Read Online Doctor at Large by Richard Gordon - Free Book Online Page B

diagnosis and treatment, but only a ‘Sustificate, Doctor.’ I signed several dozen of these, certifying that people were in a state to stop work, start work, go to the seaside, stay away from court, have a baby, draw their pension, drink free milk, and live apart from their relatives. I gained confidence with every signature, and was beginning to feel I had a flair for general practice when I came against the case of the cheerful old lady.
    ‘Hallo, Doctor,’ she began. ‘And how are you this fine morning?’
    ‘I’m extremely well,’ I said, delighted to have a pleasant patient. ‘I hope we’ll find that you are too.’
    ‘I’m not so dusty. Especially considering. Do you know how old I am, Doctor?’
    ‘Not a day over fifty, I’ll be bound.’
    ‘Go on with you, Doctor!’ She looked coy. ‘I’m seventy next birthday, that’s a fact.’
    ‘You certainly don’t look it,’ I told her briskly, feeling it was time to start the professional part of the interview. ‘And what’s the trouble?’
    ‘Trouble?’ She looked startled, as if I had asked her whether she wanted lean or streaky. ‘There ain’t no trouble, Doctor.’
    ‘Then why – forgive me if I ought to know – have you come to the doctor’s?’
    ‘To get another bottle of me medicine, of course.’
    ‘Ah, I see.’ I put my fingertips together again. ‘And what sort of medicine is this?’
    ‘The red medicine, Doctor. You know.’
    ‘I mean, what do you take it for?’
    ‘The wind,’ she answered at once.
    ‘You suffer from the – er, wind?’
    ‘Oh, no, Doctor!’ She was now humouring the teasing of a precocious child. ‘Haven’t had the wind for years, I haven’t.’
    ‘And how long have you had the medicine?’
    ‘Oh – let me see – I first ’ad it the year we went to the Isle of Wight – no, it couldn’t be that year, because our Ernie was alive then. It must have been the year after. Except it couldn’t have been, because we had our Geoff with us, and he’s been under the sod a good fifteen–’
    ‘Quite,’ I interrupted. I saw before me as clearly as the eyesight chart hanging from the wall the Ministry of Health circular on extravagant prescribing. ‘Well, I’m afraid you can’t have any more medicine. You’re as sound as a bell, really, and you don’t need it. Take a walk in the park every day instead. Good morning to you.’
    At first she didn’t believe me. Then she said in a sad faint childish voice, ‘But I must ’ave me medicine, Doctor.’
    ‘You really don’t need it.’
    ‘But I always ’ave me medicine, Doctor – always. Three times a day regular after meals–’ Then she suddenly burst into tears.
    ‘Now please control yourself,’ I said anxiously. I began to wish I had taken the Hospital Secretary’s advice and chosen the Army. ‘It’s nothing to do with me. It’s simply a Ministry regulation. If it was up to me you could have a dozen bottles of medicine a day. But we doctors have to cut it down.’
    ‘I want me medicine!’ she cried.
    ‘Dash it! Do you wish to unbalance the Budget and ruin the country? Please be reasonable.’
    Suddenly her grief became anger. Beating the desk with her umbrella she shouted, ‘I want me medicine! I know me rights! I’ve paid me National ’Ealth like everyone else!’
    ‘I will not stand for this,’ I said, wondering if there was anything in the Hippocratic Oath against losing your temper. ‘Kindly leave the surgery.’
    ‘You thief! You robber! That’s what you are! Taking all them shillings every week from poor folk like me what can’t afford it! I know what ’appens to them insurance stamps! I know! Lining the pockets of the doctors, that’s what! I wants me medicine!’
    She left the cubbyhole, but repeated her demand to the patients who had been listening intently outside, inciting them to riot. I held my head in my hands. For five years at St Swithin’s I had probably ruined my health through overwork and deprived my