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Authors: Richard Gordon
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morning off, and something to talk about all afternoon, and now they saw how she‘d landed up in hospital they might keep the central heating on a bit longer next year.
She looked from her magazine as a handsome doctor in a white coat brought in some poor old man with a beard. He must have been a very sick old man, she felt soulfully, because the doctor was making a terrible fuss of him.
‘I‘ll fetch the senior radiographer, Sir Lancelot, if you‘ll kindly go into that cubicle and remove your coat and shirt.‘
‘I presume I sit here in a state of profound hypothermia until you return?‘
‘Oh, no, there‘s a garment in there to slip on. Perfectly sanitary,‘ Simon added quickly. ‘It‘s washed between patients.‘
The pretty girl went back to her magazine, until she found one of those ladies in white overalls saying to her, ‘We‘re almost ready now, my dear. Just go into the cubicle and slip off your dress and bra. You‘ll find a smock thing in there to put on.‘
The smock thing was a bit weird, the girl had to admit, but she made herself look as pretty as possible before going back to her magazine. The poorly gentleman was still there, sitting on a chair reading that dull newspaper without any pictures. Suddenly she trembled. The old man was staring at her, with a look which fair chilled the blood in the veins. She gave a little gulp. The pair of them were all alone. The same thoughts shot into her head as had struck Clarice and Edna in midstream. The assault -such a widespread hazard for pretty young girls these days, it seemed - was actually about to descend on her. She drew her breath. The old man‘s mouth moved. His hands clenched and unclenched. She jumped up. She screamed.
‘Good God, what‘s the matter?‘ gasped the handsome doctor, rushing in with another lady in white.
‘It‘s him!‘ The pretty girl directed a trembling red-tipped finger. ‘He‘s looking at me something awful!‘
‘Madam,‘ shouted the poor old man, ‘I do wish you would stop having hysterics. I have merely been wondering, since you stepped out of the cubicle, whether you would have the kindness atter your X-ray examination of letting me have my shirt back?‘
Simon shrugged his shoulders. ‘Looks even better on a man,‘ was all he could bring himself to say.
5
Sir Lancelot Spratt strode down Piccadilly. It was five o‘clock the same day and still sunny enough to keep the policemen in their shirtsleeves, the pigeons dozing on the balconies, and the couples locked on the grass all over Green Park. But inside him it was blackest Arctic midnight.
His day had been as discouraging and frustrating as Napoleon‘s at Waterloo. His back was still sore. When the X-ray showed no lesion whatever, he accepted the verdict with annoyance rather than relief. St Swithin‘s Hospital seemed to treat him like Rip van Winkle‘s little brother. Simon Sparrow had been priggish to the point of impertinence. And that blasted girl had got lipstick all over his shirt.
Worse still, his solicitors were damn fools.
‘All I want from you,‘ he‘d explained in the office of Boarcastle, Perwit, Dewberry and Cramps in Austin Friars, ‘is some sort of definitive opinion that I can wave in the beastly fellows face, declaring that Witches‘ Pool is unequivocally mine.‘
‘Well, yes,‘ agreed Mr Dewberry.
After the sinusoidal opinions of Mr Evans, Sir Lancelot drew confidence from this ancient City Oltice filled with so many dusty objects well worn in the service of the law, such as Mr Dewberry.
‘There is of course no doubt whatever about the Pool being on my land.‘
‘Well, no,‘ agreed Mr Dewberry again, fingering the deeds on his desk. He was a tall, thin man with a hanging lock of grey hair, which he often chewed thoughtfully. ‘Though of course — ‘
‘Come, come, Dewberry! Surely you, my own London solicitor, cannot doubt my word in the matter?‘
‘Well, yes and no,‘ conceded Mr Dewberry. He took a
She looked from her magazine as a handsome doctor in a white coat brought in some poor old man with a beard. He must have been a very sick old man, she felt soulfully, because the doctor was making a terrible fuss of him.
‘I‘ll fetch the senior radiographer, Sir Lancelot, if you‘ll kindly go into that cubicle and remove your coat and shirt.‘
‘I presume I sit here in a state of profound hypothermia until you return?‘
‘Oh, no, there‘s a garment in there to slip on. Perfectly sanitary,‘ Simon added quickly. ‘It‘s washed between patients.‘
The pretty girl went back to her magazine, until she found one of those ladies in white overalls saying to her, ‘We‘re almost ready now, my dear. Just go into the cubicle and slip off your dress and bra. You‘ll find a smock thing in there to put on.‘
The smock thing was a bit weird, the girl had to admit, but she made herself look as pretty as possible before going back to her magazine. The poorly gentleman was still there, sitting on a chair reading that dull newspaper without any pictures. Suddenly she trembled. The old man was staring at her, with a look which fair chilled the blood in the veins. She gave a little gulp. The pair of them were all alone. The same thoughts shot into her head as had struck Clarice and Edna in midstream. The assault -such a widespread hazard for pretty young girls these days, it seemed - was actually about to descend on her. She drew her breath. The old man‘s mouth moved. His hands clenched and unclenched. She jumped up. She screamed.
‘Good God, what‘s the matter?‘ gasped the handsome doctor, rushing in with another lady in white.
‘It‘s him!‘ The pretty girl directed a trembling red-tipped finger. ‘He‘s looking at me something awful!‘
‘Madam,‘ shouted the poor old man, ‘I do wish you would stop having hysterics. I have merely been wondering, since you stepped out of the cubicle, whether you would have the kindness atter your X-ray examination of letting me have my shirt back?‘
Simon shrugged his shoulders. ‘Looks even better on a man,‘ was all he could bring himself to say.
5
Sir Lancelot Spratt strode down Piccadilly. It was five o‘clock the same day and still sunny enough to keep the policemen in their shirtsleeves, the pigeons dozing on the balconies, and the couples locked on the grass all over Green Park. But inside him it was blackest Arctic midnight.
His day had been as discouraging and frustrating as Napoleon‘s at Waterloo. His back was still sore. When the X-ray showed no lesion whatever, he accepted the verdict with annoyance rather than relief. St Swithin‘s Hospital seemed to treat him like Rip van Winkle‘s little brother. Simon Sparrow had been priggish to the point of impertinence. And that blasted girl had got lipstick all over his shirt.
Worse still, his solicitors were damn fools.
‘All I want from you,‘ he‘d explained in the office of Boarcastle, Perwit, Dewberry and Cramps in Austin Friars, ‘is some sort of definitive opinion that I can wave in the beastly fellows face, declaring that Witches‘ Pool is unequivocally mine.‘
‘Well, yes,‘ agreed Mr Dewberry.
After the sinusoidal opinions of Mr Evans, Sir Lancelot drew confidence from this ancient City Oltice filled with so many dusty objects well worn in the service of the law, such as Mr Dewberry.
‘There is of course no doubt whatever about the Pool being on my land.‘
‘Well, no,‘ agreed Mr Dewberry again, fingering the deeds on his desk. He was a tall, thin man with a hanging lock of grey hair, which he often chewed thoughtfully. ‘Though of course — ‘
‘Come, come, Dewberry! Surely you, my own London solicitor, cannot doubt my word in the matter?‘
‘Well, yes and no,‘ conceded Mr Dewberry. He took a
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