Doctor in Love (7 page)

Dr Farquarson twisted the bell of his stethoscope thoughtfully. “I’ll take over the Porson household from now on. Though I’m prepared to wager they’ll ask for their cards after a couple of visits.”

But even this relief was denied me. The next night Dr Farquarson himself went sick. For several days he had been complaining of “the screws in the back”, and when I returned a syringe to the surgery after a late call I found him stuck in his chair.

“It’s only the lumbago,” he explained, rubbing himself painfully. “Don’t you fash yourself, Richard – I’ll be as right as rain in the morning.”

“Oughtn’t you to see someone?” I asked anxiously. “I could call up old Rogers. I saw him go into his surgery as I passed.”

“No, no,” he said, with unusual weariness. “Don’t bother him at this hour. He’s as overworked as we are. Besides, I haven’t much faith in the medical profession, anyway.”

“Will you let
me
have a look at you, then?” He hesitated, so I added, “You know you complain yourself about the pig-headed idiots who only go to the doctor feet first.”

“I’m afraid this looks like a slipped disk to me,” I announced a little later.

He sighed and admitted “Well, now you’ve said it, that’s what I suspected all along.”

“Don’t you think you ought to see a specialist?” I asked with concern. “I could get you into the private wing at the local hospital. After all, we send them enough patients.”

“Heaven forbid! That place?”

“Look here,” I decided, seeing that I must be firm. “I’ll lay on a car tomorrow and have you run down to London to see Sir Robert Cufford. He knows more about disks than anyone else in the country. Won’t you agree to that? Especially as you knew him as a student.”

“And a bumptious stubborn little blighter he was, too.”

“And that’s just the type you want, to make you do as you’re told. He’ll take you into the Royal Neurological and investigate you. I insist on it. It’s doctor’s orders.”

“But it’s impossible, Richard! Who’ll run the practice?”

“I will.”

“With the best will in the world, it’s too much for one pair of hands.”

“Then I’ll get a locum.”

“You won’t at this time of the year.”

“I’ll try the newly qualified men at St Swithin’s.”

“They’ll all have got jobs.”

“I’ll write to an agency.”

“You never know who they might send.”

We were still considering this problem when the front doorbell rang.

“Damn it!” I said, tired, irritated, and worried. “That’s bound to be some small child with a note saying please send more cotton-wool and some ear cleaners because father’s run out.”

On the mat stood Grimsdyke.

“Irish medicine’s quite unlike medicine anywhere else,” Grimsdyke reflected. “The chaps don’t actually use leprechaun poultices, but there’s a cheerful element of witchcraft about it.”

We were in the saloon bar of the Hat and Feathers behind the Deanery the following evening. I no longer visited public houses myself, because a doctor in general practice spotted refreshing himself with half a pint of mild ale is stamped as an incurable drunkard for life. But Grimsdyke had less inhibitions than me about everything, and insisted that our reunion must be celebrated,

Grimsdyke was now our
locum tenens
. That morning I had seen Dr Farquarson off to the Royal Neurological Hospital in London, where Sir Robert Cufford had arranged to take him into the private wing. He had disappeared protesting that he was really much better and warning me of the dangers of having Grimsdyke anywhere near the practice. But Grimsdyke himself, who suffered the chronic delusion that he was the apple of his uncle’s eye, seemed delighted to have arrived at such a critical moment.

“You know,” he said warmly, “I may be flattering myself, but I think I can contribute a lot to the old uncle’s practice. On the business and social side, you know. Uncle’s a dear old stick, but terribly old-fashioned in his ways. I expect you’ve found that out? Anyway, until the old chap recovers his health and strength – which I sincerely hope won’t be long – you and I, Richard, are going to form one of the brightest partnerships in medicine since Stokes and Adams.”

“Or Burke and Hare,” I suggested. “Tell me more about Ireland. How did you find Dublin?”

“Just like Cheltenham, except the pillar boxes are painted green. But full of the most amiable coves drinking whisky and water and talking their heads off about nothing very much and telling you how beastly the British were to their aunt’s grandmother.”

“But come, now, Grim! Surely that’s a stage Irishman?”

“My dear fellow,” he said authoritatively, “
All
Irishmen are stage Irishmen.”

“But what about Irish doctors? After all, they’re one of the most popular exports, next to racehorses. How did you find your professional colleagues down in the country?”

“Ah, my professional colleagues! Outside Dublin things were a bit quainter. I hired a car and went down to Enniscorthy in County Wexford, and put up at Bennett’s Hotel while I searched round for my practice. I finally ran him to earth in a pub in that village on the postcard.”

“Doctor O’Dooley, you mean?”

“No, the practice. There was only one patient. He was an old chum called Major McGuinness, though what the devil he’d ever been a Major in except the Peninsular War, I can’t imagine.”

“A bit of a waste of medical manpower, wasn’t it?” I asked in surprise. “What became of O’Dooley’s father and that Polish fellow you talked about?”

“One was dead and the other had gone off with the pub’s chambermaid and started an ice-cream business in Wicklow. Young Paddy himself draws his cash from a brewery or something, and hadn’t been seen for months. The Major was the only patient left. He was as fat as a football, and as he’d been pickling himself in whisky since puberty he had bronchitis, arthritis, prostatic hypertrophy, and I think a touch of the tabes as well. He was pretty pleased to see me.”

“I bet he was.”

“Yes,” said Grimsdyke ruefully. “He couldn’t eat his dinner. He’d got toothache.”

I ordered some more drinks, and Grimsdyke went on. “My first operation was a resounding success. Under the reassuring influence of Power’s Gold Label for both of us, I removed the offending molar. Damn neatly, too, I thought.”

“What with? A corkscrew?”

“No, the whole of Paddy’s kit, such as it was, was in the Major’s house – a great rambling place, like living in the Albert Hall – where Paddy had been lodging for some years. So I moved in too. It was quite simple. You just found some blankets and cooked your own food if you could collect anything to start a fire, and there you were. There seemed to be about a dozen other people doing the same thing, and very odd characters some of them were, too. You kept running into new ones round corners. They didn’t seem to know each other very well, but there was usually some whisky knocking about which made for conviviality. The Major was a genial old soul, although the British had apparently been beastly to his aunt’s grandmother, too. I settled down quite comfortably.”

As it seemed unlike Grimsdyke to refuse a job offering no work and free drinks, I asked why he left.

“The practice died,” he explained simply. “One night the old boy got more bottled than usual, and passed out under the delusion he was riding in the Grand National and the upstairs bannisters were Becher’s Brook. Caused quite a sensation, even in that household. Soon the whole village were in. Then we got down to the serious business of the funeral. You’ve heard about Irish funerals?”

I nodded.

“There hadn’t been so much fun in the place since the night the postmistress went potty and took her clothes off in the High Street. I became a figure of great importance, because the old Major, like a good many people, always worried that he’d be good and cold before he was put in his grave. Thought he might wake up again under six feet of earth. All rather morbid. I had to open veins and things, which worried me a bit, because the last doctor I knew who did the same thing jumped the gun and ten minutes later the blood was running down the stairs. Questions were asked at the inquest.”

He took another drink, ruffled even by the recollection.

“Anyway, the old boy was clearly no longer with us. But he’d also been worried about being eaten by worms and so on, and had asked me to fix up some sort of container that would keep him looking in good shape. Until unearthed by archaeologists, I suppose. Fortunately, the local joiner-cum-undertaker was a jovial bird called Seamus, and although he was out of stock in lead coffins we worked out an ingenious method of wrapping the Major in rolls and rolls of lead sheeting, like you put on the roof. Damned expensive, of course, but the Major was paying. Eventually, we boxed him in, there was a good deal of whisky-drinking, and Seamus went round telling one and all that he was going to screw him down. Tears were shed and speeches were made and at last we were ready to move off for the churchyard.”

“I hope,” I said, “that after such extensive preparations the ceremony proceeded smoothly?”

“It didn’t proceed at all. When the moment finally came to leave, we couldn’t get the bloody Major off the floor. Absolutely impossible. We couldn’t budge him an inch, all lifting. We had a long discussion about it, and decided the only thing was to send for Jim O’Flynn’s breakdown van with the crane on it, or to unwrap him again. The guests became divided on this point, and as you know, when Irishmen are divided they become heated. After a while I gathered what I was thought the cause of the trouble, so I slipped away and gathered my few possessions and caught the afternoon bus. And here I am. There wasn’t any more point in staying anyway.”

I laughed. “I don’t believe half of that story.”

“It’s true. Even I don’t have to exaggerate about Ireland. Still, my emerald phase has now passed, Richard. I am to restart as a respectable English GP. And I might say how delighted I am to find myself in practice with an old chum like you.”

“And so am I, indeed!” I clapped him on the shoulder. “It was always one of my more sentimental hopes at St Swithin’s.”

“I’m mugging up my medicine, too. I opened Conybeare’s textbook this afternoon at the section on Diseases of The Alimentary Canal. I started with Oral Sepsis and got as far as Disorders of the Salivary Glands by teatime. I should be down to the caecum and appendix by Saturday.”

Grimsdyke’s gay demeanour and gay waistcoats certainly came refreshingly to the practice. His manner was perhaps more suited for the bookies’ enclosure than the bedside, but he had the superb gift of being able to draw smiles from anyone between nine and ninety. He was obviously popular with the patients – except the Porsons, where he sportingly went in my stead when Cynthia developed her next vague pains, and was received “very much like the third-rate understudy appearing at short notice on a Saturday night”. Otherwise, only Miss Wildewinde seemed to take a dislike to my friend.

“A cheeky young man,” she described him to me one morning after he had been with us a week.

“Oh, I don’t know, Miss Wildewinde. Dr Grimsdyke has a rather cheerful manner, but he’s a serious soul at heart.”

“I’m quite sure that Dr McBurney wouldn’t have taken to him for a moment, if I may say so.”

“Come, now,” I said charitably. “He may attract lots of rich old ladies to us as private patients. Who knows?”

“It seems as if he’s started,” she said tartly. “There’s a car outside that doesn’t look at all National Health.”

I had just finished my surgery, and opening the front door was surprised to find at the kerb a long, new, black Bentley, with a smart young man with curly hair and a six-inch moustache lightly polishing the windscreen with a Paisley handkerchief.

“Dr Gordon?” he asked, a row of teeth appearing beneath the moustache.

“That’s right.”

“How do you do, Doctor?” He shook hands with great affability.

“How do you do?”

“Well,” he continued, a slight pause occurring in the conversation. “Here’s a very great motorcar.”

“Of course,” I agreed. “There’s none better.”

“Not in the whole world. It’s got everything, plus.” He gave the bonnet a reverent pat. “Automatic gearbox, variable suspension, built-in lubrication, sunshine roof, three-tone radio – the lot. A wonderful motorcar. A cigar, Doctor,” he insisted, producing a box of Havanas from the glove locker as I offered my cigarette case. “Take a few for afterwards. That’s right. A drink, Doctor? The fittings include a cocktail cabinet.”

“I’m afraid I can’t touch a drop during the day.”

“I’m Frisby,” he said, producing a card. He was the sort of man you often find yourself next to in saloon bars, drinking light ales and talking about tappets. “Buckingham Palace Motors, of course.”

I nodded. Car salesmen share with insurance agents and medical equipment manufacturers a quaint belief in the solvency of junior members of the medical profession. I had as much chance of buying the Bentley as the
Queen Mary
, but as I had a few minutes free I agreed when he suggested “I expect you’d like a spin in the motorcar?”

“That was a delightful experience,” I said gratefully, as we drew up after a run round the Abbey. During this Mr Frisby had pointed out the detailed mechanical advantages of his charge in terms I understood as little as he would have followed an anatomy demonstration,

“Doctor,” he said, “you’re going to be very, very happy indeed with this motorcar.”

“I’m sure I would be,” I agreed. “Except that I’m afraid there’s not the slightest prospect of my being able to buy it.”

He stared at me in amazement.

“It was kind of you to demonstrate it, Mr Frisby,” I said, starting to get out. “But I don’t really want it. Or rather, I can’t possibly afford it.”

“But you’ve bought it!” he exclaimed.

“Bought it?” I began to feel annoyed. “But how could I? I’ve never seen the car or you before in my life.”

For a second I thought he was going to take back his cigars.

“Now look here,” he went on, much less affably. “Is this your signature or isn’t it?”

He produced a printed order form from his pocket. It was signed “G S F Grimsdyke, LSApoth (Cork)”.

“This is nothing whatever to do with me,” I protested. “I can’t imagine how my partner found the money to buy a Bentley, but that’s his affair. If you want him, he’ll be back in half an hour.”

“Now look here – you’re Dr Gordon, aren’t you?”

I agreed.

“Well you
have
bought the car. We were instructed to charge it up to your practice.”

“What! But…but…damn it! Dr Grimsdyke had no authority whatever–”

“See here, Doctor,” said Mr Frisby, now sounding menacing. “You can’t muck about with Buckingham Palace Motors, you know. I’ve brought this motorcar all the way from London. I’m a busy man. Not to mention that there’s a lot more customers interested–”

“Well, you’ll just have to take it back again,” I said sharply. “There’s been a mistake.”

“Mistake, eh? I don’t think I like the smell of this, Doctor. You can’t pull any wool over the eyes of Buckingham Palace Motors.”

“You can leave the bloody thing here, if you like,” I said. “But you’ll never get paid for it before it qualifies for the Old Crocks’ Race.”

By this time our conversation had drawn a small crowd staring through the open windows. I jumped out and ran inside the house. Shortly afterwards I saw Mr Frisby drive his merchandise away, possibly to apply for a writ.

“What the devil’s this business about the Bentley?” I demanded, as soon as I saw Grimsdyke.

“Oh, it’s come, has it? That’s quick service. I only posted the order yesterday.”

“Do you mean you were so insane as actually to try and buy one?”

“Of course, old lad,” he replied calmly. “Just what the practice wants. Window-dressing. You know what they say – a successful doctor needs a bald head to give an air of wisdom, a paunch to give an air of prosperity, and piles to give an air of anxiety. A posh car continues the process. Why, that’s the only way people judge their doctor. You must have heard dozens of times, ‘That feller must be good – he’s got a Rolls.’ Ever tried to park in Harley Street?”

“But it’s ridiculous!” I exploded. “The thing costs thousands and thousands of pounds.”

“But it’s perfectly all right, my dear old lad,” he explained condescendingly. “We’ll get it off the income-tax.”

“Income-tax! Income-tax! Do you know how little we really make in this practice? We couldn’t pay for it with our income, income-tax, and post-war credits combined.”

“I must say, you’re being a bit of a reactionary,” he said, sounding annoyed as well. “I think you’ve been with the old uncle too long already.”

Relations between Grimsdyke and myself remained cool for the rest of the day.

The next morning he unexpectedly wandered into my consulting-room as I was about to start the morning surgery. “Hello, old lad,” he asked. “Seen the
Medical Observer
anywhere yet? It’s out this morning, isn’t it?”