Doctor On The Boil

by Richard Gordon

  ‘Mr Cavendish!’ snapped Grimsdyke. ‘It is time to return for your treatment. Or would you like me to explain to the lady exactly what it is?’

  ‘Sure, sure.’ Eric Cavendish looked disconcerted. ‘See you tomorrow,’ he smiled in Stella’s direction, as his doctor pushed him through the front door.

  Grimsdyke put his head inside again and gave a whistle. ‘Don’t worry, Stella – he won’t bother us. He’s a mental case really.’

  ‘Another?’

  ‘Yes. Lot of it about this time of the year, Doctor, as they say. We have to dope him to the eyebrows for his films. See you tomorrow.’

  The chauffeur had already started the engine of the Mercedes, but Grimsdyke said from the pavement, ‘Eric, I’ve these things to collect from St Swithin’s. It’s easier to get a Tube. Meet you back in the clinic.’

  ‘That dolly! Isn’t she fantastic?’

  ‘Do you really think so? She struck me as rather plain and uninteresting.’

  The actor laughed. ‘In that case, Doc old man, you must be getting a bit too old for it.’

  He drove away. Grimsdyke made for the Underground station, with a look of apprehension which had not disturbed his features since awaiting his turn for Sir Lancelot Spratt in the surgery finals.

  18

  Shortly before six o’clock that same evening, the dean and Professor Bingham were together in the dean’s office at St Swithin’s. Bingham was sitting in the dean’s chair in his white coat, his feet on the desk, pensively pushing his glasses up and down the bridge of his nose. The dean himself was walking about the room agitatedly.

  ‘It’s too much, Bingham. Too much altogether. More than flesh and blood can stand. I shall have to leave to take my summer holidays. Perhaps even to emigrate. I can see no way out whatever.’

  ‘But you were in such high spirits yesterday because he’d gone to the country,’ said Bingham in a puzzled voice.

  ‘I know. Suddenly, out of the blue, he said he was off to stay with friends. For at least a fortnight, perhaps three weeks. I was overjoyed. I may even have shown it. Then…this morning…bloody hell, the man’s back again.’

  ‘Couldn’t you hint that he’s not welcome?’

  The dean gave a bitter laugh. ‘You might hint the same to an elephant with one foot on your chest.’

  ‘He’s not the easiest of guests, I’ll admit.’

  ‘That’s only the half of it. Everyone else in the house seems to dote on him. Miss MacNish, our housekeeper. That dim-witted Scandinavian au pair. Even, I regret to say, my own dear wife seems affected. Even my daughter Muriel, such a sensible young person. It’s beyond me. Women are completely inexplicable. Possibly it is some form of mass hysteria, like you get in convents and girls’ schools and that sort of thing.’

  ‘Must be all rather painful.’

  ‘Not only painful but disgraceful. I’ve no authority over my own family any longer. God! If I were a man of lower principles, I should ask the bacteriology department for a culture of unpleasant organisms to put in his coffee, and really get rid of him.’ He stopped, scratching his chin. ‘If I had the post-mortem done here,’ he added reflectively, ‘I really could get away with it. The professor of pathology has hated his guts for years.’

  ‘But when he’s married–’

  ‘When!’ exploded the dean. ‘That’s the question. He told me at breakfast yesterday morning he’s put it off till next Christmas or the Christmas after, or the turn of the century, as far as I can make out. And even then, he’ll still be storming about the hospital, invoking the charter and completely wrecking our organization. A terrible prospect! And I wouldn’t put it past him bringing his bride to come and live in my house, too.’

  ‘But this charter nonsense – surely you can get the Ministry to do something?’

  ‘Impossible. You know what this country’s like. Something done by one of our sovereigns several centuries ago without a second thought occupies the whole machinery of Government for years rectifying it. We shall be the laughing stock of every London hospital, you mark my words. The laughing stock of London itself. Oh, God, I hope it doesn’t reach the ears of the Blaydon trustees. You know how sticky they are. They were terribly reluctant to give us the money in the first place. It might well be that our wonderful new plans come to naught.’ He stuck his hands in his pockets and came to a halt, staring gloomily at Luke Fildes’ picture. ‘And it’s all your bloody fault.’

  ‘Mine?’

  ‘Yes. I had him all softened up to go away on a cruise. I knew the St Swithin’s staff would gladly pay the fare. In fact, I fancy I would gladly have paid it out of my own pocket. When he got back from the trip, he might well have left us in peace. As a matter of fact,’ he added more brightly, ‘he might have picked up that Asian disease in reality.’

  ‘But how do I come into it?’

  ‘Because you wouldn’t give him back that fifty thousand quid he donated to your unit. If he’s going to look over your shoulder and watch you spend it, that will be a charming experience.’

  ‘I can take it. The bogyman had no terrors for me even as a student.’

  ‘Look, Bingham – why not just give the cash back?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But why not? We’re getting a packet from the Blaydon Trust, as long as they don’t consider us as too ridiculous even to hold the patients’ fruit money.’

  ‘It’s a matter of principle.’

  ‘Principles are all right for you bloody professors who don’t rely on private practice. I can’t afford them.’

  ‘The fact that Sir Lancelot isn’t going to perish makes no difference to me. I prefer to imagine he donated the money for the excellent use I shall make of it, not for his own convenience.’

  ‘Bingham, three things – I do wish you’d stop playing about with your spectacles, it’s irritated all of us at St Swithin’s for years – Bingham, three things can now happen. One, you will give Sir Lancelot his money back, and we shall see the last of him. Two, I shall resign from the hospital and practise for some charitable organization in the middle of Africa. Or three, you will kindly find some other means for getting rid of the bloody man. Come in, come in,’ he shouted to a knock at the door. ‘What the hell do you want?’ he said, as Grimsdyke’s head appeared.

  ‘Could I have a word with you a moment, sir?’

  ‘Get out.’

  ‘Honestly, only a moment–’

  ‘Get out!’

  ‘It’s about that girl in X-ray who muddled up poor Sir Lancelot’s pictures–’

  The dean picked up a St Swithin’s crested paperweight and threw it at him.

  ‘Must be something on his mind,’ murmured Grimsdyke, wandering away down the corridor.

  He looked at his watch. The bar in the students’ common-room would be open. He decided he could do with a quick pint.

  To his surprise, he found the bar, though early in the evening, full of noisy students. As he stood in the doorway, a voice at his elbow said, ‘I think I owe you a drink.’

  ‘Ah, young Summerbee. Certainly, if you can fight your way through that loose maul.’

  ‘For that business about Stella,’

  ‘Stella who?’

  ‘You know, the girl in X-ray.’

  ‘Was her name Stella? How quickly one forgets such things. How is she?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. She’s gone to another job. I gather she left on her own accord, though – thanks to you.’

  ‘An amusing little incident.’

  ‘I’m sorry we had that row. You know, in our cars. Or rather, your car and Sir Lancelot’s car.’

  ‘Forget it. You were just a shade headstrong, shall we say? Though I’d still keep clear of X-ray,’ he added sagely, ‘just in case she came back.’

  ‘I never want to see her again,’ Terry said quickly. ‘Because of her, I had a row with my real bird.’

  ‘Really? You are a little old lecher, aren’t you?’

  ‘I am.’ Terry nodded sadly. ‘T
hough to be realistic, I wouldn’t have got far with my proper bird. Her old man didn’t approve of me.’

  ‘Good God, nobody’s bothered about that caper since Romeo and Juliet.’

  ‘It’s more complicated than Romeo and Juliet.’

  ‘You know what to do, surely? Go round to this father of hers and tell him you’re going to take his daughter off and possibly marry her. And if he doesn’t like it, you’ll both move in and live off him.’

  ‘Do you suppose it would work?’ Terry asked doubtfully.

  ‘Without fail. He couldn’t even claim tax relief.’

  ‘I’ll think about it. What’ll you have?’

  ‘Harry pinkers, I think. Largish.’

  ‘Dr Grimsdyke, just the man–’ Ken Kerrberry detached himself from the mob. ‘We’re having a committee meeting. About Rag Week.’

  ‘I’m a little mature for dressing up as a nurse and pelting people with bags of flour.’

  ‘But you must be full of ideas? After all your experience of rags as a student?’

  The others gathered round expectantly.

  ‘What sort of ideas? Flock of pigeons in the matron’s bedroom? Dean’s car on the roof? That sort of thing?’

  ‘A big idea,’ Ken told him forcefully. ‘Something to get into the newspapers. To put St Swithin’s on the map again. We’ve been rather overshadowed since those sods at High Cross pinched the mace from the House of Commons.’

  Grimsdyke shook his head. ‘Such stunts are a little difficult. You’ve got to know the time and place to strike. And with so many real villains about, people tend to put the strong-arm boys round their property. When’s the rag?’

  ‘We planned this bit of it for tomorrow evening.’

  ‘I should think of something less–’ He stopped. He pulled gently at his moustache, using both hands. ‘Have you envisaged a spot of kidnapping?’

  ‘That’s an idea! But who? The Commissioner of Police?’

  ‘No, you want to choose some well-known figure in show business. That’s guaranteed to hit the headlines. Someone like…shall we say…Eric Cavendish?’

  Everyone agreed this would be a splendid idea.

  ‘The more I think of it, the more I like it,’ Grimsdyke went on. ‘These actors are of course quite used to being kidnapped. They enjoy the publicity, see. It happens in practically every university town they visit.’

  ‘He might have got a bit tired of the process by now,’ Ken remarked doubtfully.

  ‘Not a bit. I happen to know he’s got an absolutely smashing sense of humour. He’ll join in the fun, see the joke. Particularly as he’s continually being kidnapped on the screen.’

  ‘And ending the night in bed with a beautiful bird,’ said someone in the crowd.

  ‘That won’t happen on this occasion,’ Grimsdyke remarked crisply.

  ‘There’s one little thing,’ Ken objected. ‘How do we manage to find him?’

  ‘That,’ said Grimsdyke, ‘is simple. At precisely six o’clock tomorrow evening he will be outside the Chelsea studio of Godfri the photographer.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Ken asked in amazement.

  ‘I have my methods. But you can rely on it. I should arrive five minutes early, just to make sure. Ah, my drink, Summerbee. Thank you. Well, gentlemen, the rest is up to you.’ He raised his glass. ‘Don’t forget – the honour of St Swithin’s.’

  19

  To examine the dean’s household at six-thirty the following morning – to cut a longitudinal section of it, like some anatomical preparation of the chest or abdomen – is to reveal a surprising amount of activity for so comparatively early an hour on a Thursday in May.

  George, the dean’s son, was asleep in a small room on the top floor. His eyes were tight shut, his pudgy cheeks puffed gently, his hair, which he was trying to grow, was disarranged over his snub nose and recorded each expiration. Inga the au pair girl nudged him in the stomach with her elbow.

  ‘Time to get up,’ she whispered.

  George opened his eyes and looked round. ‘I must have dozed off. It’s daylight.’

  ‘I must myself get going. At seven I bring up the tea.’

  ‘Haven’t we time for another one?’ he asked hopefully.

  She pressed her finger playfully on the end of his nose. ‘No. You have had enough.’

  He sat up, reaching for his pyjamas on the floor. ‘Do you suppose anyone in the house knows what’s going on?’

  She leant one elbow on her pillow. ‘Perhaps. Does it matter? It is all quite natural.’

  ‘It might not seem all that natural to my father,’ he said doubtfully.

  Inga pushed the blonde hair out of her eyes. ‘He is too busy to notice things, I think. His mind is always full of sick people.’ She sighed. ‘Your poor mother.’

  ‘Mum? I’d say she had a pretty good time of it. Not much for her to do about the house.’

  ‘Your father is even too busy to make love to her.’

  ‘Really?’ George grinned. ‘Funny, but I’ve never thought of Dad on the job like that. I imagined you sort of grew out of it when you were about thirty.’

  ‘And your sister also is occupied in her mind. She loves. That is easy to see.’

  ‘She’s been acting a bit funny these last few days, I must say.’

  ‘As for Miss MacNish – who tells? She is very mysterious.’

  ‘About as mysterious as a slice of her apple pie.’

  Inga shook her head sagely. ‘There is something strange about her. It is like Ibsen.’

  ‘Inga love, wouldn’t you like to stay in England?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not working but…well, married?’

  ‘No. The houses are too cold and everything is too dirty.’

  ‘I’m not glamorous enough?’ he asked unhappily.

  ‘You are very passionate. Which I did not think when first I look at you.’

  ‘That’s something, I suppose.’

  ‘Also you are gentle. And you are kind. And you are quite intelligent, too, you know.’

  ‘Are you sure we haven’t got time for another one?’

  She kicked back the bedclothes. ‘No, I must bring up the tea by seven o’clock to the bearded man like Santa Claus.’

  ‘Do you suppose Sir Lancelot knows about us?’

  ‘I think Sir Lancelot knows about everything.’

  On the floor below, George’s sister Muriel was up and dressed. She often rose early for a couple of hours’ study before breakfast. She sat at her desk surrounded by open textbooks and files of lecture notes, but instead of working she was writing a letter.

  Dearest, dearest Albert,

  How can I bear to think that it will be almost one whole week before I set eyes on your dear sweet face again? Yet I understand. You must be away on business and I should not like to think your boutique would suffer because I selfishly wanted to keep you in my arms. Besides, it will give me a chance to get on with my work. Iam doing intestinal obstruction, which is most interesting.

  It seems quite ridiculous to think that we have known each other less than a week – six days! How grateful I am that Ken Kerrberry brought us together at that party last Friday night. He must have seen then how suited we were for one another.

  Muriel paused, biting the end of her ball-point. She added, Darling Albert, you have restored my faith in mankind. Love and big kisses, Muriel.

  She put the letter in an envelope, and with a sigh turned back to Bailey and Love’s Practice of Surgery.

  Next door, the dean was sitting bolt upright in bed. ‘It’s really most amazing. And perhaps a little frightening. I don’t know how many times I’ve had it now – most peculiar how such things slip away from the memory – but certainly it’s one of those recurrent ones you suffer now and then in your life. There I am, at the end of this long corridor – always the same, paintings on the walls, glittering chandeliers, long red carpet down the middle. Very impressive. I’m walking slowly in full morning dress towards a dais a
t the end draped with flags, union jacks, ensigns, stars and stripes, like something at a fair. On it stands Her Majesty, with a sword. I kneel at her feet to receive the accolade, but instead she cuts my head off. Then I wake up.’

  His wife in the other twin bed had her eyes shut.

  ‘I had my dream again, dear,’ he said loudly.

  ‘What, dear?’

  ‘My dream, dear. About the Queen cutting my head off.’

  ‘Yes, dear.’

  ‘Do you suppose I should see one of the psychiatrists?’

  ‘I expect so, dear.’

  The dean tightened his lips. ‘I wonder why it is that my dreams are always so much more interesting than other people’s?’ he asked himself.

  At the back of the house Miss MacNish was up in her pink quilted dressing-gown. Like many who live in only one room of other people’s homes, she was obliged to keep many of her possessions in a trunk stowed under the bed. She had this out, open, and half its contents strewn over the floor. She burrowed away searching for something which, from her expression, was of desperate importance.

  Sir Lancelot in the spare bedroom slept on, as serenely as always.

  The dream of royal decapitation made an unsettling start for the dean’s day. At breakfast he sat unusually silent. Not that there was much chance for conversation, Sir Lancelot seeming in expansive mood and treating them to a light-hearted monologue about various surgical disasters. The dean’s wife Josephine left for an appointment with her hairdresser. Muriel and George both announced their first lecture had been cancelled, and went to work in their rooms. The dean and Sir Lancelot were alone.

  ‘And how do you intend to keep yourself occupied today?’ the dean asked sourly.

  ‘My dear fellow, don’t put it like that. My life is absolutely thrumming. I’ve so much energy I could fill every minute twice over with activity of some sort or another. I fancy I shall pass the morning writing letters. And this afternoon–’ A glint came into his eye. ‘I shall go to St Swithin’s to mooch round Bingham’s wards.’