The Pembroke Popper

The Pembroke Popper

The laughter started before the patient was even asleep.

Mr. Rupert Ignatius Pembroke, consultant surgeon, or R.I.P as he was affectionately known on the golf course. Self-proclaimed “Pioneer in his field,” and former head of the debating team at Oxford, had just relayed the story for the third time that week.

Hugo Ferreira, his understudy, nodded with a little too much intent. Fiddling with his mask while trying to maintain eye contact.

“Sailed her single-handedly through the Bay of Biscay in a force 3. Bloody marvelous.”

Said Rupert, in a haze of white powder. Snapping on rubber gloves with the authority of a man who was about to interrogate his patient rather than operate on them. The theatre hummed quietly. The smell of disinfectant hanging in the air like fog.

“She’s a forty-footer. Mahogany deck. Just use her for three or four weeks at the end of the summer. Little getaway, keeps wifey happy.”

He snorted, looking in the direction of the nurse standing beside him. The nurse, who’d been present for all three renditions of his story, puffed her cheeks out, making no attempt to hide her boredom.

Rupert leaned towards Hugo and cupped his hand to his mouth as if about to whisper, then continued at full volume.

“Anyway, you won’t believe it, but the damn deckhand, stupid boy, Portuguese I think, had set the wrong course on the sat nav.”

He roared, slapping Hugo across the shoulder.

Hugo winced behind his mask and promised himself a hot bath when he got home. And maybe a scented candle. Definitely some paracetamol.

Rupert continued.

“We were supposed to be spending a few days in Brittany with Chuffer.”

He grinned.

“Don’t ask.”

He said, to no one in particular, raising his bushy eyebrows and tapping his nose with his index finger.

The anesthetist, a worried-looking man holding a tired clipboard, let out a dramatic sigh.

“Chuffer and I were in the winning rowing team four years running. Hell of a cox. Lovely fella, got a master's in archeology or anthropology or something.”

He waved a hand dismissively.

“Can’t remember which, both bloody pointless. Might as well have studied his own underpants. Married a Frenchy mind, despite my best advice. Now it’s all garlic frogs and losing at rugby.”

Hugo, a junior doctor from Portugal, who Rupert had insisted on calling “Boss” from day one, laughed a little too enthusiastically, wondering about his current life choices while discreetly rubbing his shoulder, which was getting sorer by the day.

Rupert, oblivious, continued.

“Ended up in bloody Portsmouth a week ahead of schedule! Now, let’s have a look at this chap”.

He said, lowering his magnifying glasses into position, making his eyes look like dinner plates.

“What have we got Boss?”

Hugo glanced at the patient’s notes again. He opened his mouth to speak.

“ENLARGED TESTICLE!” Bellowed Rupert. His mask puffing out with the ferocity of his voice.

“My favorite. No room for error here, one wrong move and it’s all over. Main artery running adjacent to the proposed incision site. Good job he’s in safe hands, hey Boss?”

He raised his eyebrows again.

“We call this one a popper. You know why?”

Hugo thought for a moment.

“Is it—”

“I’ll tell you why, because I invented the term. Should have called it the Pembroke popper not just a popper but didn’t want the family name associated with testicles, understand?”

He waved at the scrub nurse hovering beside him.

“Iodine wash please. Both Bollocks. Don’t want this fine fella getting an infection. Not on my watch.”

The room fell silent except for the slapping of the nurse’s brush against the patient’s skin. Machines hummed to themselves while fluorescent lights ticked overhead.

Rupert practiced his putting swing.

“We call it a popper because one makes the tiniest of incisions underneath, give it a little squeeze, the old girl pops out. Just like that. Quick wave of the scalpel and she’s in the bag, hole in one.”

He mimicked a full swing, then punched the air celebrating.

“And I have to buy a round for everyone at the bar.”

He roared again. No one else made a sound.

The nurse stepped back without saying a word. Rupert waved a glove at her. She passed him a scalpel.

“I’ll leave you to stitch up, and I’ll be on the first fairway just after lunch.”

He said, waving the scalpel in front of him. Hugo took a step back.

Rupert smelt fear.

“Right Boss, think it’s time we put you in the captain’s chair. Only way to bring down one's handicap. I’ll have the good nurse here stoke up the suction machine to full revs just in case you make a wrong move. And there’s plenty of us to pick you up from the floor if you feel a bit squiffy. I know what you Europeans are like.”

He held out the scalpel to Hugo who reluctantly took it. His hand trembling.

“Whenever you’re ready. Let’s get this testicle popped. I’m teeing off at one.”

Hugo took a deep breath and glanced at the anesthetist who gave a reassuring nod and a smile.

He leaned over and lowered the scalpel, resting it gently on the patient’s skin. The room remained silent. A heart monitor beeped a steady rhythm in time with the clock on the wall.

Hugo gently pressed.

“BARNACLES!” Exclaimed Rupert. His words bouncing from the sterile walls.

Hugo jumped, bringing the scalpel up quickly.

“Bloody barnacles all over the old girl.” He continued. “Had to stop off in Saint-Tropez for an extra week so the chaps at the marina could scrape them all off. Never seen anything like it.”

Hugo went pale.

Rupert glanced at the clock.

“Come on, chop-chop! I haven’t got all day.”

Hugo dabbed a swab against his forehead.

Rupert raised his glasses.

“Why you’re sweating like a Tory in a tax audit. Whatever’s wrong man?”

“It’s—"

“Hand it over.”

Rupert’s hand hovered. Like taking a toy from a child.

“I guess you’re not ready to take the helm. Pay close attention. I’ll show you the old Pembroke popper in all its glory.”

Hugo handed the scalpel to Rupert.

“Now watch closely while I get a hole in one.”

Rupert made a swift incision. Then he paused, mumbling something into his mask.

The heart monitor began to beat faster.

The anesthetist peered down at the patient then scribbled something hurriedly on his clipboard.

“Oh barnacles . . .”

Said Rupert softly.

“Sliced it.”