Richard Gordon: DOCTOR IN CLOVER

There was a howl beside me, as Hosegood staggered to his feet gripping his epigastrium.

'Damn it!' he gasped. 'It's all the fault of that bloody ginger tart!'

'What did you call my daughter, you swine?' Mum shouted. 'Marry her? Over my dead body!'

And she hit him on the head with a convenient carpenter's hammer.

'What am I supposed to do at this performance, anyway?' asked Petunia.

'Nothing, except read Sir Lancelot's little speech. I've sub-edited it a bit, by the way. I didn't think there was much point in your quoting in Latin.'

'Won't I have to talk to a lot of doctors?'

'Only my cousin Miles, and he's been incapable of speech for days. The posh job he's after at St Swithin's is decided next Thursday week.'

Petunia lit a cigarette.

'One thing, I'm not half so scared of doctors and hospitals as I used to be. Not after visiting poor dear Jimmy after his accident.'

'How is the patient, by the way?'

'Oh, fine. The doctors have let him out for convalescence. He's gone to Morecambe.'

It was the middle of September and autumn had come to London, with the news-vendors' placards changing from CLOSE OF PLAY to CLASSIFIED RESULTS and the first fierce winds starting to tear the summer dresses off the trees. I'd just picked up Petunia at her Chelsea flat and was driving her across to Sir Lancelot's meeting in St Swithin's.

'I'll nip in and collect his Lordship and his lolly,' I said, drawing up in Belgrave Square. 'Once you've said your little piece he's only got to hand Sir Lancelot his ten thousand quid, then we can all go off and have a drink. It's as simple as that.'

I found Lord Nutbeam sitting by the fire, sealing the envelope.

'Hello,' I greeted him. 'And how are we feeling this morning?'

I'd become a little worried about my patient in the past few weeks. He'd been oddly subdued and gloomy, and inclined to sit staring out of the window, like in his worst Long Wotton days. But I supposed this was reasonable in a chap who'd just finished a couple of months trying out all the night-clubs in London.

'I am still a little low, thank you, Doctor. A little low. Indeed, I fear I'm hardly up to the strain of presenting my modest donation in person.'

I nodded. 'I certainly wouldn't recommend a stuffy meeting if you don't feel equal to it. Though everyone will be frightfully disappointed, of course.'

'Besides, I have a visitor calling at noon, and I shouldn't like to keep him waiting.'

'I'll give it to the Lord Mayor to hand over, then,' I suggested.

'The Lord Mayor? I'd prefer it if you'd just quickly present it yourself, Doctor.'

'Me? But dash it! I'm not nearly important enough.'

'Oh, come, my dear Doctor. I assure you that you are, in my eyes, at any rate. I shall stay here, I think, and read a book. Or perhaps I shall play a few pieces on the piano.'

'Right ho,' I agreed, anxious to be off. 'I'll tell you all the nice things they say in the vote of thanks.'

The meeting itself, like any other of Sir Lancelot's special performances inside or out of his operating theatre, was organized on a grand scale. The old Founders' Hall at St Swithin's could look pretty impressive, with all those portraits of dead surgeons glaring down at you from the walls, not to mention the scarlet robes and bunches of flowers and chaps popping about taking photographs and the television cameras. I'd been a bit worried how the consultants at St Swithin's would react to Petunia as she appeared in a dress cut down to her xiphisternum, but they seemed delighted to meet her and all bowed over her politely as they shook hands. Sir Lancelot himself greeted us very civilly, ushering us to a couple of gilt chairs in the middle of the dais, where he'd arranged the Lord Mayor and some of the most expensive blood-pressures in the City.

'I am indeed sorry to hear Lord Nutbeam is indisposed,' he remarked, 'but I need hardly say your appearance here today, Miss Madder, will attract considerable interest to our cause. May I introduce one of my junior colleagues, Mr Miles Grimsdyke? He is taking the chair.'

Sir Lancelot banged on the table.

'Your Grace, My lord Marquis, My lords, My lord Mayor, ladies and gentlemen,' he began, 'may I invite silence for our Chairman?'

My cousin made an efficient little speech, and if he did dwell rather on the dear old hospital and his unswerving affection and loyalty towards it, I suppose a chap has to advertise. Then the flash-bulbs went off like Brock's benefit night as Petunia got to her feet. She made an efficient little speech too, though I don't think anyone was paying much attention to what she said. Next it was my cue.

'In the regrettable absence of Lord Nutbeam,' I announced, 'I have great pleasure, as his friend as well as his doctor, in presenting this cheque for ten thousand pounds to start so worthy a fund.'

There was applause. I wondered for a second whether to give them the story of the bishop and the parrot as well, but decided against it.

'This is a very proud moment for me,' declared Sir Lancelot, taking the envelope. 'As many of you know, it is well over forty years since I first came to this hospital as a student. In that not so distant age appendicitis was still a desperate operation, tuberculosis was indeed the scourge of our civilization, and pneumonia as often as not a death warrant. It was also an age when any political gentleman trying to interfere with the affairs of our great hospital would get his fingers burnt very smartly indeed.

'With the passing years, these walls which St Swithin's men grow to venerate so deeply have remained much as for the previous two centuries. But inside them has occurred a revolution in therapy as great as during those exciting times when Lister was introducing asepsis, Pasteur founding the science of bacteriology, and John Snow first alleviating the ordeal of the patient and the frustration of the surgeon with ether anaesthesia. Much, of course, remains to be done. Many of our old hospital buildings, for example, cry for demolition to ease our lives with a little space to park our cars. But surgical research is the cause nearest the heart of many assembled in this Hall today. It is certainly nearest to my own. I am sure we all have in mind the words of the immortal Martial-_"Non est vivere, sed valere vita est"_-as I gratefully accept this gift-this most generous gift-from Lord Nutbeam to relieve our cares in that direction.'

Everybody clapped again.

I must say, I felt pretty pleased with myself, as it hardly seemed yesterday since Sir Lancelot was kicking me out of the theatre for stamping on his left foot instead of the diathermy pedal under the operating table. Particularly as he went on: 'I feel I must express in public my appreciation-the whole hospital's appreciation-of these young men, Dr Gaston Grimsdyke and his cousin Mr Miles Grimsdyke. It is through their agency that we are honoured this afternoon with the presence of such a charming and distinguished lady of the stage as Miss Melody Madder.'

There was further applause, this time more enthusiastic. Indeed; continued Sir Lancelot, tearing open the envelope, 'it is to these gentlemen that we are indebted for the suggestion of Lord Nutbeam's most munificent-'

He went pink all over. I glanced at him anxiously. I wondered if the poor chap was going to have some sort of fit.

'Grimsdyker he hissed. 'What the devil's the meaning of this?'

'Meaning of what, sir?'

'Look at that, you fool!'

Feeling a bit embarrassed, what with everyone watching and the television cameras, I took the cheque.

'Seems all right to me, sir,' I said, shifting rather from foot to foot. 'Payable to you and signed "Nutbeam." I hope you are not suggesting it can't be met?' I added, a bit dignified.

'I do not doubt that for one moment, considering that it is made out for one pound four and eightpence.'