The Wylies and their entourage have popped down to the rural bolt hole to “check on things”, as who knows what havoc has been wrecked on their country abode in the snowy weather. The pipes will probably need extra lagging with strips of old blanket cut from pre-war weaves, moth eaten but still useful. There is bound to be some infestation in the form of mice sheltering from winter’s blast and the occasional vagrant who has sought solace in the glimpse of a well upholstered sofa through a window.
Several years ago, a gentleman of the road made himself at home on the Wylies Parker Knoll. This led Muriel and Jasper to set up the Tramps’ Rest which is maintained, grudgingly, by the Parish Council, who grudge anything of which they have not thought.
Old Jim still pays a courtesy call on the Wylies, for a bowl of soup (sitting in the shed on a Mackintosh Square) and a new set of Jasper’s old clothes. Bunty Haystack, the renowned writer of rural mysteries, has commented that Old Jim is the best dressed tramp she has ever seen! He is often spotted coming over the high road with his duffle bags and bright cotton hanky on a stick wearing Jasper’s old brogues, a Paisley cravat and a pair of driving gloves. Once asked why, with all his duffle bags, he found it necessary to carry a hanky on a stick he replied, “It’s expected of us, it’s how tramps in story books go about their business. Always a good look for a bob or two.” Apparently, he was once a Professor of Mathematics.
The locals are pleased to see them. Mind you, they are pleased to see anyone at this time of year. For they are a bit like the sailors on an Arctic expedition who wonder if that last tin of corned beef will stretch to twenty-five. In truth, the Glasgow bourgeoise, with their two homes, are held in some contempt, but the arrival of townies with treats from Fergusson’s in Union Street and Thompson’s in West Nile Street make a hole in this resentment. It is hard to be cross when you smell that high mountain coffee or unwrap a scarf from Daly’s of Sauchiehall Street, a gift for some small service performed over the long winter. These things put a smile on pinched and dawn faces, etiolated by the lack of light. It has been a long winter once again. It is no wonder that the doctor’s surgery is full, as the long Scottish winter has taken its toll on those with rheumatism and “the arthur-writus”.
Dr Payne has seen it all before. Quite frankly he would much rather not see it at all as he is rather squeamish, and it can be quite unpleasant. Once, after reading Stella Gibbon’s line “I saw something nasty in the woodshed” in that classic of country life Cold Comfort Farm, he retorted ‘Well you should see what I have seen.” He is a medical man of the old school, he has worked with lepers in the Belgian Congo and malingerers in that heart of darkness, Motherwell. He often holds his surgery out of doors in his walled garden, so that the patients can smell the peach blossom and he cannot smell them. Times, however, are changing and a newly qualified doctor from Bombay, by way of the Glasgow medical school, has joined the practice on a trial basis. The rustics, at first horrified that the Empire has come home to roost, have melted in the face of such obvious film star looks and new methods.
Poor Dr Payne is struggling to keep up. Not to mention the obvious hurt seeing disappointment in patients faces when they “knock and enter”, and find not matinee idol looks, but tweed, caterpillar eyebrows, half-moon spectacles and a prescription half completed in fountain pen, before one has time to fully describe one’s symptoms. This morning Jasper is in the full waiting room, with Mrs Travers. They could have waited until they got back to Glasgow, but Jasper has been feeling queasy and Mrs Travers has been feeling curious about the new doctor. Unfortunately, the new doctor, is spending the morning at the local cottage hospital, to see if they have grasped the idea of anaesthetics. On duty it is, to everyone’s disappointment, old Dr Payne. The surgery is also old and through the thin walls one can hear everything as one moves around the waiting room from chair to chair getting nearer and nearer the door of the consulting room.
“Well, well, well, Mrs Macgregor what have we here? That looks very nasty indeed, very nasty. Still nothing to worry about, just try and hold it all in, think about sucking your cheeks in. An acid drop should do the trick if you need help. There is a reason why mature Scottish women are described as nippy sweeties. Next.
Now what seems to be the matter here, Mrs Kilgreggan with your son? Diarrhoea through a hole in his shoe you say. He needs kaolin and morph you say. I say I do not think so, you need a darning mushroom and some wool. I suggest you pay a visit to the haberdashers. Good day. Next!
“Very nasty indeed Miss Haystack, very nasty.” Oh sorry, you are quite well, my apologies. I had quite forgotten I had asked you to call with a signed copy of your latest bestseller. What is called, ‘Dr Death – Dairy of a Rural Practitioner’. Goodness Mrs Haystack you do have an imagination! Oh, so you have based it on what you have heard over the years, splendid. Here take this prescription I hate wasting paper.”
Mr Simpson you think it is Nile Fever. Tell me, when were you last on the Nile? Oh, you have never been further east than Portobello, but you did purchase some screw nails at Crocket’s of West Nile Street, and did not like the look of the salesman. I see. Might I suggest you stop reading Family Doctor? Meanwhile I have made rather too much mag. sulph. paste, so apply this, apply twice daily. No, I will not be sending your screw nails to the Medical Officer of Health for Rural Bolthole-shire. Yes I can assure you if there are any further outbreaks, I will inform the pharaoh personally.
Mrs Aitken, a traditional doctor’s receptionist
Next. Oh, it’s you Mrs Aitken, with a cup of coffee, which is most welcome. Now, a little thing Mrs A, but you do not seem to be doing your usual best to deter time wasters this morning. You really are slipping, what about that famous brusque telephone manner and the coldness of your welcome as manifest in your traditional greeting (sans smile). Really? A ‘Welcome Hostess’ course… it was the new doctor’s suggestion…. all wide eyes, open gestures and reassuring comments such as ‘no one goes through this alone.’ I think Mrs Aitken we are getting half a century ahead of ourselves here. What is that you have in the tin on the tray? Oh, really, scones for the new doctor. Better put them over there by the mysterious steriliser, that I investigate periodically, or when a patient becomes emotional. I think we had better have the next one in.
Mrs Travers, of course I have not forgotten the last time we met. You told me that as a product of the typical upper middle classes and while I was not as dim as my other three brothers (the one that inherited the estate, the one that joined the army and the one who joined the church) I was still an example of the arrogant, privately educated male élite. And that I belittled female issues by refereeing to parts of the female anatomy in a negative way. I take it you’re your sociology course is proving useful? Good, but the fact remains Mrs Travers, you are no longer equipped to have the new doctor’s baby as we have, to use the Latin term. “had it all taken awa.”
I am sure he will be grateful for the lemon curd, but I think you must resign yourself to crotchet, hard and gender specific though it is. Now if you will allow me to remove those elasticated stockings, I will have a quick look at your once pretty little legs. Indeed, I hope too that they are not as nasty as last time. Oh, dear I am delighted, I mean sorry to say I think they are. Quite the nastiest thing I have seen all day. Next.
Jasper Old Chap come in and sit down. Fancy a round of golf on Saturday, if the course isn’t waterlogged? Good, I am sure Muriel will not mind. The Guides are having a jumble sale in aid of somewhere ghastly abroad. How is the old drag.. , I mean dear simply marvellous lady? Now what nasty thing have you brought to show me today? Bubonic Plague? Let me see, ummn, dark patches, yes I see, but quite honestly Jasper I think you will find it’s blue-black ink. You have been busy writing; what about? The 1900 outbreak of plague in The Gorbals. Yes I remember my father was a GP there. Florence Street, yes; it was all connected with Wakes I recall, number 23 Florence Street where your granny lived. Small world.
Jasper, before we go any further, can I say that this is an example of what the new doctor calls autosuggestion and what I call stupidity by too much reading and not enough exercise. Next. Oh you are the last, thank goodness for that. I just have a few referral letters to write and then do you fancy a stiffener at the Royal down at the Pentland Firth Arms? I have had a really nasty morning.”
“ I thought I would wait for you Mr Wylie, how did it go?”
“Thank you, Mrs Travers. He said it would be touch and go for a few days, but I should pull through with plenty of puddings, no crumbles on account of Lent and plenty of custard. You?
“He says that despite being a poor downtrodden old woman used and abused by the privileged classes to do their dirty work, I am a walking miracle and he is going to write about me in the Lancelot.”
“Lancet?”
“No, it wasn’t so nasty that it needed a scalpel. Oh, here comes Bunty Haystack, with her smug ‘I am a published author look’. Mrs Wylie says she’s become unbearable since she became editor of The Rustic Rambler.”
“Jasper dear, Mrs T, all well I hope?”
“Oh, yes fit as fiddles, aren’t we Mrs T?
“Defying medical science Mr Wylie? Good, then you will not mind my saying that the article you wrote on Milestones of the South West is overlong, boring and unimaginative. What can you give me that will excite our readers?”
“I can think of quite a few things Mrs Haystack.”
“I was speaking to Mr Wylie.”
“What about Bubonic Plague?”
“Now you are talking my kind of journalism, Jasper. Is Muriel going to the Jumble sale in aid of somewhere awful? Must dash, toodle pip.”
“Really Mr Wylie she is insufferable, so rude about your wonderful milestones. What are they anyway?
Dear Dr Amenhotep,
I have a patient, haberdasher by profession, who I would like you to see. This gentleman appeared in my surgery this morning dressed as an ancient Egyptian with an obsession for ironmongers’ shops.
On a secondary matter do you think it is possible for an entire rural community to unwittingly become part of a mass psychosis experiment?
I have had a very nasty morning.
Yours hopeful of retirement
Dr Payne
P.S. I am not sure the new man will work out. He is too idealistic; they will soon wear him down. That is what comes of having A. J. Cronin on the reading list at the varisty.
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