Doctor On Toast

by Richard Gordon

  ‘But darling! I don’t know any other doctors.’

  ‘Lots of them about,’ I assured her. ‘Reliable and courteous GPs on both sides of Sloane Street. Just stick a pin in a brass plate.’

  ‘Gaston, you are making a fuss–’

  ‘Professional etiquette, and all that–’

  ‘Anyone would think I wanted you to cut my leg off or something. After all, I’ve only come for a certificate.’

  Ophelia disappeared behind the screen.

  She left me wondering what to do. Naturally, in the profession one sees a fair slice of the population with its clothes off, and with no particular feelings except wondering how people ever become nudists unless suffering from advanced myopia. But I loved Ophelia. I’d put her on a ruddy great pedestal, like Queen Victoria outside Buckingham Palace. I was absolutely dashed if I was going behind that screen coldly to palpate the liver of the woman I adored, and ask all sorts of questions which would never have done in the drawing-room. And dressed in a dinner jacket, too.

  ‘Do you want me to take everything off, darling?’

  Bits of Ophelia’s wardrobe not on public view began to flutter along the top of the screen.

  ‘No, no, not everything! Only the essentials.’

  ‘The essentials – ?’

  ‘I mean, keep the essentials on. Really Ophelia!’ I started to pace the peach-coloured carpet. ‘This jolly well isn’t fair.’

  She seemed to find it rather funny.

  ‘I do believe you’re being coy, Gaston. And I thought you doctors were coldly indifferent to the human body?’

  ‘Yes, but not to one you’ve taken out to dinner,’ I told her smartly.

  She laughed. ‘I think I’m ready for you now, darling.’

  I hesitated. Then I suddenly had one of those inspirations of mine, which often strike very profitably just as they’re coming under starter’s orders.

  ‘I can’t possibly examine you,’ I exclaimed. ‘Not this evening, at any rate.’

  Ophelia’s blonde head appeared.

  ‘Don’t tell me you have early closing, or something?’

  ‘No. But I haven’t got a chaperone.’

  ‘A chaperone? Good God, man! What do I want a chaperone for? Or are you intending to send me home in a hansom?’

  ‘Not for you, old girl,’ I explained. ‘But for me. Rule one in medical school – examine no female between the clavicles and the kneecap unless in the presence of another of her sex. And of course our receptionist is miles away at this hour of the night. So you’ll have to come back tomorrow morning.’

  Ophelia drew a breath, sounding like an annoyed asp. ‘I’m not at all certain, Dr Grimsdyke, that I entirely like the tone of that remark.’

  ‘Pure routine, of course,’ I added quickly. Ophelia was a delightfully high-spirited girl, but she did have a rather hair-trigger temper and I didn’t want to risk getting the sphygmomanometer chucked at me.

  ‘It’s just that – well, otherwise we’d be committing the most frightful professional misconduct,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Are you suggesting, Dr Grimsdyke, that I have nothing better to do with my evenings than going round London compromising ham-fisted young medicos–’

  ‘Nothing personal, I assure you–’

  ‘Are you going to examine me or aren’t you? Not only must I have my certificate first thing tomorrow morning, but it’s freezing cold behind here. If this is the way you treat all your patients, I can only say you must be quite a specialist in pneumonia.’

  I went behind the screen.

  A couple of minutes later found me at the Chippendale consulting desk, writing a note on Razzy’s paper to the Capricorn Shipping Company of Leadenhall Street, saying I had that day examined Miss Ophelia O’Brien (21), and in my opinion she was suffering from no disabilities, physical or mental.

  ‘That was pretty short and sweet, I must say.’ Ophelia’s voice seemed to have cheered up a good deal. ‘Was my chest all right?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Dear Gaston!’ She appeared round the screen. ‘Are you always so stern and severe with your female patients?’

  ‘One has one’s bedside manner,’ I murmured. I felt it high time for a little professional dignity.

  She laughed. ‘Be an angel and do up my bra for me. The catch has gone.’

  ‘Ophelia–’ I began, obliging.

  ‘Yes, darling?’

  ‘Ophelia, old girl–’

  What with the surprise of seeing her and the general confusion, I’d just realised the shocking blow about to fall on the Grimsdyke psychology.

  ‘Why have you got to sail out of my life, just when we were getting along so jolly well together?’ I demanded.

  ‘But it’s only for three weeks, darling. Anyone would think I was a sort of female Christopher Columbus, or something.’

  ‘But in three weeks Basil will be back in Town!’

  ‘Oh, yes. So he will.’

  I shot her a glance as she reached for her stockings. If Ophelia didn’t always take me seriously, it struck me she sometimes didn’t take Basil with the gravity of the girl committed to darning his tights for the rest of her life.

  ‘Don’t you think it would be rather fun if we got married?’ I mentioned.

  ‘Please, Gaston, not again.’ She fiddled with her suspenders. ‘I thought we settled that old business the other night?’

  That had been in a night-club, and you can’t imagine how difficult it is convincing a girl your heart bleeds for her with everyone blowing squeakers and popping balloons all round you.

  ‘Basil’s a sterling chap, of course,’ I conceded. ‘Probably make a very good husband for someone one day. And admittedly the Grimsdyke prospects themselves aren’t particularly bright. But,’ I pointed out, ‘if you married me instead, at least you’d get quicker delivery.’

  Another thought struck me, as I noticed the coloured shipping brochure that had slipped from her handbag.

  ‘You won’t just forget poor old Uncle Grimsdyke, will you?’ I asked, rather plaintive. ‘Not on those romantic evenings in the tropical moonlight? Not when you’re being waltzed round the deck by coves in white dinner jackets? Look, there’s a picture of them here–’

  ‘Surely a big grown man like you doesn’t still believe in adverts?’ Ophelia kissed me lightly on the left ear.

  ‘No, but–’

  ‘Besides, it’s probably the monsoon season in South America, anyway, with all the nights pitch black and everyone being seasick.’

  She wiggled into her slip.

  ‘I know!’ she exclaimed. ‘Why don’t you come too? Then we can have lovely fun, with the shuffle-board and the ping-pong and the swims before breakfast.’

  I gave a sigh. ‘Absolutely ruddy impossible, I’m afraid. In the present state of my finances, I could hardly raise the bus fare to the docks.’

  ‘Of course, you’d have to pay, darling, wouldn’t you? I was quite forgetting. Now I must rush – be a sweet and zip up my dress – I’ve got simply loads of things to do in my flat if I’m off on Monday week.’

  ‘Ophelia–’ I grabbed her hand. ‘Surely I can at least take you out a bit before you go?’

  ‘But I’ll be frantically busy, with shopping and choosing clothes and hair-do’s and everything.’

  ‘How about tomorrow evening?’

  ‘I’ve got a special session with Jeremy.’

  ‘Tomorrow afternoon, then?’

  ‘But darling! On Sunday afternoon London’s as dead as Pompeii.’

  ‘Please, Ophelia–’

  ‘Oh, all right.’ She adjusted her make-up. ‘We can go and have a nice cup of tea somewhere, can’t we? Thank you so much for the certificate.’

  She kissed the other ear.

  ‘You’re an absolutely divine doctor,’ she ended, gathering up her bag, ‘and I can hardly wait to be properly ill and send for you to hold my hand and do all those clever things over again.’

  She left. The Grimsdyke life
was in ruins. I would never again have the chance of seeing the dear girl without that blasted fellow Basil prowling in the background. I gave a ruddy great sigh. On the whole, I’d had a pretty miserable evening. I wondered if it would be particularly chilly simply ending it all from Westminster Bridge. But I decided against it, and took off my tie and went to bed instead. Though I thought it would have jolly well served McFiggie right, being called to St Swithin’s in the morning with a shocking hangover and finding I’d got there already.

  6

  I grabbed Razzy’s pink bedside telephone as it rang at seven-thirty in the morning.

  ‘Hello, angel face–’

  ‘Grimsdyke? Spratt here.’

  ‘Oh, good morning, sir. Thank you for a very charming dinner–’

  ‘Anything likely to keep you in your practice this afternoon?’

  I thought quickly, for that hour of the morning.

  ‘I’ve a couple of routine diabetics to see–’

  ‘Presumably they can wait until the evening. I wish you to accompany me to the Zoo.’

  ‘The Zoo, sir?’

  ‘You heard perfectly well what I said.’

  The old boy struck me as rather bad-tempered.

  ‘Owing to her performance yesterday the Bishop’s lady professes herself too ill to take her children, who have been screaming their blasted heads off all night at the prospect of being disappointed. The Bishop apparently can’t be seen in public anywhere on Sundays. Or so he tells me. My wife therefore thinks that I should play the nursemaid.’

  I supposed that morning even Sir Lancelot hadn’t the courage to refuse.

  ‘I would much appreciate it if you would come to give me moral support, Grimsdyke.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, sir,’ I hedged, ‘it might all be rather difficult–’

  ‘Kindly be at my house at two o’clock sharp,’ said Sir Lancelot, and rang off.

  This didn’t leave much alternative to telephoning Ophelia about eleven and scrubbing the tea. She didn’t seem broken hearted. In fact, she giggled a good bit and made a rather rude joke about the baboons. Then it started pouring with rain and the wind turned raw enough to give the penguins frostbite, so on the whole it was a pretty miserable Grimsdyke who drove down Oxford Street again that afternoon.

  Sir Lancelot was already at the front door, dressed in a knickerbocker suit and a deerstalker hat, which I supposed he thought the correct costume for visiting Zoos.

  ‘I was wondering if you were going to funk the whole outing,’ he greeted me. ‘I shouldn’t have blamed you. I only wish I had the nerve to do so myself. Now I suppose “If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly”. I shall summon the brats.’

  A few minutes later I was able to make a closer inspection of the Bishop’s two youngest.

  Hilda was a pale thin girl suffering from crooked eyes and crooked teeth, both of which were undergoing rather ostentatious clinical correction. Randolph was short and dark, with a nasty scowl and a general air of wanting to go and blow something up. I was rather at a loss to open the conversation, because I’m never at my best with children. I don’t think Sir Lancelot was either, but he always solved the problem simply by refusing to admit they existed, and treating anyone past the age of weaning just like another adult.

  ‘You children will kindly jump into the back of my car and we can get started,’ he commanded. ‘If either of you feels the slightest inclination to vomit you are to inform me at once.’

  ‘So kind of you to take them, my dear Lancelot.’ The Bishop appeared in the doorway. ‘My poor wife is still far from herself. It is turning into some form of migraine, I fear. Most distressing. But it would be such a shame to disappoint the little darlings, wouldn’t it? Now if you’ll excuse me, I shall get back to the fire. The weather is extremely treacherous these winter days, don’t you think?’

  We left, Sir Lancelot slamming all the car doors in turn.

  ‘How I am to bring myself to spend three whole weeks under the same roof as that feller without developing acute paranoid schizophrenia is totally beyond my comprehension,’ he exploded, pressing a button to put the children out of earshot behind the glass partition of his Rolls. ‘Not content with his wife making a first-class exhibition of herself in front of my guests yesterday evening, he ruins my breakfast this morning by describing minutely all his symptoms during the night. “I never closed my eyes for a second”, he said. And I could hear him snoring his head off till the milk arrived.’

  ‘I suppose even clerics are a bit easy with the Ninth Commandment when it comes to telling their doctors how little they sleep,’ I suggested.

  The surgeon snorted. ‘I don’t want so much as a word about him in my biography, understand? My own family is bad enough, but Maud’s is the ruddy limit.’

  He blew the horn as he narrowly missed turning a cyclist into an orthopaedic case in the middle of the Marylebone Road.

  ‘Perhaps I should have informed you about my relations a little more fully,’ Sir Lancelot continued in a calmer voice, as we nosed into Regent’s Park. ‘I am one of five brothers, none of whom has been on speaking terms since the measles. Two I should prefer not to mention. Of the others, my youngest brother George ran away to sea at an early age after a misunderstanding with the Vicar over the choir funds. Though I am glad to say he has subsequently redeemed himself to some measure by becoming – Damnation! It’s starting to snow.’

  ‘Perhaps we should put it off till next week?’ I suggested. There was still time to hold Ophelia’s hand over the teacakes.

  ‘Certainly not. I refuse to have next Sunday utterly ruined as well. Now come along you children,’ commanded Sir Lancelot, lowering the partition as we drew up before the Zoo gates. ‘Button your coats and blow your noses and we’ll be off.’

  We stepped out of the car.

  The snow was settling on Sir Lancelot’s Ulster and started to run down my neck in that nasty mocking way it has. It had just struck me that nobody else could possibly be so idiotic to visit the Zoo on an afternoon like that, when I noticed a chap waiting by the turnstile. He was a small, seedy-looking fellow in an old mackintosh and a bowler, with a floppy moustache and gold-rimmed glasses and carrying an attaché case. Just as we formed up behind him I was a bit startled to see him give a little jump and start retreating backwards down the pavement.

  ‘After you, my dear sir, after you,’ boomed Sir Lancelot.

  The little man hesitated a moment, then chucked some silver at the gateman and clicked rapidly inside.

  ‘We seemed to have rather staggered the other visitor,’ I remarked, as we followed.

  ‘And can’t you believe it?’ replied Sir Lancelot shortly. ‘Now, you two – what do you want to look at first? Eh? Damnation! Didn’t you go before you left home? Grimsdyke!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You take charge of that side of the operations. As both these infants seem to be suffering from congenital hypoplasia of the bladder, I shall attempt to seek refuge from the elements in that kiosk until their symptoms are relieved.’

  When we got back Sir Lancelot was shivering, and Randolph announced he wanted a ride on an elephant.

  ‘I doubt very much if you’ll find an elephant plying for hire this afternoon,’ his uncle told him loftily. ‘I am afraid you will have to content yourself with merely observing one of the creatures through the – in the name of heaven, Grimsdyke! Can’t you control him?’

  The little horror let out a scream and started pummelling Sir Lancelot’s legs with his fists.

  ‘You, girl!’ he roared. ‘Don’t just stand there. You’re his big sister. Try and shut him up.’

  Hilda pouted. ‘He’s been promised a ride on an elephant since his birthday.’

  ‘You can’t expect me to produce elephants out of a hat, you ugly little moron.’

  ‘I’ll tell my Mummy you called me that.’

  ‘All right, all right! I’ll see if I can find a ruddy elephant. In heaven’s na
me, detach this child from my overcoat.’

  I obliged, by exerting surgical traction on his ear.

  ‘Now let us go and look at the monkeys.’

  ‘I don’t want to see any monkeys,’ announced the girl. ‘I want an ice-cream.’

  ‘Good God!’ Sir Lancelot wiped the snow from his face. ‘Ice cream!’

  I had the bright idea of settling for a few bars of chocolate, and slipped all my loose change into a convenient slot-machine. This shut up the brats until we reached the monkey-house, which at least was nice and warm. But you know what monkeys are. The way they were carrying on even Sir Lancelot felt the children should be moved, and as they were both laughing their heads off I fancied we might have another scene. But fortunately Sir Lancelot could be a pretty crafty opponent, even for that pair.

  ‘Let us now,’ he announced mysteriously. ‘Go and visit the Equus caballus.’

  From the way the kids started jumping up and down I suppose they expected some fabulous monster, probably with two heads. They looked pretty disappointed when faced with just a couple of ordinary ponies.

  ‘The evolution of the horse,’ began Sir Lancelot, before they had time to complain, ‘which developed from a small four-toed Eocene mammal, is both interesting and instructive.’

  He then gave a short zoological lecture stuffed with Latin, which silenced them completely.

  Sir Lancelot had only got as far as the Mesohippus when an odd movement caught my eye at the end of the pony house. It was the little chap in the bowler peeping at us round the corner.

  ‘Feller’s probably mad,’ grunted the surgeon when I mentioned this. ‘Though it’s a strange thing, Grimsdyke – I could swear I’ve seen him somewhere before.’

  ‘Probably one of your patients, sir?’

  He shook his head. ‘I never forget an abdomen or a face. However, we have more than madmen to worry about. Now, you two children, we shall go and inspect the Mus Rattus.’

  As we struggled down the Elephant Walk in driving snow towards the rodent house, I was a bit surprised to hear Sir Lancelot give a laugh.

  ‘Talking of faces, I’ve just remembered who the hairy baboon reminds me of. My brother George – the one who ran away to sea.’