Doctor in the House Read Free

medical school.
    This disheartening introspection was interrupted by the waiting-room door opening. An old man stood on the threshold, looking at me silently. He wore a heavy black jacket buttoned high in the chest, narrow trousers, and a two-inch collar. In his hand he held a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez, which were attached to his right lapel by a thick black silk ribbon. He was so thin, so old, so pale, and so slow he could have taken his place in the nearby post-mortem room without attracting attention.
    He clipped his glasses on to his nose with a slow, shaky movement and inspected me more carefully. I leapt to my feet and faced him.
    ‘Gordon?’ croaked the old man from the doorway. ‘Mr Richard Gordon?’
    ‘Yes, sir. That is correct, sir,’ I replied with great respect.
    ‘So you have come for entrance to St Swithin’s?’ the old man asked slowly.
    ‘Yes, sir, I have.’
    He nodded, but without enthusiasm.
    ‘Your father is a Swithin’s man, I believe?’
    ‘Oh yes, sir.’
    ‘I am not the Dean,’ he explained. ‘I am the medical school Secretary. I was Secretary here long before you were born, my boy. Before your father, probably. I remember well enough when the Dean himself came up to be admitted.’ He removed his glasses and pointed them at me. ‘I’ve seen thousands of students pass through the school. Some of ’em have turned out good, and some of ’em bad – it’s just like your own children.’
    I nodded heartily, as I was anxious to please everyone.
    ‘Now, young feller,’ he went on more briskly, ‘I’ve got some questions to ask you.’
    I folded my hands submissively and braced myself mentally.
    ‘Have you been to a public school?’ he asked.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Do you play rugby football or association?’
    ‘Rugby.’
    ‘Do you think you can afford to pay the fees?’
    ‘Yes.’
    He grunted, and without a word withdrew. Left alone, I diverted my apprehensive mind by running my eye carefully over the line of black-and-white deans, studying each one in turn. After ten minutes or so the old man returned and led me in to see the living holder of the office.
    Dr Loftus was a short, fat, genial man with wispy white hair like pulled-out cotton wool. He was sitting at an old-fashioned roll-topped desk that was stacked untidily with folders, copies of medical journals, letters, and reference books. On top of these he had thrown a Homburg hat, a pair of yellow gloves, and his stethoscope. He was obviously in a hurry.
    ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, old man,’ he said cheerily, ‘I was held up at a post-mortem. Have a seat.’
    I sat down on a hard leather chair beside the desk.
    ‘Now,’ the Dean began. ‘Have you been to a public school?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Your people can afford the fees and that sort of thing?’
    ‘I believe so.’
    ‘You play rugby, I suppose?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    The Dean began to look interested.
    ‘What position?’ he asked.
    ‘Wing three-quarter.’
    He drew a pad of paper towards him and pencilled fifteen dots on it in rugby formation.
    ‘Threequarter…’ he murmured to himself. ‘How old are you?’ he asked sharply.
    ‘Almost eighteen, sir.’
    ‘Umm. First fifteen at school?’
    ‘Oh yes, sir.’
    The Dean traced lines through his dots, crossed others out, and rustled through a sheaf of typewritten papers beside him. He jerked back in his chair and inspected me closely all over.
    ‘You’re rather thin, aren’t you,’ he announced. ‘I suppose you’ve got the speed?’
    ‘I’ve got cups for the hundred,’ I told him eagerly.
    ‘Well, you may shape well. Lucky you’re a three. The hospital’s full of forwards,’ he added in disgust.
    He frowned at his paper pad for a few seconds. His face suddenly lightened, and I saw he had come to a decision: my hands gripped the arms of the chair as I waited to receive it. Rising, he shook me briskly by the hand and told me he had pleasure in admitting me to St Swithin’s.
    I wondered for some