of a pint of blood it hits the headlines as the scandal of NHS blood subsidizing the rich. You know how it goes.’
‘Yup, I know.’
‘In the meantime, why don’t you send over the paperwork anyway? It’s as well to be prepared.’
‘Thanks. I’m grateful.’
‘Think nothing of it. Hope it works out for you and the kid.’
Turner put down the phone and tapped his pen end over end on his desk. He’d done his best; he just wasn’t convinced it was going to be good enough. He finished filling in the form and signed it. Grayson as head of unit would have to sign it too before it could be submitted. He looked at his watch. Grayson would have left by now. He’d get him to do it in the morning. He was about to put away Amanda’s case notes when the lab form listing her tissue type caught his eye. He moved over to an adjacent desk with a computer terminal on it and logged on to the International Donor Register. He had checked availability that morning but there would be no harm in checking again as he had the details in front of him. He entered Amanda’s details then requested a search for a match.
DEGREE OF HOMOLOGY ? requested the computer.
80 PER CENT , entered Turner.
NEGATIVE.
Turner punched in, 70 PER CENT.
NEGATIVE.
Turner logged off. Maybe tomorrow. ‘Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,’ he murmured as he left the room and returned to the ward.
Sandy looked at his watch and whispered an expletive. The traffic had been heavy on the way back and road works on the dual carriageway had reduced a five-mile section to single-carriageway with no overtaking.
‘Are you going to have time for something to eat before you start work?’ asked Kate.
‘’Fraid not,’ he replied. ‘I’ll just drop you at home and then get on up there. I’ll have something later when I get home.’
‘I’m sure Charlie won’t mind if you’re half an hour late,’ said Kate.
‘Normally no,’ agreed Sandy. ‘But it’s one of his kids’ birthday today. I said I’d be on time.’
Sandy dropped Kate at the foot of the hill leading up to their cottage, at her suggestion, and drove on up to the district hospital. He was only five minutes late.
FOUR
It was Sunday evening. Steven Dunbar took the airport bus from Glasgow Airport into the centre of the city. Outside it was dark and it was raining. That and the general gloominess of the dark Victorian buildings – made to seem even blacker by the rain water – did nothing to inspire good feelings in him. He was due to begin his attachment to the Médic Ecosse Hospital on the following morning.
It was something he certainly wouldn’t have bet on when he’d heard the Scottish Office contingent refuse to modify in any way their demand for swingeing cuts to James Ross’s research budget. Their intransigence had come as a complete surprise to almost everyone at the meeting. In retrospect it had been embarrassing that the Scottish Office had not seen fit even to make a token gesture in the interests of making the negotiations seem genuine. The feelings and work of an eminent surgeon had been of no importance at all.
Dunbar had fully expected Ross to tender his resignation and, in doing so, set off a train of events that would have led to the closure of the hospital and a backfire of the whole gamble, but it hadn’t happened that way. Instead, and to everyone’s surprise, Ross had acceded to the Scottish Office demands, taking it philosophically and saying simply that he understood the awkwardness of their position and the financial constraints they were operating under.
Dunbar supposed that some kind of behind-the-scenes deal between Ross and the Médic International group must have been done to retain Ross’s services and to avoid closure of the hospital, but there had been no official acknowledgement of this or of continuing research funding for Ross from an alternative source. Ross had simply stated that, as a doctor, he felt obliged to carry on
‘Yup, I know.’
‘In the meantime, why don’t you send over the paperwork anyway? It’s as well to be prepared.’
‘Thanks. I’m grateful.’
‘Think nothing of it. Hope it works out for you and the kid.’
Turner put down the phone and tapped his pen end over end on his desk. He’d done his best; he just wasn’t convinced it was going to be good enough. He finished filling in the form and signed it. Grayson as head of unit would have to sign it too before it could be submitted. He looked at his watch. Grayson would have left by now. He’d get him to do it in the morning. He was about to put away Amanda’s case notes when the lab form listing her tissue type caught his eye. He moved over to an adjacent desk with a computer terminal on it and logged on to the International Donor Register. He had checked availability that morning but there would be no harm in checking again as he had the details in front of him. He entered Amanda’s details then requested a search for a match.
DEGREE OF HOMOLOGY ? requested the computer.
80 PER CENT , entered Turner.
NEGATIVE.
Turner punched in, 70 PER CENT.
NEGATIVE.
Turner logged off. Maybe tomorrow. ‘Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,’ he murmured as he left the room and returned to the ward.
Sandy looked at his watch and whispered an expletive. The traffic had been heavy on the way back and road works on the dual carriageway had reduced a five-mile section to single-carriageway with no overtaking.
‘Are you going to have time for something to eat before you start work?’ asked Kate.
‘’Fraid not,’ he replied. ‘I’ll just drop you at home and then get on up there. I’ll have something later when I get home.’
‘I’m sure Charlie won’t mind if you’re half an hour late,’ said Kate.
‘Normally no,’ agreed Sandy. ‘But it’s one of his kids’ birthday today. I said I’d be on time.’
Sandy dropped Kate at the foot of the hill leading up to their cottage, at her suggestion, and drove on up to the district hospital. He was only five minutes late.
FOUR
It was Sunday evening. Steven Dunbar took the airport bus from Glasgow Airport into the centre of the city. Outside it was dark and it was raining. That and the general gloominess of the dark Victorian buildings – made to seem even blacker by the rain water – did nothing to inspire good feelings in him. He was due to begin his attachment to the Médic Ecosse Hospital on the following morning.
It was something he certainly wouldn’t have bet on when he’d heard the Scottish Office contingent refuse to modify in any way their demand for swingeing cuts to James Ross’s research budget. Their intransigence had come as a complete surprise to almost everyone at the meeting. In retrospect it had been embarrassing that the Scottish Office had not seen fit even to make a token gesture in the interests of making the negotiations seem genuine. The feelings and work of an eminent surgeon had been of no importance at all.
Dunbar had fully expected Ross to tender his resignation and, in doing so, set off a train of events that would have led to the closure of the hospital and a backfire of the whole gamble, but it hadn’t happened that way. Instead, and to everyone’s surprise, Ross had acceded to the Scottish Office demands, taking it philosophically and saying simply that he understood the awkwardness of their position and the financial constraints they were operating under.
Dunbar supposed that some kind of behind-the-scenes deal between Ross and the Médic International group must have been done to retain Ross’s services and to avoid closure of the hospital, but there had been no official acknowledgement of this or of continuing research funding for Ross from an alternative source. Ross had simply stated that, as a doctor, he felt obliged to carry on
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