He saw Doctor Thistlebaum first, a man so doddery he could barely walk to the other side of his desk, let alone examine his patient. Nonetheless he was considered a specialist on the matter and with much murmuring and clearing of his throat he told Peter the same thing Doctor Appleby had said: ‘Your problem, sir, is failure of the organs. The upside is you can expect a speedy death.’
‘That’s the upside?’ said Peter.
‘Oh yes, it won’t be drawn out — it will be fast, so go home and put your things in order,’ said Doctor Thistlebaum, and he looked at the door and Peter knew the consultation was over. He settled the outrageous bill with Doctor Thistlebaum’s nurse and went on to the next expert, Doctor Fickett, who was slightly younger than Doctor Thistlebaum but three times as wide.
‘Are you going to examine me?’ asked Peter.
But Doctor Fickett didn’t like to get out of his very comfortable chair unnecessarily and to that end he had ensured it was a good swiveller. He said, ‘You’re here for an opinion, aren’t you?’ And he pointed Peter to the chair on the other side of the desk.
‘Yes,’ said Peter.
‘Well, sit down then, I don’t need to examine you to give you my opinion on the matter. I imagine you’ve seen Thistlebaum, he’s the expert, and if he’s confirmed your diagnosis I’d be mad to suggest it was something else.’
‘Well, yes,’ said Peter, though he wasn’t sure at all.
‘Well, in my opinion it’s hereditary.’
‘Hereditary?’ asked Peter.
‘Absolutely, we see it in families all the time. What did your father die of?’
‘I don’t actually know,’ said Peter.
‘Exactly,’ said Doctor Fickett, bored with having to explain medical facts to his patients. ‘I don’t doubt for a second it was the same ailment that you, sir, now suffer from.’ And he looked at the door to indicate it was time for Peter to settle his bill with the nurse sitting starched and straight in her crisp white dress and cap behind the counter outside.
Peter saw Doctor Bigsby next and then Doctor Whitehall and Doctor Simpson, who all said they confirmed Doctor Thistlebaum’s opinion before they even knew what Doctor Thistlebaum’s opinion was.
In addition — and this advice they each gave freely for the good of mankind — he shouldn’t waste his money by seeing Doctor Le Sueur. Well, he’d have to be a foreigner with a name like that and he was a bit of a scallywag, wet behind the ears, a bit too willing to go where no respectable specialist should go. Well, what could you expect from these European types with their new ideas that have no basis in medical fact? No, they told him, don’t waste what little time you have left with the likes of Doctor Le Sueur.
As it happened Peter had made an appointment to see Doctor Le Sueur, who had his room in Little Collins Street, not Collins Street proper. Little Collins Street was small and dark, whereas Collins Street was a wide and regal passageway to Spring Street, where the grand home of federal politics sat. Collins Street was carriages and the tramway and contented women in pale skirts and large hats with arms full of shopping parcels and bellies full of Devonshire tea. Little Collins Street was bustling and shoving and pushing, it was spilled barrels and rubbish brushed up against the paths. Paul walked straight to Doctor Le Sueur’s rooms from Doctor Simpson so he could cancel the appointment without any delay. He got to the building, which sat next door to the Hunt Hotel. The hotel spilled drunken men and whooping and the stench of spilt beer out into the street. Peter walked back and forward for half an hour tossing up between saving his money, which Lilly would need if he was gone, and thinking that one last opinion couldn’t hurt. In the end he decided to sleep on it and in the morning he realised it would be rude to cancel at this late stage and so he went to get the opinion of this doctor who was in all likelihood a quack. He walked into the foyer of the doctor’s building and the board said Doctor Le Sueur — Second Floor. He took the elevator and walked down the narrow dark corridor until he found the glass panelled door with Dr Le Sueur M in large black lettering.
‘Your D is missing,’ said Peter as he walked through the door. He was expecting to see a nurse and a waiting room but the door led straight into the consulting room, and the man he presumed was Doctor Le Sueur sitting inside it. Peter thought he looked more like a farmer than a doctor: he had a ruddy outdoors complexion with boyish freckles and pale blue eyes. Perhaps he wasn’t even a properly trained doctor. Perhaps he was a herbalist or a homeopath or a veterinarian.
‘The D is only missing on the door, I assure you I am indeed a medical doctor. Now, now don’t sit down. I want to examine you before I say anything,’ said Doctor Le Sueur and pointed to his examination gurney that had seen better days. Peter took off his jacket and his shoes and lay down. Doctor Le Sueur tied an operating mask over his mouth and nose, then he took his stethoscope from where it hung on the wall and listened to Peter’s chest for a long time, getting him to sit up and lie back down again, now sit up, now cough lightly, now cough hard, which threw Peter into a fit of uncontrolled coughing and made Doctor Le Sueur stand well back and look at Peter as if that was exactly what he was looking for and now he knew all he needed to know to give his diagnosis. Only when Peter had completely finished coughing did
