DOCTOR IN CLOVER

by Richard Gordon

  Shortly after the onset of this financial anaemia Miles qualified, glittering with scholarships and prizes.

  'Gaston,' he said, getting me into a corner of the St Swithin's Casualty Department one winter afternoon, 'I want a serious word with you.'

  'Oh, yes?'

  'I'd be much obliged if you'd try to embarrass me a little less now that I'm on the St Swithin's junior staff. You must realize that I, at least, don't wish the entire family to be made ridiculous throughout the hospital. It's bad enough your always disappearing to the dog-races, but this habit of taking menial employment-'

  'My dear old lad, I assure you I don't do it for fun. Anyway, it's all your old man's fault, being so tight-fisted. Surely you know by now I dislike work in any form whatever?'

  I was at the time restoring my enfeebled exchequer with such casual jobs as dishwashing in West End restaurants and bar-keeping in East End pubs, and had just finished a profitable though strictly limited run as Father Christmas in an Oxford Street store.

  'That's not the point at all. Mr Sharper was certain he saw you the other day. He was extremely blunt to me about it this morning.'

  'Oh, really? I thought his keen surgical eye had pierced the whiskers. But I bet he only made a fuss because I told his beastly kids to ask for a complete set of electric trains and a couple of motor-cars.'

  'I do wish you'd take this seriously, Gaston!'

  'Let's talk about it another time. I must be off now, I'm afraid. Otherwise I'll be late for work.'

  A few days after this argument I met Connie, by accident. All medical students dream of witnessing some really satisfactory road smash, then appearing on the scene to calm the panic-stricken bystanders with the magic words, 'I am a doctor.' I've done it myself three times. The first, the policeman told me to run home to mother. The second, I grabbed a tourniquet from some fumbling old boy and discovered he was the Professor of Surgery at St Asaph's. Now, of course, I walk rapidly in the opposite direction and leave it to the ambulance boys, remembering Sir Lancelot Spratt's resuscitation lecture-'When I chuck myself into the Thames in despair, ladies and gentlemen, I hope I'll be given artificial respiration by a fit Boy Scout, and not some middle-aged medical practitioner who's soon more out of breath than I am.' But when one is young, one doesn't consider such things. On this third occasion, as soon as I heard the scream of brakes and tinkling of glass, I leapt into the middle of Sloane Square and took sole charge.

  In the next part of the dream, the injured party isn't a poor young child or a dear old lady, but a beautiful girl having hysterics. And that's exactly what I found. So I popped her in a taxi and drove her round to the casualty entrance at St Swithin's, where Miles organized X-rays, diagnosed a Colles' fracture, and signed an admission form for his ward.

  'Charming girl, too,' I observed, as Connie was wheeled away.

  'Thank you, Gaston, for holding the Xrays.'

  'Always glad to help. I might pop up and see her later. Terribly important to follow-up cases, so they keep telling us.'

  'Mr Sharper allows only his own students in his wards, I'm afraid.'

  'Oh, come. Can't you stretch a point?'

  'A point, being defined as possessing position but not magnitude, is incapable of being stretched,' said Miles.

  All the same, I went up the next morning with a bunch of roses.

  'How terribly sweet!' exclaimed Connie, looking beautiful despite the plaster and bandages. 'And your assistant's just called too, with the mimosa.'

  'Assistant?'

  'The doctor who helped you with the Xrays.'

  'Ah, yes. Useful chap.'

  The staff in modern hospitals outnumbering the patients by about five to one, the inmates can be excused for confusing the ranks. I remembered there was once a frightful row when Sir Lancelot Spratt in a white coat was mistaken for the ward barber.

  'You'll be out of here this afternoon,' I went on, not bothering to start long explanations. 'When time has healed all your wounds, would you care to come out for a bite of dinner?'

  'But I'd love to, Doctor!'

  'Jolly good. I'll get your telephone number from the ward notes.'

  Unfortunately, Connie turned out to be the daughter of a shockingly rich fellow from Lloyd's, so I couldn't buy her a pint of beer and show her the ducks in St James's Park and pretend I'd given her an exciting evening. Also, I knew a determined chap like Miles wouldn't easily give up. While I was sitting with her a few weeks later in the Savoy, hoping she wouldn't feel like another drink, I remarked casually, 'Seeing much of my cousin these days?'

  'As a matter of fact, yes. I'm going to the theatre with him tomorrow.'

  'It may be rather cheek of me to ask this, Connie, but I'd rather you didn't mention me to him, if you wouldn't mind.'

  She looked surprised. 'Why ever not?'

  'Just to save the poor chap's feelings. These little family jealousies, you know. He feels it rather, being my underling at the hospital.'

  'How awfully considerate of you, Gaston. Naturally, I won't say a word. But supposing he talks about you?'

  'He never does,' I assured her. 'Another Martini?'

  'Yes, please,' said Connie.

  I passed a couple of enjoyable months escorting Connie' to all the more fashionable plays and restaurants, particularly as she still seemed to imagine that I was some wealthy young specialist, and I never seemed to find the chance to put her right. Then one afternoon Miles cornered me in the surgeons' room.

  'I believe you've still been seeing Connie?' he demanded.

  I tossed my sterile gown into the students' linen bin.

  'On and off, yes.'

  'I'd like you to know that I-I'm perfectly serious about her.'

  This didn't disturb me. Miles was perfectly serious about everything.

  'May the best man win, and all that, eh?'

  'Damn it, Gaston! I wish you wouldn't regard this as some sort of sporting contest. I happen to love Connie deeply. I wish to make her my wife.'

  'Good Lord! Do you really?'

  The notion of Miles making anyone his wife seemed as odd as palm trees growing on an iceberg.

  'And I'll thank you not to trifle with her affections,' he added.

  'You will, will you?' I returned, feeling annoyed at his tone. 'And how do you know I don't want to make her Mrs Grimsdyke, too?'

  'You? You're in no more position to marry than a fourth-form schoolboy.'

  I felt the conversation was becoming embarrassing, and edged away. Besides, I had to be off to work again.

  Entertaining Connie was making such inroads into my finances that I'd been obliged to find more regular employment. Fortunately, I'd met a chap called Pedro in a Shaftesbury Avenue pub, and after giving him some free advice about his duodenal ulcer and a good thing for Kempton Park, I was offered five evenings a week as a waiter in his Soho restaurant. Pedro was a fierce task-master, most of his relatives still chasing each other over Sicilian mountains with shotguns, and I had to clean all the soup off my best set of tails every night before going to bed, but the tips were good enough compensation for both.

  Or they were until that particular evening, when Miles walked in with Connie.

  'Shall we sit over here?' she said, advancing towards my corner. 'I hate a table too near the door.'

  I ducked quickly into the kitchen.

  'What the 'ell are you up to?' demanded Pedro.

  'I-er, just wanted to adjust my sock suspenders.'

  'I don't pay you to adjust your socks, mister. You get back in there. There's customers just come in.'

  I passed a hand across my forehead.

  'You know, Pedro, I don't think I'm feeling very well tonight. A bit faint. I might be sick over the fish or something. If you don't mind, I'll just totter through the staff entrance and make home to bed.'

  "Ow the 'ell you think I run my business one man short?' Pedro picked up a carving knife. 'You leave this restaurant only over your dead body, see mister? If you want to be sick, com
e out and be sick in the kitchen, like everybody else. You go to work.'

  I edged back through the swing doors. I slipped my menu and table napkin behind a bread basket, and prepared to dash for the pavement. I'd almost made the main entrance, when Connie glanced idly round and spotted me.

  'Why, it's Gaston! Hello, there! You dining here, too?'

  Miles turned round and scowled.

  'Oh, hello, Connie. Yes, I am, as a matter of fact. Expecting an old school chum. Chap called Honeybank. Doesn't seem to have turned up.'

  'Charming little restaurant, isn't it?'

  'Oh, very.'

  'You seem very dressed up,' muttered Miles.

  'Going on, you know. A ball, and all that.'

  'I think men look their best in tails,' remarked Connie. 'Don't you Miles? What on earth's dear Pedro doing?'

  I thought dear Pedro was probably putting that knife on the grinding machine, but only murmured something about having to be off.

  'But if you haven't eaten you must stay for a bite with us,' Connie insisted, 'I'm sure Miles wouldn't mind.'

  'Not a bit,' growled Miles.

  'It might be a little awkward, actually-'

  'But definitely, Gaston. Tell the waiter to bring another chair. Ah, there you are, Pedro. How is your lovely canneloni tonight?'

  'Delicious, madame.'

  Pedro came over rubbing his hands. I stood on one foot, leaning against the table. Dashed difficult, striking an attitude simultaneously suggestive of helpful servility and longstanding chumminess.

  'And the _osso buco,_ it is excellent,' Pedro added.

  'Then shall we all have canneloni followed by _osso buco?'_Connie looked inquiringly at Miles and myself. 'I'm terribly hungry.'

  'Two canneloni two _osso buco,'_ snapped Pedro in my ear. 'Didn't you 'ear what madame says?'

  'How extraordinary repeating the order like that,' exclaimed Miles.

  'Just a little joke,' I explained, as Pedro backed away. 'I know him very well.'

  Connie sighed. 'How lucky you are! I can't imagine anything more useful in London than being friends with all the head waiters. But Gaston, do sit down. You make me feel uncomfortable, standing about like that.'

  'Just a second, if you'll excuse me. Phone call-the school chum, you know.'

  I slipped back to the kitchen.

  'What the 'ell's the matter with you tonight?' demanded Pedro. 'You stick around with a silly grin on your face like a drunk monkey. How you expect me to run my restaurant if you don't listen to the customers?'

  'Look, Pedro, I really think I ought to be at home tucked up in bed-'

  'Take that in, and don' talk so much.'

  He handed me two dishes of canneloni._

  'Good Lord!' exclaimed Miles. 'You've brought the food yourself.'

  'Ha ha! Just another little joke. Dear old Pedro, you know. I keep threatening a public health inspection of his kitchen, and just nipped in to take him by surprise. The canneloni was ready, so I brought it along.'

  Connie found this terribly amusing.

  'But Gaston, you haven't a plate. And do please sit down.'

  'I'll just prop on the back of this chair.' I edged myself into a position where I might be mistaken for serving the spinach. 'They get so terribly crowded, I'm sure Pedro hasn't got a spare seat. I don't think I'll try any canneloni myself, thanks. But let me help you.'

  'You serve quite professionally,' exclaimed Connie.

  'Jack of all trades, you know…'

  'Are you sure you're quite all right tonight?' demanded Miles.

  'Oh, fine, thank you.'

  I felt that the situation was reasonably hopeful, as long as they crammed down their blasted canneloni before Pedro came back.

  'What were we talking about? I suppose you've heard the story of the bishop and the parrot-'

  Just then a voice behind me called, 'Waiter!'

  'Well, you see, this bishop had a parrot-'

  'Waiter!'

  'And this parrot used to belong to an old lady who bought it from a sailor-'

  'Say, Waiter!'

  'There isn't a waiter in sight,' interrupted Connie.

  'Never is when you want one,' grumbled Miles.

  'I think he's an American who keeps shouting,' said Connie.

  'And the old lady always used to keep it under a green baize cloth in the front parlour. Every morning she'd take the cloth off the cage, and every morning the parrot said-'

  'Hey, Waiter, for chrissakes!'

  A fat man I'd just served with cigars and brandy appeared at my elbow. 'Excuse me, folks. I just wanted to tell the waiter here I've had a darned fine meal and darned fine service. I reckon it's the best I've struck since I've been in Europe. I was just getting on my way when I thought, shucks, I gotta give credit where credit is due. Thanks a lot, son. This is for you.'

  The beastly chap stuffed a pound note into my top pocket.

  'But how extraordinary,' exclaimed Miles.

  'He thought you were the waiter!' laughed Connie.

  'People never notice the fellows who serve them with food,' I mumbled. 'Conan Doyle or Edgar Wallace or someone wrote a story about it.'

  'But he did seem pretty definite.' Miles gave me a nasty look.

  'Oh, Miles, you know what Americans are,' said Connie. At that moment, Pedro appeared again. I pretended to be arranging the flower vase.

  'Everything all ri'?'

  'No,' said Miles. 'The waiter hasn't brought any grated parmesan with my canneloni.'_

  Pedro glared across the table.

  'Zere is no grated cheese with the canneloni.'_

  I glanced round for the cheese thing. I might reach across for it with a little laugh.

  'That's exactly what I said,' Miles returned. 'It happens that I'm particularly fond of grated cheese with my canneloni.'_

  'So am I,' said Connie.

  'There is no grated cheese with the canneloni!' shouted Pedro in my direction.

  'Good gracious, man!' exclaimed Miles. 'Don't yell at me like that.'

  'I am not yelling at you like that, monsieur. I am yelling at 'im like that. _There is no grated cheese on the canneloni!'_

  Connie jumped up.

  'How dare you address my guests in that manner! I am going to leave this restaurant this very instant.'

  Pedro looked as if he'd been hit in the neck with one of his own canneloni. 'Guests, madame? What guests? You're fired,' he added to me.

  'I shall never eat here again, and I shall tell all my friends not to eat here either. Come along, Miles. Treating our guest here as one of your waiters-'

  'But, damn it, madame! 'E is one of my waiters. 'E come every night, part time-'

  'Only five days a week,' I insisted.

  'Gaston!' Connie gave a little gasp. 'Is this really true?'

  I nodded. The Grimsdyke ingenuity had been beaten back to its own goal-line. I reached for my napkin and automatically flicked the tablecloth.

  'I'm not a doctor, really,' I murmured.

  'I'm a student. I take this on for a little extra dibs.'

  There was a silence. Connie started to laugh. In fact, she laughed so long she almost asphyxiated herself with a stick of Italian bread. In the end we all four thought it a tremendous joke, even Pedro.

  But Connie never looked at me the same way again. And a fortnight later got engaged to Miles. I was pretty cut up about it at the time, I suppose. I often wonder how life would have turned out if Miles had been more of a gentleman and taken her somewhere like the Ritz.

  The only compensation was that, according to the American chap, if I had to be a waiter I was a damn good one.

  7

  'I'm afraid I was somewhat over-optimistic at the way things would go at St Swithin's,' announced Miles.

  Connie had left us after providing a charming little dinner, and I was guessing my chances of getting a cigar.

  'The appointment of Sharper's successor has as usual got mixed up with hospital politics.'

  He
stared gloomily into the fruit bowl.

  'Sir Lancelot Spratt is making an infernal nuisance of himself on the committee. He is opposing my candidature, purely because Mr Cambridge is supporting it. Sir Lancelot has quarrelled with him, you know. Cambridge refuses to knock down his old clinical laboratory, and Sir Lancelot wants to park his car there. To think! My future decided by a car park.'

  'There's nothing like a mahogany table and a square of pink blotting-paper to bring out the worst in a chap's character,' I sympathized. 'How about the other runners?'

  'There are thirty other prospective candidates for the post, all as well qualified as I. But we are mere pawns, mere cyphers. Perhaps I should apologize for being short with you earlier, Gaston. The strain, you know. The uncertainty…'

  He miserably cracked a nut.

  I felt sorry for the chap. Personally, there was nothing I'd have liked less than being a consultant at St Swithin's, having to wear a stiff collar every day and never being able to date up the nurses, but it had been Miles' ambition ever since he was cutting up that dogfish. And I rather felt that Connie, too, fancied herself in a new hat running the hoop-la with other consultants' wives at the annual hospital fкte. Besides, Miles was the brightest young surgeon St Swithin's had seen for years, and I should have felt a bit of a cad not helping so worthy a practitioner along the professional path.

  'If you didn't get on at St Swithin's,' I tried to console him, 'you'd find a consultant job easily enough in the provinces.'

  'But it wouldn't be the same thing. And, of course, Connie and I would have to leave our home.'

  I nodded. Since the waiter episode girls had been in and out of my life like people viewing an unsatisfactory flat, but I'd always retained a soft spot for Connie. The thought of her confined for life to a place like Porterhampton upset me so much I'd almost have had another go at living there myself to prevent it.