The leaking theatres

I heard this story while working on the People’s History of the NHS. I can’t remember where exactly (or vaguely where) it came from and I’d hope there’s a more accurate version published somewhere else. These events would have taken place in 1948 and 1949.

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In the early days of the NHS, a young surgeon found himself appointed departmental head at a newly-‘vested’ (i.e. absorbed) Victorian hospital. The building had spent its recent decades a glorified nursing home, but boasted four large operating theatres which, once cleared of stored furniture and equipment, seemed perfectly serviceable. Each was topped with an impressive old skylight that filled the room with natural light.

Operations commenced, and for a few weeks all went well. Then came the first thunderstorm. Mid-surgery, with two patients under anaesthesia, the team discovered that the skylights leaked rather spectacularly. Porters were dispatched to borrow umbrellas from the visitors’ waiting room, and surgery continued under umbracular protection.

The surgeon wrote to the regional hospital board that evening, explaining the situation and requesting urgent repairs. The board’s response acknowledged his concerns but suggested that, given the many demands on its resources, he should be grateful for such spacious accommodation and take care to keep his patients clear of the drips.

And so began a new routine: checking the morning paper’s weather forecast and, when rain threatened, moving the operating tables to the driest corners of each theatre. This worked until a regional medical officer’s inspection coincided with a day of steady drizzle. He declared the theatres manifestly unsanitary and ordered them closed immediately.

The team adapted by converting the preparation room — which had a sound roof — into two theatres divided by a curtain. Another letter went to the board, explaining their reduced capacity. This arrangement lasted until the next inspection, during which a different official declared it completely unacceptable to operate on two patients in the same room, curtain notwithstanding. The surgeon removed the curtain, dropped to one theatre, and wrote to the board again.

Months passed. Finally, the board approved repairs: one week’s labour and materials were allocated. The surgical staff were seconded to nearby hospitals while work proceeded.

They returned to find neat plastic “No Entry” signs on their old theatres, and their prep room divided permanently down the middle by a new brick wall — creating two small theatres but leaving the leaking roofs untouched.

Over the next decade, the old skylights were gradually boxed in and the grand theatres subdivided. The roofs still leaked, but now only stained the suspended ceiling tiles. When the hospital finally closed in the early 1970s, its replacement opened with what seemed a fitting tribute: leaking operating theatre roofs of its own.