The Shadow of Great Britain

On the stone pier of Ramsgate’s outer harbor, fishermen dumped baskets of herring onto the planks, the cries of their sales mixing with the strong smell of the sea. The dockworkers were using ropes and pulleys to lift crates of goods off the deck.

Arthur stood at the edge of the pier, watching the mail ship that had just docked.

It was a white-hulled cruise ship, with a black-painted bow, and a signboard with the words ”London” hanging on the ship’s rail.

As soon as the ship steadied, the sailors pushed the gangway to the edge of the deck.

The first to disembark were a group of businessmen wearing high top hats and ladies in light-colored long dresses. Without waiting for them to speak, their luggage was pushed away by the porters in wheelbarrows.

Soon after, Arthur spotted the person he was waiting for.

He was a slender young man, wearing a dark long coat, with buttons on the chest neatly arranged as if measured. He wore a slightly worn top hat, carried a black leather case in his left hand, and occasionally raised his right hand to shield his eyes from the glare as he adjusted to the sunlight from the cabin.

John Snow, the first student in the history of the University of London to pursue a doctorate in medicine, a practicing physician at the Royal Society of Surgery.

Arthur slightly squinted his eyes, comparing the person before him with memories from five years ago.

When he first met Snow in Liverpool, Snow was just an eighteen-year-old lad, an inconspicuous apprentice pharmacist, wearing a hand-me-down coat from his master, with cuffs stained with indelible drug marks, a small leather bag slung over his shoulder. When speaking, his demeanor always showed a hint of discomfort and shyness. At that time, Snow only knew to run errands, grind powders, and attend to patients as instructed by Haidskal.

But now, his shoulders fully filled out a well-fitted tailcoat, the gaze under his hat brim had lost its evasiveness, becoming steady and direct, assessing everything before him. The briefcase had been replaced by a dedicated medical case for house calls, moving with a composed and proud demeanor.

Five years could indeed bring about drastic changes in a person, as it did for him, and also for Snow.

Snow descended the gangway, paused for a moment on the stone pavement, and pulled out the pocket watch he had purchased with his academic prize money to check the time, as if confirming he wasn’t late. The sea breeze gently lifted the hem of his coat, revealing a light gray vest underneath and his left hand, calloused from years of writing and holding a scalpel.

Arthur approached, extending his right hand to Snow as he walked: ”Dr. Snow, long time no see.”

Hearing Arthur’s voice, Snow hastily put away his pocket watch, grasping Arthur’s hand: ”Sir Arthur.”

After a slight hesitation, he couldn’t help but remind him: ”Sir, you’d better not call me ’Dr.’ just yet, as I haven’t passed the Royal Society of Internal Medicine’s examination. For now, I’m just a surgeon. If those internal medicine physicians hear me being called ’Dr.’, it might cause trouble.”

Arthur clearly didn’t take this to heart: ”What does it matter? Even if you’re not an internal medicine physician yet, aren’t you pursuing a medical doctorate?”

Snow insisted: ”Sir, you know, the medical field is different from elsewhere, it’s all about hierarchy and qualification. No matter how skilled, surgeons are seen as high-level craftsmen by internal medicine physicians. They consider ’Dr.’ to be their exclusive title. Before passing the Royal College of Internal Medicine’s examination, even with a doctorate, using this title would inevitably make them see me as presumptuous.”

Arthur smiled gently, patting his hand: ”You do remember these traditional conventions of the medical field. But to me, saving lives is what makes a true doctor, whether you’re prescribing in Latin or wielding a scalpel. Besides, I call you ’Doctor’ not to contest for a title but to acknowledge your current skills.”

Snow shook his head, yet at the corners of his mouth appeared an involuntary smile: ”You’re putting me in the spotlight.”

”The spotlight?” Arthur gestured towards the street behind them: ”You haven’t seen what being in the spotlight truly is. Come, I’ll treat you to a ginger beer in Ramsgate. It’s been over six months since we last saw each other, after Professor Madsen recommended you to practice at Westminster Hospital, right?”

Snow nodded slightly, shifting his medical case to the other hand, walking with Arthur off the pier.

The cobblestone street, moistened by the sea breeze and tides, glistened with a damp sheen. Hanging in front of the shop doors on either side of the street were various hand-painted signs, including fishing gear shops, bakeries, and small stores selling Dutch cheese and French wine.

Behind the wrought iron-framed windows along the street, one could see tea girls boiling water in copper kettles, and a few sailors leaning on the counter, chatting idly.

Turning a corner, they faced a small pub with a sign labeled ”Admiral.”

Arthur pushed open the heavy oak door, its hinges creaking deeply as it swung open.

The bald bartender behind the counter, yawning as Arthur entered, immediately turned to pull two glasses from the cabinet behind him, greeting warmly: ”The usual, sir?”

”The usual.” Arthur placed his hat on the bar, replying casually: ”And a serving of baked cod, not too much pepper.”

Snow stood in front of the menu hanging on the wall for a while, undecided on what to eat, so he simply said, ”I’ll have the same.”