And so the days passed, quietly and dreamily. I was feeling very fit by now and looking forward to my delivery. When labour started one morning at 2 am, my Aunt called the ambulance and I was transported to the hospital alone except for one young nurse about my own age. In an effort to put me at my ease she asked me, "Are you feeling nervous?" "Not at all", says I, and I wasn't. She seemed a bit put out by my cheerful answer and I began to feel sorry for her and felt I ought to put her at her ease. After arriving at the hospital and going through the usual preparations I was taken to this large bare room, put on a hard bed, and left by myself. Every now and again a nurse would put her head round the door and say, "Are you alright dear?" "Yes" was my reply. The hours were long and dreary, with the pains becoming gradually more severe, and I was beginning to feel truly miserable, when suddenly things changed. The pain went but the contractions were strong - very strong - and I had to push and push with each contraction. I was surrounded by people giving encouragement and asking if I had pain. I could not oblige them by saying "yes" and we kept up a lively conversation between contractions until there was one terrific searing pain, and there she was - my daughter Anne, 8lb 2oz, and perfect. My heart turned over with joy and no one, but no one, was going to take her away from me.
But I had to be practical and I had to pass exams. Mother by this time was beginning to realise that she was fighting a losing battle as regards adoption, but she was not yet willing to accept Anne into the family. Accordingly, about a month later, arrangements were made for Anne to be admitted to a residential Nursery called Avenyl, where the mothers were encouraged to assist with their babies and be involved as much as possible. It was heart-breaking to leave her there but I knew it was only temporary. I spent every Wednesday afternoon with her, and Saturdays and Sundays when term started, but in the meantime I had an enormous amount of studying to do, as I had missed a whole term and the University had allowed me to sit the exams at resit time in September. July and August were entirely devoted to studying Anatomy and Physiology.
For the two weeks prior to the exams I stayed at the home of a friend who was resitting some of her exams. I did my best to study but by this time I knew Bruno was going back to Poland so, what with the separation from Anne and the impending separation from Bruno, life was not easy. After much heart-searching and future planning on both our parts, we thought it best that he should return to Poland. It was not only the insuperable barrier of his marriage - he also had children whom he was longing to see, and we were of totally different backgrounds etc, etc,. But at the time I could not see this, and all I felt was my heart breaking in pieces as I saw his face for the last time. This was at a small town called Whitburn, to the West of Edinburgh, where he had been stationed for a few weeks prior to his embarkation. There was nowhere to go and little to say as we walked the streets for an hour or so (until I got the bus back to Edinburgh). We were both crying as we hugged and kissed for the last time, and on the journey back to Edinburgh, with his face before me, I wished I might die. But I didn't, and the next day I started my examinations. I felt desolate but determined to graduate and support myself and my child. I nearly made it but physiology let me down - I failed it by a few marks only and the University thought it would be better if I repeated the whole year. I expect they were right but it was hard at the time.
Next term I felt rather strange and detached. My closest friends were now in 3rd year and only Sheona knew the real reason for my absence. My spare time was mainly taken up with visiting Anne and occasionally going home for the weekend to Tullibole. Mother was now looking for a flat in Edinburgh and, as Harry was still in the Far East, Bumpy and David were going to live in Tullibole. It was a diversion looking for a flat and it was our old family lawyer Mr Boyd who finally advised Mother to give up all ideas of adoption. (He was an extraordinary little man with a white goatee beard and Edwardian clothes. He wore a black cloak, carried a cane and walked very quickly). Although she no longer pressed me to have Anne adopted, Mother refused to take an interest or even come to see her. I had no one to show her off to or generally share my pride in motherhood.
It was even worse when things were not going so well. One evening when she was around 5 months old I went to bathe her and give her her evening meal. She was very fretful instead of her usual smiling self. She refused to settle and began to cry pitifully. I stayed as long as I could and went away feeling very miserable and worried to my lonely digs, where there was no one I really knew. The next morning at eight o'clock the telephone rang. It was the matron of Avenyl to tell me Anne was very ill with a facial paralysis and mastoiditis. She was in the Royal Hospitial for Sick Children, waiting for an urgent operation. I dashed up to the Hospital to find she had already had her operation and was lying in a cot with her head swathed in bandages and her wee face peeping out. I sat with her all morning and went to the lectures as usual in the afternoon. There seemed nothing else to do as visits etc. were strictly regulated in those days and you were not encouraged to help with the feeding. She was heavily sedated for a day or two but made a good recovery and was back in Avenyl in a week's time.
As the term progressed I began slowly to feel better and less cut- off from my contemporaries, mainly due I think to the end of the war and the return of my brothers. The first to return from Burma was Donald, who was given priority demob so that he could return to Burma and help get the timber industry going again. Anyway soon after V-J Day he came home and a great welcoming party was held. (Not at Tullibole, but at Cleish Castle, which Bumpy and David had been renting for a few years.) It was only a few miles from Tullibole, which was full of visitors - bursting at the seams, you might say. It had not been so full since pre-wars days and it was lovely to have everyone - or nearly - everyone together again, laughing and chattering fifteen to the dozen. My sisters had been very busy - there was a magnificent spread of food and the drink flowed like water. It ended with everyone doing the Conga up and down the castle stairs and round about, on and on through the castle until we collapsed exhausted. It would be true to say that there were a few sore heads in the morning!
* * * * *
A short time later, around Christmas, a second party was held to welcome both Bob and Harry back from Burma. It was equally riotous, and my main memory of this weekend is of Mother at lunchtime, sitting at the head of the long dining room table, calmly dishing out food to the many visitors to Tullibole. My friend Sheona was suffering from the flu and from over-indulgence in food and drink at the party the night before. Everyone insisted on plying her with Rum Toddy to cure her cold but it did little to help her feeling of severe malaise.
It was at that party that I met one of Bob's two companions from his carefree days in India. They had been quite a terrible trio: Bob, Jimmy Thomson, and Eddie White. Eddie had only just arrived back from Japan and so opted to miss the party and spend his first few days with his family, but Jimmy came and thoroughly enjoyed himself.
Early in January Mother, Bob and I moved into a flat in Arden Street, Edinburgh and, if I remember rightly, it was on that day that I first met Eddie. I have memories of us all standing about in the half-furnished drawing room, trying to keep warm in front of an old-fashioned gas fire. The weather was absolutely freezing and a few days later Eddie was in bed with pneumonia. He gradually recovered, thanks to the new anti-biotics, and it was not long before the trio were out and about together, wearing their demob clothes and spending their money. Sometimes I would accompany them for a quiet drink at the Golf Tavern and on Sunday evenings they would gather in our drawing room, drinking whisky and playing an intense game of monopoly. The tension could not have been higher if they had been playing poker for a stake of millions. Mother was very tolerant and would go off to bed, leaving us to the whisky and the cards. Sometimes the game would go on so long I too would retire to my room before the party broke up as I had to go to classes in the morning.
Gradually a friendship built up between Eddie and I. It was nice to go out with someone who made no emotional demands and was content to be friendly and companionable. This was very helpful to the healing process, and gradually I was able to forget my loss and feel less of an outsider. And so life went gently on for some months. I was studying hard with classes from 9-5 each day, except for Wednesday afternoons and, of course, weekends, when I would go and visit Anne. Occasionally I would bring her home to the flat but Mother could not yet accept her and would hardly look at her. I found this too stressful and preferred to take her to the park or just play with her in the Home. It was not until Anne was almost two years old that Mother was finally won over. There was a garden party in the grounds of the Home which I persuaded her to attend, and when she saw this pretty blonde child with bright blue eyes and golden skin, running around on the grass in her white muslin dress, she said: "Oh she is just like quicksilver", and was finally hooked, and after that she took Anne into her heart, where she remained till Mother died.
Once or twice a week I would go with Bob, Jimmy, and Eddie for a quiet drink or, on rare occasions, to the Plaza Ballroom. It was a pleasant time as my studies weren't too exacting and none of the three had as yet any responsibilities. Gradually it dawned on them that they ought to be looking for jobs. I think Jimmy, ever sensible, was the first to settle down, getting a position with a bank. He met an attractive girl called Jessie who later became his wife, and she and I have remained friends. After Jimmy started work Bob and Eddie continued enjoying themselves but gradually the carefree attitude disappeared. Eventually Bob found work in Glasgow while Eddie got a job in retail in Edinburgh, and thus Eddie and I began to see more of each other and would go out on our own. And so the friendship gradually deepened and after about a year we found we were in love. This did not give rise to jubilation in the family, but neither did it cause consternation or great disapproval. We were not in a financial position to marry so we settled down to a quiet and prolonged courtship.
After a couple of years or so Eddie decided to seek his fortune abroad and managed to obtain a job with a big trading company in Malaya. The idea was that once I had graduated, Anne, (who had been at home since she was two), and I would join him and we would be married out there. So once more there was a parting but this time no heartbreak.
* * * * *
Meanwhile I continued my studies at the University. I seem to have few outstanding memories of that time but of one thing I am sure - after the first year, it was not a bit like Doctor in the House. Most of the students were very serious minded, probably due to the fact that these were the last years of the war and the immediate post-war years. You were only allowed one resit and if you failed you were out, and for final degree exams if you failed one exam you had to resit the lot.
I was not of the most dedicated group. I well remember that during dissection classes the keen ones all staked their claims on their part of the cadaver while Sheona and I were content to sit on a nearby table, swinging our legs and singing the 23rd psalm to various tunes. (I don't suppose it was always the 23rd psalm but that is what I specifically remember.) Needless to say anatomy was not my best subject. Neither was I of the least dedicated group. A few philistines actually started skipping with some poor unfortunate's intestines! The general behaviour of our year during the first session had been pretty deplorable, especially during formal lectures. Sometimes the voice of the lecturer was drowned out by numerous catcalls, banging, laughter, and the boisterous activities of many of the students. Toilet rolls and rolls of tram tickets were hurled across the lecture theatre. It was awful and I used to feel so sorry for the lecturer. Eventually the Dean gave the assembled year a real dressing down and the behaviour settled a bit, but it was not until 2nd year that the trouble stopped - I suppose we all grew up.
And of course my hiccough was again called into question, but this time tactfully and without blame. I was asked to see a Professor of Physilogy, who questioned me and came to the conclusion that it was due to irritation of the vagus nerve caused by scar tissue in my neck. After that no one questioned me or took any more notice of my dreadful hiccough. It can still cause me embarrassment though, when I am at the theatre or some such place and out comes this ringing sound.
Once the pre-clinical years were completed in the summer of 47 I found the studies a great deal more interesting and consequently easier, and my marks improved. I loved seeing patients - talking to them and hearing all their troubles, and I soon realised that it was people, and not just their ailments, that interested me and that General Practice was what I wanted to do. Even in those early days, as a quiet and rather shy medical student, I found people talked to me and I quickly established a good rapport with them. One such relationship gave rise to my first real shock. There was no blood and gore, no dramatic attempts to save a life, but the impact was just as great as if there had been. In one of the medical wards there was a fourteen year old boy whom I had befriended. He did not appear desperately ill - pale and rather puffy but bright and lively, although confined to bed. Two or three days after seeing him I went to observe my first post-mortem and there, on the slab, was my friend. I could hardly believe it. I was stunned. I had had no idea he was so ill. The experience taught me two things - that appearances can be deceptive; and a respect for, if not fear of, renal disease.
Another incident that stands out clearly in my mind occurred when I was doing my clinical attachment during the summer holidays at Bruntsfield Hospital. It was a small non-teaching hospital, run entirely by women for women and children, and I believe I was the first student to apply to work there during the holidays. The surgeon was a remarkable but formidable lady called Miss Herzfeld. She could be difficult to work for but, for some reason, she seemed to like me and I really enjoyed my time there and learned one of the greatest lessons of my life. It was during the children's surgical consultations when a young mother came in with her baby boy who had a hare lip and a cleft palate. Miss Herzfeld said "Good morning" to the mother and then, turning to the child, said "Oh what a lovely baby!" I looked again at the baby and he was a lovely child and the look of delight (which I shall never forget) on the mother's face brought tears to my eyes. I have given this incident a lot of thought. Did Miss Herzfeld say this purely in order to please the mother (which or course it did)? Or did she see the child's face as if it had already been surgically repaired, in the same way that when I plant a seedling I see a tree and expect other people also to see the tree (but in fact most of them only see a twiggy seedling)? I know that when I looked at the child a second time I could see beyond the gaping hole beneath his nose, see the lovely oval face, chubby cheeks and sparkling eyes. He was indeed a beautiful baby.
Of all the excellent teachers and professors the one who stood out was Professor Derek Dunlop. His subjects were therapeutics and clinical medicine. He was a brilliant lecturer, and when he was speaking you could have heard a pin drop in the lecture theatre - no one wanted to miss a word. He was tall and extremely handsome, and his film-star looks must have won many a female heart. He had a wonderful bedside manner and to see him approach the bed of some wee wifey, perhaps from Niddrie or the Pleasance, sit down, take her hand and talk to her gently, was a lesson in itself. One of his chief maxims, which he practised as well as preached, was: "Remember - treat the whole person and not just the complaint." I have never forgotten this and when I hear people on the media (or elsewhere) praising Holistic Medicine as if it was some new thing that had just been discovered, I cannot help feeling slightly angry. I am sure the vast majority of good physicians have been using Holistic Medicine since the time of Hippocrates, but now it has been given a label and so seems to have more value.
A little incident occurred which showed his thoughtfulness to everyone. For my final examination in clinical medicine, myself and another girl had to attend his ward to be examined by a visiting Professor, who was delayed. We had been left hanging about in the entrance hall to the ward for about an hour, getting more and more nervous and agitated, when Professor Dunlop came in. He came up to us and asked why we were there and how we were feeling, and then when Sister appeared he said: "Sister, I am sure these young ladies would appreciate a cup of tea. Do you think you could rustle one up?" It was a small gesture, I know, but I can't imagine any of the other Professors doing the same, and it certainly helped to settle my nerves and pass the time until the examiner arrived.
The finals came and, strange as it may sound, I found them quite easy. So confident was I that I had done well that I did not even bother to go over to the quad when the results were put up on the notice board. And then there was graduation day; with the official ceremony in the morning, a posh lunch with relations, and the Ball at night. What a day! After lunch with Mother, Sheona, my sister Nick, and her husband Derek, at the Cafe Royal at the East End, Mother asked Sheona and I to buy a lettuce on the way home to Marchmont. We set off walking to find a shop but it was Wednesday and half-day, and we could not find a shop open. It was July and very hot and I was wearing my robes and high heels. We walked and walked and when we eventually arrived at the flat with one miserable lettuce we were totally exhausted, with aching feet and tired limbs. The thought of going out again seemed impossible, but a cup of tea and a bath are wonderfully refreshing, and so off we went to the Ball.
There were six of us in our group: Sheona, myself and my cousin Judith, Bob, Billy Wright from Crook of Devon, and a chap called Eddie Goater. We had a great time with lots of Highland dancing, which suited me. I have a vision of Sheona falling during the Dashing White Sergeant and two legs slowly rising in the air from her full skirt. For some reason it looked terribly funny and I couldn't stop giggling. All good things come to an end, but then Eddie Goater invited us all round to his place for French cakes and a nightcap - what a mistake! The french cakes were good and so was the brandy. At 5am we decided to go home by taxi. Back at the flat I gave Judith a recipe for a special salad of mine which she liked, and which she wanted to give to her mother and then Sheona and I lay on the twin beds in my room and chatted away until 8am, when the postman rang the doorbell. I got out of bed, went into the hall, picked up the letters and then, "Oops, I feel a bit sick". I went into the bathroom and there I stayed, except for a few brief intervals, until noon. I just couldn't stop vomiting. It was awful. Later that day Sheona and I had been invited to afternoon tea with an old lady who lived in a delightful house in Caanan Lane. I decided to risk it and went, but all the time I was there I could hardly speak, concentrating on holding the beautiful porcelain cup in my hand while the floor came up to meet it. She must have thought me a very dull person indeed. And the moral of that story is - don't drink too much, and the lesson in my case was well learnt.
* * * * *
My first job was as Houseman at Balby Hospital, Doncaster. I have never yet made up my mind whether or not it was a good move; nor if I should be grateful to my Uncle, who was a GP near Doncaster, for advising me to apply for the post. As experience for General Practice it was excellent, but for academic advancement it was useless. The hospital was an old Poor Law Institution which had recently been taken over by the Health Service. It consisted of a male and female medical ward, a male and female surgical ward, and a small children's ward as well as a long-term unit for adult mental defectives, (both male and female kept rigidly apart of course) and a small children's unit. I also had to supervise the old people in the residential part of the establishment and there was a small residential nursery for children in care. The medical wards had been for chronic or long-term patients but the consultant was in the process of bringing in more acute cases. For all this I was the only residential doctor, with a consultant physician and consultant surgeon coming in about twice a week. There were also a few psychiatric beds attached to each medical ward. In a separate wing there was an obstetric and gynaecological unit which was supposed to be outwith my concern. There were two residents and a registrar in that unit but officially we were kept strictly apart. I had my own living room and bedroom on my side of the hospital where I worked, ate and slept, and they had their common room and bedroom on their side. It was a peculiar arrangement but for me it worked very well - come Christmas or special holidays I was always given the best food. My Christmas cake was larger and contained more fruit than theirs, which was meant for three. The "little doctor from Scotland" became very popular with the kitchen staff and I was often given small treats in those days of austerity.
I vividly remember my arrival at Balby Hopsital. It was on a Sunday evening prior to starting work officially on the Monday. I was met by two agitated Ward Sisters. There had been three deaths over the weekend and no doctors to certify death or sign the death certificates. As soon as I had deposited my suitcase and taken off my coat I was hurried off to the appropriate wards to view the three corpses. I said I could confirm the deaths but was quite unable to sign the death certificates, as I had never seen the patients before and had no idea why they had died.
"Oh couldn't you sign the certificates doctor? It wouldn't really matter and what will we do if you don't?"
Matron added her voice to the Sister's to try and persuade me to sign but I refused, and the following day I phoned the Coroner's Office and explained the position. They sent an official down to see me who also tried to persuade me to sign the Death Certificates - explaining the cost and unnecessary expense of an inquest. Neverthless I stood my ground and steadfastly refused to sign, and three inquests duly took place. I don't think I was very popular with the Coroner's Office for some time. What amazed me then and still does, come to that, is that no adequate cover was provided over the weekend and the post-mortems showed that, theoretically at least, one of the deaths could have been prevented, but nobody seemed unduly bothered by this. The patients were all long-term chronically ill and were looked after in a kindly fashion but given very little, if any, active treatment.
All this was to change and quite rapidly. The Matron like myself had been recently appointed. She was an ex-army Matron and a zealous reformer and she soon had some of the more casual members of the nursing staff shaking in their shoes. Between us we quickly had the medical wards transformed. We got the majority of the long-stay patients out of bed where some had lain, seemingly contentedly, for years. There was a fair number of hands raised in horror - but many were able to walk again and even to go home. Mind you, I don't think the relatives were always too pleased about this but it created a greater turnover of beds and many a GP was able to get his chronically ill patients admitted, either for respite care or on a more permanent basis - sometimes after years of struggle in unsatisfactory conditions at home.
Also the consultant physician began to admit more acute medical cases, which made the work more interesting but eventually led to trouble. Matron, being ex-army, was very authoritarian and in many ways behaved like a fustrated doctor. She would go round the wards after the consultant's visit and alter the treatment advised by him. Sister would come running to me crying, "What shall I do Doctor?" Sometimes I was able to calm things down by suggesting a blend of the two lines of management but, of course, this was not always possible and the time soon came when I had to explain things to one of the consultants. He didn't seem, or didn't want, to believe me and paid little attention. But when it happened again to one of his patients, I handed in my resignation and the cat was really in among the pigeons - all the consultants came running to the hospital to try and persuade me to stay.
I related in detail some of the case histories and told how somedays I had to do three ward rounds, one by myself in the morning, one with the consultant, and one after Matron's round to alter the treatment yet again! I also told them the story of Jason - an undersized but normal little boy of eighteen months who was in the residential nursery. When we had an outbreak of measles in the children's ward Matron ordered that Jason be transferred to the measles ward so that he would be infected and presumably die. Once more the Sister in charge of the nursery came crying to me in great distress: "What will I do? What will I do?"
"Nothing", I replied and charged off immediately to see Matron. I met her in the corridor and had it out there and then. Jason didn't get measles and remained a happy, if tiny, child.
After long discussion with all concerned I agreed to stay, on condition that it was made plain to Matron exactly the limits of her authority. After this crisis there was an initial period of coolness between Matron and myself but this wore off and we developed a good working relationship. She was a brilliant organiser and it was not long before the nursing standards were raised and it became a teaching hospital for nurses.
But nothing Matron could do could rid the hospital of its greatest drawback - it was infected by ants. Ants were everywhere, great droves of them. Every particle of food had to be kept in tightly sealed containers. You could not leave anything out for more than a few minutes before an army of ants appeared and began invading and devouring - I lost a beautiful iced cake which I had won in a weight-guessing competition to the invading hordes. On one occasion I lifted a baby out of its cot to examine it and found the bottom sheet of the crib black with the little monsters. It was horrific. They had experts up from London but to no avail. The ants just kept coming and coming, crawling over everything, getting into every nook and cranny - when I left, the authorities were still fighting a losing battle.
* * * * *
Despite these difficulties my work at the hospital was varied, interesting and entertaining and - occasionally - quite alarming. A few days after my arrival I made my first visit to the adult mental defective unit. I found the female ward a delightful place, full of colour, with the ladies sitting in their arm chairs, knitting (or trying to knit) or playing with dolls. There were bunches of flowers, and decorations and simple pictures on the walls. The patients were all smiling or singing and it was a happy place. I then made my way along the corridor to the male ward and opened the door to find myself in a stark square room with benches around the walls, on which were seated ten or so grey adult creatures. On seeing me, they all stood up and came shuffling towards me, some dribbling at the mouth, some undone with wet trousers, and none able to speak properly. They came circling round me and touched me, feeling my coat and touching my hair. I stood quite still for a few minutes, allowing them to satisfy their curiosity, and then began gently talking to them until the male charge-nurse arrived. He was very kind and gentle with them and would, if the weather was fine, attempt a game of football with the fitter men in the yard. But what a contrast to the female ward! There was no colour anywhere - no flowers, no pictures, no real attempt at stimulation. My official duties were just to deal with any physical complaints they might have, but I enjoyed my visits to the unit and became quite attached to the boys and girls, some of whom were in their sixties.
There was another first at the Hospital that is worth mentioning and that was the first operating day after my arrival. I myself was not there that afternoon but Sister Mellon, the theatre sister, told me later that the surgeon, Mr Callender, and the anaesthetist spent the whole afternoon recalling exploits of my father from his Doncaster days. He was a great athlete and sportsman for which he won many silver trophies and cups. He was also an excellent golfer but, being somewhat temperamentally erratic, his play could be brilliant or disastrous, and after 20 years some of his rounds were still fresh in the memory of fellow players. One of his greatest tricks was to throw an egg over the club house without breaking it. On one memorable occasion he set out to demonstrate this unique feat but, as luck would have it, he was unsuccessful. He tried again - the egg broke; he tried again - the egg broke. Again and again he tried until several dozen eggs had been used up, as had his patience. He was becoming more and more irate but would he give up? Eventually to everyone's great relief he succeeded, and then all went happily back into the club house for another round of drinks.
Another incident occurred which demonstrated his memorability. At the end of my first month I received my pay cheque and went proudly into Doncaster to the Westminster Bank. Handing over the cheque I said I wished to start a bank account. The teller looked at the cheque made out to Dr P Moncreiff, looked at me and said, "How is your father?" "Fine," says I, "Oh no - he has been dead for eight years." As my father had left Doncaster in 1932 and it was now 1950 I was very impressed.
There were quite a few characters amongst the staff at the hospital but the two that stand out in my memory are Mr Callender, the surgeon and Dr Jeffries, the psychiatrist. Callender was a gruff, hearty man; affectionate but with a tendency to bully if you let him. Patients tended to either love him or hate him. His method was to approach the patient in a very purposeful manner, listen to a very short history, lay a hand on the appropriate exposed part of the patient's anatomy, and pronounce a diagnosis and a very brief summary of treatment. This was fine and the patient was much impressed if the diagnosis was correct, but not so good if the diagnosis was faulty. On quite a few occasions I had to tactfully speak to him later and persuade him to let me arrange further investigations before challenging his diagnosis. In that way he did not lose face and the patients did not lose their lives or limbs. Mr Callender was one of the old-style practising surgeons who had started of as GPs doing a little surgery and as time went on increased their surgical practice and dropped their GP work. They had never sat their FRCS but, when the Health Service came into being, were allowed to continue as consultant surgeons because of their long experience. He had a lot of investment in property etc. and preferred to talk away about his business deals rather than discuss his patients in any depth. I would not say he was a very good role model but he was certainly entertaining.
Dr Jeffrey was a very different type. He was around forty years of age, short and rather stout, and suffered from severe ankylosing spondylitis so that his head was permanently bent forward with his chin almost touching his chest and his face turned to one side. Despite this he exuded charm and sex appeal. His beds were in a side ward at the end of the long old-fashioned medical wards so that when he came to visit his patients he had to walk the whole length of the ward before coming to his own patients. It never failed to amaze me that on the afternoons he was expected, the female medical patients were all sitting up in bed with their best nighties and bed jackets on, their faces done up and their hair brushed and combed - just for a glimpse of his smiling face and a quiet "Good afternoon ladies". We treated the milder, short-term psychiatric problems - while anybody who became violent or noisy was usually transferred to the Mental Hospital in Leeds. Some of the patients were suffering from severe neurotic depression and were treated with ECT without anaesthetic. They did not seem to mind and it did have a very beneficial effect. How long the effect lasted of course I cannot say, but they left the hospital greatly improved and very grateful for the treatment they had received.
One of these male patients benefited, but I cannot be sure if it was from the ECT or the sharp end of my tongue. As I said, the psychiatric beds were off the far end of the medical wards and there was some smoked glass panelling between them. One evening around midnight I received an urgent call to the Male Medical Wards as there had been a disturbance. One of the psychiatric patients had jumped out of bed and smashed his hand through the glass panelling, lacerating his hand and forearm quite badly. This had naturally given all the other patients a fright - in particular, one terminally ill patient. He had a rare fibrosing condition of his liver and spleen and had a permanent drain in his abdomen to take off the excess fluid which gathered continually. The fright had made him jump; the drain had come half-out and somehow torn the abdominal wall and he was in great pain. I stormed down the ward to the first patient, had a brief look at his hand to see he wasn't bleeding to death, marched back to the second patient, reassured him and fixed the drain etc. and then marched back to Dr Jeffrey's patient, who was now whimpering and feeling very sorry for himself. I gave him no sympathy but told him exactly what I thought of his childish, attention-seeking behaviour. Didn't he know there was nothing wrong with him, and did he know that tomorrow he was going to get up and walk down the ward and apologise to all the patients? I was really blazing mad - a very rare occurrence with me - but it worked like a charm. After I had stitched up his hand and arm, he lay down like a lamb and went to sleep. The next day he got up, shaved and dressed, apologised to the patients in the Medical Ward and went home soon afterwards. His wife couldn't believe the transformation; nor could the ambulance men who had brought him in and had now come to take him home. It would have been nice to think the change would last but, if one must be realistic, I doubted it.
During my stay at Doncaster I became very interested in psychiatry and very nearly changed the course of my career from general practice to specialising in psychiatry. It was after I had finished my six months stint in Doncaster (they had asked me to stay on for another six months but I refused) and returned to Edinburgh that I received a letter from Dr Jeffrey offering me a post as Senior House Officer in the hospital in Leeds. I was sorely tempted, as they say. It meant I was jumping a grade and would therefore have better pay. I was really interested in the work but, on the other hand, it meant leaving Anne again and that I couldn't face. Eddie was still in Malaya and talking of coming home so that was no immediate problem, but I felt it would not be fair to Anne who had missed me badly. She had been looked after by Mother and Anne-Marie, a delightful German au-pair who became a life-long friend. It was a very difficult decision to make, made only after much heart-searching, but once resolved I had no regrets. Dr Jeffrey wrote again after another six months but this time I could not face even thinking about the choice and didn't reply. I always felt very bad about that. Dr Jeffrey was such a nice person and I felt I had let him down.
I enjoyed my six months at Balby and my time was certainly not wasted. I had experience of nearly every aspect of medicine and general surgery, paediatrics, geriatrics, psychiatry and mental deficiency, to name but a few. I was given enormous responsibility for one so young and inexperienced and brought in many changes. I also did anaesthetics. Dr Milne, the SHO in obstetrics, and I became quite a team - she delivered the difficult babies by forceps and I administered the anaesthetic. The consultant anaesthetist tried to persuade me to take up anaesthetics but in that I was not interested - not at all. To sum up Balby: practical experience - wonderful; as a step towards achievement - nil.
* * * * *
After I returned to Edinburgh I had a short holiday and then obtained a post in the Royal Victoria Hospital. This suited me very well as it enabled me to be near Anne, and any free time I had I spent with her. The work itself was far from arduous as it was a hospital for the more acute but less severe cases of tuberculosis. Streptomycin had only recently been discovered and TB was still a life-threatening illness. The staff were very well looked after. We were weighed every month, frequently X-rayed and if we were at all unwell, even with a wee sniffle, we were sent home to rest. Unfortunately - or I should say, fortunately - I was never unwell and consequently was unable to take advantage of this arrangement.
I was the resident House Officer, Hugh McLeod was the Registrar, and Dr Norman Horne the Consultant. How very different from Doncaster - everything here was quiet and orderly, with absolutely top grade nursing and medical care. Again it was very good experience for general practice as the patients, being long-stay, obviously developed complaints over and above tuberculosis, colds, flu, appendicitis, arthritis, and even pregnancy. Depression could also be quite a problem, especially with the younger married patients. Having the patients under one's care for long periods meant one got to know and develop a friendly relationship with them.
Despite the recent introduction of antibiotics and operative procedures, the main line of treatment was still bed rest and fresh air. The wards were unheated and all the windows wide open. Some patients were housed in small three-sided huts with one end wide open, exposed to the elements. I believe these huts could be turned round away from the prevailing wind and, hopefully, towards the sun. In the winter the patients sat up in bed wearing leather jackets, gloves and woolly hats and, to do a ward round, I put on fur-lined boots and a sleeveless sheepskin coat which was supplied by the hospital. The general atmosphere of the hospital was one of quiet efficiency. Unlike Balby there were very few dramas and the only time I ever felt tired was after the long evening out-patient sessions which were held once a week, when we refilled the pneumothoraxes of our long-suffering out-patients.
It has never ceased to amaze me that it is always the same people who are late for appointments, whether at hospital, GP's surgery or private homes. A few of the patients I met there later became my patients when I had my own practice. One particular chap sticks in my mind. I first saw him when I was a fourth year medical student and we were doing a ward round in another TB hospital. We were shown this young man lying unconscious in bed and told, "This man will almost certainly die - he has miliary TB and TB meningitis, but we are going to try and treat him with the new drug streptomycin." I heard no more about him until I had been working at the Royal Victoria for some weeks and he arrived at one of the out-patient clinics. I recognised him immediately but of course he had no idea I had ever seen him before. His general health was very good indeed with no sign of persisting infection but, sad to say, he was now totally deaf. There was another patient, a young lad of about 15 years, who was exactly the same. They were both sent to lip-reading classes. The young lad did not benefit at all and I have often wondered what became of him - he seemed so depressed and withdrawn. James, on the other hand, was intelligent and outgoing and went into accountancy, and years later when I went into practice he was on my list and remained so until I retired. An old friend indeed!
Another patient, who shall remain nameless, was always late for her evening out-patient appointment and sometimes arrived just as we were thinking of closing up for the night. Years later it was the same - she would come panting into the evening surgery, either just before the door closed at 7 pm or afterwards. The bell would ring. Three guesses as to who it was. Yes - the same. As I say, people never change but you could not be really angry when you remembered the tragic life she had - mother and sisters dying of TB, and living at home with a younger sister and father who had chronic bronchitis.
While I worked at the Royal Victoria there we were still seeing acute cases of TB and the tragic consequences of long-standing chronic infection, but we were also involved in a large trial of a new antibiotic, Isoniazid, and shortly afterwards tuberculosis became almost a thing of the past. This affected the career of some of my colleagues who had decided to specialize in tuberculosis. In a few years the TB wards were empty and were turned over to other specialities. Indeed the Royal Vic became a geriatric hospital. Hugh McLeod was affected in this way. Originally he had embarked on a