‘At least you’ll get rid of him for his honeymoon the day after tomorrow.’
‘Yes, five days in Brighton. Then he’s coming back to live in that block of new flats opposite my house, which has ruined my view of the park, anyway.’
‘Pity he wouldn’t go on the cruise.’
‘You know whose fault that is. Really, Bingham. Surely you can give him his money back? After all, it’s not a fortune as such things go. Not compared with our expectations from the Blaydon Trust.’
‘Expectations! The Blaydon gift is not signed, sealed, and delivered. Sir Lancelot’s is in the bank.’
‘A mere administrative detail. You could easily afford to disgorge. He might at least disappear with his bride to Wales. I happen to know he’s itching to start trout fishing, now the season’s open.’
‘It’s a matter of principle.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t be so smug, Bingham.’ The dean looked offended. ‘You sometimes make the rest of us feel like a bunch of train robbers.’
‘Perhaps I have reason to be smug?’
‘That’s worse. Now you’re smug about being smug–’
Bingham laid a hand on his arm. ‘I say, you are becoming over-excited. It can’t be doing much good to your systolic pressure. Just relax a minute, while I tell you exactly what I’m feeling smug about. You may find it extremely interesting.’
The dean looked puzzled. ‘Well, make it brief. I want my lunch.’
‘Isn’t it strange how unlikely events can sometimes have even more unlikely consequences? The spore of penicillin mould which blew through the window of Fleming’s laboratory at St Mary’s–’
‘Come on, man!’
‘I mean, your son’s little aberration could prove a great benefit to us all.’
‘What the hell are you getting at?’
Professor Bingham reached for a large, ancient leather-bound book on the middle of the committee-table. ‘You know what this is? The minute-book of the full disciplinary committee.’ He ran his hand fondly over its glossy cover. ‘It seldom sees the light of day. It was only with difficulty that, as the committee’s secretary, I managed to find it before the present meeting. It was tucked away among piles of bound surgical reports from Victorian days. An unlikely place. Perhaps someone had been hoping to hide it.’
‘Look here, Bingham, what are you trying to say? I’m hungry.’
‘I am trying to say – in short – that I can guarantee Sir Lancelot will leave for his honeymoon on Friday and never show his face in St Swithin’s, or even London, for the rest of his life.’
23
While the dean sat with Professor Bingham in the committee room at St Swithin’s, his daughter Muriel was hurrying away from a bus stop up the steep pavements of Highgate Hill. Halfway along she turned into a street of small shops which until recently had been selling fish and chips and newspapers, but with the rediscovery of the area as amusingly original to live in were taken over by the purveyors of more fashionable things. Muriel suddenly stopped. She hitched up her skirt until it barely covered her thighs. She looked down approvingly. Her legs were really quite good. She wondered desperately if Albert would notice them.
Muriel pushed open the shop door. ‘Hello!’ she cried joyfully. ‘I’m here.’
‘Hello, then.’
Albert appeared from the dim interior of his boutique into the light of day, like some round and shaggy animal emerging from its den. The object of Muriel’s passion was a young man five feet high and almost two across. It was difficult to know what he looked like, the unclothed parts of him being largely invisible under a thick matting of hair. The hair on his head fell to his shoulders. His thick frizzy ginger sideboards suggested the rope fenders of a ship. The moustache covering his upper lip changed direction abruptly at the corner of his mouth and ran downwards towards his chin. Massive eyebrows thatched his bulging eyes, and a small pointed beard somehow kept its identity in the general growth. He was dressed with fashionable scruffiness in jeans and a jacket of khaki drill.
‘Well, then,’ he repeated.
Muriel threw her arms round him, and finding a reasonably bare area gave it a kiss. ‘Aren’t you pleased to see me?’
‘Course.’
‘Albert, my darling! It’s been terrible this week, not meeting you even once.’
‘Has it, then?’
‘You got my letter?’
‘Yes.’
Muriel couldn’t suppress her trembling. He was so more experienced, so more worldly then herself she continually feared he must find her dull. In fact, he treated the world – which he divided simply into customers, birds, and people – with an off-handedness he thought as fashionable as his clothes.
‘Well, then,’ he said.
‘Aren’t you going to kiss me?’
‘I might.’
She was thrilled as he pressed his lips hard on hers, though she felt somewhere in her mind it was like being slapped in the face with a damp doormat. She broke away, looking round guiltily. In her excitement, she hadn’t cared if there were customers about. But the boutique was in its usual state of emptiness. It was a tiny slot-like place, filled with a collection of objects which had in common only that they were old, covered with dust, and slightly broken. In summer, Albert managed to sell a few of these to tourists, who found a strange happiness in decorating distant homes with horse-brasses or cockle-plates, or even flag-emblazoned admirals’ chamber-pots. In the days before boutiques, the establishment would have traded under the good honest name of a junk shop.
‘Well, Albert, my sweet. Where are you taking me to lunch?’ He scratched his side-whiskers. ‘Oh, Albert! Don’t say you’ve forgotten.’
‘Perhaps I have.’
‘Well, here I am, so let’s go, anyway,’ she said brightly.
‘Pub do you?’
She was disappointed. She had been anticipating a pleasant meal in some quiet and possibly romantic restaurant. But she gave another smile. ‘You know I’d go anywhere with you, Albert my love.’
‘I’d better lock the place up properly. Lot of criminals about these days.’
He shot the bolts of the back door thoughtfully. He wondered exactly how he had got mixed up with this peculiar virgin. Perhaps he had been more drunk than he had imagined at that party in the student’s flat. Or perhaps it was the medical bit about her which attracted him. He wondered if he harboured some mild peculiarity about female doctors, like a friend of his who was continually getting himself in trouble with policewomen.
They went into a small public house with decorative frosted-glass windows, just across the road. Albert directed her to the public bar, where he bought her a light ale and a ham roll.
‘Albert,’ she announced. ‘I’ve something important to tell you.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘You see, I…I seem to have so little to offer you. So I decided that…instead…I’d like to help you in your work.’
‘Serve in the shop, then?’
‘Well, not actually that. I’ve my classes at St Swithin’s. Though I should love to really, it must be wonderful handling all those lovely and precious things. But I thought I might be able to help you with introductions to important customers.’
Albert looked more interested. He was an enterprising young man, with an admirable sharpness for such opportunities as presented themselves in his somewhat dreary life.
She felt in her handbag and handed him a visiting card. He put down his pint and studied it carefully. It was printed:
Dr Lionel Lychfleld, DSc, MD, FRCP
164 Grace Gardens,
NW1
01-467 3128
‘Might be useful.’ He turned it over slowly. ‘Ta.’
‘You could show it to people, you see,’ she said a little breathlessly. ‘And they’d think he’d sent you, on a personal recommendation, to sell them antiques.’
‘They might not believe me.’
‘Why shouldn’t they?’
‘Well
…’ He scratched himself again. ‘Look, love. It would be better if he’d put a signed message on it.’
‘I don’t think I could persuade him to do that,’ she said doubtfully.
‘Who’s got to persuade anyone?’ He laughed. ‘You do it.’
‘Oh…but that would be rather naughty of me, wouldn’t it?’
He picked up his pint. ‘What’s it matter, if no one finds out?’
Muriel took out her ball-point. She wrote on the card, This is to introduce MrAlbert Duttle (antique specialist) who is most reliable. L Lychfield.
‘There you are.’ She handed it back delightedly. The deed once done, she had only to enjoy his appreciation.
‘Ta,’ he said, slipping the card into the back pocket of his jeans.
‘Who are you going to try it on, Albert dear?’
‘That’s the point, innit? Who d’you know interested in buying high-class antiques?’
‘Daddy’s and mummy’s friends are no use, because of course they’d ring him up and everything would come to light. So would all the consultants at the hospital.’ She sipped her light ale thoughtfully. ‘I know! Much better.’ She came so near him she was in danger of getting a mouthful of hair. She whispered, ‘Have you heard of someone called Lady Blaydon?’
‘Can’t say I have.’
‘Well, daddy has been mixed up with her lawyers and people over the past few months. She’s been giving a lot of money to the hospital.’
‘She’s loaded?’
Muriel nodded eagerly. ‘Daddy says she’s filthy rich. I heard she lives in those huge flats overlooking St James’s Park. My father doesn’t actually know her, so she’d just think he was one of your satisfied customers. You could go on your motor-bike and see if she’s interested in buying anything. If she isn’t there’s no harm done, is there?’
‘Maybe.’ He considered for some moments. ‘It’s nice to do business with the better class of person. They’re more appreciative of good stuff. Ta.’ He added condescendingly, ‘Care for another light?’
24
That night the dean dreamt that the Queen on her flag-decked dais was executing him again. He woke sweating, relieved that it was but a fantasy. He glanced at his bedside clock, and saw that it was already past seven in the morning. Then a warm feeling grew upon him. This particular day was going to be one of the most satisfying of his life.
The dean usually made a brisk toilet, anxious to be out of the house and away to the hospital. He had been even quicker during the last week in an attempt to be off before Sir Lancelot got down to breakfast. Approaching marriage, far from mellowing the surgeon’s mood, seemed to put him in an increasingly filthy temper. But that morning the dean tarried in the bath and fiddled with his clothes, seeing his wife go downstairs first. He wanted to be completely sure of finding himself alone after breakfast with his guest.
By the time the dean reached the table, Josephine had already snatched a cup of coffee and hurried to Bond Street for a final fitting of the dress she had bought for the following day’s wedding. Muriel rose and said she had a patient to examine before the teaching-round. George alone sat yawning over his cornflakes. The boy always seems so tired these mornings, the dean thought testily. Perhaps he ought to have some treatment for it.
There was only one letter beside his plate. It was from the senior consultant psychiatrist at St Swithin’s.
The dean read it, with a grunt. ‘You seem to have impressed the psychiatry people at St Swithin’s at your consultation yesterday afternoon.’
George looked at him silently. Since the incident of the Minister’s desk he had been too terrified to speak to his father at all. ‘Impressed them?’
‘Yes. That you are mentally unsuited to the occupation of medicine.’
A slow smile spread over George’s face.
‘They go further. They imply that you are mentally unsuited for any occupation whatsoever.’ He tossed the letter down. ‘Well, if you want to give it up, you may as well, I suppose. Even though I wouldn’t take the word of a psychiatrist on the suitability of a fish to water. You represent a great waste of time and money, but as you have little idea of the value of either I suppose that won’t trouble your conscience.’
‘But Dad–’
The dean stopped him. ‘I don’t want another word about it. It is a most painful subject to me. Once we have Sir Lancelot out of the way, we can settle down to discuss your career. Perhaps you would do well to emigrate.’
George spooned the rest of the cornflakes into his mouth and scurried away. The dean picked up the morning paper. Inga came in silently to clear the dirty dishes. Miss MacNish, the dean knew, had gone to have her hair done for the wedding. They would be undisturbed. The scene was set, the drama could begin.
‘Morning, Dean.’ Sir Lancelot appeared and sat at the table. ‘Sling us the bit of the paper with the crossword, will you? I rather like having a stab at it over breakfast.’
The dean stared at him coldly. He ran his tongue over his lips. ‘It might interest you to know, Lancelot, that it is one of the remaining small pleasures of my busy and overtaxed life also to have a stab at the crossword over breakfast. I only manage to see my newspaper at all because I specifically ordered Miss MacNish shortly after your arrival not to send it directly to your bedroom with your morning tea.’
Sir Lancelot sniffed. ‘I’ve worse things to worry about, I suppose.’ He poured himself some coffee. ‘Slacking this morning, I see? You’re usually at the hospital by now.’
‘I am not slacking. I was waiting specifically until you came down.’
‘Civil of you, but as a matter of fact I really prefer solitude for this particular meal.’
‘I have something to say which I fear will cause you considerable dismay.’
‘You’re not on about that bloody electric blanket again, are you?’
‘Lancelot, when you leave this house tomorrow morning for the registry office, you will be leaving it for good. On that, I think we are fully agreed. But you will be leaving St Swithin’s for good, too.’
Sir Lancelot glared. ‘What’s all this? Are you ordering me about, you little hearthrug Napoleon?’
‘I was intending to put an unpleasant matter to you as kindly as possible. If you persist in using such terms, I shall employ less finesse.’
‘Dean, do shut up and ring the bell for my eggs and bacon.’
‘I think you would prefer us to have no audience. Lancelot, will you turn your mind back to the occasion of Thursday, June the twenty-fifth, 1953? That was Coronation year.’
Sir Lancelot pondered for some time. ‘It was the first day of the Lord’s Test against the Australians under Hassett, the season we got the Ashes back by winning the final game at the Oval–’
‘I’m not asking about trivia,’ snapped the dean. ‘I should have imagined the date was stamped indelibly on your memory. It was that of a meeting of the full disciplinary committee at the hospital.’
‘H’m,’ said Sir Lancelot.
The dean picked up a butter-knife and started tapping the dish to emphasize his points.
‘That June day you were still Mr Spratt, a junior consultant on the staff of St Swithin’s. Though you perhaps did not realize it, you stood on the threshold of your greatest days as a surgeon – which, I freely and gladly admit, brought immense benefit to mankind and considerable renown to the hospital.’
‘H’m,’ repeated Sir Lancelot.
‘You appeared before the committee in rather peculiar circumstances.’ The dean tapped louder. ‘In the first place, it was convened with a bare quorum, only three members. Most irregular. The meeting was at an unusual time – nine in the evening, when few consultants could have been in the hospital. And of those three committee members, all now unhappily dead, two were consultant physicians related to your family by marriage. The chairman was the retiring senior surgeon, who was your uncle. Odd.’
‘I do wish you’d stop playing “God Save the Queen” on that ruddy b
utter-dish.’
The dean abruptly dropped the knife. ‘Furthermore, Lancelot, in a most mysterious manner the relevant pages of the minute-book became gummed together.’
‘Nothing mysterious about it whatever. I gummed them.’
‘With the aid of a scalpel, the story of the meeting is now revealed. The proceedings seem to have been ridiculously brief and laughably lenient. A reprimand, I recall, was the only punishment. Everything was conducted with discretion, even delicacy. The lady in question was referred to throughout simply as “Mrs X”. I shall not press you who the unfortunate female was–’
‘You’d damn well better not, and she was not unfortunate.’
‘Nevertheless, Lancelot, you outraged decency by taking her away for the weekend. To France. To Le Touquet. I must say, you do seem to enjoy making history repeat itself.’
‘Well? What great harm was there in that, as you pointed out in your office? Even if I have done it twice in my life.’
‘With a difference. On the recent occasion, the lady who accompanied you is tomorrow to become your wife. Even the narrowest moralist would strain himself objecting to that. But on the earlier expedition the lady already had a husband.’
‘They were joined only formally.’
‘That is absolutely nothing to do with it. Luckily for you, the husband did not indeed seem particularly affronted. He simply complained to the hospital, and left St Swithin’s to take the matter further if they thought fit.’
‘I don’t see what business it was of the hospital’s, anyway.’
Picking up the knife again, the dean gave the butter-dish a decisive tap. ‘You seem to have forgotten with the passage of time that the lady in question was also one of your patients. A few weeks previously you had removed her appendix in the private block.’
‘H’m,’ said Sir Lancelot again.
‘Of course, I don’t really believe that the General Medical Council would feel necessarily obliged to act at this stage – as it most certainly would have done, had the facts come to its notice at the time.’
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