DOCTOR AT LARGE

by Richard Gordon

  'I'm a particular friend of his. Tell him it's Dr Gordon, and I've just had a row with Wilson, Willowick, and Wellbeloved.'

  Just a minute.'

  She shut the door, and returned a few seconds later to let me in. I saw that she was about nineteen, dressed in a dirty pink satin housecoat, and wore a rather vacant look. Inside the door was a small hall full of rubbish, and beyond that a large room with a window just below the ceiling. This contained a bed, a gas-stove, a washstand, and a table covered with dirty plates and empty Guinness bottles. Grimsdyke was in his pyjamas, with his hair dangling over his face.

  'I thought you'd gone up north, old lad,' he said in surprise.

  'So I had. Now I'm back again.'

  'Forgive this squalor-' He waved a hand round the room. 'Fact is, I took these rooms-there's a lot more at the back-to oblige some friends, rather messy people-'

  'I wondered if you could let me have my ten quid back?'

  Grimsdyke sat on the edge of the bed suddenly. 'Surely you can't have spent the other ninety? In two days?

  That's certainly some going! You must have had a hell of a good time.'

  'I bought a car.'

  'What, that ruddy great thing that's blocking out the daylight? I thought the coal had arrived. A bit on the posh side, isn't it?'

  'I felt a big car would be a good investment-to impress the patients.'

  He nodded. 'It's the only way the blasted public chooses its doctors. Did I tell you about a pal of mine called Rushleigh? Good scout, he qualified right at the end of the war, when you couldn't get cars for love, money, or blackmail. Unless you were a doctor, of course. So he filled in the forms, and got a nice new little family bus for about three hundred quid. He'd happened to pal up with a Free French bloke who'd been in the orthopaedic wards, and when this fellow went home with a couple of bone grafts Rushleigh got an invitation to stay at his place down at Nice, buckshee. So he set off in his car, but he'd only got as far as Rouen when it conked out. You know what cars were like after the war. He went to a French garage, where they mumbled a bit about spare parts and so forth, and told him it would take at least a month to get anything to patch it up. However, the British being considered good chaps in France at the time, they sportingly offered to lend him a very old aristocratic English car they had in the back, which hadn't been used for seven years and then only for funerals.

  'Rushleigh proceeded towards the sunny south, feeling he was driving a greenhouse. But he got there all right, and a month later showed up at Rouen. This put the garage in a bit of a fix, because there were apparently no spare parts anywhere. So they suggested to Rushleigh they did a straight swap. They could fix up his little family bus some time or other, and such vehicles sold like _gateaux chauds._ Hot cakes, old lad.'

  I sat down on the bed myself and asked, 'Did he agree?'

  'You bet he did. He'd quite taken to the old hearse. One of the garage bloke's brothers was in the Customs and Rushleigh wasn't averse to a spot of fiddling, so off he went. When he was safely back in England he thought he'd send the thing up to the makers in Derbyshire somewhere and have her done up. A few days later he got a letter from the managing director asking him to come at once and enclosing first-class ticket with cheque for incidental expenses and loss of valuable time. Rushleigh went up there preparing to be led away by the police, but instead he was given a ruddy great lunch and asked what he'd sell the old conservatory for. Apparently this firm had a museum of all its old crocks, and the one he'd picked up in Rouen was the only model of its type ever made, for some millionaire or other in Cannes in 1927. Fortified by the directors' brandy, Rushleigh said he didn't see the point of selling, because where would he get another car to continue his life-saving work? "My dear sir," said the managing director, "if you prefer, we should be delighted to give you one of our brand-new Golden Sprites instead." Rushleigh now drives round his practice in one of these; and the old devil's worth an easy five thousand a year.'

  'How about my tenner?' I said.

  'Would you like a cup of tea? Virginia will make some.'

  Virginia was standing with one foot on the table painting her toe-nails.

  'No, thanks. I've just had a pint of beer.'

  'Is it as late as that? I must be getting a move on. I've a good many appointments in the City. So if you'll excuse me-'

  'At the moment I face bankruptcy, disgrace, and starvation,' I said. 'If you've got any of that ten quid left, I'd regard it as an act of charity if you'd let me have it. I owe Lord knows how much to that agency-'

  'I can't exactly give you the cash, old lad, because I haven't got it. The market's been very sluggish of late. But I will tell you what I'll do-Would you like a job?'

  'As long as it isn't like the one I got from Wilson and Willowick.'

  'This is _bona fide_ and real McCoy. Have you heard of Dr Erasmus Potter-Phipps?'

  I shook my head.

  'He's about the most posh G.P. in England-high class stuff, you know, none of this bob on the bottle and sawdust on the waiting-room floor.'

  'Where's he hang out?'

  'Park Lane, of course.'

  'What's his wife like?'

  'He isn't married.'

  I felt encouraged for the first time since driving out of range of Dr Hockett in the middle of the night. 'The only fishy thing that strikes me is-I mean, I've the highest regard for your friendship and integrity, but why haven't you grabbed it yourself?'

  'Long-term planning. I'll tell you in confidence-don't breathe it to a soul, particularly anyone in the district-I'm leaving for the country. Big opening. I shall settle down scratching pigs with walking-sticks-'

  'Is Miss Virginia coming too?' She had taken no more notice of me and was leaning on the table among the plates plucking her eyebrows.

  'No. She's psychologically unsuited for the country. I've found that out-I've been psychoanalysing her for the last few weeks. That's why she's here. You can't psychoanalyse anyone competently if you're not with them day and night. Jung and Adler, and all that. She's got a jolly interesting little ego.'

  'I'm sure she has.'

  Grimsdyke got up and felt in his jacket pocket. 'Here's the address. Give me half an hour and I'll speak to him on the blower first.

  'But how about references? A G.P. like that wouldn't take an assistant out of the blue.'

  'Leave it to me,' he said confidently. 'It's all part of the Grimsdyke service.'

  9

  Dr Potter-Phipps practised in Park Lane from the first floor of a large modern block of flats, though the only indication of this was a small silver plate with his name on the door, as discreet as the single hat in a Bond Street milliner's window. Downstairs I was saluted by the doorman, bowed to by the porter, and grinned at by the lift boy; upstairs, the door was opened by a butler. Dr Potter-Phipps himself, who sat in a consulting-room like a film-producer's office, was a slim, good-looking, fair-haired, middle-aged man wearing a grey suit with narrow trousers, a red carnation in his buttonhole, a fawn waistcoat, a white stiff collar, and an Old Etonian tie.

  'A frightful tragedy, dear boy,' he said languidly, offering me a gold cigarette-case. 'My partner's perforated his duodenal ulcer, poor fellow. Operated on by old Sir James last night. He'll be away a good three months. It's so terribly difficult to get a suitable man to replace him. This is a rather special practice, you understand.' He held his cigarette with his finger-tips and waved it airily. 'We have rather special patients. To some people the National Health Service did not come quite as the crowning gift of parliamentary democracy. They still like manners with their medicine.'

  'I'd certainly be pleased to meet some of them, sir,' I said feelingly.

  'Of course, you've been out of the country a good time,' he went on. 'You must have found that Himalayan expedition quite fascinating. Grimsdyke told me about it when he rang up. I met him at the races last week-end, and rather hoped he could help us when this disaster occurred. A remarkable young man.'

  'Oh, remark
able.'

  'I must be getting old, dear boy, but I find most young doctors today are terribly dull. And they will treat their patients like guinea-pigs. It must be the result of this frightful slave-driving in medical schools these days. When I was at St George's, medicine was still acquired slowly, like any other gentlemanly accomplishment. But someone with the Alpine temperament like yourself would be eminently suitable. Did you meet old Charrington in the Himalayas?'

  'Charrington? No, I don't think I did.'

  'Really?' He looked surprised. 'But he's always shinning up mountains and things.'

  'Big place, of course, the Himalayas.'

  'Oh, of course.'

  I had decided to stand up, draw a deep breath, make a confession, and go directly to the agency to throw myself at the mercy of Mr Pycraft. Then Dr Potter went on-'Consider yourself engaged.'

  'What-just like that?'

  'Just like that, dear boy. I'm rather conceited that I can judge my fellow men.' He sighed. 'I wish I could do the same with horses. So much more profitable. By the way, if you want any salary ask the secretary next door. In my family,' he continued pleasantly, 'we never discuss money. It's thought rather vulgar. And forgive me-but perhaps you've something a little more formal to wear?'

  I looked down at my new suit.

  'I suppose you picked it up in Tibet or somewhere?' he suggested charitably. 'Here's the name of my tailor. Ask him to make you something quickly and charge it to the practice. It's a chastening thought, but good clothes are more important to the G.P. than a good stethoscope. You needn't worry about a car-we run three Rolls-'

  'Three?'

  'We have an extra one for the electrocardiograph. Do you know how to use it?'

  'Oh, yes, sir,' I said eagerly, glad at last to be able to tell the truth. 'At St Swithin's they taught on the heart most thoroughly.'

  'I'm glad. Terribly glad. I'm a little hazy about all those beastly dials and wires and things myself, but I must say once you've connected them up to the patient and pulled a few switches it makes them feel very much better. We got it second-hand from a doctor who went abroad, and I thought it worth using. I take it to almost every case. After all, even in neuralgia and appendicitis it's useful to know what the heart's up to, isn't it? And two cars arriving at the patient's door makes so much difference. When can you start? Tomorrow?'

  That afternoon I again found myself in a tailor's but this time it was a dark, dusty, devout little shop in Savile Row, where the assistants moved with a funereal tread, everyone spoke in whispers, and the customers were measured in cubicles of dark carved wood like choir-stalls.

  'What sort of suit did you have in mind, sir?' asked the old man who was pulling a tape-measure shakily round my middle.

  'What's the well-dressed doctor about town wearing these days?'

  'You can't go wrong with the black jacket and striped trousers, sir,' he said solemnly. 'A lot of the younger gentlemen in the medical profession are favouring ordinary lounge suits these days, sir. One surgical gentleman I couldn't care to mention even goes so far as'-he dropped his eyes-'tweed, sir.'

  'Very well. Black jacket and striped trousers it is.'

  _'I am_ glad, sir,' he said. 'I really am. Just like old times, sir.'

  I took a bed-sitting-room in Bayswater, and arrived for work in Park Lane the next morning. As I was still wearing my Oxford Street suit even Dr Potter-Phipps' good manners did not prevent a pained look crossing his face when I appeared, as though I were suffering from some exuberant skin disease. 'Perhaps, dear boy,' he suggested, 'you should stay in the background for awhile. Get to know the practice. Would you like to wear a white coat? So easy to get one's clothes messy doing clinical tests with strange apparatus.'

  For a week I spent my time in the small laboratory converted from a bathroom, performing medical-student pathology at five guineas a go. Then my black jacket and striped trousers arrived, and I was allowed to try my hand at Park Lane medicine. I started at the top: my first patient was a Duke.

  During the morning Potter-Phipps hurried into the laboratory, where I was preparing blood samples. For the first time I saw him looking worried.

  'A terrible thing has happened, dear boy,' he announced. I prepared to hear that someone had dropped dead in the waiting-room. 'It's my morning to visit old Skye and Lewis, and now this damn film actress has gone and got laryngitis. Which one shall I go to?'

  He paced the floor, trying to solve this grave therapeutic problem.

  'Couldn't one wait?' I asked.

  'Dear boy,' he said patiently. 'In this sort of practice no one waits.'

  After some minutes he decided, 'I'll take the actress. The newspapers will be there by now. Yes, definitely the actress. I can bring the electrocardiograph, too-it's important to see that the heart will stand the strain in such a nervous creature. You do the Duke. And pray, dear boy'-he laid a hand on my sleeve-'remember constantly that for all practical purposes, you and I, at any rate, are not living in an egalitarian society.'

  'I shall not fail you, sir,' I said stoutly.

  'Good fellow!' He made for the door.

  'What's wrong with the Duke?' I called after him.

  'Just give him his usual treatment,' he replied over his shoulder, and disappeared.

  I drove to the Duke of Skye and Lewis in our number two Rolls, feeling as if I were again going to an examination. One outstanding problem worried me: what was the Duke's usual treatment? Apart from the electrocardiograph, our practice did not own much medical equipment, and I had with me only a stethoscope, a throat torch, a gadget for measuring the gap in sparking plugs, a short plastic ruler advertising a cough mixture, a silver-plated presentation bottle-opener, and a small brush for cleaning my lighter, with which to effect my ministrations.

  The car stopped outside a door in Eaton Square. As I got out I said to the chauffeur, 'You must have taken Dr Potter-Phipps here a good few times. I don't suppose you know what the blue-blooded old boy's usual treatment is, do you?'

  He shrugged his shoulders. 'Sorry, Doctor. There was a duke what lived round the corner, I remember, and he had varicose veins. There was another with prostate trouble up the road-but come to think of it, he was an earl.'

  The door was opened by a young maid.

  'The doctor,' I said, suddenly feeling that I was delivering the groceries.

  'This way.' I followed her, tugging at the edge of my new jacket for support. Could I conceivably ask this girl what the usual treatment was? Then it struck me that I should have to start referring to my patient in a more regular manner. This was my second difficulty in the case. Although I had secretly bought the silver-covered book invaluable to young Englishmen wanting to get on-_Titles and Forms of Address: A Guide to Their Correct Use_-I had found the paragraphs more difficult to memorize than my anatomy and physiology. I summoned the pages urgently to mind, but in the perverted way that I could always remember in examinations the full structural formula of anhydrohydroxyprogesterone and forget all the signs of pneumonia, I now recalled only that the wives of the younger sons of earls share their husbands' titles and honorific initials never appear on visiting-cards.

  'His Grace will see you in a minute,' said the maid.

  His Grace! That was it. But did I call him 'Your Grace?' Or was that only for the Archbishop of Canterbury and York?

  The Duke of Skye and Lewis was a fat red-faced man with a large moustache, lying on his bed in a yellow silk dressing-gown.

  'Morning, Doctor,' he said amiably. 'I had a call to say Potter-Phipps couldn't come. Pity. Busy this time of the year, I shouldn't wonder?'

  'Yes, er, your-your-sir.'

  'Have a seat. You're not rushed for a minute, are you? Potter-Phipps said you knew everything about my case, but I like to have a chat with my doctor. I don't like being pulled about by someone I don't know. It's almost indecent. Doctoring's a man-to-man business, whatever you cook up these days in test-tubes. Do you play golf?'

  We argued about mashie shots for
ten minutes, then the Duke said with a sigh of resignation, 'Well, Doctor, I suppose it's time for you to give me the usual treatment?'

  'Of course. The usual treatment.' I stood up and rubbed my hands slowly together. 'And how,' I asked craftily, 'is the usual complaint?'

  'About the same.'

  'I see.'

  I nodded sagely. There was a pause.

  'Let's get on with it, Doctor,' the Duke continued, settling himself on the bed, a brave man about to face an ordeal. 'The sooner it's started, the sooner it's finished.'

  What the devil could it be? Manipulation of the vertebrae? Syphonage of the sinuses? Something internal with irrigation? Hypnosis?

  'Come along, Doctor.' The Duke was becoming impatient. 'Potter-Phipps does it in a jiffy, with his bare hands.'

  I blurted out, now desperate, 'Perhaps you will forgive me for asking, sir-'

  'Oh, the new ones? They're in the box on the chimneypiece.'

  I shot a glance hopefully towards the fireplace, but met only an unhelpful ormolu clock and some statuettes.

  'Of course, sir, new ones-'

  'They need new ones this time, and no mistake,' the Duke went on, waggling his feet. Suddenly I saw-I had been summoned to change his corn-plasters.

  At the end of the operation the Duke said, 'I suppose you'll be expecting the same sort of outrageous fee as old Potter-Phipps?'

  'I really couldn't say,' I told him, smiling with relief. 'I never discuss the money side of it.'

  'Neither do I,' he agreed. 'In my family it's thought rather vulgar.'

  10

  Dr Potter-Phipps ran his practice as efficiently as a motor-car factory. Every morning at eight, three men in green overalls arrived with vacuum cleaners; at eight-fifteen a man dressed as a postilion called with the day's supply of clean towels; at eight-twenty a page-boy brought the waiting-room papers and magazines; at eight-thirty a girl looking like Lady Macbeth with pernicious anaemia came from a West End florist's to change the flowers; at eight-forty a fat man in a frockcoat and bowler entered with Dr Potter-Phipps' freshly-pressed suits; at eight-fifty the chauffeurs, the butler, the secretary, and the nurse appeared, and at nine sharp we were open for business.