Doctor in Love by Richard Gordon Page A

profession. I had as much chance of buying the Bentley as the Queen Mary , but as I had a few minutes free I agreed when he suggested “I expect you’d like a spin in the motorcar?”
    “That was a delightful experience,” I said gratefully, as we drew up after a run round the Abbey. During this Mr Frisby had pointed out the detailed mechanical advantages of his charge in terms I understood as little as he would have followed an anatomy demonstration,
    “Doctor,” he said, “you’re going to be very, very happy indeed with this motorcar.”
    “I’m sure I would be,” I agreed. “Except that I’m afraid there’s not the slightest prospect of my being able to buy it.”
    He stared at me in amazement.
    “It was kind of you to demonstrate it, Mr Frisby,” I said, starting to get out. “But I don’t really want it. Or rather, I can’t possibly afford it.”
    “But you’ve bought it!” he exclaimed.
    “Bought it?” I began to feel annoyed. “But how could I? I’ve never seen the car or you before in my life.”
    For a second I thought he was going to take back his cigars.
    “Now look here,” he went on, much less affably. “Is this your signature or isn’t it?”
    He produced a printed order form from his pocket. It was signed “G S F Grimsdyke, LSApoth (Cork)”.
    “This is nothing whatever to do with me,” I protested. “I can’t imagine how my partner found the money to buy a Bentley, but that’s his affair. If you want him, he’ll be back in half an hour.”
    “Now look here – you’re Dr Gordon, aren’t you?”
    I agreed.
    “Well you have bought the car. We were instructed to charge it up to your practice.”
    “What! But…but…damn it! Dr Grimsdyke had no authority whatever–”
    “See here, Doctor,” said Mr Frisby, now sounding menacing. “You can’t muck about with Buckingham Palace Motors, you know. I’ve brought this motorcar all the way from London. I’m a busy man. Not to mention that there’s a lot more customers interested–”
    “Well, you’ll just have to take it back again,” I said sharply. “There’s been a mistake.”
    “Mistake, eh? I don’t think I like the smell of this, Doctor. You can’t pull any wool over the eyes of Buckingham Palace Motors.”
    “You can leave the bloody thing here, if you like,” I said. “But you’ll never get paid for it before it qualifies for the Old Crocks’ Race.”
    By this time our conversation had drawn a small crowd staring through the open windows. I jumped out and ran inside the house. Shortly afterwards I saw Mr Frisby drive his merchandise away, possibly to apply for a writ.
    “What the devil’s this business about the Bentley?” I demanded, as soon as I saw Grimsdyke.
    “Oh, it’s come, has it? That’s quick service. I only posted the order yesterday.”
    “Do you mean you were so insane as actually to try and buy one?”
    “Of course, old lad,” he replied calmly. “Just what the practice wants. Window-dressing. You know what they say – a successful doctor needs a bald head to give an air of wisdom, a paunch to give an air of prosperity, and piles to give an air of anxiety. A posh car continues the process. Why, that’s the only way people judge their doctor. You must have heard dozens of times, ‘That feller must be good – he’s got a Rolls.’ Ever tried to park in Harley Street?”
    “But it’s ridiculous!” I exploded. “The thing costs thousands and thousands of pounds.”
    “But it’s perfectly all right, my dear old lad,” he explained condescendingly. “We’ll get it off the income-tax.”
    “Income-tax! Income-tax! Do you know how little we really make in this practice? We couldn’t pay for it with our income, income-tax, and post-war credits combined.”
    “I must say, you’re being a bit of a reactionary,” he said, sounding annoyed as well. “I think you’ve been with the old uncle too long already.”
    Relations between Grimsdyke and myself remained cool for