Caroline looked at him.
‘Radiation, chemotherapy, surgery... general destruction of the patient in the name of medical science. I think they have the nerve to call it treatment.’
‘Where did that come from?’ asked Caroline, looking shocked.
‘My dad,’ said Gavin. ‘The Big C got him when I was fourteen. At least I think it was the Big C, but it was a close-run thing between that and the medics. He was a big, strong man, but he was five stone wringing wet when they’d finished with him, screaming like a baby when anyone touched him. Sorry, that’s not what you wanted to hear.’
‘You have a point,’ conceded Caroline. ‘Maybe not the one I wanted to hear but... I spoke to Dad about trying to arrange hospice care when things get really bad.’
‘Hospices do a great job,’ Gavin agreed. ‘They help folk keep their dignity right to the end. God, that’s so important. I wish more of them would understand that.’
‘Them?’
‘The medics who think they’re doing a great job when all they’re doing is prolonging agony in order to make their survival charts look better — not to mention the pharmaceutical companies with their latest wonder drugs that give you eight months to live with terminal hell, instead of six, at the cost of a small family car.’
‘Well, this is jolly,’ said Caroline.
‘Sorry.’
‘You always look on the black side...’
‘I call it reality.’
‘Let’s agree to differ,’ said Caroline.
‘Okay,’ said Gavin.
‘You never did get round to telling me what your bad day was all about.’
Gavin held up his hands and shook his head. ‘God! Please, it pales into insignificance.’
‘Let me be the judge.’
Gavin told her about the contaminated cell cultures and his embarrassment at being the cause of the problem.
‘How big a setback will that be?’
‘Practically none as it turns out.’ He told her of Mary Hollis’ efforts on his behalf.
‘Then the world isn’t all bad?’
‘Mary’s okay. She gives me a bit of a hard time but... she’s okay.’
‘Coming from you, that almost amounts to beatification!’
‘Have you eaten?’ asked Gavin. ‘I could send out for some Chinese? Indian? Pizza? I don’t think I want to play the Elephant Man in a restaurant.’
‘No, I have to go. I’ve got an exam tomorrow and I’ve done so little over the past few days. I just thought I’d come by and see how you were.’
‘I’m really glad you did. Does this mean I can see you again?’
‘If you want to, but with things the way they are at home I’m not going to be much company for the foreseeable future...’
Gavin moved towards her and started to raise his arms, then stopped in frustration. ‘God, I’d cuddle you if I could, but I bloody can’t!’
Caroline smiled. ‘That’s probably God punishing you for your realism.’
‘Don’t bring him into it. When can I see you?’
‘I’ll go home this weekend and see what I can do to help. How about Monday when I get back?’
‘Great.’
‘I’ll call you when I get in.’
Back at the university, Frank Simmons was hurrying along to the common room for a 6 p.m. meeting of academic staff. He’d been considering coming up with some excuse to give it a miss because he felt sure that Gavin’s refusal to play a part in the undergraduate teaching programme was going to feature, but he had a John Wayne moment and accepted that a man had to do what a man had to do. As it was, he was last to arrive and had to apologise, easing himself down on the nearest available seat. Head of Department Professor Graham Sutcliffe noted his arrival with a nod and said, ‘I was just saying, Frank, we seem to have a rebellion on our hands and it’s all down to your student, Gavin Donnelly.’
Simmons adopted an air of surprised innocence as he enquired, ‘What’s all this about?’
‘Postgraduate teaching involvement. I understand Donnelly flatly refuses to participate.’
‘Really? Well, I suppose it is voluntary, Graham...’
Sutcliffe, a large, portly man with a patrician air about him, shot him a black look. ‘I think you’re missing the point, Frank. The system only works when all the postgrad students participate. It’s valuable teaching experience for them and does them no harm at all to have it on their CVs. But if one drops out it encourages others to do the same and before we know where we are...’
‘We’ll be doing it ourselves like we’re paid to do,’ said Simmons.
‘I hope you’re not suggesting that postgrad teaching involvement is in any way a case of us avoiding our responsibilities?’ said Sutcliffe, positively bristling with indignation.
‘I’m sure we all have the interests of the postgrads at heart, Graham,’ soothed Simmons. ‘But if one of them doesn’t want to take part then I really think we have to accept that.’
Sutcliffe took a deep breath. ‘It strikes me that the Department of Human Cell Science has to “accept” quite a lot from this young man,’ he said. ‘I understand he was involved in some drunken brawl the other night? Not exactly the sort of thing to burnish our image bright up at Old College, eh?’
‘Gavin was attacked as he walked home,’ said Simmons. ‘There was no element of a brawl about it.’
Sutcliffe pursed his lips in distaste. ‘Nevertheless. Moving on, I have to tell you that BBC Television has expressed an interest in visiting the department and interviewing members of our staff for a programme they’re planning to do on cancer research. I’d be grateful if you would let Liz know by next Monday if you would be interested in taking part. I have already agreed to give an overview of our work and I understand Gerald Montague will also be appearing, as will distinguished colleagues from Cambridge and Mill Hill and representatives from the pharmaceutical industry. The object is to inform the public about the current state of knowledge and progress being made with regard to cancer and its treatment.’
Simmons looked at Jack Martin and exchanged a meaningful glance before quickly looking away.
‘Next.’ Sutcliffe paused to peer over his glasses at his notes. ‘Ah, yes, Malcolm Maclean’s postgrad student, Peter Morton-Brown, has suggested instigating a new weekly journal club and has volunteered to set it up and get it running. The idea is that each of the postgrad students will take it in turn to choose a paper from a current journal and present its findings to the others before discussing it in open forum. Personally, I think this is an excellent initiative from Peter and deserves our full support.’
There were no dissenting voices.
‘Finally, as you know, the university has a number of artworks which it circulates among the departments. We have first choice of one from the three you will find in Liz’s office for the next few days. Liz has kindly prepared a comments sheet for you if she’s not there when you pop in. Now, lastly, I think Jack wants to say a few words.’
Jack Martin got to his feet and made a plea for volunteers to speak at the weekly internal seminar slots for the Spring term. ‘Otherwise I’ll be sending around a couple of heavies from the rugby club.’
The meeting ended in laughter after Martin managed to fill the first four Mondays with a great deal of good-humoured cajoling. As the staff filed out, he came across to Simmons, who had been one of the four volunteers, and said, ‘Well, are you up for TV stardom, Frank?’
‘I think I’ll pass on that,’ said Simmons. ‘I haven’t made any significant progress lately — certainly none that warrants the nation’s attention.’
‘As if that ever stopped anyone,’ smiled Martin. ‘The smell of the greasepaint, the prospect of renewed research grants...’
‘Come on,’ said Simmons. ‘Let’s take a look at these paintings.’