‘Let’s say, Monday week? I am already booked in the hotel till then, and I will have a lot of telephoning of solicitors and suchlike to put my affairs in order. Now I’ll go and see Bingham.’
He added sombrely, ‘He knows?’
‘He knows.’
Sir Lancelot left the dean’s office. He walked slowly into the open, past the hole in the ground to be filled with the new transplant unit. ‘There’s one advantage,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I shall never have to set eyes on that monstrosity.’
With gaze downcast, he entered the automatic doors of the new surgical block and took the lift for the top floor. A glance from the anaesthetic-room showed that Bingham was still operating, finishing the minor cases at the end of the list. With movements so familiar, Sir Lancelot took surgical gown, cap and mask from their containers. Visiting an operating theatre in a social way, he did not feel inclined to change his tweed trousers for something more sterile. His technique on these calls was to edge quietly to the operating table, inspect the surgeon’s work for some moments unseen, then make his presence known with a sniff of disapproval which could be heard all over the theatre.
‘It’s Sir Lancelot.’ Bingham looked up. ‘Nurse – push my glasses up my nose, they’ve slipped again.’
‘I suppose you realize you’re doing that all wrong?’
‘Am I?’
‘You’re cutting the gut before you’ve tied off the artery.’
‘As intended. It’s the new technique.’
Sir Lancelot snorted behind his mask. ‘Sounds as if a damn fool invented it.’
‘ I invented it.’
‘There you are, then–’ He paused. ‘Forgive me, dear boy. As usual, I let my tongue run away with me. I am stupidly blind to the recent advances in surgery, which will carry our profession forward long after I myself am dead and gone.’
Bingham looked up again. ‘I say, that’s very civil of you.’
‘In my time I have not perhaps done all possible to smooth the brief lives of those about me, nor taken account of the little failings which mark us all as human beings. I much regret it now. Sister, I believe you were a junior theatre nurse in my own active days?’
‘That’s quite right, sir.’
‘I may have given you the rough edge of my tongue now and again?’
‘You did once compare me to a chimpanzee with ten thumbs, sir.’
‘I am sorry, deeply sorry.’
‘You finish that,’ Bingham directed his assistant, making for the surgeons’ room and peeling off his gloves.
‘You know I am not much longer for this unruly world, Bingham?’ said Sir Lancelot, following him.
‘I was very upset. As one of your students–’
Sir Lancelot held up a hand. ‘If only more of them had possessed your intelligence, your energy, your endlessly questioning brain! I’m sorry if at the time I thought you something of a small-minded, conceited little prig.’
Bingham started stripping his gown. ‘I wonder if I might ask a favour, Sir Lancelot? I’m sure you’ll agree you’re an exceptional man? Physically as well as mentally.’
Sir Lancelot inclined his head graciously.
‘You know I’m head of the St Swithin’s transplant team. So I wondered if, in I believe six months–’
‘But I’ve got this filthy Asiatic disease,’ Sir Lancelot objected.
‘But parts of you are excellent. You’re quite a curate’s egg, one might say.’ Bingham gave a laugh, hastily stifling it. ‘Coming to the point, could I put a couple of my patients on the list for your kidneys?’
After a moment’s hesitation, Sir Lancelot said gravely, ‘It is only fitting that I should use my remains as I have used my life. To benefit suffering humanity.’
‘I must say, that’s a jolly good spirit. Fine. I’ll get my secretary to make a note of it. And while we’re on the subject, could we have your corneas?’
‘Yes. I agree.’
‘How about your heart?’
‘If you can make as good use of it as I have.’
‘Splendid. Are you
He added sombrely, ‘He knows?’
‘He knows.’
Sir Lancelot left the dean’s office. He walked slowly into the open, past the hole in the ground to be filled with the new transplant unit. ‘There’s one advantage,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I shall never have to set eyes on that monstrosity.’
With gaze downcast, he entered the automatic doors of the new surgical block and took the lift for the top floor. A glance from the anaesthetic-room showed that Bingham was still operating, finishing the minor cases at the end of the list. With movements so familiar, Sir Lancelot took surgical gown, cap and mask from their containers. Visiting an operating theatre in a social way, he did not feel inclined to change his tweed trousers for something more sterile. His technique on these calls was to edge quietly to the operating table, inspect the surgeon’s work for some moments unseen, then make his presence known with a sniff of disapproval which could be heard all over the theatre.
‘It’s Sir Lancelot.’ Bingham looked up. ‘Nurse – push my glasses up my nose, they’ve slipped again.’
‘I suppose you realize you’re doing that all wrong?’
‘Am I?’
‘You’re cutting the gut before you’ve tied off the artery.’
‘As intended. It’s the new technique.’
Sir Lancelot snorted behind his mask. ‘Sounds as if a damn fool invented it.’
‘ I invented it.’
‘There you are, then–’ He paused. ‘Forgive me, dear boy. As usual, I let my tongue run away with me. I am stupidly blind to the recent advances in surgery, which will carry our profession forward long after I myself am dead and gone.’
Bingham looked up again. ‘I say, that’s very civil of you.’
‘In my time I have not perhaps done all possible to smooth the brief lives of those about me, nor taken account of the little failings which mark us all as human beings. I much regret it now. Sister, I believe you were a junior theatre nurse in my own active days?’
‘That’s quite right, sir.’
‘I may have given you the rough edge of my tongue now and again?’
‘You did once compare me to a chimpanzee with ten thumbs, sir.’
‘I am sorry, deeply sorry.’
‘You finish that,’ Bingham directed his assistant, making for the surgeons’ room and peeling off his gloves.
‘You know I am not much longer for this unruly world, Bingham?’ said Sir Lancelot, following him.
‘I was very upset. As one of your students–’
Sir Lancelot held up a hand. ‘If only more of them had possessed your intelligence, your energy, your endlessly questioning brain! I’m sorry if at the time I thought you something of a small-minded, conceited little prig.’
Bingham started stripping his gown. ‘I wonder if I might ask a favour, Sir Lancelot? I’m sure you’ll agree you’re an exceptional man? Physically as well as mentally.’
Sir Lancelot inclined his head graciously.
‘You know I’m head of the St Swithin’s transplant team. So I wondered if, in I believe six months–’
‘But I’ve got this filthy Asiatic disease,’ Sir Lancelot objected.
‘But parts of you are excellent. You’re quite a curate’s egg, one might say.’ Bingham gave a laugh, hastily stifling it. ‘Coming to the point, could I put a couple of my patients on the list for your kidneys?’
After a moment’s hesitation, Sir Lancelot said gravely, ‘It is only fitting that I should use my remains as I have used my life. To benefit suffering humanity.’
‘I must say, that’s a jolly good spirit. Fine. I’ll get my secretary to make a note of it. And while we’re on the subject, could we have your corneas?’
‘Yes. I agree.’
‘How about your heart?’
‘If you can make as good use of it as I have.’
‘Splendid. Are you
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