Doctor On The Brain

by Richard Gordon

  ‘The bum-faced student?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘What’s he doing in your house, for God’s sake.’

  ‘He’s going to marry my daughter.’

  ‘Good God.’

  The dean came down to the pavement, holding on to the area railings. ‘Edgar and Muriel.’

  ‘The two contenders for the gold medal, eh?’ mused Sir Lancelot. ‘That should be a marriage pregnant with possibilities.’

  ‘Har! How did you know?’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘She’s preggers.’

  ‘Is she?’

  ‘You just said so.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Don’t try getting out of it now.’ The dean wagged a finger violently. ‘Insult me as much as you like, but don’t besmirch my daughter. Anyway, all girls are pregnant these days. When they get married, that is.’

  ‘So Sharpewhistle put her in the family way? Well, well. I wouldn’t have thought he had it in him. A nice girl like Muriel, too.’

  ‘It was after your blasted party,’ said the dean with sudden anger. ‘All your sexy champagne.’

  ‘What did you expect me to do? Serve the pill as a canapé?’

  ‘Anyway, there it is. I’m lumbered with Sharpewhistle for life. The baby will probably look half like me and half like him. God!’

  They looked up towards the brightening stars as a light flashed on overhead. The psychiatrist was going to bed. ‘Odd sod, Bonaccord,’ observed the dean.

  ‘He has managed to organize his life very comfortably.’

  ‘You mean the secretary?’

  ‘Well…partly.’

  ‘I expect he’s having a slice of her now.’

  Sir Lancelot frowned. ‘How much have you been drinking tonight?’

  ‘A lot. To put up with Sharpewhistle. I shall have to continue drinking as long as I have to look at him. So apart from anything else, the bloody man has turned me into a chronic alcoholic.’

  Sir Lancelot’s thoughts were elsewhere. ‘There’s something very peculiar about Mrs Tennant. Or rather about her husband. She’s very evasive about the fellow.’

  ‘Probably in jail.’

  ‘Maybe. And where did she come from, anyway? She told me once she’d been secretary to the professor of psychiatry at High Cross. I ran into the old fruitcake himself last month, and he’d never heard of her.’

  ‘Could be she wasn’t married then. Girls change their names. Like Lychfield to Sharpewhistle. What a bloody name! It sounds like a direction to engine drivers.’

  ‘At least they’ve got Miss MacNish to look after them now,’ continued Sir Lancelot sourly. ‘It’s absolutely unfair, Bonaccord living in sin with first-class cuisine and comforts.’

  The dean stared at him. ‘When did that happen?’

  ‘I asked for her resignation this afternoon.’

  ‘So you’ve been alone in there half the night with Frankie?’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘But it’s quite…quite… Her husband away in South America, too.’

  ‘How did you know that?’ asked Sir Lancelot narrowly.

  ‘It’s in all the papers,’ the dean replied hastily. ‘Didn’t you notice? I say…Lancelot…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Er…did you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I mean, ever?’

  ‘No.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Lionel?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Never. Wouldn’t let me.’

  ‘Nor me.’

  ‘Honest?’

  ‘Honest.’

  ‘Often wondered, you know.’

  ‘So did I about you.’ They stood looking at each other, the dean still clasping the railings. ‘Can I tell you a secret, Lionel?’

  ‘Of course. Professional discretion, and all that thing.’

  ‘I shall be leaving Lazar Row.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘In October.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I’m taking another job.’

  ‘Well! This is a surprise.’

  Sir Lancelot threw out his chest. ‘I have been offered the vice-chancellorship of the university of Hampton Wick.’

  ‘Really? Good heavens! You have definitely accepted it?’ the dean asked anxiously.

  ‘Aren’t you going to congratulate me?’

  ‘With all my heart. With all my heart.’

  ‘It was Frankie, of course. She seems to have the appointment at her disposal.’

  ‘Never knew that.’

  ‘She’s very interested in education, of course.’

  ‘Go on? Never knew that, either.’

  ‘You think I was right to take the job?’

  ‘Would never have had a moment’s hesitation myself.’

  ‘It’s not going to be a cushy one. Quite the opposite.’

  ‘Nothing to a man of your qualities, Lancelot.’

  ‘Possibly I have something of a flair for handling the young. I wanted to be their first vice-chancellor, you know, five years ago.’

  ‘So Frankie told me.’

  ‘Oh? When were you discussing it, pray?’

  ‘Chit-chat, you know, at some party or other.’

  ‘An official announcement will be made on Monday.’

  ‘And no one, my dear Lancelot, will read it with deeper emotion than myself.’

  ‘That’s very handsome of you.’ He hesitated. ‘You’re a very decent chap, you know, Lionel.’

  ‘And so are you, Lancelot. So are you. In fact, I think I would say about you – “His brusque exterior, though known by many generations of students at St Swithin’s to conceal a heart of gold, was perceived only by his fortunate intimates to cover, as the bark of a sturdy tree, a sap indistinguishable from the milk of human kindness”.’

  ‘And I think I would say about you – “The image of cold, classical intellect he presented to the world was appreciated only by those blessed with his close friendship as a mere mask to hide a bubbling conviviality”.’

  ‘That’s very nice of you, Lancelot.’

  ‘It’s nice of you, too, Lionel. Though you do make me sound like a Malaysian rubber-tree. Well, good night.’

  ‘Good night, old man. I would also say that your unfailing optimism and sound commonsense were invaluable to your friends in their own adversities.’

  ‘And I would say, “Never was there a kinder, more generous and more thoughtful father and husband”.’

  ‘Good night.’

  ‘Good night.’

  ‘I do wish those two bloody old fools would turn off,’ muttered Dr Bonaccord into his pillow.

  18

  Shortly after nine o’clock the following morning a small green van swung round the corner from the main road and jerked to a stop outside the front door of No 3 Lazar Row. On its side was painted in yellow Flowers For All Occasions. Indeed, the small florist’s opposite the hospital gates could supply almost instantly bunches suitable for long or short illnesses, for accidents or for childbirth, and always carried a varied stock of wreaths.

  The driver was a fair girl in a pink smock, who emerged with a large bouquet of orange gladioli. She rang the bell. Sir Lancelot appeared, in his black coat and striped trousers.

  ‘Very good of you to deliver so quickly after my phone call,’ he thanked her.

  ‘Not at all, Sir Lancelot. We’d do anything for you. After all, in a way we share the same customers, don’t we?’

  ‘H’m,’ said Sir Lancelot.

  As the van drove off he started along the short cul-de-sac. At that moment the door of No 2. was flung open and the dean strode out, looking bad-tempered.

  ‘Morning, dean,’ said Sir Lancelot amiably. ‘You were pissed last night.’

  ‘Not at all. I had been eating plovers’ eggs, which have a peculiar effect on me. Anyway, they were bad. They’ve certainly upset Josephine this morning. Where are you going with those flowers? Off to see Fran
kie Humble, I suppose?’

  ‘My dear dean, every doctor should have a healthily suspicious mind. But this time your diagnosis is wrong. As I woke this morning I happened to remember it was Miss MacNish’s birthday. It would seem petty and churlish of me to shun marking it as usual.’

  ‘How are you managing to look after yourself?’

  ‘I am not. I never realized that boiling an egg was an operation of such intricacy. But I hope the situation will shortly resolve itself.’

  ‘Perhaps the hospital can find you someone living locally?’

  ‘I don’t want to train two separate people to my ways. I shall be leaving here in October, remember. But not a word about Hampton Wick to anybody, until Monday.’

  ‘Oh, not a word. Nobody knows about me, either.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I mean… I’m a man of mystery, aren’t I?’

  The dean gave a weak smile, and quickened his pace towards the hospital. Sir Lancelot rang the bell of No 1. Almost immediately the door was opened by Dr Bonaccord himself.

  ‘For me?’ he asked humorously.

  ‘It is my former cook’s birthday. Perhaps I can present them myself?’

  ‘Of course. You’ll find her through the back somewhere. By the way, those trout were delicious. I hope they’re still biting next time you go fishing.’

  ‘They do not bite. They suck.’

  ‘Really? Well, good luck at it. That’s all a fisherman needs, isn’t it? Now I’m afraid I must be off on my bicycle to St Swithin’s.’

  Miss MacNish was in the kitchen, blue overall sleeves turned up to the elbows, vigorously polishing a silver serving-dish. She looked startled as Sir Lancelot entered, but quickly changed her expression to one of polite, impersonal enquiry. ‘Were you looking for the doctor, sir? I think he’s just left.’

  ‘Many happy returns of the day.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll put them in water.’

  ‘Gladioli – your favourite flowers. You see, I hadn’t forgotten.’

  ‘Several of my former employers still send me birthday cards, sir.’

  ‘Miss MacNish, you were possibly a little overwrought yesterday afternoon. I am prepared to disregard everything.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Sir Lancelot looked round anxiously. There was no sign of vermin. ‘How are the cats?’

  ‘They have a good home, sir.’

  ‘Perhaps I myself behaved over-impulsively. I assure you I really think them the most delightful cats.’

  ‘Dr Bonaccord does not pick them up by their tails, sir.’

  ‘I really meant it no harm whatever. It was a game – almost a joke. I’m sure they are lovely companions to you, and of great value in exterminating the mice. It is simply that I have a thing about cats.’

  ‘So it would seem, sir.’

  ‘Miss MacNish, you obliged me to expose that I have some sort of psychological allergy to cats. But luckily I have with Dr Bonaccord’s help been able to overcome it. Nothing would so complete my comfort in the evening, as I sit with my whisky and a book, than my slippered feet on a large, well-fed purring cat.’

  She went on with the silver dish.

  ‘Miss MacNish, come back to me.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘But surely! Isn’t all forgiven?’

  ‘I forgive you, sir. I know that some of us have difficulty in controlling our bestial instincts. But little Chelsea hasn’t forgiven you. I can tell that, from the look in its eyes.’

  ‘I am quite prepared to exist in a state of odium vis-à-vis your cats.’

  ‘No, sir. It won’t do, sir. I am perfectly well suited, thank you, sir.’

  He became impatient. ‘Really, Miss MacNish! You can’t go on working in this…this disorderly house.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘How can a lady of your propriety, of your purity, of your Presbyterianism, allow herself to remain in an establishment which reeks of sin like St Swithin’s reeks of antiseptic?’

  ‘I don’t think I understand what you mean, sir.’

  ‘You don’t suppose Dr Bonaccord has Mrs Tennant only to stick his insurance stamps on, do you?’

  ‘That is a most unpleasant inference, sir.’

  ‘It isn’t an inference. Everyone in St Swithin’s knows it for a fact. I’m surprised at someone like you, Miss MacNish, shutting your eyes to it.’

  ‘I do not shut my eyes to anything. On the contrary, Sir Lancelot, I keep them wide open. And I have seen nothing whatever in this house to justify your slur.’

  ‘But damn it, you’ve only been here one night.’

  ‘I can tell these things, Sir Lancelot. I believe Dr Bonaccord and the young lady are chaste, strictly speaking. One can find out a lot about people very quickly when you serve them and look after them. Until I come across definite evidence to the contrary, I am more than ready to be charitable and give them the benefit of the doubt.’

  ‘Miss MacNish, you’re a simpleton.’

  ‘Sir Lancelot, you have a dirty mind.’

  ‘This is getting quite out of hand. You must return to the nest immediately.’

  ‘I will not.’

  ‘But don’t you realize how I’m floundering, woman? I haven’t the first idea how to set about making my own bed.’

  ‘You should have thought about that before you started pulling up cats by their tails.’

  ‘Are you or are you not coming with me?’

  ‘No. Would you like the flowers back, sir?’

  He turned away with a mixture of despair, frustration, the pains of ingratitude, and offended pride. ‘You said you discovered a lot about people when you kept house for them. I assume that applies also to me?’

  ‘You? Oh, yes, Sir Lancelot. It would take a book.’

  She went on polishing more vigorously than ever. He grunted and pushed open the kitchen door. Immediately outside was Gisela Tennant. ‘It is Miss MacNish’s birthday,’ he told her quickly.

  The secretary eyed him coldly. He supposed she must have overheard most of the conversation, and quite deliberately. ‘I’m glad you could find time to pay a call on her, Sir Lancelot.’

  ‘Though I had nothing of particular importance to tell her. Nothing at all.’

  ‘I’m sure not.’

  Sir Lancelot shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. ‘I met the professor of psychiatry from High Cross the other day. I believe you worked as his secretary before you married?’

  ‘I should prefer not to discuss my marriage. It is a most painful subject.’

  ‘I’m extremely sorry…’

  ‘Anyway, my husband is not in Australia, but the Australian territories of New Guinea. I don’t expect you penetrated as far as there?’ Her eyes widened an instant as she noticed Sir Lancelot begin to tremble. His glance searched round wildly. Chelsea, the fat black one, was slowly coming downstairs. With a faint smile, Gisela watched him clench his fists to take control of himself. The cat paused at the foot of the stairs. It looked hard at Sir Lancelot, as if knowing the inner convulsions it was causing. Then it pushed the part-open door to the kitchen and its benefactress. ‘You would seem to be improving, Sir Lancelot,’ Gisela said, with muted but distinct derision.

  ‘I freely admit that Dr Bonaccord did me considerable good.’

  ‘I’m sure he will appreciate the compliment as much as I do. We’re both aware that you entertain a somewhat low opinion of psychiatrists.’

  ‘That’s not at all fair,’ he said crossly.

  ‘No? Well, perhaps all the remarks attributed to you on the subject have been invented maliciously. It is quite remarkable what one can learn about oneself from the chance overhearing of scraps of conversation. Things that are not only surprising, but absolutely flabbergasting in their inaccuracy. I should like you to know, Sir Lancelot, that Dr Bonaccord is a widely-respected and very influential man.’

  ‘I have nothing against his professional abilities whatever.’

  ‘So much so, Sir Lancelot, that he was
offered the vice-chancellorship of a university only last week.’

  Sir Lancelot started. ‘Bonaccord? What an amazing coincidence.’

  ‘He was approached by a Member of Parliament, and you might be interested to know that he so nearly accepted that an official announcement was to be made to the effect on Monday next. But in the end Dr Bonaccord felt he could do more with his life by continuing to treat the mentally sick at St Swithin’s.’

  ‘Was it – Hampton Wick?’

  ‘That’s curious. You are quite right, and it was supposed to be a dead secret. What’s the matter, Sir Lancelot? Another cat?’

  ‘If you’ll forgive me… I must be getting along… already late for St Swithin’s…’

  Gisela opened the front door. ‘It’s always a pleasure to see you, Sir Lancelot. But should you wish again to enjoy a chat with Miss MacNish at her work, perhaps you would kindly inform me first? After all, as Dr Bonaccord’s secretary the running of the house and management of staff is entirely my responsibility. If you wish to amuse yourself by conversing with her in her spare time, of course that is entirely up to her. Good morning.’

  She shut the door. She tightened her lips. She strode into the kitchen.

  ‘What are those flowers doing? I didn’t give you permission to order any flowers.’

  ‘Sir Lancelot brought them, Mrs Tennant. For me.’

  ‘Oh. Why are you polishing that dish?’

  ‘You wouldn’t like it to be tarnished, would you?’

  ‘I don’t like it in any shape or form. It’s far too old-fashioned.’

  ‘Sir Lancelot always said that good food deserved to be presented on silver.’

  ‘And I saw you took Dr Bonaccord’s breakfast coffee-cup from his study this morning. You are not to go in there without my permission, if you please.’

  ‘I’m sure Sir Lancelot wouldn’t have cared to find dirty crockery lying among his papers.’

  ‘That’s exactly the point. A psychiatrist’s papers are extremely confidential. By the way, my personal papers are in the desk on the landing. It is always locked.’

  Miss MacNish went on polishing. ‘I’m not the prying kind, Mrs Tennant, thank you very much.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re not, but it’s best that we get our respective attitudes clear from the start.’

  ‘Sir Lancelot always trusted me.’

  ‘I’m sure that we can, too – and not to discuss either of us behind our backs. Dr Bonaccord will be in for dinner tonight. At eight o’clock, please.’