Doctor in Clover

3

'I know you'll be pleased,' announced Mrs Wattle a few mornings later. 'I've asked little Avril Atkinson to supper.'

'Very pleased indeed,' I told her courteously.

The fact is, I'd have been pleased whoever they'd asked, even my cousin. By then I'd discovered the dear old Wattles were incapable of conversation about anything except happenings in Porterhampton, which if you hadn't lived in the place for thirty years was like trying to enjoy a play after arriving in the second interval. It did me no end of good to hear another voice at table, even if they did make me tell the story of the ruddy parrot from the beginning.

After the meal I announced that my studies could slide for another evening, and politely joined the company in the sitting-room. Then Dr Wattle suddenly remembered he had a patient to see, and Ma Wattle had the washing-up to do, leaving Avril and me on the sofa alone.

'How about the television?' I suggested, Avril's conversation being almost as straitjacketed as the Wattles'.

'Oh, let's. It's my favourite programme tonight.'

I switched on the set, turned down the lights, and when we'd watched a few parlour games and chaps pretending to get fierce with each other over the political situation, I very civilly drove her home.

'Do you like classical music, Gaston?' asked Mrs Wattle a few mornings later.

'I'm not adverse to a basinful of Beethoven from time to time,' I admitted.

'I'm so pleased. I've got a ticket for our little amateur orchestra next Friday in the Town Hall. Would you care to go?'

I was glad of an excuse to go out in the evening, now being rather bored with all those stories about chaps killing other chaps by highly complicated means. As I sat down among the potted municipal palms, I found Avril in the next seat.

'Quite a coincidence,' I remarked. She smiled.

'You have such a sense of humour, Gaston. Wasn't it nice of Mrs Wattle to give us the tickets?'

'Oh, yes, quite.'

The dear old thing seemed to be getting forgetful, which I put down to the normal hormonal changes in a woman of her age.

The next few days were brightened by excitement over the great event in professional circles at Porterhampton, the annual medical dinner. As the Wattles seemed to find this a combination of the Chelsea Arts Ball and the Lord Mayor's Banquet, to please the dear old couple I agreed to put on a dinner jacket and accompany them, though personally nothing depresses me quite so much as a lot of other doctors. I had just eased into my chair in the ballroom of the Commercial Hotel, when I realized that I was once more sitting next to Avril Atkinson.

'So nice of Dr Wattle to have invited me,' she began. 'Are you going to make a speech with your terribly funny stories?'

'Not for me, I'm afraid. Though the fat chap with the microphone has a wad of papers in his pocket the size of an auctioneer's catalogue. Remarkable, isn't it, how men find so much to say after dinner when their wives haven't had a word out of them for years over breakfast?'

She giggled. 'Gaston, you're terribly witty.'

'Just wait till you've heard the fat chap.'

The guest on my other side having nothing to talk about except the progress of his patients and his putting, I passed the meal chatting lightly to Avril and when the floods of oratory had subsided took her home in my car.

'You simply must come in and meet daddy,' she invited.

Her father was a decent old boy, who gave me a whisky and soda and seemed intelligently interested in the National Health Service-rates of pay, prospects of promotion for young practitioners, and so on. I put him right on a few points, and went home with the pleasant feeling that I'd done my social duty by the dear old Wattles pretty thoroughly.

I suppose I'm a trusting sort of soul. Strangers at race meetings sell me useless tips at a quid a go. Motorists miss me by inches on zebra crossings. I cash dud cheques for fellows I meet in pubs. Small boys have me in knots on April the first. But it was probably the soporific effect of life in Porterhampton which delayed tumbling to my plight until the morning I was called to treat the girl with the pink dress from my party for mumps.

'When's it to be announced?' asked this Miss Carmichael, as I removed the thermometer from her mouth.

'What announced?'

'Don't play the innocent, Doctor. Everyone in Porterhampton has known about it for weeks. Your engagement to Avril Atkinson, of course.'

'Avril Atkinson!'

I picked up the bits of shattered thermometer from the floor.

'But dash it, that's ridiculous! I hardly know the girl.'

'Now, now! You're always being seen together, at concerts and dinners and things. As for the time she went to the Wattles' for supper-phew! She told me all about it. Sitting alone all evening on the sofa in the dark.'

I drove straight home and confronted Ma Wattle.

'So Dame Rumour hath been at work,' she said coyly. 'I am delighted, Gaston, for your sake. You see, my husband and I felt we were selfish monopolizing your cheery company.

Now you're settling down here, it's only right and proper you should take unto yourself a wife. Unlike us, your later years will be comforted with sons and daughters, whom we shall look upon almost as our own grandchildren. I'm afraid I've rather been playing the matchmaker. But I'm so glad you chose Avril. Such a jolly girl! The pair of you are ideally suited.'

I had nothing to say. I went to my room. I paced up and down and glared at St Ives. I sat on the double bed and bit my nails. I wished I'd taken the advice of the Dean at St Swithin's and made my career in the Prison Medical Service.

I certainly didn't want to pass the rest of my life in Porterhampton, even if old Wattle bequeathed me the Town Hall as well. I certainly didn't want to marry Avril Atkinson, who'd probably make me tell the story of the parrot every morning over breakfast. Now I couldn't see how to avoid either. I've often read in psychology books about the acute anxiety state, but I never really understood it until then. Then I had one of those masterly ideas that sometimes come before the bell rings at the end of examinations.

'Mrs Wattle-Dr Wattle.' I appeared downstairs to find both of them in the sitting-room. 'I have something very painful to confess.'

They looked alarmed.

'I am already married.'

I felt this was the simplest way out. It was beyond me to tell the dear old couple that their own idea of my spouse was as ridiculous as picking the Matron of St Swithin's. With a bit of luck they'd kick me out on the spot, and possibly use up Avril on my replacement.

'My wife works in London. She is a nurse. A night nurse. I couldn't reveal her before, because…because the position which I have the honour to hold was advertised for a single man. I needed the work.'

I sounded so pathetic, I felt quite sorry for myself.

'If you will give me a few minutes to pack,' I ended solemnly, 'I shall remove my unworthy self from your lives for ever.'

'How unreasonable I've been!' cried Mrs Wattle, and burst into tears.

'We've deliberately set asunder two who have been joined together,' added Dr Wattle, beating his bald head.

'You must ask your wife to come at once, Gaston.'

'I'll double your salary.'

'We'll give you the run of the house till you find a place of your own.'

'All this might be rather inconvenient,' I interjected quickly. 'My wife's working every night. Important private case.'

'Then bring her for the day,' insisted Mrs Wattle. 'How about lunch on Saturday?'

'Yes,' agreed Dr Wattle, 'We shall be terribly upset if you don't.'

I felt the script had somehow got out of hand. Perhaps it might have been easier simply to have married Avril.