Doctor in the House Read Free Page B

a dozen electric globes were suspended to supplement the thin light that filtered through the windows under the eaves.
    I sat down shyly at the extreme end of the last row of benches. Most of the new students had already arrived, and had scattered themselves here and there in the tier of seats. A few seemed to know one another and were conversing softly among themselves. The rest were isolated and silent and looked blankly at the blackboards ahead of them, like a congregation in church waiting for the service.
    We were as variegated as a bunch of conscripts. Most of the students were my own age, but in the row immediately below me a middle-aged bald-headed man was scribbling some private notes with a pencil in an exercise book; every now and then he jumped, looked round him anxiously, and fidgeted like a schoolgirl. The only other occupant of my row was a pale youth with untidy ginger hair who appeared to be about fifteen, and was reading The Origin of Species with alarming concentration.
    The clock on the wall above the lecturer’s desk reached twenty past ten: the Dean was late again. We later found that this was a common occurrence as he emphasized his complete superiority over the students in his appointments by being scrupulously unpunctual. I was still staring expectantly at the blackboards when the door behind me groaned and another student entered.
    ‘I say, do you mind if I squeeze in?’ the newcomer asked. ‘I hate being far from the exit.’
    I shifted along the hard bench hastily. The new man seemed so much at ease in his surroundings it appeared he was senior to the rest of the waiting class. He was certainly more distinctive in his appearance. He was a tall, good-looking young man with thick black hair and a small moustache. He wore a long brown hacking jacket, narrow corduroy trousers, a green shirt, and a yellow silk square instead of a tie. He set down on the floor beside him a polished black walking stick, and taking a monocle from his breast pocket surveyed his companions through it with blatant disgust.
    ‘Good God,’ he said.
    He then opened a copy of The Times and began reading it.
    The abashed silence in the room was maintained for another ten minutes, broken only by my new neighbour noisily turning over the pages. At ten thirty, half an hour late, a small door behind the desk opened and the Dean bounced in. He was all smiles and geniality. He stood for a moment and beamed at the class like a bishop inspecting his confirmation candidates.
    The Dean was not only late but in a tearing hurry. He briefly welcomed us to St Swithin’s, made a few remarks about its history and traditions, rapidly ran through the ethics of the medical profession, and explained that in future we would be bound by professional secrecy, and forbidden to make love to our patients’ wives, do abortions, or walk on the grass in the hospital courtyard. He flung a few final remarks of encouragement at his listeners and shot off. His address had lasted seventeen minutes, and the only acknowledgment that the student next to me had made of his presence was folding his paper twice over and reading it under cover of the man in front.
    ‘Oh, he’s finished, has he?’ said the man with the paper, as the scuffling of students getting to their feet disturbed him. He peered at the clock through his monocle. ‘H’m,’ he remarked. ‘He’s cut three minutes off his best time so far. Did he leave out that bit about the hospital traditions?’
    ‘No,’ I told him. ‘He seemed to have quite a lot to say about them.’
    The student raised his free eyebrow. ‘Did he now? Then he’s speeding up his delivery. Next year I bet the old boy gets it down to fifteen minutes dead.’
    I was very afraid of this superior and critical young man, but I could not help asking a question.
    ‘You’ve heard the lecture before?’ I said hesitantly. ‘I mean, you haven’t just arrived in the hospital like the rest of us?’
    ‘This makes the