Doctor On The Boil (3 page)

Bingham’s angry face appeared briefly in the open lift door.

‘And how is Lady Spratt?’ Tottie asked, on their way down again.

‘Didn’t you hear?’

‘Oh!’ Tottie bit her finger. ‘Yes, I remember now. I’m sorry.’

‘No matter. I’m getting over it. However homespun the bonds, it’s always a shock when they’re sheared. Well, Tottie–’

The door opened. The dean put his foot in it. ‘My dear Lancelot, has something gone amiss with the machinery? You’ve been going up and down like a yo-yo. I’m in a tearing hurry, too. Might I introduce you to our new matron?’

‘How very kind,’ beamed Sir Lancelot. ‘By the way, Dean, we meet after lunch, don’t forget.’

‘Ah! Yes. ‘Two o’clock. I’ll get Bingham to remind me.’

Tottie made briskly off to her office. Sir Lancelot strolled thoughtfully past the site of the new building. It was remarkable. And perhaps a little exciting. He was going to enjoy his return to St Swithin’s even more than he had imagined.

But first there was the dean at two o’clock, and Sir Lancelot remembered he had always had clammy hands and an ice-cold stethoscope.

When the bar in the students’ common-room opened at five-thirty that evening, Ken Kerrberry said to Terry Summerbee, ‘Look, there’s that little thrombosed pile, George Lychfield. Do you suppose we could get out of him his father’s questions for the class exam? Terry! You’re not listening.’

‘Sorry. I’ve a lot on my mind. Er – I’m revising my neurology.’ When Ken repeated the suggestion, Terry shook his head. ‘I shouldn’t think the dean would confide in
him
.’

‘But he might talk loudly in his sleep. Who knows? It’s worth a try. George, you dear boy,’ he called loudly. ‘Let me buy you a drink.’

George’s eyes lit up behind his large round glasses. He was a short, plump young man who resembled a garden gnome from the same mould as his father, if less weathered in appearance. Two related reasons made him accept the offer instantly. Firstly he could, like his father, never refuse anything free, from a drug firm’s plastic golf-tees to an honorary degree. And his father’s carefulness kept him even shorter of money than his contemporaries.

Ken bought him half a pint, mentioning idly, ‘You know your revered father’s putting the screws on the lot in my year next Monday week? I don’t suppose he leaves the written questions hanging about the house, does he, so you might have a quick butcher’s?’

George looked aghast. ‘You must be joking? I could never do a dishonest thing like that. Not even if I was taking the exam myself.’

‘But if by pure chance your eye
did
happen to fall upon the exam paper…’ Ken took a gulp of beer. ‘I’d give a
quid pro quo
, you understand. Anything you care to name.’

‘Is that the time?’ exclaimed Terry, staring at the wall clock.

‘No, Ken,’ George told him firmly, as Terry hastened for the door. ‘There’s nothing, absolutely nothing which could tempt me–’ He paused. ‘Well…I hear you know a girl who works for TV?’

‘Your suggestion is not only outrageous but highly insanitary.’

‘No, no, I didn’t mean
that
. I only had in mind an introduction. A professional introduction. You see–’ He looked round and dropped his voice. ‘I wouldn’t like this to get back to my father, but I’ve been writing a few scripts.’

‘Not
more
hospital dramas–’

‘No, quite different. Comedy scripts. They’re really not bad. At least, our
au pair
girl thinks so, though she has a Swedish sense of humour, of course, and doesn’t speak English very well.’

‘I might possibly fix something,’ Ken told him loftily. ‘My bird works in the script department, too.’ George’s eyes shone brighter. ‘But exam questions first. Intro after. All right?’

‘All right,’ George agreed in a guilty voice. ‘Thanks for the beer. Sorry I haven’t time to buy you the other half.’

Terry Summerbee was meanwhile hurrying down the flight of stone steps from the main hall to the X-ray department, which occupied a section of the basement, and like every other department in the Victorian building was so overcrowded with equipment as to appear in a permanent state of improvisation. Tightening the knot in his tie and looking round furtively for signs of the senior radiologist, he stepped determinedly among the apparatus towards a door at the far end marked DARK ROOM – KEEP OUT.

‘Hello, there! Young Summerbee, I see. Brushing up your X-rays for the exam? Very keen of you. In my day, if I had the bad luck to be confronted with a radiograph I’d simply give a low whistle and say “That
does
look a nasty one”. Surprising how often the examiner would agree heartily and let out what it was.’

Terry cursed under his breath. Dr Grimsdyke was popular among the students – as once the most experienced student in the country, he always saw their point of view. But he was inclined to be pushful, talkative, and a shade hearty – not at all the sort Terry wanted hanging about the scene of his delicate mission.

‘I just thought I’d get a few films out of the X-ray museum.’

‘Very wise of you. They always raid that little store of horror-pictures for the exams. But perhaps you’ll allow me to point out that the museum’s at the other end of the department?’

‘Oh, is it?’ asked Terry innocently. ‘I don’t know my way around as well as you do.’

‘No, I think perhaps not,’ agreed Grimsdyke. ‘Toddle along now. If you find the baby who’s swallowed a nappy-pin, notice its heart is pointing the wrong way. They caught me on that one way back in…well, the little thing is probably a father itself by now.’

Grimsdyke watched with a half-smile and Terry made towards the far end of the basement. When the student was safely through the door marked MUSEUM, he moved to the dark-room door and tapped on it.

‘Come in. The light’s on.’

Grimsdyke made his way through a double door guarding the entrance. The small room, with its open tanks and dripping fluids resembling some coastal grotto, was illuminated by the ghostly glow of diffuse light through negatives of human skeletons. Grimsdyke thought it lit rather prettily Stella the new pupil radiographer, with her long blonde hair falling to the shoulders of her white nylon overall – contrary to regulations, but she seemed to regard those as inconveniences only for other people.

‘Any interesting snaps today?’

‘You made that remark yesterday,’ she said. ‘Lover boy.’

‘Did I?’ Grimsdyke perched himself on the edge of a tank on the far side of the room. ‘How about coming out tonight for a quiet dinner?’

‘But lover man, I
told
you. It’s my night for Oxfam.’

‘Then how about tomorrow?’

‘That’s Thursday, isn’t it? Oh… I’ve one of those boring evenings with my parents.’

‘Then Friday?’

‘Friday’s the evening for my
cordon bleu
cookery classes, lover boy. And Saturday’s booked for months and months.’

‘Sunday?’

‘Oh, I’m far too religious. Do you mind if I turn out the light?’

‘No, no, go ahead.’

Illuminated only by a dull red glow from the corner, Stella started splashing in a tank. Grimsdyke rose and moved close to her.

‘Lover, have you the letters MTF after your name?’

‘What’s that? Medical Technology Fellow, or something?’

‘Must Touch Flesh. Honestly, you’ve got quite an obsession.’

Grimsdyke sat down again. There was a knock on the outside door.

‘Come in, and mind the double doors,’ she called.

He sat pulling his moustache in the darkness, annoyed at the intrusion of some other member of the X-ray staff. But a voice said, ‘Stella…where are you?’

‘Do you mind? You’re touching me.’

‘I was just feeling your face. You know, to recognize you. Like the blind,’ said Terry Summerbee.

‘All right, lover boy,’ she said wearily. ‘You know I’ve no warts and I’m female. Well?’

‘How about coming out tonight?’ Terry favoured the direct approach to all problems, in medicine and in life.

‘But lover man, tonight’s my
cordon bleu
cookery class.’

‘Then tomorrow?’

‘Parents, lover man. I’m dutiful, you know. They gave me life.’

‘How about Saturday? I’m quite free.’

‘Saturday I contemplate. About Sunday. When I fast all day in my bedroom. Sorry, lover boy.’

Terry swallowed. He decided to persist because Stella kept calling him lover boy. He was unaware that at the time she called everyone lover boy, even traffic-wardens and her father. ‘Let’s go through next week.’

‘Listen, lover, if you really want to take me out, we could get it over and done with tomorrow.’

‘But I thought tomorrow was your parents’ home night, or something.’

‘Did I say that? I must have touched on the wrong button.’

‘See you in the courtyard when you get away at six, then?’ Terry said eagerly.

‘I’ll be there, lover man. Be careful with the doors as you go out.’

Waiting until he heard the outer door firmly shut, Grimsdyke gave a guffaw. ‘How sweet.’

‘’Terry’s nice. Gentle, you know. Like a puppy.’

‘Stella, my pearl shining in the darkness–’

‘Take your hands off the jewellery. I’m turning on the lights.’

She started busily sorting dried X-ray pictures into large manila envelopes.

‘But surely, Terry’s not to be taken seriously?’

She gave a pout of her full lips. ‘Why not?’

‘He’s not for
you
, Stella. You need a man of the world to take you around. A man of experience.’

‘Are you trying to pull the generation gap, or something, lover man? That’s new.’

‘Anyway, you can’t go out with him tomorrow. You promised to go out with me.’

‘Did I?’ She went on sorting the X-rays. ‘I must have flipped the wrong switch.’

‘I’ll be there, anyway. Six, at the front door.’

‘As you wish, lover, as you wish,’ she said accommodatingly.

‘I’m very, very tender towards you, Stella.’ Grimsdyke put his arms round her from behind and started gently biting her neck. ‘Like it?’

‘Hardly preferable to mosquitoes.’

‘How about a nice–’

‘Gaston, lover man, take this packet of X-rays to the dean’s office, will you? He wanted them specially.’

‘Oh, all right,’ said Grimsdyke disconsolately. ‘But tomorrow, at six. Lover girl.’

The dean usually reached home at seven. He parked his Jaguar that evening in the mews garage of his house, and carrying his document-case opened the back door with the pleasurable sensation of a man going to break good news, particularly when it is about himself. He hung his homburg in the hall, and with jaunty step opened the door of his small ground floor study. His smile vanished as he found it occupied by his son George.

‘What are you doing rummaging in my desk?’

‘Oh! Hello, Dad. I was looking for this week’s
B.M.J.
’

‘Since when have you been so anxious to keep up with the latest medical discoveries? You have quite enough to tax your mind learning those of the past five centuries.’ The dean’s eyes narrowed. ‘You weren’t searching for the class examination questions, I suppose?’

‘Me, Dad? But I’m not even taking the exam.’

‘Precisely. But I wouldn’t put it past some of the other students to bribe you.’

‘Dad! What a shocking thing to say.’

‘It is, but that doesn’t make it any less likely. There are some quite disreputable characters in the medical school these days. And you must choose your friends more carefully, now that I’m to be made–’ He stopped. ‘Maid of all work, young Inga,’ he remarked as the
au pair’s
blonde hair appeared round the door. ‘Will you ask my wife to come here a moment?’ he added. ‘Now go up to your room, George, and open your books. The life of a medical student contains not a single minute to be wasted. You might quite easily learn something of considerable importance before dinner.’

‘Dad–’ George shifted his feet. ‘I wonder if I’m really suited for medicine.’

‘Of course you are,’ his father told him briefly. ‘We’ve had medical men in this family since the days of Gladstone bags and leeches. I wish you’d follow the example of your sister.
She
will certainly be studying upstairs with her usual diligence. And what, might I ask, would you intend to do instead?’

‘I’ve thought of the – er, drama.’

The dean snorted. ‘Just because you make a fool of yourself in the hospital pantomime, you seem to imagine you’re a combination of Bernard Shaw and Brian Rix.’

‘But everyone says I’ve got talent.’

‘Who does? Inga, I suppose? And don’t you go fiddling about with her, either. I’ve noticed it. We maintain certain standards in this family, even if the rest of the country is nothing but pot, pill, and pornography. Ah, there you are, my dear.’

George made his escape. His mother was a tall, good-looking, and smartly dressed woman, with kind grey eyes and a soft nature, which to the dean had the comfortable attraction of a fireside sofa on a chilly afternoon. He unlocked a cupboard in the corner and produced a decanter of sherry.

‘Josephine, let us drink a toast.’ He poured two glasses. ‘To…no, let’s make it to
you
. To the future Lady Lychfield.’

She stared at him. ‘It’s all fixed,’ he added with a wink. ‘I had a letter from Willie at the Ministry. Wheels have been turning. My years of unselfish service to St Swithin’s and medicine in general are to have their just reward, on the Queen’s birthday to be exact. Though now I come to think of it,’ he added, ‘they ought to have given me a knighthood years ago.’

‘Oh, Lionel!’ she gasped. ‘
Sir
Lionel.’

The dean kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘Makes it worthwhile being married to me all these years, eh?’

Her eyes glowed. He thought he had never seen her looking so beautiful. How strange – in a country where even prime ministers take pains to make known they put the same bottled sauce on their chips as the rest of the population – is the feudal potency of the twice-yearly honours list.

‘Though not a word to a soul,’ he told her sternly. ‘Of course, I’ve got to keep my nose clean for the next month or so, as Willie says, but that’s hardly an obstacle. Knight Commander of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire.’ The words rolling round his mouth were more intoxicating than the sherry. ‘Though naturally, I don’t give tuppence for titles and suchlike myself,’ he added quickly. ‘I’ll accept it only as an honour to the hospital. It’s high time we had a knight again on the staff of St Swithin’s–’

He paused. A cloud had drifted across the sunshine of his life. ‘I’d forgotten. Sir Lancelot.’

‘He’s dead?’ she exclaimed.

‘No damn fear. That man’s as indestructible as a fossilized rhinoceros. He’s back from the Far East.’

‘How splendid! We must ask him to dinner.’

‘There’s no hurry.’ Toleration of Sir Lancelot he thought one of those items in any woman’s life quite beyond the understanding of her husband. ‘He’s going to stay in London quite a while. But most certainly not with us.’

The dean stared through the window, where dusk was falling over the pleasant, neat green circle of Regent’s Park. His house was large, but near Harley Street and the West End, affording a precious feeling of spaciousness amidst the dignified crescents and tree-lined streets spreading towards the northern slope of London.

‘Perhaps he’ll quarrel with everyone and go back to Wales,’ the dean consoled himself. ‘He only resigned from the staff because of a row with the last professor of surgery.’ Whether this was over the higher principles of operative technique, or because the professor insisted on parking his Mini in the corner of the courtyard reserved by tradition for Sir Lancelot’s Rolls, no one at St Swithin’s ever found out. ‘Though it’s annoying. An old curmudgeon like him could easily upset all the exciting changes we’re seeing at St Swithin’s.’

‘If the fishing season’s open, he may not stay a long time, dear.’

‘Any time is long in the company of Lancelot,’ he said wearily.

There was a knock on the study door. It was Miss MacNish, the cook-housekeeper, a pleasant, neat, competent, red-headed Aberdonian in her thirties, who they had snatched eagerly from Sir Lancelot’s service on his leaving London.

‘Sir Lancelot Spratt is back in London,’ the dean informed her sombrely.

‘Now isn’t that good news, Doctor! Have you invited him to stay?’

‘I have
not
invited him to stay.’

‘I’ll bake him one of those Dundee cakes he enjoys so much. It’ll be a nice change after all that curry and chop suey he must have been getting. I came to say your dinner’s ready.’

The dean shook his head. Women were quite ridiculous when it came to judging a man’s character. No wonder so many of them ended up in the divorce courts. He reached the door before he remembered Sir Lancelot’s X-rays. He turned back to open his document case. He held the pictures up to the reading-lamp. He gasped.

‘Oh, no!’ The film shook in his hand. ‘It can’t be?’ He stared more closely. ‘Dear me! But it is. Poor fellow. Poor Lancelot. To think that I could have spoken so harshly of the dear, unfortunate man.’