that alcohol was high on the list of surgeons’ recreational activities, and this seemed more obvious when they were called in at night. But who was I to judge?
I began to wonder whether I could really get in to medical school. I was no great academic, and I struggled with maths and physics. For me these subjects were the real barometer of intelligence. But I excelled in biology and could get by in chemistry, and in the end I passed a lot of exams, stuff I would never need like Latin and French literature, additional maths and religious studies. These I saw as a function of effort, not intelligence, but hard work bought me my ticket out of the council estate. In addition, the time spent in the hospital had made me worldly. I’d never been out of Scunthorpe, yet I knew about life and death.
I started to search for a place at medical school, and returned to the hospital during every school holiday. I progressed to working as an ‘operating department assistant’, becoming an expert in cleaning up blood, vomit, bone dust and shit. Humble beginnings.
I was surprised to be called for an interview at a magnificent Cambridge college. Someone must have put in a good word but I never learned who it was. The streets bustled with lively young students in their gowns chatting loudly with public school accents, all seeming much smarter than me. Erudite, bespectacled professors cycled down cobbled streets in their mortarboards off to college dinners for wine, then port. My mind flashed back to the grimy steelworkers silently making their way home in flat caps and mufflers through the smog for bread and potatoes, and then maybe a glass of stout. My spirits started to sink. I didn’t belong here.
The interview was conducted by two distinguished fellows in an oak-panelled study overlooking the main college quadrangle. We sat in well-worn leather armchairs. It was meant to be a relaxed atmosphere, and nothing was said about my background. The anticipated question, ‘Why do you want to study medicine?’ never came. Wasted interview practice. Instead I was asked why the Americans had just invaded Vietnam and whether I had heard of any tropical diseases their soldiers might be exposed to. I didn’t know whether there was malaria in Vietnam so I said, ‘Syphilis.’
That broke the ice, particularly when I suggested that this might be less of a health problem than napalm and bullets. Next I was asked whether smoking cigars may have contributed to Winston Churchill’s demise (he’d only recently died). Smoking was one of the key words I was waiting for. My mouth fired off in automatic mode: cancer, bronchitis, coronary artery disease, myocardial infarction, heart failure, how the corpses of smokers looked in the autopsy room. ‘Had I seen an autopsy?’ ‘Many.’ And cleared up the brains, guts and bodily fluids afterwards. ‘Thank you. We’ll let you know in a few weeks.’
Next I was called down to Charing Cross Hospital, between Trafalgar Square and Covent Garden on the Strand. The original hospital was built to serve the poor of Central London and had a distinguished war history. Although I arrived early I was always last alphabetically, so I twiddled my thumbs anxiously to while away what seemed like hours. A kindly matron received the candidates with tea and cakes, and I made polite conversation with her about what had happened to the hospital during the war.
The interview took place in the hospital board room. Across the other side of the boardroom table from me was the chief interviewer – a distinguished Harley Street surgeon wearing a morning suit – together with the famously irascible Scottish professor of anatomy upon whom the Doctor in the House films were based. I sat straight-backed to attention on an upright wooden chair – no slouching here. I was first asked what I knew about the hospital. Thank you, God. Or Matron. Or both. Next I was asked about my cricketing record and whether I could play rugby. And that was all, the interview was over. I was the last of the day, they’d had enough and they’d let me know.
I wandered out into Covent Garden past the colourful market stalls and bristling public houses. All life was there: tramps, tarts, buskers and bankers, the Charing Cross Hospital clientele, and the black cabs and scarlet London buses that drove up and down the Strand. Meandering between the crowds and the traffic I came to the grand entrance of the Savoy Hotel. I wondered whether I dared go in. Surely I looked smart enough in my interview suit and Brylcreemed hair. But the decision was swiftly made for me when the immaculate doorman pushed the swing doors open and ushered me through with a ‘Welcome, sir.’ The seal of approval. From Scunthorpe to the Savoy.
I strode purposefully through the atrium, past the Savoy Grill, hesitating only to scrutinise the menu in its gilt frame. The prices! I didn’t stop. A sign pointed to the American Bar. The hall was lined with signed cartoons, photographs and paintings of West End stars, and when I reached it there was no queue as it was only 5 pm. Perched on a high stool I furtively devoured free canapés and perused the cocktail menu. Devoid of insight – this was my first alcoholic drink – I was pushed to make a decision. ‘Singapore Sling, please.’ Like flipping a switch, my life had changed. Had I ordered a second I’d never have found King’s Cross station.
Within the week a letter arrived from Charing Cross Hospital Medical School. Opening it surrounded by my anxious parents felt like defusing a bomb. There was the offer of a place. The conditions? Just pass my biology, chemistry and physics exams, no grades specified. Charing Cross was a small medical school with an intake of only fifty students each year, but I’d be following in the footsteps of distinguished alumni such as Thomas Huxley the zoologist and David Livingstone the explorer. I was the first in my family to go to university, the first to attempt to become a doctor and, hopefully, the first heart surgeon.
3
He has been a doctor a year now and has had two patients. No, three, I think. Yes, three. I attended their funerals.
Mark Twain
The best way to prepare for the exams to become a Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons was to work as an anatomy demonstrator in the dissection room of the medical school, teaching anatomy to the new students in minute detail and helping them to dismantle their cadaver sliver by sliver – skin, fat, muscle, sinew and then the organs. They were given greasy embalmed corpses on a tin trolley, and there were six new and impressionable students to each one. They’d march in with their starched white coats and brand new dissection kits – scalpel, scissors, forceps and hooks in a linen roll – all as green as grass. Just like me when I started.
I moved from group to group to maintain their momentum. A few couldn’t hack it. Spending untold hours picking away at a corpse was not part of their medical dream, so I gave the best advice I could to help them through it: wear strong perfume, don’t skip breakfast and try to think about something else – football, shopping, sex, anything. Just learn enough to pass the tests and don’t let the stiffs drive you out. This worked with some. Others had nightmares, their dissected corpses visiting them at night.
For my first surgery exam I had to master anatomy, physiology and pathology – nothing to do with being able to operate. There were courses in London that just hammered home the facts, taught by past examiners who presented the information in the way that the college wanted it. Pay up and pass was the message, unless you were an idiot. Yet two-thirds of candidates still failed come exam time, including myself on the first occasion.
In the midst of this academic monotony the Royal Brompton Hospital advertised for ‘Resident Surgical Officers’, with Fellowship of the Royal College of Surgeons being ‘desirable but not obligatory’. Could I aspire to this? I’d only just passed the first part. It would be a minimum of three years before I could sit the final exam, but there would be nothing lost by trying for the post.
Despite the odds I succeeded in securing the job and started in the position just a few weeks later. I was allocated to work for Mr Matthias Paneth, an imposing six-foot, six-inch German, and Mr Christopher Lincoln, the newly appointed children’s heart surgeon of similar height. Two very different personalities, but both scary in their own way until I knew them better. In my massively busy junior resident jobs at Charing Cross I learned that the only way to keep up was to write everything down. Record every