face… ‘ He left out ‘you stupid woman’ but it was implied.
‘Some semblance of a face,’ repeated Tansy quietly.
MacLean closed his eyes and dropped his head on to his chest. Coulson had been pushed into saying it. With one slip of the tongue he had destroyed hope in his patient’s mother and now he tried to justify his stupidity by saying, ‘Well, the damage to the child’s face is extensive.’ He did not look Tansy in the eye.
MacLean hoped to defuse the situation by asking exactly what Coulson intended to do.
Coulson launched into what MacLean could only think of as a ‘popular surgery for the masses’ routine. He spoke down to them, using words he thought his audience might understand, pausing frequently to ask if he had made himself clear. MacLean found himself becoming alarmed, not at the man’s manner — pompous oafs were ten a penny in any profession — but at what he was saying. Coulson was outlining surgical procedures that had been out of date for years, techniques that had been pioneered on burned pilots in the Second World War. Pomposity was one thing, incompetence was quite another. MacLean found that he could not hold his tongue any longer.
‘Wasn’t that technique superseded by the Gelman Schwarz operation some time ago?’ he interrupted.
Coulson stopped talking as if he had run into a brick wall at speed. ‘I didn’t realise… ‘ he began uncertainly.
MacLean backed off to let Coulson out of the corner. It was very tempting to keep him in it and slowly nail him to the wall but he cautioned himself that that would be counter-productive. The objective was to delay commencement of surgery, he reminded himself. ‘I read a lot,’ he explained. ‘I thought I should find out a little about Carrie’s prospects.’
Coulson’s confidence was restored. Like so many ‘experts’ he relied a great deal on the ignorance of others. It was important to keep a comfortable distance between himself and the layman. Any signs of relevant knowledge in the masses was a worry. ‘I see,’ he said slowly. ‘Actually medical opinion is divided on the matter.’
Oh really? thought MacLean without saying so. It must be divided into those who don’t want their patients to end up looking like plastic Pinocchios and those who haven’t bothered to read a textbook in the last twenty years! ‘Medical Opinion’ was such a convenient cop-out for so many. It tolerated fools so well. MacLean had come to an easy decision; there was no way Coulson was going to lay a finger on Carrie.
Tansy did not know what was going on but she was grateful that MacLean was now involving himself in the conversation. She could see that there was an undercurrent of anger bubbling inside him and that a change had come over Coulson. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it but for some reason he had become vulnerable.
Coulson finished his talk and glanced at his watch. He said to Tansy, ‘I hope you can now see why we should start surgery on Carrie as soon as possible Mrs Nielsen.’
With a quick glance at MacLean to signal her uncertainty Tansy opened her mouth to reply but MacLean took over. He said to Coulson, ‘Doctor, the reason we would like you to delay surgery for a little while is that Mrs Nielsen is considering sending Carrie to the Mannerheim Clinic in Zurich. No reflection on you of course, but Dieter Klein’s work on facial reconstruction is world famous and we would like to do the best we can for Carrie. I’m sure you’re familiar with Dr Klein’s work?’
‘Of course, ‘ stammered Coulson. ‘You should have said so at the beginning. When will you know?’
‘We expect to hear from Dr Klein within the next two weeks,’ lied MacLean.
‘Then we will put everything on hold for the moment,’ said Coulson.
‘Thank you Doctor.’
When they were out of earshot Tansy said to MacLean, ‘Coulson seemed impressed with the name.’
‘It was enough to stall him for the time being,’ said MacLean. ‘And keep his paws off Carrie.’
Tansy looked at him strangely and wondered about the choice of word but she didn’t say anything.
MacLean in turn did not tell her that Coulson wasn’t so much impressed with the name as embarrassed. The man was so far behind the times that he had obviously never heard of Dieter Klein. He probably hadn’t read a medical journal in years.
The helicopter bringing the men back from the Celtic Star rig was not due in to Aberdeen until four thirty in the afternoon so MacLean took a mid-morning train from Waverley Station which would still afford him plenty of time to get to the heliport. The wind had been rising steadily from daybreak and now it had started to rain as the train rattled out on to the Forth Bridge on its journey north.
Once out of the shelter of the land MacLean could sense the full force of the wind as it drove the rain against the carriage windows and obscured any view to the west. The carriage was practically empty so he crossed the aisle to the other side and got the view eastwards to the oil loading terminal at Hound Point. He looked up and smiled as he saw an aircraft coming in on its approach to the airport. Sometimes it was nice to see things from both angles. He returned to his seat and began to worry about the weather being too bad for the chopper to lift men off the rig.
By the time the train reached Aberdeen however, the sky had lightened and the wind had dropped a little, although it still tended to gust uncomfortably, making life difficult for the ladies of the granite city to cope with umbrellas as they struggled down Union Street with heads bowed. He put off some time drinking coffee in a small cafe which smelled of wet clothing and then some more by walking idly round a department store before eventually hailing a taxi and asking to be taken out to the heliport.
The sound of the helicopter’s blades was loud but uneven as the wind stole it away in recurrent gusts. MacLean shielded his eyes from the stinging rain and watched the big yellow Chinook bounce gently on to the tarmac to be met by ground crew looking like field mice in their large ear protectors. After what seemed an age the men began to disembark, all looking much alike in their yellow survival suits and carrying kit bags. Leavey was one of the last men to emerge; he was carrying the green holdall he had used when MacLean worked with him on the rigs.
MacLean waited for a moment to see if he was with anyone in particular but he didn’t seem to be. He crossed the tarmac at an angle to intercept him before he reached the terminal building.
‘It’s been a while, Nick,’ he said.
Leavey turned and took a moment to recognise the figure, huddled against the wind. ‘Good God, Sean MacLean!’ he exclaimed. He transferred his holdall to his left hand and reached out to shake hands with MacLean. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
‘I fancied a pint,’ said MacLean.
‘You and me both,’ smiled Leavey.
Someone up ahead shouted to Leavey and Leavey waved him on saying that he would catch up. He looked at MacLean and said, ‘So is it a reunion with the lads you’re after or something quieter? His expression seemed to suggest that he already knew the answer.
‘I’d like to talk,’ said MacLean.
Leavey nodded and said, ‘I’ll just get organised and signed off. How about “The Anchor” in five minutes?’
MacLean walked the two hundred metres or so to the ‘Anchor’ bar and found that it was just opening for the evening. The wooden half-doors shook as unseen hands behind them undid reluctant bolts and swung them back to secure them with hooks on either side. The barman, a bald, thickset man with a ruddy complexion made even more ruddy with the effort of bending down to unlock the doors, looked up at MacLean and said, ‘Just off the rig?’
‘Not this time,’ said MacLean and followed him inside. The bar was cold and the ashtrays had not been emptied from lunchtime. There was a smell of stale smoke and a suggestion of salty dampness about the place.
‘What’ll it be?’
MacLean ordered a whisky for himself and one for Leavey and looked at the pictures behind the bar while he waited for his friend to arrive. One was of a lifeboat ploughing through stormy seas. Another two were of helicopters and there was one of the ill-fated Piper Alpha platform being consumed by fire.
Leavey arrived and smiled at the whisky waiting for him on the bar. ‘First for a fortnight,’ he said. ‘Remember that feeling?’
‘Well enough,’ smiled MacLean. ‘It’s good to see you again.’
‘Good to see you too,’ said Leavey He drained his glass and ordered up two more. This time they left the bar counter and sat down. ‘This is not a social visit; is it?’ said Leavey.
MacLean agreed with a smile. ‘No, I need help,’ he said. ‘I had hoped to find Mick Doyle here as well but they told me he didn’t work for the company any more.’
