If it hadn’t been for the long and tiring train journey, followed by my struggle on behalf of Master Taylor, followed by my long talk with Doctor Cataract, I might have left it at that. I was thoroughly worked up, though, and my eyes were sore with weariness.
“I won’t have that drip in my house!” I shouted. “And if I can’t go away for two weeks knowing I can trust my own wife…”
“Don’t be so disgusting,” Sylvia said, swinging her legs out of bed and advancing towards me. “There’s absolutely no need to be insulting. I happen to be your wife, not a member of your harem, and if I can’t invite a friend to tea without first asking your permission…”
“It’s a pity you didn’t marry Wilfred,” I said scathingly, a little demon inside driving me on, “since you appear to be so fond of him.”
Sylvia followed me into the bathroom, where I put in the plug and turned both taps on.
“That’s just what I should have done,” Sylvia yelled at me above the noise of the water, then trailed back after me into the bedroom. “At least I shouldn’t have been a slave to the telephone morning, noon and night and hear nothing but moans, groans and complaints all day. Everybody I talk to is ill, and you complain when I invite a few healthy people to tea.”
I snorted derisively as I thought of Wifred’s anæmic exterior.
“If you call that weedy specimen healthy…” I collected my pyjamas. Sylvia followed me again into the bathroom.
“There’s nothing the matter with Wilfred,” she said, standing over me as I scrubbed my back with the loofah, “and if there’s anyone who has reason for complaint, it’s me.”
I showered off the soap with the handspray and looked at her, questioningly.
She folded her arms. “If you expect me to believe that story about bringing Iris back because you thought she’d be a good maid,” she said, “you must think I’m a little bit dim. She’s no more a maid than I am; and if she is a maid, what’s she doing with that…that…nothing of a nightdress?” She advanced and stood on the bathmat. “Don’t tell me she brought that to impress the wallpaper in the maid’s bedroom.”
I opened my mouth to explain about the nightdress, but she didn’t give me a chance. “I thought your letters from Edinburgh were a bit short. Now I know why. I don’t suppose you had much time to spare…”
“Sylvia,” I said with icy dignity, “do you mind getting off the bathmat so that I can get out of the bath?”
She moved towards the door.
“Get out of the blasted bath,” she shouted, her self-control going, “and you ought to be jolly well ashamed of yourself, carrying on with some hotel chambermaid after we’ve only been married three months.” The tears were rolling down her face and her voice rose in a crescendo. “You’ll be sorry for treating me like this just now,” she sobbed, “jolly sorry.”
“Don’t try to make out that I’m in the wrong,” I said, rubbing my back vigorously. “Remember, it’s Wilfred that started all this. And why should I be sorry for treating you like this just now?”
Sylvia took the corner of the bath-towel to wipe her eyes.
“Because I’m going to have a baaaabee,” she howled, and ran from the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.
I wasn’t sure if I had heard properly. Suddenly my temper evaporated. My hands started to shake: I shook talcum powder over the floor instead of myself, struggled into my pyjamas, putting both feet into the same pyjama leg, and lost one end of the cord in its socket. Anxious to lose no more time, I gathered the baggy pants round me and, without stopping to put on my slippers, ran on weak legs into the bedroom.
“What was that you said?” I demanded, addressing my remark to a heaving mound of bedclothes.
The bedclothes only heaved more. Taking hold of the covers, I flung them back.
Sylvia turned on her tummy and buried her face in the pillow.
“A baby,” she said. “A B – A – B – Y, baby.”
I hesitated. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, uncertainly. “How could you be pregnant without me knowing? It only happens like that in books or women’s magazines where certain physiological functions are unmentionable.”
A muffled voice from the depths of the pillow said: “You seem to forget you’ve been away for two weeks.”
“But why didn’t you tell me if you were suspicious?”
There was a fresh wail. “I wanted to give you a surpriiiise…”
I thought about it. “You may not be pregnant at all.”
She spun round and sat bolt upright.
“Mr Know-All,” she said. “I beg your pardon, Doctor Know- All. I had a test: Doctor Cataract arranged it.” She looked up at me with her red-rimmed eyes, in which fresh tears were welling. “And for heaven’s sake stop standing there trying to look dignified with your trousers liable to fall down at any moment.” She started to giggle and then to laugh hysterically. I sat down on the bed and put my arms round her.
“Sylvia,” I said gently, “shsh.”
She buried her head in my shoulder and I waited, stroking her hair, until she had stopped shaking; then I held her away from me and looked at her.
“Sylvia,” I said, “is it true?”
She nodded. “Are you pleased?”
I nodded my head and kissed her, so overcome with the thought of becoming a father that I was quite unable to talk.
After a while I said, “I could kill myself.”
“Why, Sweetie?”
“For shouting at you like that.”
“I understand. You were tired.”
“You should have told me about the baby.”
“I didn’t have a chance.”
“Of course you didn’t.”
“I was so excited about your coming home so that I could tell you.”
“I could hardly wait to get here.”
“We’re so stupid, aren’t we?”
“Inane.” I turned out the light and got into bed.
We talked, until we had no more to say, about the prospects of parenthood. We were just drifting off to sleep when I remembered something.
“Sylvia,” I said.
“Mm?”
“What was Wilfred doing here?”
She laughed. “Well, you know before you went to Edinburgh you were talking about getting more private patients?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Wilfred knows so many society people who do nothing but call in the doctor morning, noon and night and pay vast fees without blinking, that I thought he might be able to recommend a few of his friends to you, so I wanted to give you a surprise.”
“Darling,” I said, “you’re full of surprises.” I kissed her. “It’s absolutely sweet of you, dear, but I’d really rather you didn’t go round touting for patients. Even private ones.”
“All right,” she said; “I thought you’d be pleased. Anyway, you’ll have to go and see the Hon. Mrs Magnus-Wight, because it’s all arranged. Wilfred told me when he came over today.”
“OK,” I said, “now let’s go to sleep.”
“Not so fast, Sweetie. I’ve explained about Wilfred, but you haven’t told me the truth about Iris and the nightie.”
“There’s nothing to be told, my love. Iris was truly the chambermaid at the hotel, and I’m sure she’ll help you a lot. As for the nightie, I bought it for you. A present from Edinburgh.”
“Sweetie! You actually went into a shop and chose it for me?”
“That’s right.”
“Sweetie,” she said. “I shall wear it every night until it doesn’t fit me any more. After that I shall wear it to receive visitors.”
“It’s not exactly intended as a hostess gown.”
“Who cares?” said Sylvia. “Goodnight.”
Eight
As it was the end of the quarter, my post on Monday brought a fat buff envelope containing the medical records of patients who had recently come on my list and, more important, a sheet of ruled white paper which I always looked at anxious
ly. On this were written the names of patients who had gone off the list. Against each patient’s name was a letter, and by referring to the footnote at the bottom of the form the letter could be interpreted as the reason why that particular person was no longer registered with me. The letters were: X – transfer to the list of another doctor in the same area; R – removal to another area; D – death; E – embarkation; and S – enlistment.
Mrs Rumbold, to whom I had refused to give the iron tablets she demanded, was an X; so were her children. Her husband’s name was not mentioned, and I gave him a silent vote of thanks for refusing to be as fickle as his wife. The Executive Council did not mention the name of the doctor to whom the patients had transferred, but gave only his official code number. I was familiar with the numbers of all the other practitioners in the district, so it wasn’t difficult to deduce that the new, high number against the names of Mrs Rumbold and Co. was my old friend Archibald Compton. According to the list, he had also lured away Mildred Price with her two chronic complaints, who was, poor soul, probably expecting a new doctor to produce a new cure out of his hat; Mrs Schwarz and family, for whom I never did the right thing because “bei uns ve do alvays dis” when it wasn’t “dot” or the “udder”; a family who had been on my list but whom I had never seen at all; Mr MacTaggart, who invariably rang for a visit long after I had left on my rounds and was annoyed when I didn’t turn up until the afternoon; the Brooks family, with whom for no particular reason I had never seemed to get on; and finally Mr And Mrs Hart and their four children. These last names were the only ones that sent a prickle of irritation through me; I had treated the Hart family for quite a number of complaints, had got on very well with them, and could see no reason at all why they should want to change their doctor. I should be most interested to know why they had all given their cards to Doctor Compton, and would keep a close eye on number 93981.
Refreshed by my two weeks’ holiday, I did my morning surgery with new zest. I was polite to everybody, listened without irritation to the longest of long-drawn-out and roundabout histories, and positively exuded bonhomie.
My first patient was a Teddy boy wearing narrow black trousers, a jacket which nearly reached his knees, bright yellow socks and a tie which looked like a piece of black string. His luxuriant growth of hair was dressed in the popular style known, I was told, as the “elephant’s trunk.” The name of this vision was Richard Tenby, commonly known as “Rocky,” and I had been treating him for a long time for headaches. I had been unable to find a cause for his complaint, and although I suspected the headaches were functional rather than organic in origin, I had recently referred him to the Hospital for Diseases of the Nervous System for further investigation. This was the first time I had seen him since then.
“Well, Rocky,” I said, when he was sitting in front of me, “how did you get on?”
“OK,” he said.
“Tell me what happened.”
“Well, I see the doc first, see, and ’e arsks me all sorts of things about meself and me work and I tells him I’m a coach- builder, see. So ’e says well I spec you take it too much to heart see, too fussy like. So I says nah! So ’e says well tell me ackcherly wot you do. So I says I puts in the four screws wot goes under the panels. So ’e says well I spec you very fussy that you got ’em in exackly right, worrying like! So I says nah! I couldn’t care less ’cos after the panel’s on yer can’t even see ’em. So ’e says Oh! Then ’e sticks some pins in me and says can yer feel ’em and I says blimey yes. Then arter that I goes down to where some bird puts wires all over me ’ead and tests me brain, then arter she’s finished mucking me abaht I gotta go to the gym see. Well in the gym there’s another bird and she throws me a football to relax she says. So I throws it back to ’er and she throws it back to me again. I throws it back to ’er again then arter a bit she says you do this better than wot I do and I says well I do it every Satdey arternoon so she says you don’t need to relax so we packs it up.”
“Then what happened?” I said.
“Then I come ’ome.”
“Oh!” I said, “then I’ll be getting a report from the doctor you saw shortly. What can I do for you now.”
“Well,” he said, “I come abaht me ’eadaches!”
After Rocky Tenby, Mrs Goodwin came in with her baby, who seemed to be suffering, she said, from stomach-ache. She had given him a “powder,” but it had seemed to have no effect.
From time immemorial it has been one of a mother’s prerogatives to prescribe medicaments for her offspring without taking medical advice. With the advent of the National Health Service and “free” attention from the doctor, this practice is only a little less common than before. I was always interested to discover how very many of my infant patients received unprescribed medicines for internal use during their first year of life. These medicines consisted in the main of gripe water, teething powders and mixtures, cough mixtures (often the good old-fashioned, home-made mixture of black treacle and vinegar), aspirin and aperients, the old belief in the efficacy of which dies hard. The infants at the receiving end of these administrations seemed to survive the various brews poured with mother’s good faith at various times down their unprotesting throats. They were at any rate a great deal luckier than many children in rural districts of France who, up till not so very long ago, were made to eat omelettes containing finely minced-up grilled mouse if they unfortunate enough to be bed-wetters, a broth of earthworms for worm infestations, or a syrup made of snails or slugs for whooping cough.
Grandma was still, of course, a great believer in red flannel, overheating and copious “rubbings-in” of the chest. It was often only when all else this good lady did had failed that I was telephoned to enquire whether I was “sitting,” “serving,” or “practising” that day.
I dealt with Baby Goodwin’s stomach-ache on slightly more orthodox lines, then started to hurry things up a bit since, according to Mrs Goodwin, the waiting-room was packed.
When I had finished it was after eleven. I did the two most urgent visits on my list, then thought that I had better go and see the Hon. Mrs Magnus-Wight, since Wilfred had promised her I would be there before twelve. At five to twelve I rang the bell of her luxurious flat in West Street. A parlourmaid, the genuine article, not a refugee from Bolney Thatch like our Emily, opened the door and led me into the hall where, she said, I was to wait. “Meddem,” she said, scarcely allowing her lips to part and looking at me with the greatest disapproval, was “in the bath.”
I looked ostentatiously at my watch and decided I would give her a few minutes. I was aware that I was now dealing with a different type of patient, who was willing to pay a large fee for the privilege of seeing the doctor at her own convenience. I could not, as I did with my Health Scheme practice, run up the stairs two at a time, listening to the history from mother or relative as I went, examine the patient, prescribe and rush down and out again into the car. The Hon. Mrs Magnus-Wight was paying for the same treatment but with different trimmings. In her case one would have to “hurry slowly,” giving her the impression that she was my one and only patient and concern. She was paying for me to turn up when she was ready to receive me and would cut me off without a shilling if I turned up, as I often did to my other patients, when I was very busy, before the morning surgery, catching them with the curlers still in their hair and a night-rumpled bed. Usually, once they had recovered from the initial shock of my intrusion and given up trying to unwind their hair when my back was turned, they were only too pleased to get such prompt attention. Not so with the Mrs Magnus-Wights. The GP must wait in the ink-blue-carpeted hall, most probably, I suspected, for no reason at all. The slightest deviation from the norm would, I was sure, require more specialised attention, more letters after the name.
The parlourmaid rustled back and forth to the bedroom. Once with a vase of flowers, once with a cup of coffee, once just to see what I was up to. Since I was picking up a Sèvres ashtray from the table at the time to examine it more clo
sely, she probably felt her vigilance justified.
At a quarter past twelve I was joined by a frayed-cuffed companion, who was placed in a chair facing me. He informed me that he had come to “chune the pianner” and enquired whether they had given me a cup of tea.
At twelve-thirty I decided that I had waited long enough and prowled down the corridor, my feet sinking into the carpet, in search of the ray of sunshine who had let me in. She gave me a scathing look for my impatience but said that “Meddem” would see me now.
The Hon. Mrs Magnus-Wight was draped in blue velvet on a chaise longue draped in pink velvet. She was on the telephone. I put my case down on the bed, from where it was promptly snatched by the parlourmaid and plonked on the floor, and prowled round the room making impatient noises. A lily-white hand waved me imperiously to a tiny, squiggly, pink velvet chair by the door. I ignored the invitation and continued prowling. I waited while she agreed to provide a case of whisky for the tombola at the charity dance – “…when I think of those poor blind babies it makes my blood run cold…” – that Philippe was certainly the only hairdresser to go to now, absolutely no one who was anyone went to Maurice any more, and that certainly they would all go together to that new American musical – “afterwards supper at the Rose Room, yes?”
My prowlings grew noisier and noisier and after she had said “Darling, I really must go now,” for about the fifteenth time, she put the phone down.
Turning to me, she looked down her nose and held out her hand.
“Well,” she snapped, “have you brought the patterns?”
She was looking at my case. For a moment I wondered whether she had expected me to provide her with samples of various illnesses from which she could choose one that sounded attractive.
“What patterns?” I said.
“For the curtains. I’ve no time to waste this morning. You are from Staples, aren’t you?”
I explained that I was not from Staples and told her who I was, and she looked only slightly less annoyed. She was still mystified until I mentioned Wilfred. She thought for a long moment and then said: “Oh! Willie Pankrest! Now I remember. Of course it was Willie who told me about you. You cured that ghastly bore Lord ffanshaw of his boils, I believe; some new stuff, something ‘ozone,’ wasn’t it?”
Love on My List Page 7
