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The operation was a simple one, not likely to present any difficulty to a really capable surgical technician. Clearly there would be no point in alarming the parents of the child in advising the operation for cleft palate. The anaesthetist was capable; she was also beautiful – no point in alarming anyone by causing them to question her cosmetic qualifications. They looked beautiful in the curriculum vitae. It was a beautiful curriculum vitae; it was also a beautiful day and the surgeon was in a good humour. He and his anaesthetist engaged in amusing banter as the operation proceeded with exemplary smoothness.
“I think her heart has stopped beating sir”, said the House Surgeon.
“Good Lord!” said the surgeon. “Quick! When? … Massage her heart!”
No good; no good. The child is dead.
No more. Quite spoilt our day. House Surgeon's job to tell the parents – there's been a slight mishap. As you would know – anyone would know – there was nothing technically wrong with the operation. Of course Wilfred Trotter wouldn't have known it was a fine day and just the time for a little harmless banter – he took things so seriously. He was a bad-tempered man; I even knew him be bitingly sarcastic about his extremely able theatre sister. “But Sister”, he said, “I didn't ask you to answer back!”
Even Trotter made mistakes; I was not swearing when I clicked my tongue with vexation at not being able to grasp yet another Spenser Wells. Yet … yet … The operation was over and he was sewing up the wound. And I, and no one else in the relief at the completion of a tense and dangerous operation – not technically simple like a cleft palate – noticed that needle lying in the wound. Damn it! Why the
hell should I risk getting half-murdered by opening my mouth? Simpler to let them find out in X-ray afterwards.
What a funny voice! Who is that talking in the theatre? That bloody fool again?
“Sir, there's a needle lying in the wound.” Such a queer voice.
“Needle? Where?” Not at all funny voice – angry.
“There