Читать онлайн «The Chequer Board»
Автор Невил Шют
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
I SAW Mr John Turner first on June the 25th last year. He came to me on the recommendation of a general practitioner at Watford: I have the letter before me.
DEAR MR HUGHES,
I should be grateful if you would make an appointment to see a patient of mine, Mr John Turner. Mr Turner has been suffering from attacks of vertigo and fainting: I have been attending him consequent on a fall which he suffered in the Strand Palace Hotel, when he was unconscious for some minutes. I have found some apraxia, and the sight of his left eye appears to have become subnormal in recent months. In view of a severe head injury which he incurred in the year 1943 I feel that an intracranial lesion may be at the root of his trouble, and it is upon this diagnosis that I would like you to see him.
Mr Turner is married, but has no children. He is in some branch of the food business, and lives in a style corresponding with an income of £800-£1,000 per annum.
Yours very sincerely,
V. C. WORTH, M. B. , B. S.
Mr Turner came to see me by appointment that afternoon. The first thing I noticed when my receptionist showed him in was the scar. It stretched as a deep indentation from a point about an inch above the left eyebrow up into the hair on the crown of the head, over four inches long. It was a deep cleft in his forehead, red and angry-looking.
The rest of Mr Turner was not very prepossessing. He was about forty years old, with a fresh complexion and sandy hair, going a little bald. He had a jaunty air of cheerfulness and bonhommie which did not fit in well with my consulting room; he was the sort of man who would be the life and soul of the party in the saloon bar of a good-class pub, or at the races. He was wearing rather a bright brown suit with a very bright tie, and he carried a bowler hat.
I got up from my desk as he came in. “Good afternoon, Mr Turner,” I said.
He said, “Cheerioh, doctor. How’s tricks?”
I smiled.
“I’m all right,” I said. I motioned him to the chair before my desk. “Sit down, Mr Turner, and tell me what you are complaining of. ”He sat down with his bowler on his knee, and grinned at me with nervous cheerfulness. “I’m all right,” he said. “You won’t find much wrong with me, doctor. May want a bit of a tonic. You know,” he said confidentially, “this wound on my napper frightens people. I tell you, straight, it does. Every doctor that I go to gets the wind up and says I ought to see a specialist. They’ll none of them touch me. If I want my corns cut, they say I ought to see a specialist. ” He laughed heartily. “I’m not kidding you. They get the wind up. ”
I smiled at him; one has to create confidence. “Does the wound give you any trouble?” I asked.
He shook his head. “None at all. Throbs a bit, now and then. The only trouble I get is at the hairdressers’ when they come to cut my hair—it don’t half fox them. ” He laughed again. “Not that I’ve much to cut, now. ”
