The Surgeon

The Surgeon JohnVernon.IPC June 2006 Email/postmaster@johnvernon.plus.com
"THE SURGEON
Chapter one
Desperately clinging to the little humanity left to him, Sir Robert-Case Jones, hearing footsteps moved further back into the shrubbery, so that though well hidden, still he could see who it was that approached. He did not think that it could be any member of the Royal family, even the most humble, but one never knew. Nowadays, all of them seemed to mix so freely with the most awful riff raff.
To say that he was feeling down, would have been the most colossal understatement, and, as such, not a turn of phrase common to him. Even so. Nevertheless, he was downright disheartened. Over the last few days things had been getting progressively worse and he could find no prospect of them improving at all. Such a little thing. Damnation! He knew it was no good going over it again and again, cursing, blaming an alarming lack of foresight for such a disastrously silly mistake. Who could ever have imagined so horrific a result as he had suffered. He definitely ought not to have been so rude to that crazy old woman. Hastily in his mind he erased the provocative word 'crazy', and, as an afterthought, 'old' as well. He had enough trouble already.
It was all so unfair. It was difficult for him to express any emotion, but with rapid blinking of tearless bulbous eyes and a dramatically heaving chest , he inadequately showed the great depths of dismay that had possessed his very soul since that ill judged moment. That so casual remark. He had not meant to be unkind . He was an eminent man. Surely she must have known that he was a surgeon? On occasion, he had done quite a lot of cosmetic cutting. Even, at one time, on television. Very profitable that had been too. But no, he must not even think about that. Certainly not now. Though that was not really anything to do with it. When he had said that she ought to have something done about her repulsively ugly, wart ridden, nose he was going on to suggest that he might himself do it and at only a half his normal fee. He was wasn't he? Of course he was.
It was truly an act of kindness, but the old harridan would not listen. Off she shot, exploding into that stupendous huff, quite lost control. In some curious unintelligible, alien tongue, her thin lips and hairy, pointed chin becoming splattered with drops of saliva, she cursed him roundly and then laughed like an idiot. In that moment, her manic cackle turning to high-pitched hysterical scream, then it was, without the slightest warning, that it happened.
He really should have known better, but his memory was getting so unreliable. He had been heedlessly hiking across that wretched moor thinking only of the fine Indian summer, the beautiful autumn weather and the pint of foaming local ale that he had promised himself to enjoy when, within the hour, he would reach his destination. He hadn't even thought about where he actually was. He should surely have considered that, for it was just beyond Dudley village, on that very same heath that the other thing had reputedly occurred. He should not have forgotten that, but, he had never believed it. Not one word. Naturally excuses could be found for his memory lapse. If it had actually happened it was supposed to have been at least 30 years ago. Of course it was much later that he himself had heard about it. But still. Even so. Truly, Sir Robert consoled himself. Under the circumstances, it was little wonder that when he had sat down upon that rock to retie his boot laces, he had not recalled that highly suspect previous occurrence. He doubted whether, even if he had done so, he would have taken warning from it.
What was the fellow's name? The surgeon pondered, trawling through the hazy details that he was still able to bring to mind. Kirby? That was it surely? Yes! 'Kirby, Peter Kirby'. He sold sundry medical appliances. Nice enough fellow, but a typical salesman.
Sir Robert tensed. His heart pounded away at what he knew to be a dangerously high level, for now he distinctly heard footsteps approaching. He felt an attack was imminent and drew several deep breaths.
Chapter Two .
All those years ago, Peter Kirby had sat in the deep, but not overly comfortable, armchair in the Harley Street consulting rooms of Sir Robert Case- Jones. It was his second visit and he was plainly rather tired of going through and through his story to various highly sceptical, ["clever buggers Kirby probably thought,] groups of physicians. On that day, yet another bunch were gathered around about him, and he would have to begin the tale again. It wouldn't help. They still would not take him seriously. He didn't really care. He could hardly believe it himself.
He had been walking on the moor and sat down to eat the sandwiches he had brought with him for his lunch. They weren't at all appetising but he needed a rest anyway. Where she had sprung from was still as much a mystery to him now as it had been then. It must have been straight out of thin air. Obviously he wouldn't have chosen to plonk himself down right next to so extraordinary a being. Such a strange caricature, though a bit unnerving too, was laughable. Remembering her he grinned now. " Grotesque! A hooked, wart encrusted beak and hairy pointed chin like you never did see" he chortled, " hardly a tooth in her ugly old head.  He recalled disputing with himself whether or not that very instant might not have been a good time to depart at speed but curiosity won out. She had a lean and hungry look and, though the sandwiches were not at all to his taste, it was possible that these had attracted her. He inclined his head questioningly to one side and. raising his eyebrows in invitation, pushed the food towards her.
She hesitated and then, taking them, became uncommonly grateful for such a trivial consideration. She enthused about his generosity, telling him that no one had been at all nice to her since one male member of the Dudley Church Action Council had deliberately tied her only very loosely to the ducking stool. She had almost been able to escape.
That, she claimed, had been more than three hundred years previously but upon this day she always celebrated the anniversary of that benevolent act and, lo and behold, someone had befriended her yet again. It must be her lucky day. Funnily enough the last man who had attempted to help her had somewhat resembled the salesman and to mark the occasion she felt inclined to grant Kirby one small wish. She emphasised she couldn't manage anything great, but if there was some small thing he really desired, now was his chance. He was quite sure the old Biddy was seriously disturbed and it would probably be a good idea to humour her, so, playing along, he demanded the first silly thing that entered his fat head.
Clearly very surprised, she asked him if this "small thing was really what he wished. He, still in his most jocular, ' commercial traveller,' mode, laughingly replied, "Sure thing, Old Mother, and in a flash, as quickly as she had first appeared the wrinkled old crone was gone. No puff of smoke, nothing like that, just gone. In her place stood a little chap no more than a foot and a half high and, dressed in a boiled shirt, white tie and tails, looked very smart.
"Well hello! Kirby had gasped, looking about him in complete astonishment, "Who are you? The dapper miniature guy, taking this as a friendly greeting rather than an expression of surprise, replied, "Hallo there! and went on to explain that he was the pianist that had been demanded from his patron the witch. Peter, light dawning in his face, began to laugh, at first almost soundlessly but then with so much vigour that he almost fell from his rock. " "That's a good one, he choked out " the pair of you got me there. The little fellow was bridling, so obviously offended that, stifling his merriment and beginning to look a little concerned, Kirby continued more soberly, "Come on, you both know it was a joke. That old girl must be very hard of hearing if she thinks I asked for an eighteen inch pianist. I said - Oh, never mind ! Thank God she didn't give me one of those! That would have been really embarrassing. Especially with these shorts on! He started to laugh again.
Now it was very obvious that the little chap had taken umbrage in a very major fashion. His face, his posture, everything spoke of deep disapproval. " Well, he said , "I am very sorry if you are not satisfied, he looked very hurt and seemed close to tears, " There's nothing can be done about it now, and, like it or not, I am yours. You better look after me properly otherwise, I assure you, you will be attended by the most evil misfortune you could ever imagine. Kirby, as he said, becoming convinced that there were stranger things here, "on this funny old planet than he could even in his wildest dreams ever have foreseen and, wishing to give no hostage to fortune, took the pianist home with him.
A while later, wondering if such a small man could really play the piano, the salesman tried him out on a child's toy which had only seven notes. Protesting that in normal circumstances he should play nothing less than a concert grand, the fellow nevertheless, demonstrated a rare ability, so much so, that Peter Kirby, at great personal expense, privately commissioned a miniature instrument to be built by one of the apprentices at Steinways factory. It really did cost him a fortune and, though small, was still too big. Peter, who by now had plans for his diminutive companion, must seek other solutions or see his investment lost, set about trying to increase the musicians height. Meanwhile Dudley, [for so Kirby had named him] continued to practice upon the Steinway. The priority for Peter was to make Dudley grow at least to such a degree that he would fit his expensive new instrument and he had been feeding him, with little success, almost exclusively on growth promoting hormones and supplements.
His visits to Sir Robert were because he wanted the surgeon to have a go at stretching his friend a bit. He had read that, in Sweden, doctors, by breaking thigh bones and resetting them in a certain way, could gain their clients several inches in height. Dudley had declared himself none too enamoured with the prospect of being the subject of this procedure, but heroically, Peter having become such a very jolly friend. he courageously agreed. It was just as well because Kirby, foolishly, had already mortgaged his house up to the hilt to fund the operation, .
Well they did what they could and, all in all, gradually the little man did get bigger. The surgeons had explained that there always had been the possibility of somewhat increasing the stature of dwarfs, That description was of course banned by Kirby and he was paying the bills so they humoured him . Nevertheless they all thought the story was nonsense. Eventually the stage was reached when Dudley could manage the piano very well. Kirby finally gave up his job and together they travelled the world with their speciality act. Many people thought Dudley was nothing more than a marionette, but, as time went by, they made a great deal of money. Unfortunately, many years later, all the stretching and bone breaking that he had undergone caused Dudley severe arthritis so that he could only seldom play, but since Kirby had long ago discovered what a fine sense of humour that tiny guy had, for some time they continued their act as comedians. Sir Robert tried to continue taking a friendly interest in their progress but no one seemed to have heard of them lately. They were probably, he had surmised, still at it somewhere in the world.
\ Chapter Three.
More footsteps approaching . If it were not for the fact that his blood already ran cold, it would have done so now. The voices were plainly speaking French. Frenchmen! These were the epicurean common market fellows who, lacking a snack, while one was still alive were apt to pull off one's back legs. It must be true, it had been on the television. Sir Robert took a huge leap, cleared the path and landed almost a metre out into the pool. He really hated the impulse that made him do this. As soon as he felt in the least way threatened, without any consideration or sensible regard as to its cleanliness, he would dive straight away into water. Any water, anywhere. Most unhygienic, and, any way, he was a quite a fetching shade of green and would probably have remained quite unseen in the shrubbery. However, having committed himself, he swam as fast as he could and came up beneath a lilly leaf to float among the diffused sunbeams. It could have been fairly pleasant but he was still bemoaning his fate and nothing would please him.
There was nothing nice about being a frog, Absolutely nothing. For almost the whole of the first week he had eaten not a scrap. Nothing at all. He could not fancy any of the things that his new nature suggested might be scrumptious or could at least make a fairly decent morsel. Then, quite inadvertently, in an unguarded moment, he had stuck out his tongue and caught a fly. It had been crunchy, a bit like roast pork with a tiny piece of crackling attached. The very next day he had come face-to-face with a slug. It wasn't a big one, just a baby really. In the nature of his profession it was plain that the surgeon could never have lacked at least a modicum of determination and he must eat, but at that moment, as they studied each other, the slug with its eyes out on trembling stalks, already counting itself a goner, Sir Robert could not bring himself to do it. He looked away hoping he may see another fly and thus, for the time being, escape the horror of this particular decision. Unfortunately this momentary loss of interest encouraged the slug to make whatever haste it could to depart. The surgeon's immediate reflex action to this movement was to grab the unfortunate creature, chew it a little and swallow with unaccustomed rapidity. As a child his mother had told him not to bolt his food but the slimy texture had nothing to recommend it. Generally speaking it was thoroughly disgusting. He must somehow take control of his innate automatic responses to certain stimuli. Eat a damn slug? He was certainly never going to do that again.
He might though, grow quite partial to earth worms. No not those. Not earth worms. The small tender juicy ones. Brandlings? Yes, that was it. They were all right. Not bad at all, But slugs? He must watch out. To eat one just because it moved? Yuck! The whole idea was repulsive. If he ever got back he would write a paper on automatic reflexes in frogs and perhaps other amphibians. If ever? He simply had to get back to be being human again but where was he going to find a princess to kiss?
He wasn't even sure where he was. It certainly wasn't anywhere on the blasted moor, there were too many people about for that, and trees and water. He climbed out of the pool and crossed back into the edge of the undergrowth looking carefully under the damp leaves for some nice pinky, bluey, brandlings for his luncheon.
He heard the yapping first and cowered, partially covered by the foliage, immobile as a stone, hardly breathing. Then he spied them coming directly towards him. A small boy attached to, and being towed along by, an even smaller dog. Occasionally the terrier, for such it was, would spin around and barking loudly, jump up at the child. This time the surgeon had no trouble in perceiving that this may be a fateful moment. Deep in his bones, he knew this could well be very tricky indeed, for the boy was even now undoing the leash to allow the cur to run free. To run freely towards where Sir Robert, whose impersonation of a little green rock now seemed woefully inadequate, remained stoically immobile. If the events of the last few days had not forever dislodged any belief he might once have held in a benign deity he may well have prayed, but he would have had no time. The dog stopped, and having thoroughly sniffed at him, stood with its head on one side, examining him quizzically much as he himself had done with the unlucky slug. Sir Robert closed his eyes. The dog barked and then, giving him a firm push with its snout, rather excitedly, and more loudly barked again. The hound was plainly trying to make the surgeon run. Then, no doubt, it would toy with him for a while before, eventually, killing and, though dogs would doubtless not find frogs as palatable as the French inexplicably did, maybe even devouring him. So long as it was a quick death, did it matter if one was eaten? The surgeon had no wish to find out.
Desperately trying to discover a strategy that would allow his escape, Sir Robert's brain raced, the small boy had arrived alongside his dog which, with apparent joy danced around its prey so that it now confronted the anxious but still immobile amphibian head on. It was no use attempting to run or rather leap away, the dog would surely get him. Relying on the element of surprise the physician gathered together all his courage. Aiming deliberately directly towards his tormentor, he sprang up and out until, suddenly, he was above the animal's head, which twisting upwards and backwards snapped viciously, missing the flying doctor only by the merest fraction of an inch. In seconds he had landed on the dog's back and, clinging there as tightly as possible, refused to be shaken off. At least he couldn't be bitten now but what he next move should be he had not the vaguest idea.
While the boy laughed and clapped his hands with delight the dog chased its tail at such a rate that the surgeon on his back was getting very dizzy and feared that in spite of everything he would be spun off. Finally the little dog slowed, and, itself staggering somewhat, came to an unsteady halt.
Still contemplating his next move, suddenly, Sir Robert felt the boy's clammy hands closing around him. He struggled to escape but he was too late. The boy picked him up and, spreading his fingers slightly, between them examined his catch. The dog jumped up trying to get the little green surgeon away from his master and was sternly admonished for its efforts. "Down Terry, its mine, shouted the boy, "its for me to take to school. You find something else to play with. The surgeon's heart sank. He had never been fond of children and he could well imagine what horrendous things a horde of schoolboys might do to a poor defenceless frog.
Peeping out, he could see that they had returned to the waterside and the boy was walking along the bank. If he were to escape at all, it must be now. The child stopped and bent down. He opened his fingers just a little and, Sir Robert flattening himself as much as he could, found the narrowest of gaps and sprang as hard as he could towards the safety of the water.
He almost made it, but the boy's fingers tightened a microsecond too soon and now he, "the frog, was held dangling by one leg. It hurt like hell. Imagine what it must be like to, "a la Francais, have them both torn off at once. Of course the Froggies always protested that they didn't do it that way. They used an anaesthetic. Who did they think they were kidding. Look what their international rugby team got up to!
Dangling by one leg the surgeon was being lowered into a jam jar. He couldn't get away. There was water in the bottom and a few tadpoles swimming around, revolting little creatures. A lid was being screwed onto the jar. Sir Robert looked apprehensively up, but a few holes had been knocked into it. Maybe he would survive a little longer. He wished that he could massage the leg by which he had been suspended, but his arms were too short. There wasn't much that he could do.
The boy had fixed the leash back on to Terry and they were walking along a broad footpath. Wherever they were going, it seemed an awfully long way. Sir Robert had resigned himself and settled as comfortably as he could in the cramped space. He soon found himself a little peckish and so, one by one, he ate the tadpoles. They weren't at all bad, not even a little fishy.
After what seemed an age the boy turned left into a narrow lane that led to a small group of buildings. It looked like a farm. A farmhouse and several barns. There were geese wandering at liberty in the farmyard. Even if Sir Robert were able to effect an escape these creatures were going to be an additional hazard. In fact, two of them were already following the boy and his dog and their maliciously gleaming little amber eyes seemed already to be measuring Sir Robert for the big swallow. He tried not to think about it. but the vision he had of being gulped down, eaten alive still struggling to escape as he entered the darkness of the bird's cavernous crop, wouldn't leave his fevered brain. He was glad when they were at last safely indoors.
Terry, in front of the Aga, having scratched himself thoroughly, was circling in preparation for sleep. A large lady was smiling down at the boy and gently admonishing him for being late for his dinner when she espied the jam jar. Sir Robert was sitting in it up to his waist in water and feeling very foolish. "Derek, what have you there, she demanded, not looking at all impressed. "Frog. he replied, adding defensively. " For school.
"Well it won't like it in here, she said, almost managing to hide a shudder, "It is too hot. Take it out to the barn. Oh dear, thought Sir Robert, not those geese again. But Derek was delaying , "Got any food for it? he asked. "What food? his mother countered. " Mince or summat like that? the boy suggested. Oh yes, thought the surgeon. It is sure to be raw but that won't matter, I've eaten Steak Tartar often enough.
"I 've no food to waste on a frog, said his mother sharply. "Take it away, you can give it your left overs later if you want. And when you come back, you wash your hands before you eat.
Derek, took Sir Robert out, and though the geese gathered menacingly, it was only moments before they were safely in the barn. A huge dingy place, its darkness increased as the boy left, closing the door behind him. As far as the surgeon could make out, the jam jar now stood on the bonnet of an automobile of some sort.
Gradually his eyes became accustomed to the light, and he saw that the building was full of old cars, they all seemed in varying states of disrepair and very dirty. The air was heavy with the smell of sump oil. It couldn't be a museum, it must be someone who repaired old cars or perhaps broke them up for spare parts. None of it mattered, he was safe for the moment. Now he must turn his mind to how he should escape.
Sir Robert stood on his hind legs stretching up to reach the lid. He wanted to test if it were possible to lift it, but he couldn't quite reach. He tried scrambling up the side of the jar, but couldn't get a grip. In frustration he jumped up, banging himself against the lid. It didn't shift at all but Sir Robert had the distinct feeling that the jar itself had moved a little. He jumped again. Yes! The car's bonnet sloped towards the front and the jar had slid a little. He tried again. Yes! He could move it.
Do geese go somewhere to sleep at night? Probably not. The Romans used them as guard dogs didn't they? Well, as guards anyway. Still, wherever they were, it must be easier to get past them in the dark. He had better sit tight and wait until the boy went to bed. Otherwise he might come, bringing some old rubbish he couldn't eat and move the jar back again. Sir Robert's eminently clever brain had found a way out! One just jumped and jumped and jumped until the jar began to slip and eventually it would roll down over the grill, maybe hit the bumper, but for sure it would break on the concrete floor and he would be able to crawl silently away. Then it should be possible to hop quietly off to continue his search for a princess.
He settled down to wait, thinking of Steak Tartar and the epicurean delights that were to be found in Mr Anton Mossiman's establishment in Belgravia. He refused to believe that he would never go there again, Where there's a will there's a way. Still in his current situation the prospects remained more than a little depressing.
The light coming in under the door, gradually faded, and Sir Robert prepared to start his campaign, but suddenly it seemed to be getting light again. He craned his neck to see what was causing this misfortune and saw, high up on the wall behind him, there was a small broken window that was only half covered by an old sack. Through the gap a moonbeam was striking through the darkness.
The surgeon cursed his ill luck, but, moonlight or no, he could wait no longer. It was now or never. He jumped and felt his back hit the lid. The jar moved. Another mighty leap. It moved a little more. Joyfully he leapt again but, this time, at the apogee of his explosive ascent, he chanced to glance toward where the moonbeam fell brightly on the back of a car parked nearby. He couldn't believe his eyes and, this time with them forced to their protuberant extremities, he jumped solely to confirm what he had read. The excitement welling up within him, to be absolutely certain, concentrating ferociously, he sprang once more. Austin Princess. It said Austin Princess !
Was he going to be able to put one over on the witch? There had been no qualifications had there? A Princess was a Princess. He jumped up and down, so regularly banging against the lid that the jar hardly had time to come to rest at all and was soon on the slide. Sir Robert braced himself.
The jar plunged into the black void. It must have hit the bumper or something, because it bounced, the sudden change of direction disorienting the surgeon, but it had cracked, and, as it hit the floor, broke wide open. Sir Robert carefully crawled out. He was slightly concussed and his head hurt. He crouched waiting fearfully to see if the noise would bring anyone to investigate but, though the geese trumpeted fit to bust, no one approached. He moved so that he could see the high window and, by following the magical moonbeam, discover his princess. It was no distance at all. Just three prodigious hops and he was there.
Kissing a tyre would not do. No half measures. This was do or die. He jumped up on to the rear bumper. Now he must reach the actual word. Nothing else would do, but it was still quite a height above him, would he be able to reach? He closed one eye and measured the distance. He would probably just about make it. Under normal circumstances there wouldn't have been a trace of doubt in his own ability but his head hurt abominably and his left leg was still feeling the effect of being stretched. He convinced himself that he could make it and, for a second or two, sat gathering every ounce of his strength and practising puckering up his rather wide mouth for a kiss. He discovered that frogs really can't do it. For a moment the surgeon felt real panic then decided that puckering may not be essential. Women kissed all the time and , cheek to cheek, did nothing but make a little noise. He could do that, it would have to do. Just in case there should be any doubts he would mentally repeat kiss, kiss, kiss, over and over again. He practiced this too and then jumped.
Soaring into the air, with such an Olympian effort, height was not a problem and it was on way down that his wide mouth, puckered just a little, hit the chrome plated word Princess. The m-wahh, m-wahh noise that he made hardly approximated at all to the polished sounds that ladies so effortlessly produced, but, in his mind, triumphantly, round and round went the words kiss, kiss, kiss and princess.
He didn't remember coming down to earth but he awoke sitting with his back to an old car. He felt dreadful. He couldn't imagine where he was or what he had been doing. He had a strange feeling that he had been to France but was certain he couldn't have been. Blood coming from a wound on his forehead and of one of his legs hurt. He wondered if he had been in an accident. He really felt so odd. It was as though he were no longer sure who he was. He said to himself you are Sir Robert Case-Jones the eminent surgeon, but he wasn't convinced. Somehow it didn't feel right right.
Carefully he stood up. Experiencing more than a little dizziness he made his way to where he could see a faint light showing around the edges of a large door. He opened it and stepped outside. Immediately. from a savage group of geese which seemed to have been laying in wait for him, there was the most awful bugling cacophoney. They set upon him, brutally attacking with their wings spread wide. When he had with difficulty, finally, persuaded them to let go of the various parts of his anatomy that they were so cruelly attacking and the last one had blessedly released the excruciating vice like grip with which it had seized the end of his penis, that, discretion, being the better part of valour, he stepped back into the barn, closed the door tightly and started to shout as loudly as he could.
After some five or ten minutes during which time the beleaguered surgeon's voice became quite hoarse, the barn door opened a little and the twin barrels of a shot gun were thrust through. "Who's there? growled a country voice, not at all bravely. Encouraged by this and flooding with relief, at last Sir Robert allowed himself to regain some of the imperious qualities to which his exalted position in life entitled him. "Call off those geese my good man, said he, "I am Sir Robert Case-Jones. Those wretched birds of yours assaulted me and are holding me prisoner. Call them off I say. I mean at once!
One might have thought that after his recent experiences he would have taken care to be more guarded in his tone, and the farmer took exception. Standing legs apart holding his gun aggressively forward he replied. " I am no one's man but my own. My birds always attack trespassers, that's what they are here for. I hope it hurt. Might teach you a lesson, I can see you are a very bumptious fucker indeed and a townee to boot. I'll take care of the birds then come you out of that barn and get away off my land, quick as you can afore I gives you a reminder with this. He shook the twelve bore. "My good man indeed! Cheeky sod. Waking folk up in the middle of the night. Pissed I expect you are.
The door closed and the surgeon could hear him driving the geese off and mumbling irritably about bumptious fuckers who came by night to annoy decent hard working people. A minute later he was back and opening the door, said, "Bugger off and quick about it
"Could I please use your telephone? Sir Robert's tone was much more conciliatory,
"Haven't got one, the farmer lied perfunctorily. "Get going right now, his anger was undiminished.
Terry had by now arrived to see what all the fuss was about and, pulling up hastily, had taken a instant dislike to the surgeon. Growling, with all the hair on its back standing, snarling menacingly he was backing away but threatening to rush forward and exact some sort of retribution. He was puzzled and not at all sure why this should be necessary, especially since he had always considered himself to be such a well mannered, friendly little dog. Nevertheless some ingrained primordial fear was telling him to be very wary of something or the other about this particular man.
"Back off Terry, shouted the farmer, waving the gun toward the so unhappily nonplussed, stuck between attack and retreat, little creature who would much sooner have been wagging his tail and who, pleased at being offered an honourable way out of its dilemma , left with alacrity.
Sir Robert retired rather more slowly. There was nothing for it, he had to go. Dragging his leg slightly, he made his way along the lane and on to the main road. He had been walking from no more than ten minutes when a ramshackle old Ford drew up alongside him and the door opened, "Jump in said Derek's kindly mother but with a stern face, "You had no call to be rude to my man, but I can see you are hurt I couldn't just let you walk away, no matter what you deserve. Shall I take you to the hospital?
Chapter Four.
Over the next two weeks, the newspapers were all full of the surgeon's amnesia and the missing fortnight, A competition was run to see who could find the best explanation, all suggestions as to aliens and flying saucers were to be discounted but no other satisfactory reasons were forthcoming and nothing came of it. The police who had started a search to discover the hit-and-run driver that most people thought must have been involved, had no more luck. Gradually everyone forgot about it.
Sir Robert had been attended by psychologist and psychiatrists, but none of them could find anything wrong with him. Neither could they provide him with a reason for his continuing malaise nor any subterfuge for defeating it, He still dragged his leg though every one, - and he, because of his training, was finally forced to concur - agreed that it was purely psychosomatic. When asked for a professional description of what ailed him, he could only reply that, somehow, he didn't feel quite right.
Almost a year later, he deemed it expedient that he should resume his profession and bring about the resuscitation of his fast failing bank balance. No one objected. For the first few months he acted only as a consultant, interviewing patients in his consulting rooms and recommending them to his colleagues for treatment. At last he felt that all his troubles were behind him and he couldn't wait to get back into the operating theatre .
Jacques Downs-Boccas, warning of the Americanisation of their profession, the exponential growth of insurance costs and ever increasing hostile claims, suggested that, before Sir Robert assumed full control of an operation, he should maybe attend merely as an observer and "possibly at first only assist in some small way. Since Sir Robert had taught Jacques almost all that the young upstart knew, the surgeon was incensed by the young man's impudence, but he gave no sign of this and agreed.
It was early on a Monday morning that Sir Robert's team, led of course by Jacques, assembled in the theatre. They were all properly scrubbed up and anxious that this particular day's procedure should go well. Influential representatives of the patient's parents and her bodyguard were all in an ante room, waiting nervously, - though suitably reassured and where necessary placated, - while the pre-ops were completed. The unfortunate girl was host to a malignant abdominal growth. Sir Robert was pleased when she was at last wheeled in and given into the capable hands of the anaesthetist so that they might begin.
Everyone in attendance wore the usual pale green gowns, head dresses and masks and were gathered about the table. More or less straight away Sir Robert felt a slight dizziness but put it down to claustrophobia and knew that it would clear once the interesting business of the actual cutting began. Green clothes were spread all over the patient so that just her abdomen remained exposed. Sir Robert put his hand down on the table to steady himself.
Jacques took the proffered scalpel from the nurse and with a swift flowing motion made an incision. Much too large an initial cut, thought Sir Robert smugly, but held his peace while the operation proceeded apace. Suction and the well trained staff nurses mopped up any blood as soon as it was spilled but still there was a spreading brown stain on the green towelling. To get a better view Sir Robert moved in closer. Jacques was crouching low over his patient. Everything was infused with green . Sir Robert glanced up at the lights. They were as dazzling as was the mid day sun shining down through lily pads. The eminent surgeon looked down again at the spreading stain, brown like rotting leaves and beyond it at the open abdomen. Suddenly peristalsis caused the child's pinky blue intestines to move convulsively. Sir Robert leapt forward, as quick as a flash tearing off his mask and, ignoring the horrid slug like growth that Jacques had just lifted, buried his face in the wound. Sucking, biting, chewing at the `Brandling` intestines, hands were tugging at him but all along he had known that there would be competition from other frogs for such juicy worms as these. Fighting heroically for his share he buried his face deeper beneath the child's abdominal wall. He could feel blood flowing into his ears, but though something, someone, was trying to prevent him, he was diving deeper underwater. He no longer cared whether it was clean or dirty. He was taking his worm with him. He clamped his teeth shut. From some far distant place he could her a woman's voice laughing hysterically but what did a `born again amphibian` care about that. His very own "Ode to Joy was ringing throughout every fibre of his being.
The anaesthetists injection pacified the surgeon but his mouth was so tightly shut upon the child's intestine that the surgical squad must forcibly prise his jaws apart, even so, it took an uncomfortably long time to release his grip.
In spite of all the difficulties the operation was a complete success. Every person who had been in the theatre on that day was paid a very substantial sum to keep their mouths shut about the rather unusual circumstances which had made the operation so much longer than had been anticipated. Because everyone so much valued the honour of attending to the surgical needs of the Royal Family no one broke their promise and though the young princess's scar was much longer than it might have been she was no worse for the experience.
Sir Robert simply dropped from sight. No one spoke of him, though Jacques some time later quipped that he had croaked. That of course was a lie. The eminent surgeon is still alive, He's in a safe place now. To amuse himself he likes to pretend to be a frog and jump about his padded cell. Sometimes he jumps stupendous heights declaring to all and sundry that soon he will be free. Wednesday is his favourite day when he has spaghetti 'vognole' for his dinner. It tastes a bit fishy but he has grown to like that. Of course he is not allowed anything sharp to eat it with, but he manages surprisingly well.