Surgeon at Arms

by Gordon, Richard

  ‘Please, darling, don’t go on about the war again.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m really trying to forget it, but it keeps coming back, more and more.’ He sipped his drink and reflected, ‘It was really the only worthwhile time in my life, out at that annex place.’

  She stubbed out her fresh cigarette. ‘Come along, darling, shall we get on with it?’ she invited. Anything to stop him talking about the war.

  Graham had taken to copulating with the fight on. He found it more amusing, and anyway had read somewhere that turning out the light was a suburban habit. Liz, possibly worn out by her exertions on the stage, fell asleep almost immediately afterwards. He lay for a long time looking up at the ceiling. She really was a ghastly female. She was fat, and her breasts fell away to the sides of her chest like a pair of half-filled sandbags. Still, she had a kind heart and she was always available, valuable and infrequent attributes in any female. He would be generous writing her cheque in the morning. He must have been rather difficult to tolerate that evening. His life was all wrong, all completely wrong. But he didn’t see much prospect of setting it right, even if he had the remotest idea what the right sort of life for himself should be.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  THE SAME EVENING Desmond Trevose was entertaining his cousin Alec to dinner at high table in his Cambridge college.

  Desmond had spent six months at Smithers Botham as Mr. Twelvetrees’ house-surgeon, and a further year as his registrar, which substituted for service in the thinning ranks of the Army. He was a good house-surgeon, competent and thoughtful, skilful enough with his hands as assistant in the theatre. But he was not really a success.

  He was too cold, too brusque with the patients. He had no sense of human relationships. This was admittedly not a necessity for the effective, or even successful, medical man. Many renowned surgeons have been abominably rude. Others like Mr. Cramphorn regarded hospital patients as simple-minded supplicants, unable to grasp such intellectual matters as the nature of the disease which irked them, which having a Latin name could only be discussed, if at all, by educated gentlemen. But the mood of the patients, like the mood of the nation, was becoming restless with smug authority. Medicine had advanced during the war as strikingly as aeronautics, the hospital doctor found himself turning into an applied scientist, yet the more he could do for his patients the less they seemed to regard him. It was baffling, not only for Mr. Cramphorn. But the patients were only daring to express what they had expected from their medical attendants all along—to be their friend in health, their ally in sickness, and their companion in death, a relationship previously accorded only to those among them with a fee in their pockets.

  Early in 1947 Desmond applied for a research scholarship at his old college, to study anatomy. It was in the blood. The Synovial Membranes, the anatomical thesis by his grandfather the professor, published in the year of Desmond’s birth, lay on his desk in the college rooms. The old boy had a few sound ideas, Desmond decided, though the bulk of the book was nonsense. But the synovial membranes, lining the joints of the body, might be worth a second look, and he decided to spend a year taking it.

  He had asked Alec to dinner with no feelings of duty or affection. After living with him for a year in the medical officers’ mess at Smithers Botham, Desmond had allowed the lifelong tepidity of his feelings towards his cousin to cool into frosty dislike. But having him up for the night seemed the only way to pin him down. Desmond wanted his money back, and Alec showed reluctance even to discuss such ungentlemanly a subject.

  ‘I hope you won’t find that guest room too chilly,’ said Desmond, standing before dinner amid the beams of his own sitting-room. ‘Did my gyp light a fire? I expect he’ll give you a hot-water bottle.’

  ‘Don’t I need a gown, or something?’

  ‘Guests at dinner aren’t required to wear them,’ Desmond told him solemnly. ‘What have you there?’

  ‘Gin.’ Alec produced the bottle from inside his jacket. ‘A brand I’ve never heard of, it’s probably full of methyl alcohol, enough to turn you blind. Not to worry. I was damn lucky to get it. I thought it would be an acceptable present.’

  ‘I’d rather not risk it, if you don’t mind,’ said Desmond warily. ‘I’ve got some reasonable college sherry.’

  ‘You won’t mind if I drink the stuff?’ Alec had brought the bottle only with this intention. Desmond was a mean host. ‘Do you remember the trouble we had buying booze at Smithers Botham? That ghastly grocer with his wine counter.’ Alec poured half a tumbler of gin, which he started to sip neat. ‘It was a kindly Act of God which landed him on us with a strangulated hernia. Afterwards I believe he genuinely tried to do his best for his medical customers. He was dead scared he might find himself in our hands again.’

  ‘Everyone drank far too much at Smithers Botham.’

  ‘You know, I loved the place. A lot of people were browned off with it, but not me. I suppose it was because you could get away with anything. No stuffiness. Do you remember that party when some fellow kept insisting on lighting his own flatus with a match? It was quite sensational. Amused the girls terribly.’

  ‘Aren’t you drinking rather a lot yourself, Alec?’

  ‘I expect I’m an alcoholic. My present employment is enough to make me one.’ Alec had left Smithers Botham for a hospital in the north of England, where he was an anaesthetic registrar. ‘It’s a ghastly hole. The town’s all trains. They seem to go clanking and hooting everywhere, into tunnels, across viaducts, holding up all the traffic at level crossings. The hospital’s dreadful. Not a gentleman in the place. All the residents are Irishmen, Indians, Scotsmen, those sort of people. No intellectual conversation. Anyway, drinking seems to do my asthma good.’

  Desmond put his hands behind his back and pursed his lips.

  ‘I thought you might have given conventional treatment a chance first.’

  ‘But I did.’ Alec finished his gin and poured himself another. Desmond began to feel worried. His cousin had become dreadfully unreliable socially, and it would never do upsetting the dignity of the dons’ dining table. ‘I was skin-tested, and they told me I was allergic to grasses—crested dog’s-tail, sheep’s fescue, bird’s foot trefoil. Whoever could imagine things with such lovely names doing anyone the slightest harm. It’s ridiculous.’

  ‘That’s not a very reasonable attitude towards medicine, is it?’

  ‘Well, medicine’s only a branch of zoology. We mustn’t take ourselves too seriously. But I let them fill me up with grass extracts. They didn’t do the slightest good. Did you know I went to a psychiatrist at Smithers Botham?’

  ‘There was a rumour to that effect.’ Desmond gave a faint smile. ‘Nobody seemed to think it particularly surprising.’

  ‘Of course I kept quiet about it. For a Blackfriars houseman, visiting a psychiatrist would be far more shameful than visiting a prostitute. I went to see old Dency. He said I suffered from Haltlosigkeit.’ Desmond frowned. ‘It means an irresponsible, aimless personality, with no persevance, no will-power, no concentration, and no particular interests. An optimistic hysteric who lives for the present and refuses to learn from experience. I looked it up. Possibly he’s right. It’s apparently due to maternal over-indulgence in early childhood.’

  ‘How is your mother?’ Desmond asked.

  ‘She seems happy enough in the States. I suppose it’s nice to warm your feet on the small of a man’s back again, even at her age. And even with a cold fish like her husband. I always thought Americans noisy and fun-loving, like the ones we used to see lounging about Piccadilly and spitting on the pavement. She a peculiar woman, my mother. It’s odd, the particular severity one judges one’s parents with as one grows up. Must be fundamental. Some species eat theirs. Dency looked after your mother, didn’t he?’

  Desmond nodded. He supposed the reminder was vaguely ill-intentioned.

  ‘Do you think he’s a pansy?’ Alec asked. ‘He kept patting me, like the geography master at school.’


  ‘He’s got a certain effeminacy of manner,’ admitted Desmond awkwardly. Homosexuality was not a subject to be mentioned, even in private.

  ‘Are you a pansy, Desmond?’

  Desmond went red. ‘How dare you ask such a thing?’

  ‘I’ve often wondered. You’re not particularly interested in girls. I don’t believe you’ve ever had one, have you? Even at a Smithers Botham party, where maidenheads popped like the balloons.’

  ‘I can hardly afford to get involved with women,’ said Desmond defensively. ‘I’ll be here a year, maybe two, hardly paid at all. Only my keep and an honorarium. I can’t expect to sponge on my father at his age.’

  ‘You asked me here to get your money back, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, ’ said Desmond.

  ‘You haven’t got a hope, old cock.’

  Desmond stuck his hands in his pockets and asked angrily, ‘Why don’t you make some attempt to behave honourably about it? It’s a debt. It’s on paper. You’d never have qualified at all without it.’

  ‘In good time, all in good time,’ said Alec amiably. ‘At the moment I’ve rather a lot of expenses. I’m going to get married.’ Desmond stared at him. ‘To Felicity, only daughter of Air Marshal Sir Giles Perrins, K.C.B., D.S.O., D.F.C. And bar. Very grand, you see.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Come, Desmond. The only asset I’ve got is a strange sex appeal. Don’t deny me that.’

  ‘I still don’t believe you. How on earth would you meet her?’

  ‘At some sort of social to do with my present hospital. She was a W.A.A.F. I asked her and she said yes. Remarkably straightforward. I’m seeing her in Town tomorrow. She’s just been demobbed.’

  Desmond digested this. ‘What can I say? I hope you’ll be very happy.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  A bell started to ring. Desmond picked up his gown. ‘It’s time for hall.’

  ‘So you see, Desmond, I shall shortly be in a position to pay you off. I should imagine the dowry will be considerable. They’re stinking rich. For the moment, patience.’

  As Alec reached for his gin-bottle again, Desmond said testily, ‘You haven’t time for another.’

  ‘But I must, Desmond. I must. I have a pathological fear of meeting strangers. Don’t worry. I shan’t be sick into the soup, or anything like that.’

  Alec was not sick into his soup, but he broke a wine glass, talked continuously and extremely loudly, and told obscene stories. Desmond recognized his invitation as a terrible mistake. He wondered for the first time if his cousin really were a psychopath, a manic-depressive, something like that. He certainly suffered the most alarming swings of mood. At other times he could be solitary, silent, gloomy, and savage. The only course was to get him safely to bed in the college’s guest-room. Further discussion about the money must wait until the morning.

  But in the morning Alec had gone.

  He woke in the dark, had no notion of the time, found his watch was stopped, and felt possessed with the idea of going down to London. The college porter let him out and he started his car. He hadn’t even shaved. It was fight when he reached Felicity’s house in Chelsea. There were few people about. He remembered it was Sunday. He rang the bell. Nothing happened. He stood back from the door and started to shout. A grizzled head appeared at an upstairs window. He recognized Air Marshal Sir Giles Perrins, K.C.B., D.S.O., D.F.C. and bar.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re up to?’ demanded the householder.

  ‘I’ve come to see Felicity.’

  ‘Oh, it’s you. Well, clear off. Neither Felicity nor anyone here wants to set eyes on you again.’

  ‘I demand to see my future wife.’

  ‘For God’s sake, man! Get away, will you? You know perfectly well my daughter wishes to have nothing whatever to do with you.’

  ‘Felicity agreed to marry me.’

  ‘Please, please be reasonable. You’re just causing trouble for yourself and all of us. Felicity never said anything of the kind. You know that as well as I do.’

  ‘You’re deliberately keeping her from me.’

  ‘Do go away, there’s a good chap. You’re disturbing the neighbourhood. It’s terribly early.’

  ‘I demand admittance.’

  ‘Oh, clear off, you stupid little bastard.’

  ‘How dare you speak to me like that! I am a healer. I demand the respect to which I am entitled.’

  There was a milk-bottle on the step. Alec picked it up and threw it into the closed downstairs window. He thought the crash sounded very satisfactory.

  The rest of his morning was confused. There were policemen, the Air Marshal, even Felicity in the background, in her dressing-gown. People kept holding him down. They were persecuting him terribly. They wouldn’t listen, however much he tried to explain. There was another man, very worried. He was a doctor, he explained. ‘Now calm down, old man, calm down,’ he implored. ‘Look what a mess you’ve made of this sitting-room.’

  ‘I didn’t make the mess,’ Alec protested violently. ‘They made it, they’re trying to discredit me. It’s all a plot. What’s that?’ he demanded.

  ‘It’s only a syringe. I think you’d benefit from a sedative.’

  ‘You’re trying to poison me.’

  ‘No, I’m not. You’ll recognize the need for it yourself when you recover.’

  ‘Recover? I’m not ill. Everyone’s against me. Oh God, everyone’s always against me.’

  Alec suddenly felt he couldn’t be bothered with these unpleasant persons any longer. Drowsiness overcame him. He’d had a tiring few hours, he had to agree. People seemed to be moving him. He let them have their way. He’d let them persecute him. He’d lost the will to resist. He was lying on his back, moving along. In something, a car. Surely not an ambulance, he wasn’t in the slightest ill. He was still on his back, in the fresh air again. His surroundings struck him as familiar. The flat dome, the smoke-belching minarets, the magnificent portico. Smithers Botham. They wheeled him to the block which had quartered the Emergency Squad, one of the first sections of the hospital returned to rightful use.

  ‘Hello, Alec.’

  He looked up. It was Dr Dency, long fingers playing with the little gold bars of his watch-chain as usual.

  ‘Don’t worry, Alec. We’ll look after you. You’ll be all right here.’

  ‘Home again,’ said Alec simply. ‘Yes, I always liked this place.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I’M SORRY I’M LATE,’ Graham apologized. ‘I had to go out to Smithers Botham. My nephew Alec was admitted there yesterday.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Haileybury. ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’

  ‘No, not too alarming. He’s in the psychiatric block as a voluntary patient. Dency’s looking after him. Alec’s landed himself in a bit of trouble. He’s been behaving rather oddly recently, I must say. I expect they’ll get him straightened out. I gather they’ve some new drugs coming in for this manic-depressive business, which should help the poor fellow.’

  ‘Nevertheless, it must be very disturbing for you.’

  ‘It is.’ Graham sat down. ‘I thought we had enough mental illness in the family with my wife. God knows where Alec inherited it from. Though his father could be peculiar enough when he liked. Missionary or not, there were one or two stories about him I shouldn’t care to repeat.’

  ‘No, no, of course not,’ said Haileybury hastily. ‘Anyway, every family’s got one or two mad ones in it, if you look closely enough. Not that Alec’s certifiable, anything like that. He just needs watching for a while. He’s grown into a peculiar young man all round. And I’m more or less responsible for him, with his mother in America. At least, I promised her as much. She’s a pleasant woman. You’ve never met her?’

  Haileybury gave a faint smile. ‘Indeed I have, Graham. You seem to forget she was our secretary at the plastic hospital near Ramsgate in 1918.’

  Graham laughed. ‘I could be forgiven for the lapse
, surely? Water had poured over the dam with frightening speed since then. Then you’ll also remember I was having a violent love affair with her at the time?’

  ‘I don’t think we need go into that now,’ said Haileybury amiably.

  He’s mellowing pleasantly with the years, Graham thought. In those days of far-off passion, he tried to lose me my first chance of a decent job over it. He isn’t a bad fellow, really. At least he isn’t a hypocrite. As most doctors are obliged to be—half the time for the good of their patients, and the other half for the good of themselves.

  ‘What can I do for you, Eric?’ he asked.

  They were sitting in Haileybury’s club, in the same corner of the morning-room as at the beginning of the war. Haileybury was wearing his usual plain blue suit. Graham could never remember him in anything else. It was early evening, and Haileybury signalled the club waiter to buy Graham a drink for the second time in his life.

  ‘I gather you met Butcher the other evening?’ Haileybury asked.

  ‘I bumped into him at a party.’

  ‘I also gather he said something to you about my scheme for a national burns unit?’ Graham nodded. ‘Would you like to hear more about it? If you don’t, if you think it might bore you, if it’s a notion you couldn’t feel interested in, do please say so. We'll just drop the subject, have a gossip instead. I shan’t be in the slightest offended. I’ve talked about it to so many people, I can’t expect all of them to share my enthusiasm.’

  ‘I should be very Interested indeed. I suppose I must by now have handled more burns than most people.’ Haileybury nodded slowly. To Graham’s surprise he produced a briefcase and laid it on the table. A man like Haileybury would not encumber himself with a showy accessory unless he felt most strongly about its contents. Haileybury extracted some papers.

  ‘These are my ideas reduced to writing. You may like to take them and study them at leisure.’ Graham found himself with a thick bundle of closely typed foolscap. ‘Since I first talked to Butcher I have raised my sights somewhat. With the Government, the more you ask for the more you get. I see it as a centre devoted to the surgery of accidents in its widest sense. Motor accidents, accidents in the home, industrial accidents. This last, I think, gives me the most confidence of success. It strongly appeals to the trade-union element in the Government. Nobody’s really bothered to specialize in the surgery of industry before. To my mind, the need is just as pressing as specializing in the surgery of war.’