Richard Gordon - DOCTOR IN CLOVER

But I didn't want to tell you before. I thought it might upset you for your examination.'

'Even Sir Lancelot himself doesn't know the full story about Dulcie Crimpole,' Miles whispered on the doorstep, as I left for the houseboat after dinner. 'I believe I read in an advertisement somewhere that vodka leaves no smell on the breath…'

I nodded. 'A wise choice at the time.'

'Having such a formidable rival for the job as Barefoot is bad enough as it is. But if the tale got out just at this particular moment-'

'Rely on Gaston, old lad. Compared with me an oyster is garrulous. Besides, I have problems enough of my own.'

'Not serious, I hope?'

'Purely professional, and happily resolving every moment.'

He frowned slightly. 'What exactly _are _you up to, Gaston?'

'One day I hope you'll find out.

Meanwhile, don't worry. I'll take any odds you end up with a permanent stable at St Swithin's.'

'It's certainly kind of you to give me some encouragement. I'm afraid I don't seem to get much of it these days.'

Dinner had been pretty gloomy that evening, with Miles brooding on Barefoot and even Connie hardly able to raise a laugh when I told a few funny stories to cheer them up. Falling into the prevailing mood, I started pondering on my own troubles with the book. Then I suddenly had another of those brilliant inspirations of mine. Here I was, stuck over portraying to the public the brilliant and dedicated young surgeon. And sitting opposite glaring into his raspberries was the prototype, known intimately from childhood. Whenever my Clifford Standforth was faced with a tricky situation I had only to ask myself, 'How would that chump Miles have tackled it?' and that should be good for another twenty pages. I was so taken with the idea I could hardly finish my coffee before hurrying back and trying it out on the typewriter.

I felt I could have the manuscript on Carboy and Plover's doormat in a fortnight, which I might have done if a telegram hadn't arrived a few days later from my forwarding address saying:

The summons wasn't a particular surprise.

I'd been following-up my former patient closely, this being easy from the newspaper placards, which generally said something like LORD NUTBEAM AGAIN. The old boy was whooping it up on the Riviera at a rate which made Champagne Charlie look very small beer, and people read so much about him on the bus going home he'd become one of the things the British public wondered how on earth they existed without, like penicillin and television.

I'm not one to refuse a free trip even to Margate, and anyway the houseboat had sprung a leak which I'd calculated in another ten days would put me completely under water. But I hesitated, wondering if Lord Nutbeam should have summoned a more high-powered doctor than myself. Finally, I decided that if he really wanted my own humble ministrations I couldn't let the old boy down, and stuffing my manuscript and stethoscope into a suitcase I rapidly switched professions and booked on the next plane south.

The following afternoon found me driving in his Lordship's new Rolls among the palm trees.

'It was Aubrey who insisted on sending for you,' said Lady Nutbeam, greeting me at her hotel. She looked just the same, except for the diamonds. 'He doesn't trust foreign doctors.'

'Are you sure he shouldn't have got the President of the Royal College of Physicians instead?'

'Not at all, Doctor. After all, you've saved his life once already, haven't you?'

I found old Nutbeam lying in a darkened room, suffering from nothing worse than a chronic hangover. Fortunately, I have wide clinical experience of this condition, and prescribed a diet of dry biscuits with some French spa water that tasted like bottled gasworks.

'That's a relief,' Lady Nutbeam agreed, as we left him suffering in peace. 'Though I didn't think it was anything serious. But I hope the poor dear will soon be himself again. He's so enjoying life at the moment.'

'He was rather out of training for it, that's all.'

'Perhaps you could stay on a few days, Doctor?' She paused on the terrace, gazing at the millionaires' yachts parked in the harbour as thickly as the cars on Brighton front. 'As a matter of fact, I am a little worried about my husband.'

'You mean,' I suigested, 'that party I read about in the papers? Pouring champagne over the Maharajah?'

She nodded. 'And setting off fireworks under the Greek millionaire. Not to mention the ice-cream down the French ballet dancer's dress. I'm afraid, Doctor, Aubrey might sometimes strike one as a little childish.'

'Pure boyish high spirits, I'm sure.'

'I should like to think so. I'd be much obliged if you'd keep an eye on him for a while. You might be able to control him a little. You know he thinks the world of your advice. You would be our guest, of course.'

I gathered the Nutbeams, and a good many other people in Monte Carlo, had cash in lands where you didn't have to fill in beastly little forms to get it out.

'I could possibly spare a day or two,' I admitted, 'if you're still sure I'm the right chap?'

'But you've learned the penalty of boyish high spirits already, Doctor, haven't you?' Lady Nutbeam smiled. 'I noticed in Long Wotton you took the lesson to heart.'

As the days went by and nobody asked me to leave, I found myself a regular member of Lord Nutbeam's household, along with the chauffeur and the valet. Come to think of it, I'd always wanted the job of private physician to a travelling millionaire, though these days there's as much chance of finding anybody travelling with their private executioner.

His Lordship being an easy patient, I passed the time sitting in the sun, finishing my book, and brushing up my French-I flatter myself I'm rather hot stuff at this _defense de crвcher_ and _crкpes Suzette_ business.

'Garзon,' I was saying fluently after a week or so, _'apportez-moi une verre du bon vieux biйre anglaise, sil vous plait._ And if that's the luncheon menu you have there, I'll try the _gratin de langoustines Georgette._ That's sort of mucked-up shrimps, isn't it?'

'Monsieur has the true English sense of humour.'

'Remind me sometime to tell you the story of _l'йvйque et le perroquet._ Were the roses sent to the young lady I met in the Sporting Club last night?'

_'Mais certainement, monsieur.'_

_'Jolli bon spectacle._ And waiter-inform the chauffeur I'll be taking the car this afternoon. I might do a little shopping in Nice.'

_Entendu, monsieur.'_

I felt that life for Grimsdyke was looking up.

The waiter had hardly left the terrace to collect my midmorning refreshment, when my patient himself appeared. Lord Nutbeam seemed in excellent spirits, and was smoking a cigar.

'My dear Doctor, when on earth are you going to let me have a drink?' he started as usual. 'I was passing such a delightful time going through the barman's cocktails. I'd just reached that most interesting concoction of tomato juice and vodka. There is so much to catch up on in life!'

'Next Monday you might run to a glass of _vin blanc,'_ I told him sternly.

'But Doctor, the Film Festival! It starts tomorrow, and I do so want to give a little party for those bright young people. I've never met a real film star, you know. Indeed, the only one I remember is a dog called Rin-tin-tin. I don't expect he'll be coming, of course.'

He offered me a cigar.

'They say this young lady is arriving at the hotel from London this afternoon,' he added, picking up a magazine with Melody Madder on the cover.

It was difficult at the time to pick up any magazine that hadn't. She was a red-head in a tight dress, who-not to put too fine a point on it-struck me as suffering from pronounced mammary hyperplasia. But it seems a condition in which people are widely interested, and in the past few months she'd become better known to the British public than the Britannia on the back of a penny.