Doctor And Son

by Richard Gordon

  Copyright & Information

  Doctor and Son

  First published in 1959

  © Richard Gordon; House of Stratus 1959-2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of Richard Gordon to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2012 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  1842324969 9781842324967 Print

  0755130669 9780755130665 mobi/Kindle

  0755130979 9780755130979 Epub

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  Richard Gordon, real name Dr. Gordon Stanley Ostlere, was born in England on 15 September 1921. He is best-known for his hilarious ‘Doctor’ books. Himself a qualified doctor, he worked as an anaesthetist at the famous St. Bartholomew’s Hospital (where he was also a medical student) and later as a ship’s surgeon, before leaving medical practice in 1952 to take up writing full time. Many of his books are based on his own true experiences in the medical profession and are all told with the wry wit and candid humour that have become his hallmark.

  In all, there are eighteen titles in the Doctor Series, with further comic writings in another seven volumes, including ‘Great Medical Disasters’ and ‘Great Medical Mysteries’, plus more serious works concerning the lives of medical practitioners.

  He has also published several technical books under his own name, mainly concerned with anaesthetics for both students and patients. Additionally, he has written on gardening, fishing and cricket and was also a regular contributor to Punch magazine. His ‘Private Lives’ series, taking in Dr. Crippen, Jack the Ripper and Florence Nightingale, has been widely acclaimed.

  The enormous success of Doctor in the House, first published in the 1950’s, startled its author. It was written whilst he was a surgeon aboard a cargo ship, prior to a spell as an academic anaesthetist at Oxford. His only previous literary experience had been confined to work as an assistant editor of the British Medical Journal. There was, perhaps, a foretaste of things to come whilst working on the Journal as the then editor, finding Gordon somewhat jokey, put him in charge of the obituaries!

  The film of Doctor in the House uniquely recovered its production costs whilst still showing at the cinema in London’s West End where it had been premiered. This endeared him to the powerful Rank Organisation who made eight films altogether of his works, which were followed by a then record-breaking TV series, and further stage productions.

  Richard Gordon’s books have been translated into twenty languages.

  He married a doctor and they had four children, two of whom became house surgeons. He now lives in London.

  Dedication

  To

  KATHARINE

  1

  ‘And how did the honeymoon go?’ asked my friend Grimsdyke, as though referring to some popular sporting event.

  I winced.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t smirk when you mention it,’ I said. ‘Even at this distance I’m a bit sensitive about playing the standing joke.’

  ‘Sorry, old lad,’ he apologised. ‘But you must admit that honeymoons are a bit of a laugh. At least, that’s what I thought when I watched you and Nikki going off to a lifetime of bliss in a hired Daimler with a couple of tin cans tied to the back.’

  ‘I’ll certainly agree with you they’re something of an overrated pastime.’

  ‘I bet they are. It must be even worse trying to kid the hotel management you’ve been married for years and years when you actually are. But, bliss apart, did you have a good time?’

  I hesitated. ‘No,’ I said. ‘As a matter of fact we ran into difficulties not even envisaged by Havelock Ellis.’

  Nikki and I had married unfashionably in the middle of winter, and chose a hotel in Cornwall with blue shutters and pixies on the teapots which seemed to cater only for other honeymoon couples and people convalescing from serious illnesses. We had hardly arrived when my wife started trembling violently. I put this down to emotion, until I discovered that she had a temperature of a hundred and three. So I ordered her to bed and treated her all week for influenza. Then I caught it myself and she had to treat me all the next.

  ‘That wasn’t a honeymoon, that was a virologists’ convention,’ laughed Grimsdyke, as I told him. ‘Still, it shows the wisdom of marrying a fellow practitioner. She can not only cherish you in sickness and in health, but cure you free of charge and do your work while you take a gentle convalescence into the bargain. Particularly, of course, when you pick such a good-looking doctor as Nikki. Have another beer?’

  We were in the ‘Hat and Feathers’ at Hampden Cross, a genial inn decorated with sporting trophies chopped from the fore end of deer and the rear end of foxes, which for several centuries had slaked the thirst of the small Hertfordshire town where I practised. We were enjoying the widespread British custom known as ‘a quick one before Sunday lunch’ – my own wife and others all over the country were sweating over the roast joint and green peas, while their husbands steadily filled themselves with beer until they would as cheerfully have swallowed boiled marbles instead.

  I could now seldom visit pubs at all, the doctor’s professional reputation suffering from repeated appearances in the local more than the vicar’s. But it was the first time I had seen my old classmate from St Swithin’s Hospital since he was best man at my wedding. Shortly afterwards Grimsdyke had found a way of combining his leanings towards both psychiatry and gracious living by becoming resident medical officer to a private mental home installed in a castle in Inverness, and now another winter had passed and spring had arrived with its gift of the English countryside in fresh green wrappings.

  ‘You’re not going back to Scotland?’ I asked, as Grimsdyke returned from the bar with our tankards.

  He shook his head.

  ‘I’m afraid Caledonia’s a bit too stern and wild for me. It’s wonderful how the inhabitants manage to thrive on draughts and oatcakes. Also, they shut the pubs on Sundays.’

  ‘So you’re settling back in London?’

  ‘That’s it. The job up north had its uses – particularly in topping up the exchequer, which was pretty low by the time I’d finished paying for your blasted wedding present. But somehow old Uncle Grimsdyke just can’t keep away from the bright lights of Piccadilly.’

  ‘There’s no one quite so provincial as a Londoner,’ I agreed, remembering my own spells of exile, which for a Cockney can be as bitter in Manchester as in Melbourne. The atmosphere of London had by now coloured both Grimsdyke’s lungs and personality, and he never felt really comfortable anywhere he couldn’t hail a taxi and order it to take him to Fortnum’s.

  ‘What’s your next contribution to the advance of medicine?’ I asked.

  He looked rather vague.

  ‘There’s my work for the popular press, of course.’

  My friend was referring to the knack he had discovered of writing medical articles for the newspapers,
which in deference to the strict rules of professional anonymity he generally signed ‘By a Distinguished Harley Street Specialist.’

  ‘I’ve got a rather jolly little thing on deformities coming out on Saturday, by the way, which I’m quite proud of. But first of all,’ he went on cheerfully, ‘I’m going to have an absolutely slap-up and buckshee holiday. I’m going to be Jolly Jack Grimsdyke. I’ve got the job as doctor on a Mediterranean cruise ship.’

  I was immediately interested. Shortly after qualification I myself had realised that a medical degree is also a ticket to a world tour, and signed-on as doctor to an old cargo boat creaking her way to South America. My professional duties seemed to consist largely of drinking pink gins with the Chief Engineer, and though this was an agreeable form of practice I felt that irreversible psychological changes might occur if I persisted in it.

  ‘That’s a bit of luck,’ I said admiringly. ‘How did you land the job?’

  ‘Through the last one. The chief psychiatrist was treating the daughter of a local laird, a smashing-looking piece who had what he called “a hysterical personality” – though personally I think she only needed her bottom smacked. Still, he must have done her some good, because next week she’s marrying young Lord Corrington, who owns the Lady Anne – that’s the ship, ruddy great white thing like a wedding-cake – and several dozen others besides. Fact is,’ he explained, ‘the Corringtons are going on the cruise as their honeymoon. She wanted a doctor aboard who knew her case-history, and as the chief psychiatrist couldn’t make it he sportingly suggested me. It’s just the thing. At the moment I need a rest cure, after more than a year’s uninterrupted employment.’

  ‘You might have quite a lot of work to do,’ I warned him.

  He looked pained. ‘Work?’

  ‘I mean, you can’t just shut a couple of thousand people up in a tin box and float them into the hot sunshine. They breed infections like mites in Stilton.’

  ‘All that’s taken care of anyway,’ Grimsdyke said lightly. ‘The Chief MO is none other than Sir Horace Harberry, MD, FRCS, and so on, who does it just to pass the time now he’s retired. He’s a chap who can take out an appendix between lunch and dinner without turning a hair. My duties, I gather, will be of a more social nature – such as showing pretty girls the boat deck in the moonlight. And of course there’s bound to be simply hundreds of them on board.’

  ‘All looking for husbands.’

  ‘I think I shall rather enjoy myself,’ he went on, ignoring the remark. ‘Particularly with refreshments at duty-free prices. How about another pint?’

  But I glanced at the clock.

  ‘I promised Nikki faithfully we’d be home by one-thirty.’

  Grimsdyke looked surprised. He would not himself have considered leaving until our jovial check-waistcoated landlord, undergoing the twice-daily transformation of an English publican, had hectored us all into the street.

  ‘Come on, old lad! Nikki won’t mind, surely? She’s a tremendous sport. And everyone knows that pub clocks are kept about twenty minutes fast, anyway.’

  ‘She may be a sport, but I’ve already discovered there’s no worse crime in the matrimonial calendar than being late for a meal.’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ he yielded. ‘But it doesn’t seem long since there was as much chance of detaching you from an open pub as a thirsty kitten from its mum.’

  I had been much looking forward to Grimsdyke’s visit, there being few experiences more gratifying to a recently married man than showing off his new wife’s cooking to his old friends. He turned out to be a rewarding guest, admiring exuberantly my wife, the roast lamb, the small cottage in which we lived, and even the garden, which was mainly a form of outdoor relief for the birds.

  Our conversation during lunch was of the sort inescapable between two Englishmen who’d shared the same educational establishment, and when the time came to clear away Nikki said with some relief, ‘I’ll leave you two to continue your reminiscences in peace. I can be getting on with the washing-up.’

  I gave him a cigar which had originated in the fibrositis of a certain prosperous Major Marston, and he leant back in a thoughtful silence.

  ‘What’s it like, old lad?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘What’s what like?’

  ‘Well – marriage, and so on. Being a householder with life insurance and a lawnmower. Doesn’t the feeling – if you’ll forgive my asking – of being rooted to one spot sometimes induce a mild attack of claustrophobia?’

  I considered this. I was in practice with a Dr Farquarson, a tall, lean, Scot whom I had met through his being Grimsdyke’s uncle. In days when applications for assistantships in general practice pour in as profusely as applications for Wimbledon tickets, I felt lucky to have ended in such a pleasant spot as Hampden Cross. It was near enough to London for an occasional night in town, yet far enough away for an occasional day in the country, and though it lay huddled in dark conspiracy with fogs most of the winter even these could be an advantage if the right sort of people contracted bronchitis.

  The letters ‘Dr Simon Sparrow, MB, BS’ were already weathering on the name-plate outside our surgery in a pleasant Georgian terrace facing the Abbey, and after several years roistering with Grimsdyke round the pubs of London – an exhaustive knowledge of which seemed the most substantial remnant of his professional education – I surprisingly found myself content to spend the evenings sitting beside the fire trying to finish the crossword.

  Grimsdyke’s question stimulated me to imagine anything else that I particularly wanted, but I could think only of a sports car. A doctor spends almost as much time in his car as he does in his bed, and I was saving up to drive one of these precarious models along the good old rambling roads of England. Dr Farquarson was probably right in declaring this a symptom of persistent immaturity, but he was a man who held austerely that all cars were the same as long as they kept the seat of your trousers off the road.

  ‘Claustrophobia?’ I replied. ‘No more than lying in a nice warm bath on a cold and frosty morning.’

  ‘So after a year’s sentence, you’re still a firm supporter of the wedded state?’

  ‘I certainly am!’

  ‘I suppose there must be something in it,’ Grimsdyke admitted. ‘The last few years all my old chums from St Swithin’s have been mating like mayflies on a hot afternoon. It’s probably one of those things that look more formidable to the onlooker, like eating oysters and skiing.’

  ‘Then why don’t you try it yourself and find out?’

  He looked shocked. ‘Don’t be silly, old lad. I’m one of Nature’s bachelors.’

  ‘Don’t let that put you off. The marriage registers are full of them.’

  Grimsdyke thoughtfully blew a chain of smoke rings.

  ‘It’s an anti-social attitude, I agree. But all sorts of famous chaps have really preferred womanless surroundings – Beethoven, Bluebeard, and so on. Not that I’m anything but an enthusiastic supporter of the fair sex, of course. But in its proper place. Now you’ve shot into postgraduate status,’ he added, giving me an interested look, ‘I suppose you must know a hell of a lot about women?’

  ‘Well, I know quite a lot about one.’

  ‘Good Lord, is that the time?’ he exclaimed, getting up suddenly. ‘I must go and ring the old uncle. It’s a bit of a bore, but I simply have to warm the poor old boy’s heart by letting him have a look at me from time to time.’

  Grimsdyke suffered from the chronic delusion of being Dr Farquarson’s favourite relative, though his uncle referred to him at his kindliest as ‘that unfortunate mutation in the family breeding pattern.’

  ‘Besides, I want to borrow that big brass telescope he keeps hanging over the fireplace,’ he explained. ‘Jolly useful for spotting passing ships, seagulls, and so on. That is, if I can convince him first I’m not simply going to pawn it.’

  ‘You can’t imagine the delights of a home-made meal to someone who exists largely on a diet of pub sandwiches,’ he sa
id a little later, as Nikki and I bade him goodbye at the garden gate. He had announced that he must be off to catch his uncle before the dear old fellow started out for his golf.

  ‘It’s always nice to see any of Simon’s old friends, Gaston,’ said my wife.

  He bowed low and kissed her hand.

  ‘And if I may say so, Nikki, you’re looking better than ever. Come to that, so does your old man. It must be all that gardening. Personally, it gives me a frightful backache just to walk past Constance Spry’s window.’

  He started up his 1930 Bentley.

  ‘And now it’s Ho! For the open wave,’ he called. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll send you a postcard. In a bottle.’

  As he roared away to his carefree bachelor life, with nothing more complicated to bother him than where to take his next pint, I realised how much our ways had come to diverge. I felt an involuntary twinge of envy. But it lasted only as long as the reek of his exhaust hung in the mild afternoon air.

  2

  ‘Simon,’ said Nikki as we went inside. ‘Do you want to go off on a cruise too?’

  ‘Well, you know the old sailor’s tale,’ I told her gaily. ‘Once a man’s sailed in a ship’s crew, he can’t hear a steam whistle again for the rest of his life without thinking longingly of his suitcase.’

  Then to my surprise she burst into tears.

  ‘Nikki, darling!’ I exclaimed. I put my arms round her. ‘But what on earth’s the matter? I was only making a joke.’

  ‘It was – Oh, I don’t know.’ She dried her eyes briefly with the dishcloth. ‘It was the way you watched Grimsdyke drive away, I suppose.’

  ‘Honestly, dearest – it never entered my head. I’ve swallowed the anchor, as they say. And it’s a terribly difficult instrument to disgorge.’

  ‘Simon, dear…’

  She looked up at me seriously.