Doctor in Love

by Richard Gordon

  We hastily found glasses and gave the toast, with the enthusiasm and the expressions of men honouring a suicide pact.

  “On the whole,” said Dr Farquarson, filling his pipe. “I’m in favour of weddings. If a couple can survive the emotional strain, hard work, and demands for tact and self-discipline they involve, they can overcome pretty well anything else in their married life to come.”

  I said nothing.

  “Marriage,” Dr Farquarson continued, “is a strange psychological cat’s-cradle. And as you know, it’s generally easier to make a cat’s-cradle if you don’t worry yourself stiff whether it’s going to collapse before you’ve started. Och, I’m not saying that every main road in the country should be signposted to Gretna Green. But it’s a good idea to take the complications of modern marriage in your stride, like you take the complications of modern motoring. Try and reduce it to its simplest essentials. It’s just another example of my favourite theory about civilization being too much for us. Any of you fellows got a match?”

  The three of us offered him matchboxes.

  “Hello,” he said, picking up Nikki’s ring from the table. “Haven’t I seen this somewhere before?”

  “Yes,” I said quickly. “But it wasn’t fitting very well, so Nikki gave it to me to take down to the jewellers and get it altered.”

  “I see. What was I rambling on about now? I remember. But fortunately, marriage is about the only thing left in our lives that can be reduced to its essentials by the thought of a moment. You just have to ask, Do I love the girl? Then you have to ask, Does she love me? Page one, chapter one, any biology textbook. If the answer’s ‘yes’ in both cases, you needn’t worry about incompatibility of temperament and whether you like your eggs boiled or scrambled.”

  I wished heartily that Dr Farquarson would finish his drink and get out.

  “Or even,” he continued, “who you give the job of receptionist to.”

  For the first time I noticed his eyebrows quivering.

  “Dr Farquarson – !”

  “The young lady of yours is in my car,” he said. “I met her in the surgery and dried her tears and exercised an old man’s privilege of talking the hind leg off a donkey.” As the bell rang, he added, “That’ll be her now. I just wanted time to say my piece, that’s all.”

  “Nikki darling!” I exclaimed, throwing open the door. I nearly embraced Molly Benskin and her baby.

  “Tony angel!” she cried, pushing past me into the room.

  “Molly, my sweet!”

  “How can you forgive me, Tony? You were absolutely right about the cup and the potty and putting him out in the cold.”

  “No, no, no, darling! How can you possibly forgive me? I was absolutely wrong about everything.”

  “Tony, no!” she said, bursting into tears. “It was all my fault. Every bit.”

  As I started to rush downstairs, I heard Grimsdyke exclaim “I knew women made chaps a bit soft in the head, but I never quite thought I’d run into benefit night at Bedlam like this.”

  “Nikki, my dearest, sweetest, little lovely one!” I said, embracing her wildly on the pavement, to the alarm of a man delivering the milk.

  “Richard darling! My beautifullest loveliest little bunny-wunny!”

  “How can I ask you to forgive me? How can I cringe enough? Won’t you please wipe your shoes on my neck?”

  “But darling, the whole thing’s been my own silly stupid fault.”

  “Yours? Nonsense, Nikki! I’m to blame all along. I was a ridiculous silly idiot.”

  “Sweet Richard.” She ran her fingers through my hair. “How can you want to marry such a shrew as me?”

  “If you’re a shrew, may you never ever be tamed.”

  “I love you so much, darling one.”

  “So do I. To distraction.”

  ‘Do you two mind if I have my car back?”

  We jumped apart at Dr Farquarson’s voice behind us.

  “I’ll be seeing you later this evening, Richard my lad,” he added, opening the door. “I’m off to Mappin and Webb’s to buy a wedding present.”

  “But you’ve already given us one, Farquy.”

  “But didn’t I tell you? Our Miss Wildewinde went back to old Dr McBurney, and would you believe it they’re getting married next week. It’ll do them both a power of good. Yes, there’s a lot of it about at this season, as we say to the patients when there’s nothing we can do to stop it.”

  21

  “Rise and shine!” called Grimsdyke heartily. “For I’m to be married today – today. Yes, I’m to be married today!”

  I sat bolt upright. “What time is it?”

  “Eleven-thirty.”

  “Good God! Only another three hours and we’ve got to be at the church!”

  “Steady on, old lad! You don’t take three hours to get dressed on an ordinary day, do you?”

  “But this isn’t an ordinary day. God!” I tried to stand up, but stopped abruptly. “My head! What on earth did you give me to drink last night?”

  “Oh, just beer and whisky and gin and brandy and port and vodka and so on.”

  I became aware of my surroundings. Grimsdyke’s flat resembled a ship’s cabin after a heavy gale, and I had been sleeping on the floor with my head on Dr Farquarson’s hat and wearing Tony Benskin’s jacket and a grass skirt.

  “Where the devil did I get this grass thing from?”

  “What, the skirt? From the girl in that night-club, of course.”

  “What girl in what night-club?”

  “Come off it, Richard! You couldn’t have been as blotto as that.”

  “The last thing I can remember is when we were all thrown out of that pub. With Nikki’s brother slapping me on the back and telling me I wasn’t such a bad fellow after all.”

  “The skirt came much later. It was the girl old Farquy kept wanting to dance with. Believe me, I’ve never seen the old uncle in such form since Scotland won in the last minute at Twickenham. Don’t worry,” he added, “she only gave you her spare one. You insisted it would go well in church with your lilac waistcoat.”

  I groaned and laid down again. “Have you got any codeine?”

  “Better than codeine. I’ve got a bottle of champagne in the oven.”

  “In the where?”

  “As Grimsdyke doesn’t indulge in home cooking, the oven’s useful for hiding such stuff from a crowd of determined dypsomaniacs, such as I entertained last night. Keeps it nice and cool, too.”

  I shortly afterwards had the pleasant experience of drinking champagne in the bath.

  “We’ve bags of time,” Grimsdyke told me. “There’s no need to worry, because you really haven’t got anything more to do. It’s in the enemy camp that confusion will be reigning unbounded until the Daimler with the white ribbons rolls up at the door.”

  “We aren’t having white ribbons,” I said firmly. “We agreed on that long ago.”

  “By the way, what music did you decide to have in the end?”

  “Oh, the music,” I said lightly, as I started to shave with Grimsdyke’s razor, “I just left it to Nikki. It doesn’t matter a damn.”

  “I’d say it was dashed important myself, old lad,” Grimsdyke said thoughtfully. “As she’s finally decided to marry you, I should be very interested to see whether she sticks to her own Trumpet Voluntary or whether she bows to the wishes of her future lord and master and orders the Wedding March.”

  “Blast!” I exclaimed. “I’ve cut myself again. I’ll arrive at the altar looking like Banquo’s ghost.”

  “If you feel anything like you look, Richard, I should think you’d be glad to find you bleed at all.”

  That morning I began to realize what it was like to indulge in mescalin or suffer one of the odd psychological diseases which derange your time-appreciation. At one moment time would seem to drag by like an old horse on its way to the knackers, at another it flashed past like a spaceship, and at others I felt certain it was going backwards.


  “I suppose you’ll think me bloody silly if I tell you not to look so worried,” Grimsdyke said to cheer me up, as I sat about in his spare dressing-gown. “But don’t forget you’ve only got to do it once. If Nikki discovers your true character after a couple of years and unloads you, you can marry the next one in a registry office.”

  “Never again,” I said firmly. “Never, never, never again. Do you suppose everyone feels like this?”

  “Ever since Adam had his thoracotomy.”

  “I wish I hadn’t got this horrible vacuum sensation in my upper abdomen. I feel as if old Sir Lancelot Spratt had been at me on one of his demonstration days.”

  “Have some more champers. Nothing like it for restoring the roses to the cheeks.” He looked at his watch. “Or perhaps we’d better be getting into our finery. Then I’ll pop down and get the car out.”

  “Supposing it breaks down on the way?” I asked in alarm.

  “Oh, it probably will. Then we’ll take it in turns to push. I say, this waistcoat’s pretty snappy. Did you hire it with the rest?”

  “I’m glad you like it, Grim. Nikki and I had a difference of opinion about it. Do you think I ought to leave it off?”

  “Leave it off? Not a bit, old lad. If you like it, wear it.”

  “I’m not so sure, Grim. I really ought to do what Nikki wants.”

  “Now see here, old lad. There’s nothing like starting off the way you mean to go on. You wear the thing. And keep your coat open, too.”

  Twenty minutes later Grimsdyke and myself stood in front of the mirror, admiring the two elegant English gentlemen before us.

  “What do I do with the hat?” I asked. “Carry it.”

  “In church, I mean. They don’t have cloakrooms, do they?”

  “Shove it under the pew.”

  “Supposing I sit on it?”

  “My dear chap, don’t go on making difficulties! It doesn’t matter a damn what you do, anyway. Everyone will be looking at Nikki.”

  “True,” I admitted.

  “Well, old lad. Off to the gallows.”

  “You’ve got the ring?” I demanded hoarsely.

  “Cosy in the waistcoat pocket.”

  “And you won’t forget to pick up Nikki’s new passport in the vestry?”

  “Not on your life.”

  “Oh, and the telegrams. Reading them out afterwards, I mean.”

  “I shall sound like the town crier announcing tax concessions.”

  “What I’m getting at is… I mean, some of the chaps from St Swithin’s think themselves pretty funny at times, you know. They forget there’s all sorts of sticky relatives there to hear. You’ll censor them a bit, won’t you, if necessary?”

  “Leave it to me, Richard. I shall let no shade of embarrassment cross your rosy path today. I remember I once sent one to a girl I knew on the stage, and like a fool I tried to be topical and wrote. ‘All the best for your first night’. Husband wouldn’t speak to me for months afterwards.”

  “Well, that’s about all, then?”

  “Yes, old lad. That’s about all.”

  For a second we looked at each other. Grimsdyke and I had been the closest of friends since the day we had first met outside the lecture-hall at St Swithin’s, when we both faced life from the laughably low status of first-year medical students. Together we had cheerfully struggled or schemed our way through the course, and together we had made our first exciting forays into the world beyond the protective walls of St Swithin’s itself. Each of us knew enough comfortably to blackmail the other for life, and we would have readily shared our last crusts – provided there was absolutely no possibility of being able to swap them for half a pint of bitter. And now I was getting married, and it could never be quite the same again.

  “Goodbye, Grim old man,” I said instinctively. We shook hands. “And thanks a lot.”

  “Goodbye, Richard. And all the luck. You’ll need it more than me.”

  “I don’t know if… I mean, you’re always a lot more cynical about these things than I am. I suppose you can’t understand how much I really love Nikki and how wonderful all this really is to me.”

  “Of course I do, old lad. All my fooling about’s just to keep your knees from knocking.”

  We stood clasping hands for a second, then Grimsdyke said “The tumbril awaits” and stuck my top-hat on my head.

  We were soon in the car, through the streets, at the church. I had a blurred impression of the congregation, which seemed large enough to fill the Albert Hall. There was my mother and father, there was Dr Farquarson, there was Robin stalking the aisle to ask if you were friends of the bride or bridegroom. There was the Vicar, waiting in the wings. There was the organist, twiddling idly away and glancing into his mirror like a nervous driver in a police trap.

  “Don’t worry, old lad,” Grimsdyke whispered in the front pew. “Twenty minutes and it’ll all be over.”

  “But it ought to have started five minutes ago!” I hissed back.

  “Haven’t you heard the bride’s always late, you idiot?”

  “Perhaps she’s changed her mind.”

  He shook his head. “Nikki’s a sensible girl, but not as sensible as that.”

  Suddenly everyone stood up.

  “Here you are, Richard. On your feet.”

  Glancing down the aisle I had a vision of Nikki, white and radiant at the other end. The organist stopped twiddling and struck a chord. Then he broke into Mendelssohn’s Wedding March.

  “Whacko!” said Grimsdyke delightedly, digging me in the ribs. “She gave in in the end, old lad! From now on, you’re the boss for life.”

  And so we were married.

  I’m sure that we shall live happily ever after. But I’m not so sure that Grimsdyke was right.

  ‘Doctor Series’ Titles

  (in order of first publication)

  These titles can be read as a series, or randomly as standalone novels

  1. Doctor in the House 1952

  2. Doctor at Sea 1953

  3. Doctor at Large 1955

  4. Doctor in Love 1957

  5. Doctor and Son 1959

  6. Doctor in Clover 1960

  7. Doctor on Toast 1961

  8. Doctor in the Swim 1962

  9. Love and Sir Lancelot 1965

  10. The Summer of Sir Lancelot 1965

  11. Doctor on the Boil 1970

  12. Doctor on the Brain 1972

  13. Doctor in the Nude 1973

  14. Doctor on the Job 1976

  15. Doctor in the Nest 1979

  16. Doctor’s Daughters 1981

  17. Doctor on the Ball 1985

  18. Doctor in the Soup 1986

  Humorous Novels

  (in order of first publication)

  1. The Captain’s Table 1954

  2. Nuts in May 1964

  3. Good Neighbours 1976

  4. Happy Families 1978

  5. Dr. Gordon’s Casebook 1982

  6. Great Medical Disasters 1983

  7. Great Medical Mysteries 1984

  More Serious Works

  (in order of first publication)

  1. The Facemaker 1967

  2. Surgeon at Arms 1968

  2. The Invisible Victory 1977

  3. The Private Life of Florence Nightingale 1978

  2. The Private Life of Jack the Ripper 1980

  3. The Private Life of Dr. Crippen 1981

  Synopses

  Published by House of Stratus

  The Captain’s Table

  When William Ebbs is taken from a creaking cargo boat and made Captain of a luxury liner, he quickly discovers that the sea holds many perils…probably the most perilous being the first night dinner, closely followed by the dangers of finding a woman in his room. Then there is the embarrassing presence of the shipping company’s largest shareholder, a passenger over board and blackmail. The Captain’s Table is a tale of nautical misadventure and mayhem packed with rib-tickling humour.

  ‘An original hum
orist with a sly wit and a quick eye for the ridiculous’ – Queen

  Doctor and Son

  Recovering from the realisation that his honeymoon was not quite as he had anticipated, Simon Sparrow can at least look forward to a life of tranquillity and order as a respectable homeowner with a new wife. But that was before his old friend Dr Grimsdyke took to using their home as a place of refuge from his various misdemeanours…and especially from the incident with the actress which demanded immediate asylum. Surely one such houseguest was enough without the appearance of Simon’s godfather, the eminent Sir Lancelot Spratt. Chaos and mayhem in the Sparrow household can mean only one thing – more comic tales from Richard Gordon’s hilarious doctor series.

  ‘Further unflaggingly funny addition to Simon Sparrow’s medical saga’ – Daily Telegraph

  Doctor at Large

  Dr Richard Gordon’s first job after qualifying takes him to St Swithan’s where he is enrolled as Junior Casualty House Surgeon. However, some rather unfortunate incidents with Mr Justice Hopwood, as well as one of his patients inexplicably coughing up nuts and bolts, mean that promotion passes him by – and goes instead to Bingham, his odious rival. After a series of disastrous interviews, Gordon cuts his losses and visits a medical employment agency. To his disappointment, all the best jobs have already been snapped up, but he could always turn to general practice…

  Doctor at Sea

  Richard Gordon’s life was moving rapidly towards middle-aged lethargy – or so he felt. Employed as an assistant in general practice – the medical equivalent of a poor curate – and having been ‘persuaded’ that marriage is as much an obligation for a young doctor as celibacy for a priest, Richard sees the rest of his life stretching before him. Losing his nerve, and desperately in need of an antidote, he instead signs on with the Fathom Steamboat Company. What follows is a hilarious tale of nautical diseases and assorted misadventures at sea. Yet he also becomes embroiled in a mystery – what is in the Captain’s stomach remedy? And more to the point, what on earth happened to the previous doctor?