Monday. As a doctor at Charing Cross there isn't a Monday that I haven't failed to loathe. The worst cases always seem to come in on Mondays, and I don't mean horrific.
But on this particular Monday the cases were fairly normal, as if fate had decided to give me a break - tibia fracture update, chicken pox prescriptions, and mostly basic cases.
It wasn't to last, though.
At about four, right after an old lady suffering from gout, the ruddy-faced Mr Dursley sidled into my consultation room, followed by his stick-thin wife, who was clinging onto their son (who by now weighed heavier than a fully-grown pig) as if her life depended on it.
Usually, I dreaded a visit from the Dursleys, who tended to always find fault with my observations - the last time I tried to prescribe a diet for their whale of a son, Mr Dursley found it appropriate to hurl a potted plant at my head (which I managed, thankfully, to dodge).
But today Mr Dursley walked in as the very image of a chastened father. He mumbled a strained greeting and we shook hands limply, instead of the usual hand-crushers he tended to pull. Mrs Dursley followed, with one arm still around Dudley, who kept his hands tightly on his bottom.
We sat down. With as much professionalism as I dared muster, I asked them what the matter was.
"It-it-it's my son," Mr Dursley stammered (another shock - Mr Dursley never stammered). "He's..." His face crimsoned, and suddenly he broke down, sobbing into his hands.
I remained silent. Seeing Mr Dursley like this was unusual - no, wrong word; startling would be more appropriate.
"Does this, by any chance, have to do with-"
"With Dudley?" Mrs Dursley cut in in a strained voice - a moderate improvement, I thought, over her usual snappish tone. "Doctor, I don't know how to describe it, but please, you must cure him, you must!" And with that she broke into tears as well, a high-pitched sob that complemented her husband's blubbering.
"I'm sorry, but... what exactly is the matter?" I repeated.
"He's got... He's got a tail, doctor!" Mr Dursley cried, in the midst of his sobs.
For a moment I didn't understand at all. "A tail? What tail?"
"A pig's tail! Right on his bum! My son!"
"A pig's tail?" I couldn't believe my ears.
"A ruddy pig's tail! And you- you, doctor, must get rid of it!"
"I'm... I'm afraid I don't quite understand-"
"Show him, Dudley!" Mr Dursley roared, but the son refused, shaking his wobbling chins profusely. It was clear that Dudley was as shocked as I was about the state of his parents.
Springing out of his chair Mr Dursley was suddenly wrestling with Dudley, trying to turn him over - with a great heave Mr Dursley succeeded.
"Mr Dursley! What are you doing!?"
Mr Dursley wasn't listening - his pudgy hands were attempting to prise Dudley's equally pudgy hands off his bottom. For a few moments they grappled, but in the end Mr Dursley won: and to my greatest shock and surprise there it was, as clear as day. There was no mistaking the characteristic curl of the tail, the coiled-spring shape of it. It was a perfect pig's tail.
I sat upright in my chair, staring stupidly at the aberration - then I sunk in my chair, defeated.
"NOW do you see?" Mr Dursley roared, spraying spittle over my desk. "My- my son's been given this- this tail! And he's got to have it removed before he goes to school!"
"I-I see, Mr Dursley," I stammered, keeping my shock in check. Then my professionalism returned. "May I inspect the tail, please?"
Without a response Mr Dursley, with another great heave, dumped Dudley onto the bunk adjacent. I got out of my chair, a little unsteadily, and made my way over.
The tail poked out of a tiny hole in his trousers. It was small, and I prodded the base of it with my forceps.
"Can you feel the tail, Dudley?" I asked, as kindly as I could.
He nodded. I straightened, then turned to look at the Dursleys.
"I'm not quite certain of the nature of the tail. In any case we'll have to put it through the X-Ray machine before we even consider surgery-"
"Doctor, you mustn't let anyone know! If this gets out, my son will be the laughing stock of the school-"
"I assure you, Mr Dursley, that you have our strictest confidence that your son's condition will remain a total secret."
Back in his usual manner Mr Dursley grabbed me by the shirt-front and I felt my feet leaving the ground.
"You will, won't you? Or else you'll have my lawyer beating the stuffing out of you with me, eh?" he snarled.
He let go of my shirt and I landed on my feet. "When can you do the x-rays?"
"Today, I think," I answered, straightening my shirt.
Mr Dursley grunted in assent. "When?"
"Just at five. Why don't you all have some tea in the waiting room and we'll call you when we're ready."
The Dursleys shuffled out of the room. Both the parents endeavouring to wipe away their tears as quickly as possible - Dudley had his hands wrapped tightly around his bottom again.
I moved back into my chair and gave a long sigh. Out of all the experiences with the Dursleys this had to be the strangest of them all. But there was little time to ponder. The Dursleys were well-known even in the farthest departments as being short-tempered, regardless of mood. I snatched up my telephone and rang the X-ray department.
"Darren," There was no need to identify myself - we all knew each other's voices. "As soon as you're done with the machine I want all non-essential personnel out of there. Yes, all of them. The Dursleys are in- yes, them again. They want maximum privacy this time. No, no, no, I'll handle this one. Yes, me. Don't ask why."
Tuesday. After I saw the preliminary scans I breathed a sigh of relief - I wouldn't need to have Mr Dursley breathing down my neck at the operation. It would be a short, quick affair. I even found a new resolve I would never have had while facing them in any other situation.
The clock chimed two. I could hear the rum bling of heavy footfalls in a distant corridor. I felt like a matador as I stared intently at the door, waiting for my bull – or bulls, I should say.
Mr Dursley burst in first, followed by Mrs Dursley and Dudley. I could see the puce colour that Mr Dursley was famous (or infamous?) on his forehead in all its glory. I smiled, attempting (my first ever!) a brave face in the midst of their advances.
"So?" Mr Dursley snarled. "So?"
"I have good news for you, Mr and Mrs Dursley ("Hmph! At last!" sniffed Mrs Dursley). I've concluded that your son's… condition," I drew breath here, uncertain of the outcome of my next words, "is largely superficial-"
"What does that mean?" Mr Dursley growled.
"It means, Mr Dursley, that we may surgically remove it without any lasting effects on your son-"
"Oh, thank God!" Mrs Dursley burst out. I even thought the puce colour on Mr Dursley's forehead lessened a little. He slapped me heartily on the shoulder and with a hint of a smile under his moustache boomed, "At last, doctor, at last you've done something right. When can you operate on him?"
I smiled weakly under his powerful gaze. "Tomorrow. I just need to make some final arrangements on the operation. Of course, it still depends on you-"
"What do you mean? Of course we want this done! And it- must- come- off- ruddy- soon!" spat Mr Dursley.
"But under our terms we must ask the patient- and the patient is Dudley!" I protested.
"Of course Dudley wants it! Don't you?" He rounded on Dudley; but even for a split second I could see the uncertainty in Dudley's eyes – but slowly, painfully, he nodded.
"See? See! He wants to go ahead. Now you get a move on and organize it! Now!"
And so I found myself, unwilling again, in the operating theatre at noon the next day. I could feel the glares of both the Dursley parents beating down on my shoulders from up on high as I tried to concentrate on Dudley.
In accordance to their demands I didn't have a whole retinue of nurses at bay helping me for this operation – just two were in attendance, one to hand me my tools and the other to monitor the sedation. I had to almost threaten Judy and Catherine to keep their lips tight about this whole affair – and even now I felt guilty as I glanced at Catherine, who didn't look at me at all. I looked up at the balconies and felt a deep resent for the two people, out of all my clients, that I had to sacrifice my time and friends to.
While Judy had taken the orders with good grace, the younger Catherine was close to tears by the time I had finished. I opened my mouth again to apologize – but she just turned and ran. I tried to push that memory out of my head and looked down at the root of it all.
The pig's tail was still there, pointing obstinately upwards in that ridiculously accurate curl. I stared at it one last time – I focused all of my suppressed anger at the Dursleys on it, the threats they made, and the haughty manner in which they paraded in my humble consulting room. Well, to hell with it all. To hell with them!
"Scalpel," I ordered. I felt the cold steel of the knife in my hands. I took the tail as gingerly as I could, and pressed the edge against it.
I do not recall any word of thanks or gratitude given to me after the deed was done – and that was the last straw. In a most uncharacteristic fury I summarily had their names removed from my client list. They had cost me my confidence, my patience, and my nature and I had had enough. I never got a call pleading as to why I had done so - and I, to my later surprise, would have relished a shouting argument with Mr Dursley. Perhaps he knew it too. Perhaps he didn't. But nevertheless their pressures are gone now. All that remains of my time (or imprisonment) under the Dursleys is that pig's tail – pickled in formaldehyde, it remains in my smallest drawer, where I never wish to see it again.