Hypocrite's Isle

Thirteen

The weekly internal seminars in the department usually attracted an audience of around thirty — about half of those eligible to attend. It was generally accepted that what was being reported would be of a ‘work in progress’ nature: ‘middles’, rather than a complete story with a beginning, a middle and an end. But the programme gave experience in public speaking to the postgraduate students who comprised the bulk of the speakers, although group leaders also participated from time to time, usually giving overviews of their group’s work. These tended to be more popular than the ‘middles’, which really only appealed to those already familiar with the specialised nature of the work being reported.

Today there were over sixty people packed into the small seminar room to hear what Gavin Donnelly had to say. His reputation had gone before him, and ensured that not all of them were there in a supportive capacity. Those who had fallen foul of his quick tongue in the past were attending in the hope of seeing him fall flat on his face.

As usual, the front row was occupied by senior members of staff with Graham Sutcliffe in the centre, legs crossed, interlaced fingers resting on his stomach, a man at ease with his position in the great scheme of things. To his immediate left sat Malcolm Maclean with two of his students, including Peter Morton-Brown. To his right, Frank Simmons and Jack Martin who, as organiser, checked behind him to see that everyone seemed settled before vacating his seat to indicate to someone at the back that the door be closed.

Frank Simmons couldn’t take his eyes off Gavin, who was fiddling with his notes and showing signs of nerves as he sat, waiting to be introduced. He hoped to make eye contact with him to give him some gesture of reassurance, but Gavin didn’t look up.

Martin cleared his throat and started to speak. ‘It’s a rather unusual occurrence for us to have a first-term postgrad student speak about his work — most postgrads spend their first term finding a place to stay’ — polite laughter — ‘but Frank Simmons tells me that Gavin has made such good progress that we should all hear about it. We are therefore delighted to have him here today to tell us what he’s been doing.’

Gavin, unused to public speaking, in fact not used to speaking very much at all, started out on a mumbled introduction which was immediately interrupted by someone at the back calling out, ‘Can you speak up, please!’

Gavin raised his voice a little, but continued to look down at the floor. ‘As I was saying, the main thrust of my research concerns the genes associated with membrane integrity...’

‘Might one ask why?’ interrupted Graham Sutcliffe, his loud, confident voice contrasting with Gavin’s nervous delivery.

Simmons felt a sense of alarm. The last thing Gavin needed was constant interruption. He noted that Sutcliffe’s lips were smiling but his eyes were as cold as ice, and suspected that it was payback time for Gavin’s refusal to participate in the postgrad teaching rota.

‘I would have thought that was obvious,’ said Gavin, making Simmons close his eyes in trepidation of what might happen next.

Luckily, Gavin seemed to realise that he was walking into the trap that Sutcliffe was laying for him, and sought to move quickly on and limit the damage. ‘I mean, there is likely to be a link between the genes affecting cell division and those concerned with membrane growth and integrity. It’s a fair bet the processes are co-ordinated.’

‘A fair bet...’ intoned Sutcliffe.

‘Don’t you think, Professor?’

‘I wonder if Copernicus ever thought it “a fair bet” that the earth went round the sun,’ said Sutcliffe. The comment attracted a ripple of sycophantic laughter.

‘Is it the science or the linguistics you’re objecting to, Professor?’ asked Gavin, albeit in more controlled tones this time, but he noticed Frank Simmons close his eyes again as if in silent prayer.

‘I haven’t heard any science yet,’ said Sutcliffe coldly.

Simmons prayed that Gavin was not about to suggest that he might if only he shut his mouth and listened.

‘Then I’d best begin,’ said Gavin. He started reading from prepared text. ‘My project concerns the genes which affect membrane architecture. At the outset, my supervisor, Dr Frank Simmons, thought it might be a good idea to mutate one of these, the S16 gene, in order to establish whether or not the gene was essential. If not, we thought we might be able to detect useful differences in cell wall structure in the absence of the gene which might prove useful in an immunological sense. Luckily however, I noticed a paper in a recent edition of Cell which made passing reference to the likely mode of action of an old cancer drug named Valdevan. This in turn suggested to me an alternative approach to the project which would obviate the need for employing mutation.’

‘That’s the cancer drug which never worked?’ interrupted Peter Morton-Brown, sounding both smug and loud.

‘Sneaky little...’ murmured Mary Hollis to Tom Baxter, who was sitting beside her three rows from the back. She knew that Morton-Brown had never heard of Valdevan before she told him about it that morning, when he’d stopped to ask her in the corridor what Gavin would be talking about.

‘It was the proposed mode of action of the drug that was interesting, Peter, not its therapeutic history,’ said Gavin. ‘Can I take it you’re familiar with the latest thinking about that?’

Morton-Brown had to admit not, his lip twitching uncomfortably between a scowl and a smile. ‘Not entirely...’

‘Not entirely,’ scoffed Mary, in a whisper.

Gavin, his prepared script now abandoned and his earlier discomfort fading, was gaining confidence with each passing minute. He explained the action of the drug and how he had applied it to his work. His enthusiasm for his subject and the facts and figures he had amassed to support his experimental work were making things clear to all, even if his Liverpool accent had become more pronounced than ever with his accelerating delivery.

There were no more interruptions and he concluded with, ‘So you see, Valdevan did not fail for any of the reasons Grumman Schalk imagined — although it should be said that, at the time, they didn’t, of course, have the knowledge we now have. They took the only course of action open to them.’

‘How very charitable of you, Gavin,’ said Sutcliffe, attracting an irritated look from Frank Simmons. ‘You’ll pardon me for saying so, but we’ve known for twenty years that Valdevan didn’t work... and now you have worked out why... a personal triumph no doubt, but for the life of me, I fail to see... the point?’

Once again, and much to Frank Simmons’ relief, Gavin didn’t rise to the bait. He simply said, ‘Well, from our point of view, Professor, establishing exactly why Valdevan failed has demonstrated to us that the S16 gene is not essential. This gives us a possible approach to the problem of distinguishing tumour cells from healthy cells.’

‘But surely that’s just where you started out from?’ exclaimed Peter Morton-Brown, adopting an exaggeratedly puzzled expression and glancing at Sutcliffe as if to align himself as an ally. ‘Just thinking about the possibility of using S16 mutants for the study?’

‘Apart from the one year we’ve saved by not having to carry out mutagenesis, Peter,’ said Gavin, delivering a torpedo with a Liverpudlian accent.

A suppressed titter of laughter ran round the room and Morton-Brown’s cheeks coloured.

Jack Martin got quickly to his feet to thank Gavin for ‘an extremely interesting talk’, and brought the seminar to a close.

Mary Hollis and Tom Baxter came to the front to reassure Gavin that it had gone well, and he was grateful for friendly faces after what had gone before. ‘Let’s go get some lunch,’ suggested Mary.

‘As long as it involves beer,’ said Gavin.

Simmons watched them depart and was joined by Jack Martin as the room emptied. ‘I feel like I’ve been watching someone walk through a minefield for the past hour,’ said Simmons. ‘Just waiting for the explosion to happen.’

‘He did well, but Graham really was a bastard to him,’ said Martin. ‘Gavin’ll have to watch himself. Graham Sutcliffe could damage his future career if he puts his mind to it. Mind you, your reservations about his block grant proposal the other day didn’t endear you to our leader either.’

‘He shouldn’t take that out on the students,’ said Simmons.

‘With Gavin, I think it’s personal. He’s a bit different from the norm...’

‘I noticed Morton-Brown picking up brownie points. That bloke’s turning brown-nosing into an art form,’ said Simmons.

‘He only succeeded in making a fool of himself. All in all I think your lad did well, and the science was first class. You’re entitled to feel pleased.’

‘Let’s not go as far as pleased. Relieved is just fine. Gavin can be a real loose cannon.’

‘He’s getting better,’ said Martin.

‘It’s his girlfriend: she’s a good influence.’

January in Edinburgh was, as always, a cold, dark and almost constantly wet month, which ensured that smiles were hard to find on city streets and people developed an involuntary stoop as they habitually bowed their heads in an attempt to avoid biting winds and icy rain. The prospect of a similar February to come did little to lift spirits but much to support those who cited a lack of sunshine for their general low energy levels and absence of joie de vivre.

Gavin spent his three weeks of grace confirming his theory on the link between Valdevan’s action and cell growth rate, and verifying that there was a concentration which would damage tumour cell membranes but leave healthy cells unaffected — although his satisfaction in doing this was countered by the fact that he couldn’t, as yet, think of a way of utilising it. The confirmation of the growth rate data, however, pleased Frank Simmons and left him feeling more confident about telling Max Ehrman when he arrived in Edinburgh on the Friday of that week. This was two days before the conference at Heriot Watt University was due to begin, but Ehrman had expressed the wish to Simmons that he wanted to see a bit of the city before registration on the Sunday. He had suggested that he come in to the department some time on Friday morning and Simmons had readily agreed, something that Graham Sutcliffe was clearly annoyed about when he found out. He entered Simmons’ office without knocking and said, ‘Liz has just told me that Professor Ehrman from Grumman Schalk will be in the department on Friday. Why wasn’t I informed?’

‘It’s not any kind of official visit, Graham. He’s coming a couple of days early to see the sights and we’re going to have a talk about Valdevan. It has no bearing on your grant application if that’s what you’re concerned about. He wants an update on what we’ve been doing and wants to meet Gavin.’

‘Can’t imagine why,’ said Sutcliffe sotto voce, something that attracted a cold stare from Simmons. ‘I still think I should have been informed. Professor Ehrman is a distinguished visitor, whatever the reason for his presence. Perhaps I could invite him to dinner after your meeting.’

‘We’ve already agreed on an informal meal to talk further about cell division.’

Sutcliffe didn’t try to hide his annoyance. He was determined not to be stymied. ‘I still feel the department should welcome him properly, particularly at a time when Grumman Schalk is set to play an important part in our future and that of the university. Perhaps it’s not too late to lay on a lunch up at Old College. I think I’ll see what Liz can do.’ Sutcliffe turned and left, totally preoccupied with the details of his proposed lunch. Simmons was left sitting at his desk, looking over his glasses at the departing figure who didn’t close the door. ‘Bonne chance, mon général,’ he murmured.

Max Ehrman called on Thursday afternoon to say he would be arriving in Edinburgh on the first shuttle up from Heathrow in the morning. He declined Simmons’ offer to pick him up at the airport, preferring instead to make his own way into the city, but said that he would call him from his hotel — the Balmoral in Princes Street — as soon as he got there. When he did, Simmons told him about Sutcliffe’s plan to lay on a special lunch for him at Old College.

Ehrman let out a sigh that spoke of frustration with well-meaning people. ‘That’s very kind of him, but frankly I would have been just as happy with coffee and a sandwich and a chat round the table with you and your student.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Simmons. ‘That was the way it was going to be until the powers-that-be found out about your visit. I’m afraid it’s now out of my hands. Our head of department insists on honouring you.’

‘You mean he hopes to help pave the way to a big block grant for his department,’ said Ehrman.

‘That too,’ agreed Simmons.

‘Do you think we’ll get a chance to talk at all today?’

‘It’s my guess that the great and the good will take up most of your afternoon, but I could book a table for dinner — just you, me and Gavin, if you haven’t had enough of Edinburgh academics by then.’

‘I’ll look forward to it.’

‘Any requests about food?’

‘I suggest we let your student decide.’

‘Fine. We’ll pick you up at your hotel at eight.’

Gavin opted for Chinese so Simmons booked a table at the Orchid Lodge in Castle Street, thinking that it would be within walking distance for both the Balmoral Hotel and Gavin’s flat in Dundas Street. He, living out of town, would, as usual, have to drive and not drink, but he’d walk down to the Balmoral from the medical school and then back again after the meal to avoid parking problems in the centre of town.

Later that morning, Simmons met Max Ehrman for the first time, in a situation that both of them found slightly bizarre and warranting knowing smiles, as they were introduced to each other by Graham Sutcliffe who had hijacked Ehrman on his arrival and subjected him to a half-hour monologue on the strengths of the department before conducting him on a whistle-stop tour of the labs.

‘Hello, Frank,’ said Ehrman, extending his hand.

‘Nice to meet you, Max. Come and meet my students.’

‘Actually, Frank,’ interrupted Sutcliffe, looking at his watch with the exaggeration of a bad actor, ‘We’re rather pushed for time. Maybe later?’ His hand was already on the door handle.

‘As you wish,’ said Simmons coldly. ‘Mustn’t let the soup get cold.’

Sutcliffe shot Simmons a look of disapproval.

‘See you later, Frank,’ said Ehrman as he turned to leave, his awareness of tension in the room bordering on slight embarrassment.

Gavin was still in the lab at seven thirty so he and Simmons walked down town together, cutting along Chambers Street to join North Bridge — another connecting link between the Old and New Towns, which in turn led down to the Balmoral Hotel at the junction with Princes Street.

‘So, what’s the plan, how do we tell him?’ asked Gavin.

‘We tell Professor Ehrman that his company wasted twenty million dollars... with great tact and diplomacy, Gavin,’ said Simmons. ‘Rubbing his nose in it is a definite no-no. Can we agree on that at the outset?’

‘Sure.’

The doorman at the Balmoral, wearing some marketing man’s idea of traditional Scottish dress, opened the door for them, but gave Gavin the once-over as he passed by, his carefully honed powers of observation taking in that Gavin’s denims were more functional than trendy.

Ehrman was waiting for them in the lobby. His jeans were trendy, a fact the designer label endorsed, and his soft leather blouson had expensive written all over it. ‘You must be Gavin,’ he said with a smile. ‘Good to meet you.’ He turned to Simmons. ‘Hello, Frank, finally we get to talk, huh?’

‘How was your day?’ asked Simmons.

‘I’ve had worse. I kind of liked Old College. It carries the weight of its history well and the Playfair Library — well, that was something else. Where are we off to?’

‘Gavin decided on Chinese. It’s a ten-minute walk to the restaurant.’

They walked west along Princes Street with Ehrman cooing appreciatively about the views of the castle and asking about the Scott Monument, built to commemorate Sir Walter Scott.

‘One of Scotland’s literary greats, but not as well known as Robert Burns,’ said Simmons.

‘Now, I’ve heard of him,’ said Ehrman. ‘Can’t say the same about Scott though.’

‘At least Scott’s intelligible,’ said Gavin. ‘Burns could be writing in Serbo-Croat as far as I’m concerned.’

‘Gavin is English,’ Simmons explained in a stage whisper.

‘Ah, the English and the Scots...’

Frank joined Ehrman in a gin and tonic, his rationale being that the measures served in Scottish hotels and restaurants wouldn’t push a gnat over the limit when it came to breath tests, but he would still have only the one. Gavin had a bottle of German beer.

‘So how have you been getting on with your Valdevan experiments?’ Ehrman asked Gavin as he snapped a piece off a prawn cracker.

Gavin stole a quick glance at Simmons who gave him a nod of encouragement. ‘Okay. In fact, we’ve got some news for you.’

‘Really?’

Simmons had a mental image of someone lighting a fuse.

‘We’ve found out why Valdevan didn’t work all these years ago,’ said Gavin.

Ehrman took a sip of his drink and snapped another cracker. ‘Oh, yes?’

‘It’s all to do with growth rate.’

Gavin’s enthusiasm took over and he gave Ehrman a comprehensive account of his work and the conclusions he’d reached.

‘Well, well, well,’ said Ehrman when he’d finished. ‘I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. It seems so obvious now.’

‘Were you involved in the original work on the drug, Max?’ asked Simmons.

‘It was a good bit before my time but still... for the company to be upstaged in this way... is a bit embarrassing to say the least.’

‘There was a big element of luck in it,’ said Gavin. ‘If I hadn’t been working out of term and the lab hadn’t run out of human serum there would have been no need for me to make up a new growth medium, and I would never have stumbled across the truth.’

Ehrman smiled wryly. ‘A familiar story. Be in the right place at the right time... and the prize will be yours.’

Simmons nodded. ‘I think Gavin’s being too modest. He’s a bright, dedicated student who chose to work through the Christmas break when others were out having a good time — including me, I have to say.’

‘Well, it’s all water under the bridge now,’ said Ehrman. ‘The company recovered from that painful episode to regain its place as a world leader and, with the latest initiative, we aim to be a major force in supporting medical research in European and American universities. As for you, Gavin, I’ve just been discussing with your head of department our continuing requirement for bright postdoctoral workers. I should think in time your credentials might prove... irresistible to us. What say you, Frank?’

They all laughed and Simmons was relieved that such a difficult bridge had been crossed. He was particularly pleased that Gavin had handled things so well. He had stuck to the science and the logic behind it in as cold and dispassionate a way as he could have hoped for. Ehrman, to his credit, had not made any attempt to dispute the results, accepting immediately that Gavin’s hypothesis was beyond argument. He could now enjoy his dinner. In fact, they all enjoyed their dinner, and had what they would remember as a very pleasant evening.

The three men parted company at the foot of the Mound. Gavin headed north to Dundas Street, Ehrman east to the Balmoral and Frank south, up over the Mound, to the medical school car park.

Gavin called Caroline as soon as he got in, as they had arranged.

‘Well, how did it go?’

‘Really well. I think Frank was a bit nervous, but the big bad wolf from the drug company just accepted it all as “water under the bridge”, to use his expression.’

‘I’m so glad.’

‘He more or less offered me a job when I’m through here.’

‘Brilliant. How do you feel about that?’

‘Not for me.’