Page 49 of Maybe (Mis-shapes #1)
Pinned to the wall next to me, a polished wooden plaque had lots to say about the Lumley Library.
How it was the jewel in the crown of the Royal College of Surgeons' long and illustrious heritage.
How it stood as an important national monument, documenting centuries of learning, of fearless, scalpel-wielding pioneers, of how its alumni had shaped surgery into the safe, modern specialty it is today.
Zippedy doodah.
What it didn’t mention, which would have been helpful, was that with one hundred or more posh folks packed inside, the Lumley Library transformed into the Lumley Furnace.
Thank fuck I’d had the sense to draw the line at being straitjacketed into a three-piece suit.
Nonetheless—for Isaac—I’d compromised by donning a shirt, casual jacket, and black chinos.
As a trickle of sweat made its way down the back of my neck, I unfastened a couple of jacket buttons. And got no further.
“You’d better not be thinking about taking that off,” Isaac hissed. “That shirt… my mother’s going to kill you when she spots it.”
Hah! Wait until she saw the mini-me replica I’d bought for Jonty. Lidl, I recently discovered, also stocked gaudy, flamingo-covered shirts in children’s sizes. “Nah, she loves me,” I whispered back.
At the lectern, Mustard Michael had been droning on for a solid twenty minutes.
The smoked salmon blinis had better be good.
I was earning them. The event was yet another memorial shindig to celebrate our father’s achievements—another plaque with his moniker on it, this one naming a room in the college library.
Isaac raised his eyebrows. “Pretty sure she doesn’t, actually. She still holds you solely responsible for the demise of the Fitz-Henry cardiac dynasty.”
I beamed at him, sitting next to me in his smart suit, preppy and clean-shaven and… healthy-looking. “Guilty as charged.”
His gaze flicked over my attire. I’d once thought his eyes an ordinary blue; they weren’t. Nothing about my younger brother was ordinary. “It’s a shame you don’t have an office job. You look great in a jacket. You have the right shoulders for one.”
To prove the point, I straightened them. Yep, I was preening.
“You do know,” I returned, as something Mustard said gained a smattering of applause. “That saying stuff like that means I’ll give you cock any time you want.”
Isaac snorted, covering it up with a cough. He loved it when I said stuff like that. The days of being a blushing inexperienced gay had long gone. My baby bro knew exactly what he wanted, when and how. “I hadn’t realised how easy you were to manipulate.”
“You’ve always known, you fucker.”
Not giving a shit if anyone saw, I found Isaac’s hand and laced my fingers through his.
Mustard had an excellent view of us, if he looked down.
And Janice, on Isaac’s other side, could think what she liked.
Since making a few changes, Isaac was a new man.
If I was a suitable peg upon which to hang her excuses with nosy friends, I’d take it.
After all, the old girl had gifted my son a fucking fortune.
The least I could do was cut her some slack.
“Don’t rewrite the history books just yet,” I murmured. “According to Mrs Unwin, a cow’s heart is the size of a man’s head, and now Jonty’s obsessed. He wants us to buy one from the butcher on the market and cut it up.”
“How come Mrs Unwin is the font of all bloody medical knowledge?” Isaac grumbled, “And why, whenever I tell him something, does he look at me as if he thinks I’m bullshitting him?”
I grinned then put my mouth close to Isaac’s ear. “Er… because he saw you dancing Shake it Off in your pants and can’t ever take you seriously again?” I leaned in again. “And I’m so going to picture you doing that, babe, whilst you give your big speech.”
Which would be any second now, by the look of things. Mustard Michael was wrapping things up, thank fuck. I was getting peckish.
“At this point in the evening, it is my pleasure to welcome Dr Isaac Fitz-Henry—the son of my dear, dear friend, Henry, taken from us so, so tragically—to outline his future plans for awarding the Fitz-Henry Medal.”
My heart swelled as Isaac stepped up to the dais.
Not in a pride of ownership sort of way—he wasn't starring in a school play, nor was he a creation I could claim, like Jonty. (Though I liked to think I’d had a big brotherly hand in showing him the error of his ways.) My pride was rooted in knowing Isaac was mine. For always.
“Thank you, thank you,” he began, his voice trembling only a little, and I stifled a smirk.
“Thank you for having me and thank you for all the kind words I’ve heard this evening about my father.
Having a Fitz-Henry room in this library, dedicated to academic cardiac surgery, would make him very proud.
I also like to think he’d be proud of what I’m doing with his generous annual legacy, too, awarded to further a young person’s career in the study of medicine. ”
Personally, I had a feeling HFFH would fucking hate it , but we’d wrestled with this speech, and that was the ambiguous phrase we’d settled on.
The thing was, Isaac had taken my throwaway comment that he could bend the rules a bit to heart.
Now, thanks to David Trethowan’s helpful oversight of the legal side of things, the Fitz-Henry Medal came with a few caveats, as Michael et al were about to discover.
“It is a great privilege to stand before you today to celebrate an exciting moment in this country’s journey towards medical excellence.
The Fitz-Henry Medal will provide essential financial support to a young person between the ages of 17 to 18, from a less advantaged background, so that they might pursue a career in medicine. ”
It was worth turning up just to see the frown of consternation on Mustard’s face as it sunk in that the Ruperts of this world weren’t eligible to apply.
Isaac’s voice—more steady, more sure—rose, filling the old library in a way that our father’s must have many times as he outlined the conditions necessary to be considered for the medal.
His message was different, of course, but with each word, each carefully chosen phrase, I reckon he more than matched his old man’s for the weight of conviction clinging to every sentence.
Sure, Isaac was young, and he wasn’t delivering the message half this audience of posh, overprivileged wankers hoped for.
But still, his every deliberate word proved he’d transformed from the shadow of a person he’d become back to the wonderful human being he never realised he’d lost.
“This generous bursary will support a young person who may not otherwise be able to pursue their studies due to financial and educational constraints. Many students face financial struggles, which can affect their academic performance, mental health, and overall well-being. I hope that this bursary provides an essential lifeline in times of need, ensuring they can stay focused on their education and access opportunities the majority of us in this room today have always taken for granted. Financial challenges should not prevent capable and determined students from reaching their potential. Applications will be scrutinised to ensure those most in need are prioritised.”
I knew the speech, since Isaac had rehearsed it a few times. To appease his audience, he threw in a few kind words regarding HFHH’s work with the World Health Organisation. I switched off for that bit, but was sure to tune in for the last sentence.
“And it is very, very kind of Michael, an internationally renowned cardiac surgeon himself and a great, great friend of my late father, to agree to present the annual award each year going forward.”
Oh, yes. I was so coming to those presentation ceremonies.