company, picked up his clubs, and set off for the links in the number one Rolls. Alone in the flat, I slipped off my shoes and sprawled on the soft curtained couch used for examining patients in the consulting-room. Beside me I arranged a pile of the _New Yorker_ and _Life, Recent Advances in Surgery,_ a reprint of _The Citadel,_ a box of chocolates I'd found in the secretary's desk, and the bottle of _Cordon Bleu_ brandy kept in the medicine cupboard. I hoped that Razzy had an enjoyable day off, but I saw no reason for working on a Saturday afternoon myself in discomfort.
Before he had been away half an hour the door-bell rang. I jumped up, pulled on my shoes, swiftly pushed my comforts under the couch, and opened the door. On the mat was a tall, amiable looking man with a droopy white moustache, who wore a tweed suit and carried a heavy dispatch-case embossed with the Royal cypher in gold.
'Good afternoon,' he said pleasantly. 'I have an appointment with Dr Potter-Phipps.'
I looked puzzled.
'My private secretary arranged it earlier in the week. I'm afraid Saturday afternoon is my only free time at present. I hope it is not unduly inconvenient for the doctor?'
'I'm terribly sorry, but there's been a mistake,' I said, letting him in. 'Dr Potter-Phipps is away at the moment. I'm his assistant. Just a minute, and I'll look at the book.'
'Thank you. My name is Beecham. It seemed simpler to call here than to ask him to visit me.' He smiled. 'And no doubt more economical.'
'But I'm afraid the appointment was made for
'Oh, dear! How infuriating. This is not the first time such a mistake has occurred. And next Saturday I shall be in Edinburgh.' He assessed me. 'Perhaps I could have a consultation with you instead, Doctor? I did rather want to be off to the country this lovely afternoon.'
'I should be very pleased,' I told him, with a brief bow. 'Kindly come into the consulting-room.'
'You will be wanting my medical history first, no doubt,' he went on, as he sat down. 'I have it specially tabulated in my mind. Age, sixty-one. Married. Occupation, cabinet minister. Usual childhood complaints. I'm not going too fast?'
'Did you say 'cabinet minister?' That was flying high, even for us.
'I am the Minister of Inland Development,' he added modestly, as though referring to a favourable golf handicap. I suddenly remembered seeing his photograph in the papers a week ago, snipping a tape and giving the country another bridge. He seemed a pleasant old boy, but as I had never even seen a cabinet minister before I wondered how to address him. I decided to play for safety, and treat him roughly like a duke.
'Of course, sir,' I said. 'I'm-I'm terribly sorry not to have recognized you at once. Please forgive me. Now perhaps you'd be so kind as to allow me to ask you a few questions?'
He folded his arms. 'Of course, Doctor. Do exactly what you wish. I place myself entirely in your hands. As I was saying to the Minister of Health yesterday, what on earth's the use of seeing a doctor if, you don't follow his advice, disregarding entirely your own opinion of the complaint? He said your own opinion of the doctor was possibly more important.' My patient smiled. 'Of course, he was only joking. He has quite a wit.'
'Oh, quite. Now what's the trouble, sir?'
As the Minister seemed to be suffering from pains connected with the spinal column, I pointed to the examination couch and told him to take his clothes off.
'Yes, please. I want a good look at you.'
'Anything you say, of course.'
I had just drawn the curtains round him as he started unbuttoning his waistcoat, when the bell rang 'again.
'Just a minute,' I said.
On the doormat I found an attractive, tall, dark woman with a mink cape slipping off her shoulders, who clutched at her throat and cried, 'Oh, God! Oh, God! I'm going to die!'
All I could think of saying was, 'Here I say, steady on!' She pushed past me, threw herself on the waiting-room couch, and burst into tears.
I quickly shut off the Minister of Inland Development in the consulting-room.
'If I can possibly help you, dear lady,' I said anxiously, 'I certainly will. But if you could perhaps control yourself a little-'
'Razzy!' she cried. 'Razzy, darling! Where is he?'
'Dr Erasmus Potter-Phipps happens to have taken the afternoon off. He's playing golf.'
'He's with another woman,' she sobbed. 'Janet said he'd asked that bitch Helen.'
'Well, dash it, only golf,' I murmured. I began to feel I was not showing the mastery of the situation expected from the medical attendant. During my two months in Park Lane I had learned more about handling difficult people than in five years at St Swithin's, where most of the patients treated the doctors with the same frightened respect they gave the police; but the dynamic women in Dr Potter-Phipps' unilateral love-life were beyond me.
The girl moaned, covered her face with her hands, and cried, 'What shall I do? What shall I do? I want to die, that's all. To die-to die-'
As I was deciding what to try next, she suddenly looked up as if she had never seen me before.
'Who are you?' she asked.
'I'm Dr Potter-Phipps' assistant,' I said politely. 'Can I help you?'
_'No one _can help me!' Her face was pale, her eye-shadow was streaked down her cheeks, her hat was awry with emotion. Suddenly she threw aside her arms and began to scream.
My visitor had at least no disease of the respiratory system. There was nothing of the wronged woman's sobs about her: when she screamed, she took a deep breath, braced her larynx, and let fly like the knocking-off whistle in a shipyard.
'Please, please!' I shouted. 'Can't you compose yourself?'
She immediately drew another breath and started again, now pummelling her forehead with her fists, and hammering her heels on the floor.
By now I was less worried about her clinical condition-she was obviously well filled with the life force-than about my reputation. The most solemn piece of clinical advice we had received in St Swithin's was never to treat a female patient unless a nurse was present; and any minute now the door would probably be broken down by the porters, the police, or the fire brigade, all thirsting to play St George.
'Damnation!' I cried. 'Stop it!'
She settled herself in a higher key, and continued. Here was a major clinical problem: the gynaecological instruction at St Swithin's was excellent, but had included no advice on the way to treat hysterical women single- handed. Fortunately, I remembered from reading novels that the traditional remedy was a sharp slap across the face, and overcoming the inhibitions of an English public school education I crouched down and caught her a smart smack on the left cheekbone. Instead of this quelling her, she immediately countered with a powerful left uppercut which knocked me off my balance, and started picking up all the movable pieces of furniture in the waiting-room and throwing them at me.
I managed to struggle to my feet from a pile of broken china and glass, torn magazines, and telephone directories, just in time to prevent her concussing me with the standard-lamp.
'What the devil do you think you're up to?' I demanded angrily. I gripped her arms. 'Are you trying to kill me or something?'
'You struck a woman!' Through her redistribution of energy she had thankfully stopped screaming. 'You cad!'
'Of course I did! For your own good, you idiotic female. Why, you're as hysterical as a cat stuck in a chimney- pot!'
She looked at me closely, narrowing her eyes. 'I hate you!' she hissed. Then she fell into my arms and collapsed into humble tears.
After some minutes of patting her on the back and murmuring consolation I said, 'Don't you think you ought to go home and lie down? If you like I'll give you a prescription for a sedative. Have a good sleep-you'll feel ever so much better.'
She blew her nose miserably. 'I'll stay here until Razzy comes back.'
