Doctor On The Boil (13 page)

‘Oh the shame!’ cried the dean. ‘The disgrace! The humiliation! That ghastly business of Rag Week was bad enough, capturing that poor actor and getting the hospital on the front page of every newspaper in the country. Thank God Lancelot had the wits to calm him down with an expensive dinner. I thought at the time nothing could possibly be worse. But I was wrong, wrong. Compared with this latest outrage, that was a mere April Fool’s Day practical joke.’

It was the Wednesday morning of the following week. Professor Bingham, sitting in the next chair, pulled his white coat round him tightly. ‘Come, Dean. Don’t take it too much to heart.’

‘Too much to heart? You must be mad. I’m the laughing-stock of London. Possibly of the entire medical world. You know how these disgraceful stories get about. It’s really more than flesh and blood can bear.’

‘In six months, everyone will have forgotten it.’

‘I doubt that,’ said the dean bitterly. ‘Anyway,
I
shan’t have forgotten it.’

‘A pity, I suppose, that your own family was involved in the incident.’

‘A pity? That’s the most horrible part of it. A month ago – a week ago – I shouldn’t have thought such a thing remotely possible. Even now, I can’t honestly believe that this “incident” – as you somewhat ridiculously term the greatest disaster of my life since failing my surgery finals – has actually happened.’

‘It can hardly be held against
your
reputation, surely?’

‘Of course it can. These things rub off.’ He shook his head miserably. ‘You don’t understand how careful I must be, keeping my nose clean for a month or so. As it is, I very much doubt if I shall ever see a knight–’

‘Yes?’

‘If I shall ever see a night fall again.’

‘I say, you’re not going to commit suicide, are you?’ asked Bingham in alarm. ‘It can’t be quite as bad as that.’

‘That’s not what I mean at all. I mean…that is…oh, I don’t know what I mean,’ the dean ended hopelessly.

The pair were alone in the big, oblong, dark-panelled committee room at St Swithin’s, its walls decorated with portraits of consultant physicians and surgeons who had followed their patients into eternity. In the centre was a long, stout-legged table at which the dean and the professor sat. Its well-polished surface was covered with sheets of pink blotting-paper, duplicated pages of typescript, and open reference-books. The full disciplinary committee of the hospital had just met.

This fearsome body, with which the dean had threatened Terry Summerbee, convened only rarely to pronounce on graver misdemeanours by the hospital students or staff. It consisted of senior consultants, and took itself most seriously. Indeed, it could in a bad mood make the Star Chamber look as harmless as a rent tribunal.

The dean sat silently for a few moments, bouncing on the edge of his chair. He was naturally a member of the committee, but with a short, dignified speech he had withdrawn from the morning’s proceedings. He had waited outside, pacing up and down, to appear only after the verdict had been pronounced.

This was necessary because the unfortunate delinquent had been his own son.

‘To think – that George actually committed forgery.’

‘But only of your own signature.’

‘That’s even worse, when he used it to gain admission to the Ministry building. I still can’t imagine how he managed to hide himself there until morning.’

‘In the lavatory.’

‘What an uncomfortable place to pass a night. Of course, he told me some cock-and-bull story about emergency work at St Swithin’s, which being a trusting and considerate father I believed implicitly. Then for him to be discovered…in the morning…in the Minister’s own room…by the Minister himself…under the Minister’s own desk…’

‘But is that really so terrible? These days, nowhere is sacred. The sit-in has become a form of student protest so conventional as to be positively boring.’

‘Yes, but not in the nude.’

‘Possibly.’

‘Thank God the quality of mercy was not strained and all’s well that ends well,’ the dean said confusedly.

‘We’d really no alternative to leniency. After all, everyone on the committee knew George to be a young man of the highest character and strictest up-bringing. The point was made by several members. It was all so out of character, we could only ascribe it to some acute psychological upset. Hysteria, hypomania, something like that. He’ll attend the psychiatric department for a while, and afterwards he can get on with his work as if nothing had happened. Perhaps it was the strain of study? Overwork?’ Bingham gave a thin smile. ‘I say, Dean, you do push your children hard, eh?’

‘But I still can’t for the life of me think how this fantastic idea got into George’s head.’

‘In a way, it was a rather humorous one.’

‘That’s what Lancelot says. He’s been laughing his head off. Like a hyena. God! I wish the bloody man would leave us in peace.’

‘At least you’ll get rid of him for his honeymoon the day after tomorrow.’

‘Yes, five days in Brighton. Then he’s coming back to live in that block of new flats opposite my house, which has ruined my view of the park, anyway.’

‘Pity he wouldn’t go on the cruise.’

‘You know whose fault that is. Really, Bingham. Surely you can give him his money back? After all, it’s not a fortune as such things go. Not compared with our expectations from the Blaydon Trust.’

‘Expectations! The Blaydon gift is not signed, sealed, and delivered. Sir Lancelot’s is in the bank.’

‘A mere administrative detail. You could easily afford to disgorge. He might at least disappear with his bride to Wales. I happen to know he’s itching to start trout fishing, now the season’s open.’

‘It’s a matter of principle.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t be so smug, Bingham.’ The dean looked offended. ‘You sometimes make the rest of us feel like a bunch of train robbers.’

‘Perhaps I have reason to be smug?’

‘That’s worse. Now you’re smug about being smug–’

Bingham laid a hand on his arm. ‘I say, you
are
becoming over-excited. It can’t be doing much good to your systolic pressure. Just relax a minute, while I tell you exactly what I’m feeling smug about. You may find it extremely interesting.’

The dean looked puzzled. ‘Well, make it brief. I want my lunch.’

‘Isn’t it strange how unlikely events can sometimes have even more unlikely consequences? The spore of penicillin mould which blew through the window of Fleming’s laboratory at St Mary’s–’

‘Come on, man!’

‘I mean, your son’s little aberration could prove a great benefit to us all.’

‘What the hell are you getting at?’

Professor Bingham reached for a large, ancient leather-bound book on the middle of the committee-table. ‘You know what this is? The minute-book of the full disciplinary committee.’ He ran his hand fondly over its glossy cover. ‘It seldom sees the light of day. It was only with difficulty that, as the committee’s secretary, I managed to find it before the present meeting. It was tucked away among piles of bound surgical reports from Victorian days. An unlikely place. Perhaps someone had been hoping to hide it.’

‘Look here, Bingham, what
are
you trying to say? I’m hungry.’

‘I am trying to say – in short – that I can guarantee Sir Lancelot will leave for his honeymoon on Friday and never show his face in St Swithin’s, or even London, for the rest of his life.’

While the dean sat with Professor Bingham in the committee room at St Swithin’s, his daughter Muriel was hurrying away from a bus stop up the steep pavements of Highgate Hill. Halfway along she turned into a street of small shops which until recently had been selling fish and chips and newspapers, but with the rediscovery of the area as amusingly original to live in were taken over by the purveyors of more fashionable things. Muriel suddenly stopped. She hitched up her skirt until it barely covered her thighs. She looked down approvingly. Her legs were really quite good. She wondered desperately if Albert would notice them.

Muriel pushed open the shop door. ‘Hello!’ she cried joyfully. ‘I’m here.’

‘Hello, then.’

Albert appeared from the dim interior of his boutique into the light of day, like some round and shaggy animal emerging from its den. The object of Muriel’s passion was a young man five feet high and almost two across. It was difficult to know what he looked like, the unclothed parts of him being largely invisible under a thick matting of hair. The hair on his head fell to his shoulders. His thick frizzy ginger sideboards suggested the rope fenders of a ship. The moustache covering his upper lip changed direction abruptly at the corner of his mouth and ran downwards towards his chin. Massive eyebrows thatched his bulging eyes, and a small pointed beard somehow kept its identity in the general growth. He was dressed with fashionable scruffiness in jeans and a jacket of khaki drill.

‘Well, then,’ he repeated.

Muriel threw her arms round him, and finding a reasonably bare area gave it a kiss. ‘Aren’t you pleased to see me?’

‘Course.’

‘Albert, my darling! It’s been terrible this week, not meeting you even once.’

‘Has it, then?’

‘You got my letter?’

‘Yes.’

Muriel couldn’t suppress her trembling. He was so more experienced, so more worldly then herself she continually feared he must find her dull. In fact, he treated the world – which he divided simply into customers, birds, and people – with an off-handedness he thought as fashionable as his clothes.

‘Well, then,’ he said.

‘Aren’t you going to kiss me?’

‘I might.’

She was thrilled as he pressed his lips hard on hers, though she felt somewhere in her mind it was like being slapped in the face with a damp doormat. She broke away, looking round guiltily. In her excitement, she hadn’t cared if there were customers about. But the boutique was in its usual state of emptiness. It was a tiny slot-like place, filled with a collection of objects which had in common only that they were old, covered with dust, and slightly broken. In summer, Albert managed to sell a few of these to tourists, who found a strange happiness in decorating distant homes with horse-brasses or cockle-plates, or even flag-emblazoned admirals’ chamber-pots. In the days before boutiques, the establishment would have traded under the good honest name of a junk shop.

‘Well, Albert, my sweet. Where are you taking me to lunch?’ He scratched his side-whiskers. ‘Oh, Albert! Don’t say you’ve forgotten.’

‘Perhaps I have.’

‘Well, here I am, so let’s go, anyway,’ she said brightly.

‘Pub do you?’

She was disappointed. She had been anticipating a pleasant meal in some quiet and possibly romantic restaurant. But she gave another smile. ‘You know I’d go anywhere with you, Albert my love.’

‘I’d better lock the place up properly. Lot of criminals about these days.’

He shot the bolts of the back door thoughtfully. He wondered exactly how he had got mixed up with this peculiar virgin. Perhaps he had been more drunk than he had imagined at that party in the student’s flat. Or perhaps it was the medical bit about her which attracted him. He wondered if he harboured some mild peculiarity about female doctors, like a friend of his who was continually getting himself in trouble with policewomen.

They went into a small public house with decorative frosted-glass windows, just across the road. Albert directed her to the public bar, where he bought her a light ale and a ham roll.

‘Albert,’ she announced. ‘I’ve something important to tell you.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘You see, I…I seem to have so little to offer you. So I decided that…instead…I’d like to help you in your work.’

‘Serve in the shop, then?’

‘Well, not actually
that
. I’ve my classes at St Swithin’s. Though I should love to really, it must be wonderful handling all those lovely and precious things. But I thought I might be able to help you with introductions to important customers.’

Albert looked more interested. He was an enterprising young man, with an admirable sharpness for such opportunities as presented themselves in his somewhat dreary life.

She felt in her handbag and handed him a visiting card. He put down his pint and studied it carefully. It was printed:

Dr Lionel Lychfleld, DSc, MD, FRCP

164 Grace Gardens,

NW1

01-467 3128

‘Might be useful.’ He turned it over slowly. ‘Ta.’

‘You could show it to people, you see,’ she said a little breathlessly. ‘And they’d think he’d sent you, on a personal recommendation, to sell them antiques.’

‘They might not believe me.’

‘Why shouldn’t they?’

‘Well…’ He scratched himself again. ‘Look, love. It would be better if he’d put a signed message on it.’

‘I don’t think I could persuade him to do that,’ she said doubtfully.

‘Who’s got to persuade anyone?’ He laughed. ‘You do it.’

‘Oh…but that
would
be rather naughty of me, wouldn’t it?’

He picked up his pint. ‘What’s it matter, if no one finds out?’

Muriel took out her ball-point. She wrote on the card,
This is to introduce MrAlbert Duttle (antique specialist) who is most reliable. L Lychfield.

‘There you are.’ She handed it back delightedly. The deed once done, she had only to enjoy his appreciation.

‘Ta,’ he said, slipping the card into the back pocket of his jeans.

‘Who are you going to try it on, Albert dear?’

‘That’s the point, innit? Who d’you know interested in buying high-class antiques?’

‘Daddy’s and mummy’s friends are no use, because of course they’d ring him up and everything would come to light. So would all the consultants at the hospital.’ She sipped her light ale thoughtfully. ‘I know!
Much
better.’ She came so near him she was in danger of getting a mouthful of hair. She whispered, ‘Have you heard of someone called Lady Blaydon?’

‘Can’t say I have.’

‘Well, daddy has been mixed up with her lawyers and people over the past few months. She’s been giving a lot of money to the hospital.’

‘She’s loaded?’

Muriel nodded eagerly. ‘Daddy says she’s filthy rich. I heard she lives in those huge flats overlooking St James’s Park. My father doesn’t actually know her, so she’d just think he was one of your satisfied customers. You could go on your motor-bike and see if she’s interested in buying anything. If she isn’t there’s no harm done, is there?’

‘Maybe.’ He considered for some moments. ‘It’s nice to do business with the better class of person. They’re more appreciative of good stuff. Ta.’ He added condescendingly, ‘Care for another light?’