Doctor On Toast Read online

  ‘Here, hold on!’ I exclaimed, a bit alarmed. ‘I wouldn’t be any use at that sort of lark at all. You know how I come up all over from mosquitoes.’

  ‘Fortunately there are no mosquitoes in the area I have in mind. An international health team is shortly starting work on the shores of Greenland–’

  ‘Greenland? Now look here, Miles, stop horsing about and make out that cheque–’

  ‘I propose to finance you for a six months’ refresher course in New York, after which I can easily arrange through my connections with World Health Organisation your appointment to a five years’ tour in Greenland.’

  ‘If you simply want to get me out of the way for a bit,’ I interrupted, ‘it would be much easier to slip me the cash and let me clear off to Paris.’

  ‘I assure you that’s not the idea at all.’

  ‘Last time you shoved me up the ruddy Amazon. This time you want to keep me on ice. I wish you’d make up your mind.’

  ‘But Gaston! Don’t you realise what I am offering you? The chance to become a second Dr Livingstone. A Schweitzer of the snows.’

  ‘Just let me have the cash on the nail. Apart from anything else, the rent for my basement is shockingly overdue.’

  Miles looked pained. ‘Surely you are not contemplating refusal?’

  ‘Yes, I jolly well am. I’ve got a novel to finish.’

  ‘But damnation! You don’t seriously intend to fritter away your life turning out stupid books–’

  ‘My dear good idiot! Once you start you can’t stop – it’s a sort of ineradicable infection. Anyway,’ I added, now pretty narked, ‘if somebody’s got to go charging down glaciers with a syringe, why not you? You’d be a ruddy sight more use than sitting in London trying to explain why people shouldn’t play football on Sundays.’

  ‘I don’t think you are being particularly grateful, Gaston.’

  ‘Let’s cut out all the fuss and simply hand over the cheque–’

  Miles folded his arms. ‘That is out of the question.’

  ‘I like that! Who’s being grateful now?’

  ‘I have made an extremely generous offer.’

  ‘It would be, if I were a homesick Eskimo.’

  ‘Consider how much you could enjoy yourself in New York first.’

  ‘Yes, thinking gaily of the future among all those ice cubes.’

  ‘Don’t you understand? Professionally speaking, I am trying to save your soul – What are you doing with that telephone?’

  ‘Ringing up every number in Fleet Street to let a particularly nasty-looking cat out of the bag.’

  ‘You wouldn’t,’ said Miles quietly. I paused.

  Of course, the chap had me there. Miles may have been a fool. He may have cheerfully left me to starve in basements. He may have given me a rotten time over those cricket boots. He may even have pinched my last bit of seed-cake. But there are certain things a chap doesn’t do.

  I replaced the receiver.

  ‘You accept my offer?’ asked Miles.

  ‘No.’

  He sighed. ‘I must say I am sincerely sorry. You are leaving so soon?’

  I didn’t even finish my whisky.

  22

  ‘The honorarium for my memoirs? By all means, my dear fellow,’ said Sir Lancelot. ‘I shall put the cheque in the post tomorrow. You will understand that I am a little too preoccupied to attend to it this very morning.’

  ‘Oh, quite, sir. Forgive my mentioning it at all.’

  ‘I am sorry you are feeling the pinch of poverty, Grimsdyke. I always assumed from Miles that you had liquid assets.’

  ‘A bit of a freeze seems to have set in at the moment,’ I explained.

  I’d had a pretty miserable few days in the basement. Razzy had a row with his opera singer you could hear all the way from Covent Garden to Charing Cross, so he could last through his afternoons again. My landlady was indicating that I’d shortly be taking up residence in the street. Worse still, the weather stayed absolutely beastly all the weekend. ‘A duller spectacle this earth of ours has not to show than a rainy Sunday in London,’ said De Quincey, and look what happened to him.

  But I still had my duty towards Sir Lancelot, and on Monday morning interrupted my scheduled activities on the novel to appear at his house with a new notebook and accompany him to court. I still had my duty towards old Basil, too, I remembered, as we drove past Ophelia twelve feet high explaining how she liked a nice milky night-time drink.

  ‘Darling,’ she’d said, when I’d telephoned again a couple of days before and caught her doing the washing. ‘It’s absolutely impossible to spare a minute. I’m just dashing out again this evening.’

  ‘It’s a rather important message, old girl,’ I returned solemnly. ‘From Basil.’

  ‘Basil? Basil who?’

  ‘Basil Beauchamp.’

  ‘You can tell that stage-struck oaf that if he thinks he can go round haunting me like some pantomime demon–’

  ‘Quite the opposite, I assure you. He wants me to hand you a rather nice little parting present. It glitters.’

  There was hesitation on the wire.

  ‘Oh, all right, darling. Give me a ring tomorrow. I might be able to fit you in.’

  But as usual she wasn’t at home, and it took a good deal of the Grimsdyke strength of character to avoid using the bracelet as a chaser for the grandpa’s cuff-links.

  ‘What do you think of our chances, Grimsdyke?’ Sir Lancelot interrupted my thoughts in the traffic that raced round Trafalgar Square, now enjoying a bright May morning’s sunshine.

  ‘I should think, sir, that a high-powered barrister like your brother ought to impress the beak–’

  ‘Good gracious, I mean in the Test Matches. The other matter is perfectly open and shut. You know, of course, who is giving evidence as the expert witness against me?’

  ‘Lord Tiptree, I thought, sir?’

  Sir Lancelot turned his Rolls into the Strand.

  ‘I must apologise for not informing you before that Clem Tiptree was unexpectedly called to lecture in Australia. His place has been taken by that nasty little man McFiggie.’

  ‘McFiggie, sir?’

  ‘But as the feller has to my certain knowledge never stuck a knife into living flesh for his entire professional career, I cannot understand anyone being interested for a minute in his views on clinical surgery. Or on anything else much, for that matter.’

  ‘He’s got a terrific reputation in the courts,’ I mentioned cagily.

  ‘Clem Tiptree was prepared to stand up and attack me in public because he was handsomely paid for it,’ Sir Lancelot went on, ignoring this. ‘And I don’t blame him. But McFiggie is unhappily motivated by personal spite. He has become remarkably unfriendly since I was obliged to put him in his place over spreading scurrilous stories about me round the hospital. But here we are at the Law Courts, Grimsdyke. Now the fun begins.’

  The old boy seemed in a cracking mood. I supposed it was because he’d had The Times to himself that morning, not to mention wallowing in the Bishop’s share of the bathwater.

  I’d never been in the Royal Courts of Justice before, my own little brushes with the Law being settled in those depressing rooms round the back of town halls. The place struck me as needing a few slot machines and a bit of steam to turn it into a jolly good railway station. It was filled with severe looking birds in wigs hurrying past at a tremendous rate, I suppose like the doctors at St Swithin’s, to give onlookers the impression that chaps of their importance were wanted pretty damn urgently somewhere. One or two seedy-looking coves wandered about with armfuls of equally decayed reference books, a couple of old dears were mopping the floor, and the only representative of legal majesty was a porter in a little round cap like a Victorian warder, sitting by the door reading the Daily Mirror.

  ‘Possett v. Spratt, Court Sixteen,’ read Sir Lancelot from the notices displayed like train timetables in the middle of the hall.

  He clasped his hands under the tai
ls of his coat. The old boy had appeared in full morning dress and cravat, which I supposed he felt the correct costume for being sued.

  ‘I only wish we had time to hear some of the other cases,’ he remarked. ‘What, for instance, could Imperial Crab Fisheries possibly be suing Swindon Hosiery manufacturers about? Or Ebineezer Novelties the Home for Indigent Gentlewomen? Perfectly intriguing! But we must not delay, Grimsdyke. Beckwith is meeting us at the Court.’

  Mr Beckwith now had the brightly confident air of a family doctor shepherding his patient into hospital for a major operation.

  ‘What’s happened to Alfie?’ demanded Sir Lancelot at once.

  Mr Beckwith explained the QC was several corridors away, urging the complaint of a poultry breeder against an incinerator manufacturer.

  ‘An absolute disgrace,’ Sir Lancelot snorted. ‘What do you imagine they’d say at St Swithin’s if I left in the middle of a pancreatectomy to remove a pair of tonsils? The administration of justice in this country is laughably haphazard. Which I suppose is all you can expect when everyone gives themselves thumping long holidays and knocks off at four.’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s a slight delay with your case, anyway,’ Mr Beckwith apologised. ‘Apparently Fishwick is rather bilious this morning, and wants a short rest.’

  ‘Damnation! If I held up my entire theatre staff every time I felt a bit off-colour–’

  ‘Fishwick always takes very good care of himself, Sir Lancelot.’

  ‘Another way of saying the feller’s a shocking hypochondriac, as I could have told you years ago. I wonder what the devil he did with my fountain-pen in the end, anyway?’

  We filed into the court, which was all carved oak canopies, ink-stained forms and varnish, and struck me as a cross between a revivalist chapel and the lecture room at St Swithin’s.

  There were more seedy-looking chaps messing about with books, and an usher in a gown who seemed to be asleep, and we all three sat on a bench while Mr Beckwith started going through his bundles of papers. After about half an hour the room started to fill up, there was a bit of muttering all round, the usher woke up and opened a door behind the bench, and everyone stood up politely as Mr Justice Fishwick appeared.

  I was pretty interested to take a look at Sir Lancelot’s former fellow lodger, who was a long thin chap with a long thin nose and long thin earpieces on his gold-rimmed glasses. There was a good deal of fussing as a tartan rug was tucked round his knees and a couple of bottles of white pills placed next to the judicial water-jug, then he stared round as though wondering how we’d all been let in from the street, and the case of Possett v. Spratt began.

  ‘My Lord–’

  A fat, red-faced barrister like a bewigged bookie stood up. Now I come to think of it, all English judges are pretty thin and all English barristers are pretty portly, I suppose through all those dinners they make them eat.

  ‘My Lord,’ said the barrister, after explaining who he was and which side he was on. ‘I can put my case very briefly–’

  ‘I am glad to hear it, Mr Grumley. The longer we are here, the longer we are dissipating public money.’

  ‘Quite so, My Lord. I am very much indebted for Your Lordship’s most salutary reminder.’

  ‘Please get on, Mr Grumley.’

  ‘He’s in a pretty bad mood this morning,’ whispered Mr Beckwith, seeming to be familiar with the signs and symptoms.

  ‘The feller always had a nasty little temper,’ agreed Sir Lancelot under his breath. ‘Particularly when he’d eaten something that made him itch a bit.’

  ‘I well know Your Lordship’s concern over expedition of the Court’s business,’ continued the fat barrister fruitily. ‘I much appreciate Your Lordship’s consideration in drawing attention so early–’

  ‘Get on with your case, get on with your case,’ muttered the Judge.

  ‘As Your Lordship pleases. I was saying, My Lord–’

  ‘You haven’t said anything yet, Mr Grumley.’

  ‘Hasn’t changed a bit,’ hissed Sir Lancelot, slapping his thigh.

  Mr Grumley finally hit form, and delivered a speech with the general effect of making Sir Lancelot Spratt look like Sweeney Todd the Barber. The surgeon meanwhile sat beside me staring at his finger-nails, giving no hint of his feelings apart from turning steadily from pink to magenta.

  ‘I now call my first witness,’ he ended. ‘Herbert Egbert Thomas Possett.’

  ‘Herbert Egbert Thomas Possett,’ repeated the usher, waking up.

  Sir Lancelot’s patient was a vacant-looking youth in a tight blue suit, with the air of wishing he were at that moment in the middle of the Sahara desert. He started off by giving his name, address, birthday and date of admission to St Swithin’s Hospital, none of which he seemed particularly sure about.

  ‘Now, Mr Possett.’ Mr Grumley came to business. ‘What exactly was your operation performed for?’

  There was a silence, except for the judge tapping his false teeth with his pencil.

  ‘I dunno.’

  ‘What? Didn’t the surgeon tell you?’

  ‘Nobody told me nothing.’

  Mr Justice Fishwick cleared his throat.

  ‘I have stated before in this Court, and I have no hesitation in stating it again, that the manner in which the medical profession keeps its patients in utter ignorance of matters of life and death is perfectly reprehensible. It is nothing more than an ill-judged attempt to perpetuate the aura of obscurity and witchcraft in which doctors have delighted in wrapping themselves for generations.’

  ‘What absolute rubbish!’ exclaimed Sir Lancelot.

  ‘Shhhh!’ hissed his brother, who had mysteriously appeared among us.

  ‘Why, hello, Alfie! I was just beginning to wonder where the devil you’d got to. Fishwick has just made a perfectly outrageous remark–’

  ‘Be quiet, please,’ muttered Mr Beckwith.

  ‘But it is outrageous,’ persisted the surgeon.

  ‘Silence!’ cried the usher, whom I thought was fast asleep.

  ‘Mr Spratt.’ The Judge scowled at the QC and then at Sir Lancelot. ‘Perhaps you can kindly control your client?’

  ‘I am extremely sorry, My Lord. I apologise most freely to Your Lordship. I fear my client suffered a momentary lapse.’

  ‘I trust he will not suffer anything worse. Please proceed, Mr Grumley.’

  Sir Lancelot glared at his brother in disgust. ‘Despicable boot licking,’ he muttered.

  I was rather relieved myself when everything settled down for a bit. Young Possett recited a list of symptoms he’d suffered since his operation, which ranged from going to sleep over the telly to fits. Mr Grumley, the crafty chap, kept asking if he wanted to sit, have a glass of water, or take a nice lie down for half an hour, and generally gave the impression that he, for one, was enormously surprised to see the poor fellow walking about at all.

  ‘I have no questions, My Lord,’ announced Alfie, as his rival finished.

  ‘Call Mrs Possett,’ said Mr Grumley.

  23

  Herbert’s mother was one of those little sharp-faced women you often see waving umbrellas at motorists from the middle of zebra crossings.

  ‘It’s a crying shame,’ she began at once.

  ‘Quite,’ said Mr Grumley.

  ‘A perfect disgrace.’

  ‘Quite. Now, when your son was admitted to St Swithin’s Hospital–’

  ‘He was a fine healthy boy. And look at him now. Just look at him! Can hardly eat his dinner, he can’t. Not without pangs. Pangs, that’s what he has.’

  ‘Yes, quite, Mrs Possett.’ Mr Grumley began to look as though he wished he were in the middle of the Sahara, too. ‘When your son was admitted–’

  ‘I know. I’m a mother. I know.’

  ‘I am sure we all, His Lordship included – particularly His Lordship – sympathise with a mother’s distress. But if you will kindly tell the Court when your son was–’

  ‘Indigestion?’ the Judge asked
her bleakly.

  ‘Something cruel, Your Lordship.’

  ‘I have suffered from it all my life. I fear it is hopelessly beyond the ability of the medical profession to cure. Please proceed, Mr Grumley.’

  ‘Did you hear that, Alfie?’ demanded Sir Lancelot loudly.

  ‘Shut up, Lancelot.’

  The surgeon looked shocked. ‘What the devil do you mean, “Shut up?” I am trying to assist you by pointing out a blatant piece of misinformation–’

  ‘Silence!’ shouted the usher, and went to sleep again like Alice’s dormouse.

  ‘Proceed, Mr Grumley.’ The Judge gave a stare in our direction that looked as unfriendly as a trephine. Sir Lancelot sat muttering, but the only words I could distinguish were ‘Star Chamber.’

  We had peace for half an hour, while Mrs Possett described how Sir Lancelot had turned her son from something like Tarzan into the present dyspeptic wreck.

  ‘To what, Mrs Possett,’ demanded Mr Alphonso Spratt, rising on his brother’s behalf, ‘do you ascribe your son’s present indisposition?’

  ‘To ‘im down there!’ She pointed at Sir Lancelot like a sans-culotte having a go at the aristocrats. ‘’E’s the one what’s gone and ruined our Herbert. I don’t care what nobody says about–’

  ‘Madam!’ Sir Lancelot leapt to his feet. ‘It is quite bad enough for a man in my position to be dragged into a public court at all, but to be subject to ill-mannered harangues–’

  ‘Sit down,’ snapped the Judge.

  ‘Really, Your Lordship! If you cannot in your own court control the irresponsible accusations–’

  ‘Sit down!’

  Mr Beckwith and I pulled Sir Lancelot to his seat.

  ‘Silence!’ cried the usher, having woken up a bit late.

  ‘Mr Spratt–’ said the Judge.

  ‘May I assure you, My Lord, I do most humbly–’

  ‘Mr Spratt, after your cross-examination you will kindly enlighten your client on the penalties for contempt of court.’

  ‘Yes, My Lord. Of course, of course, My Lord. I am very grateful to My Lord–’

  ‘I would advise you to be perfectly explicit.’

  ‘Naturally, My Lord. I am much indebted to Your Lordship’s most thoughtful suggestion.’ He turned to glare at his brother. ‘You bloody fool,’ he hissed.