This Was a Man Read online

  “It most certainly is, Mr. Kirby. I’ve discussed it at length with my GP, Dr. Richards, and my wife, and they’re both of the opinion that I should opt for an operation.”

  “Then my next question,” said Kirby, “and I think I already know the answer, is whether you would prefer to go private or have the operation done on the NHS?”

  “On that particular decision,” said Harry, “I wasn’t given a lot of choice. If your wife has chaired an NHS hospital for seven years, and gone on to become a minister of health, I have a feeling going private would constitute grounds for divorce.”

  “Then all we need to discuss is the timing. I’ve studied your test results and agree with your GP that while your PSA level remains around four to six percent, there is no need for alarm. But as it has been increasing steadily year by year, it might be wise not to hold off the operation for too much longer. With that in mind, I’d like to book you in for some time in the next six months. That will have the added bonus that no one will be able to suggest that you jumped the queue because of your connections.”

  “Frankly, that would suit me as well. I’ve just completed the first draft of my latest novel, and I plan to hand in the manuscript to my publishers just before Christmas.”

  “Then that’s one problem settled,” said Kirby, as he began to turn over several pages of a large desk diary. “Shall we say January eleventh at ten o’clock? And I suggest you clear your diary for the following three weeks.”

  Harry made a note in his diary, placed three asterisks at the top of the page, and put a line through the rest of the month.

  “I do most of my NHS work at Guy’s or St. Thomas’s,” Kirby continued. “I presume that as Tommy’s is just over Westminster Bridge from your home, it would be more convenient for you and your wife.”

  “Indeed it would, thank you.”

  “Now, there is one small complication that has arisen since your last consultation with Dr. Richards.” Kirby swung his chair around and faced a screen on the wall. “If you study this X-ray,” he said, pointing a thin pencil beam of light onto the screen, “you will observe that the cancer cells are currently confined to one small area. However, if you look more carefully,” he added, magnifying the image, “you will see that one or two of the little miscreants are attempting to escape. I intend to remove every one of them before they spread to other parts of your body, where they will be able to do far more damage. Although we have recently developed a cure for prostate cancer, the same cannot be said for the bones or liver, which is where these little blighters are heading.”

  Harry nodded.

  “Now, I expect, Sir Harry, you may well have some questions of your own.”

  “How long will the operation take, and how quickly will I recover?”

  “The operation usually takes three to four hours, after which you will experience a fairly unpleasant fortnight, but the average patient is pretty well back to normal after three weeks at most. You will be left with little more than half a dozen small scars on your stomach that will quickly fade, and I would expect you to be back at your desk writing within a month.”

  “That’s reassuring,” said Harry. He hesitated before asking tentatively, “How many times have you performed this particular operation?”

  “Over a thousand, so I think I’ve got the hang of it by now,” said Kirby. “How many books have you written?”

  “Touché,” said Harry, standing up to shake hands with the surgeon. “Thank you. I look forward to seeing you again in January.”

  “No one looks forward to seeing me again,” said Kirby. “But in your case, I consider it a privilege to have been chosen as your surgeon. I may not have read any of your books, but I had just started my first job as a registrar at UCH when you made your speech to the Nobel Prize Committee in Stockholm on behalf of Anatoly Babakov.” He removed a pen from an inside pocket, held it in the air, and said, “The pen is mightier than the sword.”

  “I’m both flattered and appalled in equal measure,” said Harry.

  “Appalled?” said Kirby, a look of surprise on his face.

  “Flattered that you remember my speech, but appalled that you were a young registrar at the time. Am I that old?”

  “Certainly not,” said Kirby. “And when I’m finished with you, you’ll be good for another twenty years.”

  * * *

  “What do you think?” whispered Emma.

  “I can’t pretend it would have been my first choice as Jessie’s entry for the RA School’s gold medal,” admitted Richard.

  “Nor mine. And to think she could have entered one of her traditional portraits, which would surely have given her a chance of winning.”

  “But it is a portrait, Mama,” said Sebastian.

  “Seb, it’s a giant condom,” whispered Emma.

  “It is indeed, but you have to look more closely to see its real significance.”

  “Yes, I must confess I’ve missed its real significance,” said Emma. “Perhaps you’d be kind enough to explain it to me.”

  “It’s Jessie’s comment on mankind,” said Samantha, coming to Seb’s rescue. “Inside the condom is a portrait of modern man.”

  “But that’s a—”

  “Yes,” said Harry, unable to resist any longer. “It’s an erect penis in the place of the man’s brain.”

  “And his ears,” said Emma.

  “Well done, Mama, I’m glad you worked that one out.”

  “But look more closely at the eyes,” said Samantha, “and you’ll see two images of naked women.”

  “Yes, I can see them, but why is the man’s tongue poking out?”

  “I can’t imagine, Mother,” said Seb.

  “But at three thousand pounds,” continued Emma, still unconvinced, “will anyone buy it?”

  “I intend to,” said Seb.

  “That’s very loyal of you, my darling, but where on earth will you hang it?”

  “In the banking hall, so everyone can see it.”

  “Sebastian, it’s a giant condom!”

  “It is indeed, Mother, and I suspect one or two of our more enlightened customers might even recognize it as such.”

  “And no doubt you can also explain the title to me,” said Emma. “Every Seven Seconds?”

  Sebastian was saved when a distinguished-looking gentleman appeared by their side.

  “Good evening, minister,” he said to Emma. “May I say how delighted I am to see you and your husband at the RA.”

  “Thank you, Sir Hugh. We wouldn’t have missed it.”

  “Is there a particular reason you interrupted your busy schedule to join us?”

  “My granddaughter,” said Emma, gesturing toward Every Seven Seconds, unable to hide her embarrassment.

  “You must be very proud,” said the former president of the RA. “It is to her credit that she has never mentioned her distinguished grandparents.”

  “I suspect that if your father is a banker and your grandmother a Tory politician, it’s not something you would want to share with your artistic friends. But then I doubt if she’s ever told you we have two of your watercolors hanging in our home in the country.”

  “I’m flattered,” said Sir Hugh. “But I confess I wish I had been born with your granddaughter’s talent.”

  “That’s kind of you, but can I ask you for your candid opinion of Jessica’s latest work?”

  The PPRA took a long look at Every Seven Seconds, before saying, “Original, innovative. Stretches the boundaries of one’s imagination. I would suggest it is influenced by Marcel Duchamp.”

  “I agree with you, Sir Hugh,” said Sebastian, “which is precisely the reason I’m going to buy the picture.”

  “I’m afraid it’s already been sold.”

  “Someone’s actually bought it?” said Emma incredulously.

  “Yes, an American dealer snapped it up as soon as the show opened, and several other customers, like you, have been disappointed to find it had already been sold.”