replied Bannerman.
‘Then what do you think is going on?’
‘My initial reaction is to think that some kind of mistake has been made, some kind of mix-up in the path lab, but the chap I spoke to said not.’
‘Maybe I should think twice about having lamb for Sunday dinner?’
‘It’s a bit early for that,’ smiled Bannerman. ‘I’ll know more when I see the MRC people tomorrow.’
THREE
It was raining heavily when Bannerman’s taxi pulled up outside the headquarters of the Medical Research Council in Park Crescent. It turned to hail and battered deafeningly on the roof of the cab as he paid the driver before getting out and making a run for the entrance.
‘What a day,’ smiled the woman behind the desk. ‘Rain, sleet, hail, whatever next?’
Bannerman brushed at his shoulders and said who he was, adding, ‘Dr Milne is expecting me.’
‘Take a seat Doctor,’ replied the woman, indicat ing with one hand while picking up the telephone with her other. A few minutes later a young man appeared in the hall and said, ‘Dr Milne asks if you wouldn’t mind waiting in the library until everyone is here?’
‘Of course not,’ replied Bannerman automatically, but wondering about the word, ‘everyone’. He was under the impression that this was to be a meeting between himself and Milne. He followed the young man up to the library where he was invited to sit beside a small table that was bedecked with magazines. He picked up one with two smiling Africans on the front and flicked through the pages without taking in too much. The magazine was comprised of a series of reports on successful projects undertaken to improve health care in the Third World.
There was a young clerk in the room. She was replacing books on the shelves but was aware of Bannerman’s presence. She saw the magazine he was looking at and said, ‘It’s wonderful what they’re doing in Africa isn’t it?’
Bannerman looked at the innocent smile on her face and smiled back. ‘Yes it is,’ he replied but inside his head he was thinking what a load of twaddle the magazine was. It was exactly the kind of rubbish the West wanted to read about Africa. Comfortable, optimistic nonsense about success in the field without any reference to the enormous scale of the problems of pestilence and famine. Yet, would it really help if they did understand? he wondered. Would it encourage people to give more if they understood the true scale of the problem? or would it put them off altogether?
‘If you would follow me Dr Bannerman?’ said the young man who had re-appeared in the doorway putting an end to his philosophizing.
Bannerman put down the magazine, smiled goodbye to the female clerk and followed the young man downstairs, where he was shown into a large room with a long table as its main feature. Four men were sitting at one end; one of them got up and came towards him as the young man left.
‘Dr Bannerman? I’m Hugh Milne. We spoke on the telephone. We are all obliged to you for coming here at such short notice. May I introduce, Sir John Flowers, Secretary of the MRC, Dr Hector Munro, Director of the Neurobiology Unit in Edinburgh and Mr Cecil Allison from the Prime Minister’s office.’
Bannerman nodded to each of the men in turn and took his seat.
Flowers said, ‘I understand from Dr Milne that you were kind enough to examine some brain sections we sent you.’
‘It didn’t take long,’ said Bannerman. They were very clear. Typical Creutzfeld Jakob Disease.’
‘So I understand,’ said Flowers. ‘Hugh also explained their origin?’
‘I understand the sections came from the brains of three young men who died after a short illness and that all three worked with sheep.’
‘Quite so,’ said Flowers. ‘What was your reaction when you heard this?’
‘I thought there had to be some kind of mistake, a mix-up with the slides perhaps.’
‘We are assured that there was no mix-up,’ said Flowers.
‘So I was told,’ said
‘Then what do you think is going on?’
‘My initial reaction is to think that some kind of mistake has been made, some kind of mix-up in the path lab, but the chap I spoke to said not.’
‘Maybe I should think twice about having lamb for Sunday dinner?’
‘It’s a bit early for that,’ smiled Bannerman. ‘I’ll know more when I see the MRC people tomorrow.’
THREE
It was raining heavily when Bannerman’s taxi pulled up outside the headquarters of the Medical Research Council in Park Crescent. It turned to hail and battered deafeningly on the roof of the cab as he paid the driver before getting out and making a run for the entrance.
‘What a day,’ smiled the woman behind the desk. ‘Rain, sleet, hail, whatever next?’
Bannerman brushed at his shoulders and said who he was, adding, ‘Dr Milne is expecting me.’
‘Take a seat Doctor,’ replied the woman, indicat ing with one hand while picking up the telephone with her other. A few minutes later a young man appeared in the hall and said, ‘Dr Milne asks if you wouldn’t mind waiting in the library until everyone is here?’
‘Of course not,’ replied Bannerman automatically, but wondering about the word, ‘everyone’. He was under the impression that this was to be a meeting between himself and Milne. He followed the young man up to the library where he was invited to sit beside a small table that was bedecked with magazines. He picked up one with two smiling Africans on the front and flicked through the pages without taking in too much. The magazine was comprised of a series of reports on successful projects undertaken to improve health care in the Third World.
There was a young clerk in the room. She was replacing books on the shelves but was aware of Bannerman’s presence. She saw the magazine he was looking at and said, ‘It’s wonderful what they’re doing in Africa isn’t it?’
Bannerman looked at the innocent smile on her face and smiled back. ‘Yes it is,’ he replied but inside his head he was thinking what a load of twaddle the magazine was. It was exactly the kind of rubbish the West wanted to read about Africa. Comfortable, optimistic nonsense about success in the field without any reference to the enormous scale of the problems of pestilence and famine. Yet, would it really help if they did understand? he wondered. Would it encourage people to give more if they understood the true scale of the problem? or would it put them off altogether?
‘If you would follow me Dr Bannerman?’ said the young man who had re-appeared in the doorway putting an end to his philosophizing.
Bannerman put down the magazine, smiled goodbye to the female clerk and followed the young man downstairs, where he was shown into a large room with a long table as its main feature. Four men were sitting at one end; one of them got up and came towards him as the young man left.
‘Dr Bannerman? I’m Hugh Milne. We spoke on the telephone. We are all obliged to you for coming here at such short notice. May I introduce, Sir John Flowers, Secretary of the MRC, Dr Hector Munro, Director of the Neurobiology Unit in Edinburgh and Mr Cecil Allison from the Prime Minister’s office.’
Bannerman nodded to each of the men in turn and took his seat.
Flowers said, ‘I understand from Dr Milne that you were kind enough to examine some brain sections we sent you.’
‘It didn’t take long,’ said Bannerman. They were very clear. Typical Creutzfeld Jakob Disease.’
‘So I understand,’ said Flowers. ‘Hugh also explained their origin?’
‘I understand the sections came from the brains of three young men who died after a short illness and that all three worked with sheep.’
‘Quite so,’ said Flowers. ‘What was your reaction when you heard this?’
‘I thought there had to be some kind of mistake, a mix-up with the slides perhaps.’
‘We are assured that there was no mix-up,’ said Flowers.
‘So I was told,’ said
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