Doctor Sally

by P. G. Wodehouse

  That, at least, was how it sounded to Sally. She raised her eyebrows.

  “I beg your pardon?“ she said.

  Bill Bannister, with a supreme effort, had now got his Adam’s apple back into position and regained control of his vocal cords. But even now the sight of this girl rendered speaking difficult. At close range, he found himself observing things about her which had escaped him at a distance. Her nose, which he had supposed straight, turned up at the tip. He had never seen her teeth before. He liked them.

  “It can’t be!” he said.

  “I don’t quite understand,” said Sally.

  Nor did she. This man seemed non compos.

  “I—er—mean,” said Bill. “What I mean is … I’ve seen you before.”

  “Really? Where?”

  “Out on the links.”

  “Yes, I’ve been playing quite a lot.”

  “Yes,” said Bill. “I saw you there…. Out on the links…. I saw you several times out on the links.”

  He paused a moment, wishing to make his meaning clearer.

  “You were out on the links,” he said. “And I saw you.”

  “I see,” said Sally. “And now where is my patient?”

  “Patient?”

  “I was told that someone here wanted a doctor.”

  “Yes. A—sort of friend of mine has had a kind of nervous breakdown.”

  “A female friend, I suppose?”

  “Er—yes.”

  “Well, hadn’t I better see her?”

  A bright light shone upon Bill.

  “You don’t mean to say you’re a doctor?”

  “I do.”

  “Gosh! I mean—I say, do sit down, won’t you?”

  “I really can’t waste time like this,” said Sally coldly. That “gosh!“ had had its usual effect on her equanimity. “If you don’t want me to attend the patient I’ll go.”

  “But-she can’t see a doctor now.”

  “Why not?”

  “She isn’t well.”

  Sally’s momentary pique faded. This extraordinary young man amused her.

  “My dear good man,” she said, “are you always like this, or have I just struck one of your bad days?”

  Bill writhed.

  “I know I’m an idiot—”

  “Ah, a lucid moment.”

  “It’s the shock of seeing you walk in like this.”

  “Why shouldn’t I walk in? You sent for me.”

  “Yes, but you don’t understand. I mean, I’ve seen you out on the golf-links.”

  “So you said before.”

  “You see, Mrs.—”

  “Miss.”

  “Thank God!”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Nothing, nothing. I—er—that is to say—er— putting it rather differently— Oh, my goodness!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “You take my breath away.”

  “For shortness of breath try a jujube. And now, please, my patient.”

  “Oh, yes….“

  Bill went to the door of the bedroom and called softly.

  “Marie!”

  Marie appeared in the doorway.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “How is she?”

  “Asleep, sir.”

  “Fine!“ said Bill, brightening. “See that she doesn’t wake up.” He came back to Sally. “The maid says the patient has fallen asleep.”

  Sally nodded.

  “Quite natural. Sleep often follows violent hysteria.”

  “But, I say, how do you know it was hysteria?”

  “By the broken china. Long-distance diagnosis. Well, let her have her sleep out.”

  “I will.”

  There was a pause.

  “Tea,” said Bill, at length, desperately. “Won’t you have some tea?”

  “Where is it?”

  Bill looked about him.

  “Well, on the floor, mostly,” he admitted. “But I could ring for some more.”

  “Don’t bother. I don’t like tea much, anyway.

  “You’re American, aren’t you?”

  “I am.”

  “It’s a rummy thing, Americans never seem very keen on tea.”

  “No?”

  There was another pause.

  “I say,” said Bill, “I didn’t get your name.”

  “Doctor Sally Smith. What’s yours?”

  “Bannister—William Bannister.”

  “You live here?”

  “Certainly not,” said Bill, shocked. “I’m staying at the ‘Majestic’. I live down in Hampshire.”

  “One of these big country houses, I suppose?”

  “Pretty big.”

  “I thought so. You look opulent,” said Sally, pleased that her original opinion had been confirmed.

  A rich idler, this man, she felt. Not unpleasant, it was true—she liked his face and was amused by him —but nevertheless idle and rich.

  Bill, by this time, had gradually become something more nearly resembling a sentient being. Indeed, he was now quite at his ease again and feeling extraordinarily happy. That this girl and he should be sitting chatting together like this was so wonderful that it put him right on top of his form. He straightened his tie and threw his whole soul into one devoted gaze.

  Sally got the gaze, and did not like it. For some moments now she had been wishing that this perfect stranger would either make his eyes rather less soulful or else refrain from directing them at her. She was a liberal-minded girl and did not disapprove of admiration from the other sex; indeed, she had grown accustomed to exciting it; but something seemed to whisper to her that this William Bannister could do with a little womanly quelling.

  “Would you mind not looking at me like that? “she said coolly.

  The soulful look faded out of Bill’s eyes, as if he had been hit between them by a brick. He felt disconcerted and annoyed. He disliked being snubbed, even by a girl for whom his whole being yearned.

  “I’m not looking at you like that,” he replied with spirit. “At least, I’m not trying to.”

  Sally nodded tolerantly.

  “I see,” she said. “Automatic, eh? Very interesting, from a medical point of view. Unconscious reaction of the facial and labial muscles at sight of a pretty woman.

  Bill’s pique increased. He resented this calm treating of himself as something odd on a microscopic slide.

  “I am sorry,“ he said haughtily, “if I embarrassed you.”

  Sally laughed.

  “You didn’t embarrass me,” she said. “Did I seem to you to show embarrassment? I thought I had my vascular motors under much better control.”

  “Your what did you say?”

  “Vascular motors. They regulate the paling and flushing of the skin. In other words, I didn’t blush.”

  “Oh, ah! I see.”

  The conversation flagged again.

  “Do you know,” said Bill, hoisting it to its legs again, “I was most awfully surprised when you said you were a doctor?”

  “Most men seem to be.”

  “I mean, you don’t look like a doctor.”

  “How ought a doctor to look?”

  Bill reflected.

  “Well, most of them seem sort of fagged and overworked. Haggard chaps. I mean, it must be an awful strain.”

  Sally laughed.

  “Oh, it’s not so bad. You needn’t waste your pity on me, Mr. Bannister. I’m as fit as a fiddle, thank heaven, and enjoy every minute of my life. I have a good practice and quite enough money. I go to theatres and concerts. I play games. I spend my vacations travelling. I love my work. I love my recreations. I love life.”

  “You’re wonderful!”

  “And why shouldn’t I? I earn every bit of pleasure that I get. I like nice clothes, nice shoes, nice stockings—because I buy them myself. I’m like the village blacksmith—I owe not any man. I wonder if you’ve the remotest idea how happy it can make a woman feel just to be a worker and alive—with good nerv
es, good circulation, and good muscles. Feel my arm. Like iron.”

  “Wonderful!”

  “And my legs. Hard as a rock. Prod ‘em.”

  “No, really!”

  “Go on.”

  She looked at him with amusement.

  “You’re blushing!”

  Bill was unable to deny the charge.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m afraid my vascular motors aren’t as well controlled as yours.”

  “Can’t you admire a well-rounded, highly perfected leg in a purely detached spirit as a noble work of nature?”

  “Sorry—no. I’m afraid I’ve never quite managed to do that.”

  “Why, in some countries the women go swimming with nothing on.”

  “And the men buy telescopes.”

  “Don’t snigger.”

  “Forgive me,” said Bill. “I laugh, like Figaro, that I may not weep.”

  She regarded him curiously.

  “What do you want to weep about?”

  Bill sighed.

  “I’m feeling a little depressed,” he said. “In the life you have outlined—this hard, tense, independent, self-sufficing life, with its good nerves and good circulation and muscles of the brawny arm as strong as iron bands, don’t you think—it’s just a suggestion—don’t you think there’s something a little bleak?”

  “Bleak?”

  “Well, frankly—”

  “Always be frank.”

  “Frankly, then,” said Bill, “it reminds me of the sort of nightmare H. G. Wells would have after cold pork. It seems to leave out the one thing that makes life worth living.”

  “You mean love?”

  “Exactly. I grant you one hundred per cent on nerves and circulation and general fitness. I admire your biceps, I’m sure your leg-muscle is all it should be, and I take off my hat to your vascular motors— but doesn’t it strike you that you’re just the merest trifle lacking in sentiment?”

  She frowned.

  “Nothing of the kind. All I’m lacking in is sentimentality. I don’t droop and blush and giggle-.——”

  “No; I noticed that.”

  “—But naturally I don’t intend to exclude love from my life. I’m not such a fool.”

  “Ah!”

  “Why do you say ‘Ah’?”

  A touch of dignity came into Bill’s manner.

  “Listen,” he said. “You’re the loveliest girl I ever met, but you’ve got to stop bullying me. I shall say ‘Ah!’ just as often as I please.”

  “I merely asked because most people when they stand in front of me and say ‘Ah’, expect me to examine their throats.”

  She paused.

  “Why are you so interested in my views on love, Mr. Bannister?“ she asked casually.

  Even Bill, quick worker though he had been from boyhood, would have shrunk—had the conditions been other than they were—from laying bare his soul at this extremely early point in his association with this girl. Emotion might have urged him to do so, but Prudence would have plucked at his sleeve. So intense, however, was his desire to shatter his companion’s maddening aloofness—at least, was aloofness exactly the word? —dispassionate friendliness described it better —no, detached—that was the word he wanted; she was so cool and detached and seemed so utterly oblivious to the importance of a Bannister’s yearnings that he let Emotion have its way. And if Prudence did any plucking, he failed to notice it.

  “I’ll tell you why,” he said explosively. “Because the moment I saw you out there on the links I knew you were the one girl”

  “You mean you’ve fallen in love with me?”

  “I have. The news doesn’t seem to surprise you, “said Bill resentfully.

  Sally laughed.

  “Oh, it’s not such a terrible shock.”

  “You’ve heard the same sort of thing before from other men, I suppose?”

  “Dozens of times.”

  “I might have known it,” said Bill gloomily. “Just my luck. And I suppose—”

  “No. You’re wrong.”

  Bill became animated again.

  “You mean there’s nobody else?”

  “Nobody.”

  Bill’s animation approached fever point.

  “Then do you think-do you suppose—might it happen—would it be—er—-putting it another way, is it possible—”

  “Crisper, crisper, and simpler. What you’re trying to suggest now is that perhaps I might one day love you? Am I right?”

  “You take the words out of my mouth.”

  “I had to, or they would never have emerged at all. Well, if I ever love a man I shall inform him of the fact, simply and naturally, as if I were saying good morning.”

  Bill hesitated.

  “Tell me,” he said, “have you ever—er—wished a man good morning?”

  “No. That experience has yet to come.”

  “Wonderful!”

  “Not so very wonderful. It simply means I haven’t met the right man.”

  Bill could not allow a totally false statement like this to pass uncorrected.

  “Yes, you have,” he assured her. “You don’t know it yet, but you have.” He advanced towards her, full of his theme.

  “You have really. Oh,” said Bill. He drew a deep breath. “Gosh!“ he exclaimed, “I feel as if a great weight had rolled off me. I had always hoped in my heart that women like you existed, and now it’s all come true. Don’t laugh at me. It’s come upon me like a whirlwind. I never expected it. I never guessed. I never—”

  “Excuse me, sir,” said Marie, appearing at the bedroom door.

  CHAPTER V

  BILL regarded her with marked displeasure. In past Marie had always seemed to him rather a nice girl, but now he felt he had seldom encountered a more pronounced pest.

  “Well,” he said irritably, “what is it?”

  “If you please, sir, she’s awake now.”

  Bill could make nothing of this. The girl appeared to him to be babbling. Sheer gossip from the padded cell.

  “Awake?” he said. “What on earth are you talking about? Who’s awake?”

  “Why, moddom, sir.”

  Bill blinked like an awkward somnambulist.

  “Moddom?”

  Sally laughed.

  “I think you had forgotten our patient, hadn’t you?”

  She turned briskly to Marie.

  “Ask her to come in, please. I will examine her at once.”

  It was a calmer and more subdued Lottie who emerged from the bedroom. But it was plain that the volcano was not altogether extinct. In her manner, as she suddenly beheld a charming and attractive girl in Bill’s society in her sitting-room there were obvious indications that something of the old fire still lingered. She stiffened. She glared in hostile fashion. Bill, watching, was disturbed to see her hands go to her hips in a well-remembered gesture.

  “Oh!” said Lottie. “And who may this be?”

  “I’m the doctor,” said Sally.

  “You think I’m going to swallow that?”

  Sally sighed resignedly.

  “Can you read?”

  “Of course I can read.”

  “Then read that,” said Sally, producing a card.

  Lottie scrutinized it doubtfully. Then her manner changed.

  “Doctor Sally Smith,” she said. “Well, I suppose that’s all right. Still, it looks funny to me. And let me tell you that if there is any funny business going on between you two, I’ll very soon—“

  “Quiet, please,” said Sally.

  She spoke calmly, but the speaker stopped as if she had run into a brick wall.

  “I want to make an examination,” said Sally.

  “Perhaps I’d better leave you?“ said Bill.

  “Just as you like.”

  “I’ll go for a stroll on the front.”

  “All right,” said Sally. “I shan’t be long.”

  She put her stethoscope together as the door closed. Lottie, having recovered, felt disposed fo
r conversation.

  “You’ll forgive me, I’m sure, doctor—” She paused. “Isn’t that too silly of me—I’ve forgotten your damn name.”

  “It’s quite an easy one to remember,” said Sally, busy with her stethoscope. “Smith.”

  Lottie beamed.

  “Oh, thank you! I was saying, doctor, that I was sure you’d forgive me for flying off the handle a little just now. The fact is I’ve just been having a bit of a row with Mr. Bannister, and coming in and finding you two together like that naturally I said to myself—”

  “Take off that bath-robe.”

  “Eh? Oh, all right. Let me see, where was I? What started it all was him saying to me—or rather Squiffy did, and he didn’t contradict it—that he wasn’t ever going to take me dancing again. ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘and why not, may I ask?’ ‘I’m going home,’ he said. ‘Going home?’ I said. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘going home.’ So naturally I said, ‘I know what the trouble with you is,’ I said; ‘you want to cast me off like a worn-out glove. But if you think for one moment that I’m going to stand anything like that—’”

  “The lungs appear sound,” said Sally.

  “‘You’re mistaken,’ I said—”

  “Take a deep breath. Well, the heart seems all right. Now for the reflexes. Cross your legs…. Nothing the matter with them. All right, that’s all.”

  “Examination over?”

  “Yes.”

  Lottie became interested.

  “What’s wrong with me?”

  “Nothing much. You need a rest.”

  “Aren’t you going to look at my tongue?”

  “I can tell, without looking at it, that that needs a rest too. What you want is a few weeks in a nice, quiet sanatorium.”

  “You’re going to send me to a sanatorium?”

  “Well, I’m advising you to go. You need a place where there are cold baths and plain food, and no cocktails and cigarettes.”

  Lottie shuddered.

  “It sounds like hell!“ she said. She frowned. “I believe it’s a trick.”

  “A trick?”

  “I believe you’re just trying to get me out of the way so that you can have him to yourself.”

  “Him?“ Sally stared. “You can’t mean— Do you really imagine for one moment that I’m in love with Mr. Bannister?”

  “You aren’t?”

  “Of course not.”