Doctor On The Boil (10 page)

Grimsdyke found Godfri’s studio disappointing. He had expected something resembling Dr de Hoot’s clinic, but found instead a tumbledown converted garage off the King’s Road. He went with Eric Cavendish into a small office which still smelt of motor-oil, where a middle-aged woman of clinical appearance in a white overall was sitting over a typewriter.

‘Miss Fowler is already in the studio,’ she told them. ‘As Mr Godfri is expecting you, it will be possible to enter. But please knock and wait,’ she directed severely. ‘On no account must anyone interrupt Mr Godfri while he is thinking – which may continue for hours on end.’

‘Great,’ said Eric doubtfully.

‘If you don’t mind, I’ll stay out here,’ Grimsdyke said. ‘I – er, suffer from photophobia rather badly.’ When they were alone, he turned to the receptionist. ‘By the way – it’s a strange coincidence, but I believe someone I happen to know has come to work in your studios. A Miss Gray.’

‘Oh, her.’

‘We ran into each other in hospital – I am a doctor, you understand. Perhaps I could have a word with the young lady?’

She jerked her head. ‘You’ll find her out the back. In the dark-room. And mind you don’t open the door if the red light’s on.’

Grimsdyke made his way down a narrow ill-painted corridor towards the rear of the garage. He found a door with a red light, which he noticed with satisfaction was unlit. He knocked, and recognized Stella’s voice.

He smoothed the lapels of his suit and stepped into a small dank room smelling of mixed chemicals. Stella looked round and gave a gasp. He held up his hand. ‘My dear girl, say nothing. Not a word. Please. I implore you. Let me make my speech first. I have been rehearsing it for hours, as a matter of fact, and any interruptions might spoil my performance.’

‘All right,’ she said hesitantly.

‘Do not turn me out. Gaston Grimsdyke comes today with no designs but the utterly pure one of asking your forgiveness. The last time we met, I was rude. Horribly so. I called you names. A thing one should never do to any female, particularly such a charming and sweet-natured one as–’

‘Oh, Gaston.’ She started to cry. ‘I’m so miserable.’

‘There, there!’ Grimsdyke briskly gathered her to his chest and started stroking her blonde hair. ‘There, there, there, there! And what’s the matter, now? You just tell me your troubles, every single little one of them. Take your time.’

‘I hate it.’

‘What, this place?’

She nodded, blowing her nose.

‘It is a bit of a crummy joint, I must say.’

‘I’ve only been here two days, and everyone’s so horrible to me.’

‘Even the glamorous Godfri?’

‘He’s
unbelievable
.’

‘There, there,
there
.’ Grimsdyke stroked her a little more vigorously.

‘I thought I was going to have a wonderful life in the studio, meeting all sorts of groovy people. All I do is slave out here, make the tea and sweep the floors.’

‘I suppose there’s no more glamour in photography than there is in medicine, whatever the idiotic public think.’

‘I so wish I were back at St Swithin’s.’

‘Why don’t you just tell Godfri where to stuff his zoom lens and walk out? With the shortage of medical staff these days, St Swithin’s would be delighted to see one of their old hands coming back. They were even delighted to see me, and I can’t put it stronger than that.’

‘They wouldn’t want to see
me
,’ she said miserably. ‘Not the radiographer who mixed up those X-ray envelopes and caused so much trouble.’

‘But I took the blame for that. Actually, I was going to come to the subject in my little speech, but you seem to have forestalled me.’

‘I know you did. You were wonderful. I didn’t appreciate it at the time. God, how stupid I was!’

‘Perhaps if you allowed the memory to fade a little, the St. Swithin’s powers-that-be in the X-ray line would grow more forgiving.’

‘But I can’t stand this place another minute.’

‘Then take a holiday,’ he suggested brightly. ‘St Tropez, Nassau, Kabul, you know.’

‘But I’ve got to have a job. I pay Mum four pounds a week for my keep.’

‘But your old man? He’s a ruddy millionaire.’

‘Who said so?’

He hesitated. ‘You did, I suppose. Anyway, it got round the hospital.’

She blew her nose again. ‘I suppose I did say something like that. It was an act. I didn’t feel important enough. Some people pretend they’re lords and generals and film producers and things, don’t they? You see it in the papers.’

‘I’ve just realized something. You haven’t called me “lover man” once.’

‘That was all part of it.’

‘Stella, I love you.’

‘Oh, Gaston!’ She started to cry again.

‘We can’t have you weeping like this,’ he said gently. ‘Your tears will get into the hypo, or whatever they use. Look, Stella, my love – you want to resume your career as a radiographer. Right?’

She nodded.

‘Then I shall see you damn well do. I shall take it up at St. Swithin’s. With the dean. With Sir Lancelot. Yes, certainly with Sir Lancelot. I’ve that old bear by the sensitive bits good and proper at the moment. Unfortunately, I’m now working out in the country – a clinic, psychological cases, very interesting. But I can get up to town again tomorrow, so how about our meeting then?’

‘Gaston darling, I’d love to–’

‘Sweat it out here meanwhile, and I’ll pick you up when you finish work. Six o’clock?’

She nodded vigorously.

‘We’ll have a quiet dinner – not at the Crécy, the food’s uneatable and everyone rude from the manager downwards – to discuss our future plans.’

There was a crash outside, and a scream of agony.

‘Good God,’ muttered Grimsdyke. ‘Sounds like I’ve got a case.’

In the corridor they found Godfri in his working clothes, which resembled the everyday dress of a Red Indian squaw. He was pulling his hair with both hands while jumping up and down and shouting.

‘I’d rather kill myself. I’d rather be eaten alive by wild beasts. I’d rather go and work on a building-site.’

‘Where you probably started, anyway,’ snapped Iris Fowler, appearing from the studio in only the bottom half of a bikini.

‘I cannot photograph you. I will not. You don’t even listen to what I say. My God, some of the models may be dim, but you’re too stupid even to sit still for a snap on the end of Margate pier.’

‘Listen to him!’ Iris said angrily. ‘I’m Miss Business Furnishing, I’ll have you know.’

‘I don’t care if you’re Miss Sewage Works. You’re impossible. Besides, your tits are of different sizes.’

‘They’re not!’

‘Look at them, if you don’t believe me. It’s like trying to get the dome of St Paul’s and a goldfish bowl into the same picture.’

‘Oo, you rotten old sod–’

She aimed a jab at him, as Eric Cavendish appeared from the studio saying nervously, ‘Now, now, Iris – remember, it’s just Mr Godfri’s artistic temperament.’

‘Artistic! Don’t make me laugh. He’s about as artistic as a foreman down the saltmines.’

‘Get out, before I call the fuzz,’ commanded Godfri.

‘I’m going, don’t you worry,’ she said haughtily. ‘Where’s my things?’ Eric Cavendish pushed a bundle of clothes at her. ‘Ta, ever so,’ she added sarcastically, pulling on a leather coat. ‘I hope next time you won’t hurt your back. Old men like you ought to be tucked up at night with a nice cup of chocolate.’

‘I must go and think,’ gasped Godfri, as the front door slammed. ‘Every nerve is shattered. Completely shattered. Where are my worry beads? Leave me alone, everyone,
please
. I must think, think, think, for hours and hours…’

As he disappeared into the studio, Stella asked, ‘And who might
that
be?’

Grimsdyke smiled. ‘One of my patients. Mental case. I’ll explain tomorrow. Perhaps you’d like me to introduce Eric Cavendish,’ he added with a touch of pride.

‘
The
Eric Cavendish?’ Stella’s eyes grew larger. ‘But how dreamy.’ They shook hands. ‘I’ve seen all your movies. I’m absolutely thrilled out of my skin to meet you.’

‘Well, that’s nice.’ Eric Cavendish squared his shoulders. ‘Very nice.’

‘In the last one, did you
really
do that chase along the mountain ledge?’

He laughed. ‘They got a stunt man for that. I’m too valuable a property to risk losing over a cliff. All those underwater swimming sequences were the real me, though,’ he added modestly.

‘I thought they were the best part of the picture. Honestly I did.’

‘Now isn’t that strange. Because it’s exactly what I thought, too.’

Stella gave a shy laugh. ‘Great minds think alike.’

‘That’s it. You’ve summed it up pretty neatly,’ he complimented her. ‘How old are you?’

‘I’m twenty, Mr Cavendish?’

Grimsdyke coughed. ‘Er, Stella, I think we must be going–’

‘That’s a nice age. A very nice age. I think about the best age for a girl to be.’

‘Oh…thank you, Mr Cavendish.’

‘The name’s Eric. And you’re –?’

‘Stella Gray.’

‘Have
you
ever thought of going into the movies, Stella? You’ve got the looks.’

‘Well, we must really be on our way,’ Grimsdyke cut in heartily. ‘Mr Cavendish is a very busy man, aren’t you, Mr Cavendish?’

‘I’ve all the time in the world. Particularly when I’m talking to a pretty girl. Say, how about dinner at my suite in the Crécy Hotel when I’m back in London tomorrow? I could pick you up right here when you finish work. I guess that’s about six o’clock–’

‘Mr Cavendish!’ snapped Grimsdyke. ‘It is time to return for your treatment. Or would you like me to explain to the lady exactly what it is?’

‘Sure, sure.’ Eric Cavendish looked disconcerted. ‘See you tomorrow,’ he smiled in Stella’s direction, as his doctor pushed him through the front door.

Grimsdyke put his head inside again and gave a whistle. ‘Don’t worry, Stella – he won’t bother us. He’s a mental case really.’

‘Another?’

‘Yes. Lot of it about this time of the year, Doctor, as they say. We have to dope him to the eyebrows for his films. See you tomorrow.’

The chauffeur had already started the engine of the Mercedes, but Grimsdyke said from the pavement, ‘Eric, I’ve these things to collect from St Swithin’s. It’s easier to get a Tube. Meet you back in the clinic.’

‘That dolly! Isn’t she
fantastic
?’

‘Do you really think so? She struck me as rather plain and uninteresting.’

The actor laughed. ‘In that case, Doc old man, you must be getting a bit too old for it.’

He drove away. Grimsdyke made for the Underground station, with a look of apprehension which had not disturbed his features since awaiting his turn for Sir Lancelot Spratt in the surgery finals.

Shortly before six o’clock that same evening, the dean and Professor Bingham were together in the dean’s office at St Swithin’s. Bingham was sitting in the dean’s chair in his white coat, his feet on the desk, pensively pushing his glasses up and down the bridge of his nose. The dean himself was walking about the room agitatedly.

‘It’s too much, Bingham. Too much altogether. More than flesh and blood can stand. I shall have to leave to take my summer holidays. Perhaps even to emigrate. I can see no way out whatever.’

‘But you were in such high spirits yesterday because he’d gone to the country,’ said Bingham in a puzzled voice.

‘I know. Suddenly, out of the blue, he said he was off to stay with friends. For at least a fortnight, perhaps three weeks. I was overjoyed. I may even have shown it. Then…this morning…bloody hell, the man’s back again.’

‘Couldn’t you hint that he’s not welcome?’

The dean gave a bitter laugh. ‘You might hint the same to an elephant with one foot on your chest.’

‘He’s not the easiest of guests, I’ll admit.’

‘That’s only the half of it. Everyone else in the house seems to dote on him. Miss MacNish, our housekeeper. That dim-witted Scandinavian
au pair
. Even, I regret to say, my own dear wife seems affected. Even my daughter Muriel, such a sensible young person. It’s beyond me. Women are completely inexplicable. Possibly it is some form of mass hysteria, like you get in convents and girls’ schools and that sort of thing.’

‘Must be all rather painful.’

‘Not only painful but disgraceful. I’ve no authority over my own family any longer. God! If I were a man of lower principles, I should ask the bacteriology department for a culture of unpleasant organisms to put in his coffee, and really get rid of him.’ He stopped, scratching his chin. ‘If I had the post-mortem done here,’ he added reflectively, ‘I really could get away with it. The professor of pathology has hated his guts for years.’

‘But when he’s married–’

‘When!’ exploded the dean. ‘That’s the question. He told me at breakfast yesterday morning he’s put it off till next Christmas or the Christmas after, or the turn of the century, as far as I can make out. And even then, he’ll still be storming about the hospital, invoking the charter and completely wrecking our organization. A terrible prospect! And I wouldn’t put it past him bringing his bride to come and live in my house, too.’

‘But this charter nonsense – surely you can get the Ministry to do something?’

‘Impossible. You know what this country’s like. Something done by one of our sovereigns several centuries ago without a second thought occupies the whole machinery of Government for years rectifying it. We shall be the laughing stock of every London hospital, you mark my words. The laughing stock of London itself. Oh, God, I hope it doesn’t reach the ears of the Blaydon trustees. You know how sticky they are. They were terribly reluctant to give us the money in the first place. It might well be that our wonderful new plans come to naught.’ He stuck his hands in his pockets and came to a halt, staring gloomily at Luke Fildes’ picture. ‘And it’s all your bloody fault.’

‘Mine?’

‘Yes. I had him all softened up to go away on a cruise. I knew the St Swithin’s staff would gladly pay the fare. In fact, I fancy I would gladly have paid it out of my own pocket. When he got back from the trip, he might well have left us in peace. As a matter of fact,’ he added more brightly, ‘he might have picked up that Asian disease in reality.’

‘But how do I come into it?’

‘Because you wouldn’t give him back that fifty thousand quid he donated to your unit. If he’s going to look over your shoulder and watch you spend it,
that
will be a charming experience.’

‘I can take it. The bogyman had no terrors for me even as a student.’

‘Look, Bingham – why not just give the cash back?’

‘No.’

‘But why
not?
We’re getting a packet from the Blaydon Trust, as long as they don’t consider us as too ridiculous even to hold the patients’ fruit money.’

‘It’s a matter of principle.’

‘Principles are all right for you bloody professors who don’t rely on private practice. I can’t afford them.’

‘The fact that Sir Lancelot
isn’t
going to perish makes no difference to me. I prefer to imagine he donated the money for the excellent use I shall make of it, not for his own convenience.’

‘Bingham, three things – I do wish you’d stop playing about with your spectacles, it’s irritated all of us at St Swithin’s for years – Bingham, three things can now happen. One, you will give Sir Lancelot his money back, and we shall see the last of him. Two, I shall resign from the hospital and practise for some charitable organization in the middle of Africa. Or three, you will kindly find some other means for getting rid of the bloody man. Come in, come in,’ he shouted to a knock at the door. ‘What the hell do you want?’ he said, as Grimsdyke’s head appeared.

‘Could I have a word with you a moment, sir?’

‘Get out.’

‘Honestly, only a moment–’

‘Get out!’

‘It’s about that girl in X-ray who muddled up poor Sir Lancelot’s pictures–’

The dean picked up a St Swithin’s crested paperweight and threw it at him.

‘Must be something on his mind,’ murmured Grimsdyke, wandering away down the corridor.

He looked at his watch. The bar in the students’ common-room would be open. He decided he could do with a quick pint.

To his surprise, he found the bar, though early in the evening, full of noisy students. As he stood in the doorway, a voice at his elbow said, ‘I think I owe you a drink.’

‘Ah, young Summerbee. Certainly, if you can fight your way through that loose maul.’

‘For that business about Stella,’

‘Stella who?’

‘You know, the girl in X-ray.’

‘Was her name Stella? How quickly one forgets such things. How is she?’

‘I wouldn’t know. She’s gone to another job. I gather she left on her own accord, though – thanks to you.’

‘An amusing little incident.’

‘I’m sorry we had that row. You know, in our cars. Or rather, your car and Sir Lancelot’s car.’

‘Forget it. You were just a shade headstrong, shall we say? Though I’d still keep clear of X-ray,’ he added sagely, ‘just in case she came back.’

‘I never want to see her again,’ Terry said quickly. ‘Because of her, I had a row with my real bird.’

‘Really? You are a little old lecher, aren’t you?’

‘I am.’ Terry nodded sadly. ‘Though to be realistic, I wouldn’t have got far with my proper bird. Her old man didn’t approve of me.’

‘Good God, nobody’s bothered about that caper since
Romeo and Juliet.
’

‘It’s more complicated than
Romeo and Juliet
.’

‘You know what to do, surely? Go round to this father of hers and tell him you’re going to take his daughter off and possibly marry her. And if he doesn’t like it, you’ll both move in and live off him.’

‘Do you suppose it would work?’ Terry asked doubtfully.

‘Without fail. He couldn’t even claim tax relief.’

‘I’ll think about it. What’ll you have?’

‘Harry pinkers, I think. Largish.’

‘Dr Grimsdyke, just the man–’ Ken Kerrberry detached himself from the mob. ‘We’re having a committee meeting. About Rag Week.’

‘I’m a little mature for dressing up as a nurse and pelting people with bags of flour.’

‘But you must be full of ideas? After all your experience of rags as a student?’

The others gathered round expectantly.

‘What sort of ideas? Flock of pigeons in the matron’s bedroom? Dean’s car on the roof? That sort of thing?’

‘A big idea,’ Ken told him forcefully. ‘Something to get into the newspapers. To put St Swithin’s on the map again. We’ve been rather overshadowed since those sods at High Cross pinched the mace from the House of Commons.’

Grimsdyke shook his head. ‘Such stunts are a little difficult. You’ve got to know the time and place to strike. And with so many real villains about, people tend to put the strong-arm boys round their property. When’s the rag?’

‘We planned this bit of it for tomorrow evening.’

‘I should think of something less–’ He stopped. He pulled gently at his moustache, using both hands. ‘Have you envisaged a spot of kidnapping?’

‘That’s an idea! But who? The Commissioner of Police?’

‘No, you want to choose some well-known figure in show business. That’s guaranteed to hit the headlines. Someone like…shall we say…Eric Cavendish?’

Everyone agreed this would be a splendid idea.

‘The more I think of it, the more I like it,’ Grimsdyke went on. ‘These actors are of course quite used to being kidnapped. They enjoy the publicity, see. It happens in practically every university town they visit.’

‘He might have got a bit tired of the process by now,’ Ken remarked doubtfully.

‘Not a bit. I happen to know he’s got an absolutely smashing sense of humour. He’ll join in the fun, see the joke. Particularly as he’s continually being kidnapped on the screen.’

‘And ending the night in bed with a beautiful bird,’ said someone in the crowd.

‘That won’t happen on this occasion,’ Grimsdyke remarked crisply.

‘There’s one little thing,’ Ken objected. ‘How do we manage to find him?’

‘That,’ said Grimsdyke, ‘is simple. At precisely six o’clock tomorrow evening he will be outside the Chelsea studio of Godfri the photographer.’

‘How do you know?’ Ken asked in amazement.

‘I have my methods. But you can rely on it. I should arrive five minutes early, just to make sure. Ah, my drink, Summerbee. Thank you. Well, gentlemen, the rest is up to you.’ He raised his glass. ‘Don’t forget – the honour of St Swithin’s.’