The Doctor Is Sick

by Anthony Burgess

  'Nigel?' said F. Willoughby. 'Which Nigel? Nigel Crump? Nigel Meldrum? Nigel Mackay-Muir? There's a fair number of Nigels.'

  'Nigel with a beard.'

  'Bless you,' said F. Willoughby Dickensianly, 'they've most of them got beards. And there's none of their stuff round here.' He gazed somewhat gloomily at the mostly deplorable pictures on the walls: old-style Chirico pastiches with broken columns and arthritic horses; a portrait or two of the artist's commonplace friend; lifeless still-lifes; a kind of Klee with a stick man and a chunk of bread moon.

  As the evening progressed Edwin bought most of these pictures. He thought it a pity that so many of the artists who eagerly accepted Bob's fake notes had been so little trained in visual observation, but that, after all, was their business. Edwin began to feel mature and gangsterish. The painters promised to arrange delivery of their works and, after some thought, Edwin gave his address as the hospital and his name as R. Dickie. There was still no sign of Sheila and whichever Nigel it was, but Edwin began to care less as the drink flowed. To give the young painters their due, they were quick to change their five-pound notes into wine, spirits and genuine currency. Ultimately, too, it was not the club that seemed to suffer: a painter who, from his lack of beard, seemed relatively prosperous, came in to cash a cheque, a fairly large one. He walked out head high, his nose splayed in the insolence of success, with a fair number of fake notes. So everything was really all right.

  The young man with the straight hair and Colin Wilson turtle-neck took his central stool again and struck a lumpish bass E and a neuralgic treble one, a flat A, a tinny D, a fair G and a sharpish B. Then, to a bigger crowd than before, he began to sing a song very popular at that time with young England: an historic American ballad about the discomfiture of the British at the Boston Tea Party. But F. Willoughby, F. Primum Mobile Willoughby, still moved, like owls, in circles.

  'You've got to admit,' he said, 'that that's the real test of draughtsmanship. Could Rubens do it? Could the one with one ear do it? Could that big Spanish painter with the astigmatism? No. But I've done it, haven't I? I let you have those too cheap,' he said.

  'You can have another pound,' said Edwin, reaching for five.

  'And so these Boston citizens, still with their feathers on,

  Staggered from the hold with the chests upon their

  backs.

  Cheer, boys, cheer as the tea hits the harbour:

  Davy Jones can drink it and the devil pay the tax.

  'It's appreciation that's important, too,' said F. Willoughby. 'You need two kinds of patrons really. Those with the money and those with the taste. That might be a good sort of argument for marriage.'

  'Shhhhhhh. Shhhhhhh.'

  'But,' said Edwin, 'if a machine can do it better--'

  'A machine can't do it better.'

  'It's like photography really, isn't it?' said Edwin. 'What you don't get in a photograph is the human vision. But the human vision is essentially imperfect. That's why a perfect circle--'

  'Shhhhhh. Shhhhhhhhhhhh.' Edwin pouted his lips in kisswise answer to a tousled shushing girl. A kiss? Was sex returning?

  'Look,' said the singer. 'I've had about enough of this. It was just the same when I was reciting the poem. It's sheer bad manners. Either he shuts up or I shut up.' His guitar twanged agreement.

  'I'm sorry,' said Edwin, ready with a five-pound note. The singer glared and continued:

  'That was the beginning of the famous Revolucyon - Fight, boys, fight till America is free . . . '

  At the curtains of the club Nigel and Sheila had appeared, Sheila in green with a hat like a leaf. 'Sheila!' called Edwin, trying to break through the crowd.

  'Shhhh. Shhhhhh.'

  'Sheila! Sheila!' But Sheila acknowledged this call with a mere formal wave. A man with unknown hair, seen here before sometime. Must be so, for he knew her name. Edwin pushed but was counter-pushed.

  'May I,' asked the singer, 'be allowed to finish the song? A few more lines, that's all. May I crave the indulgence of a modicum of bloody courtesy?' There was a buzz of angry approval.

  Sheila and Nigel spoke silently to each other: too crowded, too uncomfortable, too difficult to get a drink, go somewhere quieter. Too many patrons tonight. (Too good a patron in Edwin.)

  '. . . Hang King George and roast his ruddy lobsters;

  The devil is a-waiting to invite them all to tea.'

  Sheila and Nigel were leaving. 'Sheila!' called Edwin. There were claps and commiseration for the singer, hard looks for Edwin. He tried desperately to carve a path to his departing wife. 'Sheila!'

  'Won't I do?' said a brassy woman. She was no artist: a tradeswoman merely, driven to the membership of many clubs by the Home Office ban on street peddling. She had flesh - better than paint - to offer to rich Edwin. The singer, grasping the neck of his guitar, came up to Edwin and said:

  'Bad manners are something I can't stand. I can stand deliberate insults even less.' He gripped Edwin's jacket. 'I want an apology.'

  'Why? What for? Look, it's my wife out there. I've got to get to her. For Christ's sake--'

  'You called me a sheila. I heard you distinctly. You've been getting at me all evening. Well, I won't have it.' . .

  Edwin tugged his coat loose and tried to get away. The singer went for Edwin's collar. Edwin grew angry and hit out. The singer made a grab for Edwin's hair. To his horror it came away sweetly in his hand. 'Now see what you've done,' said the brassy woman. 'You ought to be had up for that.'

  The Byronic wig now began to travel swiftly at head-level through the club, as in a forfeit game where, everybody fearing that the music will suddenly stop, there is a psychotic passing on of the balloon. Edwin chased it. F. Willoughby was no help; he laughed niggerishly, showing tombstone teeth. The wig reached the bar and rested for a brief space above the barman's squint. Then it swiftly completed the ellipse, returning, amid much applause, to Edwin via a woollen-bodied girl who clumsily curtseyed.

  'You don't want to take too much notice, dear,' said the brassy woman. 'Let them laugh if they want to. I think baldheaded men are attractive.' Not unattractive herself, though brassy: a brassbold face, the curls of her brass-coloured hair set hard, breasts that seemed to promise the hardness of brass under the mustard sweater. It was nice of her to say that. Edwin went outside and looked left and right. No sign of either of them. They'd probably picked up a cab. Or were in some pub or other near here. It was a wearisome and drunken business, looking for one's wife.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Time was the trouble, so far as pub-searching for her was concerned: there was so little of it left. Soon, when the barman of his fourth pub called it, there was none of it left. Edwin had a double Scotch and twenty Senior Service in each of the first three pubs, as well as four pounds twelve and a penny, looking round all the time for a sign of Sheila. Fondling the mounting tide of real money in his trouser pocket, he began to wonder why he was searching for her. Then he remembered: love. That was it, love. He knew there was something.

  'Do take that thing off your head,' said the brassy woman. 'You look ever so much nicer without it. Honest. I love bald men.' The barman had called last orders, and there she was at the bar. 'Thank you, dear,' she said. 'I'll have what you're having, and you'd better buy a bottle to take away.'

  'I've had enough,' said Edwin. 'Enough's as good as a----'

  'Never in this world,' she said. 'The night is young and you're so beautiful,' and she performed one of those subtle ritual hip movements that women sometimes make.

  'I should be saying that,' said Edwin, 'really.'

  'Never mind,' she said. 'Plenty of time for compliments. And,' she said to the barman, taking her double Scotch, 'this gentleman wants a bottle of Martell Three Star to take away.' Edwin handed over another five-pound note.

  'You've got plenty of those, guv,' said the barman humorously. 'You make them or something?'

  'Yes,' said Edwin. 'Pretty good for an amateur, eh?' All laughed heartily at t
his facetious exhange. The woman said:

  'What's your name, dear?' Edwin thought quickly and answered:

  'Eddie Railton.'

  'Whose leg are you trying to pull? Eddie Railton's a trumpet-player on the telly. Was, I should say. A doctor now. But he's on tomorrow night, so they tell me. Smashing-looking he is.'

  'All right,' said Edwin. 'You win. My real name's Bob Courage.'

  'Oh, that's a sweet name. Like a big sheepdog or something. Now isn't that really sweet? You ought to have your hair over your eyes, really.' Edwin obliged, tipping his wig low. She laughed gratifyingly loud, so he said: 'What's your name?'

  'Coral,' she answered, not without a simper. Funny, thought Edwin, how a woman can partake of her name, while a man's is just something he owns. The name made her hardness less metallurgical, drew attention to mouth and nails; its marine associations turned her eyes sea-green. But then, of course, it probably wasn't her real name.

  The barman called time and a soggy towel draped the beer pumps. 'It is all night you want, isn't it?' said Coral. 'It isn't just one of those quickie larks before the last train?'

  'Well,' said Edwin, 'I've nowhere to go. I mean, I'm not going back there to sleep three in a bed with all those vegetables. I did think of going to a hotel or somewhere.'

  'And I know the very place,' said Coral, taking his arm.

  'But,' said Edwin, 'I ought to explain. Don't think it's a matter of money or anything, because you're welcome to anything you like, but, you see, it's a bit difficult.'

  'What is? Christ, it's freezing out here.' It was certainly cold; cold sat in the streets like a personification of cold. 'Taxi!' called Coral. Edwin swung his bottle of Martell like a truncheon, not liking the look of some Italianate young anthropoids ahead. 'Taxi!' called Coral again, and a taxi drew up. 'You, is it?' said the driver. 'You?' mocked Coral. 'Who's You when she's at home?' and she named a hotel off Tottenham Court Road.

  'The point is,' said Edwin, as they moved off, 'that there's a certain difficulty. A failure of the libido, they call it.'

  'That's all right,' said Coral. 'I've had all sorts in my time. As long as you're not kinky I don't mind. But I knew when I saw you you weren't kinky. You can always tell from the eyes. You'd never believe what some of them ask for, never believe half of it.'

  'The point is,' said Edwin, 'that I can't really ask for anything.'

  'There was one of these,' said Coral, 'and he had me at his place and the place was full of coffins. But one of these had a side-door you could slide out of. Weird? I've never seen anything like it. But it was five nicker a nail, and things weren't too good after the Yanks left. There he was, hammering them in, shouting "Prepare to go and meet thy God," and me trembling like a bloody leaf inside, hoping that trap-door was going to open all right. It did, or I wouldn't be here to tell you, would I? And there are some who'll give anything to be whipped. Anything. Thank your stars you're not in my profession, coming up against all these kinky types, that's all I can say. Straight-forward's good enough for me, with a bit of a cuddle before and after.' She gave Edwin a bit of a cuddle.

  'The point is,' said Edwin.

  'We're there,' said Coral. 'Don't tip this one too well, he's a bit saucy.' Edwin paid with real money, for which the driver evinced little gratitude. ('A five-pound note's what you deserve, my lad,' thought Edwin.) And he paid real money in advance to the reception clerk of the hotel, an hotel that did not seem to be merely functional: there was a tiny television room, and the clerk sped them upstairs with no wink or leer. The bedroom had a homely double bed with a chamber-pot gleaming glacially beneath; there was an electric fire with a shilling meter. 'It's bloody freezing,' cried Coral. 'Open that bottle and give me a swiggy.' Edwin laid his silver on the bed, looking for shillings. 'And ten quid on the mantelpiece,' said Coral, 'while you're at it. Then we can forget about the money side, see.'

  They sat by the fire on a couple of bedroom chairs, drinking brandy from the one tooth-glass. 'I like a good talk,' said Coral, 'before getting down to it. It makes it more human, somehow. And it's nice to talk to somebody educated, the same as you are.'

  'The point is,' said Edwin.

  'I always had leanings that way myself. Books and music and so forth. But where does it get you? Where's it got you? Bald-headed before your time, with study, I dare say, studying away at books, as I can see from your eyes. Not that I don't like bald heads. I like bald heads very much. Do take that thing off,' said Coral. 'That's right. That's lovely. That's really attractive.' And she gave Edwin's scalp a sticky kiss. Then she raised her skirt unseductively and began to unfasten her stocking-tops. 'Warmer in bed than out,' she said.

  'The point is,' said Edwin, 'that I can't.'

  She paused, fingers at rest on a suspender. 'Can't what?' she said, her eyes on him. 'You had something shot off in the war or something?'

  'No, no, it isn't that, that's all right. It's just that I can't. Failure of the libido.' Edwin gulped. 'That's what they call it.'

  'That's what you said before,' said Coral. 'Whatever part of the body that is.'

  'It's not a part of the body,' said Edwin. 'I just can't work up any interest, not in any woman. That's why my wife's gone off with this other man, a painter with a beard.'

  'They're no better for having beards,' said Coral, shaking her head. 'Hair doesn't make them any better at it. That's where the Bible goes wrong. I don't care much for hair, anyway. Anyway, what do you mean by that remark? About no interest in women?'

  'Please,' said Edwin, 'don't get angry about it. It doesn't mean that I don't think you're attractive. You are, very. But I don't want to do anything about it, that's all.'

  'Would you rather be with another man, is that it? You're queer, is that it? Well, what the bloody hell did you start on me for?'

  'I didn't start anything,' said Edwin, 'as you well know. And you haven't got anything to complain about. There's your money on the mantelpiece. You can just go, can't you? Ten quid for doing nothing.'

  'That's right,' said Coral. 'Send me out in the cold. Make me look a bloody fool down there at the desk. I've got my pride, haven't I?'

  'But surely,' said Edwin, 'you only regard this as a means of making money?'

  'Oh, money,' she sneered. 'Money's all right, I suppose. But life can't be just money and nothing else, can it? I mean to say. It gets me, that does. Gets me where it hurts most. I mean, there you are, and you're not a queer, and you're not kinky, and you've had nothing shot off in the war. And then I strip off and lie down on that bed or in front of that fire and all you can do is say you're not interested. And you with that bald head as well.'

  'Is that honestly all that you people sell?' said Edwin. 'Passivity? Just becoming a thing, a temporary receptacle for dirty water? That gets me where it hurts most?'

  'Do you mean to say,' said Coral in wonder, 'that this is your first time? You've never been before? I'm your first one?'

  'Well, you're not going to be,' said Edwin, 'as you know. But,' he said, 'I suppose yes, you are. There was never any need to. I married young, you see. What I mean is, I've never paid for it before.'

  'And you needn't pay now,' said Coral, 'if you're going to use that tone of voice. I have my feelings, the same as anybody else. I'm not going to be insulted.'

  'Please, please,' said Edwin, 'I'm not insulting you. Please. I like you. I think you're nice. But I just can't do anything. That's all there is to it.'

  'Oh, no,' said Carol, 'that's not it.' She rose from the bedroom chair and took off her jumper militantly, her suspender-belt as if she were buckling a belt for offensive action. 'You get stripped off, too,' she said, 'and get in there and warm it. We'll soon see whether you can do anything or not.'

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Edwin woke up guiltily late. He knew it was late, because he could hear the loud sounds of London at work. The loud sounds of London, anyway. Coral had gone, leaving the wig to curl like a cat on her pillow. Edwin was exhausted but had a large appetite. He calle
d in the dispersed fragments of the night and roughly pieced them together, like a torn document. She had worked hard, that girl. She had earned her ten pounds, which, he saw, had left the mantelpiece. He hoped she would have no trouble with them. Naked Edwin got out of bed shivering and switched on the electric fire. There was no glow, and he then remembered that they had not troubled to switch it off the night before. He searched his pockets for a shilling and was interested to find that all his silver was gone. All his notes had gone too, the counterfeit as well as the real. Oh, well, she had earned it all, he supposed. Still, he would have liked to be able to buy some breakfast. She had left all his cigarettes, spoils of several duped pubs, and his matches. That was kind of her. Edwin put on trousers and shirt and socks and washed desultorily in the basin, wiping himself with the bedsheets. She had worked hard, that girl: a procession of many traction engines to crush a peanut. No, that was going too far. There had been an establishment of definite proof that rehabilitation was possible: a speck of gold in the river. Edwin completed his dressing and, before donning his wig, examined the stranger's bald scalp with care. Something was growing there, too: a kind of fluff sensible to the touch. He turned himself into quite-the-little-poet with a flourish and then prepared to go, not altogether displeased. His pockets were stuffed with cigarettes. He had matches. As that girl had sagely said, money wasn't everything. But he was so bloody hungry. She might at least have left him a pound. Two pounds.

  Edwin went downstairs and into the entrance hall. There was a different reception clerk on duty who greeted Edwin with cheerful familiarity. 'The lady left a note,' he said, handing him a folded piece of toilet-paper. The message, unsigned, was TWISTER. She had a lot of room to talk, hadn't she? Twister, indeed. 'We get a lot of people like that here,' said the cheerful clerk. 'Takes all sorts to make a world.' As Edwin walked down the busy street towards a large chain restaurant whose directors had fed him with individual fruit pies during the war, he composed a litany to himself: