Doctor in Love

by Richard Gordon

  I nodded.

  “There hadn’t been so much fun in the place since the night the postmistress went potty and took her clothes off in the High Street. I became a figure of great importance, because the old Major, like a good many people, always worried that he’d be good and cold before he was put in his grave. Thought he might wake up again under six feet of earth. All rather morbid. I had to open veins and things, which worried me a bit, because the last doctor I knew who did the same thing jumped the gun and ten minutes later the blood was running down the stairs. Questions were asked at the inquest.”

  He took another drink, ruffled even by the recollection.

  “Anyway, the old boy was clearly no longer with us. But he’d also been worried about being eaten by worms and so on, and had asked me to fix up some sort of container that would keep him looking in good shape. Until unearthed by archaeologists, I suppose. Fortunately, the local joiner-cum-undertaker was a jovial bird called Seamus, and although he was out of stock in lead coffins we worked out an ingenious method of wrapping the Major in rolls and rolls of lead sheeting, like you put on the roof. Damned expensive, of course, but the Major was paying. Eventually, we boxed him in, there was a good deal of whisky-drinking, and Seamus went round telling one and all that he was going to screw him down. Tears were shed and speeches were made and at last we were ready to move off for the churchyard.”

  “I hope,” I said, “that after such extensive preparations the ceremony proceeded smoothly?”

  “It didn’t proceed at all. When the moment finally came to leave, we couldn’t get the bloody Major off the floor. Absolutely impossible. We couldn’t budge him an inch, all lifting. We had a long discussion about it, and decided the only thing was to send for Jim O’Flynn’s breakdown van with the crane on it, or to unwrap him again. The guests became divided on this point, and as you know, when Irishmen are divided they become heated. After a while I gathered what I was thought the cause of the trouble, so I slipped away and gathered my few possessions and caught the afternoon bus. And here I am. There wasn’t any more point in staying anyway.”

  I laughed. “I don’t believe half of that story.”

  “It’s true. Even I don’t have to exaggerate about Ireland. Still, my emerald phase has now passed, Richard. I am to restart as a respectable English GP. And I might say how delighted I am to find myself in practice with an old chum like you.”

  “And so am I, indeed!” I clapped him on the shoulder. “It was always one of my more sentimental hopes at St Swithin’s.”

  “I’m mugging up my medicine, too. I opened Conybeare’s textbook this afternoon at the section on Diseases of The Alimentary Canal. I started with Oral Sepsis and got as far as Disorders of the Salivary Glands by teatime. I should be down to the caecum and appendix by Saturday.”

  Grimsdyke’s gay demeanour and gay waistcoats certainly came refreshingly to the practice. His manner was perhaps more suited for the bookies’ enclosure than the bedside, but he had the superb gift of being able to draw smiles from anyone between nine and ninety. He was obviously popular with the patients – except the Porsons, where he sportingly went in my stead when Cynthia developed her next vague pains, and was received “very much like the third-rate understudy appearing at short notice on a Saturday night”. Otherwise, only Miss Wildewinde seemed to take a dislike to my friend.

  “A cheeky young man,” she described him to me one morning after he had been with us a week.

  “Oh, I don’t know, Miss Wildewinde. Dr Grimsdyke has a rather cheerful manner, but he’s a serious soul at heart.”

  “I’m quite sure that Dr McBurney wouldn’t have taken to him for a moment, if I may say so.”

  “Come, now,” I said charitably. “He may attract lots of rich old ladies to us as private patients. Who knows?”

  “It seems as if he’s started,” she said tartly. “There’s a car outside that doesn’t look at all National Health.”

  I had just finished my surgery, and opening the front door was surprised to find at the kerb a long, new, black Bentley, with a smart young man with curly hair and a six-inch moustache lightly polishing the windscreen with a Paisley handkerchief.

  “Dr Gordon?” he asked, a row of teeth appearing beneath the moustache.

  “That’s right.”

  “How do you do, Doctor?” He shook hands with great affability.

  “How do you do?”

  “Well,” he continued, a slight pause occurring in the conversation. “Here’s a very great motorcar.”

  “Of course,” I agreed. “There’s none better.”

  “Not in the whole world. It’s got everything, plus.” He gave the bonnet a reverent pat. “Automatic gearbox, variable suspension, built-in lubrication, sunshine roof, three-tone radio – the lot. A wonderful motorcar. A cigar, Doctor,” he insisted, producing a box of Havanas from the glove locker as I offered my cigarette case. “Take a few for afterwards. That’s right. A drink, Doctor? The fittings include a cocktail cabinet.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t touch a drop during the day.”

  “I’m Frisby,” he said, producing a card. He was the sort of man you often find yourself next to in saloon bars, drinking light ales and talking about tappets. “Buckingham Palace Motors, of course.”

  I nodded. Car salesmen share with insurance agents and medical equipment manufacturers a quaint belief in the solvency of junior members of the medical profession. I had as much chance of buying the Bentley as the Queen Mary, but as I had a few minutes free I agreed when he suggested “I expect you’d like a spin in the motorcar?”

  “That was a delightful experience,” I said gratefully, as we drew up after a run round the Abbey. During this Mr Frisby had pointed out the detailed mechanical advantages of his charge in terms I understood as little as he would have followed an anatomy demonstration,

  “Doctor,” he said, “you’re going to be very, very happy indeed with this motorcar.”

  “I’m sure I would be,” I agreed. “Except that I’m afraid there’s not the slightest prospect of my being able to buy it.”

  He stared at me in amazement.

  “It was kind of you to demonstrate it, Mr Frisby,” I said, starting to get out. “But I don’t really want it. Or rather, I can’t possibly afford it.”

  “But you’ve bought it!” he exclaimed.

  “Bought it?” I began to feel annoyed. “But how could I? I’ve never seen the car or you before in my life.”

  For a second I thought he was going to take back his cigars.

  “Now look here,” he went on, much less affably. “Is this your signature or isn’t it?”

  He produced a printed order form from his pocket. It was signed “G S F Grimsdyke, LSApoth (Cork)”.

  “This is nothing whatever to do with me,” I protested. “I can’t imagine how my partner found the money to buy a Bentley, but that’s his affair. If you want him, he’ll be back in half an hour.”

  “Now look here – you’re Dr Gordon, aren’t you?”

  I agreed.

  “Well you have bought the car. We were instructed to charge it up to your practice.”

  “What! But…but…damn it! Dr Grimsdyke had no authority whatever–”

  “See here, Doctor,” said Mr Frisby, now sounding menacing. “You can’t muck about with Buckingham Palace Motors, you know. I’ve brought this motorcar all the way from London. I’m a busy man. Not to mention that there’s a lot more customers interested–”

  “Well, you’ll just have to take it back again,” I said sharply. “There’s been a mistake.”

  “Mistake, eh? I don’t think I like the smell of this, Doctor. You can’t pull any wool over the eyes of Buckingham Palace Motors.”

  “You can leave the bloody thing here, if you like,” I said. “But you’ll never get paid for it before it qualifies for the Old Crocks’ Race.”

  By this time our conversation had drawn a small crowd staring through the open windows. I jumped out and ran in
side the house. Shortly afterwards I saw Mr Frisby drive his merchandise away, possibly to apply for a writ.

  “What the devil’s this business about the Bentley?” I demanded, as soon as I saw Grimsdyke.

  “Oh, it’s come, has it? That’s quick service. I only posted the order yesterday.”

  “Do you mean you were so insane as actually to try and buy one?”

  “Of course, old lad,” he replied calmly. “Just what the practice wants. Window-dressing. You know what they say – a successful doctor needs a bald head to give an air of wisdom, a paunch to give an air of prosperity, and piles to give an air of anxiety. A posh car continues the process. Why, that’s the only way people judge their doctor. You must have heard dozens of times, ‘That feller must be good – he’s got a Rolls.’ Ever tried to park in Harley Street?”

  “But it’s ridiculous!” I exploded. “The thing costs thousands and thousands of pounds.”

  “But it’s perfectly all right, my dear old lad,” he explained condescendingly. “We’ll get it off the income-tax.”

  “Income-tax! Income-tax! Do you know how little we really make in this practice? We couldn’t pay for it with our income, income-tax, and post-war credits combined.”

  “I must say, you’re being a bit of a reactionary,” he said, sounding annoyed as well. “I think you’ve been with the old uncle too long already.”

  Relations between Grimsdyke and myself remained cool for the rest of the day.

  The next morning he unexpectedly wandered into my consulting-room as I was about to start the morning surgery. “Hello, old lad,” he asked. “Seen the Medical Observer anywhere yet? It’s out this morning, isn’t it?”

  “It usually comes second post,” I explained. I was surprised at this eagerness to get his hands on the weekly medical press.

  “Oh, does it? Be a good lad and put it aside for me, will you?”

  The Medical Observer happened to arrive just as I was starting my rounds. I tore open the wrapper wondering what item was likely to have interested Grimsdyke so keenly. I found it in the correspondence columns.

  “To the Editor,

  “Dear Sir,

  “We feel we should bring to your notice our remarkable success treating osteoarthritis with massive weekly injections of Vitamin B. In a series of two thousand cases seen in our practice we have obtained lasting relief with this treatment in no less than ninety-eight per cent of patients. The effectiveness of this therapy in our hands leads us to bring it to the notice of your readers, and we should be interested if others have achieved comparable results. Yours, etc.”

  The letter was signed:

  “Richard Gordon,

  G S F Grimsdyke,

  4 Monks Walk,

  Hampden Cross, Herts.”

  “My dear fellow, don’t work up so much steam about it,” Grimsdyke said, when I waved the Medical Observer in his face. “Of course I wrote it.”

  “But it’s advertising!” I said in horror.

  “And damn good advertising, too.”

  “But what the hell! It’s unethical.”

  “Oh, come off it, Richard. Surely you don’t believe the old idea that doctors never beat the drum? Why, that’s how half Harley Street keeps going. I admit they don’t put cards in their windows like the Egyptians saying, ‘Dr Bloggings Good For Everything Especially Diarrhoea.’ They write to the medical journals pointing out such things in a helpful way. It soon gets to the ears of the general public.” He sat down in the surgery chair and put his feet on the desk. “Why, the world will be hobbling a path to our door in a week’s time. Just think of it! We’re made, old man.”

  “I’m damn well going to write to the Editor and tell him it’s a forgery.”

  “Steady on, old lad! No need to get excited.”

  “I’ve never come across such a piece of flagrant dishonesty”

  “Dishonesty? That’s not dishonesty, that’s good business.”

  “In your mind they seem to be one and the same thing.”

  He rose to his feet. “Are you making reflections on my morals, old man?”

  “Yes, I am. You’re nothing but a dyed-in-the-wool inconsiderate rogue.”

  “Oh, I am, am I? Well you’re nothing but a stick-in-the-mud old maid.”

  On this note the two doctors separated to attend to their patients.

  10

  Grimsdyke and I did not speak for some days after that. We communicated only by notes passed between our consulting-rooms by Miss Wildewinde:

  “Dr Grimsdyke presents his compliments to Dr Gordon, and will he refresh Dr Grimsdyke’s memory as to the dose of Tinct. Belladonnae?”

  “Dr Gordon presents his compliments to Dr Grimsdyke. It’s five to thirty minims, and what have you done with the auroscope?”

  “Dr Grimsdyke hasn’t got the bloody auroscope.”

  “Dr Gordon also wants the multivite tablets back, if you please.”

  “Dr Grimsdyke has finished the bottle.”

  “My God, what are you treating in there? A horse?” My worries were increased through the commotion of changing digs. It had seemed reasonable for Grimsdyke to move into his uncle’s flat, and as two new regulars had arrived at the Crypt and Mr Tuppy had started to tell his stories about doctors all over again I had to go.

  Feeling that I could not face another boarding-house, I looked down the Personal column of the local newspaper until I saw an advertisement saying: “Lady of Refinement shares her lovely home with a few similar as donating guests. Write Miss Ashworth, ‘The Lodge’, Alderman’s Lane.” I decided that “The Lodge” would at least offer a fresh experience. Although my years at St Swithin’s had brought me across all types of landlady from the frankly hypochondriacal to the frankly sexy, medical students don’t usually get within sniffing distance of Ladies of Refinement.

  “The Lodge” turned out to be a neat villa with a faint air of antiseptic discipline about it, like a military convalescent home. The hall had a polished parquet floor on which a footstep would have stood out as startlingly as Man Friday’s, there was a hat-stand starkly bare of hats, a brass gong between a pair of brass bowls, pink-and-green leaded windows, and a fleet of galleons sailing boisterously across the wallpaper. There were also two pokerwork notices saying “Good Doggies Wipe Their Paws” and “Who Left The Lights On? Naughty!”

  Miss Ashworth turned out to be a small thin middle-aged woman in glasses, who wore sandals and a dress like those issued to the inmates of mental hospitals.

  “You’ll be so comfortable here, I’m sure,” she said, fussing me into a small room overlooking the back garden. “But you will be careful of the ornaments, won’t you?” She indicated the pieces of glossy china which covered almost every horizontal surface above floor-level. “They all have such very deep sentimental attachments for me.”

  I assured her that I would be most careful.

  Looking me full in the face she said, “You remind me so much of a dear, dear departed friend. Supper is at six-thirty.” She then softly closed the door and disappeared.

  The other refined people turned out to be a disgruntled bank manager called Walters, a thin woman in a sweater who spent all her meals intently reading the Manchester Guardian, a serious-looking young man with dirty collars and furunculosis, and more old ladies. We all wished each other good morning or good evening, then sat through our meals in an atmosphere of depressed silence, as though waiting for something nasty to happen.

  “Sorry to see you’ve ended up here,” said Mr Walters morosely when we were left alone after supper, which had consisted of sloppy things in thick china bowls.

  “Oh, it doesn’t seem too bad,” I said, to cheer myself up. Digs are the curse of higher education. I had been living in one sort or another since I was eighteen, and I was now so sick of other people’s houses that even rooms in St James’s Palace wouldn’t have excited me. “Been here long?”

  “Three years. And I’d move tomorrow if I could raise the energy. Not that there�
��d be much point. I’m a bachelor, you know, and I’ve lived in pretty well every lodgings in Hampden Cross by now. I suppose I shall just go on here until I drop dead. Then I’ll be able to join one of Miss Ashworth’s parties.” I looked puzzled, so he continued. “Didn’t you know that Miss A. communicates with her dead guests nightly? It’s sometimes quite difficult in this house to tell who are the living inhabitants and who the defunct ones. No, no, my lad,” he said, shaking his head gloomily. “You take my advice. Don’t unpack.”

  It was perhaps these disturbing remarks which led to my absently knocking over a small group of china cats in my bedroom. Hoping that one ornament the less wouldn’t he noticed, 1 carefully collected the fragments and hid them in my suitcase. I was just getting into bed when I carelessly pushed a china seal off the edge of the mantelpiece, and this too I gathered guiltily and hid in my case. Three days later I wondered if my subconscious antagonism to lodgings was being transferred to the ornaments, because I had disposed of a china rooster, a little girl holding out her pinafore, and a dog with big eyes and its lead in its mouth. Miss Ashworth’s maid didn’t seem to notice, but I was aware that my luggage was steadily being filled with pieces of jagged porcelain.

  The hostility between Grimsdyke and myself naturally softened as the days passed. I think that we were both looking for a chance to put out our hands and admit we’d been bloody fools. I had in fact decided to seek him out and suggest we sank our quarrel in a pint of bitter, when I arrived back in the surgery one evening and found our narrow hall filled with steel and red plastic furniture.

  “What the devil’s all this?” I demanded of the man waiting with the invoice. “It looks as though we were going to start a cocktail bar.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that, sir. The other doctor gave instructions to deliver today.”

  “Oh, he did, did he? Well, my instructions are to take the lot away again. And what are you doing, may I ask?” I demanded of a solemn-looking man in dungarees screwing something on the broom cupboard door. “PATHOLOGICAL LABORATORY’? What on earth’s the meaning of this?”