In the kitchen Iris and Sylvia were sitting with cups of tea talking, as they usually were, babies. I told Sylvia what I wanted her to do, and she got up. Coming round the table, Iris pushed her gently back into the chair and looked at me disgustedly.
“You can’t let her come into the surgery and pull and push,” she said vehemently. “What about the baby?” She untied her apron. “I’ll come and help you.”
Iris, of course, was right. I had completely forgotten about the baby. In the hall Iris stood on her toes to look in the mirror and pat her hair.
“Come on,” I said impatiently, “you’re only going to hold his shoulders for me, not dance with him.”
Iris giggled.
I explained to Mr Westbeech that Irish would sit on the side of the couch and pull his shoulders as hard as she could towards her while I, from the foot of the couch, would try again to pull his head towards me. If I could manage to get his neck extended sufficiently, his disc should slip gently back into position.
Iris wriggled herself into place on the couch and took a grim hold on the broad shoulders of the suffering Mr Westbeech. Gently but firmly I began to pull his head towards me with both hands. I was red in the face with exertion and Iris was tugging with all her might. Between the two of us Mr Westbeech closed his eyes and hoped for the best. The neck was still not fully extended. I pulled a little harder: Iris, unable to pull as hard as I, lost her grip and fell into the arms of Mr Westbeech, who yelled with pain as his neck retracted into its former painful position.
“Oh! Iris!” I said reproachfully, although it hadn’t been her fault, poor girl. She reddened and lifted her head off Mr Westbeech’s camel-haired waistcoat.
“Sorry,” she said.
Mr Westbeech sighed.
“Sorry, old man,” I said; “we’ll try again once more. If we don’t manage it this time I’ll have to send you to the orthopædic hospital. They’ve a special harness there for this job.”
Sweating from the exertion, I took off my jacket and rolled up my sleeves. Iris sat down again on the couch and Mr Westbeech clenched his fists.
“Right,” I said to Iris. “Pull!”
The second hand of the wall clock slid silently round. My forehead was damp, Iris was pale with determination not to lose her grip, and Mr Westbeech was moaning softly. Suddenly there was a “click.” The disc, I hoped, had returned to its normal position. Very slowly I released the tension on his neck. Iris sat up and pushed back the hair from her eyes. I told Mr Westbeech to rest for a moment and then, very carefully, try to sit up. By the time I had my jacket on he was sitting up and turning his head gingerly from side to side.
“It’s gone!” he said disbelievingly. “It’s absolutely gone! That’s terrific, Doctor. It was so painful. I just reached up to a high shelf to get a book and I couldn’t turn my head back again.” He sat there rubbing his neck and flexing it.
“You should be all right now,” I said; “but this condition does recur occasionally once it’s happened. Try to avoid any sudden head movements for a day or two until it’s had a chance to settle down.”
He stood up. “Thanks again, Doctor. I will.”
He turned to Iris and grinned. “Thanks for your help.”
“Not at all.” Irish blushed. “Sorry for squashing you.”
“It would have been a great pleasure at any other time.”
I thought it was time I brought the interview to an end, and opened the door.
Iris darted forward and picked two long red hairs from Mr Westbeech’s waistcoat.
“Your wife might not believe where they came from,” she said.
Mr Westbeech winked at her. “I’m not married,” he said; “but thanks all the same.”
Ten
Faraday, Tessa Brindley, the Lovedays, Molly and her boyfriend all said they would be delighted to come to dinner with us. Sylvia was no longer feeling ill at the sight or mention of food and we had decided on the menu. It was to be nothing too ambitious, as Humphrey Mallow had come to the conclusion that Sylvia did have essential hypertension and that it was important for her to get as much rest as possible. We had told her that it was necessary for her to take care, and she was cheerfully co-operative.
At breakfast-time on the day before the dinner party Sylvia said: “I hope you’re going to get your hair cut before to-morrow.”
“Impossible,” I said. “I haven’t a moment today, and to-morrow is early closing. It’ll have to wait until next week.” I put my mind back to the letter I was reading about a patient.
“Go somewhere where it isn’t early closing,” Sylvia said.
I looked at her in surprise. “Don’t be ridiculous. Bob Flower’s been cutting my hair ever since I came here. I couldn’t possibly go anywhere else, any more than he would consult another doctor. Bob would be most offended. In addition to which, I haven’t got the time.” I picked up the letter again. “Anyway, I only had it cut last week,” I said finally.
“Last month, you mean. Sweetie, you can’t possibly look like that for tomorrow. Not when you’re the host. You’ll just have to find a moment.”
“They’re not going to eat me,” I said. “And whatever I look like, Faraday’s seen me far worse and, for that matter, so have the Lovedays. Before I was married I hardly ever used to get my hair cut at all; I always forgot. As for Tessa Brindley, she’s not coming here to look at me, so I really can’t see that it matters all that much.”
“Well, it matters to me,” Sylvia said, tears in her voice. “I don’t want my husband sitting at the top of the table with hair down to his shoulders.”
I sighed. “Don’t exaggerate, darling. It’s not as bad as all that!”
“It’s worse,” Sylvia said.
As her pregnancy advanced and I watched Sylvia becoming more and more emotional and excited over trifles, I realised I was now getting first-hand experience of what I had previously only heard in the surgery. “My wife’s impossible, Doctor,” the expectant fathers would tell me. “She gets upset at everything and turns on the taps at the slightest possible excuse. Is that normal?” “Absolutely,” I’d say airily. “You must understand that women are emotionally disturbed at this time. You must just be extra patient and extra kind, and try not to upset her.”
“You will make time, won’t you, Sweetie?” Sylvia pleaded, and I felt the glib words I had handed out so casually to patients blow back in my face. “She’s emotionally disturbed,” I told myself, “and you must be a little extra kind.” I was so rushed that I didn’t see how I could possibly take an hour off in the middle of the afternoon to get my hair cut.
“I’ll try,” I said, and saw her face clear. “I’ll really try.”
Iris put her head round the door.
“Doctor,” she said, “it’s nearly ten past nine and the waiting-room is packed. I think you’d better start. There’s already six visits on the list and you’ll never get through.”
I grinned at Sylvia. Whatever misdemeanour I committed, I could always defend myself with Iris. Since I had brought her back with me from Edinburgh she had more than made up for Bridget and Emily, and was worth twice as much as we paid her.
She was always cheerful and unafraid of work, and took a personal interest in the house and practice. Her faults were bearable. She was inclined to be too “matey,” frequently walking into the bedroom without knocking, and cheerfully giving her unsolicited advice when Sylvia and I were discussing something when she was within earshot, and she often took it upon herself to diagnose and prescribe for the patients rather than disturb me. I was tired of telling her that she mustn’t give advice off her own bat, but all she’d do was grin and say: “I wouldn’t dream of bothering you with some of the things they phone up for.” I had already caught her prescribing porridge for a swallowed farthing, hot milk and whisky for a cold, and a bread poultice for what turned out to be mumps. Iris was quite unrepentant and said if she had her way she could cut down my visits by half.
To Sylvia she
was indispensable, dancing round her all day in case she lifted something that was too heavy, and insisting that she put her feet up whenever she could. For all this Sylvia could forgive her for the raids on her nail-varnish and the fact that when we went out Iris tried on every garment in her wardrobe and put them back none too tidily. We had both grown fond of her and hoped that her itchy feet would not lure her away too soon. She had promised, at any rate, to stay until the baby was born.
I hadn’t been kidding Sylvia about not having time to get my hair cut. The practice had suddenly got very busy and I seemed to have a lot of really ill people on my hands all at once. It was difficult to make up my mind which visit to do first. I hesitated between a small child with severe stomach pains accompanied by vomiting and a high temperature, and an old man who seemed to his wife to be extremely ill. I decided to have a look at the child first.
I was just driving away from the house, having prescribed for the child and reassured the mother that there was no acute surgical emergency, when I heard a bicycle bell pealing urgently and coming nearer. Looking in the mirror I saw a red-haired girl on a bike pedalling furiously towards me and waving one arm in the air. I stopped and stuck my head out of the window as Iris drew up. Her skirt was above her knees, she was out of breath, and her face was nearly as red as her hair.
“Thank goodness I caught you,” she said, panting to regain her breath. “I thought you’d be doing the stomach pains first, so I took a chance.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Mr Johnson, 55 Buckhurst, just came round with his lorry,” she gasped. “He says that Mr Melrose hasn’t gone to work this morning and the children haven’t gone to school. He went next door to see what was the matter, but there was no reply. He couldn’t open the door, all the windows were shut up tight, and there was a smell of gas coming from the letter box. I think you’d better hurry.”
I revved up. “I will,” I said. “Thanks, Iris.” The rest of the calls would just have to wait a little.
Outside fifty-seven Buckhurst Crescent a police car and a fire engine had already drawn up, summoned, no doubt, by the neighbours, who stood in a little headscarfed group round the front door.
A fireman with a mask round his face was breaking in the front door. The neighbours, sharp eyes in apprehensive faces, watched him silently. The milkman, drawing up in his electric-motored float, got out, whistling, two pint bottles under his arm.
“Wassermarrer?”
“Dunno…”
“Never went to work this morning…”
“Kids never went to school…”
“Smell o’ gas…”
The milkman, now in the picture, stayed to watch, the bottles still under his arm.
The door open, the little group pushed noisily forward to peer into the dark passage. The police officer put out an official arm and told them to stand back.
I stood on the dirty red step waiting until the masked fireman who had gone in gave the all-clear.
I could not help feeling apprehensive. Mr Melrose had lost his wife a year ago. She had died from disseminated sclerosis, a progressive disease through which her husband, with the help of the neighbours, had nursed her throughout her last bed-ridden months.
Since her death Melrose, a little, harassed man in his early forties, had run the house by himself and looked after the eight-year-old twin girls. I had seen him in the surgery a few weeks ago, when he had consulted me about his headaches and he had told me that he was worried about losing his job. He was a panel-beater in a factory, and there had been rumours that some of the workers might be laid off during the summer months. Standing obediently on the step, waiting for the all-clear from the fireman, I hoped that his responsibilities had not proved too much for the quiet, overburdened little man.
“OK, Doc!” a voice yelled from upstairs. “Put yer ’ankerchief rahnd yer fice.”
I did as I was told and followed the police officer up the carpetless stairs.
In the front room, fully clothed on the large double bed, lay Mr Melrose, blue-faced and looking smaller than ever. On either side of him, but in their nightclothes, beneath greyish blankets, the twins seemingly slept. The gas fire, now innocently silent, had, the fireman told us, been hissing steadily, full on. Together we lifted Mr Melrose on to the floor and pulled back the blankets to look at the little girls. Mr Melrose was alive, but only just; I doubted whether it was possible to save him. One little girl was still breathing faintly, but her sister appeared to be dead.
I started artificial respiration on Mr Melrose and instructed the police officer and the fireman to do the same to the little girls while we waited for the ambulance.
By the time it came it was obvious that nothing could be done for the little girl who was dead, and it seemed unlikely that the other one would survive. Mr Melrose, however, on whom I had been working, seemed to be breathing a little better and I thought that he might have a faint chance. The ambulance men now undertook to keep up the rhythmic resuscitative movement on Mr Melrose and the one child all the way to the hospital.
We carried them out past the women huddled on the front path and into the ambulance which, with its anxious bell, had drawn more women on to their doorsteps and others to their windows. They watched it drive quickly down the road, and not until it had turned the corner did their tongues loosen.
“Might ’ave bin an accident…”
“Them poor kids…”
“Was ’e dead?…”
“Look, there was paper in the winders…”
“Puts me in mind of my Sydney when they took him away.”
The milkman, still clutching his two bottles under his arms, went his way, his whistle forgotten, his face sad.
I went back into the house for my case. In the bedroom, now blown through with clean air from the open windows, the policeman was filling his small book with meticulous notes.
“What a bloody thing to do!” he said, looking at the rumpled, grubby bed.
“It wasn’t accidental, then?”
He picked up the strips of newspaper which Melrose had stuffed under the door.
“Doesn’t look like it.” He wrote something down. “I’ve got a kid that age myself. What’s he like – Melrose?”
“Just an ordinary sort of chap,” I said. “His wife died. Perhaps he found life too much.”
“Perhaps he did. But to try to get rid of the youngsters…”
There was nothing more I could do. I left him measuring up and making notes and went off to finish my visits. It was difficult to remove from my mind the image of Mr Melrose and his two little girls, lying silently on the sad-looking bed.
The day progressed badly. The old man, whose wife had thought he looked extremely ill, turned out to have pneumonia; Mrs Douthwaite had a sudden hæmoptysis, and I had to hang on the phone for over half an hour trying to get her admitted to hospital. At five o’clock I got the news that both the little Melrose girls were dead but that Melrose himself looked as if he would recover. When I considered the future the poor man had now to face I could feel no elation at the thought that I had probably saved his life.
Without having had a moment to relax all day, I began the evening surgery. An hour after my normal closing time I buzzed for the last patient. It was Bob Flower. At the sight of him I put a guilty hand to the long hair crawling down my neck.
“Hallo, Bob,” I said. “I should have been in to get my hair cut this week, but I haven’t had a moment.”
“I know,” Bob said. “I met your wife at lunch-time in the High Street.”
“Sit down,” I said, stamping the date on a prescription pad – Bob usually needed a fresh prescription for his asthma tablets – “and tell me what the trouble is.”
He remained standing. “No trouble,” he said, and, reaching into his pockets, took out a comb and two pairs of scissors and put them on my desk.
“What on earth are you doing, Bob?”
He went over to the basin and took a clean towel
from where he knew I kept them, in the cupboard underneath. Coming towards me, he put it round my shoulders. “Cutting your hair,” he said, and picked up the scissors and comb. “If Mohammed won’t come to the mountain…”
I sat back relaxed. “All right, Bob,” I said. “Carry on.”
“You want to make some money tomorrow?” he asked, snipping skilfully. “Rose Marie in the three-thirty. One of my regulars gave it to me…”
It was not unpleasant to sit in the surgery and listen to somebody else doing the talking.
It had been a hectic day. Sylvia, against my better judgement, persuaded me to go to bed half an hour earlier than usual.
“I hate doing this,” I grumbled as I took my shirt off, “because whenever I decide to go to bed early I have to get out again. It’s always best to wait until most of the patients have gone to bed, then you know that they won’t suddenly discover that little Johnny is breathing heavily, or swallow a fish bone while they’re having a late snack.”
Sylvia laughed. “I’m sure they won’t this evening,” she said. “There seems to be nothing else that can happen.”
But there was. I had just switched off the light, opened the curtains, opened the window, tripped over the waste-paper basket and got one leg between the sheets when the phone rang. When I’d taken the message I took my leg out of bed, tripped over the waste-paper basket, closed the window, closed the curtains, switched on the light and took out my night-call pullover. “I must remember to put a bulb in the bedside lamp,” I said to Sylvia, but she had hidden her head beneath the bedclothes with shame. “Shan’t be long,” I said, patting the mound that she made in the covers; “don’t go to sleep.”
Love on My List Page 9
