Doctor in Clover

18

'A fund for surgical research? I should be delighted to contribute,' said Lord Nutbeam.

'That's really terribly decent of you. You see, I was talking to Sir Lancelot the other day, and he felt that-shall we say-ten thousand pounds would make a nice shot from the starting gun.'

'My dear Doctor, I assure you I shall give the utmost that I can possibly afford. I'm so glad you drew my attention to it. And what are you doing this lovely morning? Ethel and I are continuing to explore London. Such fun, you know. We are going to the Zoo again, where I find the monkeys absolutely intriguing. Would you care to accompany us?'

'Jolly kind of you, but I've got to drive out to the Union Jack film studios.'

'Have you, indeed? I should love to visit a film studio myself. If you have a moment before you go, would you be kind enough to slip round the corner and buy me a large bag of monkey nuts?'

It was a few days later, and one of those mornings which make you think of flannels on the village green, punts dozing on the river, strawberries and cream in the garden, and all the other gentle English summer delights which compensate for the place being uninhabitable most of the winter. I was still staying with the Nutbeams in their house in Belgravia, and the previous evening I'd telephoned Petunia about Sir Lancelot's meeting.

'Come and see me at the studio tomorrow,' she'd invited. 'And, darling, what are you doing about Jimmy Hosegood?'

I didn't mention I intended to do nothing about Jimmy Hosegood, though feeling a bit of a cad, like St George pretending the fiery dragon was only something to do with the roadworks.

'And he's got so peculiar lately, Petunia went on. 'Ever since you put him on that diet thing.'

'Peculiar how?'

'Like a centipede with corns. Ever so gloomy and grumpy and biting everyone's head off, even Sir Theodore's.'

'The sudden drop in blood-sugar is inclined to make people touchy. St Francis must have been absolutely intolerable until he got into his stride.'

'He's even being sticky about putting up the money for my picture. Adam Stringfellow's awfully upset. Not to mention Mum.'

'Perhaps I might be able to prescribe some counter therapy,' I suggested. 'See you for lunch.'

I was as curious as old Nutbeam to explore a film studio, though rather disappointed to find the buildings stuck in the middle of the Sussex countryside resembled a municipal sanitorium. There were even the same long concrete corridors inside where you could fancy you smelt the antiseptic, the only difference being the place hadn't any windows and everyone was walking about dressed up as Roman soldiers and Hawaiian dancing girls. As nobody took any notice of me and all the doors had NO ENTRY on them, I stood wondering where to go. Then Petunia appeared, in an evening gown nicely displaying her gynaecoid pelvis.

'Gaston, darling! Have you been waiting long? I've been in the rushes. Let's go down to the canteen, I've only twenty minutes before I'm due on the floor again.'

'All right for this St Swithin's lark?' I asked, after greeting her warmly.

'Oh, that. Yes, studio publicity have passed it. But what about Jimmy, Gaston? I'm absolutely at my wits' end. Honestly.'

'How's he looking?' I asked.

'You can see for yourself. He's in the canteen with Mum.'

The studio canteen looked like any other works' eating-place, except that being full of actors it suggested supper at a fancy-dress dance. In the corner were Petunia's Mum and Hosegood. He brightened a little as I appeared and exclaimed, 'Doctor! Don't you notice the change in me?'

'I was just wondering who the thin chap was,' I told him, though he looked exactly the same, except for an expression like Mother Hubbard's dog.

'Rolls, sir?' asked the waitress.

'Take it away!'

Hosegood recoiled as though offered a basket of live snakes, and asked for lean meat, poultry, game, rabbit, cooked by any method without the addition of flour, breadcrumbs, or thick sauces.

'See, Doctor-I'm sticking to that diet like glue.'

'I didn't come all the way out here today to talk about your diet,' Mum interrupted, giving me a chilly look. 'Nor did I expect to discuss my business before strangers. I simply want to know why you refuse to put up the end money for Melody's film.'

'I've got to think about it,' mumbled Hosegood gloomily. 'Money's a serious business, y'know.'

'As managing director of Melody Madder Limited I demand a better explanation.'

'Look, Mrs Bancroft-once Melody and me's spliced-'

'Mum, I really-'

'Be quiet. This is nothing to do with you. I can't understand this change of attitude at all, Mr Hosegood.'

This started an argument which made a pretty miserable lunch of it, especially with Hosegood ordering cabbage, broccoli, spinach, root vegetables, not parsnips, boiled or steamed without the addition of fat. Then a thin chap with long hair appeared to tell Melody she was wanted on the set, and Mum, of course, went too, leaving me to finish off with her fiancй.

'Very difficult, Mrs Bancroft, sometimes,' he remarked.

'Why not tuck into a whacking four-course meal tonight for a treat?' I suggested. 'Things will look much rosier afterwards.'

But he only shook his head and asked for lettuce, radishes, watercress, parsley, with dressing not containing vegetable or minerals oils.

'And I,' I announced, jolly hungry from the country air, 'am going to have a slice of that nice ginger flan.'

Hosegood's jaw dropped. 'My favourite dish!'

The poor fellow salivated so much as I cut myself a large wedge and covered it with cream, I fancied he'd ruined his tie for good.

I'd just stuck my fork into the sticky ginger bit, when the waitress said I was wanted on the telephone. It was Petunia, from her dressing-room.

'Gaston, you must do something.' She seemed almost in tears. 'It's Mum. Now she tells me I've got to marry Jimmy next month, and Sir Theodore's to give it out to the papers tonight. What on earth am I going to do?'

'I'm terribly sorry about it, Pet,' I apologized weakly, 'but I really don't see how I can possibly-'

'But, Gaston, you must. Oh, God, here's Mum again. See you on the set.'

I went back to my place with the nasty feeling that I'd let down poor old Petunia.

But she was an idiotic little girl to imagine I could ruffle the amorous intentions of a high-powered financial wizard like Hosegood. Besides, no scheme had occurred to me except eloping With her myself, and Miles would be chasing us all the way to Gretna. Then I noticed my plate was empty, with Jimmy Hosegood looking like a cat climbing out of an aviary.

'Good Lord!' I exclaimed. 'You didn't-?'

'The ginger tart,' mumbled Jimmy, 'Five hundred calories. What a fool!'

'Cheer up,' I told him, after he'd repeated this continually for several minutes. 'To err is not only human, but rather fun. Anyway, we'll get some of it off with a brisk walk down the corridor to Petunia's studio.'

'Studio?' He laid a hand on his waistcoat.

'I don't know if I'm well enough to get on my feet.'

It must have been a shock to his gastric mucosa, having a dish like that slung at it after weeks of fish and soda-water. But I was more interested at what went on inside the studio than what went on inside old Hosegood, and insisted he showed me the way.

'All right, Doctor,' he said, lumbering up.

'But by gum! I do feel queer.'

I'd often wondered how they set about making a film, the only one I'd seen being on the diagnosis of skin diseases in St Swithin's out-patients', which wasn't quite the same thing. We arrived at a door marked STAGE D, and went into a dim place the size of a cathedral filled with chaps sawing up bits of wood. The studio seemed to be lined with old sacks, was decorated only with notices telling people not to smoke or drop hammers on each other's head, neither of which anyone was paying any attention to. The floor was covered with an undergrowth of cables and copses of arc-lamps, there were chaps running about girders in the roof like Hornblower's sailors in the rigging, and there were other chaps pushing trolleys from one end to the other and back again with shouts of 'Mindcherbacspliz!' On the whole, I was rather disappointed. It reminded me of the St Swithin's operating theatre-the object of attention was illuminated with bright lights, it all seemed highly disorganized to the onlooker, there was nowhere to sit and rest your feet, and everyone not working was drinking cups of tea.

In the far corner was a typical night-club, except that it had no roof and all the guests in evening dress were reading the morning paper or knitting. In the middle stood Petunia talking to Quintin Finn, and pretty smashing she looked too, with her red hair glittering in the lights. Hosegood was meanwhile complaining he wanted to sit down, and noticing a canvas chair next to the camera with MELODY MADDER stencilled on the back I eased him into it.

'Right, children,' said Adam Stringfellow, who seemed to be a sort of referee, 'we're going now. Quiet, please.'

'Quiet!' yelled the two assistant directors, more young chaps with long hair who acted as linesmen.

Someone in the background went on hammering, sounding like a machine gun at a funeral.

'Quiet!' yelled all three directors. 'Ready, Melody?' asked Stringfellow. 'Take one, Action.'

Just at that moment I sneezed.

'Quiet!'

'Terribly sorry,' I apologized. 'Purely reflex action.'

'Quiet!'

'Speck of dust, I'm afraid.'

'Quiet!'

'Rather dusty places, these Studios.'

'For God's sake!' shouted Stringfellow. 'Can't you control yourself at your age? We'll go again. Stand by, everyone. Take two, Action.'

Hosegood hiccupped.

'Would you have the kindness to hiccup just a little more softly, Mr Hosegood?' asked Stringfellow. 'I fear it may inconvenience us by getting on the sound-track. Once again. Take three. Action.'

But Quintin Finn had some dandruff on his collar, and a chap with a whisk came to brush it off.

'Take four,' continued Stringfellow, now looking like Thomas Carlyle in the middle of one of his famous attacks of the sulks. 'This is only costing us a hundred and fifty quid a minute. All right, Melody? Action.'

'One second,' said Petunia's mum.

'Oh, God,' said Stringfellow.

'My daughter's hair's not right at the back.'

I began to feel sorry for the Stringfellow chap, even though he didn't understand the elements of nasal physiology.

'Make-up! Please fix Miss Madder's hair. At the back.'

They got ready to start again, and I was feeling pretty excited at seeing a real film being shot, when there was a shout from the back of 'Tea break!' and everyone knocked off for a cup and a bun.

I didn't have the chance for a word with Melody, because she was kept talking in a corner by Adam Stringfellow. And anyway my attention was divided between Hosegood, who'd gone green, and Quintin Finn, who was asking my opinion of all his pictures.

'Do go and see my next one, dear,' said Quintin. 'I'm a commando major, and it's ever so exciting. There goes the shooting bell again. I do so hope this won't make us late this evening. My chauffeur Roland gets ever so cross if I keep him waiting, the naughty thing.'

'With the permission of Mrs Madder and the man with the chronic hay-fever,' Stringfellow announced, as the bell stopped, 'we will now go again. Quiet everyone, for God's sake. At your marks, Melody? Right. Take five. Action.'

That time they started, but Melody got her lines mixed up.

'Again,' said Stringfellow, with the expression of Sir Lancelot Spratt when the gastroscope bulb went out. 'No wonder people watch television. Take six. Action.'

Poor Melody, possibly rattled by the sight of Hosegood undoing his waistcoat, made a mess of it again.

'In Heaven's name, Miss Madder! You've only to say, "Thank you for a wonderful evening." Do try and concentrate, darling, please.'_

'Don't you talk to my daughter in that tone,' said Mum.

'If you interrupt any more, Mrs Madder, I shall ask you to leave the set.'

She got up. 'You will, will you? And where would any of you be without my daughter, I'd like to know?'

'I'm sorry, Mrs Madder. Deeply sorry. But I am suffering from bad nerves and an inadequate budget and I cannot stand any more nonsense from you or anyone-'

There was a howl beside me, as Hosegood staggered to his feet gripping his epigastrium.

'Damn it!' he gasped. 'It's all the fault of that bloody ginger tart!'

'What did you call my daughter, you swine?' Mum shouted. 'Marry her? Over my dead body!'

And she hit him on the head with a convenient carpenter's hammer.