Arthur Who?

by Lez Hammans

Fred held open the door to the Rose and Crown and waited while his wife limped painfully past him into the pub's bright interior. They made their way to a quiet corner table and Emily eased herself into the most comfortable chair with difficulty.

"Don't worry, love, I'm sure everything will be all right."

"That's all very well for you to say, Fred, it's not you that's going into hospital."

"I was only trying to - oops, look out, 'ere comes 'Orace the oracle."

"Oh gawd; pretend you haven't seen him. I'm just not in the mood for his know-it-all ways."

"Too late, he's headed in our direction ..."

"... Horace, good to see you, pal. Can I get you a drink?"

"Hello Fred, Emily; what a surprise! Don't usually see you in this sort of establishment ... Thanks, I won't say no, seeing as you're buying. I'll have a pint o' best."

Horace lowered his bulk into a second chair, leaving the stool for Fred, and beamed, head slightly cocked. The pub lighting reflected off his nearly bald pate and round, wire-rimmed glasses giving him an owlish look. Fred grinned back amiably enough while Emily twitched her lips into the semblance of a smile.

"So, to what do we owe the honour?"

Fred made his way to the bar, leaving Emily to explain.

"Oh, we've just decided we were getting stale and thought, now the pub's a smoke free zone, we'd try to get out a bit more while we're still able."

"Still able?" Horace feigned indignation. "Good Lord, you're still in your prime, Emily. I'm surprised you're not entered for the 2012 Olympics!"

Emily was not amused.

"Oh don't so be daft, Horace. You're as old as you feel - and I'm feeling pretty ancient at the moment with this knee of mine. I'm starting to wonder how long it'll be before I can't get out of my chair let alone out the house. Fred has to pull me up now and I'm no lightweight."

Horace ran a quick, appreciative eye over Emily’s form; he liked well-covered women.

"It took us half an hour to walk here so I don't think I'll be running the hundred metres any time soon. And the thought of this operation I'm in two minds about having is worrying me sick. What if it all goes wrong? How's Fred going to manage if I have to be in hospital for weeks? He can scarcely boil an egg. And I'd have to draw him a map to the kitchen sink!"

"Blimey, Emily, you talk like you're having your leg off. What have they told you they're going to do?"

"Oh, I can't remember it all now: I was all of a tizz. I've not been in hospital since I had our Timothy, thank God. Once was enough."

Emily furrowed her brow then her face brightened.

"That's it: it was half a something. Or was it Arthur someone?"

"That sounds more like the name of the sawbones, to me. Could it be - "

"Arthroscopy!" said Fred triumphantly, returning from the bar. He set down Horace's pint with an unpractised hand and succeeded in slopping a sizeable measure of it over the table and Emily's shoes. She tried to twist away to avoid the spill.

"Fred, do be careful! – ow, ouch!"

The sudden movement of her bad knee had Emily cry out in pain and she grabbed it with both hands. Horace, ignoring her distress, peered disgruntled at his depleted beer.

"Here, Fred, if I'd have wanted a half I'd have asked for it ..."

"Sorry mate," Fred mumbled, and made ineffectual blotting motions with a cork beer mat. Emily rubbed her knee and looked up at the ceiling in pain and exasperation. Horace eased his bulk to the side to avoid the approaching beer lake.

“Arthroscopy! Exactly what I was going to suggest. Well done, Fred.” He shot Fred a quick glance that was a little way short of rounded praise.

“You know …” he continued, his needle slipping smoothly back into its groove, “… that very same word cropped up here last Thursday night at the pub quiz final. In fact, it was the crunch question!”

“Really?” said Fred showing polite interest and not knowing he had his wife’s painful knee to thank for not receiving a sharp kick under the table. “Who won?”

Horace gave him a stare that would wither Guinness.

“Who d’you think?!” His eyes travelled theatrically across the pub to where a large silver cup stood, pride of place, next to the overpriced crisps and dry roasted peanuts.

“But it was touch and go I can tell you and, rather like your knee, Emily, it all hinged, finally, on ‘arthroscopy’. And yours truly was the only one that knew it and could spell it right. Yes, tense moments, tense moments indeed."

He paused to let the weight of these words have their effect. But not quite for long enough to allow anyone else to get a word in. He saw Fred’s mouth begin to open …

“Oh yes, and that despite the fact they even had a trainee nurse on their team.”

His glasses glittered briefly and he licked his lips. “Pretty young thing; quite a big girl, as I recall …”

Emily sighed and tapped the table.

“Yes, yes, that’s all very well Horace, and I’m sure we’re grateful to have someone like you on the Rose and Crown's quiz team, but if you could just stop showing off for long enough to explain to me what it means, I’d be much obliged.”

Somewhat crestfallen, Horace drew a hand across his thin Charlton Sweep.

“Well didn’t they explain it to you when they booked you in, Emily?" he asked defensively. "They’re usually pretty good at that sort of thing these days: keeping the patient informed ...”

Emily tutted.

“I’ve already told you they did. But I couldn’t take it all in; I was upset. And Fred’s a fat lot of use ...”

“Here steady now, dear; I wasn’t even in the room when they were telling you what’s what; you’d asked me to get you a coff –“

“Ahem! Now, now children; let’s not fight,” Horace cut in.

Taking charge of the bickering duo helped him regain his composure and authority. The only thing Horace liked better than the sound of his own voice, was control. And perhaps ‘the ladies’...

“Let me tell you what I know, Emily. Of course, I’m no expert ...” But she could tell by his tone that, as in most things, Horace considered he was.

“In the old days you’d have needed a full operation on your knee to find out what was wrong with it and perhaps put it right. Lots of stitches, trauma to the joint, a long time to heal, possibly laid up for ages, perhaps a limp afterwards ... Not for the faint-hearted, my dear. But it’s all changed today.”

He patted her thigh reassuringly. Fred seemed not to notice. Emily brushed his fat fingers away and made to move her leg to safety. She let out a yelp instead as the pain stabbed through her knee once more with the sideways movement. Horace continued regardless.

“Oh yes, nowadays it’s a fairly simple bit of surgery and you’re usually in and out in a day.”

“So it’s not a big operation then?” queried Emily, nursing her leg.

“Well no, quite the reverse: it’s a very short procedure. Actually it's an investigation as much as an operation. They find out what's wrong and fix it if they can. They do a Grossman on you and you’re in the recovery room in no time at all. It’s far less traumatic than a full-blown op' and you feel better much more quickly too.”

“Do a Grossman?” Fred looked mystified.

“Just my little joke, Fred. You remember that funny bloke with the strange voice? Loyd Grossman, who used to present ‘Through The Keyhole’ on the telly? ...”

Fred clearly had no idea what Horace was on about.

“... well, anyway, the doctors will do the arthroscopy using keyhole surgery; that way they won’t have to do a lot of stitching and scar your lovely knees, Emily; just a couple of tiny holes instead.”

Emily sniffed at Horace's familiarity but despite herself, she was impressed by his superior knowledge. He certainly seemed to know what he was talking about and was able to hold a conversation. She glanced at her husband, sat with his mouth open, cuddling his glass, eyes blank: not for the first time she wondered whether he was dead from the neck up. She turned back to Horace.

“But how can they see what they’re doing if the holes are so small?”

“Ah, now that’s the clever part: they use fibre optics. They poke a thin cable in, which is connected up to a monitor, and they can see the inside of your knee in glorious colour on the screen, just like cable TV - only I’m sure your knee would beat Eastenders any day of the week, my dear.”

Emily frowned slightly.

“So I’d be put out then, would I?”

“Out, but not down,” Horace nodded. “Yes, you’ll be given a general anaesthetic. Ever had one before?”

“No; I had an epidural when I was having our Timothy but ...”

“Well, it’s nothing to worry about, though it can take a little while to shake off the effects afterwards – longer than the procedure, in fact - and people often feel sick with it, sometimes actually are. But it’s a small price to pay, I reckon. You’ll probably be running around like a spring lamb in no time.”

“But is that all they do: just look inside the knee? I don’t see how that can make things better.”

“Oh no, far from it. That’s just the investigation part where they assess the damage. They can't guarantee putting every problem right in there, of course: some things are harder to fix than others - torn ligaments, for example. But they have a very good success rate with getting rid of any loose bits, repairing damaged cartilages, and sorting out minor arthritic irregularities which are often the cause of pains and locking in the knee. If they see it's cartilage trouble, for instance, they can often repair damage to it using specially modified blades to trim it up. You know how you can have a piece of material that’s fraying at the edges and you just tidy it up with the scissors? Well it’s essentially the same as that. Then they flush all the bits out of the joint, seal the little holes, put a couple of special plasters on and Bob, as they say, is your mother’s brother!”

“I'm not sure I'm happy about all these bits; you make me sound like I’m so old I’m falling apart!”

Horace’s jowls jiggled as he chuckled.

“Oh no, nothing like that, Emily. Footballers can get these sorts of problem and they’re usually young men. The knee cartilage puts up with a lot of wear and tear. There's more pounds per square inch pressure there than on any other joint. That piece of gristle stops the knee bones rubbing together but it suffers itself in the process. It’s a smooth, tough layer that forms a buffer zone but sometimes bits break off the edge and get lodged in the joint. Not only can it be painful – as well you know, my dear - but it can cause further damage to the meniscus by creating tiny dents, making it a bit like the surface of a golf ball. Or sometimes, the edge of the meniscus just tears without breaking off and that can be very painful indeed. That can certainly cause your knee to lock. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what you’ve got.”

He patted Emily’s hand sympathetically. She wiped it disdainfully with a glove.

“So what’s this meniscus when it’s at home then?”

Horace and Emily had almost forgotten Fred was sitting there. Horace lifted his beer glass and held it aloft.

“It’s another word for the cartilage, named after its shape. Look at the surface of my drink at eye level. See? It’s not only lower than it should be - he glanced balefully at Fred - it's also not as straight a line as you’d think. It's two slightly curved lines forming a very thin crescent. That’s due to the air pressure pushing the surface of the drink down and the glass holding the edge of it up; makes it sort of sag in the middle - a bit like me really." He patted his ample paunch with affection. "That’s a meniscus.”

He sat back.

“Well - lesson over. I must say, Fred, all that talking has made me quite thirsty again!” He drained the last quarter of a pint in one swallow and put the empty glass down near Fred’s right hand.

“Oh ... right - Emily?”

She shook her head and put her handbag on her lap.

“We’d best be off. My leg’s throbbing a bit and it’ll take at least half hour to get back at my pace. Just get Horace another drink and we’ll make a move.”

Fred headed off to the bar again. Horace flipped a beer mat and caught it.

“When's the big day, then?”

Emily pursed her lips and shrugged.

“I'm supposed to be going in the day after tomorrow.”

“Well, you might not feel up to much immediately afterwards, but I’m sure you’ll be okay in a short while. You’ll need to rest your leg and not get it wet – so be careful if Fred decides to bring you a drink! They’ll give you some knee exercises to do, to keep the joint moving – but you’ll not be laid up for long, knowing you. They'll have you back about 10 days after the op to snip the stitches out and then they'll probably ask you in again in 3 months to see how you're progressing. In 6 months they’ll be pretty sure of how successful the procedure's been - and, like I say, they mostly have excellent results. Ah yes, a few days, a couple of crutches and a following wind and you won’t know yourself.”

“Crutches?!”

“Well maybe, maybe not. It depends how much work they have to do on you, I suppose. And they’re sure to give you some painkillers as well - though you might not even need to take them.”

“I do hope not; I’m not a great one for pills and potions.”

Horace was silent for a moment then awkwardly he grabbed for Emily’s hand.

“Perhaps I could pop round Thursday week and see how you’re getting along? Have a peek and see if Dr Arthur has done a good job?” He glistened as he spoke.

Emily snatched her hand away and looked nervously towards the bar where Fred was being stood in front of by a large man with a tray.

“Thursdays is one of Fred's allotment days,” she said.

“I know,” Horace replied. He leaned in a little closer and winked.

Emily stood up quicker than she had for weeks, despite the pain.

“Tell Fred I’ve gone to the loo and I won’t be long.”

She hurried out of the danger zone towards the toilets.

Well, that decides it, she thought. If we're to get out more and make the most of our retirement, I'm going to have that op'. I feel a lot better about it now; it doesn't seem nearly so scary. And I'm going to need two good knees and that's a fact, if only to run away from Horace!