‘But, madam, you do not require a bottle of medicine. You need a skipping rope.‘
She looked blank.
‘You are grossly overweight, that is all. You must eat only one meal a day and skip for half an hour before and after. I much regret that the rope must be provided by Woolworth‘s rather than the Government. Good morning.‘
‘I‘ve never been treated like this in my life, neither by a so-called doctor nor anyone else,‘ she burst out indignantly. ‘And if you won‘t give me proper treatment,‘ she declared, dragging her trump card from the corner, ‘perhaps you‘ll take pity on this little child. There‘s a nasty lump on his wrist,‘ she added with maternal pride.
‘Indeed? Let me see, boy. Ah, a ganglion. Mrs Bowler! Bring me a bible.‘
‘A wot?‘
‘Perhaps you are unable to lay your hands readily on the Good Book? This will do equally well.‘
Reaching for Price‘s Medicine in the bookcase, Sir Lancelot hit the affected part with it, as though swatting a wasp.
‘You‘ve hurt the little darling, you brute!‘ cried Mrs Perrins as Gregory let out a howl.
‘No doubt, but I have effected a cure. These harmless swellings are traditionally dispersed with a sharp blow from the family Bible. You will find that — ‘
‘He ought to be in hospital, the poor mite!‘
‘He ought not, but that is anyway a matter only for myself to decide. Good morning.‘
‘I‘ll write to the papers!‘
‘Please do. Good morning.‘
‘I — I‘ll report you to the authorities,‘ she quivered.
‘I hope so. Those authorities will be most interested to hear of your pharmaceutical shoplifting over the years. Good morning.‘
She grabbed little Gregory. She stormed from the surgery. She stamped across the hall, slamming the front door hard enough to knock out one of the little panes of coloured glass.
‘Next patient, if you please, Mrs Bowler,‘ demanded Sir Lancelot calmly. ‘After that pantomime let us hope we can get down to some real medicine.‘
‘There‘s been a call tor you to go to Sycamore Avenue.‘ Mrs Bowler lit another Weight. ‘Name of Hardjoy, with a sprained foot.‘
‘That can wait till I‘ve finished. When I go out kindly clean up this clinical pigstye. How on earth did halt a steak pie get in the sterilizer?‘
The next half-dozen patients all complained of headaches. It felt like a weight on the top of their heads and had tilled every waking moment for many years. All seemed surprised when Sir Lancelot immediately stripped them to perform a complete neurological examination.
‘Madam, I am a doctor, not a clairvoyant,‘ he complained rather peevishly to the last of them, a pretty young woman in a hat like the cover of a seedmaker‘s catalogue. ‘All must be removed, I‘m afraid, including the charming headgear. Mrs Bowler!‘
‘I am perplexed,‘ he announced, by the time the hat could be replaced again. ‘Everyone in Leafy Grove seems to be suffering from severe headaches and I can discover nothing to cause a single one of them.‘ He stroked his beard. A thought struck him. ‘Married long?‘ he asked the patient suddenly. ‘Eight years, Doctor.‘
‘Your husband, madam. His occupation?‘
‘Travelling salesman.‘
‘H‘m. Not at home much?‘
‘Not much, Doctor. And... and...‘ She hesitated.
‘Doesn‘t take much notice of you then?‘
‘That‘s it, doctor.‘ She looked relieved.
‘It is your husband,‘ explained Sir Lancelot kindly, showing her to the surgery door, ‘who must cure your headache, unfortunately not myself‘
‘But he doesn‘t know any medicine, Doctor!‘
‘Luckily for us all, scientific knowledge is not necessary. Just pass my message on. Good morning.‘
She tripped across the front hail. She was so perplexed, she let the door slam and knocked out another pane of glass.
‘Surely this isn‘t general practice?‘ Sir Lancelot muttered to himself. ‘These people don‘t need medicine. All they want is a sympathetic ear. The doctor‘s job is to cure the sick, not to coddle the well.‘ He stared across a row of back gardens under the grey summer sky, ending at the parish church next to a cinema announcing BINGO TONIGHT. ‘Though this place is enough to give Mark Tapley a shocking melancholia,‘ he concluded sombrely.
The next patient was a worried-looking man with a cough, complaining he had been passing worms.
‘How many cigarettes a day do you smoke?‘ cut in Sir Lancelot, eyeing his mahogany fingers.
‘About sixty or seventy, Doctor, I suppose. Bit more at weekends.‘
‘Good grief, man! Think yourself lucky you didn‘t see a fall of soot. Bring a specimen. Good morning.‘
He was followed by a girl turned sixteen who wanted him to persuade her parents she should get married.
‘Married?‘ He looked astounded. ‘What on earth is wrong with young people these days? Marriage is something which sets in much later, like arthritis.‘
‘Gerry and I have been going steady six months,‘ she told him pertly. ‘We know our own minds.‘
‘On the contrary, young lady, I would advise you to remember your endocrine cycle still has its L plates on. Good morning. Next case.‘
There followed five people wanting certificates for a week off work. ‘This will never do.‘ Sir Lancelot threw open the waiting room door. ‘The old St Swithin‘s technique, I feel, is needed. Kindly stop talking, everybody,‘ he announced briskly. ‘All those hopeful for certificates, free milk, bottles of medicine, new teeth and glasses, stand up. Come on now!‘ he commanded as one or two patients rose uncertainly. ‘Right — over by the window. All coughs, a group by the fireplace. Stomach disorders in the corner, and rheumatics under the Rembrandt. Your name, madam?‘ he asked the one still seated.
‘Mrs Peckwater, Doctor.‘
‘You are near term, I believe? Please step this way.‘
‘I got here before she did,‘ muttered a man in the corner.
Sir Lancelot glowered. ‘Possibly. But at least I can be sure this lady is suffering from a genuine clinical condition. Mrs Bowler, sweep up this glass. I don‘t want to spend the entire day suturing feet.‘
‘I‘m going,‘ his helpmeet announced, folding the flowery apron. ‘Going? Rubbish! How do you imagine I can examine a female patient without you?‘
‘It‘s a wonder the poor things let you lay hands on them at all,‘ she retorted, stubbing out her Weight. ‘Bluebeard!‘ she added, slamming the front door and knocking out the rest of the glass.
‘What impudence!‘ Sir Lancelot grabbed the telephone. ‘Hello? Mrs Chuffey? You are to come to my Leafy Grove address at once. I don‘t care if he is holding a luncheon party for the entire Cabinet, you must arrive here on the first train. Thank you. Kindly take a seat in the waiting room,‘ he added to a red-faced man hobbling through the front door with a stick.
‘You the new doctor?‘
Sir Lancelot eyed him. ‘That is so.‘
The man‘s glance was as friendly as fall-out. ‘I‘m Mr Hardjoy. I sent for you a good two hours ago.‘
‘The doctor is not sent for,‘ returned Sir Lancelot briskly. ‘He is asked to call.‘
‘Don‘t give me that. I‘ve paid my contributions.‘
‘Mr Hardjoy — ‘ Sir Lancelot tugged his beard. ‘As I doubt whether you are entirely familiar with the book of Ecclesiasticus, I will mention that you are enjoined by Holy Writ to honour a physician. But as you are a coward — ‘
‘What? You call me a coward-‘Mr Hardjoy raised his stick.
‘You are a coward,‘ continued Sir Lancelot evenly, ‘because you know my profession gives its services without thought of reward, convenience, or even personal health, and you behave towards it in a manner that would not be tolerated by a shopkeeper or publican or anyone else entitled to throw you out on your rather filthy neck.‘
‘You... you... ‘ Mr Hardjoy lifted a fist. �
�I‘ll raise this with the Medical Council!‘ he shouted.
‘Please do. Most of the members are personal friends of mine. Please don‘t push, damn you!‘ he added shortly to a little man in a black suit trying to edge through the front door. ‘Take your place in the queue, like everyone else.‘
‘Dr Dinwiddie?‘
‘Sir — Dr Spratt. I‘m his locum.‘
The man gave a thin smile. ‘I am Dr Fudds, from the Ministry of Health. I have called - dear me, you really should get this glass swept up -we do send so many circulars about tidy surgeries — I have called to raise with Dr Dinwiddie the matter of over-prescribing for his patients. We are most concerned about such things at the ministry, you know. Most concerned. A very serious business indeed. If I may now take half an hour or so of your time — ‘
‘Ye gods!‘ cried Sir Lancelot. He stamped into the surgery. He slammed the door. He snatched up a sheet of writing paper.
‘The Secretary,‘ he wrote rapidly. ‘The “Ginger Group” Dear Sir, I wish to join your Society at once. I enclose my cheque. Yours, L Spratt.‘
He threw down his pen. He stared blankly through the window. ‘Surely something can save the doctor for doctoring?‘ he demanded.
An object outside caught his eye. ‘I wonder,‘ he murmured. He stroked his beard. ‘I wonder... ‘
12
‘Mrs Perrins?‘ asked Mrs Chuffey severely in the waiting room. ‘Aren‘t you an old patient? This is Sir Lance - Dr Spratt‘s morning for new ones. But I shall inquire whether he is able to make an exception.‘
It was a fortnight later, the last Wednesday of July, with the country still freezing from Margate to Llandudno.
‘I didn‘t actually want to bother the doctor,‘ replied Mrs Perrins meekly. ‘I‘d just like to bring a few things back.‘ She indicated a shopping-bag filled with pharmaceutical supplies. ‘And can you tell the doctor how I‘m enjoying my new treatment?‘ she added, as Mrs Chuffey collected the booty. ‘Such a nice man he sent me to! So understanding.‘
‘You‘re an old patient, too, aren‘t you, Mr Hardjoy?‘
‘I only called to give the doctor these, with my compliments.‘ He offered a bunch of sweet peas. ‘It‘s fair wonderful the job he‘s done on my foot. And what a bloke! In my trade - I‘m on demolition - we‘re not given to mincing words, and neither is the doctor. Man to man, he is. The first time I met him, d‘you know he called me a coward? A coward! And I respect him for it. He must have been a braver man than me to say it. Every time he‘s treated my foot — ‘
‘I shall put the flowers in water for him,‘ interrupted Mrs Chuffey briskly.
‘No more patients this morning?‘ asked Sir Lancelot cheerfully, as Mrs Chuffey appeared in the surgery. ‘I certainly seem to be weeding them out. Though I fancy it was only the hard core who took advantage of poor little Dinwiddie. No doubt he will enjoy an easier run when he gets back tomorrow. Particularly as I gather his wife was a lady hammer-throwing champion in New Zealand.‘
‘And I‘ll have finished the spring-cleaning by tonight, sir,‘ she told him. ‘Excellent. You know, Mrs Chuffey —‘ Sir Lancelot stared musingly through the window, ‘ — this family doctoring is considerably more difficult than I imagined. In hospital surgery, you simply cut ‘em up and leave someone else to clear the mess. Here, it‘s the other way round. But the new therapist I co-opted seems to be doing a splendid job, I must say.‘
‘I gather he‘s a very nice young man, sir. I met his housekeeper in the greengrocer‘s.‘
‘Housekeeper? He‘s unmarried, eh? All the more time for dealing with that batch I sent him. There‘s the doorbell, Mrs Chuffey, and it may well be someone to say Mrs Peckwater‘s started. Oh, and Mrs Chuffey—‘
‘Sir?‘
‘Ring Harry the gateman at St Swithin‘s, will you? I want something sound for Goodwood this afternoon, if the blasted meeting isn‘t snowed off.‘
‘Miss Felicity, sir,‘ announced Mrs Chuffey a moment later.
‘My dear! What brings you to this outpost of civilization?‘ Sir Lancelot rose in surprise as Felicity Nightrider entered the surgery. ‘Not, I trust, need for more advice about Ron?‘
‘Please, Uncle!‘ She sniffed. ‘Please don‘t talk to me about him again.‘ Sir Lancelot raised his eyebrows. ‘I‘m sorry you‘ve had an estrangement now he‘s moving among television personalities.‘
‘And please don‘t talk to me about television personalities.‘ She shuddered and sniffed at the same time. ‘Particularly female announcers. Uncle — ‘ She came to the point. ‘I want a job.‘
‘A job?‘
She nodded. ‘You know how Daddy made me give up the nice job in the bookshop because of... of Ron? Ever since, I‘ve been working in that actuary‘s office, and I hate it. Do you think you could make me a nurse?‘ she asked eagerly. I was always jolly good at first-aid on the hockey field.‘
‘Alas, my dear, tomorrow afternoon I am quitting London for good. At last I shall be able to enjoy myself fishing in Wales.‘
‘Oh, Uncle! I‘m so unhappy.‘ Her lips trembled, and she burst into tears over the sphygmomanometer.
‘Am I to play Miss Lonelyhearts to every lovesick member of the family?‘ muttered Sir Lancelot, becoming impatient.
‘Ever since that day you told me to bring Ron home, Father‘s been so horrid — ‘
‘Good grief, girl, you‘ll be blaming me for the filthy weather next - yes, Mrs Chuffey? Is it Mrs Peckwater?‘
‘The Vicar, sir.‘
‘I shall be delighted to meet him. Please take this young lady out and give her a nice cup of tea. The Reverend Peter Gwatkin, I believe?‘ he added a moment later, when Mrs Chuffey had deftly replaced his niece with the local incumbent.
‘Er —yes,‘ agreed the Reverend Gwatkin.
‘Have a pew - chair,‘ indicated Sir Lancelot. ‘Is this a professional visit?‘
‘Er - no.‘ The Vicar was a tall young man with prominent ears, which at that moment were red. He nervously twitched his clerical grey trousers. He had imagined the doctor to be slovenly, ignorant, and probably insane. The distinguished-looking forthright figure he now-found behind the consulting desk made it difficult to raise the subject of his visit.
‘Gwatkin? Gwatkin?‘ muttered Sir Lancelot. ‘Didn‘t you once play cricket tor Oxford?‘
‘That‘s right,‘ he admitted, the ears becoming more incandescent.
‘Medium-pace bowler with a good leg cutter, it I recall? How can I be of service?‘ the surgeon invited.
‘Doctor, I am — er, naturally anxious to do all I can for my parishioners. And particularly for these fifty or so you‘ve sent me in the past fortnight. But I am not a medical man, Dr Spratt.‘
‘Neither are they medical patients,‘ Sir Lancelot told him genially. ‘Do you realize the surgeries of this country are choked w ith people who've nothing wrong with them except a failure to cope with the ordinary, relatively simple and usually extremely dull problems of everyday life?
And that the useless drugs they swallow would alone pay for the upkeep of your entire Establishment?‘
‘I agree, Dr Spratt, people seem to take rather a lot of pills here in Leafy Grove.‘ The Rev. Gwatkin shifted in his chair. ‘But it‘s the doctors who sign the prescriptions,‘ he pointed out.
‘They don‘t want pills,‘ declared Sir Lancelot. ‘They want sympathy. Their own families have heard the tale of woe so often they‘re fed to the back teeth. People used to confide in you fellers before medicine became respectable, but now they reckon the doctor with all his scientific mumbo-jumbo is a better bet. I suppose,‘ he broke off reflectively, ‘it‘s because we try to achieve our results in this world and you in the next.‘
‘Naturally, Dr Spratt,‘ continued the Vicar defensively, ‘I am always ready to listen to anyone‘s troubles but — ‘
‘You did a capital job on Mrs Perrins, by the way,‘ Sir Lancelot congratulated him. ‘You‘ve made an honest woman of her. I mean, you‘ve restored her sens
e of moral values. Sympathy!‘ Lie gazed through the window. ‘By George!‘ He jumped up, seized with an idea. ‘Felicity, my dear!‘ he called through the surgery door. ‘I have a job for you. My niece, Miss Nightrider,‘ he introduced her, as the Vicar‘s ears, which had dimmed a little, switched on again.
‘You have a spare downstairs room in that enormous vicarage, I‘m sure? Good. Then I would like you to start the country‘s first sympathy clinic. I will pay you a small salary, Felicity, and after six months I shall expect enough material for a paper in the Lancet. It may well be a milestone in family doctoring,‘ he ended, rubbing his hands.
‘But, Dr Spratt! I — I‘m afraid it may not be thought quite regular in some quarters,‘ muttered the Vicar, his ears now seeming in danger of bursting into flames.
‘Rubbish, man. Her father runs the Morality Foundation. By the way, Felicity,‘ he added, scribbling on a piece of paper, ‘you might get these two items at the chemist‘s. One you rub on and the other you inhale — ah, the doorbell,‘ he broke off. ‘I suspect it is the herald of Mrs Peckwater‘s coming baby. I‘ll answer it,‘ he boomed genially to Mrs Chuffey. ‘Ye gods!‘ he cried on the doorstep.
Sir Lancelot‘s face, which had been wearing an expression far sunnier than the weather, instantly frosted over.
‘What the devil do you want?‘ he barked.
‘I just had to talk to you, sir.‘
In the excitement of running a general practice Sir Lancelot had totally forgotten Tim Tolly.
‘The feeling is not reciprocated.‘
‘But, sir!‘ complained Tim. ‘My whole life is ruined.‘
‘I am sorry, though I find it difficult to believe.‘
‘Euphemia‘s written to say you‘ve forbidden her to see me again.‘
‘An extremely sensible course. Good morning.‘
‘She says you‘ll send her home to Singapore it I do.‘
‘By the very first aeroplane. Good morning.‘
‘But, Sir Lancelot!‘ He stuck a foot in the door. ‘She is half of my very self!‘
The Summer of Sir Lancelot Page 12