The Big Day – The Bid Assessment

It was the Big Day. Alex, the Chief Executive, and the Firm – Prof Leaman and his surgical team – had been given their Bid Assessment slot. Alex had rehearsed his presentation and rewritten it several times; he had briefed the surgeons on their role and emphasised the need for them to stay “on message”; and he had prepared a time plan so that the 60-minute assessment interview could be used to give maximum impact.

He was so proud of St. Angela’s, and he was sure that the bid to be a national centre of excellence would succeed despite the fierce competition from the other bidders. But he was nervous. He had flashes of anxiety, a sense of foreboding, a quiet dread that all would not go to plan.

Prof Leaman was confident. He had briefed “his boys”. And he had even allowed the exile, Mr. Cordell, to join them to give the impression of unity. They travelled together in their best suits and shiny shoes to the corridors of power in Whitehall in silence.

As they waited for the summons to appear before the assessment panel, Mr. Regan helped himself to the plate of biscuits. The presentation went well. Alex was an articulate advocate of St. Angela’s case. He knew the right words to impress the assessment panel which was made up of some of the world’s top specialists, including professors from the prestigious universities of the American east coast.

The cross-examination started well and Alex kept control. The Chairman of the panel asked about St. Angela’s sustainability plans. He had noticed Prof Leaman’s age and wanted to ensure that a succession plan was in place so the centre could be sustained for at least ten years. A series of spluttering responses followed that pointed to possible disagreements.

Alex, ever alert, tried to plaster over the widening cracks and to keep control. He sensed the Chairman’s alarm which was spreading rapidly to the rest of the panel’s members. Alex kept smiling manically at them while sending distressed eye signals to the surgeons.

They were having none of it. They were in full flight. Peace had broken down rapidly. Mr. Regan, full of nervous energy, challenged the assertion that Mr. Gonerill should be the natural successor to Prof Leaman.

Like an uncorked champagne bottle, he exploded with rage; swearing his head off, he claimed Leaman’s crown. Horrified, Alex, assisted by members of the panel, tried to calm him. But it was to no avail. Mr. Regan, perhaps on a sugar rush from all the biscuits he had scoffed in the waiting room, had lost his temper, again.

Mr. Gonerill, greatly irritated, had tried to shut him up by shouting over him and a row ensued. Mr. Cordell looked on in silent despair. Prof Leaman saw his legacy melting away. Alex saw his bid for a “centre of excellence” disappearing. The Chairman saw a rowdy bunch of dysfunctional surgeons who were certainly not a team.

After a pause for silence, order was restored. Alex humbled himself with an abject apology, trying desperately to rescue the situation. The Chairman thanked him and the team for their presentation, and politely showed them the door. They travelled home in silence, and in a seething rage.

The Day After – Prof Leaman’s Sad End

The bid had failed. The “Centre of Excellence” title, and all the kudos and resources that went with it, was awarded to another unit. Alex, flattened, stared out of his double-aspect corner office picture window at the rowers practising their unified strokes. Sue entered and gave him the schedule of meetings for the post-mortems and the proposals for each surgeon’s future. She was well-practised and good at this sequence of events.

With a heavy heart, Alex asked her to call in Prof Leaman. They sat there in silence, looking out of the window while Sue poured the tea. “Where did it all go wrong?” Alex asked. A crumpled Prof Leaman said nothing. With an air of resignation, he agreed with Sue’s suggestion that it was time to talk about his future, and his retirement plans.

To his horror, this interview was deputed to me to lead, with Sue in attendance. We booked the consultants lounge in the Rowing Club and had its exclusive use all afternoon. Even Maria, the cake lady, was not allowed to enter.

Prof Leaman’s identity was so wrapped-up in being a top surgeon at St. Angela’s; in being a top rower, in his day;  and in being a surgeon with a fierce reputation for taking no prisoners, and commanding the lives of all who worked for him. But there comes a time in all our lives, no matter how great or humble, when it’s time to go, and it hurts. Succession planning in expert power systems often results in such implosions, and the protagonists often suffer greatly, especially when the cult of personality is so strong.

And so it was, that Prof Leaman, “the Knife”, whom I had feared at the outset of this assignment,  was now a different person. He was a man who knew he had had his day, and, in reflective mood, he talked about his career, his achievements, and all his unfulfilled aspirations that would never now be realised. How could a bit of gardening, some golf and travelling, and some unspecified duties for the Royal College fill the void in this man’s life?

He saw emptiness; he felt alone; and he saw his hard-won and much-prized crown fall, worthless, into the gutter.

And What of Mr. Gonerill?

In complete contrast, the meeting with Mr. Gonerill was unpleasant and threatening. He decided to tough it out, and offered to lead a rescue bid now that the poor old fool, Leaman, had “lost it”. He was bullish, charmless and insensitive. He had no understanding of the situation, and blamed everyone else and their failings for the loss of the bid. Sue was horrified and placed the would-be successor on warning that his conduct was unbecoming, making clear that no second bid would be allowed to proceed.

Helen, my trusted friend of old, had been digging away at the records in the meantime and had gathered the evidence that Alex and Sue would need to call for a police investigation for fraud. Mr. Gonerill’s charge sheet was serious: undeclared use of St. Angela’s equipment, facilities and staff for his private practice; stealing and selling hospital property, including drugs taken from the theatre suite; and setting-up a false supplier account and invoicing St. Angela’s on this account. It was quite an enterprise.

The police arrived to interview him, and his papers, filing cabinets and computers were taken away in full view of Jenny, Prof Leaman and everyone else who was on that corridor. He was suspended from St. Angela’s and escorted from the premises in front of many open-mouthed observers. He was reported to the regulatory authority.

And the final insult – he had to watch as the police searched his home and garage, with full coverage in the local press. 

And Mr. Regan and Mr. Cordell?

Realising that he had been played by Mr. Gonerill, Mr. Regan collapsed in a heap of disbelief and shock. How could he have missed all the clues? He was referred to “CCU”, a specialist career counselling unit, which was known to the insiders by its alternative name – the combat casualties’ unit. His career, and psyche, were in tatters. On reflection, he decided his best course of action, given the terrible publicity surrounding the case, was to go to Africa and work for a charity.

In a moment of great generosity, Mr. Regan agreed to drop all charges of assault against his colleague Mr. Cordell. The authorities were duly notified and Mr. Regan was duly listed for an award in honour of his services to surgery. The sickies – the business manager and others who had been at the receiving end of Mr. Regan’s insults and anger – protested loudly, to no avail.

Now free from his exile to “the Hill,” a very disillusioned Mr. Cordell was relieved to hear about the assault charges being dropped. In discussion with his wife, the Honourable Lady Sarah, he decided to leave St. Angela’s and concentrate on his private practice, and on running their estate. He never spoke of his experiences or referred to his colleagues ever again.

The team fell apart. The Firm was destroyed. And the damaged individuals limped on to the next phase of their lives. Jenny, Prof Leaman’s fusspot PA, decided to retire early to concentrate on her garden. And Alex? He brooded over the loss of the “Centre of Excellence” status; it stung him constantly, but he carried on with dignity, hiding his wounds from anyone who cared to look.

I went to see Prof Leaman as he prepared to attend his retirement party. My job was to help him to let go, make a dignified exit, and start to build another life and identity outwith St. Angela’s. I gave him a farewell card with the often-used quote from Enoch Powell:

“All political lives, unless they are cut off in midstream at a happy juncture, end in failure because that is the nature of politics and of human affairs.”

Farewells

The end of the month pay day party was lively. There was much excited talk, fuelled by celebratory drinks, of Mr. Gonerill’s demise at the hands of the police, and his mistress who went public about his expensive lifestyle and gambling debts. There was very little sympathy for his cause as the extent of his fraud became known. For Maria, Juan and the “Little People”, it was incomprehensible that a surgeon, a professional man, could do such a thing. Their sympathy was reserved for Prof Leaman.

His retirement party was held in the big hall of St. Angela’s – a magnificent room with paintings of the good and the great covering the walls.

Many dignitaries came from all over the region and the big committee table groaned with farewell and good luck cards and presents. Jenny, his loyal PA, cleared his office and accompanied him to the party. There was much champagne, sherry and canape’s, and a speech from Alex. He gave a potted CV, said nice things and handed over the time-honoured present of a carriage clock.

I’m not sure why this particular item is always chosen for the retirement present as the last thing you need as a retiree is a reminder of the time passing by.

The real sadness of such events is felt late into the evening when everyone has departed.

On return to his office, Prof Leaman found a bin bag full of his possessions, ready to go to the car, or the tip. After such a long working life, he thought “is that it?” A carriage clock and a full bin bag? Off he went to the next part of his life.

As for me? I had my sign-off meeting with Sue. Mission accomplished, kind of. Prof Leaman retired, but no succession plan and no Centre of Excellence. But an insidious case of psychopathy and crime had been revealed and its casualties, including Alex, were managed through the crisis, sort of. That will have to do for now; time to close up and move on to the next assignment.

Next morning, Maria entered the Rowing Club lounge to put the fire in as usual. She sorted the cups and saucers into neat rows and laid out the newspapers. Peering up and over her glasses, she saw above the cake table a sight that made her start. Uttering a scream, she reached out to touch the photos of the rowers on the board  which had been covered by the “No. 10” letter. It had been pinned to it with a cake fork.

And so our tale based on King Lear ends in sadness; there are no winners here…

Come back next time for another story of everyday politics at St. Angela’s in the vein of Romeo and Juliet.