Doctor in the nest, p.1
Doctor In the Nest, page 1
Copyright & Information
Doctor in the Nest
First published in 1979
© Richard Gordon; House of Stratus 1979-2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of Richard Gordon to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2012 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
EAN ISBN Edition
1842325132 9781842325131 Print
0755130723 9780755130726 Kindle
0755131037 9780755131037 Epub
0755146956 9780755146956 Epdf
This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
www.houseofstratus.com
About the Author
Richard Gordon, real name Dr. Gordon Stanley Ostlere, was born in England on 15 September 1921. He is best-known for his hilarious ‘Doctor’ books. Himself a qualified doctor, he worked as an anaesthetist at the famous St. Bartholomew’s Hospital (where he was also a medical student) and later as a ship’s surgeon, before leaving medical practice in 1952 to take up writing full time. Many of his books are based on his own true experiences in the medical profession and are all told with the wry wit and candid humour that have become his hallmark.
In all, there are eighteen titles in the Doctor Series, with further comic writings in another seven volumes, including ‘Great Medical Disasters’ and ‘Great Medical Mysteries’, plus more serious works concerning the lives of medical practitioners.
He has also published several technical books under his own name, mainly concerned with anaesthetics for both students and patients. Additionally, he has written on gardening, fishing and cricket and was also a regular contributor to Punch magazine. His ‘Private Lives’ series, taking in Dr. Crippen, Jack the Ripper and Florence Nightingale, has been widely acclaimed.
The enormous success of Doctor in the House, first published in the 1950’s, startled its author. It was written whilst he was a surgeon aboard a cargo ship, prior to a spell as an academic anaesthetist at Oxford. His only previous literary experience had been confined to work as an assistant editor of the British Medical Journal. There was, perhaps, a foretaste of things to come whilst working on the Journal as the then editor, finding Gordon somewhat jokey, put him in charge of the obituaries!
The film of Doctor in the House uniquely recovered its production costs whilst still showing at the cinema in London’s West End where it had been premiered. This endeared him to the powerful Rank Organisation who made eight films altogether of his works, which were followed by a then record-breaking TV series, and further stage productions.
Richard Gordon’s books have been translated into twenty languages.
He married a doctor and they had four children, two of whom became house surgeons. He now lives in London.
Chapter One
As a virtuous surgeon and unswerving patriot, Sir Lancelot Spratt kept faith with the British National Health service until the morning his operating-theatre ceiling collapsed. It had already been a dreadful day.
At six a.m., his bedside telephone had rung.
‘Spratt here.’ His brain was instantly scalpel-sharp, tempered by a lifetime of arousal to impending surgical catastrophe.
‘Sir Lancelot? Good morning,’ came a pleasant male voice. ‘What’s the weather like?’
Sir Lancelot’s eye turned appraisingly to his bedroom window. ‘I should say clear, with some patchy high cloud. Temperature, about fifteen degrees Centigrade. There appears every possibility of a fine June day.’ He roared into the mouthpiece, ‘If you want a prognosis on the weather, you necrotic little nuisance, whoever you may be, dial the Meteorological Office instead of breaking into the valuable sleep of an expensive consultant surgeon.’
‘This is Chipps, sir. Pip Chipps.’
Sir Lancelot’s groan rang across the bedroom.
‘Where I am, sir, it’s dreadfully hot.’
Sir Lancelot’s face brightened. Was it possible, through the tantalising mysteries of extrasensory perception, to communicate with the afterlife? ‘Where are you?’ he asked hopefully.
‘In Nairobi.’
‘And what, pray, grips you with an impulse to telephone me from darkest Africa at six in the morning?’
‘Six? Oh, sorry, sir. I’d forgotten the time-change. We’ve just finished our paw-paws. Auntie Florrie suggested that I got in touch with you.’
Sir Lancelot’s groan rang across four thousand miles. Auntie Florrie had been matron of the St Swithin’s private patients’ wing. During the past year, she had won charge of St Sepulchre’s Hospital, a subsidiary of St Swithin’s, where its patients could be diverted and its students taught, some ten miles away in the London suburbs. She burnt with a passion for Sir Lancelot which she believed to be secret, but was as familiar to the staff of both institutions as the items on the canteen menu. He would inevitably be facing her within the next four hours.
‘I’m coming home, sir,’ Dr Phillip Chipps announced cheerfully on the telephone.
‘You’re bloody not,’ Sir Lancelot told him vigorously. ‘You remember perfectly well our bargain over your surgery finals. I’d pass you, if you’d take yourself instantly to some clinical St Helena. I regarded your permanent exile precisely like Napoleon’s, essential for the health of Europe.’
‘Only on leave, sir,’ Pip explained quickly. ‘We’re arriving on Monday week. You’ve never met the wife—’
‘Of course I’ve met her, you fool. I distinctly remember thinking her much too good for you. I was invited to dine in that little flat of yours behind the St Swithin’s laundry – moussaka, and you might have done better than that half-bottle of Hungarian Riesling. Hello? Hello? Still there, Nairobi?’
There was a long silence. ‘Er—yes, sir.’
‘I’m delighted to hear that you are shortly to enjoy a refreshing holiday, Chipps. But I fail to see why you could not have announced the event with a picture-postcard, instead of imparting it at such expense.’
‘The point is, sir,’ he continued awkwardly, ‘auntie thought you might be able to fix me up with some lucrative and not overworked locum job for a month. You know, standing in for some family doctor who’s off on his own summer hols. I rather would like somewhere pleasant,’ Pip enlarged. ‘The Cotswolds, perhaps? The seaside? The Highlands of Scotland would suit nicely. Oh, and somewhere where my wife and I can live over the shop. You see, I don’t earn enough out here in Kenya to save up for expensive holidays. My work is reward enough in itself. Or is supposed to be.’
‘I am not a blasted medical temps’ bureau. And if I were, I wouldn’t offer you a job doctoring tom-cats.’
Pip said pleadingly, ‘But Auntie Florrie told me that you rather enjoyed putting yourself out to help your former students.’
‘Not a student of such ignorance, ineptitude and indolence that he stood out even in a place like St Swithin’s.’
‘Auntie Florrie—’
‘Your Aunt Florence incites in me a peculiar reflex. Every time she opens her mouth, she gives me a pain in the arse. Good morning.’
Sir Lancelot replaced the telephone.
He lay thoughtfully in his striped pyjamas, hands clasped over the dome of his belly. In his massive oak four-poster bed, his father had breathed his last and he himself his first. He too would probably die in it. Sir Lancelot saw himself as a traditionalist. In the less patient glance of others, he was a hideous old fogey.
A breeze stirred the net curtain of his first-floor bedroom. His narrow terrace house looked across a cramped walled back garden, its roses standing in ranks and its lawn clipped as tidily as a marine’s haircut. Beyond towered the new white buildings of St Swithin’s itself, which had first treated the sick on the same spot in the unruly times of King Stephen.
He noticed lights shining, forgotten. Hospital night was turning officially to morning. Crumpled nurses would be replaced by crisp day-staff, the patients shaken awake with a heartening cup of tea. A hospital is like the army, Sir Lancelot reflected. The consultants were the remote generals, unflaggingly busy and professionally infallible – what was the point in patients or privates thinking otherwise, when no one else held the threads of their lives? The registrars and housemen were the officers, the nurses the brisk NCOs, the backbone of the force. The patients were the poor bloody infantry, trying to cheer each other up as they crouched under the surgical shellfire. Unfortunately, it was now the unionised NAAFI assistants who could bring the battle to an instant halt.
It was too bright to sleep, too early to rise. He reached for a thick paperback from his bedside table. Its plain glossy white cover said in stark black:
SHRINK
AMELIA WITHERSPOON.
It was not Sir Lancelot’s usual reading, but like all successful men of action he knew the value of dilige
Within an hour he rose, bathed, shaved, donned the dark suit and white shirt which he felt befitted his profession, and went downstairs with the foreboding which clouded the sunniest mornings increasingly thickly.
The French windows of his small, square dining-room stood open to the walled garden. He was sitting sipping coffee at the circular table when the door opened.
‘Aye, noo, and what’s this? Ye no care for your smokie, then?’ Miss MacNish, the housekeeper who shared Sir Lancelot’s home, took his plate of uneaten fish as though it were a personal insult.
‘That yellow-dyed, deep-frozen, machine-filleted haddock bears as little relation to a real finnan haddie as catfood to caviar.’
‘Ye dinna eat your haggis wi’ bashed tatties I did specially for you last night,’ she continued accusingly.
‘I regard Scottish cuisine, consisting as it does largely of oatmeal and offal, interesting only in accounting for the poor physique and worse teeth of many Scotsmen.’
Miss MacNish was short, pale, slight and gingery. She had arrived in London with a Scottish accent as pure and sweet as Edinburgh rock. Now she achieved the glottal obscurity of a Glasgow Rangers’ supporter on a Saturday night. Many Scots doctors were similarly affected, Sir Lancelot recalled resignedly. Perhaps they imagined that the accent breathed heather-scented, Presbyterian wholesomeness through the sickly London air. Or perhaps it was something to do with the television shows. Miss MacNish drew herself up in the doorway like a piece of elastic. ‘Very well, Sir Lancelot,’ she told him. ‘If you are not satisfied with my cooking, with my housekeeping, in short with my devoting my life to you—’
‘My dear Miss MacNish!’ He always found himself plunging into humility, like a shot grouse into the gorse. He could not live without Miss MacNish. He would have to wash his own socks and boil his own eggs, a drudgery he had abandoned as gratefully as replenishing the midnight oil when ceasing to be a student. It was ludicrous, but a man of his importance and effectiveness could be reduced to baffled immobilisation in the morning by the lack of a shirt-sleeve button. ‘I assure you that I meant to be neither unappreciative nor uncivil—’
‘I shall be perfectly happy to quit this house, Sir Lancelot. Forever. Before lunchtime.’
‘Possibly I am a little tetchy this morning,’ he grovelled. ‘I was woken at six, by some idiot raving at me from Nairobi.’
‘Ye need a good hot meal inside you, afore ye go to do your surgery,’ she said, glaring at the cold haddock.
‘As I am constantly advising others about their diets,’ he protested mildly, ‘might I perhaps be trusted with my own?’
‘Och, it needs a woman to tell such things.’
‘Indeed, yes. I know you have only my welfare at heart, Miss MacNish. May I promise that I have yours?’ He hesitated. All women presented personality problems, which unfortunately he could not solve by the practical methods of Henry the Eighth. ‘It might be advantageous if I arranged for you to see a colleague at St Swithin’s.’
‘Why? I’m as fit as a wee flea.’
‘One must not overlook the onset of the menopause—’
‘How dare you!’ She looked as though he had uttered some filthy expression. To Sir Lancelot’s relief, the doorbell rang. She slammed down the plate. She took a carefully folded white linen handkerchief from the pocket of her green overall, and holding it to her eyes strode to the front door. ‘Sir Lionel Loftus,’ she announced. Sir Lancelot gave his loudest groan of the morning.
‘Lovers’ tiff, eh?’ asked the dean of St Swithin’s, twinkling as the dining-room door closed behind him.
‘Your innuendo trips with the delicacy of the Abominable Snowman. Miss MacNish is simply traversing the time of life when women become emotionally unstable.’
‘Oh, no need to protest so much,’ the dean said lightly. ‘The whole hospital takes your relationship for granted.’
He sat at the breakfast-table. The dean was a small man with a pointed bald head and large ears, resembling a garden gnome on which a pair of oversized eyebrows expressed his rapidly-fleeting emotions like two over-excited hairy caterpillars.
‘You know perfectly well the stout door which guards Miss MacNish’s self-contained flat and honour on the top floor,’ Sir Lancelot told him gruffly. ‘I can assure you that were she separated from me by nothing more solid than a see-through nightie, I should remain untempted.’
‘We think you’re rather a good match. She’s one of the few women you can’t treat like a bulldozer in a flowerbed. Mind if I have some coffee? Mine was cold at home. Awfully convenient, isn’t it, our occupying neighbouring houses on St Swithin’s property?’
‘Particularly if you are the dean, and live rent-free.’
‘I suppose you’ve read the paper?’ asked the dean, ignoring the remark and nodding towards the folded Times, while absentmindedly breaking and buttering one of Sir Lancelot’s breakfast baps.
‘Only the cricket. That was all the late Lord Attlee read in the papers, while running a normally quarrelsome Labour Cabinet. I am beginning to appreciate how he kept his coolness, if not sanity.’
The dean looked offended. ‘I happen to be in the news this morning.’
‘Pinched for speeding again? A man of your age shouldn’t drive a Lotus.’
‘I have joined a new consortium,’ announced the dean proudly. ‘Headed by Hamilton Tosker. Remarkable man!’
‘You mean Ned Kelly’s little brother?’ asked Sir Lancelot with curiosity.
‘He is a very great Australian,’ the dean corrected him expansively. ‘It is petty jealousy, resenting his activities in this country. Not only is he the builder of anything from highways and heliports to hotels and hospitals, but he is a businessman of great enterprise. He has quietly taken over several manufacturers of medical equipment for a brilliant new plan. We are going to sell ready-made hospitals to the Arabs. A package-deal, the building, fully-furnished wards and completely equipped operating theatres, oxygen-tents, blood-banks, X-rays, electron-microscopes, the lot.’
‘What about the doctors and nurses?’ objected Sir Lancelot.
‘No problem.’ The dean tapped his chest. ‘That’s my job. Everyone I recruit will walk into a brand-new hospital in the sunshine, pick up scalpel or stethoscope and start work. At about ten times NHS salary. A wonderful export effort. A great humanitarian service towards underdeveloped nations,’ he added solemnly.
‘What’s Tosker paying you?’
‘Mind your own business.’
‘If you choose to spend your spare time at that sort of thing, it’s up to you. Personally, I prefer fly-fishing.’
‘Ah, but the world it opens! Power, finance, politics … It’s all a matter of contacts, you know. A man like Hamilton Tosker can pick up the telephone and get through to Downing Street any time he feels like it. Sometimes I think that – had I not decided to dedicate my life to humanity—’ The dean gazed at the ceiling with eyebrows speculatively arched—’I could have been a millionaire, too. There honestly doesn’t seem much to it.’
‘And how does this square with your employment by the National Health Service?’ Sir Lancelot gave him a narrow look. ‘And your membership of an Area Health Authority?’
‘No conflict of interest whatever,’ the dean told him airily. ‘Really, Lancelot, you can be depressingly strait-laced. A touch of the buccaneering spirit made this country great. Look at Raleigh, Drake, Clive of India, those sort of chaps. I have a very important business lunch today with Hamilton Tosker, to settle our strategy. Which reminds me, I must cancel my three o’clock lecture on the kidney. These business lunches open up all sort of discussions on the ongoing aspects, you know. Liable to occupy much of the afternoon. Don’t you want your fish?’
‘You’re welcome to it, if you care to risk a case of botulism.’
The dean rose, brushing crusty crumbs from his light grey suit. ‘I must get along to Harley Street. Thursday is your day for St Sepulchre’s, isn’t it? A very salutary experience for you, I’m sure. Thank God none of my patients are ever incarcerated there. I’d rather be camp doctor in Siberia.’
