Doctor On The Boil

by Richard Gordon

  A faintly shifty look came into Bingham’s pink and chubby boyish face. ‘He was admitted last night with abdominal pain and pyrexia.’

  ‘What’s the diagnosis?’

  ‘I’m afraid the computer seems rather to have let us down. After all, we hadn’t given it much to go on. But we shall be performing some twenty or thirty more tests on the patient this afternoon – punctures in various places for specimens of his body fluids, you understand – which doubtless will extract the answer.’

  ‘Ask your computer if he’s a Chinaman.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Otherwise, to my old-fashioned bloodshot eye, he has the first faint tinge of jaundice. Good morning.’

  Sir Lancelot stamped out of the ward. Hands in his jacket pockets, he stamped down the corridor to the lift. He pressed the button to descend then started to chuckle. Bingham was a fool, he reflected. Any man was, who imagined medicine a pure science when part of it was pure art, plus some witch doctoring and black magic. After two floors the lift stopped for a second passenger, who Sir Lancelot, lost in his thoughts, vaguely noticed as some member of the nursing staff.

  ‘Ground floor all right?’ he asked absently.

  ‘Perfectly all right.’

  He stood staring straight ahead at the lift doors. But something in those three words, an inflection in the voice, made a memory stir uneasily in its sleep. He pursed his lips. Slowly he changed the direction of his glance. ‘Good God,’ he muttered.

  How fortunate I was in a hurry and took the lift. Usually I go down the stairs.’

  ‘But what the hell are you still doing here?’

  His companion smiled. ‘And what the hell are you still doing here?’ she asked pleasantly. ‘I heard you’d retired.’

  ‘I have, but–’ The significance of her uniform registered in his mind. ‘Good grief, you’re the matron.’

  ‘Yes, except that nowadays it’s known as the General Superintendent of Nursing and Ancillary Services. It’s supposed to be more modern – or perhaps the idea is a grand title to compensate for the poor pay. And everyone still calls me the matron, anyway.’

  Sir Lancelot leant to read the name pinned on her smart green uniform dress. ‘Miss Charlotte Sinclair. Still? But what about that Mr Right you were going to marry?’

  They reached the ground floor. The lift door opened to reveal the dean. ‘Ah, Lancelot–’

  ‘Sorry! Going up.’ Sir Lancelot pressed the button for the top.

  ‘Oh, I’d forgotten about him.’ She laughed. The new St Swithin’s matron was short and neat-limbed, fair-haired with green eyes and a turned-up nose. She was in her mid-thirties, but like all dainty women looked younger than she was. ‘One can hardly marry the invisible man, can one?’

  Sir Lancelot frowned. ‘You left the hospital for that specific reason.’

  ‘Surely you must have thought over the incident since, Lancelot? Why, you must be simpler than I suspected. That was the only way I could cool an ardour like yours.’

  The lift stopped. The door flew back. Professor Bingham was waiting.

  ‘Sorry,’ snapped Sir Lancelot. ‘Going down.’ He pressed the button, complaining, ‘Really, Tottie, you should have taken me more seriously. I was in love with you.’

  ‘I know you were, dear Lancelot. But officially you were in love with your wife.’

  ‘I think Maud would have given me my freedom. We were held together more by habit than affection. Like most couples, I suppose.’

  ‘But what would your stuffy colleagues here have said?’ The corners of Tottie’s mouth creased, which had always excited him. ‘The permissive society wasn’t a going concern in those days, remember.’

  The lift stopped. ‘Lancelot, really–’ complained the dean.

  ‘Sorry, no room.’ They shot upwards again. ‘In those days? It was about the time of the Coronation, I recall. Then what did you do, Tottie?’

  ‘I got a job in America instead. It was simple enough, with the shortage of nurses. I suppose I did pretty well, because I ended up running a hospital. Then last year I suddenly gave it up, to travel and see the country. Just before Christmas I made up my mind to come home.’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘It’s like a dream now. Sorry Bingham.’ He pressed the button.

  ‘Did anyone find out about us in the end?’

  ‘I’ve never had reason to suspect so. If you remember, Tottie, our affair was frustratingly discreet. Not to mention frustratingly pure. I think it was on Coronation night, in the corridor behind the old operating theatres, that you defended your honour with the left blade of a pair of obstetrical forceps.’

  Tottie laughed. The lift halted. As the door slid open, Sir Lancelot shut it rapidly in the dean’s face.

  ‘That shows I’d more sense than is usually the case with a junior nurse,’ she said as they went up again. ‘Certainly more than the ones I’m in charge of today. Or did I? Perhaps the youngsters’ outlook is right. They get more fun.’

  ‘It’s all comparative. We got excited simply holding hands in the back of the pictures. If I may say so, you’re looking absolutely wonderful, Tottie.’

  ‘Why, thank you. And you’re exactly the same, you know.’

  ‘I doubt that very much. Though I shall be hanging round the hospital for a while – which may give us a chance to find out.’

  Bingham’s angry face appeared briefly in the open lift door.

  ‘And how is Lady Spratt?’ Tottie asked, on their way down again.

  ‘Didn’t you hear?’

  ‘Oh!’ Tottie bit her finger. ‘Yes, I remember now. I’m sorry.’

  ‘No matter. I’m getting over it. However homespun the bonds, it’s always a shock when they’re sheared. Well, Tottie–’

  The door opened. The dean put his foot in it. ‘My dear Lancelot, has something gone amiss with the machinery? You’ve been going up and down like a yo-yo. I’m in a tearing hurry, too. Might I introduce you to our new matron?’

  ‘How very kind,’ beamed Sir Lancelot. ‘By the way, Dean, we meet after lunch, don’t forget.’

  ‘Ah! Yes. ‘Two o’clock. I’ll get Bingham to remind me.’

  Tottie made briskly off to her office. Sir Lancelot strolled thoughtfully past the site of the new building. It was remarkable. And perhaps a little exciting. He was going to enjoy his return to St Swithin’s even more than he had imagined.

  But first there was the dean at two o’clock, and Sir Lancelot remembered he had always had clammy hands and an ice-cold stethoscope.

  4

  When the bar in the students’ common-room opened at five-thirty that evening, Ken Kerrberry said to Terry Summerbee, ‘Look, there’s that little thrombosed pile, George Lychfield. Do you suppose we could get out of him his father’s questions for the class exam? Terry! You’re not listening.’

  ‘Sorry. I’ve a lot on my mind. Er – I’m revising my neurology.’ When Ken repeated the suggestion, Terry shook his head. ‘I shouldn’t think the dean would confide in him.’

  ‘But he might talk loudly in his sleep. Who knows? It’s worth a try. George, you dear boy,’ he called loudly. ‘Let me buy you a drink.’

  George’s eyes lit up behind his large round glasses. He was a short, plump young man who resembled a garden gnome from the same mould as his father, if less weathered in appearance. Two related reasons made him accept the offer instantly. Firstly he could, like his father, never refuse anything free, from a drug firm’s plastic golf-tees to an honorary degree. And his father’s carefulness kept him even shorter of money than his contemporaries.

  Ken bought him half a pint, mentioning idly, ‘You know your revered father’s putting the screws on the lot in my year next Monday week? I don’t suppose he leaves the written questions hanging about the house, does he, so you might have a quick butcher’s?’

  George looked aghast. ‘You must be joking? I could never do a dishonest thing like that. Not even if I was taking the exam myself.’

 
; ‘But if by pure chance your eye did happen to fall upon the exam paper…’ Ken took a gulp of beer. ‘I’d give a quid pro quo, you understand. Anything you care to name.’

  ‘Is that the time?’ exclaimed Terry, staring at the wall clock.

  ‘No, Ken,’ George told him firmly, as Terry hastened for the door. ‘There’s nothing, absolutely nothing which could tempt me–’ He paused. ‘Well…I hear you know a girl who works for TV?’

  ‘Your suggestion is not only outrageous but highly insanitary.’

  ‘No, no, I didn’t mean that. I only had in mind an introduction. A professional introduction. You see–’ He looked round and dropped his voice. ‘I wouldn’t like this to get back to my father, but I’ve been writing a few scripts.’

  ‘Not more hospital dramas–’

  ‘No, quite different. Comedy scripts. They’re really not bad. At least, our au pair girl thinks so, though she has a Swedish sense of humour, of course, and doesn’t speak English very well.’

  ‘I might possibly fix something,’ Ken told him loftily. ‘My bird works in the script department, too.’ George’s eyes shone brighter. ‘But exam questions first. Intro after. All right?’

  ‘All right,’ George agreed in a guilty voice. ‘Thanks for the beer. Sorry I haven’t time to buy you the other half.’

  Terry Summerbee was meanwhile hurrying down the flight of stone steps from the main hall to the X-ray department, which occupied a section of the basement, and like every other department in the Victorian building was so overcrowded with equipment as to appear in a permanent state of improvisation. Tightening the knot in his tie and looking round furtively for signs of the senior radiologist, he stepped determinedly among the apparatus towards a door at the far end marked DARK ROOM – KEEP OUT.

  ‘Hello, there! Young Summerbee, I see. Brushing up your X-rays for the exam? Very keen of you. In my day, if I had the bad luck to be confronted with a radiograph I’d simply give a low whistle and say “That does look a nasty one”. Surprising how often the examiner would agree heartily and let out what it was.’

  Terry cursed under his breath. Dr Grimsdyke was popular among the students – as once the most experienced student in the country, he always saw their point of view. But he was inclined to be pushful, talkative, and a shade hearty – not at all the sort Terry wanted hanging about the scene of his delicate mission.

  ‘I just thought I’d get a few films out of the X-ray museum.’

  ‘Very wise of you. They always raid that little store of horror-pictures for the exams. But perhaps you’ll allow me to point out that the museum’s at the other end of the department?’

  ‘Oh, is it?’ asked Terry innocently. ‘I don’t know my way around as well as you do.’

  ‘No, I think perhaps not,’ agreed Grimsdyke. ‘Toddle along now. If you find the baby who’s swallowed a nappy-pin, notice its heart is pointing the wrong way. They caught me on that one way back in…well, the little thing is probably a father itself by now.’

  Grimsdyke watched with a half-smile and Terry made towards the far end of the basement. When the student was safely through the door marked MUSEUM, he moved to the dark-room door and tapped on it.

  ‘Come in. The light’s on.’

  Grimsdyke made his way through a double door guarding the entrance. The small room, with its open tanks and dripping fluids resembling some coastal grotto, was illuminated by the ghostly glow of diffuse light through negatives of human skeletons. Grimsdyke thought it lit rather prettily Stella the new pupil radiographer, with her long blonde hair falling to the shoulders of her white nylon overall – contrary to regulations, but she seemed to regard those as inconveniences only for other people.

  ‘Any interesting snaps today?’

  ‘You made that remark yesterday,’ she said. ‘Lover boy.’

  ‘Did I?’ Grimsdyke perched himself on the edge of a tank on the far side of the room. ‘How about coming out tonight for a quiet dinner?’

  ‘But lover man, I told you. It’s my night for Oxfam.’

  ‘Then how about tomorrow?’

  ‘That’s Thursday, isn’t it? Oh… I’ve one of those boring evenings with my parents.’

  ‘Then Friday?’

  ‘Friday’s the evening for my cordon bleu cookery classes, lover boy. And Saturday’s booked for months and months.’

  ‘Sunday?’

  ‘Oh, I’m far too religious. Do you mind if I turn out the light?’

  ‘No, no, go ahead.’

  Illuminated only by a dull red glow from the corner, Stella started splashing in a tank. Grimsdyke rose and moved close to her.

  ‘Lover, have you the letters MTF after your name?’

  ‘What’s that? Medical Technology Fellow, or something?’

  ‘Must Touch Flesh. Honestly, you’ve got quite an obsession.’

  Grimsdyke sat down again. There was a knock on the outside door.

  ‘Come in, and mind the double doors,’ she called.

  He sat pulling his moustache in the darkness, annoyed at the intrusion of some other member of the X-ray staff. But a voice said, ‘Stella…where are you?’

  ‘Do you mind? You’re touching me.’

  ‘I was just feeling your face. You know, to recognize you. Like the blind,’ said Terry Summerbee.

  ‘All right, lover boy,’ she said wearily. ‘You know I’ve no warts and I’m female. Well?’

  ‘How about coming out tonight?’ Terry favoured the direct approach to all problems, in medicine and in life.

  ‘But lover man, tonight’s my cordon bleu cookery class.’

  ‘Then tomorrow?’

  ‘Parents, lover man. I’m dutiful, you know. They gave me life.’

  ‘How about Saturday? I’m quite free.’

  ‘Saturday I contemplate. About Sunday. When I fast all day in my bedroom. Sorry, lover boy.’

  Terry swallowed. He decided to persist because Stella kept calling him lover boy. He was unaware that at the time she called everyone lover boy, even traffic-wardens and her father. ‘Let’s go through next week.’

  ‘Listen, lover, if you really want to take me out, we could get it over and done with tomorrow.’

  ‘But I thought tomorrow was your parents’ home night, or something.’

  ‘Did I say that? I must have touched on the wrong button.’

  ‘See you in the courtyard when you get away at six, then?’ Terry said eagerly.

  ‘I’ll be there, lover man. Be careful with the doors as you go out.’

  Waiting until he heard the outer door firmly shut, Grimsdyke gave a guffaw. ‘How sweet.’

  ‘’Terry’s nice. Gentle, you know. Like a puppy.’

  ‘Stella, my pearl shining in the darkness–’

  ‘Take your hands off the jewellery. I’m turning on the lights.’

  She started busily sorting dried X-ray pictures into large manila envelopes.

  ‘But surely, Terry’s not to be taken seriously?’

  She gave a pout of her full lips. ‘Why not?’

  ‘He’s not for you, Stella. You need a man of the world to take you around. A man of experience.’

  ‘Are you trying to pull the generation gap, or something, lover man? That’s new.’

  ‘Anyway, you can’t go out with him tomorrow. You promised to go out with me.’

  ‘Did I?’ She went on sorting the X-rays. ‘I must have flipped the wrong switch.’

  ‘I’ll be there, anyway. Six, at the front door.’

  ‘As you wish, lover, as you wish,’ she said accommodatingly.

  ‘I’m very, very tender towards you, Stella.’ Grimsdyke put his arms round her from behind and started gently biting her neck. ‘Like it?’

  ‘Hardly preferable to mosquitoes.’

  ‘How about a nice–’

  ‘Gaston, lover man, take this packet of X-rays to the dean’s office, will you? He wanted them specially.’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ said Grimsdyke disconsolately. ‘But tomorr
ow, at six. Lover girl.’

  5

  The dean usually reached home at seven. He parked his Jaguar that evening in the mews garage of his house, and carrying his document-case opened the back door with the pleasurable sensation of a man going to break good news, particularly when it is about himself. He hung his homburg in the hall, and with jaunty step opened the door of his small ground floor study. His smile vanished as he found it occupied by his son George.

  ‘What are you doing rummaging in my desk?’

  ‘Oh! Hello, Dad. I was looking for this week’s B.M.J.’

  ‘Since when have you been so anxious to keep up with the latest medical discoveries? You have quite enough to tax your mind learning those of the past five centuries.’ The dean’s eyes narrowed. ‘You weren’t searching for the class examination questions, I suppose?’

  ‘Me, Dad? But I’m not even taking the exam.’

  ‘Precisely. But I wouldn’t put it past some of the other students to bribe you.’

  ‘Dad! What a shocking thing to say.’

  ‘It is, but that doesn’t make it any less likely. There are some quite disreputable characters in the medical school these days. And you must choose your friends more carefully, now that I’m to be made–’ He stopped. ‘Maid of all work, young Inga,’ he remarked as the au pair’s blonde hair appeared round the door. ‘Will you ask my wife to come here a moment?’ he added. ‘Now go up to your room, George, and open your books. The life of a medical student contains not a single minute to be wasted. You might quite easily learn something of considerable importance before dinner.’

  ‘Dad–’ George shifted his feet. ‘I wonder if I’m really suited for medicine.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ his father told him briefly. ‘We’ve had medical men in this family since the days of Gladstone bags and leeches. I wish you’d follow the example of your sister. She will certainly be studying upstairs with her usual diligence. And what, might I ask, would you intend to do instead?’

  ‘I’ve thought of the – er, drama.’

  The dean snorted. ‘Just because you make a fool of yourself in the hospital pantomime, you seem to imagine you’re a combination of Bernard Shaw and Brian Rix.’