Doctor On Toast

by Richard Gordon

  ‘If you don’t mind I’d rather not go into details. Least said, and all that. But – well, the chap isn’t at all satisfactory.’

  ‘Cor luv us, I might have known.’ Mr Shuttleworth tipped back his chair. ‘You wouldn’t believe it, the rubbish they sends us from the Labour Exchange these days. But don’t you worry, Doc. I’ll shift him to the Library.’

  ‘I don’t think he should be allowed in contact with the passengers at all,’ I added quickly. ‘A bit familiar in his manner, you understand.’

  ‘And so I noticed. I know his type, believe me. Right, we’ll soon settle Mr Bleeding Beauchamp’s hash. I’ll put him waiter in the firemen’s mess.’

  ‘I’m sure that will be very much better for everybody,’ I said, with a gasp of relief.

  ‘Don’t bother yourself, Doc, you won’t have to look at his ugly mug again till we gets home to London. I only wish I could say the same.’

  ‘I think that’s an excellent idea, Chief. And how are the feet?’

  ‘Much easier, thank you. Very interesting to the medical profession, I believe, my feet?’

  ‘Absolutely fascinating.’

  He chuckled. ‘Fair baffled Dr O’Rory, I did, every time I took my boots off.’

  ‘Whenever you feel you want a chat about them,’ I assured him, ‘just bring them along to my cabin.’

  ‘Thank you, Doc, and so I will.’ He picked up a scrap of paper. ‘By the way, the Captain sent a note for you to go to the bridge when you’d finished your surgery. Nothing urgent, but he thinks he’s developing a nasty cold.’

  ‘I’ll slip up at once. Thank you, Chief for being so co-operative.’

  I suddenly realised how jolly useful it had been to cast the Chief Steward’s feet like bread upon the waters. Though I’d been a ghastly cad, of course, banishing old Basil somewhere among the boilers with all the firemen chucking their dinner at him. In fact, my behaviour would have made any self-respecting snake in the grass crawl rapidly away in the opposite direction. But apart from anything else, I’d have had a pretty miserable trip sharing my cabin with Richard the Third all the way to Rio de Janeiro and back. Thinking over the rush of events in the past few hours, I gave myself a little pat on the back. I had at least fixed a nice unruffled holiday, buying Ophelia long drinks in the sunshine and having a really serious bash at the tropical moonlight, and that wasn’t to mention the bingo.

  I climbed all those stairs feeling that I’d now an excellent chance to get myself well in with Captain Makepeace, and one never knew when such things were useful. The bridge itself seemed full of chaps in mufflers staring in all directions and drinking mugs of cocoa, and turning to a sailor polishing the fire-alarm I asked for the Captain.

  A figure by the wheel lowered his binoculars.

  ‘Doctor! You’ve been a devil of a long time.’

  I stared at him.

  ‘But you’re not the Captain!’

  ‘I am not the ruddy galley boy, if that’s what you’re inferring. And don’t lean on that telegraph, unless you want to put the starboard engine full astern.’

  ‘I – I’m frightfully sorry, sir.’

  ‘And furthermore, Doctor, when appearing before the Captain you invariably wear your cap. Kindly remember that.’

  ‘Yes, of course, sir.’

  ‘And you offer him the courtesy of a salute. Hell’s teeth!’ exclaimed Captain Spratt. ‘I fancy I shall have a good deal to teach you during the voyage, Doctor.’

  10

  I hadn’t much time to consider this situation in the next few days, because everyone on board was seasick, including myself. But between holding either other people’s heads or my own over vomit bowls, I kicked myself pretty hard for not examining Captain Makepeace’s kidneys there and then on his desk in the shipping office.

  ‘Captain Makepeace suffered an acute stone in the kidney on his way to the docks this morning,’ Captain Spratt had informed me up on the bridge that evening. ‘Most unfortunate. As our relief captains are all miles away, I like a fool volunteered.’

  ‘It should make a pleasant break from the office, sir,’ was all I could think of saying.

  ‘My dear good feller! Like all professional mariners, I positively detest the sea.’

  He took out his little silver box.

  ‘I – er, wouldn’t recommend snuff with your complaint, sir.’

  ‘Doctor, I asked you up here to cure my cold, not to change the habits of a lifetime.’

  ‘Yes, quite, sir.’

  Fate, of course, was at it again. When I’d qualified at St Swithin’s I’d uttered a great sigh of relief at finally getting out of the clutches of Sir Lancelot Spratt. Now I wasn’t only back in them again, but being clutched by the whole ruddy Spratt family. Fortunately, just then somebody came up to the bridge and announced he wanted to drop the pilot, so I was able to escape and send up a couple of aspirins.

  It wasn’t till our fourth day out that the ship stopped throwing herself all over the ocean, and the sun returned to the sky and the colour to the passengers’ cheeks. For the first time I began to think about my next meal instead of my last one, and after my morning surgery I stepped jauntily enough on deck in search of Ophelia.

  I found her being photographed looking enraptured on a capstan, and what with her little blonde curls and her little brief swimsuit, I felt at once that come Captain Spratt, come seasickness, come even old Basil, it was all jolly well worth it.

  ‘Darling, where on earth have you been to?’ she greeted me.

  ‘I’ve been seasick. Haven’t you?’

  ‘But of course not! I’ve never been sick in my life, not even after parties. Do you know Humphrey?’

  She indicated a weedy chap in pink slacks with a camera, who kept saying, ‘Just one more, dear, and then we’ll try it on the anchor.’

  ‘Enjoying the trip?’ I asked her.

  She pouted. ‘A pretty dreary bunch of people, I must say.’

  ‘I think they’re supposed to get better as we go along.’ I hesitated. ‘You haven’t seen anyone on board you know, of course?’ I mentioned casually.

  ‘But who on earth would I know on a jaunt like this?’

  ‘No one at all, naturally,’ I agreed quickly. ‘And – er, I don’t suppose you’ll be wanting to make a tour of the ship or anything? Engine room, boilers, firemen’s quarters, and so on?’

  ‘My cabin’s quite awful enough, darling, thank you.’

  I nodded. ‘Yes, I shouldn’t penetrate the depths. Very insanitary down there. Easily catch things.’

  ‘Another with legs, dear,’ chipped in Humphrey.

  ‘How about a cocktail in my cabin before lunch?’ I suggested.

  ‘Darling, I’d love to, but I’ve got to have my hair done.’

  ‘Well, before dinner?’

  ‘I’ve a date to try on some costumes for Humphrey.’

  ‘Before lunch tomorrow, then?’

  ‘Oh, all right, darling.’

  I gave a laugh. ‘After all, we’ve got three whole weeks ahead of us, haven’t we?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose we have, darling.’

  I went back to my cabin feeling pretty pleased with myself.

  But I didn’t get my drink after all. After breakfast the next morning Mr Shuttleworth appeared, and announced that the Captain desired my company at twelve-thirty prompt in his cabin. I cursed a bit, but as there seemed as much chance of avoiding the summons as of avoiding the summons to the life hereafter, I scribbled a note to Ophelia putting everything off until dinner time and dutifully climbed to the bridge.

  ‘Ah, Doctor! There you are.’

  I entered the Captain’s cabin, saluting hard enough to dislocate my right wrist joint.

  ‘I thought I’d have you up here for a drink,’ he explained.

  ‘That’s very civil of you, sir,’ I returned, as politely as possible.

  ‘Get to know you a bit, you understand?’

  He paused to give his nose a couple of helpings of sn
uff.

  ‘That cold of mine, Doctor. Gone like a flash.’

  ‘I’m delighted to hear it, sir.’

  ‘Good job of work. I regard it as one of the first principles in successfully commanding a vessel at sea always to give credit where credit is due. I do so now.’

  At least the old boy seemed much more affable. Now he was like Blackbeard after a good lunch settling down to organise the walking the plank.

  ‘You were a student of my brother’s, eh?’ the Captain went on, as I took a seat. ‘The brains of the family. The bookworm, at any rate. I suppose I really should look him up in London. I’ve no excuse, having time enough on my hands now I’ve swallowed the anchor.’

  He whisked up more snuff, making rather a noise about it.

  ‘As for you, Doctor, you know the rules. Observe them, and you and I will get on perfectly well on board.’

  ‘I’m sure we shall, sir,’ I told him hopefully.

  ‘You’re not interested in the Great Pyramid, I suppose?’

  ‘Not in the slightest, sir.’

  ‘Good.’

  I began to feel the outlook was fairly encouraging. I should have to be pretty discreet with Ophelia, of course, but a ship is crammed with cosy nooks for little chats. And though old Basil wasn’t far away, being chased round the boilers every time the menu didn’t come up to scratch, as far as Ophelia was concerned they might have been in two different ships sailing in opposite directions.

  ‘Now let’s have our drink.’ The Captain interrupted my thoughts by clapping his hands and calling, ‘Steward!’

  And there was that blasted chap Basil again, standing in the doorway.

  ‘Anything the matter, Doctor?’ exclaimed the Captain.

  ‘Nothing – nothing, sir. Just a little rigor. Possibly a slight temperature.’

  ‘You must look after yourself. We can’t have the doctor sick, you know.’

  ‘No, of course not, sir.’

  I stared hard at Basil. He stared hard at the silver chronometer over my head. I wondered for a few seconds if it really was the beastly fellow, or whether I’d got hallucinations from general break-up of the psychology under the strain. He seemed different from the chap who’d been sprawling on my sofa guzzling my gin – older, somehow, more bent, and half asleep.

  ‘Name your tipple, Doctor,’ invited Captain Spratt genially, blowing his nose on a large red-spotted handkerchief.

  ‘Pink gin,’ I muttered.

  ‘And for me, as usual, Beauchamp.’

  ‘I have taken the liberty of anticipating your wishes, sir,’ replied Basil, advancing with a tray and two glasses.

  ‘But, damn it! What about the doctor’s wishes–’

  ‘I took the further liberty of anticipating those, sir.’

  ‘The man’s a marvel,’ muttered Captain Spratt.

  ‘I trust that is the quantity of angostura bitters you favour, sir?’ went on Basil, bending over me with the glass.

  I glared at him.

  ‘Will there be anything more, sir?’ he asked the Captain.

  ‘Not for the moment, thank you, Beauchamp.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  He withdrew, with the dignity of a High Court judge knocking off for lunch.

  ‘Don’t see many fellers at sea like him, eh?’ Captain Spratt gave an appreciative nod. ‘In the old days, you could have swapped the Captain’s tiger for the butler in any stately home in the kingdom, and no one would have been the wiser. Now they’re all scent and hair oil and what’s-me-overtime. But Beauchamp’s one of the real old type. I don’t suppose you even see ’em ashore now, more’s the pity.’

  ‘I don’t seem to have noticed him about the ship much,’ was all I managed to say, struggling to adjust myself to the situation.

  ‘Of course you haven’t. Do you know where that fool of a Chief Steward buried him? Down below in the firemen’s mess, if you please. I spotted the feller on my rounds yesterday, and brought him on deck.’

  There was a cough from the doorway.

  ‘Yes, Beauchamp?’

  ‘I have removed the cover of your bunk, sir, and set out your bedroom slippers, should you feel the inclination for a rest after luncheon, sir.’

  The Captain nodded. ‘It’s very likely I’ll turn in.’

  ‘If I might respectfully point out, sir, a short sleep in the afternoon has been advocated by many distinguished men of affairs. I would mention Napoleon and Mr Gladstone, sir.’

  ‘I can perfectly well understand it, Beauchamp.’

  ‘I shall call you at four o’clock precisely, sir.’

  ‘Very good, Beauchamp.’

  ‘With a pot of tea and assorted confectionery, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Beauchamp.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Basil disappeared again.

  The whole scene left me totally mystified. Particularly as Basil was such a lazy hound in the digs he’d hardly ever make his own bed, and certainly never anyone else’s.

  ‘Beauchamp will be an absolute godsend at the party tonight,’ I heard the Captain saying.

  ‘Party?’ I looked up. ‘What party?’

  ‘The usual jamboree – Captain’s cocktails. Bores me to tears myself, but the passengers expect it. Just a few from the first-class, you understand. I’ve asked the crowd from my table and that advertising woman and the feller with the pink pants.’

  I gave a jump. ‘Not up here, sir?’

  Captain Spratt glared at me. ‘I am not in the habit of entertaining my guests on the bridge or the fo’c’sle head, if that’s what you infer.’

  ‘No, no, of course not, sir, but–’

  ‘You are naturally invited, so kindly be sure you’ve got a clean dickey. Six o’clock sharp, if you please.’

  ‘I – I don’t think I’ll be able to attend, sir.’

  ‘You don’t think you’ll what?’ roared the Captain.

  ‘I mean, I’ve a good bit of work to clear up down below, sir–’

  ‘Now look here, Doctor. If you think I am going to make footling small talk over the olives to a bunch of third-class people with first-class tickets, without the full and enthusiastic support of every one of my senior officers, you are greatly mistaken. Hell’s teeth! I will not have any shilly-shallying. I will not have it! You will arrange your work efficiently, and be here on time. That is an order.’

  ‘Of course, sir. Quite, sir. I assure you it will be a great pleasure, sir–’

  ‘It certainly will not be. But if you don’t make it appear so to everybody present, God help you.’ He swallowed the rest of his gin. ‘Now I must go to the bridge.’

  The Captain disappeared up a ladder. I hung behind for a second or two. Then I nipped back to the little pantry outside his cabin door, to find Basil enjoying a smoke and helping himself to the gin.

  ‘Look here! What’s the ruddy idea?’ I demanded at once.

  ‘My dear chappie!’ He gave a grin. ‘How was I?’

  ‘What the hell do you mean, how were you?’ I felt pretty narked at it all. ‘You not only give me the fright of my life creeping through the doorway, but you go oiling round the Captain like a stage butler–’

  ‘But that’s exactly it! Don’t you remember the very first show I was in? The Missing Butler. I played the butler. In fact, now I come to think of it, I’ve been playing butlers steadily ever since, when I’ve been in work. I’ve become absolutely first-class at this “Dinner is served, m’lord, Coffee is on the terrace, m’lady, The body awaits you in the library, Inspector” stuff. Though you can’t imagine how hard it is living, breathing and thinking a butler from morning to night. I’m so glad you liked the performance.’

  ‘The way you were carrying on certainly made the Admirable Crichton look like a teashop waitress,’ I told him, ‘but that’s not the point–’

  ‘Thank you, dear chappie. You know how I appreciate a good notice. The idea came to me when I was relegated to the firemen’s mess by slave driver Shuttleworth. Not th
at it was too bad down there, once I’d stopped being beastly sick. All the firemen these days are little skinny men, you know, with clean collars who turn knobs. But as I wasn’t allowed on the passenger decks, the whole object of my voyage was defeated. After all,’ he explained, ‘the only reason I’m floating about the place like this is to be near my Ophelia.’

  I said nothing.

  ‘And tonight,’ laughed Basil, ‘the poor dear thing is going to get the surprise of her sweet young life. I can hardly imagine her face when she steps through that door and sees me waiting with her first Martini. No end of a joke, don’t you think? Though not a word if you happen to see her about the ship,’ he added darkly. ‘Sorry I can’t offer you another gin. I must go down to the Glory Hole for a bite of lunch myself.’

  ‘If you think you can go on pulling wool over the eyes of a chap like Captain Spratt–’

  ‘What do you make of our bearded chum in the gold braid, by the way? Rather preposterous, isn’t he? Still, the experience is no end of help. I might easily find myself playing a captain sometime, and I’m picking up all sorts of useful hints just watching him prowling about.’

  11

  I went down to the first-class saloon. I was almost too worried to eat, and I’d all that seasickness to catch up with, too. Mumbling a few polite words, I sat down and unfolded my table-napkin and fiddled a bit with the menu.

  I had my own table not far from Ophelia and Humphrey, with three eating companions. On my right, Miss Miggs, a schoolteacher recovering from her thyroid being removed. On my left, Mr Bridgenorth, who seemed to be some sort of high-powered grocer. Opposite, Mrs van Barn, a pleasant American who looked as though she’d been turned out by a posh beauty parlour, though without making them work too hard for their money.

  At least I hadn’t the extra strain of making conversation, because everyone meeting a doctor socially is bursting to pour out their entire clinical history since the mumps. Miss Miggs kicked off with the story of her thyroidectomy, which they’d issued invitations for surgeons all over London to see, like a film premiere. She was followed by Mr Bridgenorth, who’d been packed off on a cruise when the strain of flogging all those packets of cornflakes got too much for his blood pressure. And though Mrs van Barn was healthy enough herself she’d lost a couple of husbands through highly complicated diseases, and it struck me they must have been pretty rich chaps at that, affording to have them at New York rates.