Life Is Full of Surprises: The Misadventures of Dr. Edward – Cardiology, Summer Camps, and the Great…

Life Happens, Doesnt It?

We used to have a cardiologist at our local childrens clinicEdward Finchley, grey at the temples, hair curled just enough to be interesting, a chin you could balance a pork pie on, and those brooding, midnight eyes. Women, naturally, developed acute conditions in his presence.

Like the rest of us, every summer Edward would volunteer as the camp doctor at an old scout camp in the wilds of Kent. You know: overseeing the questionable food, weighing children with alarming accuracy, inspecting bedside tables for contraband chocolate, daubing knees with iodine, and generally being on hand in case anything serious happenedheaven forbid.

He was about 39 by this pointfit as a butchers dog, hair salt and pepper, and with a sort of rugged profile that would make a West End casting agent weak at the knees.

He once told us this cracking tale:

Picture this: 1985, the war on booze in full swing. You couldnt sniff a shandy in public without risking redeployment to an accordion factory, or seeing your place on the council flat list shuffled to next century. Sackings were not just for the unlucky, but for the over-enthusiastic tipplers, regardless of status.

It was all very seriousnone of this just the one malarkey.

Final August camp session, final night. You know the drill: children tearing about instead of sleeping, raiding each others dorms, liberally applying toothpaste and gentian violet to the snorers. The group leaders would pretend to give chase, pausing occasionally to fortify themselves with a surreptitious sip of claret or whatever else had survived the anti-booze raidsnot for drunkenness, you understand, but for time-honoured tradition.

Naturally, I wasnt one to shirk my responsibilities. What sort of doctor would I be otherwise? Night went smoothly enough, and we bundled the kids off to breakfast and then shepherded them onto the buses. An hour and a half later, we arrived back in town, just by the Royal Theatre. Kids returned to parents, two-by-two, not a stray in sight, and order restored!

A celebratory tipple and I meandered home, where Mrs. Finchley was already setting out cucumber sandwiches, and the family was preparing for our flight to my mums in Bournemouthearly September, sea air, not a cloud in sightsheer bliss!

And then, disaster struck The wine, the sleepless night, the wine, the jostling coach, the heat, more wine I fainted spectacularly, collapsing in a not-particularly-dignified heap beneath a scraggly hedge at the edge of the square.

Most of the camp staff had already vanished. Only Annie, the ever-dutiful nurse, spotted me. She made a heroic effort to rouse me, even attempted to haul me upright. All to no avail. I was out for the countsnoring with the contentment of a man on a sun lounger.

Now, Annie wasnt the sort to leave a chap in such a state. She lived just nearby on Queens Avenue, Number 84. With the help of a bystander, she dragged me home, propping me up as needed. I mustve managed enough leg movement to resemble walking, because soon I was sprawled in her room in a four-room shared flat.

Two hours later, I snapped awake. Not because Id sobered up, but because the dry white wine was staging a determined prison break.

I made a valiant attempt to rise, mumbling incoherently, only to find Annie leaping on me, clapping a palm over my mouth and hissing in my ear to For the love of God, keep it down!

Sadly, my desperate urge to relieve myself was not soothed by her anxiety. On the contrary, my bladder was about to stage a violent protest, and I told her as much.

Annieresourceful as everfetched a bucket, disappeared, then reappeared to whisk it away again. Bliss! Crisis averted.

At that moment, a horrifying realisation dawned: I was meant to be home two hours ago, packing our cases to wend our way to Bournemouth. Wife, in-laws, and other extended family would soon be calling hospitalsmaybe morguesworried sick! Oh, brilliant.

I tried quietly to explain this to Annie, both in whispers and extravagant mime, assuring her that I fully understood the perils of scandalous neighbours and the strict social code of shared flats. But if I didnt get home at once, her gossipy old neighbours would be the least of my worries.

We debated tactics. Finally, Annie strategised: one neighbour wasnt home, the second could be sent out for bread, and the third she would distract in the kitchen with a thorough, and possibly unnecessary, account of our camp adventures. I was to slip out like a ghost, shoes in hand, sock-footed, and absolutely not slam the door.

Off went neighbour number one in search of a loaf.

Neighbour number two stayed busy in the kitchen.

Annie did a passable impression of a percussion section with the kettle, creating a noisy diversion.

Taking my cue, I removed my shoes, clutching them delicately with my right hand, tip-toeing on my socks through the corridor toward sweet freedom.

Carefully, I slid back the bolt

Suddenly, a tremendous creak echoed**from behind me**where the absent neighbour was returning, not a care in the world, with that unmistakable, slightly nasal, utterly delighted voice: Helloooo, Dr. Finchley!!!

My shoes clattered noisily to the floor. I hurriedly shoved them on, shuffled out, and as I reached the main door, called out (not looking back): Good afternoon, Bella Hamilton

Why look back? I could imagine all too clearly the way my mother-in-law’s best friends voice would carry, and how detailed her later retelling would beespecially the priceless image of me clutching my shoes and sneaking on tiptoe.

Half an hour later, I was home. Bella hadnt called yet. The family was radiating both joy and thinly disguised annoyanceEddy, we nearly called the local constabulary! Come, come, lunch is ready, the taxis waiting, well miss the flight! Relatives clattering around, a general, possibly over-enthusiastic, display of affection.

Holiday with Mum in Bournemouth: and there I was, twitching every time the phone rang, convinced it was the in-laws, bracing myself for the gory tale to finally reach my dear wife. I avoided the beach in case I missed a call. Couldnt sleep, couldnt eatclassic.

A few days later, Mum cornered me in the kitchen. With the tact of a seasoned MI5 interrogator, she extracted my confession. I told her everything.

She sighed, Well, son, I believe you, thousands wouldnt, as the old song goes. I doubt anyone else will buy that story, but youre on holiday nowIll answer all the calls. Try and rest.

A month later, time to fly home. My nerves were shot; Id imagined every possible horror on the welcome committee. The plane landed, everyone deplaned, cabin crew frowning, my wife urging me to move, but my legs had gone on strikea not uncommon reaction to extreme stress, I hear. With Nadines help, I staggered off.

Back then, youd walk across a windswept field to the arrivals lounge. As we approached, I spotted my in-laws waving grandly, faces stretched wide in toothy smiles. There you are! Wed started to worry! Nadine, darling, you look gorgeous, so refreshed! Eddy, you look thinner? Bit pale? Poor boy, have you been ill? Whats happened to you?

I looked into their benevolent, oh-so-concerned faces and marvelled at their ability to enjoy my torment quite so openly. Years of respect down the drain.

We reached home to a full spread, toasts, platitudes, and endless storiesno mention of Bella. They were clearly savouring the suspense. Fine, I thought, suit yourselves.

A month passed. I lost weight. My heart skipped beats. I couldnt focus at work, haunted by the idea of the story breaking. Alcohol tasted like water at best, poison at worst.

Bonfire Night rolled round, the usual family shindigtable groaning, relatives crammed in, my mother-in-law directly across from me.

And I snapped.

Leaning dramatically across the crowded table, I bellowed, So, Mum, hows your friend Bella Hamilton faring these days?!

Her reply set me off. I howled with laughtergenuine, manic, slightly concerning. I threw my arms wide, upended half the cheese board, collapsed backwards off my chair, and lay there roaring until the family started talking about calling for a doctor.

With a glass of gin and a wedge of pork pie, I finally recovered.

No one ever understood why I reacted quite so violently to Mums mournful response: Oh, Eddy, the day you flew off to Bournemouth, poor Bella had a minor stroke. Lost her voice entirely

And nobody, absolutely nobody, believed my story about the shoes.