The Fraternity

by Rosemary Friedman

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

It is the early Sixties. The parents of law student, Peach Gatehouse, are both doctors and her brother is a medical student. She is in love with Henry but cannot contemplate life as a doctor's wife.

Stifled by this medical environment from which she feels unable to escape, Peach is attempting to make her own way in the world. She is also learning to come to terms with the new world order and the changing views of her generation.

Through her experiences and friendships she gradually learns to define her own needs and values and is confident about the decision she eventually makes about her future.

Release date: July 25, 2013

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 183

Sample

“She had a large cervical polyp,” Amy said. “These mushroom things are delicious.”

“Have another. They look so sad at breakfast time. What about the biopsy?”

“I haven’t had the result yet. I’m not worried. I’ll push her haemoglobin up and send her home. How does it feel to have been married for twenty-five years?”

“Quite unbelievable. A Quarter of a century!”

“A significant twenty-five years.” Amy twirled the ice in her glass. “Penicillin…Belsen…Hiroshima…astronauts shooting off in all directions…”

“The nadir and the zenith.”

“You have evidence nearer home.”

“Grant?” Hilda glanced at her son, head and shoulders above the group, which surrounded him in the centre of the room.

“And Peach.”

Peach walked round with the mushroom vol-au-vents on their silver dish and thought Christopher Isherwood only he was a camera and I am a tape-recorder. They’re doing research on cocktail party noise; you can listen to someone talking to you with one ear and keep the other roving to pick up relevant information from the far side of the room.


“Where’s Mother?” Grant said.

“Still talking to Amy.”

“What about?”

“Cervical polyps.”

“Polypi. She ought to circulate.”

“You tell her.”

“You know the tenth,” Elliot said, describing a curve with his potato crisp, “where it comes back to the clubhouse; I was on the green for one, it’s only a short hole of course, and then believe it or not I messed up a six-foot putt. After that I couldn’t do a thing right.”

“This shindig must have been on your mind,” Graham Manning said. “What do you do with your varicose veins these days?”

“Send them to Sharples. I always have done.”

“I use this new chap Millory. He takes twice as long as Sharples but I think he gets a better result.”

“I’m quite happy with Sharples,” Elliot said. “Besides, we have a regular game.”

“Your daughter’s looking very pretty tonight.”

“Peach? Yes.”

“Still no intention of following in the family footsteps?”

“Not a hope. She hates it all.”

“Can’t blame her in a way. Did you hear that Hodge’s boy was short-listed for the death vacancy in Ilford?”

“It’s all done with diuretics,” Basil Pratt said. “Thank you, they look delicious.”


“They’re very hot,” Peach said.

“He gives them massive doses and naturally they lose pounds. They put it all back again of course within a month or two.”

“Nice little racket.”

“You’re absolutely right. He has a flat in Hyde Park Gate.”

“Bit of a jump from Catford.”

“Goes up to eighty-five in third,” Harry Coningsby said. “Eighty-five and steady as a rock at a hundred and five.”

“I’m fed up with mine,” Arthur Pritchard said. “Like driving a tank round the streets.”

“Why don’t you flog it?”

“I’d like to. We’ve just had a new baby.”

“Of course. Congratulations. Who delivered it?”

“Hilda, of course.”

“Everything go off all right?”

“Fine.”

“Good. It’s a relief, isn’t it? I had a deep transverse arrest in primip. of eighteen last week; insisted on having it at home. Phillips admitted her and had to do a caesarean section.”

“Don’t you think he’s getting a bit past it?”

“Phillips? Not at all.”

“Mushroom vol-au-vent?” Peach said. “Be careful. They’re hot.”

“‘Look’, I said, ‘if that chap’s not got a carcinoma of the colon I’ll eat my hat.’”

“And had he?”

“Well of course he had. That was a year ago. We did an end-to-end anastomosis but he had metastases all over the place.”


“Wasn’t he the chap with the dirty bookshop in the Strand? I remember you telling me about him.”

“He was, but I’m afraid he won’t be for much longer. Mushroom? No thanks. I don’t mind another gin and tonic, dear. Good-looking girl, Elliot’s.”

“Where’s your daughter these days?”

“Doing Endocrinology at Yale. Haven’t seen her for a year.”

“‘Like hell,’ I said, ‘I’m taking a partner before I get my coronary. What with the extra loading and tax-relief it comes to the same thing, anyway. I’m not working myself to death for that ungrateful mob.’”

“Thank you, Peach. Don’t go away – I’ll have another. Not going in for medicine, are you? Sensible girl. Run as fast, and as far as you can, before you get every spark and sparkle of decency and enterprise strangled out of you by the Health Service.”

“‘Look,’ I said, ‘my husband is a dedicated surgeon. If you must do your duty, find somebody else to give a ticket to…’”

“It was three o’clock before he came home and at five Mulligan’s wife went into labour…”

“…affected ass, he always uses gold needles…”

“…no Theatre Sister, so he laid up the trolley himself before you could say knife…”

“…charged her twenty guineas and she went away as happy as a sandboy. I’d told her exactly that for nothing, but of course that wasn’t the same thing at all…”


“…you try sewing up a perineum by the light of a twenty-five-watt bulb…”

“…think he needs ECT himself. They’re all whacky, if you ask me…”

“…how much did you pull in from the vaccinations?” “‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but Sir Harmstrong’s just stepped acrorst the street to ’ave a word with Sir Hanthony.’ ‘Well, you’d better look slippy,’ I said, ‘and step acrorst the street after him, before we have a ruptured aneurysm on our hands…’”

“…eight visits in an hour…”

“…can’t work like that, I like to take my time…”

“…did you hear the one about the chappie who went to the woman doctor complaining of…”

“What was it, Mother?” Grant said, taking Hilda’s empty glass.

“An ectopic.”

“No. Your drink. You ought to circulate.”

“Of course. Just tell me briefly, Amy. Whisky, Grant, and look after my little Pathologist – she’s just arrived.”

“The girl with the red hair? It will be a pleasure.”

She had very white teeth and blushed, the colour clashing with her hair.

“I’ve been detailed to look after you. I’m Grant Gatehouse.”


“My name is Marshall; Lesley Marshall.”

“Pleased to meet you, Dr Marshall.”

“And you, ‘Dr’ Gatehouse?”

“I don’t know. Results of the Finals next week.”

“I wish you luck.”

“Thank you. A drink?”

“Sherry, please.” She had rounded arms, lightly freckled and reminded Grant of summer.

“Dry or medium?”

“Anything. Just to be sociable.”

“You look an unlikely Pathologist.”

“No one looks very likely these days.”

Her dress was sleeveless and he had a sudden desire to kiss the top of her arm. She stood near the door.

“Come and meet someone,” Grant said.

“Do you mind if I just stay here?”

“Not at all. I thought you’d rather…”

“I’m quite happy.”

The eyes were green, black-flecked.

“Look, I have to fill a few glasses. I’ll be back.”

“I’ll still be here.”

The white teeth.

“Darling, Professor Lindsay wants his coat. He’s looking after the Chancellor, you know.”

“What’s the matter with him?” Peach said.

Professor Lindsay’s eyebrows shot up into his egghead.

“A ‘stomach complaint’ according to the newspapers. They don’t give me a moment’s peace with their wretched little notebooks.”

“It will all be worth it in the next Birthday Honours. If you want any help, Ian, you know where to find me.”

“I’ll put in a word for you, Elliot, but I think Miss Dullally whom I have in the next room to the Chancellor might interest you more.”


“The one with the bosom? I saw her in that film where she fell in the water every five minutes.”

“Remarkable breasts,” Professor Lindsay said. “Truly remarkable!”

“A grey,” Professor Lindsay said at the bottom of the stairs. He straightened his bow tie, then examined his impeccable nails. “My demi-saison. You know, Peach, you have exceptional parents. Quite exceptional.”

“I know.”

“How do you?”

“Everyone says so.”

“I’d like you to meet my son. He does Orthopaedic Surgery at the South-West London. Good-looking, too. Takes after his mother.”

“That would be nice,” Peach said. “I’ll get your coat.”

“He wants me to meet his son,” Peach said. “He’s at the South-West London.”

“Hopkins’ Senior Registrar,” Grant said. “MS at twenty-five. Not bad going. Didn’t you tell him you don’t mix with the fraternity?”

“I didn’t want to be rude. He’ll forget all about it, anyway.”

“He didn’t get to be Professor of Medicine because of his bad memory.”

“I’ll deal with it when the time comes. Don’t let me keep you from that red-head.”

“Extraordinary perception.”

“Not at all. You look in her direction at least once every five seconds. I thought you’d developed a tic for a moment.”


“It’s been wonderful, Hilda. Best of luck for the next twenty-five.”

“Thank you. And thank you for coming.”

“Where’s Elliot?”

“Somewhere around. Won’t you have one more drink?”

“Thank you, no. I still have a couple of visits to do on the way back.”

“Today?”

“I’m on rota duty. I shouldn’t really be here. I’m sending a gynae. case to your Outpatients. A Mrs Penrose, query metropathia.”

“I’ll look out for her,” Hilda said. “There’s Elliot now?”

She’d finished her sherry.

“Let me get you another,” Grant said.

“No, really.”

He took her glass.

“I have to go.”

“You’ve only just arrived. I would have come back before. Had to be sociable.”

“I’ll say goodbye to your mother.”

“Let me run you home.”

“I have my car outside.”

“A little longer. Things are just starting to hum.”

“Really not. I have enjoyed it.”

“As you wish.”

“I wish.”

“Look Lesley…”


She was easing her way across the room.

“If you tie it off just there,” Mr Swallow said, pushing aside a dish of olives and drawing a quick neat diagram on the white tablecloth, “you’ll get very little bleeding into the cavity. I’ve been doing it for years.”

“…gives a beautiful anaesthetic, lowers the blood pressure right down…”

“…great obese chap, be dead in a year. ‘Want to make a quick thou., Doc?’ he says. ‘Singmo Rubber, and keep it under your hat.’”

“What happened?”

“This was two years ago. But there’s a very nice little Property Company coming up: a pal of mine’s a director…”

“…busybody on the Management Committee says there’s a simple answer to that. Your Children’s Ward is practically empty: take some of them for Men’s Surgical for the time being. ‘My dear lady,’ I said, ‘you try fitting a six-foot coal-heaver with a fractured femur into a four-foot cot…’”

“Have you lost her?” Peach said.

“She went home.”

“Poor Grant. Deadly, isn’t it?”

“The party? I’m rather enjoying it.”

“Do you think I’ve stayed long enough? There’s a do at Sarah’s.”

“You’d better square it with Mother.”

“I was just going to slip out.”

“How do you think it’s going, Hilda?”


“Fine. What are they all looking at?”

“Grant. He’s doing his imitation of Mao-Tse Tung. Where’s Amy off to?”

“I have an Egyptian girl in labour. She’s going to take a peep at her for me.”

“Elliot dear, it’s been delightful.”

“Amy; I hear you’re off to do my wife’s work.”

“I have a strong suspicion she’d rather go herself.”

“Mother, do you mind if I leave? Sarah’s party – remember?”

“Of course, dear. Peach, this is Dr Sims. He practises in Sevenoaks and has three delightful girls.”

“Boys,” Dr Sims said. “Which branch of the healing art are you going to embrace?”

“None,” Peach said.

“Ha! A renegade.”

“Where are you going?” Elliot said.

“Sarah’s.”

“Thought there was someone missing.”

“She has a do of her own.”

“I expect someone can give you a lift.” He looked round vaguely.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get the bus.”

“Ah, Elliot, tracked you down!”

“Pettigrew! Good to see you.”

“I’m off,” Peach said.

“Who was that?”

“My daughter.”




The bus was brightly lit, the conductor black. Legs apart, braced against the jolting, he logged his journey, blue uniform crumpled. Peach, sitting sideways, watched him. South Ken. at night, dark falling, a far cry from Trinidad, hot sun, pineapples, singing, dancing: a deception, of course; probably lived in a shack with umpteen others, not very much to eat either, otherwise why had he come to put up with the endless humiliations, the tight-lipped shop assistants, uncompromising landladies, self-righteous within their white skins. In America it was worse of course, he’d have to walk miles perhaps to use a lavatory, buy a meal. What must it be like to be at the receiving end of a hatred, a disgust?

The bus jolted to a halt. No one got on or off. He put up a brown hand, fingers pale-tipped, and pressed the bell.

Xenophobia; there’s something about the blacks; the smell; you can’t stay in the same room. I don’t know what it is; something. I don’t like tomatoes. Don’t pretend there’s anything intrinsically wrong with tomatoes. The dislike is in your mind, a self-chosen attitude.

What must you think of us?

He put away the board on which he was writing. Slid it into a slot under the stairs, curled an arm round the chrome rail on the platform, began to whistle. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad; he had a job, three meals, roof over his head. Bread alone. You had to be able to lift your head as well. What are you thinking? That I’m thinking about you? Anything? End of the run? Tea, scalding hot? Wife and kids? Home? You know, Peach, you have exceptional parents. I know. How do you? Everyone says so. Everyone. Elliot w. . .