Richard Gordon: DOCTOR AT LARGE

'Do you think I dare ask?'

'Why not? At the worst, she can only kick your teeth in.'

After a brief and breathless spell in the linen cupboard that night, I began, 'Nan, about next week. Instead of just dinner, how about-' I swallowed. I had dismissed the fire-escape as impracticable, because of Bingham. 'How about nipping out to the country somewhere, you know, and, well, you know?

There was a surprised pause. 'Doctor, Doctor!' she said playfully. 'Is that an indecent proposal?'

'It's a pretty decent one, as far as I can see,' I said brightly. 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be funny about it. But if you'd feel inclined-'

'You'll have to go. Night sister'll be here in a minute.'

'But about next week-?'

'I'll see,' she said, laying her finger on my lips.

'I promise I wouldn't tell a soul. Especially Bingham. He hasn't done the same sort of thing, has he?' I asked, with sudden horror.

She laughed. 'Jimmy isn't out of the mistletoe stage.'

'Do say yes,' I implored. 'I can't stand suspense.'

'You must go, Richard! Night sister's due any second.'

'I won't go till you tell me.'

'Oh, well-I suppose I was going to buy a new tooth brush anyway.'

'Nan, darling! How wonderful-'

'Shhh! And remember-not a soul.'

'How could you think I'd breathe a word?'

I immediately woke up Grimsdyke.

'Can you imagine it, Grim?' I said excitedly. 'What luck! She's agreed. We're nipping off for a dirty week-end. Or a dirty night, anyway,' I corrected myself.

'You've woken me up to tell me this disgusting piece of news-'

'I want your advice. You see, I haven't had any experience of-of this sort of thing. Where do we go, for instance? Brighton? What do we sign in the visitors book Smith or Jones? Supposing they ask for our marriage licence or something-'

'There's a sort of country hotel called The Judge's Arms, on the way north, which is very romantic I've heard. You could try that. Now for God's sake let me get some sleep.'

'The Judge's Arms. Thanks a million times, old fellow.'

'I suppose you're going to these lengths to unload Miss Plumtree?' he asked sleepily, turning over.

'Good Lord! I'd completely forgotten about her.'

'I don't like it,' Grimsdyke muttered, dropping off. 'I don't like it a bit.'

For the next few days Bingham and I both slapped each other on the back like brothers. What the psychology was behind it I didn't dare to work out.

The stubborn streptococcus in Nurse Plumtree's throat refused to budge. She soon felt well again, but as no nurse could be let loose to spray penicillin-resistant organisms over the patients, second opinions were summoned. The senior ear, nose, and throat surgeon recommended that he remove her tonsils, excise her nasal septum, scrape out her sinuses, and extract all her teeth; the Professor of Bacteriology, a simpler-minded man, advised a week's holiday. This was thought to be the most convenient course for everybody, and the next day she left the hospital for Mitcham with an armful of home-building magazines.

'We'll announce it when I get back,' she declared as I saw her off. 'So far, I haven't told a soul-except my best friends, of course. It'll be nice to have the date fixed for the wedding, won't it? Now don't forget-no late nights while I'm away.'

A couple of afternoons later, in a state of devilish excitement, I started Haemorrhagic Hilda and drove from the hospital car park to pick up Nurse Macpherson.

Our plans had been laid the night before, over a cup of Ovaltine. I had left my junior house surgeon on duty for me, asking Mr Cambridge for permission to spend the night away from the hospital; she had told Bingham that duty to her parents demanded a visit. To allay suspicion, I arranged to meet her outside the Zoo.

She was waiting with her attachй-case by the main gates.

'Hello, hello, hello!' I called, drawing up and unhooking the loop of string that restrained the near-side door. 'What a cad I am! Fancy keeping a girl waiting on an occasion like this.'

I noticed that she was staring at me in amazement. 'What's the matter?' I asked in alarm. 'Is my suit all right? It's my second best.'

'My God! Am I supposed to travel in that?' _

I remembered that she hadn't seen Haemorrhagic Hilda before. 'It's a remarkably good motor car,' I told her stoutly. 'As reliable as a London bus and with a lot of charm about it. You wait till we get going.'

'Oh, it's charming all right. Like one of Emett's railway engines. How do I get aboard-do you let down a pair of steps?'

I helped her into the car, and she settled in the Windsor chair I had lashed specially to the floorboards beside me. I felt nettled. I was proud of Haemorrhagic Hilda, and even if she looked as startling on the road as George Stevenson's Rocket, such mockery hurt. But refusing to allow the start of a great adventure to be marred by the petty pride of ownership, I called cheerfully, 'Hang on!' and performed the rapid manipulation of the choke, ignition, throttle, brake, gear-lever, and hand petrol pump necessary to put Haemorrhagic Hilda in motion. 'Off we go to the wide open spaces!'

'By the way,' she said lighting a cigarette. 'I've got to go to Oxford Street first.'

'Oxford Street! But that's miles out of our way. What on earth do you want to go there for?'

'I simply must do my shopping. I've got to get a length of curtain material for my room-I can't stand the hospital stuff any longer-and a birthday present for Cissy Jenkins, and some kirbigrips and some linen buttons for my uniform and a tea-pot and some soap.'

'But couldn't you do it another time? I mean to say-Apart from anything else, I'd like to get there in daylight. The headlamps aren't terribly efficient.'

'What other time? You seem to forget I'm a working girl, my dear young man.'

'Oh, sorry. No offence, of course.'

She left me for an hour and a quarter in Oxford Street, though the time passed quickly enough because I spent it driving through side-streets looking for somewhere to park and anxiously peering out for policemen, as though I were about to hold up a bank. She rejoined me with a Christmas Eve load of parcels, which she threw on to the sofa in the back, and said, 'Phew! What a bloody tussle! Drive on, James.'

'Are you sure you've got everything?' I asked stiffly.

'Except some cigarettes. But that doesn't matter. I can smoke yours.'

My spirits had dropped badly since leaving St Swithin's, and now it occurred to me that I had never seen Nurse Macpherson out of uniform before. Indeed, I had never seen her in daylight at all for several weeks. She was unfortunately one of those nurses who are flattered by the starched severity of their dress, and she had chosen for our escapade an odd orange knitted outfit that recalled the woollen suits worn at one period by Mr Bernard Shaw. Her face, too, suffered away from the night-club dimness of a sleeping ward. Her make-up was careless, the freckles that had enchanted me across the Night Report Book now reminded me of a dozen skin diseases, and I reflected that she must have begun her nursing training comparatively late, because she was clearly several years older than I was.

My mood was darkened further by the weather, which had turned from a lunch-time of brittle blue sky and sharp-edged sun to an afternoon in which the clouds and the twilight were already conspiring to make me confess Hilda's deficient headlights. On top of this, I was getting a sore throat. Nurse Plumtree's streptococcus, breathed into our farewell kiss, was already breeding generations of grandchildren across the mucous membrane of my pharynx. I had left the hospital with a half-perceived tickling in the back of my throat, and now I felt like a fire-eater after a bad performance.