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Beyond the Citadel: The Complete Trilogy

by Simon Marinker

656 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #99-0007; ISBN 1-55212-238-7; US$46.00, C$52.50, EUR37.50, £26.50

This is a narrative fiction concerning the life and times of a surgeon.

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about the book     dedication & aknowedgements     sample excerpt     catalogue info    

At the close of a surgical operation, the surgeons take off their masks and talk about both profession-related and unrelated matters.

In the same manner, this narrative novel, presented in trilogy fashion, takes the mask off the medical profession and its practitioners, both generalists and specialists. It presents many underlying secrets that are often not available to the lay public at large.

The protagonist, a Canadian surgeon, is revealed in both his professional and private life, his avocations and romances, his family life, challenges, triumphs and defeats.

Subjects that are included in the story are the education of a physician and a surgeon; politics - medical, provincial, national and international; religion and philosophy; music and other arts; bridge and chess; even items of travel.

We meet the protagonist's friends and foes and examine his viewpoints and prejudices.

Paradoxically, while so often in conflict with the medical establishment, he becomes most effective in his reformist efforts by serving as an integral representative of organized medicine.

The historical coverage encompasses some three quarters of the twentieth century, two world wars, startling changes in medical practice - both institutional and personal - and no less startling changes in social mores and values.

This fiction trilogy was written by Simon Marinker.
Book One: Crossing The Moat
Book Two: Castle Gardens
Book Three: Assaults On The Ramparts

About the Book

This is the story of a surgeon, his life and times. It is based on a series of conversations between the narrator and Dr. Philip Bosnar over a five year period between 1985 and 1990, during which the tape recorder was allowed to run freely. The protagonist of this book was encouraged to speak openly about his hopes and dreams, his successes and failures. He was also asked to include, as far as possible, the people and events that influenced his personal life and chosen career.

The title of this biography, which has been written as a trilogy, is derived from the classic novel by A.J.Cronin entitled 'The Citadel,' which had a profound influence on Philip Bosnar when he was a young doctor on the threshhold of his professional future. It is the story of the central character's journey through the trials and temptations of medical practice to his eventual confrontation with the medical establishment.

Since there was no chronological order to the recorded reminiscences, the narrator has elected to use his own alternating time sequences that seemed appropriate to a study of the surgeon's growth and development from youth to maturity. These time sequences interrelate his earliest development with the ultimate direction of his life as an ethical leader and attempted reformer of his chosen profession.

Is this a fictionalized autobiography? That is a question asked of most writers of narrative novels, and the author of this trilogy is no exception.

The answer is that all the characters are based to a varying degree on people the author has known, but are mostly composites.

Several locations are fictionalized, but the names of famous (as well as infamous) national and international individuals are clearly stated.

Finally, historical and other events of the twentieth century are presented as seen through the eyes of the central character, Philip Bosnar.

Dedication & Acknowledgements

Publication of 'Beyond the Citadel' is dedicated to the loving memory of MAUREEN, for her abiding courage, beauty and elegance.

The author acknowledges the unfailing encouragement of his family and friends. Special thanks also go to Guy Barton for being the original satirist of 'The Ants and the Bees' in Book 3 of the trilogy, and to Jonathan Lomas for the research material in his book, 'First And Foremost In Community Health Centres' (University of Toronto Press). The author also wishes to thank his son Peter for first suggesting the title of this trilogy.

Also by Simon Marinker:
Informed Consent to Surgery
Reducing the Risks of Surgery
Assassination, Preparation & Consequences

Sample Excerpt

The following is an excerpt from Chapter 12 (1937) of Book 1.

           The train journey was a memorable one. Philip reserved a lower sleeper and slept like a top, as the Flying Scotsman puffed its way northward to the magnificent wilds of Scotland and its Atlantic Islands. The following morning, he rose refreshed and ready for an early breakfast. After a shave and general toilet in the men's washroom, he dressed and entered the dining area as hungry as a wolf. This was true luxury at its finest. He was seated alone at a table facing the engine. The table linen was gleaming white, the cutlery sparkling and of ornate high quality, and the glassware of graciously designed cut crystal. Outside, the early morning was glorious and the view magnificent.
           As he worked his enthusiastic way through a fruit cocktail, a small platter of delicious tiny grilled fish and the main dish of aromatic bacon and eggs with mushrooms and fried tomatoes, he revelled not only in the superb quality of such a royal feast but in the glorious scenery through which they were speeding. By the time he'd finished his third cup of tea and polished off the toast and jam, he was sure he'd never be able to eat again but didn't regret a single hedonistic moment of his matchless breakfast.
           At Edinburgh, he changed trains for Inverness, and the surrounding scenery became even more breathtaking. On enquiry from his fellow-travelers he was informed that these were the legendary Trossachs. How fascinating, he thought: this was the romantic locale of Sir Walter Scott's 'Lady of the Lake' and 'Rob Roy,' and he revelled in the picturesque wild countryside to the limits of his imagination and the reading memories of his childhood. As they passed into the untamed northeastern highland country, he felt a desperate urge to get outside and paint or photograph the glory that Mother Nature now spread before them in careless abundance. There it was, heaped slope on craggy slope, forest on mountain meadow, up and up into the mists of legend.
           At Inverness, he changed trains once again, this time bound for the western shores and the Kyle of Lochalsh. The final train journey traversed the starker northern highlands: land of heroic vistas and the aura of myth and mystery. Scotland was truly a land of abiding splendor, and he could understand the Scots' fierce pride for their unique homeland, where the skirl of pipes calls out to the wild winds of the North in a dialogue of timeless history.
           The McBraine steamer that ferried him across the choppy waters of the Minch was surprisingly small, and carried only about two dozen passengers. As they journeyed northward, the seas got rougher and the ferry boat's chugging engine seemed to labor. Once, it actually stopped and Philip wondered if the exhausted pistons had finally given up. Far from it; it took more than angry seas to stop these intrepid seamen and their flimsy craft. Looking out over the port side rail, he could barely make out the lone oarsman heaving his small rowboat against the snarling seas and approaching the McBraine steamboat at his peril. The boat had come from one of the tiny islands dotting the Minch. When it got dangerously close and in imminent hazard of being dashed against the larger vessel, the lone mariner lowered his oars and transferred a package into the long-handled net lowered from above. It must be some mail in a waterproof wrapping. Then, in return, mail for his lonely speck of sea-encircled land was lowered carefully by the same means. The notorious Captain Bligh could have done no better!
           Philip found the rising excitement of the trip winning hunger's fight against the threat of seasickness, and when they were well under way once more, he opened up the coverings of his giant Cadbury chocolate bar, broke off a piece and took a generous bite. He also offered his chocolate in unthinking generosity to several of his fellow passengers on deck, but they fled as though offered a dose of poison.
           At last they came in sight of the Isle of Lewis and Harris, then the port of Stornoway itself. The smell of dead herring assaulted him like a massive blow, and for a few moments he found himself unable to breathe. Despite the choking miasma, it appeared that the town's entire population had come to greet the steamer's arrival and welcome the passengers ashore. On enquiry, he was told by a crewman that this was standard procedure. After all, this was their lifeline to the outside world, and it reduced their sense of isolation and abandonment.
           He soon spotted the McEwens waving madly at the back of the crowd and they helped him into their borrowed car, an ancient Austin Minor. Scotty gave him a great big welcoming kiss and he tasted his blood in the Hebrides for the first time. It tasted of dead herring, as would everything else for the first few days. Hamish laughed his head off when Philip mentioned the problem.
           "It's destroyed even my celebrated appetite. I doubt if I'll be able to eat anything while I'm here."
           "You'll get used to it, Phil," Scotty assured him, "and then you'll be eating our good plain food with a healthy appetite and enjoyment."
           "Without its herring trade, you must remember, poor Stornoway would probably just fade away." Hamish informed him, and Philip remarked, "I suppose the dreadful odor of dead fish must be like an expensive perfume to the local population."
           Mrs. Grant's boarding house was all he could have wanted. She was a buxom widow in her sixties, full of good humor and anxious to take good care of her young guest, the "important London surgeon." Philip assured her that he was only of hospital resident status and begged to be addressed at all times as "Phil." She, in turn, never called him anything other than "Dr. Bosnar." The bedroom assigned to him was spacious, and the old iron bed with its huge mattress most comfortable. The bathroom was close by and there was no shortage of hot water. After a great night's sleep, he awoke early, obtained unchallenged access to the bathroom, and came down to breakfast with a hunger that was only partially neutralized by the all-pervasive smell that lingered in every corner. It took two more days before he became cheerfully immune to the fishy miasma, and his morning oatmeal porridge, bacon and eggs, no longer tasted of expired Clupia harengus.
           Once his appetite returned full force, he was afraid that all of Mrs. Grant's magnificent food would make him gain too much weight, so he filled his days with long walks and occasional tennis games on a nearby hard-court that had seen better days. Sometimes these activities were shared with the vivacious Scotty, sometimes with her athletic brother, and sometimes all three joined forces.
           On the fourth day, he was introduced to their charming mother, a thin little gray-haired lady looking old far beyond her years. Her tiny waterfront house was spotless, and all its humble contents were neat and tidy, down to the last carefully preserved knickknack. The old lady wore the conventional Stornoway black attire, and her traditional black shawl was hanging on a peg in the corner. She thanked Philip in English - with a heavy Scottish accent - for his small bouquet of local wildflowers, but seemed far more at home with her native Gaelic, into which she lapsed when addressing her devoted children. They all shared a large pot of tea with her, then left for a tour of Lever Castle, more a historical art museum than a castle.
           Lord Leverhulme's gift to the islanders was a beautiful edifice, built in tasteful architectural style and located by the edge of a quiet stretch of water. The furnishings, paintings and artifacts were all of high quality and Philip was impressed. This was a gift in the grand manner and the people of Lewis were proud and grateful.
           One morning, Hamish invited him to go "handline fishing." He warned Philip it might be very cold, and that warning turned out to be accurate in the extreme. Despite extra layers of clothing and a heavy mackintosh covering, his teeth were soon chattering with the penetrating chill; as the sea breezes found their way through every weave and seam of his protective attire. Even the brilliant sunshine seemed unable to combat the frigid air. Hamish had set his stage carefully.
           "Sorry, Phil," he said apologetically, "if I sound oldfashioned, but I have to ask you the direct question."
           "Fire away," Phil replied, keeping his voice cheerful, as he knew full well what was coming.
           "What are your intentions toward my sister? In spite of her spunkiness, she's easily hurt and I know she's much keener on you than she shows."
           "Let me put it this way, Hamish. I find her a good friend and an enjoyable companion. Any romantic overtones are quite non-binding, and I've never shown the slightest intention of entering into a serious affair with Jeannie, much less any suggestion of marriage."
That seemed to satisfy his sturdy oarsman and the subject was never raised again.
           Once in a while, on an afternoon stroll together, Phil and Scotty would pause and sit down on a grassy hummock to enjoy the tranquil scene. The only disturbances to their peaceful serenity were the screaming wild seagulls and an occasional threatening ram. The gulls were reputed to be unusually fierce, while the rams looked huge to Phil's untutored eyes, and were armed with great menacing horns. The atmosphere was otherwise idyllic and Philip was careful not to encourage the growing amorous tendencies of his lively companion. On one such occasion, Scotty broke through his reserve.
           "I'm quite aware you've no intention of marrying me, Philip, but that doesn't mean we can't make love, does it?"
To emphasize her point she kissed him hard on the mouth and he found himself once more tasting his own blood with the distinctive flavor of dead herring. Perhaps, he thought, this was an ancient Hebridean love potion, recaptured from the mists of time. In any event, they both shed their clothing impediments on the spot and made love to the point of exhaustion, while the magical landscape smiled on their pleasure.
           As the days passed by, Philip began to spend an increasing amount of time on his own, and that was quite agreeable to the young McEwens, as they had many business items to take care of in connection with the family finances, and would be driving into the center of town quite often. On one such day he took the vaunted bus trip to the southern end of the island and the hills of Harris.
           The journey proved a spectacular foray into travel sickness and dire peril. As the rickety vehicle careened recklessly over the narrow potholed winding highway, Philip stole an occasional glance through the window and kept himself pressed against it so that he could maintain his stability on the lurching turns. He caught his breath when, at what felt like dizzying heights, great chunks on the side of the road appeared to have dropped away, and one could gaze straight down at an unimpeded panorama of the valley far below.
           As if that weren't enough to give his passengers a thrill, the intrepid driver engaged in a lively Gaelic conversation with an old fellow behind him, often turning to face his chatty passenger, with the bus rattling ahead unerringly as though it remembered the way. Showing a keen understanding of the inexorable laws of nature, the driver stopped his bus once in a while, so that the distressed travelers could heave up their insides by the roadside to their hearts' content, while others obtained alternative visceral relief on the opposite side of the vehicle.
           Harris was a bit of a disappointment. Philip had expected to see a host of busy crofters weaving their sturdy tweeds of worldwide fame. He even wore his impressive rust-brown suit of "Genuine Harris Tweed' for the special occasion. Sad to say, the native crofters were few, forlorn and far between, and he learned that most of this precious fabric was now produced in the mechanized looms of Manchester. Only the wool came from this area, but the ancient skilled craft was disappearing and the romance would soon be gone forever.

To read this excerpt in full, or read additional excerpts, please visit the author's web site.

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