‘Of course. I’ll look forward to that. Our department is going to be involved in the programme too,’ said Simmons. ‘It would be really nice if we could all sit round the table and talk... maybe over some dinner?’
‘Great. I’ll keep you informed about dates.’
Simmons felt relieved. It would be much better to discuss Gavin’s work with him present and with everyone face to face in the same room.
A knock came at the door. It was Jack Martin. ‘I take it you’ve had Sutcliffe’s letter?’
Simmons nodded.
‘Ever felt you were being steam-rollered into something?’
‘I phoned Grumman Schalk this morning. If we got the block grant, all research carried out using their funding would have to be submitted to them for approval before we could publish.’
‘Just like you thought, so what do we do?’
‘Difficult. Sutcliffe wants to empire build and he’s really got the hots for Grumman Schalk money. He’s dangling the prospect of a couple of personal chairs in front of the senior staff to keep them onside, and the young ones will be keen to grab research money wherever it comes from, so he’s virtually got all the backing he needs. Any objections from us will go down like the Titanic.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘Be pragmatic,’ sighed Simmons. ‘Don’t get into a fight we can’t win?’
‘I suppose,’ agreed Martin. ‘Maybe brave gestures are best left to the young anyway. Has he said anything about a personal chair to you?’
Simmons shook his head. ‘You?’
Martin said not.
‘It’s my guess he’ll want to keep everyone guessing. If he picks two out at this stage he’ll figure the rest of us might gang up on him — for the most noble of reasons, of course.’
‘You know, for such a nice guy you really have quite an impressive grasp of human nature,’ said Martin.
‘And it doesn’t make for pretty reading.’
‘You’ll probably find a few more pointers at the meeting tomorrow. Did you tell your Gavin that he’s giving the internal seminar this week?’
‘I did.’
‘You don’t think he’s going to call off at the last minute with a headache?’
Simmons shook his head. ‘If he does, the trade-off gets cancelled. I said he could have another three weeks to work on his pet theories if he gave a seminar to the department.’
‘Like I said, an impressive grasp... How’s his work coming along?’
‘Brilliantly; you’ll hear all about it at the seminar.’
Gavin met Caroline at seven and they went to eat at a Mexican restaurant in Victoria Street, starting with margaritas while they waited.
‘I nearly called you at three this morning.’
‘I’m awfully glad you didn’t,’ said Caroline. ‘What did you want?’
‘I worked out why Valdevan didn’t work on cancer patients.’
‘You’re kidding,’ said Caroline, pausing in mid-sip and licking the salt off her upper lip. ‘You have to be.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Bloody hell, I’m impressed. Tell me more.’
Gavin explained his discovery over a nachos starter, pausing at intervals to wrestle with strands of melted cheese that were reluctant to part from the bowl.
‘It seems so simple now,’ said Caroline when he’d finished. ‘But then so did DNA once Crick and Watson had worked it out. That was a brilliant piece of work, Gavin, but...’
‘But what?’
Caroline appeared uncomfortable. ‘I really mean it when I say it’s a brilliant piece of work, but the bottom line is that you have found out why Valdevan didn’t work... I mean... it still doesn’t, right?’
‘No,’ agreed Gavin. ‘But Frank’s agreed to give me three more weeks to work on that.’
‘Three weeks?’
‘To make it over the next hurdle, then maybe he’ll give me some more time. That’s how I see it.’
Caroline looked at him. ‘My God, you’re determined. I’ll give you that. You’ve come this far against all the odds and in spite of all the doubters, including me. Sometimes I wonder what I’ve got myself into.’
‘A love affair,’ smiled Gavin.
‘Is that what it is?’ teased Caroline.
‘Yep, and it’s going to be the longest, most beautiful love affair in the history of love affairs. It will go on to the end of time and our children and our children’s children will speak of it long after we are dead and walking hand in hand along the road to eternity knowing we’ll be together for ever.’
‘Oh well... if you say so.’
‘I do.’
‘Two burritos,’ said the waitress.
Gavin spent Tuesday going through the Grumman Schalk report again. Although no longer interested in anything they had done, or their reasons for doing it, he was looking for something that might help him decide on the concentration of the drug to use, to induce membrane damage in tumour cells but not in healthy ones. He found what he was looking for in a case report on biopsy material taken from a patient with lung cancer. Under his magnifying lens the photographs clearly showed that the tumour cells were displaying membrane blips, while the adjacent healthy tissue looked unaffected. Gavin noted the patient number and traced his finger down the column of relevant drug levels. Patient 2453F had shown a steady level of 25 micrograms per millilitre of blood. The suffix, F, told him she had been female. ‘Thank you, patient 2453F, aged 43,’ murmured Gavin. ‘RIP.’
Thirteen
The weekly internal seminars in the department usually attracted an audience of around thirty — about half of those eligible to attend. It was generally accepted that what was being reported would be of a ‘work in progress’ nature: ‘middles’, rather than a complete story with a beginning, a middle and an end. But the programme gave experience in public speaking to the postgraduate students who comprised the bulk of the speakers, although group leaders also participated from time to time, usually giving overviews of their group’s work. These tended to be more popular than the ‘middles’, which really only appealed to those already familiar with the specialised nature of the work being reported.
Today there were over sixty people packed into the small seminar room to hear what Gavin Donnelly had to say. His reputation had gone before him, and ensured that not all of them were there in a supportive capacity. Those who had fallen foul of his quick tongue in the past were attending in the hope of seeing him fall flat on his face.
As usual, the front row was occupied by senior members of staff with Graham Sutcliffe in the centre, legs crossed, interlaced fingers resting on his stomach, a man at ease with his position in the great scheme of things. To his immediate left sat Malcolm Maclean with two of his students, including Peter Morton-Brown. To his right, Frank Simmons and Jack Martin who, as organiser, checked behind him to see that everyone seemed settled before vacating his seat to indicate to someone at the back that the door be closed.
Frank Simmons couldn’t take his eyes off Gavin, who was fiddling with his notes and showing signs of nerves as he sat, waiting to be introduced. He hoped to make eye contact with him to give him some gesture of reassurance, but Gavin didn’t look up.
Martin cleared his throat and started to speak. ‘It’s a rather unusual occurrence for us to have a first-term postgrad student speak about his work — most postgrads spend their first term finding a place to stay’ — polite laughter — ‘but Frank Simmons tells me that Gavin has made such good progress that we should all hear about it. We are therefore delighted to have him here today to tell us what he’s been doing.’