Benskin gave a contemptuous laugh.
'You go,' he said.
'I see your point. It's tricky. Let's think in silence.'
After about twenty minutes I had an idea. I criticized it to myself carefully and it seemed sound.
'I think I've got the answer,' I said, and explained it to him.
He leapt to his feet, shook me warmly by the hand, and hurried back to the ward.
The solution was a simple one. I sent Benskin round to propose to every night nurse in the hospital.
13
The clock on the lecture-room wall crept towards ten past four: the Professor of Pathology had overrun his time again.
It was a gloomy, overcast afternoon at the beginning of April. The lights were reflected from the brown varnish on the walls in dull yellow pools. The windows just below the ceiling were, as usual, shut tight, and the air was narcotic. The students packing the tiers of uncomfortable benches were sleepy, annoyed at being kept late, and waiting for their tea.
The Professor was unconscious of the passage of time, the atmosphere in the room, or the necessity for food and drink. He was a thin little white-haired man with large spectacles who was standing behind his desk talking enthusiastically about a little-known variety of louse. Lice were the Professor's life. For thirty years they had filled his thoughts during the day and spilled into his dreams at night. He had, at points during that time, married and raised five children, but he was only faintly aware of these occurrences, The foreground of his mind was filled by lice. He spent his time in his own small laboratory on the top floor of the hospital wholly occupied in studying their habits. He rarely came near his students. He left the teaching to his assistants and considered he had done his share by occasionally wandering round the students' laboratory, which he did with the bemused air of a man whose wife has invited a lot of people he doesn't know to a party. He insisted, however, on, giving to each class a series of lectures on his speciality. He was the greatest authority on lice in the world, and when he lectured to other pathologists in Melbourne, Chicago, Oslo, or Bombay, men would eagerly cross half a continent to hear him. But the students of his own hospital, who had only the effort of shifting themselves out of the sofas in the common room, came ungracefully and ungratefully, and found it all rather boring.
As the lecturer droned on, describing the disproportionately complicated sexual habits of an obscure species of louse, the students glanced sullenly at the clock, shuffled their feet, yawned, folded up their notebooks, put away their pens, and lolled in their seats. Some of the class started chatting to their neighbours or lit their pipes and read the evening paper as comfortably as if they were sitting in their own lodgings. From the back row came a subdued stamping of feet on the wooden floor-the students' only means of retaliation on their lecturers. But the Professor had by now forgotten the presence of his audience and if we had all marched out into the fresh air or set the lecture theatre on fire he would have noticed it only dimly.
I was sitting at the back with Tony Benskin and Sprogget. Benskin always took a place as far back as he could, for some lecturers had the unpleasant habit of asking questions of students who were dreamily inspecting the ceiling and at a distance it was possible to give the impression of overpowering concentration even if asleep. It was also convenient for making an exit unobtrusively when the lecturer became insupportably boring. Attendance at lectures was compulsory at St. Swithin's, and a board was passed round the benches for each student to record his presence by signing it. This led to everyone in the medical school rapidly becoming competent in forgery, so that the absence of a friend could easily be rectified. This unselfish practice diminished after the Dean counted the students at his own lecture and found not only that thirty-odd men were represented by ninety signatures but that some of the absentees had in their enthusiasm forgetfully signed the board in different places four times.
The Professor had left me behind some time ago. I was cleaning my nails, letting my thoughts wander pleasantly to the comfortable drone of the lecturer's voice. Unfortunately, in their wanderings they stumbled across a topic I wished they could have avoided.
'I say, Tony,' I asked softly. 'I suppose you couldn't lend me three or four quid, could you?'
Benskin laughed-so loudly that men in the three rows in front of him turned round.
'I thought not,' I said. 'All the same, it's damned difficult. Now we've started the path. course I've got to have my microscope back. While we were in the wards it was perfectly all right for it to lodge in Goldstein's window, but if I don't get it soon I shan't be able to do the practical classes at all.'
'I sympathize,' Benskin said. 'Have no doubts about that. My own instrument is at present locked in the coffers of Mr. Goldstein's rival down the road, and I see no prospect of recovering it from the clutches of said gentleman at all. The old money-bags are empty. For weeks now I've had to wait outside the bank until the manager goes to lunch before cashing a cheque.'
My microscope was an easy way of raising ready money; I could pawn it without inconvenience when broke and reclaim it the moment my allowance came in. But I had recently piled up so many other commitments that this simple system had broken down. My tastes had altered expensively since I first arrived at St. Swithin's, though my allowance had stayed much the same. Then I smoked a little, drank hardly at all, and never went out with girls; now I did all three together.
'The funny thing is, old man,' said Benskin when the Professor had exhausted the educational qualities of lice, 'that I was just thinking of putting the leeches on you for a quid or so. The cost of living is extremely high with me at the moment. I suppose there really is no possibility of a small loan?'
'None at all.'
'I must raise a little crinkly from somewhere. Surely one of the students has a couple of bob he can jingle in his pocket?'
'You can try Grimsdyke,' I suggested. 'He usually has a bit left over for his friends.'
Benskin frowned. 'Not since he got married, old boy. The little woman takes a dim view of the stuff being diverted from the housekeeping to the pockets of old soaks. No, there's nothing for it-it's a case of bashing the old dishes again.'
All of us had recurrent bouts of insolvency, and each had his favourite way of raising enough money to pay his debts. Dishwashing by the night was the most popular way of earning small sums, as it did not interfere with classes, it could be taken up without notice, and the big hotels and restaurants in London paid comparatively well for a few hours spent in the stillroom. Baby-sitting was Sprogget's speciality, and John Bottle occasionally brought home a few pounds from the tote or by winning the waltz competition at an Oxford Street palais. But Benskin sometimes overspent himself so much that more settled employment had to be found. One afternoon during a time when he was suffering a severe attack of poverty he appeared in the students' common room in his best blue serge suit, with his shoes brightly polished, his hair neat, a white handkerchief smartly in his pocket, and a plain peaked cap in his hand.
'What on earth are you doing?' Grimsdyke asked. 'Playing bus conductors?'
Benskin beamed at him.
'Not a bit, old boy. I've got a job for a couple of weeks. A damn smart move on my part it was.'
'A job? What sort of a job? More dishwashing, I suppose?'
'Private chauffeur,' Benskin told him proudly. 'In a Rolls, too. I'll tell you what happened. I was up at outpatients' this morning when a fellow came in with the most horrible gastric ulcer I've seen. He had to leave off work at once, of course, and when he told me his job was chauffeur to an old bird with bags of oof who makes jam or something I saw ways of relieving the old exchequer. Do you follow me? I nipped smartly round to the old boy's house in Hampstead and told him the bad news in person-very impressively, too. I then explained the situation in a few words, and offered humble self to fill, the gap in his household.
'It so happened that the old chum and his missus are due to start a fortnight's holiday touring Scotland tom
orrow, which would have been squashed by the chauffeur's ulcers if I hadn't presented myself as a worthy alternative. I got all this from the patient of course, but I didn't let on and gave the impression that I could tear myself away from my valuable studies just so the old folk wouldn't miss their nice restful holiday. He seemed a decent old cove and was very upset about his old chauffeur, but he has no more idea of driving a car himself than working a railway engine. So my offer was gratefully accepted.'
'Have you got a licence?' I asked him.
'Of course,' he replied in a hurt tone. 'For almost a month now.'
Benskin disappeared the following morning. After four days he reappeared in the hospital. He had lost his cap, his best suit was torn and covered with oil, one of his shoes was ripped, and he was still broke.
'Well?' I said.
'One meets snags,' Benskin replied in a subdued voice. 'All was well to begin with. The old jam merchant was a great believer in the quiet life, and we trundled gently out of Town to Doncaster. They put me up in the servants' quarters of the local hostelry, where I met a hell of a nice little piece among the chambermaids-however, that will do for later. The next day I drove in an exemplary fashion to Newcastle, by which time I could see that the old couple had invested plenty of confidence in Benskin, whom they looked upon as a clean and careful driver.'
'What happened after Newcastle?' Grimsdyke asked resignedly.
'That's where the rot set in. I'd driven all that bloody way without a drink, as I left London flat broke. At Newcastle I touched the old boy for a quid, and when we stopped for lunch at some old-world boozer on the road I sneaked, round the back and downed a few scoops. This would have been all right, but the old chum decided he wanted a stroll to look at the local countryside and left me among the lackeys in the servants' hall, or whatever it is. I met a most amusing type there-an Irish porter who had started off life studying divinity at Trinity. We had a lot to talk about-bobbing back scoops all the time, of course. I set off with my customers about four o'clock, but regret to say I only made about a hundred yards. After that I piled the crate up in a ditch. I didn't hurt myself, luckily, but now the old couple are languishing in the local cottage hospital with a fractured femur apiece.'
He added that he did not see much chance of the engagement being renewed.
***
To retrieve my microscope I washed dishes with Tony Benskin in a West End hotel for a couple of nights and sold some of my text-books. I was then content to return to academic life, but Benskin was aflame to increase his savings by trying his hand at another trade.
'Do you see that notice?' he asked eagerly as we left the staff entrance of the hotel in the early morning. "Extra waiters wanted. Apply Head Waiter." That's an idea, isn't it?'
'No,' I said. 'I'm going to spend a few nights in bed. Besides, I don't know anything about waiting. And neither do you.'
Benskin lightly brushed these objections aside.
'There's nothing to it, old man. Anyone can dish up a bit of fish. It's money for nothing, if you ask me. And the tips! Think of the tips. At a swep-up joint like this the customers don't slip threepenny bits under the plate when they swig down the remains of their brandy and wipe the caviar off their lips. I've been waited on quite long enough to grasp the technique-if you want a fat tip it's only a matter of handing out the soup with a look of haughty distaste on your face.'
'You think you could look haughty, do you?'
'One is a gentleman,' Benskin replied stiffly. 'I'm going to stay behind and have a word with this head waiter chap.'
'I'm going home to bed. We've got to appear at a lecture in five hours' time.'
'All right. See you later.'
I was dropping off to sleep when Benskin got back to Bayswater. He was jubilant.
'A push-over, old boy!' he said. 'I saw the head waiter-nasty piece of work he was, too. However, he took one look at me and said to himself "Benskin's the man! He'll raise the tone in the dining-room all right."'
'So you got the job?'
'Starting to-night. I'll just have time to nip away from the hospital, get my evening clothes out, and appear as the Jeeves of the chafing dish.'
'I suppose they know at the hotel that you have had no experience of waiting at all?'
'Well, no, not exactly. I saw no reason for putting obstacles in my own way, so I gave the impression I had dished it out at some of the larger doss-houses around Town, with summer sessions on the coast. They seem pretty hard-up for fish-flingers at the moment, as they took me at my word.'
'Well,' I said, turning over. 'Don't forget to wear a black tie.'
When I reached the flat after work that evening Benskin was in a high state of excitement.
'Must get the old soup and fish out,' he said, hauling his battered tin trunk from the top of the wardrobe.
'I pinched a bottle of ether from the theatre this afternoon to get the stains out.'
Benskin's tail suit had been bought for him by his father when he was sixteen. Since then he hard greatly increased in size in all directions. We all worked hard to straighten out the creases with John Bottle's travelling iron, while Benskin rubbed hard at the lapels to remove the grease.
'I must have been a dirty little devil at table,' he reflected.
'Some moths have been having a go at it down here,' I said, pointing to the trousers.
'That doesn't matter,' Benskin replied testily. 'I'm only the bloody waiter, anyway.'
He put the clothes on. By lowering the braces as far as he dared the trousers could be made to cover the upper part of his ankles; the braces themselves, which were red and, yellow, only remained invisible behind the lapels of the coat when he remembered not to breathe too deeply. The sleeves came as far as the mid-forearm, and the top buttons of the trousers had to be reinforced with safety-pins. But it was the shirt that presented an apparently insoluble difficulty. It was tight, and the buttonholes were worn: even the shallowest of respiration caused the studs to pop out and expose a broad strip of hairy, pink, sweaty chest.
'Quite enough to put the people off their meal,' John Bottle remarked.
We tried using bigger studs and brass paper-fasteners, but, if Benskin wished to continue to breathe, the shirt was unwearable. Even strips of sticking-plaster inside the stiff front were not strong enough to withstand the pressure of his inhalations. For half an hour we worked hard at the infuriating gap while the shirt-front became limp under our fingers.
'For God's sake!' Benskin exclaimed angrily. 'Isn't there anything we can do about it? Look at the time! If I'm not there in twenty minutes I've, had it. Surely one of you fellows has got a stiff shirt to lend me?'
'What! Your size?' Bottle asked.
'Why the devil didn't I think of buying a dickey!'
I had an idea.
'Let us apply the first principles of surgery,' I said.
'What the hell are you getting at now?'
'Supposing you have tension on a surgical, incision. What do you do? Why, make a counter-incision, of course, in a site where it doesn't matter. Take your jacket off, Tony.'
A quick rip with the scissors up the length of the shirt-back from the tail to the collar and Benskin was once again the perfect English gentleman. He left the flat in high spirits, convinced that he would make enough in the evening to keep him in drinks for a fortnight. Unhappily he was no better at serving hot soup than driving a car and was dismissed by the furious maоtre d'hфtel between the fish and the entree.
14
'B.I.D.,' I said. 'Brought in dead. What an epitaph!'
I was standing in the cold, bright post-mortem room on the top floor of the hospital. It was a large room with a glass roof, tiles round the walls, three heavy porcelain tables, and one side made up of a bank of numbered metal drawers like the front of a large filing cabinet. The unfortunate patients were brought by the cheery-looking fellow on his trolley to a special lift, taken to the roof, and packed away neatly in the refrigerated, drawers. Each corpse bore a
label giving the name, religion, and diagnosis, but the man on the table in front of me had only the three letters on his tab. He had been picked up in the street by the police a few hours before and brought futilely to the accident room.
I pulled the heavy rubber gloves tight and began my incision with the big post-mortem knife. I never liked doing post-mortems. They made me feel sick. However, under the medical school regulations I was required to perform three of them, so I had to get on with it.
Every morning at twelve the physicians and surgeons came up to the room to see their unsuccessful cases demonstrated by the heartless pathologist. Often they had been right in life, and had the satisfaction of feeling with their fingers the lesion they had built up in their imagination from examination of the body surface, deduction, and studying the black and grey shadows on X-ray films. Occasionally they were humbled.
'So there was a tumour of the cerebellum after all!' I once heard Dr. Malcolm Maxworth exclaim, going red in the face. 'Damn it, damn it, damn it!'
Maxworth was not angry on the dead patient's behalf: it was simply that in the daily contest between his mind and the tricks of the body the body had for once won a game.
Our afternoons were spent wandering round the dusty pathology museum inspecting the grotesque specimens in the big glass jars of spirit. They had everything in the St. Swithin's museum, from two-headed babies to tattoo marks. Each specimen was neatly labelled and numbered, and a clinical history of the case was set out on a card attached to the bottle. 'How much better than a tombstone!' Grimsdyke said as he read the last dramatic illness of John O'Hara in 1927 and held the remains of his ruptured aneurism in his hand. 'I suppose everyone wants to be remembered somehow. What could be better than giving a bit of yourself to the pathologists? Nobody knows or cares where this fellow's grave is, but his memory is kept fresh in here almost daily. A whopping aneurism! I bet it caused a panic in the ward when it burst.'
DOCTOR IN THE HOUSE Page 12
