Tea with Doctor Death

Walking up the High Street I bumped into Doctor Death, who invited me to tea. Delighted, I said. We walked round to his comfortable bungalow with a lovely view over the town.

In the old days the family doctor was a figure of some standing in any rural community, along with the vicar. When you have been the doctor for fifty years, and retired into the same community; when you have looked up the tail-end of most of the women of the parish; when you can remember and have been involved in the birth of most of the men of fifty years and under; when you are also on the town, district and county councils; then you are a powerful man indeed. The Doctor is a dead ringer for the actor Ian Richardson, who played the sinister Prime Minister in the TV series House of Cards (“You may say so; I couldn’t possibly comment”). At over eighty, the Doctor is a shrewd local politician, and no-one should ever underestimate him. He is used to getting his own way. He is also extremely urbane and charming. Some use darker language to describe him. As one of the sons said when about four years old and watching a film on TV “That man’s a baddy, isn’t he daddy, because he smiles a lot”. Or as Anne Widdicombe once said of Michael Howard, many say there is “something of the night about him”. Some of my clergy predecessors have not got on with him. We seem to have established a relationship, even though after shaking hands with him I would always check carefully to see that I have had all my fingers returned to me.

I sat and looked at the view across the little town, while he put the kettle on. What’s marvellous, said Doctor Death, is that absolutely no-one knows you are here! Ah, but I did say I’d be back at five, I said, rather too hurriedly. But you can sit here and relax and enjoy a moment’s peace! He said, smiling. Why, what did you think I meant? Smile, smile. Oooh-er.

Homemade organic brown bread was produced, and some of Mrs Death’s delicious damson jam, together with a fruit cake. The conversation kept returning to the same subject. A recent funeral produced observations about the behaviour of the bereaved, and of the extended family (“death produces selfishness in families”). We recalled one man who had a headstone propped up in his hearth, complete with his name inscribed upon it. All that was necessary was the addition of the date of his demise when the time came. He had bought it when good stone was a lot cheaper and more plentiful than it is today, and he may yet have the last laugh on those who thought his purchase eccentric. As I left, the clouds parted and the evening sun burst through.