The Doctor Is Sick

by Anthony Burgess

  A Medusa, her long coat as shabby and dusty-black as the dog's, came up to Edwin and asked him to dance. 'I shouldn't really,' said Edwin. 'I should be in hospital really.' But he was borne off, too much the gentleman, into the jigging crowd. He looked for Sheila, but he had become separated from her by two new drink-buyers - thin young Guardsmen, blind behind their peaks. Frantic shoving dancing went on before the golden calf of the juke-box - a man who had taken his teeth out for fun; a woman whose breasts bounced lazily up and down, out of time with the music; a Mediterranean man shaven to a matt blue; a coach-driver in his cap; a genteel woman in a raincoat, tremulous with gin; two flat-chested girls who danced woodenly together, talking German; a middle-aged blonde with a bull-dog's face - all seemed somehow mixed in one moving mush, like pease pudding. Edwin and his partner were added to the boil, and the partner, her snake-hairs waving, was vigorous. Edwin soon found that one of his bedroom slippers had been kicked off. He danced as though guying a bent-backed old man, looking under feet, under the juke-box, into corners. It was not to be seen. He lost the other one and then, still dancing, felt spilt beer soaking his socks. When the music ended everybody helped.

  'What's he lost?'

  'It sounded like slippers, but I don't see how it can be that.'

  The genteel woman in the raincoat said carefully to Edwin: 'I can see that you're artistic, just the same as I am. I modelled for the best painters, the very best. John, Sickert, that other man. There's one of me in the Tate, you must have seen it.'

  'It's my slippers,' said Edwin, kneeling down, looking between the legs of the seated. 'There's one there,' he said, crawling on his knees towards the two German girls, one of whom was in the other's lap.

  'Edwin,' said Sheila, 'whatever are you doing?'

  'It's my slippers.'

  'You shouldn't have come out, you know you shouldn't. I'm going to call a cab and take you straight back there.'

  The loss of his slippers, the fact that he had been dancing in his socks had suddenly, for some reason, endeared Edwin to the man who had taken out his dentures. 'Drink this, major,' he said gummily. 'Take it in your right hand and repeat after me.' He wore a good suit but no collar or tie. Edwin, flustered, found himself holding a glass of Scotch. 'You're a man as likes a lark, same as it might be myself. I could see that soon as you come in.' The club customers seemed quick at finding affinities.

  'I'm going to take you back,' said Sheila, 'as soon as I've finished this drink. Dancing in your stocking-feet indeed. You want your head seeing to.' The shocking aptness of this struck her. 'Oh,' she said, 'I didn't mean it that way, you know I didn't,' and she hooked her hand on to his arm.

  'Tomorrow morning,' said Edwin, 'they start.'

  'Yes, darling, and tonight I think you'd better get as much sleep as you can. I shan't come to see you. After all, we've seen each other this afternoon, haven't we?'

  'Oh,' said Edwin. 'Well, that's up to you, I suppose.'

  'I'll come tomorrow evening, naturally.'

  'I can see you lookin' at vem shelves,' said Harry Stone to Edwin. 'Not much vere, is vere?' There was a half-bottle of gin and a plastic nude statuette. 'Can't get no credit, can't carry much in the way of stock. Ashamed I am when I fink of ve way I've ruined vis place. But vat's perhaps because I 'ate it so much.' The dog Nigger chewed away at the remaining ventricle. 'We buy retail from ve public bar of ve Anchor at closing time and stick a bit on. It's no way of doin' business, really.'

  The German girls brought a slipper each. 'Danke sehr,' said Edwin. Then he heard the big man who worked in, or at, Covent Garden talking on philology. 'Italian's a lovely language,' he was saying. 'I've heard some of the finest Italian singers of all time. It's the best language to sing in, they reckon. Stands to reason,' he said illogically, 'because it's the oldest. Italian's only a kind of Latin, and Latin's the oldest language.'

  'Oh, there are older languages,' said Edwin. 'Sanskrit, for instance.'

  'Well, that's a matter of opinion, isn't it?' The big man spoke a kind of northern English which, slowly, over long years, had been modulating towards Cockney.

  'Oh, no,' said Edwin, 'it's no matter of opinion, it's a matter of fact.' He settled himself to a lecture. Sheila said:

  'Come on, we're going back.' She tightened her hold on his arm.

  'In a minute, dear. I just wanted to show our friend here----'

  'My name's Les.'

  'How do you do? To show Les here----'

  'Come on.' She began to lead him out. Edwin had the impression - but he might have been wrong - that she made a quick face to the Stone brothers, a face indicating that her husband was not quite normal, that he mustn't be encouraged to start talking. He was sure that she did not point her finger to her temple, however. Fairly sure.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  They walked back to the hospital, Sheila's hand firm on his arm. It was not even tea-time yet: his outing had been brief. Only on the steps before the main entrance did Edwin ask her what he'd wanted, yet feared, to ask. Sheila said: 'I think I'm sure of the way now. Even in the dark. I'll be able to come on my own.' A cold breeze suddenly blew, crinkled leaves scuttled along the pavement. Edwin said: 'What did Railton want to see you about?'

  'Railton?'

  'You know, the doctor. Look,' said Edwin, 'it's cold. Come into the vestibule for a bit.'

  'I'd rather not. Really I wouldn't. I'll be so glad when you're out. I hate hospitals.'

  'What did he say?'

  'I told you, didn't I? That everything's going to be all right and that nobody's to worry.'

  'Come off it. He didn't have you in just to say that. What did he really say?'

  'There was a bit more, but it was me who did the talking, really. He wanted certain things confirmed, things in the original report.'

  'Such as?'

  'Oh, you know as well as I do. About you collapsing and so on. How much you drank. Our married life. Whether we were happy and so forth.'

  'Well, were we, are we?'

  'Of course we are.' She didn't sound too convinced. She put her hands in the tiny pockets of her costume jacket. 'It's cold. Thank God I brought my fur coat back.'

  'And about sex, of course?'

  'About sex. Look, it is getting really cold, isn't it? I don't think it's good for you to stand out in the cold.'

  'What do they suspect is wrong with me?' asked Edwin.

  Sheila hesitated. 'They don't know what they suspect. They say that there's obviously something wrong but they hope soon to find out what. They don't think it's too serious.'

  'How can they think that when they don't know what to suspect?'

  'I don't know. I'm not a doctor. Look, I'm cold. That's all that was said, honestly.'

  'Right,' said Edwin. And then: 'I'm sorry about the sex-life.'

  'Oh, everything will be all right. I'm sure of that.' She stamped daintily, dancing up and down in the cold. 'It was silly of you to come out in your bedroom slippers.'

  'Yes. What are you going to do this evening?'

  'Oh, hell,' said Sheila, 'what can I do? It's not much fun for me, either, you know, stuck here in a cheap hotel, knowing nobody.'

  'You know a window-cleaner and a couple of Jewish twins.'

  'Oh, don't be silly. You know perfectly well what I mean. They're half-Jewish, anyway. Leo knows Burma, or says he does. He was in the Navy.'

  'I suppose I'd better go in.' He wanted the cosy ward, tea brought round by the Italian ward-maids, a read of the article on morphology in the latest Language.

  'It's no fun.' She seemed ready to resume at length. 'What do you want me to do with my evenings?'

  'There's the cinema, ballet----' He couldn't think of anything else. 'The theatre,' he remembered. 'Opera.' They all sounded dull.

  'I can't go on my own, you know.'

  'Some women do.'

  'This woman doesn't. There's a man with a beard who comes into the Anchor. He said he'd take me to a club he belongs to. He's a writer or painter or somethin
g. That might make a change.'

  'Do be careful. There are some pretty queer types in London.'

  'I'm not a child exactly. He said he was sorry to hear that my husband was in hospital. He said that I must be very lonely.' Sheila giggled, then shivered. 'It's so cold,' she said. 'I must go.'

  'And you won't come this evening?'

  'You've had your ration of me.' She smiled. 'Try and get to sleep early. I'll be in tomorrow.'

  'All right. Oh, this hotel.'

  'Yes?'

  'This hotel where you are now. Where is it, what's it called?'

  'I don't want you out of bed ringing me up, catching cold and whatnot. Anyway, I'm not quite sure of its name. Oh, yes, the Farnworth. They've got it at the hospital, anyway. Address of next of kin.'

  The leaves scurried. 'I'm sorry about all this,' said Edwin. 'But it's a change for you, isn't it, a bit of a change? A sort of holiday? A nice change from Moulmein?'

  'My dear sweet Edwin, why should you be sorry - in that way, I mean? It's not your fault. And it is a change from Moulmein, yes. Colder, a little more squalid. But yes, yes, I do like London, I was only joking. I'll make out somehow. Now go in and have your tea or whatever it is.'

  'You must eat. I'm sure you're not eating enough.'

  'I'll eat all right. Now you go in to your nice nurses.' She danced up and down again; the leaves, like kittens, danced around her. 'I must go now,' she said, 'and warm up a bit. Oh,' she added, 'I nearly forgot.' She gave him a cold kiss; cold, he assumed, because her lips were cold, because she wanted to get away to warmth. 'It is warmth,' he thought, 'that we are finally faithful to.' She went off quickly like a schoolgirl. Edwin entered the hospital: the crankhouse, he thought, those two German girls would call it. The porter called to him from his desk: 'Too late for visitors, sir. You can come again this evening.'

  'Do I look as fit as that?' said Edwin.

  'Patients going out,' said the porter severely, 'are to leave their names at the desk. I've got no name written down here.'

  'Dr Spindrift.'

  'Oh, sorry, sir. I didn't know, sir. I do beg your pardon.'

  Edwin did not use the lift; he hated lifts. He walked up the stairs slowly to his ward. There was nobody around to rebuke him. He went softly to the locker and took out his pyjamas and dressing-gown, changed quietly in a bathroom. He examined his face again in the mirror: it seemed a normal enough face. Then he remembered that he had forgotten to put a final frank question to Sheila. Did she think he had changed? But she would have been evasive. In pyjamas and dressing-gown he entered the long warm sick place which was now home. Tea was coming round. R.Dickie said: 'Where've you been? Everybody's been askin' for you.'

  'What did they want me for?'

  'Nuffin, really. They just wanted to know where you was.'

  'I've been to the--' Though a philologist, he was

  ashamed of using certain words in public. He sought a euphemism and, automatically, it was one of R. Dickie's that came out. 'The old whatsit,' he said.

  'You was a long time.'

  'It was rather a slow and frustrating business,' said Edwin.

  'They'll be givin' you a black draught if you tell 'em that. Straight up they will. Frustratin', eh? That's a good un.'

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Next morning Edwin was introduced to a subterranean world of female technicians - crisply permed, white-coated young women who were jauntily self-assured. Their status seemed equivocal. Despite their lack of clinical knowledge, their mere narrow mastery of certain machines, they deferred to no one. They seemed to have access to a special laundry which blanched their coats to a blinding snow, making the medical staff's array look almost grubby. Their high heels were quick on the corridors, their heads erect. Edwin shambled after one of these pert creatures to the X-ray department.

  He pressed his cold chest to a plate on the wall and heard its picture clicked off. He was strapped to a bed and had, from many angles, his grinning skull recorded. 'Webster, too,' he said, 'saw the skull beneath the skin.'

  'Who was Webster?'

  'A poet.'

  'Oh, a poet.' She thrust in a new plate fussily. 'Don't move,' she said. 'Keep absolutely still.' There was another click. 'I don't go in much for poetry,' she said. 'It was all right at school, I suppose.'

  'You think it's better to be a radiographer than a poet?'

  'Oh, yes.' She spoke with vocational fervour. 'After all, we save lives, don't we?'

  'What for?'

  'What do you mean, what for?'

  'What's the purpose of saving lives? What do you want people to live for?'

  'That,' she said primly, 'is no concern of mine. That didn't come into my course. Now, if you'll just wait here, I'll get these developed.'

  Edwin was left a long time on his own. He looked out of the window on to a squad of dustbins. Two fat cats slept in the grey autumn morning, too fat to feel cold. What did they get fat on? Discarded cerebral tissue, perhaps. The shining machine seemed to be staring at his back. He turned on it to stare it out. There must be a flaw somewhere to mar this squat elegance. He had cured his young man's diffidence in the presence of the smart and beautiful by looking for the microscopic but qualifying mark of negligence - spots of dandruff on black serge, a wisp of pastry at the mouth-corner. He walked over now to the heavy polished apparatus and found, to his pleasure, a fleck of rust. Moreover, in a cardboard box on the window-sill there was, among metal terminals and fuses, a solitary white button. He felt exhilarated. The radiographer returned to find him doing a stately dance across the floor.

  'They're all right,' she said, staring at him fearfully. 'They're quite clear. Can you find your own way back to the ward?'

  Edwin could. He entered it to find a ward-round in progress - a great man proceeding from bed to bed with his satellites, one of them Dr Railton. This, he knew, was Mr Begbie, eminent neurologist, famed discoverer of Begbie's syndrome. The negro orderly, awed and hushed as at a pontifical high mass, motioned Edwin to his bed, made him, with poultry-shooing movements, enter it. He waited, perfectly still, as for the eucharist to come.

  Mr Begbie had a tic under his left eye. So dentists sometimes had visible caries, so the cobbler's child was the worst shod. 'And you,' said Mr Begbie, 'must be Mr Spindrift.' The satellites in white gave encouraging smiles; Dr Railton seemed anxious as a lance-sergeant at a general inspection.

  'Doctor Spindrift.' That had to be made clear. 'Doctor of Philosophy,' he expanded. All smiled more broadly.

  'Yes. And you were sent here by----'

  'I was sent by the Tropical Diseases Clinic. I went straight there from Moulmein.'

  'Yes. And who actually employs you?'

  'The I.C.U.D. The International Council for University Development.'

  'Very well,' conceded Mr Begbie. He wrinkled his nose as though this organisation were suspect. He looked through the file he held with greater concentration. 'Yes, yes,' he said. 'What's all this about a battleship?'

  'A battleship?'

  'You seem to be obsessed with battleships, according to this.'

  'Oh, that.' Edwin laughed. 'I see what's happened. I get migraine sometimes. The pain seems to be accompanied by a vision of a battleship sailing straight into my frontal lobes.' There were smirks at the extravagance of the image; the ward sister looked outraged at Edwin's pretence to anatomical knowledge.

  'That,' said Mr Begbie, 'doesn't sound like migraine at all. Well, we shall see, we shall see what can be done.' He sighed, with the weariness of one who has helped so many, received so little gratitude. The procession proceeded to the sneerer. He was patted on the back by Mr Begbie. 'We'll straighten that face out,' he promised. 'Never fear.' The face, to Mr Begbie, was just another limb. The white birds swooped on to R. Dickie. His voice came through, muffled, with compulsive question-tags: ennit? wunnit? It was, agreed Mr Begbie, it would.

  Just before luncheon another of the legion of the cool, the neat-haired, in a white smock with bare pink arms, came
to conduct a sort of pummelling therapy on the Punch-chinned, Punch-humped young man in the winter-sports cap. She punched him vigorously, and he responded by coughing profoundly and spitting into a sputum-cup. A brisk trade was done in bedpans. Bottles were called for; sly micturition was achieved under the bedclothes. And then Edwin's afternoon treat was announced.

  'A lumbar puncture,' said the sister. She was a pinch-nosed Scot who trilled the r's with relish 'They're going to take some of the fluid from your spinal cord. Then they'll take it to the laboratory. Then they'll see what's wrong with it.'

  'I've had that done already,' said Edwin, 'twice.'

  'And,' said the sister, 'ye'll have it done again.' Mistress of repartee, she returned to her office.

  Some humorist in the catering department had decided on stewed brains for luncheon. Softer-hearted, some other cook had provided potatoes cooked in four different ways, a tiny potato anthology. The black man came with the ice-cream, gleaming sardonically at Edwin. Edwin read his philological magazine - a humourless American wordcount of The Owl and the Nightingale. Stewed brains, indeed.

  In the pleasant time of afternoon torpor, haunted still by the taste of after-luncheon tea, the bed-screens were wheeled round Edwin. 'Good-bye, mate,' said R. Dickie. 'See you in the next world.' A doctor in glasses, mild of face and younger than Dr Railton, came to Edwin, announcing himself as Dr Wildbloode. 'My colleague,' he said, 'is at a rehearsal. He plays the trumpet, you know.' The sister hovered behind. Edwin was made to lie on his side, his buttocks and lower back exposed. 'Nice clean skin,' said Dr Wildbloode. 'This won't hurt much.' He shot in a local ansthetic. 'There,' he said. 'Lovely.' There was a fumbling and clatter of tiny glass and metal. 'Now,' he said, 'I'm going to draw off a few c.c's. Just lie quite still.' Edwin was aware, as though several miles away, of a deep prick, and then his vertebr seemed, dully, to collapse. 'Lovely,' said Dr Wildbloode, 'coming away nicely.' Edwin felt unmanned, the core of his being slowly being extracted. He said, as though it were an important discovery: