“Well then.” Dr. Whitcraft took a breath as he glanced around the room. “Miss Faffle, please schedule…Father Benison, here for a follow-up appointment two weeks from today, for his…cough.”
Even the unperceptive Miss Faffle sat open-mouthed, managing to grasp the rather delicate nature of this situation. At the doctor’s words, however, she remembered herself, dipped a pen in the ink and scribbled on the schedule.
“Mr. Brim”, donning a well-rehearsed expression of benevolence mixed with dread, forced a not particularly convincing cough. Dr. Whitcraft leaned close and rapped him on the back with one hand while tucking the mercurial ointment into the man’s waistcoat pocket with the other.
He grunted an acknowledgement to his doctor, and promptly gathered speed toward the door. “Mrs. Pursy, lovely to see you. Children…mind your mother.”
“See you Sunday, Father,” the oldest boy called after the slamming door.
Dr. Whitcraft was certain that the Pursys did not notice Father Benison breaking into a cold sprint the moment his feet hit the pavement, or that his hat had been sheared off and was tumbling in his wake. The doctor, however, shook his head at the sight, and supposed he would likely never see the man again.
Mrs. Pursy, meanwhile, scolded her youngest boy, and pried Miss Faffle’s paper knife from the chubby clench of his fist. Miss Faffle took the knife back and tucked it in her desk. “Why don’t you all have a seat while I prepare the examining room.”
Miss Faffle hurried around the swirling children. Dr. Whitcraft followed closely behind. Once inside, she dabbed at the stray drops of mercurial ointment on the table. “My goodness, Dr. Whitcraft, that was…”
“Yes, it was. Quite. I wouldn’t have taken him for a papist, let alone…well, no matter.” He picked up a bottle and studied its label. “I need to straighten out Mrs. Pursy’s purgatives. We should have a break after that, yes?”
“Oh no, doctor. There’s another pelvic massage scheduled straight after Mrs. Pursy. Mrs. Fussock.”
Dr. Whitcraft winced. Last time Mrs. Fussock was on the table for over two hours before she herself got fed up and left.
“Miss Faffle, I will be undertaking a new endeavor. I simply must do something to improve this pelvic massage business.”
“Oh, sir, that would make a difference, wouldn’t it?”
“Unquestionably. I have some ideas, perhaps new ways to address the anatomy. Or, better yet, maybe I can craft a device to aid with the matter. Regardless, I’ll need some test subjects eventually. I know it’s rather awkward, but do you think you could possibly find me some subjects—females who would be willing to undergo pelvic massage while I work out a new process? I would pay them a small incentive, of course…”
“Oh. Why, yes, sir. I could try to find some women for you.” She was so eager to please him.
“That would be splendid. Just splendid. Let me know if you get any takers. The sooner I can begin the better.”
Chapter Five
Dr. Whitcraft adjusted his glasses and licked his lips in anticipation. With the voltaic pile in place, and everything in order, all he had to do now was gather his courage and engage the damn thing.
Several years ago, he had become fascinated by the exciting new work with electricity being done by Italian physicist Alessandro Volta. The man had discovered that by placing discs of alternating types of metal in a stack and then submerging the whole business in saltwater, an electrical stream would be generated out of the top and bottom contacts. The invention was called the voltaic pile.
The moment he had read about it, Dr. Whitcraft planned to make one of his own. The science behind electricity fascinated him. He had always suspected something that powerful may have a medicinal application, as long as it could be thoroughly controlled and consistently managed. He had even published a paper regarding potential medical uses for electricity that had been very well received.
After collecting the necessary parts and spending a few hours tinkering with it, he had indeed been successful in building his own version of the voltaic pile. But, like any other new toy, eventually he grew bored and tucked it away in the bottom of a cabinet where it stayed, all but forgotten.
But this morning, after reading yet another article regarding pelvic massage, it had occurred to him that perhaps the voltaic pile’s electrical stream could somehow aid in the generation of a consistent paroxysm. Perhaps electricity was the key! Thrilled with this possibility, he dug out his old experiment. It had been necessary to refit the housing and make a new solution of brine, but within an hour he had managed to get the thing back into working order. Now, it was up to him to test it.
As he stared at his handiwork, he surmised that bringing the two contacts together on his skin might smart a bit, but he had to see what the sensation would be like. Goodness knows he would never do anything to cause his patients undue discomfort.
The anticipation was terrible as he looked down at the X he had drawn on his arm, but after reflecting on the sacrifices one must make in a life dedicated to medicine, Dr. Whitcraft took a deep breath, shut his eyes, and jammed the two ends together.
There was a sizzling snap, and a shower of sparks burst from the contacts, simultaneous with a vibrating sting that pierced his arm like a railroad spike. He shrieked, falling backwards through the smoke, landing hard on the floor where he heard himself deliver a most unprofessional staccato of profanity.
Miss Faffle appeared over top him. “Oh doctor! Doctor? Are you all right?”
But it wasn’t his stricken assistant that had captured his attention, but rather the dancing orange glow growing atop his desk behind her. Luckily, she saw it too, and grabbed a hefty volume from his shelf with both hands, smacking down the pyre with a thud. Smoke curled into a cloud and hovered over the scene.
“Well done, Miss Faffle. Well done,” he whispered.
“Are you all right, sir?” She fanned the toasted treatise over his desk. The burnt binding smelled acrid.
“Yes, yes, I’m…just give me a minute.” He skimmed his fingers over his singed arm.
“Oh, that gave me such a fright!”
“Yes.” Dr. Whitcraft got to his feet and dropped back into his chair. “I wasn’t quite expecting that either. I forgot how powerful this damn thing is.”
He straightened his glasses and watched the smoke enrobe Miss Faffle as she exited his office. With trembling hands, he shuffled his papers, dismayed to see the majority of his notes were now peppered with tiny black holes, some of which were still smoking. He shook his head and groaned.
****
Mrs. Brabble pulled at her gloves as she marched toward Miss Faffle’s desk. Dr. Whitcraft trailed behind, massaging his right hand.
“Again, Mrs. Brabble, I assure you…even though th-the resolution in question was not obtained on this particular occasion, I can say with the utmost confidence that the very process of the treatment does indeed offer a therapeutic effect.” But his words sounded hollow even to himself.
“Did you expect me to stay on that table for the entire day, Dr. Whitcraft?” She smoothed out her dress and straightened herself. “I had an engagement over an hour ago. I’m sure that my fellow members of The Society for the Prevention of Our Ruin were at a loss wondering what became of me. And I was to give the closing remarks, after all! Frankly, I am beginning to wonder about this treatment of yours. Are you even capable of doing it correctly?”
Dr. Whitcraft felt his face flush. “Madam! You yourself know that it has worked in the past. Feel free to seek a second opinion if you like. Any other physician in London is likely to have the same difficulty.” He tried not to sound as desperate as he felt.
But Mrs. Brabble remained unconvinced. “Regardless, I shouldn’t be required to pay for today’s appointment. My husband’s finances should not have to suffer because of your incompetence.”
“Madam…” He struggled to maintain himself. “The terms of our agreement have always been clear. When you gave your consent f
or this treatment, it was with the understanding that…it can sometimes be rather tricky—”
“It didn’t work! Simple as that! Do you deny it?”
“I am not denying anything, Mrs. Brabble, but you must realize that I have invested a significant amount of time and professional resources on your treatment today. You cannot expect me to just waive my fee.”
Nearby, Miss Faffle tracked the conversation like it was a particularly gripping match of tennis.
“Are you seriously telling me that I should be required to pay for a result that you could not achieve? Really? My husband will be unhappy to hear this…very unhappy indeed.”
Dr. Whitcraft winced. Her husband was a prominent businessman and fixture of London society. Perhaps this argument wasn’t worth it. He glanced at Miss Faffle, who responded with a shrug.
“Perhaps…perhaps we can agree to a reduction in my fee…on this occasion, because you did miss your engagement after all.”
“Only a reduction?” Mrs. Brabble tugged at her gloves again with a smirk, sensing an imminent victory.
The unpleasant Mr. Buzznack, who had been waiting in silence for his appointment, chimed in, “Well, if she doesn’t have to pay, I don’t see why I should. Nothing you do makes this gout any better.”
“Sir, this matter does not concern you,” Dr. Whitcraft snapped.
Another hysteria patient approached his front steps now, and Mrs. Snaggs was even older and meaner than Mrs. Brabble. Dr. Whitcraft grimaced at the sight. This matter needed to be resolved and quickly, too before Mrs. Snaggs could overhear it.
“Yes. All right,” he whispered like a beaten man. “I’ll refund your fee, for goodness’ sake. Miss Faffle will see to the details...I need to step away, to make some notes and such.” He shut his office door and leaned against it. He would hide in here until that woman left, he decided, dropping his head in defeat. After a moment he looked up. His eyes traveled across his desk and settled on the ugly, black scar left from the voltaic pile disaster. He shook his head and then stiffened as the booming baritone of his next hysteria patient floated through the door.
“Over two and a half hours? Good gracious! The man’s an amateur!”
****
Given that his first crack at crafting a device to assist with pelvic massage had nearly put him out of commission, Dr. Whitcraft decided to be a bit more cautious with his next endeavor.
Miss Faffle peeked into his office from the doorway. “What are you doing, doctor?”
He sat behind his desk with his sleeves rolled up; a variety of parts and mechanisms cluttered his desk, all surrounding a wooden housing that he had constructed earlier. He grunted while attempting to fit together several parts taken from a nonfunctioning timepiece.
“Well, Miss Faffle,” he adjusted a particularly stubborn gear, “I’m attempting to devise some type of…arrangement if you will, something that would make the whole pelvic massage experience easier on the physician. Something that will require a different subset of muscles, a different type of dexterity, perhaps…reducing the fatigue.” He hunched over further still as he tinkered, stopping periodically to consult a drawing he had made.
“What’s that crank for, Dr. Whitcraft?” She inched closer.
“I was considering attaching it to this, but now I’m not sure. I think I may need some more gears, on the flip side, there. And I’ll need a smoother surface for that articulating flat part.”
“I see.”
He picked up a screwdriver and tightened another gear, but something snapped off of the device. Several ball bearings rolled across the desk and bounced onto the floor.
“Damn,” he whispered. “Excuse me, Miss Faffle. That keeps happening.”
“One of your little flippers has fallen down there, too, doctor.” She knelt and pointed under his chair just as the front door clapped open. She stood back up and gestured at someone. “You can just sit over there, miss.” She turned to Dr. Whitcraft. “The last of your test subjects has arrived.”
“Ah, yes.” He put his invention aside and got to his feet, rolling his shirtsleeves back down. His device might not be ready to test yet, but there were other possibilities he had planned to consider. He smoothed his hair then strode around his desk, but stopped in the doorway to observe his reception room with a pleasant, but academic air.
Three female test subjects were indeed waiting, most certainly enough to keep him busy all afternoon. A closer inspection, however, revealed that these women were not exactly the cream of the crop. In fact, each one looked more haggard than the next.
The girl closest to the examining room wore an age-yellowed cap atop her wiry bramble of hair. She beamed at him, and her smile revealed a scant collection of teeth jutting from her gums like shards of brown glass. Dr. Whitcraft silently contemplated her, and then turned to the next subject. The second girl slouched in the seat and appeared unconscious, her chin doubling as it rose and fell on her chest.
The third subject made a sudden hmpf sound and shifted her weight from one hip to the other, glaring at him as if he had already wronged her. Her face was full, her cheeks distended to such a degree that her eyes were barely visible, although her scowl was unquestionable. Her large blousy shirt tented over her belly, which hung low and heavy over the top of her skirt. Was it even advisable to attempt his experiments with pelvic massage on a woman who was with child?
Miss Faffle, meanwhile, had returned to her desk, humming whilst she arranged and rearranged the flowers she had brought back from her luncheon date.
“Ladies, thank you all for coming!” He clasped his hands in a prayer-like gesture. “I’m not certain what Miss Faffle here has told you—”
“She ’asn’t told us anything,” the standing-girl exclaimed, shifting her weight again.
Dr. Whitcraft drew in a breath, looking at her over his glasses. “Miss, you are expecting a child, I believe it may be best to disqualify you from being a subject.”
“Wot the…? I’m bloody well not expectin’ a child!” She looked down at her front, and then back at him with outrage. Her face turned dark. “At least, I don’t fink I am…” She glanced at the other women while chewing on her lip.
“I see. Well, then…” Dr. Whitcraft cleared his throat. “The reason you are here is because there is a new procedure that—”
The one who had been asleep sat up and brought her knees together. “Is it gonna ’urt?”
“And ’ow much are yer gonna pay us?” the other added right before she spit an unsightly blob on the area rug.
“Oh dear,” he whispered under his breath as he looked at his floor. “Uh, no… it shouldn’t be that uncomfortable, and yes, you will be compensated for your time. I suppose we should just begin, then. I’ll need to see you one at a time. I suppose that would be the best way to proceed.”
The woman with the brown teeth stood up and walked past him toward the examining room. “I’ll do it first. I ’ave to be back by two.”
Dr. Whitcraft followed, but paused in the doorway. He turned back to Miss Faffle. “I shouldn’t be more than a half an hour.”
She nodded, but then stopped him, “Oh, Dr. Whitcraft, the phosphorous bottle and the pocket matches are already in there, by the basin, but—” she lifted a wooden box from beneath her desk—“here are the rest of the items you asked me to collect.”
“Oh, why, thank you. I almost forgot.” He rummaged through the box. A magnifying glass, a concave mirror with a candle fixed to the front, and a stopwatch were at the ready. “Capital,” he said.
He gave a final acknowledgment to Miss Faffle and balanced the box in one hand while pulling the examining room door shut with the other. He turned around, a smile of nervous anticipation on his lips, and then gasped. His volunteer was stark naked—arms and legs spread wide as she gracelessly scaled his table.
“Oh! Ma’am...my goodness.” He averted his eyes. “Let me get you a dressing gown, please! To preserve your modesty.” He set the box aside and hurried to
ward the washbasin, plucking a linen gown from atop a stack. With his head turned away, he unfurled it and sidled toward her with an arm extended. “Uh, miss…here is the—”
It was snatched out of his hand. From the strange, stale smell hovering in the air, it seemed this young woman was a complete stranger to soap and hot water. He would have to remember to tell Miss Faffle to use extra rosemary when freshening the room, but for now, he tried not to breathe in too deeply.
“Now, madam.” He took the magnifying glass out of the box and rolled his sleeve back up, “Let me explain what I am after here.”
****
“Miss Faffle, honestly.” The last of his test subjects disappeared into the street. “Where in heavens name did you find such a disgraceful lot of women? Two of them were syphilitic and the other had symptoms I’ve never seen in all of my days as a clinician. I can’t begin to describe what…” He shook his head; the vision of it all was too fresh.
Miss Faffle looked stricken, more so than usual. “Oh no! I am so sorry, sir!” She stood up, wringing her hands as she walked around her desk. “Well, I didn’t know how to go about finding you any subjects for your study, so I mentioned it to Mr. Gamon at luncheon the other day.” She looked down at her hands and twisted her fingers in a knot. “He told me he would take care of it.”
“Good Lord,” Dr. Whitcraft muttered, walking back into the examining room to give his hands another thorough dousing with the lye soap.
****
“Water pressure?” Mrs. Minnock laughed. “Like with a hose?”
“Yes, and I fail to see why that is so amusing to you. The implement directs a constant stream of water toward the patient’s nether region. A French fellow invented it, I believe. They’ve been using it for years in France and here in England as well, but of course it requires expensive equipment, not to mention a spa-like shower setting to get the job done. It’s impractical, of course, for all but the most solvent patients.”
The Five Step Plan Page 4