Douglas Kennedy - A Special Relationship

'Very senior, very respected, with rooms in Harley Street - and he does his NHS work out of the Mattingly... which I think you'll like, as it's one of the newest hospitals in London'.

When I mentioned this last comment to Margaret, she laughed.

'That's her way of telling you she doesn't want to horrify you and your need for newness by sending you to one of the grimmer Victorian hospitals around town'.

'Why did she think I had a need for newness?'

'Because you're a Yank. And we're supposed to like everything new and shiny. Or, at least, that's what everyone over here thinks. But hey, when it comes to hospitals, give me new and shiny any day'.

'I'm not exactly thrilled either about being "assigned" an obstetrician. Do you think this guy Hughes is some second-rater?'

'Well, your GP told you he has rooms on Harley Street...'

'Makes him sound like a slum-lord, doesn't it?'

'Tell me about it. I mean, the first time I heard my doctor's office over here referred to as a surgery...'

'You thought that's where they operate as well?'

'What can I say? I'm a new, shiny American. But listen, Harley Street is the place for all the big-deal specialists in town. And all those guys do NHS work as well - so you've probably landed yourself a top ob-gyn. Anyway, you're better off having the kid on the NHS. The doctors are the same, and the care's probably better... especially if anything goes wrong. Just don't eat the food'.

Certainly, there was nothing new or shiny about Mr Desmond Hughes. When I met him a week later at an office in the Mattingly Hospital, I was immediately struck by his reediness, his beak-like nose, his crisp, practical demeanour, and the fact that, like all British consultants, he was never referred to as Dr (as I later learned, in this country all surgeons were traditionally called Mr - because, back in less medically advanced times, they weren't considered proper doctors; rather, high-end butchers). Hughes was also a testament to the excellence of British tailoring, as he was dressed in an exquisitely cut chalk-stripe suit, a light-blue shirt with impressive French cuffs, and a black polka-dot tie. Our first consultation was a brisk one. He ordered a scan, he requested blood, he felt around my stomach, he told me that everything seemed 'to be going according to plan'.

I was a little surprised that he didn't ask me any specific questions about my physical state (beside a general: 'Everything seem all right?'). So when we reached the end of this brief consultation, I raised this point. Politely, of course.

'Don't you want to know about my morning sickness?' I asked.

'Are you suffering from it?'

'Not any more...'

He looked at me quizzically.

'Then morning sickness isn't an issue now?'

'But should I be worried that I occasionally feel nauseous?'

'By "occasionally" you mean...?'

'Two or three times a week'.

'But you're never physically sick?'

'No... just a hint of nausea'.

'Well then, I'd take that to mean that, periodically, you feel nauseous'.

'Nothing more than that?'

He patted me on the hand. 'It's hardly sinister. Your body's going through a bit of a change right now. Anything else troubling you?'

I shook my head, feeling gently (but, oh-so-firmly) chastized.

'Very good then', he said, shutting my file and standing up. 'See you again in a few weeks. And... uhm... you're working, yes?'

'That's right. I'm a journalist'.

'That's nice. But you do look a little peaky - so don't overdo it, eh?'

Later that evening, when I related this entire conversation to Tony, he laughed.

'Now you've just discovered two general truths about Harley Street specialists: they hate all questions, and they always patronize you'.

Still, Hughes rightly observed one thing: I was tired. This wasn't merely due to the pregnancy, but also to the manifold pressures of trying to find the house, arrange all the building work, and simultaneously feel my way into London. The first four weeks evaporated in a preoccupied blur. Then, my initial month in London was over... and I had to start work again.

The Boston Post's office was nothing more than a room in the Reuters building on Fleet Street. My fellow correspondent was a twenty-six-year-old guy named Andrew DeJarnette Hamilton. He signed his copy A.D. Hamilton, and was the sort of ageing preppie who somehow managed to lace every conversation with the fact that he'd been to Harvard, and also let it be known that he considered our newspaper to be a mere staging post for his triumphant ascendancy to the New York Times or the Washington Post. Worse yet, he was one of those determined Anglophiles who'd allowed their vowels to become a little too languid, and who had started to dress in pink Jermyn Street shirts. And he was also the sort of East Coast snot who made the same sort of disdainful noises about my grubby home town of Worcester as that fat little twerp Wilson had done about Tony's suburban place of birth. But given that A.D. Hamilton and I were stuck with each other in a small office, I simply decided to work very hard at ignoring him. At least, we did agree that I would handle most of the socio-political stuff, whereas he would corner the market on culture, lifestyle and any celebrity profiles he could sell to the editor back in Boston. This enabled me to be out of the office on a regular basis - and to start the long, laborious task of making contacts at Westminster, while also attempting to fathom Britain's byzantine social structure. There was also the little problem of language - and the way the wrong choice of words could lead to misconstrued meanings. Because, as Tony was fond of noting, every conversation or social interaction in Britain was underscored by the complexities of class.

I even wrote a short, moderately humorous piece for the paper, entitled 'When A Napkin is Definitely Not A Serviette' - in which I explained the loadedness of language on this island. A.D. Hamilton went ballistic when he read the article, accusing me of usurping his territory.

'I'm the cultural chap in our bureau', he said.

'True - but as my piece was about the nuances of class, it was a political piece. And as I am the political chapette in this bureau...'

'You should check with me in the future before writing something like that'.

'You're not the Bureau Chief, pal'.

'But I am the senior correspondent here'.

'Oh, please. I have far more seniority on the paper than you do'.

'And I have been at this bureau for two years, which means that I have higher rank in London'.

'Sorry but I don't answer to little boys'.

After this exchange, A.D. Hamilton and I went out of our way to avoid each other. This wasn't as difficult as I imagined, because Tony and I had to vacate the company apartment in Wapping and move into Sefton Street. I decided to start filing most of my stories from home, using my advanced pregnancy as an excuse for working from Putney. Not that chez nous was the most ideal place to write, as the interior of the house was under construction. The carpets had been pulled up and the floors partially sanded, but they still needed sealing and staining. The living room was being replastered. All the new cabinets and appliances had been installed in the kitchen, but the floor below was chilly concrete. The living room was a catastrophe. Ditto the attic - the conversion of which would now be delayed, as the contractor had been called back to Belfast to deal with his dying mother. At least the decorators had made the nursery their first priority, finishing it during our second week of residency. And thanks to Margaret and Sandy, I had found out which crib and carry-cot to buy, not to mention all the other baby paraphernalia. So the stripped pine crib (or 'cot' as they called it here) toned in well with the pink starry wallpaper - and there was a changing mat and a playpen already in position, ready for use. But no such attention had been lavished on the guest room, which was piled high with boxes. Similarly our own en suite bathroom lacked a few necessities like wall and floor tiles. And though our bedroom had been painted, we were still waiting for the wardrobes to be fitted, which meant that the room was cluttered with assorted clothes rails.