smartest remark of his life. Beaming at the constable he announced benignly, 'Officer, I am picking bloody gooseberries.'
Mike was then taken to nearby Bow Street and charged with being drunk and disorderly. As his head began to clear in the sobering surroundings, he remembered the only fact that had ever struck him as useful in his forensic medicine lectures: if you are charged with being drunk, you can choose your own doctor to come and examine you. 'Disorderly, yes,' he said sternly to the sergeant. 'Drunk, definitely no. I bet my blood-alcohol isn't even point one per cent. I demand my own doctor at once.'
'All right by us. It'll save the police surgeon getting out of bed. And who is your doctor?'
'Doctor-' Mike Kelly drew himself to add dignity to his words-'John Harcourt Bottle, Master of Arts at the University of Cambridge, Licentiate of the Royal College of Physicians of London, member of the Royal College of Surgeons-'
'All right, all right. Where's he to be found?'
'Ring the Resident Medical Staff Quarters at St Swithin's Hospital. Ask for', continued Mike, deflating slightly, 'the Assistant Junior Resident Anaesthetist.'
John Bottle, who had been continuing the party with the other residents in his room on the top floor of the Staff Quarters, expressed himself indignant over the telephone that the police should have submitted a member of the medical profession to such shame. He spoke at some length, giving the sergeant his opinion on his conduct, demanding an immediate apology, hinting at substantial compensation, and threatening to write to his M.P. He then declared that he would summon a taxi and appear immediately to put this regrettable matter to rights. The result of his intervention was not one doctor being charged with being drunk and disorderly in Bow Street that night, but two.
This was too much, even for St Swithin's, whose staff and governors showed remarkable tolerance towards purple paint on the statues, cart-horses in the quadrangle, and cami-knickers flying from the flag-staff on the morning of the Lord Mayor's visit. To avoid disproportionate damage to their careers the Staff Committee sent Kelly and Bottle on unpaid leave for the rest of their appointment, leaving two gaps on the resident staff until the next batch of students qualified in three months' time. As Mike Kelly had brought himself to his confused state by sympathizing with Grimsdyke at the dinner, he suggested his misfortune might at least be turned to the gain of his friends. Grimsdyke and I hurried to St Swithin's to see Mr Cambridge, and introduced ourselves as the charming young gentlemen who had been so appreciative of his teaching the night before. The next day I had become his temporary senior house surgeon and Grimsdyke was assistant junior resident to the hospital's anaesthetics department.
'I'm only a ruddy stuffist,' Grimsdyke complained. 'But by George! we're lucky to get paid work at all in our present state. It's hard luck on old Mike, though.'
I too was sorry for our former classmates, but I was overwhelmingly delighted to be back in St Swithin's. The disappointment of my earlier departure was wiped out. I was at last a senior house surgeon, if not an official one; there were hopes of resuscitating my moribund surgical career; and it would be a delicious affront to Bingham.
I returned to the Staff Quarters, the tall, cold, sooty building between the hospital laundry and the mortuary that had been used as the ear, nose, and throat wards until condemned by the Governors as unfit for the housing of patients. Mike Kelly's room was next to the one allotted Bingham, who was hurrying down the corridor in his white coat as I struggled in with my luggage.
He pulled up short. We had not met since the incident in the lift. He seemed uncertain what to say. He looked more boyish, more untidy, more pimply than ever, and his stethoscope seemed to have increased in size until it entwined his neck like a rubbery vine.
'Hello, Bingham,' I said.
He swallowed. 'Hello, old chap. Heard you were coming back.'
'Look here,' I said, dropping my suitcase and holding out my hand. 'I'm sorry about that business of the bananas' in the lift. It was damn bad manners on my part, but I was a bit upset at the time. About not getting the job, you know. Not that I'm saying you didn't deserve the promotion. But we've got to live next door to each other for a bit, so can't we forget the whole thing?'
'Of course, old chap,' Bingham said awkwardly., There was a short silence. 'I'm-er, sorry if I hogged all the cases in cas., and all that.'
'You deserved them, too.'
We shook. 'If you want any tips about the work, old chap,' Bingham went on, 'I can put you right. Only if you ask, of course,' he added quickly. 'The Prof.'s been jolly decent, and letting me try quite a bit off my own bat. I've done a couple of hernias and some piles already, and there's a nice excision of warts on the list for me tomorrow. Must buzz off now, old chap, there's a query tib. and fib. just come into cas. See you at supper.'
I went to my room feeling like the head girl at St Agatha's making it up with the lacrosse skipper.
My job as a senior house surgeon in St Swithin's was looking after the day-to-day needs of the patients in the wards, assisting in the operating theatre, and acting as a clinical valet to Mr Cambridge. This was my most difficult duty, because Mr Cambridge, though an excellent surgeon who had plucked more stomachs than anyone else in the hemisphere, was alarmingly absent-minded. His professional memory was excellent: he never forgot a stomach. Socially, he couldn't remember the day of the week, whether he had come out in his overcoat, what he was supposed to be doing in the afternoon, and if he had already had lunch. As a young surgeon he had arrived at St Swithin's from his lodgings one winter's morning, to operate as usual, and was aware as he scrubbed up of a strange loneliness about the place. Not only was the surgeon's room silent, but peeping into the theatre itself he found it deserted, with the table under a dust-sheet. At first he thought he was in the wrong operating block, but there was his name on his locker, as plain as ever. Next, he wondered if it might be Sunday; but he was certain it was Wednesday, because he paid his landlady every Tuesday and he remembered that he had forgotten to give her the cheque yesterday. It then occurred to him that he had noticed a strangeness about the streets while driving to the hospital. Was there a sudden general strike, perhaps, sweeping up the doctors and nurses as it hurricaned upon them? He padded down the corridor in his operating clothes, white rubber boots, and surgical mask, to seek information. At the ward door he stopped short. It was most extraordinary. There appeared to be some sort of riot inside, with nurses and patients dancing round the beds. Clearly, revolution had broken out in St Swithin's. 'Why, hello, Mr Cambridge!' called the Sister from the door. 'Merry Christmas!'
My first morning on duty I waited in the quadrangle for Mr Cambridge's arrival, according to hospital tradition standing beneath the statue to its famous former surgeon, Sir Benjamin Bone.
'The Chief's getting late,' I said to the Registrar, a tall, thin, serious, but pleasant young man called Hatrick, who already had his F.R.C.S.
'There's nothing much you can do about it,' he said gloomily. 'The last time the old boy didn't turn up I found he'd gone on an American lecture tour.
We were due to begin operating at nine, but it was almost half-past when Mr Cambridge came cheerily through the main gates on foot.
'Ah, good morning, my dear Mr Er-er, and my dear Mr Ah-ah,' he greeted us. He could never remember the names of his assistants, and I was thankful that he had managed to recall mine twelve hours after the reunion dinner. 'Sorry I'm late. Got my notes?' I handed him three or four envelopes, addressed in his own barely legible handwriting. Whenever he thought of anything he ought to remember the next day, he wrote it on a card and immediately posted it to himself at St Swithin's. 'Let's see, we operate this morning, don't we?' he continued, as we marched towards the surgical block. 'There's a most interesting gastrocolic fistula I'd like you to inspect Mr Er-And of course you too, Mr Ah-'
There followed one of the most painful mornings since I qualified. As a medical student I had occasionally been ordered to scrub-up, dress in a sterile gown, and join the surgeon's assistants, but once at the operating table I only played dummy in the surgical quartet. Occasionally I would be given a retractor and told, 'Hang on to that, boy!' but usually I was edged away as the surgeon became more interested in the operation and spent most of the time watching nothing more illuminating than the buckle on the back of his braces. But as a house surgeon I was a necessary member of the surgical team, responsible for cutting the stitches, clipping off the bleeding points, and fixing the dressings. Conscious of this, I pulled on my rubber gloves with unusual determination, and split them from thumb to cuff.
'Nurse!' The sister's voice rang across the theatre. 'Another pair of gloves for Mr Gordon!'
A small nurse, muffled in her theatre clothes, darted across the floor and drew a white glove packet from the
