Doctor On The Boil

by Richard Gordon

  ‘Good evening, Sir Lancelot. Case of acute lumbago. Perhaps you’d care to assist me?’

  Sir Lancelot glared at Iris. ‘I take it you’re the patient’s young daughter?’

  ‘I am not! If you want to know, I’m just on my way to catch a bus.’

  She snatched up her clothes and made for the next room. Sir Lancelot scratched his beard. ‘I fear that I have perhaps been living in the country too long. I suppose you realize, Grimsdyke, that your treatment is all wrong? As I’m here, you’d better let me have a dekko. Don’t worry, my good sir,’ he said to the patient. ‘I happen to be a consultant surgeon. I well remember how I was called to the old Duke of Skye and Lewis in similar circumstances. Not only had he fractured his ankle, but I had to invoke the services of a carpenter to free him from the wreckage of his own four-poster.’ Sir Lancelot chuckled fondly. ‘The dear old Duke was always a man of considerable ingenuity and enterprise.’

  7

  ‘My dear, dear Lancelot,’ said the dean of St. Swithin’s. ‘My dear fellow! Little did I think – in all the years I have enjoyed your friendship – that I should have to break such terrible news to you. Well, you’ve taken it like a man. Not that I should have expected anything different from one of your character.’

  Sir Lancelot gloomily dropped the X-ray picture on to the desk. It was late the following afternoon, and the pair of them sat alone in the dean’s office.

  ‘I should never have gone on that blasted tour of the Far East,’ Sir Lancelot said resignedly.

  ‘It is, of course, an extremely rare Asiatic disease you have contracted.’

  ‘That’s not much ruddy consolation.’ The surgeon squared his shoulders. ‘But I’m fine in myself. I don’t remember being fitter. Despite a very poor night, I feel up to swimming the length of the Serpentine and then running right round Hyde Park. It’s ridiculous.’

  The dean sighed unhappily. ‘That’s the tragic part of it. Perhaps you are not altogether familiar with the symptomatology? I confess I had to look it up myself. According to the books, the patient has a euphoric feeling of well-being. It’s a very marked feature of the condition. Until quite suddenly…woomph.’

  ‘Woomph?’ Sir Lancelot stroked his beard. ‘How long? Twelve months?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘Nine?’

  ‘I’d say six.’

  He nodded slowly. ‘So I am to leave this polluted planet? Well, I’ve had a good life, I suppose. It comes to us all. And despite our own unshakeable inner conviction, the world will spin on as busily and just as happily without us.’

  ‘You have given so much to mankind.’

  ‘I don’t know, but I’ve certainly taken a good deal out of it.’

  The dean fiddled with the stethoscope lying on his desk. ‘If you have any wishes – any last requests…?’

  ‘Only one,’ Sir Lancelot said in a firm voice. ‘You may recall that yesterday I mentioned taking over some cases in the wards again, under the provisions of our founding charter. I don’t fancy you took kindly to the idea.’

  ‘Forgive me.’ The dean was horrified at himself. ‘I was being selfish, quite beastly selfish.’

  ‘Let us overlook that,’ Sir Lancelot told him handsomely. ‘But I’d like to see a few patients now and then, in such time as I have left. After all, I’ve often been called a surgical carthorse. I might as well die in harness.’

  ‘Any patients you like,’ the dean invited generously. ‘I’m sure they’ll give their permission. Indeed, they’ll be deeply grateful. They’ll show their incisions proudly to their grandchildren, and say, “Sir Lancelot Spratt did that”. Like war-wounds.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Sir Lancelot. He produced his spotted handkerchief and coughed gently.

  ‘I’m sure Professor Bingham will open his surgical wards to you. He’ll be doing his list in the theatre now. Why not put the idea to him?’

  ‘I have one other small request. I am really rather uncomfortable in my hotel. The place is terribly noisy at night, everyone having sex orgies into the small hours–’

  ‘Of course, you must move in with us.’

  ‘I am touched, most touched–’

  ‘With an open heart, we shall do all we can to make your last days happy.’

  ‘I shall disappear to Wales to…for the…finally.’

  The dean hesitated, and added generously, ‘You may have my electric blanket.’

  Sir Lancelot rose. ‘Let’s say, Monday week? I am already booked in the hotel till then, and I will have a lot of telephoning of solicitors and suchlike to put my affairs in order. Now I’ll go and see Bingham.’

  He added sombrely, ‘He knows?’

  ‘He knows.’

  Sir Lancelot left the dean’s office. He walked slowly into the open, past the hole in the ground to be filled with the new transplant unit. ‘There’s one advantage,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I shall never have to set eyes on that monstrosity.’

  With gaze downcast, he entered the automatic doors of the new surgical block and took the lift for the top floor. A glance from the anaesthetic-room showed that Bingham was still operating, finishing the minor cases at the end of the list. With movements so familiar, Sir Lancelot took surgical gown, cap and mask from their containers. Visiting an operating theatre in a social way, he did not feel inclined to change his tweed trousers for something more sterile. His technique on these calls was to edge quietly to the operating table, inspect the surgeon’s work for some moments unseen, then make his presence known with a sniff of disapproval which could be heard all over the theatre.

  ‘It’s Sir Lancelot.’ Bingham looked up. ‘Nurse – push my glasses up my nose, they’ve slipped again.’

  ‘I suppose you realize you’re doing that all wrong?’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘You’re cutting the gut before you’ve tied off the artery.’

  ‘As intended. It’s the new technique.’

  Sir Lancelot snorted behind his mask. ‘Sounds as if a damn fool invented it.’

  ‘I invented it.’

  ‘There you are, then–’ He paused. ‘Forgive me, dear boy. As usual, I let my tongue run away with me. I am stupidly blind to the recent advances in surgery, which will carry our profession forward long after I myself am dead and gone.’

  Bingham looked up again. ‘I say, that’s very civil of you.’

  ‘In my time I have not perhaps done all possible to smooth the brief lives of those about me, nor taken account of the little failings which mark us all as human beings. I much regret it now. Sister, I believe you were a junior theatre nurse in my own active days?’

  ‘That’s quite right, sir.’

  ‘I may have given you the rough edge of my tongue now and again?’

  ‘You did once compare me to a chimpanzee with ten thumbs, sir.’

  ‘I am sorry, deeply sorry.’

  ‘You finish that,’ Bingham directed his assistant, making for the surgeons’ room and peeling off his gloves.

  ‘You know I am not much longer for this unruly world, Bingham?’ said Sir Lancelot, following him.

  ‘I was very upset. As one of your students–’

  Sir Lancelot held up a hand. ‘If only more of them had possessed your intelligence, your energy, your endlessly questioning brain! I’m sorry if at the time I thought you something of a small-minded, conceited little prig.’

  Bingham started stripping his gown. ‘I wonder if I might ask a favour, Sir Lancelot? I’m sure you’ll agree you’re an exceptional man? Physically as well as mentally.’

  Sir Lancelot inclined his head graciously.

  ‘You know I’m head of the St Swithin’s transplant team. So I wondered if, in I believe six months–’

  ‘But I’ve got this filthy Asiatic disease,’ Sir Lancelot objected.

  ‘But parts of you are excellent. You’re quite a curate’s egg, one might say.’ Bingham gave a laugh, hastily stifling it. ‘Coming to the point, could I put a couple of my patients on the li
st for your kidneys?’

  After a moment’s hesitation, Sir Lancelot said gravely, ‘It is only fitting that I should use my remains as I have used my life. To benefit suffering humanity.’

  ‘I must say, that’s a jolly good spirit. Fine. I’ll get my secretary to make a note of it. And while we’re on the subject, could we have your corneas?’

  ‘Yes. I agree.’

  ‘How about your heart?’

  ‘If you can make as good use of it as I have.’

  ‘Splendid. Are you planning to – er, end up in St Swithin’s? It would save a lot of those difficult transport problems.’

  ‘My dear Bingham, I cannot make detailed plans for the location of the event. I am going to perish, not have a bleeding baby.’

  ‘Of course. Now, then. Liver?’

  ‘As you wish.’

  ‘Spleen? Pancreas?’

  ‘You may.’

  ‘Thyroid gland? Bone marrow?’

  ‘Take the lot.’

  ‘I’ve just remembered something. We owe High Cross Hospital a kidney, which they swapped for a pair of lungs. If you could help us out–’

  Sir Lancelot drew himself up. ‘I may, as you say, be exceptional. But not so exceptional as to possess three blasted kidneys. Now if you will excuse me, I shall take your surgical shopping list out to the West End and provide it with a damn good dinner.’

  8

  Sir Lancelot left the surgical block and paced, deep in thought, down the long main corridor of the old building towards the hall. As he reached the front door he became aware of a dark uniform blocking his path. Looking up, he saw Harry the porter.

  ‘Might I have a word with you, sir?’

  Sir Lancelot grunted.

  Harry gave a nervous jerk of the head towards his cubicle. ‘In private, like?’

  ‘Are you suggesting I squeeze with you into that rabbit-hutch?’

  Harry produced from inside his jacket a thick bundle of five-pound notes. ‘It’s about that little bet you mentioned yesterday, sir. The one what I put on for you at Kempton Park the very day of your retirement. I’m very sorry, sir, that I overlooked sending on your winnings.’

  ‘Overlooked! Do you expect me to believe it was merely something which slipped what you care to call your mind? Rubbish, man. You’re as crooked as an aberrant appendix. You’ve never overlooked the chance to swindle someone out of a ha’penny in your life. You’d con the rawest new student to buy a load of old instruments you’d probably pinched anyway, and you’d pawn the Chairman of Governors’ overcoat if you thought you could get away with it. God knows what a scoundrel like you is doing in the employment of a respectable institution like St Swithin’s. Personally, I wouldn’t trust you to punch the tickets on a travelling Chinese brothel–’

  Sir Lancelot stopped. He raised his hand to his eyes. The reference to the East exploded a bomb in his mind.

  ‘My dear good man,’ he continued gently. ‘I was wrong, very wrong to get so cross. We all have our faults. What are yours, compared with the majestic tide of life and death, which sweeps away all traces of us from the sands of time? Pray, keep the money.’

  Harry stared at him, half of his brain wondering if Sir Lancelot had gone mad, the other half trying to make out what the catch was.

  ‘It is mere paper, of no importance.’ Sir Lancelot pushed the man’s hand aside. ‘Put it to some good use. How little to pay for the pleasure your cheerful face has given me, every morning I arrived in the hospital, sticking from that hole thing in your cubicle. Good-bye, Harry. May you prosper. And do get out of that stupid habit of always backing the second favourite.’

  As he turned away, pausing in the doorway to find his handkerchief and give a cough, he heard a female voice call his name.

  ‘Why, it’s the matron–’ He came back to the hall, giving a brave smile, ‘And what can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m so glad I caught you. It’s about Nurse Smallbones.’ Sir Lancelot frowned in puzzlement. ‘You may remember, when you arrived in the hospital yesterday you seemed to find her skirt too short.’

  ‘I most certainly did,’ he said warmly. ‘If our young ladies walk the streets of London off-duty displaying their erotogenic zones by the acre, that is perfectly all right by me. But when they’re in St Swithin’s they’re nurses, not the star turns of striptease establishments.’

  ‘I do hope Nurse Smallbones will meet with your approval now.’ The girl was standing sheepishly behind her. ‘She has lengthened her skirt right down to her ankles.’

  ‘Exactly.’ He nodded briskly. ‘The nurses wore dresses like that in my young days, and I really saw no necessity to change them. The patients in our wards want – for once in their ruddy lives – to savour the tenderness of womanhood, not the sexiness. No female would ever wear a skirt above her calves out East–’

  He stopped. He covered his eyes again. ‘My dear girl,’ he continued weakly to Nurse Smallbones. ‘Please wear your dress any length you fancy. Serve the patients’ dinners stark naked if the idea possesses you. Though I fear you would find our antiquated wards somewhat on the chilly side. What does it matter if your clothes reach to your malleoli or your symphysis pubis? It is fashion, mere triviality, we spend our brief lives foolishly obsessed with such things. Back to your duties, Nurse Smallbones. And bless you, my child.’

  ‘Are you feeling all right, Lancelot?’ asked Tottie Sinclair in a puzzled voice.

  ‘Yes. That’s the saddest part of it.’ Sir Lancelot bravely jutted his bearded chin. ‘I have but six months left.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘The dean has just made the diagnosis. A physician of his calibre can hardly be imagined to make any mistake.’

  ‘But…but what is it?’

  ‘An obscure Asian disease. The name would mean nothing to you. But it has wiped out whole cities in China – though of course, Mao Tse-tung and his lot keep it a dead secret.’

  Tottie took a lace-edged handkerchief from the pocket of her uniform to dab the corner of her eye. ‘Oh, Lancelot! But you’re so young.’ She paused. ‘To me, at any rate.’

  ‘Tottie, will you have dinner with me tomorrow? Just for old times sake?’

  ‘Of course I will. How could I refuse you anything?’

  ‘I’ll pick you up here at seven. Or round the corner? You might prefer that, as more discreet.’

  ‘I think it would be best.’

  ‘I shall try to make it as cheerful an occasion as possible,’ he told her gallantly. ‘That girl’s long skirt, by the way. She meant it as a joke, I suppose?’ Tottie smiled and nodded. ‘I thought as much. Well, let the youngsters get some innocent fun out of me, while they can.’

  Sir Lancelot hurried down the front steps and climbed into his Rolls, which stood neatly across the white letters saying NO PARKING. He accelerated briskly across the courtyard to turn out of the main gate. Unfortunately, a small old car, which seemed to be held together mainly by strips of surgical sticking-plaster, happened at that moment to be turning into it. There was a crash, and the small car seemed to disintegrate into a heap of spare parts.

  Sir Lancelot climbed out furiously. ‘You idiot! You cretin! Do you realize that you might easily have scratched my coachwork?’

  ‘Didn’t you hear my ruddy horn?’ replied Terry Summerbee indignantly.

  ‘Don’t argue with me, boy! I always have right of way through that gateway. I know you, don’t I?’ Sir Lancelot eyed him more keenly. ‘You’re one of the students. Let me say that if you operate the way you drive, you’ll solve the world’s population problem in no time.’

  ‘I am not going to be bullied by anyone – sir,’ Terry told him stoutly. ‘It was your fault, and you know it.’

  ‘How dare you. There was enough distance from here to China–’

  Sir Lancelot stopped. He shaded his eyes. ‘Dear boy, you are right. Quite right. I apologize. Doubly so. My breach of the Highway Code was exceeded only by my breach of good manners.’

  Terry gave a su
rprised smile.

  ‘Where were you going? A maternity case? Some errand of mercy, as the newspapers say?’

  ‘Actually, I was going to pick up a bird – meet a young lady, sir.’

  The surgeon invited with a grand sweep of his arm, ‘Take my car.’

  ‘Yours, sir?’

  ‘For the evening. I’m sure you will handle it safely, and it will be much easier to drive than your own contraption. Don’t thank me, dear boy.’ Sir Lancelot patted his shoulder. ‘Where were you intending to take this ornithological specimen?’

  ‘I thought a Wimpy Bar, sir.’

  The surgeon felt in his pocket for a notebook. He scribbled a few words, and handed the page to Terry. ‘Take that to the Crécy Hotel. Ask for the manager. Enjoy yourself tonight at my expense. Life is too short for penny-pinching. I would recommend the grill in preference to the restaurant. Order the chicken à la kiev, which I know to be particularly good, but avoid the claret, which has always been unsound. Now I must hop on a bus.’

  ‘Well,’ murmured Terry to himself, climbing into the Rolls. ‘I suppose one should never look a gift horse in the mouth – or any other transport.’

  As he drew up near the hospital steps the clock on the dashboard said precisely six. An open sports car came noisily to a stop beside him. Terry recognized with annoyance the driver as Grimsdyke. The man seemed to be haunting him. He pressed the button to lower the electric window, and said politely, ‘Good evening.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ asked Grimsdyke crossly. ‘In that?’

  ‘Waiting for a friend.’

  ‘Oh? Well, so am I.’

  ‘Good. We can keep each other company until they show up.’

  ‘Now look here, young Summerbee. It is not they. It is she. I happen to be waiting for Stella Gray from X-ray. I have reason to suspect that your eye is on the same target. I advise you to take that four wheeled mausoleum and clear out.’

  ‘Why should I?’ Terry demanded. ‘She specifically promised this evening to me.’