Chapter 35
THIRTY-FIVE
LAUREL
We all called him Dr Swinging-Dick. Of course, being a surgeon, he was Mr Swinging-Dick, but that didn’t have quite the same ring to it.
Harry and I had had a conversation in the pub a couple of years back about what he would have been christened, if he’d had the choice or had known the lofty destiny that was in store for him.
‘Rupert Ponsonby-Goldfinger,’ I suggested.
‘Billy Big-Bollocks,’ said Harry.
‘That’s too similar to Swinging-Dick,’ I objected. ‘Blaize Lifesaver.’
‘Swift Scalpel-Nurse.’ Harry giggled.
‘Or Jesus Nexttogod. But he’d have had to be Spanish for that.’
‘Not John Smith, anyway.’
Laughing and rolling our eyes, we’d moved the conversation on to the next snippet of hospital gossip.
Lots of surgeons have big egos – it’s a thing.
Not all of them, of course – Mel and I sometimes played bingo over the Nursing Times when we read interviews with surgeons, seeing how many times clichés like ‘modest demeanour’ and ‘humble beginnings’ would get trotted out.
Mel had even dated a surgeon a few years back, and he was a totally normal guy, apart from (she told me after they broke up) liking being tied up in bed and being told he’d been a very naughty boy.
No one who valued their career would ever call John Smith a very naughty boy.
Or even John, come to that – he was Mr Smith even to people who’d been working with him for decades.
Now in his early sixties, he was tall, silver-haired and distinguished.
He played experimental jazz during surgery, treated the patient like they were his guest at a posh dinner party, and had once called a junior doctor a ‘hapless fucking wankbadger’ in front of the entire team.
Because he worked in the transplant department, our paths rarely crossed, for which I was thankful. But I needed insight into organ transplants, and perhaps even a clue as to how I might go about tracing Joel.
After finishing my shift, I changed out of my work clothes and into my cycling-home ones, and headed up to the third floor, where the directory had told me Dr Swinging-Dick’s office was located.
There was a chance he would be there, but it was also possible that he’d be in theatre, or in a meeting, or even off on annual leave at his second home in Provence.
The ward was relatively quiet that evening.
The inpatients had been given their evening meal and settled for the night; the late shift had taken over from the day one.
A ward sister was standing by the desk scrolling through notes on her computer screen.
‘Hi,’ I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
She looked at me enquiringly, immediately identifying me as staff rather than a lost visitor, or a day patient who’d found herself on the wrong floor.
‘Evening. What can I do for you?’
‘I’m Laurel Norton. I work downstairs in A&E. I was hoping to have a chat with John Smith.’
‘Dr Sw— Mr Smith? You’re in luck. He’s in his office.’
‘Great! Where do I find that?’
‘Down the corridor on the right. But you’ll need to be quick – he’s not operating until tomorrow, so he’ll be off home in a few minutes.’
I thanked her and headed off, hurrying along the corridor past a series of grey-painted doors, some with names stencilled on them, others identifiable only by printed-out names stuck on with Sellotape, or in some cases with the names crossed out and others hastily hand-lettered in biro.
But I found his easily enough. It was one of the stencilled ones, ‘Mr John Smith’ in black capitals against the chipped paint.
I knocked.
Instead of an invitation to come in, the door opened instantly and the man himself stood there.
He was tall, over six foot, and lean in the way men of a certain age are who watch their diet like hawks and go on lots of walking holidays.
A tweed jacket was slung over his shoulders.
His hair was silver and carefully brushed, and he carried an expensive-looking leather laptop bag in his right hand and what I assumed were the keys to his sports car in his left, on which he wore a plain gold wedding ring.
Startled, I took a step back. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Smith. I’m sorry to bother you.’
‘Whatever it is, you’d better make it quick,’ he said. ‘I’ve got seats at the theatre in forty minutes.’
‘I will.’ Intimidated more by his abrupt manner than his presence, I frantically tried to get my thoughts in order. ‘I was wondering if you would help me – if you could let me know if there’s any way of finding out who received an organ transplant from someone.’
He frowned. ‘Both donors’ families and recipients are able to make written contact via the transplant centre. Cards and messages of thanks and good wishes are duly passed on.’
‘Yes, but… this was some time ago. As far as I know, no one made contact afterwards, and anyway the donor and the recipient knew each other.’
He’d begun to brush past me, but now he stopped, as if I’d caught his interest. ‘Are you saying this was a living donor, not a deceased one?’
‘Yes. An altruistic donation.’
‘In that case, and if the two parties were already known to each other, I’m afraid I don’t see the issue here, Ms…?’
‘Norton. Laurel Norton. The donor recently passed away, you see, and I’m trying to trace the recipient.’
‘Was this a family member of yours?’ he asked, leaning a shoulder against his office door and looking down at me.
‘No. A… friend.’
‘Then, Laurel, surely the thing to do is ask the donor’s family who the recipient was. It doesn’t seem particularly fraught with challenge to me.’
‘I don’t know whether the family know either. And anyway… it’s complicated. It’s difficult for me to ask them.’
‘You appear to have a high level of interest in a matter that – purely as an impartial bystander – looks to me like none of your business,’ he said.
I felt my face flame with embarrassment and indignation. I was getting nowhere with this man. His reputation as an arrogant prick was clearly richly deserved.
Walk away, Laurel, part of me urged. You’re wasting your time here – and he clearly thinks you’re wasting his.
‘The thing is, Mr Smith.’ I took a deep breath and tried to sound calm and reasoned. ‘The donor and I… we were close. We were in a relationship for a year before he died. I feel as if making contact with the friend he donated his kidney to would help me to process my loss.’
His face softened slightly. ‘And he was estranged from his family, hence your inability to pursue this through them?’
I thought about lying – that would have been the easiest thing to do. But honesty seemed to be having the desired effect, so I told the truth.
’No. He was… He was married, you see.’
‘I see.’ He drew the word out as if it had more than two Es on the end. He was looking at me differently now – almost speculatively. ‘And the transplant took place a while back, you said?’
‘More than twenty years ago.’
‘And was this in England or Wales? Or, for that matter, north of the border or in Northern Ireland?’
I realised I didn’t know the answer to this. ‘I think it might have been Wales.’
‘Well, Laurel.’ A smile flickered over his face, but it was without warmth.
‘This sounds as if it could be an intriguing investigation to pursue. We must consider patient confidentiality, of course. But I could perhaps do a little detective work on your behalf, if you were able to furnish me with some more details.’
‘That would be amazing,’ I said. ‘Thank you so much, Mr Smith. I really appreciate it. Could I email you, maybe? I don’t want to make you late for your show.’
He shot his cuff, glancing at his heavy gold watch. ‘Indeed. I must be off. But do give me your number, Laurel. We can discuss this more – perhaps over a drink and dinner.’
Then he winked at me.
The wink told me everything I needed to know. Whether or not he was actually willing to help, there would be strings attached – strings in which I wasn’t willing to become entangled.
‘I… Perhaps I could email you?’ I gabbled. ‘I’d rather keep this professional. If you know what I mean.’
His face turned cold as stone and I realised I had messed up. I’d acknowledged his desire to overstep boundaries but also – far worse – I’d bruised his ego.
‘Young lady,’ he said, ‘I think you’ll find that your initial request to me was far from professional. You know where to find me should you change your mind.’
I gazed at him, unable to find any words. But I didn’t need to – he was already shouldering me aside, heading off with long strides down the corridor.