A London Child of the Seventies by Hughes M. V.;

Author:Hughes, M. V.;
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Papamoa Press
Published: 2019-02-10T16:00:00+00:00

VIII. Callers

LONDONERS have no neighbours. During our fifteen years in the one house we never had the slightest acquaintance with our ‘semi-detached’, nor with the people round, although we knew several by sight and gave them nicknames. A very few became known to us through the vicar, the schoolmaster, and the doctor.

The doctor himself was a dear. He saw us through all our infectious diseases and coughs, curing most of our ailments more by jollity than physic. He was specially fond of me because, as he frequently said, he had saved my life. I had almost gone with measles, and when hope had practically departed he ordered champagne. I was only six years old, but I remember that champagne, and my father bringing it to me in his shirt-sleeves that hot summer evening. The very word ‘champagne’, connected as it was with festivity, and my father’s face all smiles, put new life into me, and gave me kick enough to pull through. But I took ages to recover, and can remember the excitement of my first day out of bed, wrapped in a shawl and allowed to sit in my window.

Most of our illnesses mother managed by herself. Sir William Gull, whom she had known intimately, told her that he always gave a patient what he asked for, even sherry in high fever if he wanted it, because a man’s stomach and appetite were the best guides. On this simple principle we were not pressed to swallow arrowroot and other horrors, but allowed to starve until we called out for something.

So few were our demands on the doctor that he used to pay mother unofficial calls, in the middle of his morning rounds. To cheer himself up, I fancy. These visits were glory for me because they broke into my morning’s work and gave me a chance to hear juicier bits than the ordinary visitor provided. The mysterious undertone would excite me and impress my memory far more than a matter-of-fact style.

‘You have no idea, Mrs. Thomas, how many ladies I attend whose only malady is secret bottles.’

‘But how do they manage to get the stuff?’

‘The grocer supplies it, and puts it down as sugar on the bills.’

‘How did you find that out?’

‘From a grocer patient.’

‘How do you treat them?’

‘Well, you see, I have my living to make, and dare not be frank with them. They would be offended and call in someone else.’

Occasionally the bits were perhaps too juicy for me to hear, however guardedly worded, and mother would tell me to run and play. Chagrined, as all children are by this speciously pleasant order, I used to carry out her instructions to the letter. My play consisted in stealing the Doctor’s stethoscope from his top-hat in the hall, hiding it, and then sitting at the top of the stairs to await events. Soon would come the dramatic moment—the sound of good-byes, front door opened, seizure of gloves, and then the outcry at the missing stethoscope. ‘That naughty Molly

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