Doctor in Clover (12 page)

‘Good Lord, really? Nothing serious, I hope?’

‘My husband–’

‘He hasn’t fractured his other hip?’

‘No, no! It’s the hotel management. The white mice he let loose at breakfast.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘I’d like you to come in the car with us, Doctor. I’m afraid Aubrey…sometimes a little trying, even for me.’

‘Of course,’ I said, though I’d counted on another fortnight of free drinks in the sunshine. ‘If Mr Hosegood will excuse me, I’ll pack at once.’

‘And this telegram just arrived for you.’

‘For me? I didn’t think anyone knew my address.’ I opened it. It said:

RETURN ENGLAND INSTANTLY WHOLE COUNTRY DISGUSTED BY YOUR BEHAVIOUR.

MILES

‘And how, pray,’ started Miles, ‘do you account for
that
?’

It was a few days later, and I’d gone round early to his flat to see what the fuss was about.

‘Account for what? It seems like the morning paper to me. Not even today’s, either.

‘You fool ! Read what’s on the middle page.’

‘Good Lord ! ’ I exclaimed. ‘There’s a photo of me.’

There was a headline saying MELODY’S MEN, also pictures of Quintin Finn commanding a battleship and Jimmy Hosegood laying on the beach like a jettisoned beer barrel.

I gave a laugh. ‘It says, “Dr Gaston Grimsdyke. the fashionable young London physician, is also tipped at the Festival as the future Mr Madder.” I wonder what gave them that idea? Lots more about me, too.’

‘Good God, man ! You actually seem proud of it.’

‘Well, I’ve never had my photograph in the papers before.’

Miles got rather excited.

‘The disgrace and scandal of your being mixed up with this – this–’

‘Melody Madder’s a very decent type, and I won’t have anyone being beastly about her.’ I helped myself to a cup of his coffee. ‘Anyway, you’ve been advising me to marry and settle down for years.’

‘Not to the woman with the most advertised thorax in Britain.’

‘But Miles!’ interrupted Connie, dusting somewhere in the background, ‘nobody believes what they read in the papers.’

‘Kindly leave this discussion to us. Far from people forgetting it, I had a most uncomfortable evening of ribald jests last night at the club. As you have deliberately bruited my name abroad–’

‘Me? I haven’t bruited anyone’s name anywhere.’ I glanced again at the paper, and noticed something about my cousin, the brilliant Harley Street Surgeon. ‘Oh, well, you know what reporters are for getting up a story. I suppose it was that blonde in the hotel. I should have spotted she was a journalist, but I just thought she was nosey and sporting about paying for the drinks. Mind if I have this piece of toast?’

‘This happens to be my breakfast.’

‘Oh, sorry.’

‘And what’s all this rubbish about you writing a book?’ Miles began again.

‘Put that in too, did she? As a matter of fact, I’ve just sent off the manuscript to Carboy and Plover. Jolly good advance publicity.’

‘You’ve really written a book?’ exclaimed Connie. ‘How terribly clever of you.’

‘May I remind you that you were not trained to waste your time scribbling penny dreadfuls? It’s high time you made some contribution to the progress of medicine.’

‘My best contribution to the progress of medicine, old lad, would be giving it up.’

‘Not to mention your obligation to suffering humanity.’

‘Suffering humanity’s so overstocked with doctors there’s always a few of the poor chaps on the dole,’ I told him. ‘And all of them probably better than me. Now look here.’ I started to feel annoyed with my idiotic cousin. ‘I may not have written
War and Peace
, but I’m jolly proud of my modest literary efforts. And I’m not going to have them sneered at by chaps who’ve never written anything except the footer reports for the school mag., and pretty terrible they were, too, if my memory serves me right.’

‘You have utterly ruined my chances at St Swithin’s, of course,’ Miles went on, staring at me icily. ‘It happens that the committee is in an extremely delicate state at the moment. Barefoot has obtained a large grant from the McKerrow Foundation, which he will use for surgical research at St Swithin’s if appointed. As you know, Sir Lancelot is combing London to find funds for exactly that purpose. Now the possibility of my becoming related by marriage to a woman with – with her bosom brazened on every billboard in the country, is a stick for Sir Lancelot and every other opponent to batter my chances into nothingness.’

I reached for one of his cigarettes.

‘Miles,’ I said, ‘I’m getting a bit fed up with all your beastly little backstairs bickering at St Swithin’s. As a matter of fact, you’re a selfish and self-opinionated chump, who thinks everyone in sight’s got to drop what they’re doing and rally round to help you get exactly whatever you want. You were just the same at school, over the jam cupboard.’

‘How dare you!’ exclaimed Miles. ‘Damnation.’ he added, as the telephone rang in time hall.

‘Sorry, old girl,’ I said to Connie, as he disappeared to answer it. ‘Afraid I got a bit out of hand with your old man.’

‘But I think you’re right.’ She put down the duster. ‘Absolutely right. I’d hate to think of Miles getting anything except on his own merits.’

‘And pretty good merits they are, I’m the first to admit.’

I took another look at the newspaper. ‘I suppose he rather got my dander up about the novel,’ I apologized. ‘Though I expect he’s right. It’s a bit stupid of me giving up a nice safe profession like medicine. Safe for the doctors, at any rate.’

‘Do you know what I think?’ Connie sat on the chair beside me. ‘Listen to me, Gaston – I’ve known a lot of writers and artists. Particularly before I met Miles. I suppose I’ve run across most of the ones who’ve since made a name for themselves in London. I’ve darned their socks and stood them meals, as often as not. And I can assure you of one thing. If you really want to write books or paint pictures, a little matter like starvation isn’t going to stop you.’

‘That’s jolly decent of you, Connie.’

This was the first really cheering word I’d had, even from Carboy and Plover.

‘Anyway,’ she added. ‘If you’re not suited for being a doctor, you’re not. And it strikes me as better to face it now instead of killing a couple of dozen people to find out.’

Miles returned.

‘It was Sir Lancelot Spratt,’ he announced. ‘He wishes to see you in his theatre at St Swithin’s as soon as you can possibly get over there.’

I was glad to leave, both Miles and myself becoming a little exhausted by the conversation. But I edged through the traffic across London feeling pretty worried about whatever Sir Lancelot had in store for me. I supposed he took the same view as Miles, and was going to choke me off for disgracing the hospital by appearing in the same newspaper column as poor Petunia. It had been great fun telling my cousin what a pompous little pustule he really was, which I’d been meaning to ever since he confiscated my private bag of doughnuts, but it seemed a bit hard if the old boys at St Swithin’s could use my chumminess with Petunia to wreck his hopes of promotion. I decided it was only fair to repair what damage I could. His remarks about my literary efforts had been pretty galling, I admitted, but in this country authors are thought a pretty unproductive class, anyway.

I hadn’t been back to St Swithin’s for months, and it was pleasant to stroll again through the old gateway and have a word with Harry the porter about the prospects for Goodwood. I took the lift up to Sir Lancelot’s theatre, thinking how frightfully young the students were getting, and waited rather nervously in the surgeons’ room while he finished off a gastrectomy.

‘Right, Mr Hatrick, you sew him up and be careful of that tatty bit of peritoneum,’ I heard him booming. ‘Nurse! My morning tea and two digestive biscuits, if you please. Ah, there you are, Grimsdyke.’

He appeared in the pair of bright-blue pyjamas he used for expressing his personality under sterile operating gowns.

‘Our patient from Long Wotton seems to be making a satisfactory, if not spectacular recovery,’ Sir Lancelot began.

‘So it would seem, sir.’

‘But I want a word with you about another matter.’

‘Ah, yes, sir.’

I braced myself. At least he couldn’t throw anything handy and messy at me, like he used to inside the theatre.

Sir Lancelot untied his mask.

‘I believe you are acquainted with this young Miss Melody Madder?’

‘You mean Miss Melody Madder the actress, sir?’

‘Naturally. Your cousin buttonholed me in the Parthenon yesterday with some garbled and apologetic story on the matter. I understand there has been something in the newspapers. I only read
The Times
, of course.’

‘I – er, don’t really know her, sir. Merely on nodding terms.’

‘Oh.’

‘Just happened to pass her in a crowd, sir.’

‘I see.’

‘Not my type at all, sir. I don’t much like mixing with those sort of people. Always avoid them, sir.’

‘Indeed.’

‘In fact, sir, I can confidently assure you that she wouldn’t know me from Adam.’

‘Then I am extremely disappointed to hear it. It happens that I particularly wish for an introduction to this young woman myself.’

‘Good Lord, do you really, sir?’

Sir Lancelot started munching a digestive biscuit.

‘I had hoped to prevail upon your kindness to effect it, Grimsdyke. Under the circumstances there is no reason for my detaining you any longer. I am much obliged to you for calling. Good morning.’

‘One…one moment, sir. I mean to say, I know her pretty well, sir. That is, I could easily get to know her, sir.’

‘What the devil
do
you mean? You are being insultingly evasive.’

‘Fact is,’ I confessed, ‘I didn’t think you’d approve of her, sir.’

‘And why not, pray? I am as appreciative of success on the stage as in surgery. I have attended sufficient theatrical people to know that it comes in both professions only from exceptional talent and exceptional hard work.’

He took another swallow of his tea.

‘Now listen to me. You may be aware that I am launching an appeal for funds to carry on surgical research at St Swithin’s. The National Health Service, of course, doesn’t run to such luxuries.’

‘Miles mentioned it, sir.’

‘I am arranging a meeting in the Founder’s Hall at the beginning of the next academic year to initiate the campaign. You are familiar with the words of Horace, “
Si possis recte, si non, quocumque modo rem
.” No, of course you’re not. It means, “Money by right means if you can, if not, by any means, money.” I should much like Miss Madder to be present. She is, after all, of considerable more interest to the public than the appearance of merely the Prime Minister or Archbishop of Canterbury. And in this case beggars fortunately can be choosers. You think you can persuade her? Good. Then I leave it entirely to you.’

He brushed away the digestive crumbs.

It was perhaps the odd sensation of doing Sir Lancelot a favour which suddenly gave me another of my brilliant ideas. I felt I could now put poor old Miles right back in the running for St Swithin’s.

‘How much does the fund need to get it off to a good start, sir?’ I asked.

‘Some ten thousand pounds, I should say. You are surely not going to write a cheque, Grimsdyke?’

‘No, sir, but Lord Nutbeam might.’

‘Indeed?’

‘It was Miles who suggested it, sir. He felt sure Lord Nutbeam would cough up for surgical research in view of his clinical history.’

Sir Lancelot stroked his beard.

‘H’m. Well, if either of you can persuade him, I need hardly say that I should he delighted. Keep me informed. Now I must get on with the next case. Good day.’

‘Good day, sir.’

‘By the way, Grimsdyke.’ Sir Lancelot paused in the doorway. ‘Miss Madder.’

‘Sir?’

He made vague movements in front of his thorax.

‘It’s all done with wires and whalebones, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, no, sir ! It’s all living tissue.’

‘Is it, by George! You must be a more enterprising young man than I imagined.’

‘She was one of my patients, sir,’ I explained.

Though I thought it best not to tell the old boy I’d only been treating Petunia for nausea.

‘A fund for surgical research? I should be delighted to contribute,’ said Lord Nutbeam.

‘That’s really terribly decent of you. You see, I was talking to Sir Lancelot the other day, and he felt that – shall we say – ten thousand pounds would make a nice shot from the starting gun.’

‘My dear Doctor, I assure you I shall give the utmost that I can possibly afford. I’m so glad you drew my attention to it. And what are you doing this lovely morning? Ethel and I are continuing to explore London. Such fun, you know. We are going to the Zoo again, where I find the monkeys absolutely intriguing. Would you care to accompany us?’

‘Jolly kind of you, but I’ve got to drive out to the Union Jack film studios.’

‘Have you, indeed? I should love to visit a film studio myself. If you have a moment before you go, would you be kind enough to slip round the corner and buy me a large bag of monkey nuts?’

It was a few days later, and one of those mornings which make you think of flannels on the village green, punts dozing on the river, strawberries and cream in the garden, and all the other gentle English summer delights which compensate for the place being uninhabitable most of the winter. I was still staying with the Nutbeams in their house in Belgravia, and the previous evening I’d telephoned Petunia about Sir Lancelot’s meeting.

‘Come and see me at the studio tomorrow,’ she’d invited. ‘And, darling, what
are
you doing about Jimmy Hosegood?’

I didn’t mention I intended to do nothing about Jimmy Hosegood, though feeling a bit of a cad, like St George pretending the fiery dragon was only something to do with the roadworks.

‘And he’s got so peculiar lately,’ Petunia went on. ‘Ever since you put him on that diet thing.’

‘Peculiar how?’

‘Like a centipede with corns. Ever so gloomy and grumpy and biting everyone’s head off, even Sir Theodore’s.’

‘The sudden drop in blood-sugar is inclined to make people touchy. St Francis must have been absolutely intolerable until he got into his stride.’

‘He’s even being sticky about putting up the money for my picture. Adam Stringfellow’s awfully upset. Not to mention Mum.’

‘Perhaps I might he able to prescribe some counter therapy,’ I suggested. ‘See you for lunch.’

I was as curious as old Nutbeam to explore a film studio, though rather disappointed to find the buildings stuck in the middle of the Sussex countryside resembled a municipal sanitorium. There were even the same long concrete corridors inside where you could fancy you smelt the antiseptic, the only difference being the place hadn’t any windows and everyone was walking about dressed up as Roman soldiers and Hawaiian dancing girls. As nobody took any notice of me and all the doors had NO ENTRY on them, I stood wondering where to go. Then Petunia appeared, in an evening gown nicely displaying her gynaecoid pelvis.

‘Gaston, darling! Have you been waiting long? I’ve been in the rushes. Let’s go down to the canteen, I’ve only twenty minutes before I’m due on the floor again.’

‘All right for this St Swithin’s lark?’ I asked, after greeting her warmly.

‘Oh, that. Yes, studio publicity have passed it. But what about Jimmy, Gaston? I’m absolutely at my wits’ end. Honestly.’

How’s he looking?’ I asked.

‘You can see for yourself. He’s in the canteen with Mum.’

The studio canteen looked like any other works’ eating-place, except that being full of actors it suggested supper at a fancy-dress dance. In the corner were Petunia’s Mum and Hosegood. He brightened a little as I appeared and exclaimed, ‘Doctor! Don’t you notice the change in me?’

‘I was just wondering who the thin chap was,’ I told him, though he looked exactly the same, except for an expression like Mother Hubbard’s dog.

‘Rolls, sir?’ asked the waitress.

‘Take it away!’

Hosegood recoiled as though offered a basket of live snakes, and asked for lean meat, poultry, game, rabbit, cooked by any method without the addition of flour, breadcrumbs, or thick sauces.

‘See, Doctor – I’m sticking to that diet like glue.’

‘I didn’t come all the way out here today to talk about your diet,’ Mum interrupted, giving me a chilly look. ‘Nor did I expect to discuss my business before strangers. I simply want to know why you refuse to put up the end money for Melody’s film.’

‘I’ve got to think about it,’ mumbled Hosegood gloomily. ‘Money’s a serious business, y’know.’

‘As managing director of Melody Madder Limited I demand a better explanation.’

‘Look, Mrs Bancroft – once Melody and me’s spliced – ’

‘Mum, I really–’

‘Be quiet. This is nothing to do with you. I can’t understand this change of attitude at all, Mr Hosegood.’

This started an argument which made a pretty miserable lunch of it, especially with Hosegood ordering cabbage, broccoli, spinach, root vegetables, not parsnips, boiled or steamed without the addition of fat. Then a thin chap with long hair appeared to tell Melody she was wanted on the set, and Mum, of course, went too, leaving me to finish off with her fiancé.

‘Very difficult, Mrs Bancroft, sometimes,’ he remarked.

‘Why not tuck into a whacking four-course meal tonight for a treat?’ I suggested. ‘Things will look much rosier afterwards.’

But he only shook his head and asked for lettuce, radishes, watercress, parsley, with dressing not containing vegetable or minerals oils.

‘And I,’ I announced, jolly hungry from the country air, ‘am going to have a slice of that nice ginger flan.’

Hosegood’s jaw dropped. ‘My favourite dish!’

The poor fellow salivated so much as I cut myself a large wedge and covered it with cream, I fancied he’d ruined his tie for good.

I’d just stuck my fork into the sticky ginger bit, when the waitress said I was wanted on the telephone. It was Petunia, from her dressing-room.

‘Gaston, you must do
something
.’ She seemed almost in tears. ‘It’s Mum. Now she tells me I’ve got to marry Jimmy next month, and Sir Theodore’s to give it out to the papers tonight. What on earth am I going to do?’

‘I’m terribly sorry about it, Pet,’ I apologized weakly, ‘but I really don’t see how I can possibly–’

‘But, Gaston, you
must
. Oh. God, here’s Mum again. See you on the set.’

I went back to my place with the nasty feeling that I’d let down poor old Petunia. But she was an idiotic little girl to imagine I could ruffle the amorous intentions of a high-powered financial wizard like Hosegood. Besides, no scheme had occurred to me except eloping with her myself, and Miles would he chasing us all the way to Gretna, Then I noticed my plate was empty, with Jimmy Hosegood looking like a cat climbing out of an aviary.

‘Good Lord!’ I exclaimed. ‘You didn’t – ?’

‘The ginger tart,’ mumbled Jimmy, ‘Five hundred calories. What a fool!’

‘Cheer up,’ I told him, after he’d repeated this continually for several minutes. ‘To err is not only human, but rather fun. Anyway, we’ll get some of it off with a brisk walk down the corridor to Petunia’s studio.’

‘Studio?’ He laid a hand on his waistcoat. ‘I don’t know if I’m well enough to get on my feet.’

It must have been a shock to his gastric mucosa, having a dish like that slung at it after weeks of fish and soda-water. But I was more interested at what went on inside the studio than what went on inside old Hosegood, and insisted he showed me the way.

‘All right, Doctor,’ he said, lumbering up. ‘But by gum! I do feel queer.’

I’d often wondered how they set about making a film, the only one I’d seen being on the diagnosis of skin diseases in St Swithin’s out-patients’, which wasn’t quite the same thing. We arrived at a door marked STAGED, and went into a dim place the size of a cathedral filled with chaps sawing up bits of wood. The studio seemed to be lined with old sacks, was decorated only with notices telling people not to smoke or drop hammers on each other’s head, neither of which anyone was paying any attention to. The floor was covered with an undergrowth of cables and copses of arc-lamps, there were chaps running about girders in the roof like Hornblower’s sailors in the rigging, and there were other chaps pushing trolleys from one end to the other and back again with shouts of ‘Mindcherbacspliz!’ On the whole, I was rather disappointed. It reminded me of the St Swithin’s operating theatre – the object of attention was illuminated with bright lights, it all seemed highly disorganized to the onlooker, there was nowhere to sit and rest your feet, and everyone not working was drinking cups of tea.

In the far corner was a typical night-club, except that it had no roof and all the guests in evening dress were reading the morning paper or knitting. In the middle stood Petunia talking to Quintin Finn, and pretty smashing she looked too, with her red hair glittering in the lights. Hosegood was meanwhile complaining he wanted to sit down, and noticing a canvas chair next to the camera with MELODY MADDER stencilled on the back I eased him into it.

‘Right, children,’ said Adam Stringfellow, who seemed to be a sort of referee, ‘we’re going now. Quiet, please.’

‘Quiet!’ yelled the two assistant directors, more young chaps with long hair who acted as linesmen.

Someone in the background went on hammering, sounding like a machine gun at a funeral.

‘Quiet!’ yelled all three directors. ‘Ready, Melody?’ asked Stringfellow. ‘Take one, Action.’

Just at that moment I sneezed.

‘Quiet!’

‘Terribly sorry,’ I apologized. ‘Purely reflex action.’

‘Quiet!’

‘Speck of dust, I’m afraid.’

‘Quiet!’

‘Rather dusty places, these Studios.’

‘For God’s sake!’ shouted Stringfellow. ‘Can’t you control yourself at your age? We’ll go again. Stand by, everyone. Take two, Action.’

Hosegood hiccupped.

‘Would you have the kindness to hiccup just a little more softly, Mr Hosegood?’ asked Stringfellow. ‘I fear it may inconvenience us by getting on the sound-track. Once again. Take three. Action.’

But Quintin Finn had some dandruff on his collar, and a chap with a whisk came to brush it off.

‘Take four,’ continued Stringfellow, now looking like Thomas Carlyle in the middle of one of his famous attacks of the sulks. ‘This is only costing us a hundred and fifty quid a minute. All right. Melody? Action.’

‘One second,’ said Petunia’s mum.

‘Oh, God,’ said Stringfellow.

‘My daughter’s hair’s not right at the back.’

I began to feel sorry for the Stringfellow chap, even though he didn’t understand the elements of nasal physiology.

‘Make-up! Please fix Miss Madder’s hair. At the back.’

They got ready to start again, and I was feeling pretty excited at seeing a real film being shot, when there was a shout from the back of ‘Tea break!’ and everyone knocked off for a cup and a bun.

I didn’t have the chance for a word with Melody, because she was kept talking in a corner by Adam Stringfellow. And anyway my attention was divided between Hosegood, who’d gone green, and Quintin Finn, who was asking my opinion of all his pictures.

‘Do go and see my next one, dear,’ said Quintin. ‘I’m a commando major, and it’s ever so exciting. There goes the shooting bell again. I
do
so hope this won’t make us late this evening. My chauffeur Roland gets ever so cross if I keep him waiting, the naughty thing.’

‘With the permission of Mrs Madder and the man with the chronic hay-fever,’ Stringfellow announced, as the bell stopped, ‘we will now go again. Quiet everyone, for God’s sake. At your marks, Melody? Right. Take five. Action.’

That time they started, but Melody got her lines mixed up.

‘Again,’ said Stringfellow, with the expression of Sir Lancelot Spratt when the gastroscope bulb went out. ‘No wonder people watch television. Take six. Action.’

Poor Melody, possibly rattled by the sight of Hosegood undoing his waistcoat, made a mess of it again.

‘In Heaven’s name, Miss Madder! You’ve only to say, “Thank you for a wonderful evening.” Do try and concentrate, darling,
please
.’

‘Don’t you talk to my daughter in that tone,’ said Mum.

‘If you interrupt any more, Mrs Madder, I shall ask you to leave the set.’

She got up. ‘You will, will you? And where would any of you be without my daughter, I’d like to know?’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Madder. Deeply sorry. But I am suffering from bad nerves and an inadequate budget and I cannot stand any more nonsense from you or anyone–’

There was a howl beside me, as Hosegood staggered to his feet gripping his epigastrium.

‘Damn it!’ he gasped. ‘It’s all the fault of that bloody ginger tart!’

‘What did you call my daughter, you swine?’ Mum shouted. ‘Marry her? Over my dead body!’

And she hit him on the head with a convenient carpenter’s hammer.