Doctor at Large

The nurse was needed only to show patients from the waiting-room to the consulting-room, and was dressed in a white uniform so crisp and sparkling that she always appeared to have been just unwrapped from cellophane. She was also one of the prettiest girls I had ever met, which had spurred me to start a cosy conversation of hospital reminiscences during my first morning's work.

'I haven't actually been a nurse in hospital, darling,' she told me. 'Of course, I looked after my poor sister when she was poorly, but I'm not what you'd calf an invalid's nurse. Razzy's such a sweet, he gave me the job because he said I looked the part. I played a nurse once, in _Men in White._ Did you see it?'

I said no.

'After all, darling, it's not as if anyone we saw here was ill. We just don't have those sort of patients, do we, darling?'

She was right: most of our practice consisted of old gentlemen wondering if they could take out more life insurance, young gentlemen wondering if they'd caught unfortunate diseases, and young women wondering if they were pregnant. Anyone seriously ill was immediately sent north of Oxford Street to the consultants who kept in most successfully with Razzy. It was St Swithin's casualty-room again, first class; but even Dr Hockett's practice would have been bearable with three Rolls-Royces.

Everyone seemed to like Razzy, and I soon became as fond of him as the rest of his employees. He was a shrewd clinician who had the supreme medical gift of always knowing whether a patient was really ill or not; he was an equally shrewd business man, whose polite patter about money always made people give him more and accept less. The only faintly shady part of the practice was our electrocardiograph, an instrument for taking electrical records of the heart, which represented the conflict between Razzy the doctor and Razzy the financier: he knew that as a diagnostic aid it was almost useless, but he hated not seeing a return on his capital. It was an old model, as untidy as an experimental television set, but every time he set out on a professional visit the electrocardiograph followed in its Rolls. The only occasion I saw Razzy looking worried after the case of the Duke's corn plasters was the morning he returned from an urgent call to a newspaper owner, who had suffered a stroke in the bathroom.

'A near thing, dear boy,' he told me, as he came through the door shaking his head. 'A damn near thing,'

'What, did you pull him through?'

'Oh, no, the old boy's dead. But I only got the electrocardiograph there in the nick of time.'

Our most constant, and most profitable, patients in the practice were several dozen neurotic women, all of whom were in love with Razzy. He had long, soothing telephone conversations with them frequently during the day, and they often appeared dramatically at the front door in the evening, dressed up like an advertisement for Cartier's.

'Yes, of course, they're in love with me, dear boy,' he stated one day. 'Speaking quite objectively, it's the only thing that keeps most of them from suicide. What else would you expect me to do?'

'But surely, Razzy,' I protested, 'don't you sometimes find it rather awkward?'

'Not in the least, dear boy. I don't have to be in love with them.'_

My spell in Razzy's practice was delightful; I soon forgot Dr Hockett, Jasmine, and the Wilkins family, and even managed to shift Wilson, Willowick, and Wellbeloved from the front of my mind. Although I was never allowed to treat the aristocracy again, he let me try my hand at a few actors and an M.P. or two, until I had worked my way so deeply into the practice that a reminder of my impermanence came as a shock.

'I'm seeing my partner tomorrow,' Razzy said one Saturday morning, when I had been with him over two months. 'He's coming along famously. Absolutely famously. We'll have him back in another few weeks.'

'I'm glad,' I lied.

'And I expect you're simply itching to get back to the Himalayas again, aren't you, dear boy?'

'Well, not itching exactly-'

'I'm so pleased you came to help us out. You've done terribly well, you know. All my old dears think the world of you. The wife of that Coal Board fellow told me yesterday you were a pet.'

'I'll certainly be sorry to leave. I've even thought of having a go at a practice somewhere round here myself.'

For a second Razzy's eyes narrowed. 'I wouldn't advise it, dear boy. I really wouldn't. It's quite a dog's life really. The struggle to get started-terrible! And the competition. Most frightful. You'd be far better off in the Himalayas.'

There were no patients waiting, so we stood for a while looking silently out of the window. It was a brilliant spring day, the buds on the trees in Hyde Park were straining like hatching chicks, the passers-by were stepping along jauntily without their overcoats, and even the Park Lane traffic smelt warmly exciting.

'Spring, dear boy' said Razzy with a contented sigh, as if hearing that a millionaire had fallen a couple of floors down our lift-shaft. He stayed watching the people hurrying away for their week-ends. 'Do you know, dear boy, I haven't had an afternoon off since I met that fellow Grimsdyke at the races? That's the sort of practice we're in. Always on tap. It's what they pay for I suppose.' After a pause he added, 'I know it's your free afternoon, but I wondered if you'd care to do a little fort-holding?'

'More than delighted, Razzy. Honestly.'

'Bless you, dear boy. Then I'm off to Sunningdale. I'll dine out and turn up about midnight in case there are any messages. Everyone will be out of town on a week-end like this, anyway.'

After lunch he changed into flannels, rang up a well-known film actress and persuaded her to keep him company, picked up his clubs, and set off for the links in the number one Rolls. Alone in the flat, I slipped off my shoes and sprawled on the soft curtained couch used for examining patients in the consulting-room. Beside me I arranged a pile of the _New Yorker_ and _Life, Recent Advances in Surgery,_ a reprint of _The Citadel,_ a box of chocolates I'd found in the secretary's desk, and the bottle of _Cordon Bleu_ brandy kept in the medicine cupboard. I hoped that Razzy had an enjoyable day off, but I saw no reason for working on a Saturday afternoon myself in discomfort.

Before he had been away half an hour the door-bell rang. I jumped up, pulled on my shoes, swiftly pushed my comforts under the couch, and opened the door. On the mat was a tall, amiable looking man with a droopy white moustache, who wore a tweed suit and carried a heavy dispatch-case embossed with the Royal cypher in gold.

'Good afternoon,' he said pleasantly. 'I have an appointment with Dr Potter-Phipps.'

I looked puzzled.

'My private secretary arranged it earlier in the week. I'm afraid Saturday afternoon is my only free time at present. I hope it is not unduly inconvenient for the doctor?'

'I'm terribly sorry, but there's been a mistake,' I said, letting him in. 'Dr Potter-Phipps is away at the moment. I'm his assistant. Just a minute, and I'll look at the book.'

'Thank you. My name is Beecham. It seemed simpler to call here than to ask him to visit me.' He smiled. 'And no doubt more economical.'

'But I'm afraid the appointment was made for next Saturday.'

'Oh, dear! How infuriating. This is not the first time such a mistake has occurred. And next Saturday I shall be in Edinburgh.' He assessed me. 'Perhaps I could have a consultation with you instead, Doctor? I did rather want to be off to the country this lovely afternoon.'

'I should be very pleased,' I told him, with a brief bow. 'Kindly come into the consulting-room.'

'You will be wanting my medical history first, no doubt,' he went on, as he sat down. 'I have it specially tabulated in my mind. Age, sixty-one. Married. Occupation, cabinet minister. Usual childhood complaints. I'm not going too fast?'