The Doctor Is Sick by Anthony Burgess Read Free Book Online

that’s it.’ Edwin heard a faint squirting out. He said:
    â€˜Can I see that?’ The sister coyly granted a quick peep of the tubeful. ‘Like gin, isn’t it?’ said Edwin.
    â€˜Burnett’s White Satin,’ said the sister, surprisingly. ‘That’s a lovely one taken neat.’
    â€˜Now,’ said Dr Wildbloode, ‘you just lie quite still till tomorrow morning. Lie on your back, quite still.’ He went away, nodding mildly. The bed-screens were squeaked away, and Edwin lay exposed to the ward, a new recruit to the brigade of the prone.
    â€˜Marvellous what they can do these days, ennit?’ said R. Dickie.
    It was, in a way, refreshing to be prescribed complete passivity, to be ordered to become a mere thing. It was satisfying, too, to know that one was contributing to the uniformity of the ward. There was now not one who was not rooted, like a flower, in bed. Even the sneerer lay staring at the ceiling, beguiled by hopes of a mended set of nerves. But the becalmed order could not last. Well-made men in caps and uniforms arrived to take away a patient in a far corner. He, drooling and evidently incurable, responded to valedictions with ‘Urr’, propped in a wheelchair.
    â€˜Good-bye, Mr Leathers.’
    â€˜Ta ta, mate.’
    â€˜Keep smiling till we meet again.’
    The vacuum was speedily filled. A tall scholarly-looking man was led in at tea-time, propelling himself like a walking toy, stiff in one leg, his right arm busy as an egg-whisk. A new part was added to the mealtime percussion band – a tremolo of knife and teaspoon.
    After tea the ward sister came with a message for Edwin. ‘Your wife’s been on the telephone,’ she said. ‘She says she’s caught a bit of a cold and is staying in bed. You’re not to worry, she says. She’ll be in to see you tomorrow.’
    Just before dinner Dr Railton came in, very cheerful. ‘Hallo, Doc,’ he said to Edwin. ‘They’ve done the lab test on your fluid. I checked the reading with the other ones that were done. It’s gone up, if anything. There’s a hell of a lot of protein there.’ He rubbed his hands. ‘But we’ll push on. We’ll find out what’s wrong. We’ll send you out ofhere a fit man.’ And, himself a fit man, a robust trumpeter, he left, smiling.
    There was no visitor for Edwin. R. Dickie had several. ‘Here,’ he said to a small boy, ‘go and be a good Samaritan to that gentleman over there. Nobody’s come to see him. Shame, ennit? You go over there and have a bit of a word with him, cheer him up a bit.’ The small boy came to Edwin’s bedside and was soon absorbed in the nude magazines, Charlie’s present. He sniffed a good deal and tried to wipe his nose on Edwin’s bedclothes.
    When the visitors had left, R. Dickie said: ‘He’s a good little lad, enny? Gives no trouble to nobody. Any time,’ he said generously, ‘you’ve got nobody comin’ to see you, you can always have one of mine. I get plenty.’ He saw visitors and grapes as of the same order.
    The new patient had a nightmare. ‘Aaaaah,’ he called over the dark. The sneering neighbour of Edwin obliged with fresh football results. The Punch-like young man coughed. Edwin lay awake thinking of the wonder of the word ‘apricot’. ‘Apricock’ in Shakespeare, the later version due to confusion of stop consonants. ‘Apricock’ led back to an Arabic form, ‘al’ the article glued to the loan-word ‘prcox’, early, an early-ripe fruit. How charming is divine philology. But did it really have any greater validity than the nightmare in the corner, the dream football results? Sheila ought to have come to see him, cold or no cold.

CHAPTER SIX
    Next day Edwin was called down to the cellars for an electro-encephalogram. ‘Electro-encephalogram’ was a pleasing