk of that, since our local bus only visits the village twice a day, despite Emma regularly writing to the council to complain.’

The doctor smiled. ‘That sounds like our chairman.’ Dr Richards closed the file, rose from behind his desk and accompanied Harry out of the consultation room.

‘How’s Lady Clifton?’ he asked as they walked down the corridor.

Emma hated the courtesy title of ‘lady’ because she felt she hadn’t earned it, and insisted everyone at the hospital still call her Mrs Clifton or ‘chairman’. ‘You tell me,’ said Harry.

‘I’m not her doctor,’ said Richards, ‘but I can tell you she’s the best chairman we’ve ever had, and I’m not sure who’ll be brave enough to replace her when she stands down in a year’s time.’

Harry smiled. Whenever he visited the Bristol Royal Infirmary, he could sense the respect and affection the staff felt for Emma.

‘If we win hospital of the year a second time,’ Dr Richards added, ‘she’ll certainly have played her part.’

As they continued down the corridor, Harry passed two nurses who were taking a tea break. He noticed that one of them had a black eye and a swollen cheek which, despite heavy make-up, she hadn’t been able to disguise. Dr Richards led Harry into a small cubicle that was empty apart from a bed and a couple of chairs.

‘Take your jacket off. A nurse will be with you shortly.’

‘Thank you,’ said Harry. ‘I look forward to seeing you again in a year’s time.’

‘Once we’ve got all the tests back from the labs, I’ll drop you a line with the results. Not that I imagine they’ll be much different from last year.’

Harry slipped off his jacket, hung it over the back of a chair, took off his shoes and climbed on to the bed. He lay down, closed his eyes and began to think about the next chapter of William Warwick and the Three Card Trick . How could the suspect possibly have been in two places at once? Either he was in bed with his wife or he was driving up to Manchester. Which was it? The doctor had left the door open and Harry’s thoughts were interrupted when he heard someone saying ‘Dr Hands’. Where had he heard that name before?