Steady Now Doctor (3 page)

This was the term after the holiday when Joneson and he had ridden to Blackpool, and was the reason they didn't meet for many years.

The strange thing was that although he had been a nonentity at the grammar school, because his background and origin were working class, somehow at the public school he became very important. It came about like this.

He had never played rugby before, but in his second year he received his 1
st
XV colours which meant he was almost a deity, and a small boy was even designated to clean his boots. He was made a House Prefect, which meant he could button up his jacket or leave it unbuttoned or something. His success at the public school led the Headmaster to confer with the Headmaster of the grammar school on how the change of social circumstances had affected him, was this some new formula they had stumbled on?

Of course the whole thing was a complete lot of balls. He was just the old inadequate he had always been, but there was a change of circumstances that distorted the picture.

On his first games afternoon at the public school, he was clad self-consciously in brand new rugby kit, surrounded by groups who had been playing since about the age of three when they went to pre-prep school, then prep school and now public school. Whatever were they going to do with this grammar school oik.

At this school they played games in Houses, and this afternoon they were trying to sort out the house rugby XV for the School House Rugby Cup Competition. “I know,” said one heavily Brylcreemed six-footer, “we will make him the opposition hooker.”

“What's a hooker?” Andy asked. Everybody collapsed with laughter at his ignorance.

“Well,” said Brylcreem, “it means you play in the middle of the scrum, and when the ball is put in you have to hook it back on your side.”

They patiently had a few practice scrums to show him his duties, then a game was started in earnest. He kept away from all the rough stuff but kept near enough to the ball to take his place in the scrum down when they occurred. He had never played rugger but he had played that despicable game soccer, and was quite good with the ball at his feet, thus whichever side put the ball into the scrum, whether his side were pushing forward or being pushed back, he always managed dexterously to flick the ball back to his side. They tried every combination but he always got the ball.

Reluctantly they had to put him in the House First team and he continued with his prowess to the extent that they were the first day-boy house ever to win the house rugby cup.

He was moved up rapidly to the school 2
nd
XV, then the school 1
st
XV, and was the first player in the school ever to receive both their 2
nd
XV and 1
st
XV colours on the same day. Somebody who had his 1
st
XV rugby colours at a public school is an outstanding success, even if he is thick as a plank. So he wasn't a triumph of some new planting, he was just good at hooking a rugger ball out of a mound of straining players.

In those days hookers were just hookers, and did not have to know much about rugby. Nowadays, hookers are expected to rush about with a ball and do all sorts of things.

His hooking stood him in good stead and was as useful to him in his medical schooldays as providing French letters had been in earlier days. The medical school he went to was rugby mad. If you were good at rugby you got a place in the school; if you were very good at rugby you got a scholarship, so they always had a very good team.

He hooked against Cardiff at Cardiff Arms Park, Swansea at St Helens, and Harlequins at Twickenham and Waterloo in Liverpool.

He met his own Waterloo in the Middlesex seven-a-side competition at Twickenham. He had always kept away from the rougher side of the game just standing around rucks trying to look useful and never ever handling the ball.

In the Middlesex seven-a-side he actually scored a try in the quarter finals against the Harlequins. The other thirteen players were all struggling in a heap, the ball squirted out to his feet, he picked it up, took one step forward, placed it down for a try and they had won the game.

In the semi-finals against the London Irish in that vast stadium with only fourteen players on the pitch, suddenly for some unknown reason, he was passed the ball. He caught it, stood there not knowing what to do with it, and 25,000 people laughed at him.

He philosophized, anything anyone has never lasts for ever, you just have to use what you've got whilst you've got it. Sadly he was not even able to say that he used to be a good hooker, as the ladies of the streets had pinched the word and like every other area in his life he had explored, the end result was a failure.

He often pondered in quiet moments about those developing years and, one particular Friday evening when in general practice, having been up all Thursday night and worked solidly through the Friday, he looked into the waiting room to see forty people eagerly waiting his evening surgery. Ninety-five per cent of them wanted only to pour out their troubles, expecting a transfusion of his energy in return. He went back into his room and looked up and in his tiredness thought he saw clouds as opposed to the ceiling, and a kindly smiling face saying, “You see, you didn't get away after all.”

Chapter 2

Stage Struck

He found, as expected, that getting a place in St Jane's Hospital was not difficult. He had a short interview with an elderly man who coupled his work as Dean at the medical school, with shooting round the world as a physician in attendance to the Prime Minister.

The elderly man looked up from his desk.

“What school are you from?”

“Metson College,” he replied.

“Got your higher cert?”

“Yes, sir.”

“First 15 Colours?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you play for the County or England Schoolboys?”

“No, sir.”

“Right start in October, but keep training during the summer.”

There was a pause as the old man seemed to lose interest in the whole interview. Andy shuffled his feet uncertainly.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, “is there any opportunity of being considered for a scholarship?”

“No,” said the old man circling on his chair to fiddle with some papers behind his desk, signifying that the interview was finally over.

Andy sat moodily in the compartment of the train on the way home, his mother would not be at all pleased that he hadn't even the chance of a scholarship.

Arriving home she saw him trying to slip up to his room from the back door.

“Did you get accepted by St Jane's?”

“Yes, Mum,” he said trying to look cheerful. “It looks a tremendous place.” In fact he hadn't looked at the place where he was to spend the next six years. He was late for his appointment, ran all the way from the Tube, spoke to the hall porter, who showed him to a row of seats, three of which were occupied by terrified acne covered Welsh boys who were almost clinging to each other on their first visit from the Valleys to the big city. In fact he could hardly remember anything about the place at all.

“Did you ask about a scholarship?”

“Yes, Mum,” said Andy trying to sound casual. “No chance I'm afraid, I was lucky to get a place at all.”

It was like walking into a hailstorm. “If you'd only worked a bit harder instead of playing rugby all the time, all the money your father and I spent on you . . .” and so on. He just had to stand there and let the words hit him in waves. There was no possible way he could tell her that if he had spent more time playing rugby, he would have had a better chance of a scholarship.

His mother had now started to cry in her frustration. There was no warmth about her that he could reach and just hold for a bit and sadly indeed her tears were not for him but for herself. She had hoped to tell her drama group, which was getting progressively more important, and taking up more time, that she had a brilliant son. He was only saved by his father, who had seemed to appear from nowhere, but there was so much noise going on that he could have come in through the door in a Bren-gun carrier.

“Just shut up, Elsie,” he said, “they can hear all this down the street.”

“What d'you mean, shut up,” screamed his mother. “This lazy lout has let us down.” As she turned to his father, he took the opportunity to slip up to his room, he could leave the battle flowing to and fro downstairs. He wondered if all boys who got a place at a medical school went through this.

He lay on the bed nursing his triumph that he'd got past the dragon and could savour the fact that he was now a real medical student.

He began to visualize himself in all sorts of situations: medical officer to an expedition up the Amazon; brain surgeon, no, perhaps discovering a drug like penicillin, perhaps being famous by going out to Albert Schweitzer's leper colony, but underneath it all was an awful dread that he had got a place in the medical school just because he could hook a ball out of a scrum. What if he couldn't pass his exams, having just scraped through higher cert? His day-dreaming was interrupted by his mother shouting up the stairs.

“Are you coming down for supper? Everything is getting cold.”

Suddenly, some sort of energy seemed to flow into him and for the first time in his life he stood up, opened the door, and shouted out at the top of his voice, “No I am not.”

His mother was momentarily stunned, then regaining her composure, “Of all the ungrateful louts, all the money, all the sacrifices . . .” then the flow of conversation eased as the dining room door shut and silence, and they started to eat. He turned, and wearily buried his head in his pillow. He felt as if he had committed a crime, and for no reason at all, he began to weep. He must have drifted off to sleep. He vaguely heard the bus stopping to pick up his mother for an army concert, then he awoke as his door opened. In came his father with a plate of sandwiches in one hand and an envelope in the other. “Where shall I put these, doctor?” he said.

“Well done lad, a medical student at last and here's something for the holidays. We're all proud of you. Don't be too upset about your mum, she's playing the lead tonight in the play. It's her first time, and she's a bit on edge. I've got to go back to the office for a bit, here take this,” and threw him the envelope.

Andy ate his sandwiches hungrily, trying to guess what was in the envelope, was it ten shillings or a pound? He wiped his fingers after his last sandwich, and held the envelope up to the light. He began to flood with disappointment as he opened it. No pound or ten shilling note. His father had strange ideas about gifts. He would often leave a raffle ticket as a tip in a restaurant, and if he was giving something away that he no longer had use for, it suddenly became one of the most valuable possessions he had. Andy pulled out a piece of folded white paper and opened it to see what was inside. There was nothing inside but the paper, incredulously nearly as big as a handkerchief, with black writing on one side.
A whole five pound note
.

He had hardly ever seen one, never mind touch one. He turned back to his pillow again and wept. It had been a long day.

***

Andy slept soundly, keeping one ear open for the postman's early knock. He had been waiting for this knock with lessening hope for some days now.

There was a knock at about 8 a.m. He was down the stairs before the letter hit the mat. There were six in all, four for his father, who had left for work at 7 a.m., one in spidery handwriting probably from Grandma, to his mother, and an official typed one for him.

He placed five of the letters on the hall stand, carrying his own as if it was a piece of delicate pottery into the lounge. He sat in an armchair toying with it, not wanting to know its contents.

Eventually with a resigned sigh, he tore off the corner of the envelop flap, then inserting his finger, split the envelope open. He took out the letter, unfolded it, and spread it out on his knee, deliberately not looking at it. Then after a big intake of breath he looked down, and it was as if he was floating up from his chair. There in bold print it read, ‘Surrey County Council are happy to announce that they are making a full grant for tuition fees and maintenance to Andrew Howard during and until the completion of his medical studies.' He almost wept again, “Christ,” he said out loud, “I must cut out this blubbing stuff.”

The sentence written by Surrey County Council was up to then, the most important sentence he had ever read in his life. It meant that he would not have to depend on his parents for finance, possibly ever again, and perhaps, more important, although his mother was always so snappy at him, this would at least silence some of her heavier guns.

He had never been happier in his whole life. He wanted to shout and sing, but Mother was in bed sleeping off her late night from the troop concert.

He made himself some breakfast, tea, Shredded Wheat, toast and marmalade, all with one hand, the other clutching the letter from the County Council which he read and re-read. He wondered whether he would be able to stick it out to be a doctor, but anyway, whatever happened, he had the place in medical school, and the money to pay for it. It was nearing the end of July, and he was on holiday until early October. All that glorious free time. Perhaps he would try and find Joneson and they could cycle to Blackpool or wherever again. He had three pounds fifteen shillings saved, plus the five pounds his father had given him - the world was his oyster.

At 9.30 a.m., with an impish grin on his face, he brewed a small pot of tea for his mother. It was no good trying to make her toast because it would be too thick, too thin, too much butter or too little butter, and she didn't want marmalade on it anyway, it was spread too thick or too thin, and so on. It was a risk with the tea that carried all the permutations of too strong, too weak, too hot, too cold.

He knocked on her door. She was awake, lost in thought.

Her first words. “It wouldn't hurt you to do this a bit more often Mr Medical Student.”

Andy could have predicted word for word exactly what she would say, then on she went.

“It's all right standing there looking pleased with yourself. Who is going to pay for you at the medical school, who, come on tell me, your father and I have made enough sacrifices for you already?”

Andy handed her the letter from the County Council, all she had said so far really meant nothing, this was how she was. She seemed incapable of ever saying anything nice, yet she took good care of all of them. Andy always had a clean shirt ready, the beds were made, the meals were good, her Sunday lunches unbeatable, her Yorkshire pudding was the best in the world.

She studied the letter for a minute searching for an answer. Then it came.

“This is all very well, but it will be your father and I who have to pay the extras for I don't know how many years.”

Andy smiled to himself as she handed the letter back. Thought it wasn't up to her usual standard, perhaps the play had gone well that night. He went down the stairs as his mother drank her tea, then wandered into the town hoping to bump into someone he knew. Life was a bit difficult in this respect. He had deserted the grammar school to go to Metson College where he had only been for two years and one term; arriving too late, and staying too short a time to make lasting friendships. He was neither fish, flesh, fowl, nor good red herring.

Two years and a bit is a long time in a boy's life. The people he had been with at the grammar school had got on with their lives and he was never a public schoolboy, just a grammar school one who had happened to be attending a public school for a couple of years.

He went to Wilson's Café for a coffee. When he had been at the grammar school it was the place where everybody who was anybody went on a Saturday morning. Boys from the grammar school and the girls from the high school throwing eye messages to each other across the room. But now the place was nearly empty. In one corner a boy of his own age, whose face looked vaguely familiar, was entertaining two girls and judging from their giggling and almost hysterical laughter, was being highly successful.

Andy thought he had nodded to him as he sat down, and was reading through the local paper, when the boy came over and sat with him. This looks promising Andy thought. Perhaps he is going to ask me to make a foursome.

The youth said, “Long time no see Andy,” then Andy remembered who it was. He couldn't remember his name but he was one of a group of about six who had a masturbation competition whenever the school had to go to the air raid shelters. This youth was invariably the winner.

“Still winning,” said Andy.

The youth flushed with pleasure that his prowess had been remembered.

“You bet,” he replied, “that's why I have come over, could you let me have a couple of Frenchies? I'm on to a dead cert over there.”

Andy wasn't sure that he was too pleased that his place in the scheme of things had been remembered. He knew that he had three in his wallet, but still feeling perverse he said, “Sorry, only one,” fishing it out from his wallet under the cover of the café menu.

The youth's face fell. “Never mind, it will wash if I'm careful. Thanks Andy,” he said as he got up to go.

“Whoa just a minute,” said Andy, “have you seen Joneson lately?”

“Gone on the stage,” said the youth edging restlessly towards his girls.

“Ward?” said Andy.

“Don't know him,” said the youth.

“Dinga Powell?” said Andy.

“Army,” said the youth.

“Paul Mason, John Ranshall?” the youth now almost out of earshot just shook his head.

Andy picked up the local paper again, the lead articles on the front page said nothing. Turning idly to an inner page, he was struck by a large print headline, ‘The sheer professionalism of Elsie Howard ensured that
Ladies in Retirement
was an outstanding success at the Bendon Army Camp last night.' Then the article went on to explain how brilliant was his mother, and that she had been a trained professional actress, which in a way, of course, she was.

Andy felt proud and excited. He got up to go, dying to show it to his mother.

As he got up the youth beckoned him over to join them. “Sorry,” said Andy, “I'm in a hurry.”

He ran all the way home, let himself in through the front door, then shouted excitedly, “Mum, Mum.”

“There's no need to shout,” said his mother, gliding out of the drawing room like a disturbed ghost.

“Look,” said Andy, holding out the paper.

“What do I want with that rag,” said his mother.

“Just look,” said Andy, getting impatient.

His mother looked startled as she turned to her headlines, read the article at least twice, going whiter in the face all the time, and then, for the very first time that Andy could ever remember, she grabbed him in a huge hug and sobbed and sobbed. Christ, thought Andy, we must have weeping in our genes.

Andy did not know how long his mother clung to him, it seemed to be half an hour, but was probably just a few minutes. Suddenly she regained her composure, shook herself, literally, and said, “I'm sorry, you are a good lad,” she squeezed his arm and went back to her room.