Free The Anvil by Ken McClure Page B

with a smile.
    MacLean took the question seriously. ‘The afternoons were for keeping fit. I would either run or swim.’
    ‘Not much social life,’ said Tansy.
    ‘It wasn’t all work,’ said MacLean. ‘I joined a couple of societies, mainly for conversation. It had been a long time since I’d been in company that spoke about anything other than money or women.’
    ‘What kind of societies?’
    ‘Conversational French,’ said MacLean.
    ‘You wanted French conversation?’ asked a surprised Tansy.
    ‘I pretended to myself that the language didn’t matter it was the subjects that were important and I could speak French well.’
    ‘But there was an ulterior motive?’ said Tansy.
    MacLean admitted, ‘I needed to remember what it was like to be with Jutte. In the beginning she was always with me; I could remember every single thing about her but gradually the memories started to fade; I felt guilty. It had been nearly three years since I had heard or spoken French. I wanted to hear it again … use it as a trigger, make it re-kindle old memories, keep Jutte alive in my mind.’
    ‘Did it work?’
    ‘In a way,’ smiled MacLean. ‘But no matter what you do or how hard you try to cling to old memories they start to fade and drift out of reach.’
    ‘It’s part of the healing process,’ said Tansy. ‘If it didn’t happen, none of us would ever get over anything.’
    MacLean nodded.
    ‘What about the other society?’
    ‘English literature. I wanted to come out of the closet.’
    ‘What?’ exclaimed Tansy.
    MacLean smiled and said, ‘When I first went to work on the rigs I had three books of English poetry in my bag. I kept them hidden. They kept me sane in a world of bulging biceps and monosyllabic grunts. My bunk was where I escaped to read them. My secret world.’
    ‘I can understand why you kept it a secret,’ smiled Tansy.
    ‘I was wrong about that,’ said MacLean.
    ‘In what way wrong?’ asked Tansy.
    ‘Wrong to judge by appearances. When I got to know them, one of the men turned out to be lifelong student of Greek mythology, another did the most beautiful water-colours of sea birds.’
    ‘It’s amazing what people do when their heart is in it,’ said Tansy.
    ‘Absolutely,’ agreed MacLean.
    ‘So you joined the English lit club. You took tea with the ladies of Kelvinside, ate home-baked scones and discussed the relative merits of Byron and Keats. You politely applauded Mrs Williams’ offering on the lark,’ said Tansy.
    ‘It was a bit like that,’ MacLean conceded. I didn’t stick it very long. I decided that it had better remain a personal thing after all. How did you know?’
    ‘I tried it too and came to the same conclusion,’ said Tansy. ‘Not in Glasgow of course, but here in Edinburgh. It was after Keith died when I was being encouraged to go out and “join things”. I joined a poetry society.’
    ‘You like poetry?’
    ‘Very much.’
    ‘Favourites?’
    ‘Elizabeth Barrett Browning when I’m in love, Phillip Larkin when I’m in pain.’
    ‘Doesn’t that just exacerbate the condition?’ asked MacLean.
    ‘Yes,’ smiled Tansy. ‘Go on with the story.’
    ‘Eventually I got a job in the burns unit at Queen Charlotte Hospital.’
    ‘Right up your street,’ said Tansy.
    ‘In a way,’ agreed MacLean, ‘but it was so depressing to go back to long, painful skin grafting regimes for the patients after the magic of Cytogerm.’
    ‘Can I ask a silly question?’
    ‘Go on.’
    ‘Was there no way that patients could be screened for dormant cancers before being given Cytogerm treatment?’
    MacLean smiled and said, ‘That’s not a silly question at all. It’s one I asked myself a thousand times in Geneva but the answer always had to be no.’
    ‘The risk was too great?’
    ‘The best figure we could come up with suggested that one in twelve patients would die from Cytogerm side-effects. No drug company could contemplate applying for a license with statistics