The lecture theatre
in the Medical School at King’s College London in the Strand (Founded 1828) feels
ancient. It may partly be the darkish brown rows of seating, or cleaning
materials used, or the polish on the floor, but there is a residual person
smell that reeks of learning. It rises for two levels, with sloped seating
rising into the Gods. I had followed the written instructions, and arrived in
good time, choosing to sit about 8 rows back. I never did like sitting right in
the front and, to be honest, was too lazy to climb right up the back just to
gain obscurity and have a secret overview of the crowd. There was nobody out
front controlling the crowd or guiding, nothing of interest to look at on the
pristine green black boards, and so there was a rising hubbub as 9am arrived
and passed, and people began to introduce themselves. There was some fidgeting
and I guess others were, like me, wondering whether we had misread the notice.
We had such a lot to learn about power and crowd control.
At thirteen minutes
past nine, a diminutive man (I was later to learn his height was 5ft 4ins)
walked into the theatre wearing a white laboratory coat over his suit. He was
slightly portly, very unprepossessing and totally bald. He had a new piece of
chalk, and in large letters slowly wrote ‘14%’ with a slight scratching audible
in the silence. He turned to face us, and ran his eye over every face from left
to right and then row-by-row from the bottom to the top. You could have heard a
pin drop as 140 young souls packed into the theatre watched this man slowly
walk up the left hand stairs, within inches of me, to about two rows below
where people were sitting. He paused dramatically.
Then, enunciating
clearly, in a broad Scottish accent, he spoke: “Fourteen per cent!” (pause)
“Fourteen per cent fail Second MB…” (slight pause for impact) “… and this is
where they sit!” There was silence as Professor of Anatomy Tosh Nicol strode
down the steps to the front. We listened in wrapt awe over the next 40 minutes as
he went on to describe the medical course over the next 18 months, the
expectations overall and in his own subject. I can still capture the cadence of
his voice when telling the story. In addition, I can still get the feeling of
awe, if not fear of this small man who writ large. Unknown to me in my youth
and naiveté, Professor Nicol in many ways reiterated the words of Robert
Bentley Todd who, exactly 110 years before, had stood in the same spot and
welcomed those new to studying Medicine at King’s (his lecture (1st
October 1852) was published as ‘On the Resources of King’s College London’ –
available free on Google Library). I suspect Todd’s address (judging from the
transcript) had a certain gravitas, and would have lacked the aggressive
directness of Nicol. I now have a certain fondness for Todd, given he focussed
on neurological disease, writing several books about it. Five years later, I
was to gain the Prize in Medicine for King’s, a bronze medal in the name of
Robert Bentley Todd. I have always been curious about him, and his effigy cast
on the face of my medal. But all that was a long way into the future.
As I remember it
there were presentations from other academics introducing their topics and the
structure of their courses. Strangely, I don’t have much memory for any of
them. On reflection, this makes me think that Professor Nicol’s address was,
for me, in the manner of a screen memory – an apparently aggressive man with
enormously high expectations – someone we might never please, someone to be
seriously avoided.
I suspect we were
directed to a canteen for lunch, and spent some time making introductions and
discussing the morning. Somewhat later on that first day, in groups of 12, we
were taken up to the top floor by ‘demonstrators’. We entered a strange and
open room with an awful smell I came to know as formalin (which did not
disguise several other scents of unknown, but guessed at, origin). Shockingly,
there were a dozen metal dissection tables in ranks 2X6, and on each of these
was a preserved human body laying face down. I would guess this to be some
device to lessen their humanity until we were used to the place and the
processes. We were informed that these bodies had been freely given to the
school for the express purpose of training future doctors; an odd privilege
which has been mostly lost in today’s medical schools. We were assigned 10-12
to a body, with 5-6 to a side. We were given rosters listing the times we were
expected to attend, and lists of the surgical instruments that would be
required to do the job. A number of texts were recommended for purchase, to
explain in some detail how we were to go about the exercise. Having been
introduced, we were shepherded out.
In the corridor,
while we were milling about coming to terms with our recent gruesome experience,
a number of confident young people stood smiling with understanding next to
small plain and unmarked cheap wooden boxes about a metre by 30cms by 30cms
with a handle on the top. The young people were medical students who had
successfully completed their eighteen months of pre-clinical training in the
previous year, and wanted to sell their skeletons to the newbies for something
between ten and fifteen pounds each. Having had the contents of a box
demonstrated, and having been assured there was not one bone missing, I bought
one; cash and no receipt.
Having collected
some timetables and a guide to the med school, the day was complete and I
walked with several new friends down The Strand to Charing Cross station, each
of us hugging a cumbersome but surprisingly lightweight box. We arrived before
the rush hour, used our newly purchased season tickets and sat reflectively on
the underground, hugging our odd possessions until we got to Clapham South.
From there, we walked the short distance along Southside to Halliday Hall, my
home through to the spring of 1964.
In 1962 King's provided quality student accommodation
for about £50 per term at Halliday Hall, on Southside at Clapham Common. This
suited me eminently in my transition into the real world, as long as my parents
were able to continue to supplement my KCCC quarterly grant. I was on the 4th
floor, and had one of sixteen single rooms sharing two bathrooms. Luckily,
there was a lift. It was full board with breakfast, dinner at night, and a cash bar
with some snooker tables, and a television lounge. Rooms were cleaned and
tidied each day. There were neatly kept lawns and tennis courts for the
energetic.
In the first few days of living there I had been
somewhat nervous of mixing with what turned out to be a lively (and naughty)
mix of male Divinity, Engineering and Medical Students. I would eat quietly and
quickly, watch a little television, and then retreat to my room where I had my
record player. Day by day I made new friends who, of course, were in the
similar situation of finding themselves living away from home in the big city
for the first time.
After that first
day of actually being at College, the group of med students began to grow
close, and friendships were forged which certainly lasted strongly until the
day we all qualified and went our separate ways. On that first day I wanted to
retreat and examine my skeleton, looking at the markings and indentations on
the whitened bones with curiosity. I had left the skull of this long dead
person till last. Eventually I picked it out of the box and turned him round
and upside down. He and I were to become old friends, so I thought the least I
could do was to give him a name. In memory of my old school friend and mentor,
I called him Fred. I hope whoever he was has forgiven me.
On about the third
or fourth day, one of the med students asked me if I played Bridge; they were
short of a fourth hand. And life began to take a pattern.
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