The Knife

There comes a time in every top lion’s life when he is going to be challenged for the king’s job by younger and fitter underlings, and, eventually, he is going to have to give way, move on and leave the field.

First come the challenges, then the fights and struggles to maintain control, and eventually the pain of letting go, feeling loss, and coming to terms with isolation.

Prof. Leaman was the picture of a great patrician. He was tall and lean with an upright bearing, and he spoke with the confidence of a highly educated man. On meeting him, despite these attributes, and his aggressive bluster, I observed, fleetingly, moments of sadness in his angular face as he recognised his inevitable fate.

Jenny, his fusspot secretary, eventually released an appointment for me and gave me my instructions for meeting the great man. Rowing Club, 7.30 am sharp and finish at 8.00 am. Surgeons are early birds by nature as they have much prep and planning work to do before they start their morning lists of operations.

How should I use this precious 30 minutes? We would have to use some of that time to get to know each other, and then use what was left to discuss the problems that had been outlined to me by Sue – yes, she had stopped running down the corridors for a few minutes to give me the brief.

Well, I need not have worried. I didn’t get a word in edgeways. His opening salvo included: “What do you do? You appear to be some sort of graduate.” On explaining my background, and qualifications, in an effort to establish some rapport and gravitas, I was met with: “What’s this nonsense degree in a meaningless subject…”

Leaning forward and peering over his specs, he told me that his underling, Mr. Cordell, had let him down; he (Leaman) had brought him in, taught him everything, and now he’s gone and punched his colleague. “Can’t stand him,” he barked. “I’ve sent him into exile at the Hill – get rid of him.”

And with that, he was gone.

The Hill — A Place of Exile

The Hill was Brownhill’s Hospital. A place that time had forgotten. It was glorious in its day; a lovely 19th-century building put up by generous benefactors for the good of local people. But it had long been eclipsed by the new, modern and trend-on St. Angela’s – the high-tech palace of modernity.

The Hill looked tired and sad with its broken windows, buddleia growing out of the cracks in the walls, the path strewn with roof slates which had fallen off ages ago and had lain where they fell, and pigeon poo was splattered everywhere. The place was unloved, and grim, but it was still used for some clinics and operations, and overflow work from St. Angela’s, as this was the time before inspections.

Mr. Cordell had been sent there in disgrace. He was not allowed on the St. Angela’s site while Prof. Leaman was there. He had to ring Jenny to check it was ok to come over when he needed access. He was excluded from meetings, and he was purposefully isolated as the court case against him for the alleged assault approached. By all accounts, Mr. Cordell was very upset.

On the face of it, it looked like an open and shut case of GBH. He would have to be sacked. Prof. Leaman said: “Nothing can come of nothing” as he walked out of the Rowing Club lounge at our first meeting.

But all is not what it seems. On investigation, I found that Mr. Cordell was very popular with the staff, and his patients loved him. He was reputed to be an excellent surgeon. What’s going on? This needs more work before we sack him surely?

The Fallen

I had learnt the value of the little people a long time ago. They see all and know much, but they say nothing. They are invisible but they are the organisation’s memory sticks waiting silently to be opened. To find out what was really going on, I thought it wise to start with these silent people before interviewing the great man’s underlings.

Jenny, Prof. Leaman’s fusspot PA- I bet she was a good store of information but would she disclose anything to me? I doubt it. What about Maria, the ever-attentive maid in the Rowing Club, who brought out the cakes at tea-time, tidied-up the newspapers, and put in the fire on chilly days. She must see and hear what goes on in the informal relaxed atmosphere of the Club’s lounge. And, of course, my old friend Helen. She always knows everything. Time to find out more about the real machinations in the cardiac surgery department.

It was evident that something was seriously wrong. The wider team had fallen apart – many people were stressed, off sick, thinking about going off sick, and some were simply absent – they could not face coming into work and so they went on extended unpaid leave. Those that remained were placed under great pressure to cover the absentees’ work, and, in addition, there was a business case to be written in support of St. Angela’s bid to be a recognised national reference unit. It was a deeply distressing picture.

Not only was there the surgeon’s assault case, two of the long-term sickees had notified Prof Leaman that they were going to sue the hospital for its failure to look after their psychological well-being.

This was a new phenomenon then, as case law had just been established to ensure organisations looked after their staff both physically and mentally.

Any hope of the hospital being awarded national unit status seemed to me to be remote given the body count and impending court cases. Was this all the fault of one man, Mr. Cordell? From what I had heard, despite the assault case, he just did not fit the profile of a dysfunctional individual. What would my mentor, guide and great teacher, the Prof, think? Time for a consult with him to mull over the issues, after my meeting with the offending surgeon.

The Exile

I went to see Mr. Cordell in his exile at the Hill. The place was shabby, grey and dull, and deserted. His office was the old gents toilet anteroom with the original bottle green wall tiles still clinging to the yellowing walls. It was humiliating, and damp.

He was very polite, but scared, even haunted. He was clearly distressed, taking notes of our conversation obsessively, and talking at a great speed. He was very defensive and, after being calmed, he asked me directly if he was going to be sacked. He was well aware of his dire situation given there were witnesses to the assault. “I’ve been manipulated. I don’t know what’s going on. I’m a good person” he blurted in staccato fashion through his tears.

Mr. Cordell was the personification of distress. I left the meeting with deep unease. Everyone wanted him out but was he really the source of all the problems? Was he being fitted-up? Why would anyone want to fit him up? There was more to this than meets the eye.

There is a Puppeteer?  Who is the Puppeteer?

 

On my way back to St. Angela’s, I reflected on my internship all those years ago. I would have been so out of my depth then with this case, but now, I was more confident, more experienced, and cannier.

In the intervening years, I had learnt to play organisational chess; I had learnt about political game-playing and psychopathy, and I saw beyond the facade of what you are presented with. As the Prof would say, there is the play on the front stage, and there is the real play on the backstage. What was going on here?

Time for Tea

I had privileged access to the Rowing Club so I thought I would do my thinking there. Perhaps I could observe some of the power barons at work; see who was talking to who, and for how long. Maybe I could make friends with Maria, the housemaid, and chat with her about life and times at the Club while she served the cakes.

The cake table was magnificent. It was such a relief to be in this cosy, sumptuous, warm room choosing a cake. What a contrast to the Hill and Mr. Cordell’s miserable existence in the gents loo.

Maria, a diminutive smiling Spanish lady, proudly laid out the afternoon’s sweet fare. “Lovely cakes” I said, introducing myself. She knew all the consultants and their preferences, and where they liked to sit, and much more. She was delighted to be engaged in conversation while she poured the tea for me.

I chose my place carefully so I could see both the rowers practising on the river and the lounge as it filled with the learned patrician afternoon scoffers. The walls were covered in photos of the many rowing teams and the legends showed the years of their wins. As I scanned the ones over the cake table, I spotted Prof. Leaman in his younger days. Clearly a Captain of the team, he was surrounded by “his boys”.

The peace was shattered by a booming voice. “Ah Maria, have you got a Battenburg for me, I love the fat corner pieces with their generous marzipan covering. Can I have two slabs?” Who was this assertive, discerning, greedy person?

Come back next time to find out about Mr. Greedy — is he the puppeteer? ..…

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.