‘Did she indeed? Well, now we can see, can’t we?’ He opened the door of his sports car invitingly as Stella came hurrying down the steps. ‘Here we are, my dear. Punctual to the minute.’
‘Evening, Stella,’ smiled Terry.
Mouth open, she stared from one to the other. ‘Hi, lover man,’ she said at last.
‘Which lover man?’ demanded Grimsdyke.
‘I… I don’t know, lover men. Why, Terry, of course.’ She moved towards the Rolls. ‘Yes, Terry. He asked me first.’
‘Don’t be bloody, Stella–’ began Grimsdyke angrily.
Her eyes flashed. ‘And don’t talk to me in that sort of way, lover man, you pig. Let’s go, Terry.’
Grimsdyke angrily slammed his car door. She climbed into the Rolls. ‘Is this yours, lover?’ she asked, leaning back as Terry started the engine.
‘But of course.’ He smiled. ‘I always believe in paying for quality. Don’t you?’
They started to move away. In the mirror, he noticed with satisfaction Grimsdyke glaring at them behind his steering-wheel.
Still assessing Terry, Stella asked, ‘Where are we going, anyway?’
Crécy Hotel suit you?’
‘But that’s a fabulous place! Since it was rebuilt, everyone goes there – TV tycoons, royals, the lot.’
‘I thought you might care for it. I’ll have a word with the manager, to be sure of the sort of service that…well, that we expect.’
She ran her fingers lightly across the polished wood of the dashboard. ‘We must see more of each other. Much more, lover boy.’
9
Terry drove through the main gates of St Swithin’s in a mood of such elation that he smiled contemptuously at the wreck of his own car, which until a few minutes earlier had been dearer to him than any of his other – admittedly limited – personal possessions. But as the Rolls purred through the unsightly streets which the hospital so devotedly served, leaving behind the charmless area of north London for the haunts of largely decorous pleasure in the West End, he began to have second thoughts about the expedition. By the time he reached the Crécy Hotel, the seeds of doubt had grown inside him as quickly as a Japanese water-flower, and blossomed hideously into panic.
If Sir Lancelot had inexplicably decided to press upon him free meals and transport, that was the surgeon’s affair. From Terry’s knowledge of the man, drawn from the hospital’s legends, it might be just another of his famous eccentricities. But he himself had been stupid not to tell Stella the truth at once. It was only the unexpected competition of Grimsdyke which had stimulated the deception as automatically as a reflex. He wondered nervously if he could continue carrying it off. He was unfamiliar with the insides of Mayfair hotels, or of any hotels at all, apart from the long-suffering inns which accommodated the St Swithin’s rugger tours. But Stella, he supposed glumly, idled away most of her off-duty time in such places.
As he drove, he chatted in a preoccupied way, the words of confession more than once forming on his lips. Then he decided to go through with it. He had both an admirable determination and a refusal to be daunted by any person or event whatsoever – qualities so necessary for the survival of the medical student. Besides, he realized as he parked the Rolls, it was too late now to admit everything without risking Stella’s fury. And anyway, he concluded, it might all turn out to be a bit of a giggle.
‘I’ll contact the manager,’ he said, as they entered the lobby.
‘And I must go to the ladies’.’
Sir Lancelot’s name at the reception desk quickly brought Luigi from his office. Terry handed him the scribbled note.
‘So you are a friend of Sir Lancelot, sir?’ Luigi bowed. ‘He often sent his distinguished medical colleagues to dine in the old days, before we were rebuilt. I’m delighted that we are still in favour with him, sir. I’m afraid he has not been too comfortable with us so far. For such an old and valued guest, I shall of course arrange for you to have a good table in the restaurant.’
‘I think the grill would be preferable.’
‘Between you and me, sir, you are quite right.’ Luigi seemed impressed. ‘Would you care to take your drinks first in the Starlight Bar? The view over London is delightful.’
‘I suppose the drinks can go on the dinner bill?’ Terry asked quickly.
‘If you wish, sir.’
‘Oh! And – er, you can put the tips on it, too.’
‘That will be done, sir.’
‘Do you happen to know a Miss Stella Gray? I expect she often comes here.’
Luigi frowned. ‘I can’t recall the name at the moment, sir. But of course we have so many distinguished people passing through our doors.’
Leaving the ladies’, Stella couldn’t resist slipping into a telephone-box. She dialled a number, and said breathlessly, ‘Mum – guess where I am? In the new Crécy.’
‘What are you doing there?’ her mother asked sharply.
‘This boy I told you about – he took me.’
‘What? The medical student?’
She dropped her voice. ‘But Mum, he’s loaded. A Rolls, the lot.’
‘Now don’t you get into trouble–’
‘Oh, Mum! You know me. Caution to the core.’
‘So you won’t want any supper when you get in?’
‘Not now. Though I must say, these students usually leave you half-starved.’
Tossing her blonde hair over her shoulders, she went to rejoin Terry. Her father though not a millionaire was a hard-working chemical engineer, and like all girls she enjoyed romancing.
In the rooftop bar Terry ordered martinis, a drink he had not sampled before. It delighted him to notice that Stella, despite her struggle to hide it, appeared agreeably impressed with everything. He would have liked to have poured out with the drinks the sensuous feelings which were fermenting inside him, but he felt it prudent to establish himself first as a sophisticated man of the world, someone she could afford to take notice of. Besides, he reflected as a waiter handed him a large menu, he was really dead scared of her.
‘Shall we order up here? We’ll eat in the grill. The food’s better than in the restaurant.’
‘That’s what everyone says, lover boy.’
‘The chicken à la kiev is always particularly good,’ he murmured, running his eye down the page with a refreshing disregard for the prices. ‘Though I fancy we’d best avoid drinking the claret, which is known all over London to be unsound.’
He felt her grow closer to him on the wall-seat they shared. ‘You’ve been around, lover, haven’t you?’
‘Oh, a little…’
She gave a gasp. ‘Over there – isn’t that Godfri? You know, the most absolutely “in” photographer in London?’
Terry looked up. A young man with shoulder length hair in a bottle-green velvet suit festooned with coloured beads rose laughing from a table across the room. ‘He’s coming this way. Would you like to meet him?’
Stella’s eyes widened. ‘You know him?’
‘No, but I’m sure the manager will introduce us,’ he suggested, as Luigi himself approached to announce their table was ready.
‘Of course I shall present you to Mr Godfri,’ the manager agreed. ‘He will be pleased to meet a distinguished doctor. He likes meeting distinguished people in all walks of life.’
The photographer stopped, smiled, made a few affable remarks, then looking at Stella asked, ‘But you and I – we’ve met, haven’t we? At that exhibition of my work last week.’
Stella fluttered her long eyelashes. ‘I never imagined you’d noticed me.’
‘Of course I did. I only looked in for a minute, and there you were staring at my picture of the meths drinkers, quite enraptured. I never forget a face, you see.’ He laughed. ‘I’ve a photographic memory. Why did you go to the exhibition? Curiosity? Or real interest?’
‘But I’m a professional photographer, too.’
Godfri frowned. ‘I don’t seem to have heard–’
‘That is, an X-ray photographer,’ Stella said quickly. ‘I take pictures of bones, chests, skulls and things. At St Swithin’s Hospital.’
‘Now that’s perfectly fascinating, because I happen to be experimenting with X-ray portraiture myself. Showing the inside of people, not the dreary old outside on view to everyone. It’s a bit of a gimmick, of course,’ he added disarmingly. ‘But you know what the trade’s like, love, you have to keep one jump ahead of the competition. The trouble seems to be a load of old health regulations. I can’t just buy an X-ray camera and start in my own studio. It seems I’d sterilize half London if I did.’
‘If I can be of any help–’ Stella began.
‘Yes, I think you can–’
‘Perhaps the three of us can meet another day?’ said Terry quickly. He had grown increasingly uneasy during the conversation, and was trying to console himself that Godfri, being a photographer, was probably as queer as some of his pictures.
‘That would be super,’ agreed Stella.
‘Fine,’ said Godfri. ‘Next Wednesday. All right?’
‘Next Wednesday,’ nodded Terry. ‘No!’ he added suddenly. The others stared at him. ‘I’m afraid I can’t come here again. I mean, I can’t come next Wednesday.’
‘I expect we’ll run into one another some time.’ Godfri smiled and gave a little wave. ‘Now must rush to a party. See you.’
‘Why can’t you come on Wednesday?’ demanded Stella.
‘I – er…’ He searched miserably for an excuse. It occurred to him for a second Sir Lancelot might be persuaded to repeat the arrangement, but he decided against it. ‘The class exam,’ he remembered. ‘It’s on Monday week. I’ve got to work for it.’
‘Oh, what a bore.’
‘It is. But in medicine, work comes before play, you know.’
‘Let’s have some food,’ she said petulantly. ‘I’m famished.’
Terry’s evening went steadily downhill. She ate, he noticed, like one of the starving African children which Godfri photographed so artistically. Her conversation grew stilted. She even forgot to call him ‘lover boy’. He cursed himself for making Luigi stop the photographer – and purely through his own big-headedness, he decided. It was only when he was walking with Stella through the lobby and said, ‘I’ll fetch the Rolls,’ that she seemed to cheer up.
‘Yes, do get it. I’d quite forgotten we came in a Rolls, lover man.’
As Terry turned towards the door, Grimsdyke came in.
‘Are you tailing me, or something?’ the student demanded angrily.
‘Good evening, Summerbee. Good evening, Stella,’ Grimsdyke said stiffly. ‘Forgive me for not pausing to chat. But I am already late for my dinner, which I take here every night. And doubtless you will be anxious to return Sir Lancelot Spratt’s car before he notices you’ve pinched it.’
‘Sir Lancelot Spratt?’ exclaimed Stella. ‘What, you mean that noisy fat old man with the beard who came down to have his chest X-rayed?’
‘Yes. The number of that particular wagon is imprinted in my memory, since it invariably seemed to bring trouble.’
‘I did not steal it,’ Terry protested furiously. ‘Sir Lancelot happened to lend it to me.’
‘A likely story! To one of the students?’ Grimsdyke gave a contemptuous guffaw. ‘Well, I shall leave you to sort it out. Knowing Sir Lancelot, by now its absence is familiar to every policeman in London.’
‘What have you let me in for, you stupid nit?’ Stella demanded hotly of Terry.
‘Honestly, Stella, I’ve done nothing–’
Grimsdyke gave him a fatherly pat on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, they’ll only nick you for driving away without permission, and I don’t suppose there’s more than three months attached to that.’
He walked briskly away, the sound of argument a beautiful tune in his ears.
Grimsdyke delayed his dinner to call first at the Picardy suite. The sitting-room door was opened by Ted, in his dark glasses.
‘And how’s the patient?’
‘Still in bed, Doctor, like you said. But better in spirits.’
‘Good. I noticed you gave it to the papers as influenza.’
‘We’ve got to preserve the image, haven’t we?’ Ted nodded towards the closed bedroom door. ‘I wish you’d talk to him, Doctor. About…well, overdoing things. He gets crazy about young girls, you know.’
‘I’d say that was a particularly healthy trait.’
‘Oh, I suppose it’s all right, as long as they’re over the age of consent. Not that it’s easy to tell these times. And you can hardly ask to see their birth certificates at the crucial moment, can you? Funny, isn’t it,’ he mused. ‘One day it’s criminal, the next day it’s fun. But Eric’s not as young as he was, you know. We’ve got to keep his age dark, naturally, because of his image. He looks fine on the screen, when he’s made-up and lit properly. His little trouble is imagining he’s the same when everything’s for real. He’ll kill himself one day,’ Ted ended gloomily.
‘You mean, you want me to give him a fatherly talk – to keep off the birds?’
‘Well…not quite so many, and not quite so young. They’re active, those little chicks.’
‘You have a point,’ Grimsdyke agreed. ‘Though it’s a lovely way to go.’ He pulled his moustache thoughtfully. ‘All right, I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thank you, Doctor.’ Ted beamed gratefully.
‘By the way, if you’d like to mention my name in those newspaper reports, I’ve no objection. So long as I can tell the General Medical Council you did it without my permission.’
Eric Cavendish was sitting up in bed in orange pyjamas, wearing his toupee and dark glasses. ‘And how are we this evening?’ Grimsdyke asked, shutting the bedroom door behind him.
‘I guess I’ll live.’ The actor grinned. ‘That girl you sent to massage my back – she was terrific. I never thought I could enjoy myself so much in bed with a woman, doing nothing but lie on my face and let her stick thumbs into my spine.’
Grimsdyke sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Talking of women–’
‘I know.’ The actor threw aside the magazine he was reading. ‘Ted wants me to take vows of chastity.’
‘No. But he feels if you paced yourself more carefully you’d get more mileage out of the dollies in the end. I’ve had more than one case in this hotel,’ Grimsdyke added morbidly, ‘of the girl having to crawl out from underneath when the gent’s snuffed it. Very embarrassing.’
‘Oh, no! Now you’re trying to scare me.’
Grimsdyke shook his head sapiently. ‘I’m not. Just think how the blood pressure goes up – the respiration rate, the pulse, the lot. Imagine the arteries taking the strain. Why, it’s worse than running for a bus.’
‘Okay, okay, Doc. I’ll ease up on the dollies for a while. But that’s a negative approach, if you’ll pardon me. Look at it this way – if your automobile can’t make it up and down hills any more, what do you do? Take it to a garage. Not leave off driving. Can’t you give me something, Doc? Some pill or something?’
Grimsdyke eyed the bottles and cartons on the bedside table. ‘I don’t believe there’re any you aren’t taking already.’
‘What I need, Doc, is not stagnation but–’ He made a flourish with his arms. ‘Rejuvenation!’
Grimsdyke looked doubtful. ‘If you got yourself rejuvenated you’d be snatching little girls from their push-chairs.’
‘I’ll make a new rule. No girl more than ten years younger than I am.’
‘No grannie would be safe – I mean, well, it can be done, of course. But it would take time.’
‘What’s that, compared with the pleasures of a lifetime?’
‘And money.’
‘Speak to Ted.’
‘All right–’ Grimsdyke moved up the bed and lowered his voice. ‘I do happen to know of somewhere–’
Eric Cavendish swung back the bedclothes. ‘Great. When do we go?’
‘Patience, patience! I’ll
have to speak to the medical superintendent first. Luckily, he happens to be a friend of mine.’
‘What’s the place called?’
‘Dr de Hoot’s Analeptic Clinic,’ Grimsdyke told him. ‘A pleasant spot, actually. It’s in the middle of Kent. Extensive views, own farm produce, gravel soil, and main drainage.’
10
Four o’clock the following afternoon, which was a Friday, found Sir Lancelot Spratt leaning on the westward parapet of newly-built London Bridge, gazing soulfully downstream across the Pool. The only ships alongside the wharves were small, nondescript domestic-looking vessels with the names of unpronounceable Baltic ports painted on their sterns, washing flapping from the afterdeck and scruffy-looking sailors loafing on the rails. But the lower Thames always stirred Sir Lancelot powerfully. Perhaps the sea was in his blood, he wondered. After all, his younger brother was the captain of a liner, which he commanded in much the same spirit as he had run his own operating theatre.
As he watched, the twin bascules of Tower Bridge rose slowly into the air. They looked more enticing than the arms of any woman. The water below his feet was the oily threshold of seven oceans, and there was nothing – absolutely nothing at all – between himself and far-off seas where the sun burnt its way across an empty sky before setting in an explosion of magenta, where dolphins trundled beside the ship’s bows and flying-fish skipped across the ripples thicker than the cabbage-whites in his garden at midsummer, and where there was an island or two with palm-trees and various trouble-free horticultural products, where a man could lie in the sun with his head cradled in the lap of a dusky girl, who smiled and stroked his brow and never even once disagreed with his opinions.
‘That’s the way to end your days,’ Sir Lancelot said out loud. He felt for his handkerchief and coughed. ‘Curse this Asian bug! There’s lots more of the world I should like to see. Well, I suppose I might have got myself run over by a taxi years ago, or stabbed by some dissatisfied patient with my own scalpel. That’s the only way to look at it.’
Giving a last envious glance to the seagulls squawking and wheeling overhead, he stepped firmly towards the north shore of the Thames and the City of London.
Doctor On The Boil Page 6