she ride in a bus? Women wearing mink do not ride in buses – it is antisocial to do so – the proletariat stares. And what is a mink coat without a corsage of orchids, preferably purple? … But what girl, who respects herself, wears a suit by a lesser craftsman than Vallombroso under a mink coat? Respecting herself in a Vallombroso suit, how could she feel comfortable with something inferior to Ambergh underwear next to her skin, a Bobini hair-cut , and shoes by Dupuy? … The hat was another item. Nobody who was anybody wore a hat that was not made by Berzelius. And one became a Somebody by mixing with Somebodies. This was Mavis’s philosophy, and I could not disagree with it.
‘I always found,’ she had told me, ‘that when I had supper for eighteen pence at the Café Mauve, I never had more than eighteen pence to pay for my supper. But when I started to have supper for three-and-sixpence at the Café Impérial, I managed to find three-and- sixpence …’
This operates, in a way; the only drawback is that somebody must pay….
It was of this that I was thinking when I went downstairs . My uncle was lying on his back, with his knees drawn up. His face was blue with pain, but still he fought. He said, gloatingly: ‘You would have been dead three-quarters of an hour ago, I bet! It looks as if you might come into your inheritance yet, you worm.’
‘What is the matter, Uncle?’ I asked.
He said: ‘I don’t know. My belly is hard as a pumpkin , and hurts like hell…. First I go hot, and then I go cold, and when I move my head … I seem to fade away, wash away on a kind of foggy wave. It pains, Rodney, it pains!’
Then Lambert came in with a hot-water bottle. (I write down these details to convince you that almost to the last I wished my poor uncle nothing but well.)
‘This sounds like appendicitis,’ I said. ‘Take that bottle away, and make a pack of crushed ice in a towel.’
Even in his agony, my Uncle Arnold sneered: ‘Male nurse!’ You see, my eyes were weak, so that in the war I was only in the Medical Corps. He had been a rough-riding cavalryman, and had been shot in the thigh at Rorke’s Drift – carried the Mannlicher bullet that disabled him on his watch chain.
‘Call Dr Gilpin,’ I said to Lambert.
He hesitated, and said: ‘I wanted to, sir, but Sir Arnold said not to.’
Remember – all I had to do was temporise, humour my uncle in his obstinacy for three or four hours, and he would surely have been dead that day. But I said: ‘Uncle, you have an appendicitis, very likely burst; and that “fading away” in waves is a hæmorrhage. Lambert, call Dr Gilpin this instant!’
‘No damned quacks!’ my uncle groaned. ‘It’s nothing but a belly-ache. I can’t imagine why Lambert called you down, you Woman! … Lambert, don’t call Dr Gilpin, call Mr Coote – if I die where I lie, I cut this milksop off with a shilling.’
That was the nature of the man; do you know, I honoured him for it! But I rose to the occasion, andsaid: ‘You may cut me off, or you may cut me on, as you please; I am getting the doctor.’ And so I did.
The old gentleman was delirious when Dr Gilpin arrived. The diagnosis was as I had foreseen – a burst appendix, with a serious internal hæmorrhage.
I went with my uncle and the doctor to the Cottage Hospital. The surgeon there said: ‘We’ll pull the old boy through, I dare say. But I’ll want somebody to stand by for a transfusion of whole blood…. How about you?’
I said: ‘My blood group is universal O.’
‘How d’you know?’
‘I found that out during the war,’ I said. ‘I was in the R.A.M.C.’
‘You’ll do,’ said the surgeon.
At this point I murdered my uncle, Sir Arnold Arnold, for the sake of my love for Mavis. For, you see, an allergy may be transmitted in a transfusion of blood. I spoke the truth when I said that my blood group was Type O, which is universally transfusible. But some devil got hold of my tongue, so that
‘I always found,’ she had told me, ‘that when I had supper for eighteen pence at the Café Mauve, I never had more than eighteen pence to pay for my supper. But when I started to have supper for three-and-sixpence at the Café Impérial, I managed to find three-and- sixpence …’
This operates, in a way; the only drawback is that somebody must pay….
It was of this that I was thinking when I went downstairs . My uncle was lying on his back, with his knees drawn up. His face was blue with pain, but still he fought. He said, gloatingly: ‘You would have been dead three-quarters of an hour ago, I bet! It looks as if you might come into your inheritance yet, you worm.’
‘What is the matter, Uncle?’ I asked.
He said: ‘I don’t know. My belly is hard as a pumpkin , and hurts like hell…. First I go hot, and then I go cold, and when I move my head … I seem to fade away, wash away on a kind of foggy wave. It pains, Rodney, it pains!’
Then Lambert came in with a hot-water bottle. (I write down these details to convince you that almost to the last I wished my poor uncle nothing but well.)
‘This sounds like appendicitis,’ I said. ‘Take that bottle away, and make a pack of crushed ice in a towel.’
Even in his agony, my Uncle Arnold sneered: ‘Male nurse!’ You see, my eyes were weak, so that in the war I was only in the Medical Corps. He had been a rough-riding cavalryman, and had been shot in the thigh at Rorke’s Drift – carried the Mannlicher bullet that disabled him on his watch chain.
‘Call Dr Gilpin,’ I said to Lambert.
He hesitated, and said: ‘I wanted to, sir, but Sir Arnold said not to.’
Remember – all I had to do was temporise, humour my uncle in his obstinacy for three or four hours, and he would surely have been dead that day. But I said: ‘Uncle, you have an appendicitis, very likely burst; and that “fading away” in waves is a hæmorrhage. Lambert, call Dr Gilpin this instant!’
‘No damned quacks!’ my uncle groaned. ‘It’s nothing but a belly-ache. I can’t imagine why Lambert called you down, you Woman! … Lambert, don’t call Dr Gilpin, call Mr Coote – if I die where I lie, I cut this milksop off with a shilling.’
That was the nature of the man; do you know, I honoured him for it! But I rose to the occasion, andsaid: ‘You may cut me off, or you may cut me on, as you please; I am getting the doctor.’ And so I did.
The old gentleman was delirious when Dr Gilpin arrived. The diagnosis was as I had foreseen – a burst appendix, with a serious internal hæmorrhage.
I went with my uncle and the doctor to the Cottage Hospital. The surgeon there said: ‘We’ll pull the old boy through, I dare say. But I’ll want somebody to stand by for a transfusion of whole blood…. How about you?’
I said: ‘My blood group is universal O.’
‘How d’you know?’
‘I found that out during the war,’ I said. ‘I was in the R.A.M.C.’
‘You’ll do,’ said the surgeon.
At this point I murdered my uncle, Sir Arnold Arnold, for the sake of my love for Mavis. For, you see, an allergy may be transmitted in a transfusion of blood. I spoke the truth when I said that my blood group was Type O, which is universally transfusible. But some devil got hold of my tongue, so that
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