altogether. But they were off again now, in forward gear, with two or three of
them whirring furiously. He looked at his watch, and saw that the morning was over.
'What swill do they slop out at the Horse and Trumpet, Lewis?'
CHAPTER TEN
FEW OF THE BUILDINGS erected in Oxford since the end of the Second World War have
met with much approval from either Town or Gown. Perhaps it is to be expected that a
public privileged with the daily sight of so many old and noble buildings should feel a
natural prejudice against the reinforced concrete of the curious post-war structures; or
perhaps all modern architects are mad. But it is generally agreed that the John
Radcliffe Hospital on Headington Hill is one of the least offensive examples of the
modern design—except, of course, to those living in the immediate vicinity who have
found their expensive detached houses dwarfed by the gigantic edifice, and who now
view from the bottom of their gardens a broad and busy access road instead of the
green and open fields of Manor Park. The seven-storeyed hospital, built in gleaming,
off-white brick, its windows painted chocolate brown, is set in spacious, tree-lined
grounds, where royal-blue notice boards in bold white lettering direct the strangers
towards their destinations. But few are strangers here, for the John Radcliffe Hospital
is dedicated to the safe delivery of all the babies to be born beneath the aegis of the
Oxfordshire Health Authority, and in it almost all the pregnant mums have suffered
their precious embryos to be coddled and cosseted, turned and tested many many
times before. Joyce Greenaway has. But with her ('one in a thousand', they'd said)
things have not gone quite according to the gynaecological guarantee.
Frank Greenaway had Wednesday afternoon free and he drove into the hospital car
park at 1 p.m. He was feeling much happier than he had done, for it now looked as if
everything was going to be all right after all. But it still annoyed him that the
incompetent nitwit of a foreman at Cowley had not been able to get the message to
him the previous Friday evening, and he felt that he had let his wife down. Their first,
too! Not that Joyce had been over-worried: when things seemed to her to be getting to
the critical stage, she had shown her usual good sense and contacted the hospital
direct. But it still niggled a bit; he couldn't pretend it didn't. For when he had finally arrived at the hospital at 9.30 p.m., their underweight offspring—some three weeks
premature—was already putting up its brave and successful littie fight in the Intensive
Care Unit. It wasn't his fault, was it? But1 for Frank (who had little imagination, but a ready sympathy) it was something like arriving ten minutes late for an Oxford United
fixture and finding he'd missed the only goal of the match.
He, too, was no stranger now. The doors opened for him automatically, and he walked
his way confidently down the wide, blue-carpeted entrance hall, past the two inquiry
desks, and made straight for the lift, where he pressed the button and, with a freshly-
laundered nightie, a box of Black Magic, and a copy of Woman's Weekly , he
ascended to the sixth floor.
Both Joyce and the baby were still isolated—something to do with jaundice ('Nothing
to worry about, Mr. Greenaway'), and Frank walked once more into Private Room 12.
Why he felt a little shy, he could hardly begin to imagine; but he knew full well that he had every cause for continued apprehension. The doctors had been firmly insistent
that he should as yet say nothing whatsoever about it. ('Your wife has had a pretty
rough time, Mr. Greenaway.') She would have to know soon , though; couldn't help getting to know. But he had willingly agreed to play the game, and the sister had
promised to have a word with each of Joyce's visitors. ('The post-natal period can be
very difficult, Mr. Greenaway.') No Oxford Mail either, of course.
'How are we then,
them whirring furiously. He looked at his watch, and saw that the morning was over.
'What swill do they slop out at the Horse and Trumpet, Lewis?'
CHAPTER TEN
FEW OF THE BUILDINGS erected in Oxford since the end of the Second World War have
met with much approval from either Town or Gown. Perhaps it is to be expected that a
public privileged with the daily sight of so many old and noble buildings should feel a
natural prejudice against the reinforced concrete of the curious post-war structures; or
perhaps all modern architects are mad. But it is generally agreed that the John
Radcliffe Hospital on Headington Hill is one of the least offensive examples of the
modern design—except, of course, to those living in the immediate vicinity who have
found their expensive detached houses dwarfed by the gigantic edifice, and who now
view from the bottom of their gardens a broad and busy access road instead of the
green and open fields of Manor Park. The seven-storeyed hospital, built in gleaming,
off-white brick, its windows painted chocolate brown, is set in spacious, tree-lined
grounds, where royal-blue notice boards in bold white lettering direct the strangers
towards their destinations. But few are strangers here, for the John Radcliffe Hospital
is dedicated to the safe delivery of all the babies to be born beneath the aegis of the
Oxfordshire Health Authority, and in it almost all the pregnant mums have suffered
their precious embryos to be coddled and cosseted, turned and tested many many
times before. Joyce Greenaway has. But with her ('one in a thousand', they'd said)
things have not gone quite according to the gynaecological guarantee.
Frank Greenaway had Wednesday afternoon free and he drove into the hospital car
park at 1 p.m. He was feeling much happier than he had done, for it now looked as if
everything was going to be all right after all. But it still annoyed him that the
incompetent nitwit of a foreman at Cowley had not been able to get the message to
him the previous Friday evening, and he felt that he had let his wife down. Their first,
too! Not that Joyce had been over-worried: when things seemed to her to be getting to
the critical stage, she had shown her usual good sense and contacted the hospital
direct. But it still niggled a bit; he couldn't pretend it didn't. For when he had finally arrived at the hospital at 9.30 p.m., their underweight offspring—some three weeks
premature—was already putting up its brave and successful littie fight in the Intensive
Care Unit. It wasn't his fault, was it? But1 for Frank (who had little imagination, but a ready sympathy) it was something like arriving ten minutes late for an Oxford United
fixture and finding he'd missed the only goal of the match.
He, too, was no stranger now. The doors opened for him automatically, and he walked
his way confidently down the wide, blue-carpeted entrance hall, past the two inquiry
desks, and made straight for the lift, where he pressed the button and, with a freshly-
laundered nightie, a box of Black Magic, and a copy of Woman's Weekly , he
ascended to the sixth floor.
Both Joyce and the baby were still isolated—something to do with jaundice ('Nothing
to worry about, Mr. Greenaway'), and Frank walked once more into Private Room 12.
Why he felt a little shy, he could hardly begin to imagine; but he knew full well that he had every cause for continued apprehension. The doctors had been firmly insistent
that he should as yet say nothing whatsoever about it. ('Your wife has had a pretty
rough time, Mr. Greenaway.') She would have to know soon , though; couldn't help getting to know. But he had willingly agreed to play the game, and the sister had
promised to have a word with each of Joyce's visitors. ('The post-natal period can be
very difficult, Mr. Greenaway.') No Oxford Mail either, of course.
'How are we then,
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