My luck had to run out one of these fine days. Everybody’s does sooner or later. I’ve had a fantastic run — I’ve been lucky all of my life — and shall continue to count myself fortunate. But being suddenly out of luck makes one feel unmasked, which does take a bit of getting used to. Such were the morbid thoughts running through my head as I sat in the eye clinic waiting room, already packed by 8.30, waiting to see Mr Doyle.
It was my third visit in two weeks. They’d photographed the interiors of my eyeballs hundreds of times. They’d blown little puffs of air at them. They’d told me to watch the red light until it turns green, then look to the left. But I had yet to see this Mr Doyle. Closely following my second visit, a hospital administrator had rung me up and told me that he wanted to see me urgently and could I come in again tomorrow morning?
‘Urgently?’ I said. ‘Did I say that?’ she said. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Well, I’m not supposed to say “urgently”. But yes, Mr Doyle would like to see you as soon as possible before he goes on leave on Friday.’ So the verdict was in at last, I thought. And because this Mr Doyle wanted to see me urgently I could reasonably assume that their grave suspicion of cancer in my left eye had turned out to be justified. And this Mr Doyle was the one who was going to break it to me.
The waiting room was like the floor of a stock exchange during a crash. A receptionist now picked her way through the crowd. Cupping her mouth against the background, she said: ‘Mr Clarke?’ ‘Yes?’ ‘Mr Doyle wants to let you know he is in a meeting and will have to delay your appointment by a few minutes.’
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in