statement. Proceed along the highway at a reasonable speed. I will follow, and when I blow my horn apply your brakes.’
‘Right-ho,’ I said bravely.
I swung the engine, wondering what was going to happen: if the police decided to hound Hilda off the road, I would not only arrive late but lose the greater part of my working capital as well.
After I had travelled a few hundred yards my thoughts were interrupted by the urgent blast of a horn behind me. As I drove the brake pedal into the floorboards I realized that it was not the policeman, but a Bentley sweeping past our procession at eighty. There was a crash behind, and my windscreen fell on to the bonnet. As Haemorrhagic Hilda had been built in the same spirit as the Pyramids, she suffered only another dent in the rear mudguard; but the police car lay with its wheels turned out like flat feet, bleeding oil and water on to the roadway.
‘You’ll hear more about this,’ the policeman kept muttering, as I dressed the small cut on his nose. I gave him a lift to the next telephone box, and continued my journey in an unreasonably cheerful frame of mind.
I began to move down the psychological slope towards depression as I entered the district where I was to work. It was a small English industrial town, which like many others stood as a monument to its own Victorian prosperity. There were long solid rows of grimy houses, factories walled like prisons, and chapels looking like pubs or pubs looking like chapels on every corner. There was a Town Hall ringed by stout old gentlemen petrified as they rose to address the Board, the station was a smoky shrine to the Railway Age, the football ground was a mausoleum of past champions, and the streets had not yet echoed the death rattle of their trams. Only the main thoroughfare had been changed, and consisted of cinemas, multiple chemists, tailors, and cheap chainstores, looking exactly like anywhere else in the country.
Shortly it began to rain, though from the soggy ground and the depressed aspect of the pedestrians it appeared to have been raining there continuously for several years. I became gloomier as I searched for my address on the other side of the town, and finally drove into a long road of gently dilapidating Victorian villas behind caged gardens of small trees shivering in their seasonal nakedness. On the last door post I spotted a brass plate.
The front door was opened by a cheerful-looking young blonde in overalls, holding a broom.
‘Is Dr Hockett in?’ I asked, politely raising my hat. ‘I’m Dr Gordon.’
‘Well, fancy that, now! I said to the Doctor this morning, I said, “I’m sure he ain’t coming!”’ She grinned. ‘Silly, ain’t I?’
‘I was delayed on the road. I had to give medical attention in an accident.’
‘The Doctor ain’t in yet, but give us your bags, and I’ll show you up to your room.’
As she climbed the dark stairs with my two suitcases, the maid called over her shoulder, ‘You ain’t ’arf young.’
‘Well, I’m – I’m not exactly in the cradle, you know,’ I said, wondering whether to feel flattered.
‘Garn! I bet you ain’t any older than what I am. The Doctor’s had some real old fogeys, I can tell you. Old Dr Christmas was the last one – Cripes! He must have been ninety. Real old dodderer. Then there was Dr O’Higgins and Dr O’Rourke and Dr O’Toole – grandpas, they were. And before them there was Dr Solomons and Dr Azziz and Dr Wu–’
I was alarmed. ‘There’s been quite a number of assistants here?’
‘’Undreds and ’undreds of ’em.’
‘Oh.’
‘Here’s your room,’ she said brightly, opening a door at the top of the last flight of stairs. It was a bedroom the size of a cell, and furnished as sparsely. She dropped the cases and flicked briefly at the enamel washbasin with her duster. ‘Bit chilly this weather, but it’s comfy enough in summer.’
‘Home from home, I assure you,’ I murmured, looking round.
‘You can
‘Right-ho,’ I said bravely.
I swung the engine, wondering what was going to happen: if the police decided to hound Hilda off the road, I would not only arrive late but lose the greater part of my working capital as well.
After I had travelled a few hundred yards my thoughts were interrupted by the urgent blast of a horn behind me. As I drove the brake pedal into the floorboards I realized that it was not the policeman, but a Bentley sweeping past our procession at eighty. There was a crash behind, and my windscreen fell on to the bonnet. As Haemorrhagic Hilda had been built in the same spirit as the Pyramids, she suffered only another dent in the rear mudguard; but the police car lay with its wheels turned out like flat feet, bleeding oil and water on to the roadway.
‘You’ll hear more about this,’ the policeman kept muttering, as I dressed the small cut on his nose. I gave him a lift to the next telephone box, and continued my journey in an unreasonably cheerful frame of mind.
I began to move down the psychological slope towards depression as I entered the district where I was to work. It was a small English industrial town, which like many others stood as a monument to its own Victorian prosperity. There were long solid rows of grimy houses, factories walled like prisons, and chapels looking like pubs or pubs looking like chapels on every corner. There was a Town Hall ringed by stout old gentlemen petrified as they rose to address the Board, the station was a smoky shrine to the Railway Age, the football ground was a mausoleum of past champions, and the streets had not yet echoed the death rattle of their trams. Only the main thoroughfare had been changed, and consisted of cinemas, multiple chemists, tailors, and cheap chainstores, looking exactly like anywhere else in the country.
Shortly it began to rain, though from the soggy ground and the depressed aspect of the pedestrians it appeared to have been raining there continuously for several years. I became gloomier as I searched for my address on the other side of the town, and finally drove into a long road of gently dilapidating Victorian villas behind caged gardens of small trees shivering in their seasonal nakedness. On the last door post I spotted a brass plate.
The front door was opened by a cheerful-looking young blonde in overalls, holding a broom.
‘Is Dr Hockett in?’ I asked, politely raising my hat. ‘I’m Dr Gordon.’
‘Well, fancy that, now! I said to the Doctor this morning, I said, “I’m sure he ain’t coming!”’ She grinned. ‘Silly, ain’t I?’
‘I was delayed on the road. I had to give medical attention in an accident.’
‘The Doctor ain’t in yet, but give us your bags, and I’ll show you up to your room.’
As she climbed the dark stairs with my two suitcases, the maid called over her shoulder, ‘You ain’t ’arf young.’
‘Well, I’m – I’m not exactly in the cradle, you know,’ I said, wondering whether to feel flattered.
‘Garn! I bet you ain’t any older than what I am. The Doctor’s had some real old fogeys, I can tell you. Old Dr Christmas was the last one – Cripes! He must have been ninety. Real old dodderer. Then there was Dr O’Higgins and Dr O’Rourke and Dr O’Toole – grandpas, they were. And before them there was Dr Solomons and Dr Azziz and Dr Wu–’
I was alarmed. ‘There’s been quite a number of assistants here?’
‘’Undreds and ’undreds of ’em.’
‘Oh.’
‘Here’s your room,’ she said brightly, opening a door at the top of the last flight of stairs. It was a bedroom the size of a cell, and furnished as sparsely. She dropped the cases and flicked briefly at the enamel washbasin with her duster. ‘Bit chilly this weather, but it’s comfy enough in summer.’
‘Home from home, I assure you,’ I murmured, looking round.
‘You can
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