Doctor at Large (Doctor Series, Book 3)
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Dr Richard Gordon's first job after qualifying takes him to St Swithan's where he is enrolled as Junior Casualty House Surgeon. However, some rather unfortunate incidents with Mr Justice Hopwood, as well as one of his patients inexplicably coughing up nuts and bolts, mean that promotion passes him by - and goes instead to Bingham, his odious rival.
After a series of disastrous interviews, Gordon cuts his losses and visits a medical employment agency. To his disappointment, all the best jobs have already been snapped up, but he could always turn to general practice ...
all them shillings every week from poor folk like me what can’t afford it! I know what ’appens to them insurance stamps! I know! Lining the pockets of the doctors, that’s what! I wants me medicine!’ She left the cubbyhole, but repeated her demand to the patients who had been listening intently outside, inciting them to riot. I held my head in my hands. For five years at St Swithin’s I had probably ruined my health through overwork and deprived my parents of the last comforts of their declining
underneath. ‘You’ve taken your time, I must say,’ said the man who opened the door. I shone my torch in his face. ‘Wilkins!’ ‘The very same.’ ‘If this is some sort of joke–’ I began angrily. ‘Joke? I don’t play jokes, Doc. Some people say I ain’t got a sense of humour. It’s mother.’ ‘What’s wrong with her?’ ‘She’s dying.’ ‘She is, is she? Well, we’ll see.’ I found Mrs Wilkins in bed upstairs, suffering from the wind. ‘She wants to go into ’ospital,’ Mr Wilkins announced in a threatening
events occurring both outside and inside her from the moment of entering hospital for a cholecystectomy. Joan Plumtree was bursting to begin the story of the carbuncle she had as a child which had to be squeezed of pus every morning, when Ian put his head in his hands and groaned, ‘Not your beastly boils again, Joan darling, please!’ They all looked at him in surprise. ‘But Richard’s a doctor,’ Joan said. ‘I know.’ Ian shakily reached for his glass. ‘But I’m not. It makes me go all over and
and steering committee of aunts as Jack the Ripper. Your last loophole of escape is meanwhile blocked by a landslide of saucepans, teaspoons, egg cups, gravy ladles, toasting forks, and hand-embroidered tea cosies, for all of which you will have to write a letter extending over at least one page beginning, “Dear Uncle Augustus and Aunt Beatrice. Thank you a thousand times for your delightful contribution to our new little home.”’ Grimsdyke took another drink, and staring at the ceiling
hymnbooks, and sufficient blotters to soak up the Serpentine; shops in Wigmore Street offered to sell me clinical equipment from brass door-plates to X-ray machines; societies opposed to vivisection, smoking, meat-eating, blood sports, socialism, and birth control jostled on the breakfast table for my support; the bank that a week ago echoed my footsteps like a police court begged to advance me money, safeguard my valuables, and execute my will; even the British Medical Association officially