Doctor On Toast

by Richard Gordon

  I extended my hand.

  Basil spat on it.

  ‘Here, I say! This isn’t quite the way to behave just because you’ve been unlucky in love.’

  ‘You poisonous little pill pedlar!’

  ‘I mean,’ I went on with a little laugh, ‘you may henceforward be frightfully lucky at cards.’

  Basil advanced into the cabin.

  ‘Will you stop that drivelling before I break your filthy neck?’

  ‘Now, just a minute–’ I started to feel annoyed with the idiot. ‘You’ve no business to carry on like this simply because Ophelia has turned you into the snow. Why, if everybody created like you, the ruddy country would be like a gladiator’s benefit night. Besides, now you’ve got your van Barn to keep you warm. Dash it!’ I became rather indignant. ‘You can’t have your crumpet and eat it too. I might tell you, Basil, I am becoming a little weary of continually hearing about Ophelia and you–’

  ‘Oh, damn Ophelia and me! It’s Ophelia and you I’m concerned about.’

  ‘I admit she’s shown a slight preference–’

  ‘It might interest you to know, you unholy sewer rat, that Ophelia has told me everything. Everything! Starting before Christmas.’

  ‘Er, yes,’ I said. In the excitement, I’d rather forgotten the train of events.

  ‘She told me the lot. The absolute lot!’ Basil stood over me, breathing on my face like a blowlamp. ‘All the time I was sweating my heart in that ghastly pantomime in Blackport – cavorting before audiences composed entirely of deaf mutes, living in digs that would be a disgrace to a refugee camp, eating all that beastly tripe and queuing in the rain for those horrible trams – while I was suffering to earn a little money to set up a home for my future wife, you – you emasculated Jack the Ripper – were taking advantage of my absence in a manner unspeakably loathsome between bitter enemies, not to mention old trusted friends–’

  ‘I – I just thought she might be a little lonely,’ I explained.

  ‘Har!’

  I edged towards the door of the hospital.

  ‘And anyway, it was all perfectly innocent–’

  ‘Innocent? Great God! You lured that sweet girl into your Mayfair flat at night and proceeded to rip her clothes off–’

  ‘Now look here!’ This was too much. ‘I never did anything of the kind.’

  ‘I demand – Have you or have you not seen Ophelia naked?’

  ‘Of course I have! But that was purely–’

  ‘Thank you. That is all I want to know.’

  ‘Dash it! It’s perfectly easily explained–’

  ‘Cur,’ hissed Basil.

  ‘Basil, my dear chap, I’m sure we can sit down and talk the whole matter over–’

  ‘Let me get at you.’

  ‘Here, hold on!’ I grabbed the hospital door handle. ‘After all, we are gentlemen.’

  ‘One of us is. The other, by God! Is shortly going to be unrecognisable as anything.’

  ‘And one of us,’ I snapped, now really narked. ‘Doesn’t break open the lock of our gas meter and swipe all our Gas Board’s hard earned shillings. Or leave our digs by the drainpipe without paying our week’s rent. Not to mention that our landlady’s daughter–’

  ‘You dreg! You pustule!’

  I slipped quickly inside the hospital. But Basil, with an agility I suppose coming from all those trap-doors, managed to stick his foot in the jamb. I bolted towards the far door. He followed. Noticing the amputation set which had interested Ophelia, he made a grab for the muscle scalpel.

  ‘“Turn, hell-hound, turn!”’ cried Basil. ‘“Thou bloodier villain than terms can give thee out!”’

  There didn’t seem much point in arguing with him any longer, so I disappeared down the deck.

  Naturally, one dislikes being conspicuous in public. But this is jolly difficult to avoid when you’re being chased by a chap with a six-inch knife in his hand yelling bloody murder. The passengers finishing off the Gala Dance in the Veranda Bar understandably looked startled at this interruption of normal shipboard routine, but instead of trying to save my life by catching Basil with a deck-croquet mallet they all removed themselves from the theatre of operations as quickly as possible. I ran on. The only thought that occurred to me was its being six times round the deck to the mile, and wondering whether Basil or I were best over the distance.

  ‘“Then yield thee, coward!” Basil shouted behind me. “Yield”.’

  I turned a corner, and ran into Captain Spratt and the Bos’n.

  ‘What the devil – ! Hell’s teeth! It’s that steward again.’

  I stopped. Basil stopped. He stood for a moment looking rather foolish.

  ‘Drop that knife at once!’ thundered Captain Spratt. ‘Unless you want me personally to beat the daylights out of you. Doctor!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Became violent, eh?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I panted. ‘In the hospital. Had to run for my life.’

  ‘Just like the woman at Teneriffe. Bos’n – clap that man in irons.’

  ‘Here, I say!’ Basil suddenly seemed to realise his part had got out of hand. ‘You can’t simply put me away in some sort of padded cell–’

  ‘I can certainly assure you your cell won’t be padded.’ The Captain quickly took a pinch of snuff. ‘Brandishing an offensive weapon is mutiny, and mutiny on the high seas is punishable by imprisonment for life. On our return to London you will be handed over to the police and – after, of course, the usual trial – locked up in one of Her Majesty’s prisons for a considerable period of time. You may think yourself lucky Beauchamp. In earlier days I could have hanged you at sunrise tomorrow from the yardarm. Take him away.’

  ‘But it’s all a frightful mistake!’ The Bos’n caught Basil in a full Nelson. ‘Just ask the doctor here – he’s one of my oldest friends–’

  ‘Mad as a hatter,’ nodded the Captain.

  ‘But Gaston, dear chappie! I am, aren’t I?’

  ‘Raving, I suppose, Doctor?’

  ‘Sad case, sir.’

  ‘Gaston! Grim! Ever since those days in the dear old digs–’

  ‘Never seen him before he came on board, of course,’ I added.

  ‘Gaston! I appeal to you–’

  ‘Carry on, Bos’n,’ said the Captain.

  15

  I was a cad again, of course. But I didn’t care. At last I’d been cured of the cataracts which had smitten my eyes since Christmas.

  Simply to get a bit of her own back on Basil, Ophelia had deliberately tipped out the story of our love-life and jolly near lost me my skin. It suddenly struck me what a shocking little vixen the woman was. I wondered why on earth I hadn’t tumbled to it long before that frightful chase round the deck, when she’d rapidly changed in status from the light of my life to my bête blonde.

  You can understand she found a pretty reserved welcome the next morning when she had the temerity to tap on the door of my cabin.

  ‘Darling, you do look pale and wan,’ she greeted me. ‘Perhaps you’re not very well?’

  ‘Not through lack of exercise, I assure you,’ I returned crisply.

  ‘You mean last night, darling? I’m so sorry about it. Dreadfully. I’d no idea Basil would get so excited.’

  ‘Excited? Damn it! There was nearly murder on the high seas.’

  Ophelia gave a sigh. ‘I can’t understand why he was so annoyed. After all, Basil and I are nothing to each other any longer, are we?’

  I snorted. ‘At least the chap’s securely shut up between the chain lockers and the paint store, and won’t be able to go round murdering anyone else till we’re safely home in London.’

  ‘Poor Basil!’ murmured Ophelia.

  ‘He’s only got what he jolly well deserved.’

  ‘Poor dear Basil!’

  ‘Poor dear Basil, indeed! What about poor dear me?’ I demanded. ‘You might have come up this morning and found me in slices.’

  ‘But it’s so terrible! Thinking o
f Basil rotting in jail.’

  ‘Personally, the idea keeps me in fits.’

  Ophelia gave a little quiver, and started to weep like a cloudburst at Old Trafford.

  Of course, you need a heart like a kerbstone to remain unmoved by a woman’s tears, particularly Ophelia’s. After a minute or two I began to shuffle a bit, and said uneasily:

  ‘I expect he’s quite comfy, really. He gets regular grub and plenty of fags. And after sharing a cabin with twelve other stewards, it must be rather nice to be on your own for a change.’

  ‘I just can’t bear to think of him!’ I offered a handkerchief. ‘Dear Basil! Do you suppose there are rats in his cell? He was always so frightened of mice.’

  I passed the duty-free cigarette tin, but she was weeping so much she quite ruined half of them.

  ‘And Sybil’s terribly upset, too,’ Ophelia went on, blowing her nose.

  ‘Sybil? You mean Sybil van Barn?’

  ‘She’s really a very sweet person, once you get to know her. We had a long cry together this morning.’

  I was about to make some nasty remark about bitch eat bitch, but all this weeping was making me so rattled I felt it time to turn off the supply at the mains.

  ‘Now look here, Ophelia,’ I said, civilly enough. ‘We mustn’t worry too much about Basil. If I simply explain to the Captain the perfect truth that he’s really a psychiatric case, the chap will suffer nothing worse than being paid off at Rio and going home in another ship as a DBS.’

  ‘A DB what?’

  ‘A Distressed British Seaman.’

  ‘Not Basil! No, never!’

  ‘But dash it, Ophelia!’ The blasted chap had anyway been a distressed British actor long enough not to notice the difference. ‘This routine happens quite often–’

  Ophelia dried her eyes. ‘I’m going up to talk to the Captain.’

  ‘I shouldn’t think that will do much good,’ I told her. ‘Not by the look on his face when he and Basil last met.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see.’ She produced a compact to dab her nose. ‘Poor, poor Basil!’

  ‘Poor Basil!’ I muttered, as she left. I gave a convenient cushion a kick. Not only was the woman a first-class harpy, but, what was worse, she was absolutely ruddy impossible as well.

  With Ophelia and Basil out of my life, there was nothing to occupy the vacant space except Sir Lancelot’s memoirs. As we were getting on for Rio de Janeiro and the ventilating system kept breaking down the ship was pretty cosy, but I sat with a towel round my waist ploughing through stacks of after-dinner speeches the old boy had made years ago, which I hoped sounded better when you were leaning back after six courses with a cigar and brandy.

  But as the day went by I couldn’t help growing sorry for old Basil, sweating it out down below next to the paint. I supposed he wasn’t a bad cove at heart. His only snag was the occupational disease of forever acting. During our little run round the deck, of course, he wasn’t really Basil Beauchamp chasing Gaston Grimsdyke with an operating knife. He was Macduff after Macbeth all over Dunsinane. So a couple of mornings before we were due to arrive I pushed Sir Lancelot’s life aside, slipped into my white uniform, and stepped on deck with the idea of bribing one of his guards to send him in a nice cold bottle of beer.

  I turned the corner of the fan-house and tripped over the chap himself, stretched on a steamer chair dressed in purple bathing-trunks and holding a large gin and tonic.

  ‘Basil!’ I exclaimed. ‘But my dear old lad! You’ve escaped.’

  He returned the greeting with a long blank stare.

  ‘But damn it!’ I demanded. ‘What on earth are you doing, lounging about in the sun with the first-class passengers?’

  ‘I happen to be a first-class passenger, thank you,’ he replied coldly.

  I wondered for a moment if all his nasty experiences had really unhinged him.

  Basil took a puff of the cigar he happened to be smoking. ‘Do I gather from your epaulettes you are the ship’s doctor?’

  ‘Of course I’m the ship’s doctor, you idiot. You know jolly well–’

  ‘Then kindly remember your position as a member of the crew.’

  ‘Now look here.’ I glanced round. ‘A lark’s a lark, but I wish you’d chuck playing the travelling milord and explain it. Besides, if old Shuttleworth comes and catches you–’

  ‘I don’t understand, Doctor.’ Basil looked me up and down. ‘Indeed, I don’t even recall seeing you before today.’

  ‘Basil, you fool! Why, even in the old digs–’

  ‘Mr Beauchamp, if you please. Nip across to the bar and fetch me another gin and tonic, will you?’

  ‘You get your own ruddy gin and tonics.’

  Basil sighed. ‘Dear me, the insubordination of the crew. I really must write to the Company about it.’

  ‘Why the hell,’ I demanded, ‘aren’t you this very moment picking oakum in the bilges?’

  Basil slowly finished his drink. ‘I have a very good friend on board – a Miss Ophelia O’Brien. Perhaps you know her? She acquainted Captain Spratt with certain facts concerning my presence in the ship, and prevailed on the dear old gentleman to effect my release. After a few formalities before our consul in Rio, I shall be released from my contract with the shipping company. There being no option clause, I am then free to return to my native land.’

  ‘Yes, sweating it out as a DBS among the coffee beans in a beastly tramp.’

  ‘Another good friend on board – a Mrs van Barn,’ Basil went on calmly, ‘has prevailed on the Captain to accept my first-class fare for the rest of the voyage. She is also most kindly defraying my expenses to London. We shall be travelling together, via New York. I shall be staying at the Waldorf. By the way, Doctor – I may be needing some extensive medical treatment on board for my nerves. I shall probably summon you to my cabin at odd intervals during the afternoon, so don’t bother to lie down for your customary nap, will you?’

  We arrived at Rio de Janeiro.

  Ophelia flew home to London. I didn’t bother to say good-bye to her. Basil flew with Mrs van Barn to New York, and I didn’t expect him to bother to say good-bye to me, anyway. I was left leaning on the rail, thinking about life.

  ‘Doctor!’

  I turned as Captain Spratt appeared.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Doctor, I have a matter of some seriousness to raise with you,’ he began. ‘Mr Shuttleworth has reported that on one occasion during the voyage you were seen in the Veranda Bar not only drinking crème de menthe, but actually holding the hand of a young lady passenger, who shall go nameless. You know perfectly well my views on that sort of thing. You are absolutely without excuse. I have no alternative whatever but to suspend your shore leave in Rio de Janeiro, and forbid you from drinking at all or appearing on the passenger decks for the remainder of the voyage. Good afternoon.’

  16

  ‘I trust you had a pleasant holiday in the company of my young brother George,’ said Sir Lancelot Spratt. ‘No doubt the rest and tranquillity traditionally associated with ocean voyages has done you the world of good.’

  As I’d just taken my first pint for three weeks, and my first step on land for six, I didn’t know what to reply.

  ‘I happened to hear at a City dinner the other week that he had been obliged to find his sea-legs again.’ The surgeon paused, standing before the fire. ‘It is perhaps sometimes difficult fully to appreciate the company of my brother.’

  I agreed heartily myself.

  ‘He has this nauseating habit of cramming his cranial sinuses with snuff. I warned him years ago it would play the very devil with his mucous membrane, but it wasn’t the slightest use.’ Sir Lancelot snapped open his gold watch. ‘I see it is six o’clock. Perhaps you would join me in a glass of sherry?’

  He touched a bell beside the fireplace.

  I’d gone straight to his Harley Street home to report progress of the memoirs, which had occupied my sober attention all the way home from Rio. I’d got on ra
ther well with them, the only compensation for a voyage which I personally thought the greatest maritime disaster since the Titanic.

  ‘I am particularly pleased you have returned at this precise moment, Grimsdyke,’ continued Sir Lancelot. ‘Because I am anxious for you to witness – and naturally to record in the book – an event imminent in my life which, in its way, may prove its crowning achievement.’

  I sat up. ‘Good Lord, sir, you’re not being ennobled?’

  ‘On the contrary, I am being sued.’

  I looked puzzled. I’d had a few nasty letters from tailors’ solicitors and the like in my time, and this didn’t strike me as much of a feat.

  ‘It is a depressing sign of the age,’ Sir Lancelot went on regretfully. ‘Patients aren’t grateful any more. In the old days you could half kill a man, and he’d still send you a box of cigars for Christmas. Now they’ve no sooner finished their free treatment in hospital than they’re round the corner getting free legal aid and sue the doctor. But I suppose we can expect nothing less, with the monstrous remarks that are being made in the courts. You’ve seen the morning’s Times?’

  I nodded, a bunch of newspapers having appeared with the Thames pilot.

  ‘You mean the case of some unfortunate doctor getting it in the neck for professional negligence, sir?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Sir Lancelot hitched up his coat. ‘That a judge, who knows nothing whatever about medicine except what he reads in the bed-time drink advertisements in the newspapers, can have the temerity to instruct us in public how to perform our own job, is to my mind a gross abuse of constitutional authority.’

  He rang the bell again.

  I tried hard to remember something particularly juicy the beak had said, but could recall only a few remarks about doctors never telling patients what’s wrong with them, which, of course, is perfectly true, anyway.

  ‘I suppose learned judges rather get into the habit of laying down the law, sir.’

  ‘Mr Justice Fishwick is about as learned as my left femur. I roomed with the feller when he was reading for the Bar, and he was always coming down to cadge cigarettes and blotting-paper. Weedy little man with nasty teeth, and everything he ate brought him out in rather unpleasant rashes. Now I come to think of it, he borrowed my fountain-pen for the Bar finals, and as far as I remember never returned it.’