6

About this time our unborn child introduced me to Dr Ann Pheasant, MRCOG.

Dr Pheasant was in practice on the other side of Hampden Cross, and being a member of the Royal College of Obstetricians and Gynaecologists – known in the trade as the royal college of organ-grinders – she attended most of the local confinements. I myself avoided maternity patients as shamelessly as smallpox cases, and now knew as little obstetrics as a retired surgeon-admiral. As Dr Farquarson really enjoyed delivering babies only by the light of guttering candles in a crofter’s cottage during a Highland blizzard, Nikki herself performed most of the midwifery in our own practice, an arrangement which would have to be modified when she started to frighten all her new patients. But she had known the obstetrician since Dr Pheasant was a student senior to her in medical school, and she decided to place her own pregnancy in her hands.

‘Of course, it’s the best idea of the lot, pupping at home,’ declared Dr Pheasant, sitting in our cottage on a social rather than professional visit. ‘It pleases the pundits in the Ministry of Health, who don’t have to pay for your board and lodging and clean sheets,’ she went on. ‘It’s a jolly sight more convenient, and you can order your own grub. For the mother’s psychology you can’t beat it. You get an extra four quid out of the Government, too.’

‘I’d rather like to have it at home,’ agreed Nikki. ‘Hospitals these days seem to be getting as impersonal as department stores.’

‘And the father’s always handy,’ Ann continued warmly. ‘Personally, I like to persuade him to watch the actual delivery as well. Had to give the idea up, though. So many of them were sick.’

‘I’m quite certain I’d be,’ I told her.

I never felt wholly at ease with Ann Pheasant. One of the brightest splashes on the modern academic scene is the discovery of professional women that asserting their equality with men doesn’t necessitate stripping themselves of their sexual characteristics. Lady doctors, like lady politicians and lady Wimbledon champions, now appear in public looking pressingly feminine instead of going about as if they had all been drawn by Mr James Thurber. But some girls seem perpetually confused by the essentially male world of medicine, and looking at Dr Ann Pheasant, a cigarette dangling from her lips, clasping her knees and showing her knickers, I felt that she was one of them.

‘Come along to the surgery and I’ll do your haemoglobin and blood pressure and albumin,’ she went on, slapping Nikki on the knee. ‘And I must remember to give you a certificate. In the eyes of the Welfare State you’re not officially pregnant without one. You can make up your mind if you want to have it at home, or in the local Memorial Hospital or what have you, a bit later on.’

She got up.

‘I must be nipping along to my other mothers. Give me a ring, old thing, and relax. Relaxation – that’s the secret of modern childbirth. And do your exercises and watch your fat. Pregnant women put on an indecent amount of weight, quite apart from the little beast and its landing-tackle. Cheery-bye, and don’t worry.’

‘Dr Pheasant certainly brings a refreshingly basic approach to the miracle of childbirth,’ I observed as she rattled away in her old car, which seemed to be held together largely with lengths of the surgical wire used to repair hernias.

‘She’s very sweet really, dear,’ said Nikki.

I said nothing. A wife’s friends are a mystery to any man.

‘Particularly as I don’t suppose there’s much chance of her ever having a baby of her own,’ Nikki added.

‘But that ghastly idea of hers, having the husband in the room. I’m sure it’s much better for everyone’s psychology if he enjoys his traditional twilight sleep in the nearest pub. Anyway, where would you really like to have the baby? I suppose you’re still not keen on St Swithin’s?’

I had at first wanted the child to be born in the place which had provided me with my means of livelihood and most of my friends. There is a robust family spirit about all big British hospitals, where many of the staff take a wife from the nurses’ home and a family from the obstetrical wards before ending up themselves on one of the porcelain tables in the post-mortem department. The Maternity Department at St Swithin’s seemed to be maintained exclusively for the convenience of its former pupils, and I knew that Sir Jeffrey Supe, the senior gynaecologist, would treat my application for a bed with the geniality shown by Harley-street consultants to all their old students, who might now be in a position to send them private patients.

But I knew that Turtle Supe, though a man who almost weekly presented Debrett with another entry, always seemed to be attending either a confinement in the country or Ascot races whenever he was wanted in a hurry. We decided that Nikki might end up anyway in the hands of Sister Studholm, the senior midwife, who was widely held to be a contemporary of Sarah Gamp and once reported me to the Dean for changing the ‘e’ on the AnteNatal Clinic door to an ‘i.’

‘No, Simon,’ Nikki now declared. ‘Not St Swithin’s. Apart from anything else – though as a primip. I suppose I can expect about twelve hours’ warning – if anything went wrong it would be highly undignified for someone to be born along the North Circular Road. Let’s have it at home. After all, a newborn baby hardly takes up more room than a puppy.’

‘At this home?’ I asked, looking round. I was fond of our cottage, but it was as draughty to live in as Stonehenge. ‘Besides, we can’t have the poor little thing sharing the camp-bed at weekends with Grimsdyke.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Nikki doubtfully, ‘the time has come for us to launch into something grander?’

‘There goes the sports car,’ I sighed. ‘But I suppose a family man has to face a few necessary expenses.’

‘By the way, talking of necessary expenses, dear,’ Nikki went on. ‘That dress I bought for our party at the Arundel next week was rather more than we expected. And of course I had to get a new bag to go with the dress. And new shoes to go with the bag, and some more nylons to go with the shoes.’

I only hoped that Grimsdyke would put on a damn good menu.

I was looking forward to our outing not only for gustatory reasons but to discover the result of my friend’s stealthy clinical investigations. But it was unnecessary to wait until then, for the next morning our paper exclaimed MONICA FAIRCHILD TO HAVE BABY. There was a long account on the front page, illustrated with a photograph of the actress gazing into the eyes of her husband, an undernourished-looking young man with large eyes and a feathery moustache.

‘Old Grim’s got it right this time, anyway,’ I announced to Nikki, tossing the paper across the kitchen table. ‘I bet he’s feeling pretty pleased with himself even though they don’t actually mention him by name.’

‘But they mention the hotel, twice.’

‘Perhaps they might let the poor chap keep a bit more of his own fees, now,’ I suggested.

‘Or give him a better job in the publicity department,’ said Nikki.

Grimsdyke’s increased importance in the Arundel as Monica Fairchild’s prospective accoucheur was clear from the moment my car drew up at the front door the following Wednesday evening. The staff now bowed us in with the respectful curiosity shown these days only to royalty and television personalities.

‘Nikki, my dear, you look absolutely charming,’ said Grimsdyke, greeting us exuberantly as we were shown up to his suite by three pageboys. ‘Hang up your hats and we’ll have a quick one first from my private cellar. I hope you’re both starving,’ he went on. ‘We’re kicking off with a mouthful of caviar, then a spot of soup and a chunk of salmon just off the plane from Scotland, followed by a duckling apiece done as the old chef used to produce it for the aristocracy of Europe, when they could afford to eat in places like this. And to save messing about with the wine list, I’ve told them just to lay on bags of the bubbly stuff.’

‘Lovely!’ said Nikki. She closed her eyes in contentment. ‘I don’t have to cook a bit of it myself.’

‘Tell me, Grim,’ I asked him, ‘how in the end did you manage your little deception with Miss Fairchild?’

‘My dear chap, it was easier than testing her knee-jerks. At our next consultation I simply put on a serious face and told her what I wanted, and the next morning her secretary brought it down in a Chanel perfume bottle. I sent it off to the lab. in a taxi, and a couple of days later I got the happy news.’

‘Which you still had to break to the patient?’

‘Exactly. That needed a bit of courage, I admit. But there was nothing to be gained by beating about the gooseberry bush. I kept quiet about my methods, naturally, but I just drew a deep breath and told her. At first she said, “Impossible! I’m on Broadway for the next six months.” But after that she saw things in the right perspective, and to my enormous relief threw herself head and shoulders into the role of prospective mother. Jolly good at it she is, too. And look how her audiences reacted! Why, the day the newspapers gave it out they pretty well raised the roof. She says her agent can get her another two and a half per cent on the strength of it.’

‘I’m sure she looks just like anyone else when she’s being sick in the mornings,’ said Nikki, a little unkindly.

‘And I hope she’s now affording you the honour and gratitude you deserve?’

‘My dear old lad, she’s all over me. She calls me her “true apothecary” – Romeo and Juliet, you understand. More to the point, she’s half-promised to take me to the States when she goes, presumably in the puerperium. That’s the place to practice the healing art, and no mistake.’

He grinned enthusiastically, and emptied his glass.

‘Great believers in science, the Yanks. They turn on medical advice like their bathwater. None of them would think of blowing their noses or changing the baby’s nappies without first consulting the appropriate specialist – all American doctors of course being specialists. I tell them I’m a general specialist, and that seems to do the trick, If you’d like to go down and eat,’ he added, glancing at his watch. ‘With any luck we’ll have a view of my distinguished patient as she sails out to perform.’

Grimsdyke seemed in great form. I couldn’t remember seeing him so pleased with life since – to the equal surprise of the examiners and himself – he had passed his finals.

As it was early the dining-room was almost empty when we sat down at a special table heaped with flowers in the corner, heavily outnumbered by waiters. I was just eyeing the caviar glistening so expensively before me, when Grimsdyke gave a nudge and whispered, ‘Here she comes now.’

I had only seen Monica Fairchild before on the stage, where her personality filled the theatre like some powerful gas bursting into a vacuum. I could now tell instantly from the set of her blonde head and blue eyes that it was not simply a stage presence, which seemed confirmed by the look of the husband plodding dejectedly behind her.

‘She’s coming across for a word,’ continued Grimsdyke excitedly. ‘Would you like to be introduced?’

‘We certainly wouldn’t want to complicate–’ began Nikki.

‘Dear Dr Grimsdyke,’ declared the actress, advancing on our table. ‘I just wanted to tell you that I am quite all right. I thought you might be worrying.’

‘I’m delighted to hear it, Miss Fairchild,’ exclaimed Grimsdyke, jumping up. ‘And now may I have the pleasure of introducing two of my professional colleagues and personal friends – Dr and Mrs Sparrow.’

‘How do you do?’ said Miss Fairchild, as though we were in the back of the gallery.

‘As a matter of fact,’ went on Grimsdyke, rather carried away by the occasion, ‘I might as well confess now, Miss Fairchild, that I called Dr Sparrow here into consultation to discuss how we could diagnose your present happy condition.’

‘I’ve often wondered, Doctor,’ her husband interjected to prevent himself being totally ignored, ‘how your profession does manage to diagnose these things?’

‘Oh, it was quite simple from the contents of that perfume bottle,’ I replied without thinking.

The actress frowned slightly.

‘What is this, Dr Grimsdyke?’

Grimsdyke shot me a glance.

‘Well, you see Miss Fairchild,’ he said quickly. ‘That – er, what you kindly let me have, was taken to the laboratory, and they sent me back the result. Didn’t I tell you?’

‘Do you imagine, young man,’ she declared in the voice of Cleopatra, ‘that for one moment I would allow you to submit me to such an indignity? Of course not!’

Grimsdyke suddenly looked worried.

‘You mean that – that offering wasn’t exactly – er, yours?’

‘I shouldn’t think of it! No more than I’d give away locks of my own hair for the hundreds of demands that come every post.’

‘Good God!’ said Grimsdyke, grasping the table. ‘Then you’re not–’

‘What are you trying to say, you fool?’ thundered Miss Fairchild.

‘Perhaps my diagnosis was a little exaggerated,’ muttered Grimsdyke, staring at me hopelessly.

‘If you are trying to infer,’ Miss Fairchild flashed at him, ‘that I am not going to have a baby, that is completely out of the question. It’s already been announced in the newspapers.’

‘But Miss Fairchild,’ I interrupted bravely, to save my friend, ‘How on earth could you have obtained such an appropriate specimen otherwise?’

‘As it all seemed of no importance,’ she snapped at me, ‘I got my secretary to supply it.’

There was a loud cry behind her and a crash.

‘My God!’ screamed the actress. ‘Fetch a doctor! Rollo’s dead!’

But her husband had only fainted.

 

‘I’ve never been treated like this in my life,’ declared Grimsdyke indignantly, as the three of us stood outside on the pavement. ‘I didn’t even have the chance to swallow a single ruddy sturgeon’s egg. And telling the valet to pack my things, too! I’m damn well going to sue that manager. You wait and see. I’ll go to my solicitors first thing in the morning.’

‘I’d hold your horses a bit, if I were you,’ I told him sympathetically. ‘He might be able to sue you.’

Grimsdyke stood glaring for some moments at the site of his former employment.

‘Oh, well,’ he grunted. ‘I’ve been thrown out of better places than this. Anyway, there’s plenty of spots we can go and dine – the Ritz, Mirabelle, Mayfair–’

His voice trailed off as he remembered that he didn’t have an expense account at any of them.

‘I don’t suppose you could lend me a few quid, old lad?’ he asked. ‘I’m a bit short.’

‘I’m awfully sorry, Grim. But in the circumstances I didn’t bother to bring my wallet.’

‘I’ve got a little loose change if it’s any help,’ said Nikki, opening her bag.

We managed to raise eight and tenpence between us.

‘We can run to half a pint in the nearest pub, I suppose,’ said Grimsdyke, pocketing it. ‘Then there’s a fish and chip parlour I know off the Edgware Road. I never did care for rich food much, anyway.’