DOCTOR IN CLOVER

by Richard Gordon

  'Jolly hard luck,' I sympathized.

  The mump virus, of course, can wreck your endocrine glands if you're unlucky enough to get the full-blown complications.

  'If all goes well,' he ended, 'I hope you will inherit more from me than merely my work. I will detain you no longer from your studies.'

  The rest of the week I sat in my room reading detective stories, and pretty beastly I felt about it, too.

  Then one morning Mrs Wattle stopped me outside the surgery door.

  'Gaston, my husband and I had a little chat about you last night.'

  'Oh, yes?'

  'We fear that you must find it rather dull in Porterhampton.'

  'Not at all,' I replied, wondering if some revelling turbine-maker had spotted me in that night-club. 'There's always something happening,' I told her. 'The Assizes last week, the anti-litter campaign this.'

  'I mean socially. Why, you never met any young people at all.'

  It hadn't occurred to me that in Porterhampton there were any.

  'So next Saturday evening I've arranged a little party for you. I do hope you can spare the time from your studies?'

  Naturally, I said I should be delighted, though spending the rest of the week steeling myself for the sort of celebration to make a curate's birthday look like a night out in Tangier. When Saturday came I put on my best suit and waited for the guests among the claret cup and sandwiches, determined to make the evening a success for the dear old couple's sake. I would be heartily chummy all round, and ask the local lads intelligent questions about how you made turbines.

  'Here's the first arrival,' announced Mrs Wattle. 'Miss Carmichael.'

  She introduced a short girl in a pink dress.

  'And here come Miss Symes and Miss Patcham.'

  I shook hands politely.

  'With Miss Hodder and Miss Atkinson walking up the drive. That's everyone,' she explained. 'Gaston, do tell us your terribly amusing story about the clergyman and the parrot.'

  It struck me as an odd gathering. But old Wattle handed out the drinks while I sat on the sofa and entertained the girls, and after a bit I quite warmed to it. I told them the other one about the old lady and the bus driver, and a few more that I hadn't picked up from the boys at St Swithin's, and they all laughed very prettily and asked me what it was like being a doctor. I was quite sorry when eventually midnight struck, and everyone seemed to think it time to close down.

  'I'm sure Gaston would drop you at your homes in his remarkable car,' suggested Mrs Wattle.

  With a good deal of giggling, I discarded girls at various respectable front doors in the district, until I was finally left with only one in the seat beside me.

  'I'm afraid I live right on the other side of the town, Gaston.'

  'The farther it is, the more I'm delighted,' I replied politely.

  She was the Miss Atkinson, a little blonde who'd given the parrot story an encore.

  'Quite an enchanting evening,' I murmured.

  'But you were so terribly amusing! I always thought medicos such stodgy old things, even the young ones.'

  I gave a little laugh.

  'We doctors are only human, you know.'

  'I'm so glad,' she said.

  After leaving her at another respectable door, I hurried home for some sleep. Nothing takes it out of you quite so much as telling a lot of funny stories.

  3

  'I know you'll be pleased,' announced Mrs Wattle a few mornings later. 'I've asked little Avril Atkinson to supper.'

  'Very pleased indeed,' I told her courteously.

  The fact is, I'd have been pleased whoever they'd asked, even my cousin. By then I'd discovered the dear old Wattles were incapable of conversation about anything except happenings in Porterhampton, which if you hadn't lived in the place for thirty years was like trying to enjoy a play after arriving in the second interval. It did me no end of good to hear another voice at table, even if they did make me tell the story of the ruddy parrot from the beginning.

  After the meal I announced that my studies could slide for another evening, and politely joined the company in the sitting-room. Then Dr Wattle suddenly remembered he had a patient to see, and Ma Wattle had the washing-up to do, leaving Avril and me on the sofa alone.

  'How about the television?' I suggested, Avril's conversation being almost as straitjacketed as the Wattles'.

  'Oh, let's. It's my favourite programme tonight.'

  I switched on the set, turned down the lights, and when we'd watched a few parlour games and chaps pretending to get fierce with each other over the political situation, I very civilly drove her home.

  'Do you like classical music, Gaston?' asked Mrs Wattle a few mornings later.

  'I'm not adverse to a basinful of Beethoven from time to time,' I admitted.

  'I'm so pleased. I've got a ticket for our little amateur orchestra next Friday in the Town Hall. Would you care to go?'

  I was glad of an excuse to go out in the evening, now being rather bored with all those stories about chaps killing other chaps by highly complicated means. As I sat down among the potted municipal palms, I found Avril in the next seat.

  'Quite a coincidence,' I remarked. She smiled.

  'You have such a sense of humour, Gaston. Wasn't it nice of Mrs Wattle to give us the tickets?'

  'Oh, yes, quite.'

  The dear old thing seemed to be getting forgetful, which I put down to the normal hormonal changes in a woman of her age.

  The next few days were brightened by excitement over the great event in professional circles at Porterhampton, the annual medical dinner. As the Wattles seemed to find this a combination of the Chelsea Arts Ball and the Lord Mayor's Banquet, to please the dear old couple I agreed to put on a dinner jacket and accompany them, though personally nothing depresses me quite so much as a lot of other doctors. I had just eased into my chair in the ballroom of the Commercial Hotel, when I realized that I was once more sitting next to Avril Atkinson.

  'So nice of Dr Wattle to have invited me,' she began. 'Are you going to make a speech with your terribly funny stories?'

  'Not for me, I'm afraid. Though the fat chap with the microphone has a wad of papers in his pocket the size of an auctioneer's catalogue. Remarkable, isn't it, how men find so much to say after dinner when their wives haven't had a word out of them for years over breakfast?'

  She giggled. 'Gaston, you're terribly witty.'

  'Just wait till you've heard the fat chap.'

  The guest on my other side having nothing to talk about except the progress of his patients and his putting, I passed the meal chatting lightly to Avril and when the floods of oratory had subsided took her home in my car.

  'You simply must come in and meet daddy,' she invited.

  Her father was a decent old boy, who gave me a whisky and soda and seemed intelligently interested in the National Health Service-rates of pay, prospects of promotion for young practitioners, and so on. I put him right on a few points, and went home with the pleasant feeling that I'd done my social duty by the dear old Wattles pretty thoroughly.

  I suppose I'm a trusting sort of soul. Strangers at race meetings sell me useless tips at a quid a go. Motorists miss me by inches on zebra crossings. I cash dud cheques for fellows I meet in pubs. Small boys have me in knots on April the first. But it was probably the soporific effect of life in Porterhampton which delayed tumbling to my plight until the morning I was called to treat the girl with the pink dress from my party for mumps.

  'When's it to be announced?' asked this Miss Carmichael, as I removed the thermometer from her mouth.

  'What announced?'

  'Don't play the innocent, Doctor. Everyone in Porterhampton has known about it for weeks. Your engagement to Avril Atkinson, of course.'

  'Avril Atkinson!'

  I picked up the bits of shattered thermometer from the floor.

  'But dash it, that's ridiculous! I hardly know the girl.'

  'Now, now! You're always being seen together, a
t concerts and dinners and things. As for the time she went to the Wattles' for supper-phew! She told me all about it. Sitting alone all evening on the sofa in the dark.'

  I drove straight home and confronted Ma Wattle.

  'So Dame Rumour hath been at work,' she said coyly. 'I am delighted, Gaston, for your sake. You see, my husband and I felt we were selfish monopolizing your cheery company.

  Now you're settling down here, it's only right and proper you should take unto yourself a wife. Unlike us, your later years will be comforted with sons and daughters, whom we shall look upon almost as our own grandchildren. I'm afraid I've rather been playing the matchmaker. But I'm so glad you chose Avril. Such a jolly girl! The pair of you are ideally suited.'

  I had nothing to say. I went to my room. I paced up and down and glared at St Ives. I sat on the double bed and bit my nails. I wished I'd taken the advice of the Dean at St Swithin's and made my career in the Prison Medical Service.

  I certainly didn't want to pass the rest of my life in Porterhampton, even if old Wattle bequeathed me the Town Hall as well. I certainly didn't want to marry Avril Atkinson, who'd probably make me tell the story of the parrot every morning over breakfast. Now I couldn't see how to avoid either. I've often read in psychology books about the acute anxiety state, but I never really understood it until then. Then I had one of those masterly ideas that sometimes come before the bell rings at the end of examinations.

  'Mrs Wattle-Dr Wattle.' I appeared downstairs to find both of them in the sitting-room. 'I have something very painful to confess.'

  They looked alarmed.

  'I am already married.'

  I felt this was the simplest way out. It was beyond me to tell the dear old couple that their own idea of my spouse was as ridiculous as picking the Matron of St Swithin's. With a bit of luck they'd kick me out on the spot, and possibly use up Avril on my replacement.

  'My wife works in London. She is a nurse. A night nurse. I couldn't reveal her before, because…because the position which I have the honour to hold was advertised for a single man. I needed the work.'

  I sounded so pathetic, I felt quite sorry for myself.

  'If you will give me a few minutes to pack,' I ended solemnly, 'I shall remove my unworthy self from your lives for ever.'

  'How unreasonable I've been!' cried Mrs Wattle, and burst into tears.

  'We've deliberately set asunder two who have been joined together,' added Dr Wattle, beating his bald head.

  'You must ask your wife to come at once, Gaston.'

  'I'll double your salary.'

  'We'll give you the run of the house till you find a place of your own.'

  'All this might be rather inconvenient,' I interjected quickly. 'My wife's working every night. Important private case.'

  'Then bring her for the day,' insisted Mrs Wattle. 'How about lunch on Saturday?'

  'Yes,' agreed Dr Wattle, 'We shall be terribly upset if you don't.'

  I felt the script had somehow got out of hand. Perhaps it might have been easier simply to have married Avril.

  4

  The following Saturday morning the Wattles' house was twittering with expectation.

  'I'd better be off,' I announced, as the roast pork and stuffing sizzled in the oven. 'Her train's due in twenty minutes.'

  'Do greet her with these chrysanthemums, Gaston.' Mrs Wattle pushed a bunch the size of a sheaf of corn into my arms. 'They're fresh out of the greenhouse, and I'm sure she'll love them. And I'm quite sure we're both simply going to adore her.'

  I parked the car in the station yard, bought a platform ticket, and thoughtfully munched a bar of chocolate from a machine. I sat on a bench and read the paper until the train arrived. Peering through the passengers, I soon spotted the familiar red hat.

  'Hello!' I called. 'Hope you didn't have a beastly journey.'

  'It was stinking.'

  'Welcome to Porterhampton.'

  'And what a dump, too!'

  'The city has several charming features, I assure you. Though I shan't be able to provide much of a conducted tour, as your train home's at nine-ten.'

  'Thank God for that. What on earth have you got in your arms?'

  'They're chrysanthemums, from the greenhouse.'

  'You look as though you've lost your street barrow.'

  'I think we'd better get off the platform. I might be spotted by one of my patients.'

  I led Petunia Bancroft to the car.

  'I've had some pretty funny parts in my time,' Petunia complained as we drove away.

  'But this one makes the Crazy Gang look like the Old Vic.'

  'It's perfectly simple,' I reassured her. 'You've only to play The Doctor's Wife, straight. To an accomplished actress like you, Pet my dear, it's as easy as selling theatre programmes.'

  'If I hadn't been out of work I wouldn't have sniffed twice at the idea, believe you me.

  'Regard it as a professional challenge.'

  'Costume all right?'

  'Perfect for the part.'

  'I thought I'd better leave off my ankle bracelet.'

  'Can't say I've seen a nurse wearing one.'

  'Supposing this old fellow-what's his name?-asks a lot of questions with long medical words and that? What the hell am I supposed to say?'

  'Leave it to me. Anyway, all he's likely to talk about is our epidemic of mumps. Just remember the time you had it yourself.'

  'I haven't.'

  'Neither have I. Good job, in your case,' I smiled. 'Might possibly have mucked up your hormones.'

  She asked how, so I gave a brief dissertation on the pathology and virology of mumps until we arrived at the Wattles' front gate.

  'Petunia,' I announced. 'Your cue.'

  I was pretty worried about the performance, though I didn't let on to Petunia. Another of the useful things you learn from studying medicine is radiating cheerful confidence all round while wondering what the devil's going to happen next. But I must say, she created the part of Mrs Grimsdyke magnificently. In half an hour the old couple were all over her.

  'Where did you train, my dear?' asked Dr Wattle, as we sat down to lunch.

  'Oh, at RADA,' said Petunia.

  He looked puzzled. 'That seems a hospital I haven't heard of.'

  'An affectionate name for the Royal Diabetic,' I told him.

  'Is it really? Dear me, I never knew. One learns something every day. And what is the trouble with this important case your husband tells us you're nursing?'

  'Er-foot and mouth disease.'

  'Attacking a human? Good gracious me!

  How extraordinary. I've never heard of such a thing before in my life.'

  'Petunia means the poor fellow is down in the mouth because he's got one foot in the grave. Quite a common nurses' expression.'

  'Is it indeed? Of course, you've had more recent contact with such things than I, Gaston. How one hates to be thought behind the times! I must try it out at the next BMA meeting. I expect, my dear, you've had wide experience nursing cases of mumps?'

  But I neatly managed to steer the conversation away from shop, and as the afternoon wore on I felt my troubles were sorting themselves out splendidly. The old couple's feelings were saved, I was out of the matrimonial target area, and I could make a leisurely exit from Porterhampton as soon as Miles was safely on the St Swithin's staff. Besides, I now had a handy excuse for nipping down to London any weekend I felt like it.

  'My train goes in about an hour,' Petunia reminded me, when we'd reached the cold ham supper stage.

  'What a shame you can't stay longer,' sighed Mrs Wattle.

  'Petunia has to be on duty at midnight,' I explained. 'As a matter of fact, I might as well be getting the car out.'

  I opened the front door, and a nasty complication to my little plan rolled all over me.

  I suppose this country wouldn't be the same if it weren't dosed regularly through the winter with fog. Can you imagine such national heroes as Sherlock Holmes or Jack the Ripper prowling about on ni
ce mild summer evenings? How would Dickens' characters have looked in the Neapolitan sunlight? Or the dear old Houses of Parliament shining like the Taj Mahal? Our national character gets regularly tested by the frightful complications of fogs, particularly the great big grey thing that rose like a wall of dirty muslin from the front doorstep.

  'I'd better telephone British Railways,' I muttered.

  The word 'trains' evoked only a mystified silence on the wire.

  'The midday hasn't turned up yet from Manchester,' said the fellow at the station.

  'And where the morning express from Glasgow's got to, nobody knows. If you want your prospects of getting to London tonight, sir, they're nil. It's the biggest and thickest we've had this century, according to the wireless.'

  'So now Petunia will have to stay till morning,' said Ma Wattle, smiling benevolently.

  'But that's impossible!' she cried.

  'Has to be back to her case,' I explained quickly.

  'Surely under such circumstances a replacement could be found in London?' insisted Dr Wattle.

  Petunia stamped her foot. 'Gaston can drive me.'

  'Only into the first ditch, I'm afraid.'

  'I absolutely and positively-'

  I managed to shut Petunia up, the Wattles clearly thinking this rather odd behaviour for a pair of lovebirds.

  'Don't worry, my dearest,' I pretended to give her a tender kiss. 'Leave it to me.' I hissed in her ear, 'I'll get you out of it.'

  'I'm not worrying at all, my sweet. You'd blasted well better,' she hissed back.

  We all sat down and looked at the television.

  I spent the rest of the evening trying to concoct some fog-proof excuse. Should I pretend to perforate a duodenal ulcer? Or set light to the house? Or simply make a clean breast of it on the hearth-rug? I rejected each one. They would all upset the Wattles too much.

  In short, nothing I could evolve by ten-thirty prevented the pair of us being ushered by Ma Wattle into my room, with two hot-water bottles in the double bed.

  'You dirty little stinker!' started Petunia, as soon as the door was shut. 'This is the meanest and nastiest trick-'