Doctor On The Boil (11 page)

To examine the dean’s household at six-thirty the following morning – to cut a longitudinal section of it, like some anatomical preparation of the chest or abdomen – is to reveal a surprising amount of activity for so comparatively early an hour on a Thursday in May.

George, the dean’s son, was asleep in a small room on the top floor. His eyes were tight shut, his pudgy cheeks puffed gently, his hair, which he was trying to grow, was disarranged over his snub nose and recorded each expiration. Inga the
au pair
girl nudged him in the stomach with her elbow.

‘Time to get up,’ she whispered.

George opened his eyes and looked round. ‘I must have dozed off. It’s daylight.’

‘I must myself get going. At seven I bring up the tea.’

‘Haven’t we time for another one?’ he asked hopefully.

She pressed her finger playfully on the end of his nose. ‘No. You have had enough.’

He sat up, reaching for his pyjamas on the floor. ‘Do you suppose anyone in the house knows what’s going on?’

She leant one elbow on her pillow. ‘Perhaps. Does it matter? It is all quite natural.’

‘It might not seem all that natural to my father,’ he said doubtfully.

Inga pushed the blonde hair out of her eyes. ‘He is too busy to notice things, I think. His mind is always full of sick people.’ She sighed. ‘Your poor mother.’

‘Mum? I’d say she had a pretty good time of it. Not much for her to do about the house.’

‘Your father is even too busy to make love to her.’

‘Really?’ George grinned. ‘Funny, but I’ve never thought of Dad on the job like that. I imagined you sort of grew out of it when you were about thirty.’

‘And your sister also is occupied in her mind. She loves. That is easy to see.’

‘She’s been acting a bit funny these last few days, I must say.’

‘As for Miss MacNish – who tells? She is very mysterious.’

‘About as mysterious as a slice of her apple pie.’

Inga shook her head sagely. ‘There is something strange about her. It is like Ibsen.’

‘Inga love, wouldn’t you like to stay in England?’

‘No.’

‘Not working but…well, married?’

‘No. The houses are too cold and everything is too dirty.’

‘I’m not glamorous enough?’ he asked unhappily.

‘You are very passionate. Which I did not think when first I look at you.’

‘That’s something, I suppose.’

‘Also you are gentle. And you are kind. And you are quite intelligent, too, you know.’

‘Are you sure we haven’t got time for another one?’

She kicked back the bedclothes. ‘No, I must bring up the tea by seven o’clock to the bearded man like Santa Claus.’

‘Do you suppose Sir Lancelot knows about us?’

‘I think Sir Lancelot knows about everything.’

On the floor below, George’s sister Muriel was up and dressed. She often rose early for a couple of hours’ study before breakfast. She sat at her desk surrounded by open textbooks and files of lecture notes, but instead of working she was writing a letter.

Dearest, dearest Albert,

How can I bear to think that it will be almost one whole week before I set eyes on your dear sweet face again? Yet I understand. You must be away on business and I should not like to think your boutique would suffer because I selfishly wanted to keep you in my arms. Besides, it will give me a chance to get on with my work. Iam doing intestinal obstruction, which is most interesting.

It seems quite ridiculous to think that we have known each other less than a week – six days! How grateful I am that Ken Kerrberry brought us together at that party last Friday night. He must have seen then how suited we were for one another.

Muriel paused, biting the end of her ball-point. She added,
Darling Albert, you have restored my faith in mankind. Love and big kisses, Muriel.

She put the letter in an envelope, and with a sigh turned back to Bailey and Love’s
Practice of Surgery.

Next door, the dean was sitting bolt upright in bed. ‘It’s really most amazing. And perhaps a little frightening. I don’t know how many times I’ve had it now – most peculiar how such things slip away from the memory – but certainly it’s one of those recurrent ones you suffer now and then in your life. There I am, at the end of this long corridor – always the same, paintings on the walls, glittering chandeliers, long red carpet down the middle. Very impressive. I’m walking slowly in full morning dress towards a dais at the end draped with flags, union jacks, ensigns, stars and stripes, like something at a fair. On it stands Her Majesty, with a sword. I kneel at her feet to receive the accolade, but instead she cuts my head off. Then I wake up.’

His wife in the other twin bed had her eyes shut.

‘I had my dream again, dear,’ he said loudly.

‘What, dear?’

‘My dream, dear. About the Queen cutting my head off.’

‘Yes, dear.’

‘Do you suppose I should see one of the psychiatrists?’

‘I expect so, dear.’

The dean tightened his lips. ‘I wonder why it is that my dreams are always so much more interesting than other people’s?’ he asked himself.

At the back of the house Miss MacNish was up in her pink quilted dressing-gown. Like many who live in only one room of other people’s homes, she was obliged to keep many of her possessions in a trunk stowed under the bed. She had this out, open, and half its contents strewn over the floor. She burrowed away searching for something which, from her expression, was of desperate importance.

Sir Lancelot in the spare bedroom slept on, as serenely as always.

The dream of royal decapitation made an unsettling start for the dean’s day. At breakfast he sat unusually silent. Not that there was much chance for conversation, Sir Lancelot seeming in expansive mood and treating them to a light-hearted monologue about various surgical disasters. The dean’s wife Josephine left for an appointment with her hairdresser. Muriel and George both announced their first lecture had been cancelled, and went to work in their rooms. The dean and Sir Lancelot were alone.

‘And how do you intend to keep yourself occupied today?’ the dean asked sourly.

‘My dear fellow, don’t put it like that. My life is absolutely thrumming. I’ve so much energy I could fill every minute twice over with activity of some sort or another. I fancy I shall pass the morning writing letters. And this afternoon–’ A glint came into his eye. ‘I shall go to St Swithin’s to mooch round Bingham’s wards.’

‘You’re not
really
exercising your rights under the charter? Won’t you have second thoughts, Lancelot? And some consideration for the rest of us, trying to perform our difficult tasks in the hospital, which is already at sixes and sevens through the rebuilding? I implore you to forget the harebrained idea. Can’t I appeal to your better nature?’ he ended hopefully.

‘I have no nature better than my everyday one, enjoyed by the world in general. I don’t see why I shouldn’t care for a patient or two of Bingham’s. It’s not that I’m asking to be paid for it. On the contrary, I am giving fifty thousand quid for the privilege.’ He poured himself another cup of coffee. ‘No, Dean, I will not renounce my rights. Indeed, I should be very surprised if by tonight I haven’t the knife in my hand again.’

The dean groaned. ‘Perhaps marriage will have some effect on your strong views?’

‘None whatsoever.’

‘When’s the ceremony, anyway? Not for some months, you said.’

‘Did I? You must have misunderstood me. It’s a week tomorrow.’

‘So soon?’

‘No time to waste, I feel. I telephoned Tottie last night, and she is going ahead with the arrangements. She’s extremely efficient at the admin stuff, naturally. I have fortunately persuaded her to hold the party in a registry office, though quite a gaggle will be coming along to see the fun.’

‘If you would still like to take up my offer of a free world cruise for your honeymoon, I’m sure it could be arranged even at this short notice.’

‘I’ll think about it. Though I don’t want to be too long away from St Swithin’s. A fellow like Bingham, with absolutely no sense of the value of money, could spend the cash in a jiffy behind my back.’

The dean was looking puzzled. ‘I’m sure I didn’t get you wrong, Lancelot. You were so definite the wedding wouldn’t be for months, or even years. That trip to your friends in the country seems to have changed you considerably.’

‘I didn’t go to friends. I can tell
you
, Dean – after all, you’re to be my best man. I went to a place for sexual rejuvenation.’

‘Good God.’

‘Dr de Hoot’s Analeptic Clinic. In Kent. And damn good it is, too.’

‘Good God.’

‘There’s a preparation they use – secret formula, of course – which makes you feel a new man. A much younger new man.’

‘Good God.’

‘You seem shocked.’

‘I think I am entitled to be. For you, a professional man, a man of status–’

‘But I told you, marriage to a younger woman for a man of my age is a damn sight riskier than taking up motor-racing at Brands Hatch. I need all the help I can get. Those injections could prove absolutely life-saving. Besides, my dear Dean, all my career I’ve tried to leave my patients entirely satisfied, and I see no reason to abandon my principles now.’

The dean rose. ‘That’s your affair, I suppose. Now I must be off to the hospital. I’ve a ward-round at ten.’

‘Leave
The Times
, will you? I like to amuse myself with the crossword.’

The dean made for the door. He paused. ‘
What
did you say the name of that place was?’

‘Dr de Hoot’s Analeptic Clinic.’

‘H’m,’ said the dean thoughtfully, leaving the room.

Sir Lancelot started reading the dean’s paper. He looked up as he heard a gentle click. Muriel had softly slipped into the dining-room and was standing against the closed door, breathing heavily.

‘Sir Lancelot, could I have a word with you?’

‘Certainly, my dear. Come to something tricky in your surgery?’

‘It’s not about work. It’s about men.’

‘Much more interesting.’

‘You see, I am in love.’

‘Don’t look so worried about it. It’s an endemic condition at your age.’

‘At least, I think I am. I thought I was once before, then I thought I wasn’t. Now I’m worried that I’ll think that I was only thinking I was once again. Though I don’t really think so.’

‘Quite.’ Sir Lancelot stroked his beard.

‘What do you think?’

‘Someone in the hospital?’ She shook her head vigorously. ‘Socially acceptable?’

‘Oh, yes. He runs an antique boutique.’

‘Wants to marry you?’

She lowered her eyes. ‘I don’t know. But the other night he took me to a discotheque and then asked me back to his place – he lives over the boutique – for a…well, Sir Lancelot, I’m not frigid or anything like that, and I know a lot of girls do, I mean, quite nice girls, but I don’t know…I suppose I’ve had rather a lot of brainwashing on the subject from father,’ she ended a little pathetically.

‘My dear, don’t apologize for your morals. Anyway, the pleasures of self-discipline are sadly underestimated. Nothing is quite so delightful as a feeling of smugness.’

‘But if I don’t let him, he’ll think I don’t love him.’

‘There are surely other ways of expressing your appreciation of his attentions?’

‘What other ways?’

‘Taking an interest in his work, let us say. Men always find that flattering, whether they’re safebreakers or surgeons. He’s an antique seller? Well, think of some means you can help him with this somewhat esoteric occupation.’

Muriel looked brighter. ‘Yes, I’m sure I can find something. I’m so glad I thought of asking you. I could have gone to father with the problem, of course, but he seems to think that I shouldn’t have any sort of sex life before I have some letters after my name. You won’t tell him I’ve spoken to you, will you?’ she added anxiously. ‘I’ve already had to fib this morning about my lecture being cancelled.’

‘I have the discretion of a particularly taciturn oyster.’

Once alone, he produced his pencil and started on the crossword. He had briskly changed an able cop into a placebo when he became uneasily aware of some other living creature in the room. He looked up expecting to find Miss MacNish’s cat, but instead encountered George staring with his large glasses through the doorway.

‘Either come in or go out, but kindly shut that ruddy door before I die of frostbite.’

George jumped inside, shut the door with a quick motion, and stood against it in the attitude of a timid spy facing the firing-squad. Sir Lancelot looked at him bleakly. He was less well disposed to clamant young men than young women.

‘I presume you told a lie this morning, about your lecture being cancelled?’

George looked alarmed. ‘How did you know that, Sir Lancelot?’

‘Let us not concern ourselves. I take it you want my advice about something? Money, women, or drugs?’

‘Oh, neither, Sir Lancelot…though perhaps it’s a woman, in a way. The fact is, I want to give up medicine.’

‘I fail to see the connection.’

‘I want to get married. Please don’t ask to whom–’

‘The
au pair
girl. Go on.’

George licked his lips. ‘So I want to make some money
now
. I want to be independent. Of father. I think he’d like me to get my Fellowship in surgery before I even took a bird to the movies.’

‘And how do you propose to acquire this independence? Hawking encyclopedias at the door?’

‘Script-writing. For the box. I’ve had a couple of sketches on already. Under another name, of course, so dad wouldn’t know. I’m sure I’ve got a future in it. And I’m not cut out for medicine at all. Dad only made me go in for it because he couldn’t think what else to do with me. I’m not like Muriel. She’s a real Elizabeth Garrett Anderson. But of course dad won’t hear of me leaving St Swithin’s. So what am I going to do?’ he ended imploringly.

‘It is a matter of supreme indifference to me what you do–’ Sir Lancelot paused. He gave a smile. The chance of a little harmless fun at the dean’s expense occurred to him. ‘The answer is perfectly simple. If you can’t voluntarily get out of St Swithin’s you can always have yourself chucked out of the place.’