Richard Gordon: DOCTOR IN CLOVER

'Oh, yes?'

'I'd be much obliged if you'd try to embarrass me a little less now that I'm on the St Swithin's junior staff. You must realize that I, at least, don't wish the entire family to be made ridiculous throughout the hospital. It's bad enough your always disappearing to the dog-races, but this habit of taking menial employment-'

'My dear old lad, I assure you I don't do it for fun. Anyway, it's all your old man's fault, being so tight-fisted. Surely you know by now I dislike work in any form whatever?'

I was at the time restoring my enfeebled exchequer with such casual jobs as dishwashing in West End restaurants and bar-keeping in East End pubs, and had just finished a profitable though strictly limited run as Father Christmas in an Oxford Street store.

'That's not the point at all. Mr Sharper was certain he saw you the other day. He was extremely blunt to me about it this morning.'

'Oh, really? I thought his keen surgical eye had pierced the whiskers. But I bet he only made a fuss because I told his beastly kids to ask for a complete set of electric trains and a couple of motor-cars.'

'I do wish you'd take this seriously, Gaston!'

'Let's talk about it another time. I must be off now, I'm afraid. Otherwise I'll be late for work.'

A few days after this argument I met Connie, by accident. All medical students dream of witnessing some really satisfactory road smash, then appearing on the scene to calm the panic-stricken bystanders with the magic words, 'I am a doctor.' I've done it myself three times. The first, the policeman told me to run home to mother. The second, I grabbed a tourniquet from some fumbling old boy and discovered he was the Professor of Surgery at St Asaph's. Now, of course, I walk rapidly in the opposite direction and leave it to the ambulance boys, remembering Sir Lancelot Spratt's resuscitation lecture-'When I chuck myself into the Thames in despair, ladies and gentlemen, I hope I'll be given artificial respiration by a fit Boy Scout, and not some middle-aged medical practitioner who's soon more out of breath than I am.' But when one is young, one doesn't consider such things. On this third occasion, as soon as I heard the scream of brakes and tinkling of glass, I leapt into the middle of Sloane Square and took sole charge.

In the next part of the dream, the injured party isn't a poor young child or a dear old lady, but a beautiful girl having hysterics. And that's exactly what I found. So I popped her in a taxi and drove her round to the casualty entrance at St Swithin's, where Miles organized X-rays, diagnosed a Colles' fracture, and signed an admission form for his ward.

'Charming girl, too,' I observed, as Connie was wheeled away.

'Thank you, Gaston, for holding the Xrays.'

'Always glad to help. I might pop up and see her later. Terribly important to follow-up cases, so they keep telling us.'

'Mr Sharper allows only his own students in his wards, I'm afraid.'

'Oh, come. Can't you stretch a point?'

'A point, being defined as possessing position but not magnitude, is incapable of being stretched,' said Miles.

All the same, I went up the next morning with a bunch of roses.

'How terribly sweet!' exclaimed Connie, looking beautiful despite the plaster and bandages. 'And your assistant's just called too, with the mimosa.'

'Assistant?'

'The doctor who helped you with the Xrays.'

'Ah, yes. Useful chap.'

The staff in modern hospitals outnumbering the patients by about five to one, the inmates can be excused for confusing the ranks. I remembered there was once a frightful row when Sir Lancelot Spratt in a white coat was mistaken for the ward barber.

'You'll be out of here this afternoon,' I went on, not bothering to start long explanations. 'When time has healed all your wounds, would you care to come out for a bite of dinner?'

'But I'd love to, Doctor!'

'Jolly good. I'll get your telephone number from the ward notes.'

Unfortunately, Connie turned out to be the daughter of a shockingly rich fellow from Lloyd's, so I couldn't buy her a pint of beer and show her the ducks in St James's Park and pretend I'd given her an exciting evening. Also, I knew a determined chap like Miles wouldn't easily give up. While I was sitting with her a few weeks later in the Savoy, hoping she wouldn't feel like another drink, I remarked casually, 'Seeing much of my cousin these days?'

'As a matter of fact, yes. I'm going to the theatre with him tomorrow.'

'It may be rather cheek of me to ask this, Connie, but I'd rather you didn't mention me to him, if you wouldn't mind.'

She looked surprised. 'Why ever not?'

'Just to save the poor chap's feelings. These little family jealousies, you know. He feels it rather, being my underling at the hospital.'

'How awfully considerate of you, Gaston. Naturally, I won't say a word. But supposing he talks about you?'

'He never does,' I assured her. 'Another Martini?'

'Yes, please,' said Connie.

I passed a couple of enjoyable months escorting Connie' to all the more fashionable plays and restaurants, particularly as she still seemed to imagine that I was some wealthy young specialist, and I never seemed to find the chance to put her right. Then one afternoon Miles cornered me in the surgeons' room.

'I believe you've still been seeing Connie?' he demanded.

I tossed my sterile gown into the students' linen bin.

'On and off, yes.'

'I'd like you to know that I-I'm perfectly serious about her.'

This didn't disturb me. Miles was perfectly serious about everything.

'May the best man win, and all that, eh?'

'Damn it, Gaston! I wish you wouldn't regard this as some sort of sporting contest. I happen to love Connie deeply. I wish to make her my wife.'

'Good Lord! Do you really?'

The notion of Miles making anyone his wife seemed as odd as palm trees growing on an iceberg.

'And I'll thank you not to trifle with her affections,' he added.

'You will, will you?' I returned, feeling annoyed at his tone. 'And how do you know I don't want to make her Mrs Grimsdyke, too?'

'You? You're in no more position to marry than a fourth-form schoolboy.'

I felt the conversation was becoming embarrassing, and edged away. Besides, I had to be off to work again.

Entertaining Connie was making such inroads into my finances that I'd been obliged to find more regular employment. Fortunately, I'd met a chap called Pedro in a Shaftesbury Avenue pub, and after giving him some free advice about his duodenal ulcer and a good thing for Kempton Park, I was offered five evenings a week as a waiter in his Soho restaurant. Pedro was a fierce task-master, most of his relatives still chasing each other over Sicilian mountains with shotguns, and I had to clean all the soup off my best set of tails every night before going to bed, but the tips were good enough compensation for both.

Or they were until that particular evening, when Miles walked in with Connie.

'Shall we sit over here?' she said, advancing towards my corner. 'I hate a table too near the door.'

I ducked quickly into the kitchen.

'What the 'ell are you up to?' demanded Pedro.

'I-er, just wanted to adjust my sock suspenders.'

'I don't pay you to adjust your socks, mister. You get back in there. There's customers just come in.'

I passed a hand across my forehead.

'You know, Pedro, I don't think I'm feeling very well tonight. A bit faint. I might be sick over the fish or something. If you don't mind, I'll just totter through the staff entrance and make home to bed.'

"Ow the 'ell you think I run my business one man short?' Pedro picked up a carving knife. 'You leave this restaurant only over your dead body, see mister? If you want to be sick, come out and be sick in the kitchen, like everybody else. You go to work.'