Jackpot Jack: A London Farce - страница 5

Jack’s eyes twinkling with amusement. “That's quite enough! Jack, let me assure you, I am indeed a doctor. And Nurse Anderson has learned more about practical medicine than most doctors learn in years of study. Her intuition is sharper than any textbook, her instincts as reliable as the tide.”

“Really?” said Jack, looking between the two women. “So, you're both the same, but different? Like two shoes that are only good as a pair?”

“Something like that, dear patient,” Miss Jane answered. “Now, are you ready to let a “mere nurse” with “years of practical experience” set your leg, or would you prefer to wait for the theoretical knowledge to arrive wearing spectacles?”

Jack, faced with the choice between the known comfort of Nurse Anderson's sturdy presence and the vague promise of the scholarly doctor, wisely decided to hold his tongue. The plastering proceeded with a minimum of further interruptions, the only sound being the rhythmic swish of bandages and the triumphant snorts of Nurse Anderson, who kept muttering about “know-it-all nitwits” and “legs that need fixin’, not philosophising.” In the end, Jack was about to leave the plaster room in a cast, not just on his leg, but also on his inflated ego. A small price to pay, perhaps, for a lesson in humility, delivered with a healthy dose of British sarcasm and a liberal application of plaster of Paris.

“Right,” said Jack, the word escaping him like air from a punctured tyre. “So, a prescription, then, to get this blooming leg knitting itself back together faster than your Aunt Mildred knits tea cosies.” He paused, his brow furrowed like a freshly ploughed field. “And something for the pain, mind you. Don’t want to be lying awake all night, howling at the moon like a lovesick cat.”

The doctor, Miss Jane whose patience was clearly honed by years of dealing with patients like Jack, simply nodded, a faint smile playing on her lips. The nurse, whose face was usually as expressive as a brick wall, actually gave a barely perceptible twit.

Now, Jack, despite his aforementioned intellectual limitations, was no fool – at least, not usually. He knew the legend, the terrifying myth, the very bane of the common man's existence: the doctor’s prescription. The scrawl, the hieroglyphics, the unholy mess that looked like a spider had crawled across the page after inking its feet.

“But,” Jack began, his voice rising in pitch, “what about the writing? I mean, you lot write like chickens dipped in ink and chased across parchment!”

“Don't worry, Jack,” the doctor said smoothly, handing him the slip of paper.

Jack took it, squinting. He blinked. He squinted again. It was…legible. Impeccably, miraculously legible. And what's more, it rhymed!

“For Jack's poor leg, so bent and blue,

Take two of these, it's good for you!

If pain persists, don't be a grouch,

Another pill will do the touch!”

Jack stared, mouth agape, like a landed fish. “Cor blimey,” he muttered. “A prescription in poetry? What is this, some sort of medical pantomime?”

The doctor merely chuckled, a sound like gravel gargling. “Just take your medicine, Jack. And mind how you go. We don’t want you back here with a broken arm, wanting a limerick for a splint.” And with that, Jack, prescription in hand, left the room, utterly bewildered, yet strangely…amused. The whole affair was as bizarre as a badger wearing a bowler hat.