THE SOUR SMELL OF CHIROPODY

Candida Crewe, after watching

a chiropodist at work, is not drawn to the profession

'SOMETIMES it's very difficult to get the smell of people's feet off your hands no matter how hard you scrub,' said Laurie Bedwell, a chiropodist. 'There are diffe- rent smells. Some feet are like camembert, rotten cheese — that's if the sweat glands are overworking. Others, like those with athlete's foot, are plain — what? — fetid I can't think of another word.'

Bedwell, who practises in Kensington, says that some of his 800 clients 'don't like bathing and are dirty anyway, bodily. I've had people in who never clean their feet. An Irish woman, Maisie, would say, "It's the dirt of the day". No wonder she said to me her husband had gone off her. I said to her, "Dear, it's your feet." Oh, and I remember Lettice Green. She was a very funny lady. Dead now, of course. But didn't believe in water, cleaned her feet with milk, and ooh, the smell!'

Still, he stresses that, on the whole, people are much more 'foot conscious' than they were 20 years ago. Today there is a greater demand for 'foot doctors' than ever before, but there are only 5,000 state-registered ones in this country, and demand outstrips supply. Chiropody is one of the three least favoured professions (along with mining and rubbish collecting). To hear Bedwell on the kind of thing he encounters in a typical day, it is little wonder.

He has to cut out corns 1— love something out of the ordinary like the ones that grow under nails and go a dark browny colour. Then I have to bore a hole and drill to lift it out. Ooh, I think, this is good.' He must deal with veruccas. And athlete's foot — 'Sometimes it's grey, like bread mould, and you can peel it off. In the tropics I saw it in armpits and genitals.' (The other night at a concert at the Festival Hall there was a very well-dressed man behind him who 'stank'. Bedwell identified the smell im- mediately — advanced athlete's foot.) Occasionally he comes across ulcers, gan- grene, severed toes — 'I had in a Mr Wise who brought his little toe in, blood every- where. I put it in a bag and sent him to hospital.') People often come in with quarter-inch high or black nails — to show him 'what's come off' — and invite him to keep them 'as an exhibit'. (He declines.) 'There was this young chap last week,' he told me, 'with an ingrowing toe-nail so septic his sock was full of pus. I could barely touch him. It was suppurating all the time and smelt like a farmyard. Oh yes, I have to wear a mask when it's very bad. That one did make me heave.'

Bedwell, who is 66 and has been in the business for over 40 years, is not a man given to squeamishness, yet even he admits to feeling queasy about six times a year.

It is hardly surprising that the School of Surgical Chiropody in Maidenhead (linked to the British Chiropody Association) has had to resort to advertising for students in the national press. 'Have you Considered Chiropody as a Profession?' runs their copy. 'If you would like to know more about this satisfying and financially re- warding profession and be able to control your own destiny [?] — please write for our free prospectus'. There is a note of des- peration here, akin to that in the advertise- ments on the Tube for traffic wardens, which only managed to come up with 'smart uniform' as an enticement to would- be meter-persons.

'Not enough young ones are taking up chiropody,' Bedwell said. 'A lot of girls go into it, but a year later it's too much for them. I'm being a complete so-and-so, but I think men are better at it. Women, generally, dealing with corns, are too gentle. You've got to be cruel to be kind, and scoop the whole thing out. Possibly it's the smelly side of the job that puts them off. But it's one of our side-lines, to put up with that sort of thing.'

Bedwell's surgery in Kensington High Street is a tiny room with a green lino floor and a colourful mat of plaited plastic noodles. On the old-fashioned brown and yellow wallpaper is a framed diploma and a mountain scene. A sinister electric nail- file stands like an antiquated dentist's drill beside the table which is covered with creams, powders and orange Tubifoam sponges (for arthritic toes). Bedwell him- self wears a white coat. He is a tall man with a reddish face and a long nose — 'I ought to put a peg on it,' he laughed. He has a friendly smile and neat, stiff white hair like a bath-hat.

'I arrived in England in 1952,' he said. His voice has the faintest trace of an Australian accent. 'I did chiropody in the Australian army. One reason was, I didn't want to get shot — I was hopeless with guns. I became a stretcher-bearer, but then got into feet. I liked dealing with people's bodies and was fascinated by feet, but it's not a foot fetish. Whether it goes back to my father who had polio, I don't know. I used to have to massage his feet.'

Bedwell qualified in 1947, and has work- ed in Kensington for 33 years. 'I live with my boyfriend in Hampstead,' he said. 'He's semi-retired. He was in the Foreign Office, taught diplomats deciphering. I could've retired, but 1 don't want to. It gives me satisfaction to know I've made someone's feet better. I'm very pleased when they're walking out so happy.'

Men wear good, broad shoes, so 99 per cent of Bedwell's clients are women. 'Grand ladies from Chelsea,' he said, 'who like to be pampered. I've got working- class, but mainly it's grand old ladies. I like women's company. You see, most gays do. I know of nine gay chiropodists in London. It's a caring thing. And I love gossip. We talk about other ladies' feet. They call me the Kensington Gazette.'

One lady, Mrs Sherwood, who had a red Hermes scarf and gold chains on the pockets of her cardigan, slipped out of her shiny shoes which had cut-out toes and silver wedge heels. ('At her age she should have lace-ups,' said Bedwell.) Then she whipped off her tights and sat on the high-chair. Her feet were purple. Bedwell filed her thick, yellow nails. 'See how they're all crumbly,' he said 'It's bad circulation, and there's a fungus in the big toe which could've spread. A horse step- ped on it some years ago.'

He sandpapered her heels. 'I use no 2 glass-paper,' he said It's the best thing out.' She seemed happy with it. She said (I swear): 'At one point we had a blue pumice stone at home, but it didn't fit in with the colour-scheme of my bathroom a pinkish-beige situation.'

Bedwell massaged her feet with baby lotion, and put' surgical spirit then foot- powder on them. `It gives them a nice feel and soaks up the moisture,' he said. He encouraged me to watch — through a huge magnifying-glass — as he cut away with a scalpel at a soft corn between her toes. The flap of skin looked like a flake of gruyere. He finished her off by putting a dressing on her toe, having 'blooded' her a little bit, and off she skipped, as happy as could be.

Bedwell was left to sweep up the 'filings' on the lino. 'If a dog came in it'd eat these for the salt,' he informed me before the arrival of his next lady, an elderly Miss Raffen. She had a rigid bunion.

`He's very good,' said Bedwell, examin- ing it enthusiastically. 'I had one last Thursday with a corn on it. She's got to have an operation and she still wears a three-inch heel. A very vain lady.'

`Ooh,' said Miss Raffen, 'she must be.'

Later Bedwell asked if I'd like to see him with a third lady. It was a charming invitation, but I regretted I was unable to accept. I told him I wasn't sure I could take another. He laughed with characteristic merriment.

Incidently, have you considered chir- opody as a profession?

Personally, after my morning chez the amiable Mr Bedwell, I think I'd prefer to be a traffic warden. I might be despised by the majority of the population, but I wouldn't ever have to slice off people's corns, and at least I'd get to wear a smart uniform.