Johnson Johnson 04 - Dolly and the Doctor Bird by Dorothy (as Dorothy Halliday Dunnett Read Free Book Online Page B

can’t introduce you to my father,” I said. “He has built five bridges, Mr. Brady. And those were five bridges too many. Thank you for the golf and the coffee. Good-bye.”
    He didn’t say anything, but halfway to the door a thought struck me, and I went back to give him the benefit of it. “You might go back to the golf course and try Mr. T. K. MacRannoch,” I suggested.
     
    The hospital was busy when I drove in under the blue arch: there had been a triple crash in Bay street and a British frigate had called on her way south for combined exercises, which meant sixty pints for the blood bank and a long robust queue of A.B.’s calling four-letter words to the nurses while poor Currie, the lab technician, sat inside draining them off in batches of four. It was necessary to keep our blood stock replenished. But I sometimes wondered if the naval platelets storming through the Bahamian vascular system were not the source of the strange tribal love-rock appeal of New Providence Island.
    However, it was cool as yet, which cuts down the casualties, and too early for the rum and fuel drinkers. So we got through the work unimpeded, and by midafternoon I was able to look in on Sir Bartholomew Edgecombe, about whom I had already taken advice. Although there was no cause for anxiety, renal function after the second attack had undoubtedly been more seriously impaired than the previous day, and was not responding to treatment as well as it should. Dialysis was indicated, and after this had been settled, I walked through the private wing to inform Sir Bartholomew.
    The United Commonwealth is an informal hospital: peanut sellers and news vendors have free access to the front door and it is the habit of the staff to take matters at comfortable speed and with many sociable exchanges in the passages. While white patients and even white doctors require to be reassured about this, there is no doubt that the Bahamian cases thrive in such an atmosphere. I was surprised, therefore, amid the hum of conversation and laughter coming from the short private wing, to distinguish the complaint of a woman coming from Sir Bartholomew Edgecombe’s room. I walked in briskly, closed the door, and folded back the short screen.
    It was Denise, Lady Edgecombe, seated on a chair with her head on her husband’s sheeted lap, sniveling. I can use no other word. I have no patience with this sort of thing. I said, “Well, this is hardly the way to cheer up your husband, Lady Edgecombe”; and she sat up looking tearful and sulky, and attempted patently to recover her lost dignity.
    My patient, throwing me a wretched look, patted the woman’s hand and said, “She’s just upset. We both thought I’d be out of here by now, you see. It’s our wedding anniversary.”
    I have never been able to fathom why the elapse of the arbitrary number of 365 days or its multiple from any significant event should be a matter for either celebration or mourning. I have known a Trendelenburg sink into a condition of acute postoperative shock, because she had forgotten to mark her dog’s birthday. It is as well that in this world we are not all alike.
    I said, “It’s a pity, but perhaps she’ll enjoy a day or two in Miami instead. I’m sending you over to the Jackson Memorial Hospital in the morning, Sir Bartholomew. Their equipment is just a little more sophisticated than ours, and the right treatment now could cut your recovery time by quite a few days. I imagine you know Miami well?”
    That had roused Lady Edgecombe. She sat erect of a sudden, her blond hair stuck to her cheeks and her mascara running, and said in an excited voice: “What’s wrong with him? What will they do to him there?”
    One has to simplify. I explained that they would clear the remains of what he had eaten out of his system and enlarged on this until she was satisfied; I had no time to deal with hysteria.
    No sooner had I done this, however, than she felt able to return to her first