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Dr Edgar Rudge as a young man in 1922

Peter Rudge with his parents, Dr Rudge and wife Jane

A moment of relaxation with his dog at Rose Cottage in Derby

The doctor, back row, wearing the monocle, at an event in Derby in the 50s. As the family were active Roman Catholics, the event may have been church related. Can anyone put names to faces?

An old holiday snapshot of the doctor's car taken during a holiday in Italy in the 30s

For 40 years Dr Edgar Rudge ministered to the needs of countless people in Derby, forsaking his passion for the arts to study medicine. He was a popular GP, who overcame war injuries to pursue his dream. His son, Peter Rudge, of Norfolk, pays tribute.

Compassion, tact and total dedication to his patients made my father a hugely popular doctor in Derby. Personal pain and the misery he witnessed during the First World War made him want to ease suffering – and he did so, until the very end.

For 40 years my father, Dr Edgar Rudge, had a medical practice in Derby, which kept him busy until his retirement in 1962.

He started out in 1922 as an assistant GP to Dr Barron, who had surgeries in Chaddesden and Spondon. In 1926 Dr Barron retired and my parents moved to Rose Cottage, Potter Street, Spondon, adjoining the surgery. I remember it had a wonderful garden with hollyhocks.

Dr Rudge in his study at The Shutters with daughter-in-law Doreen

Life in the 20s and 30s was slower and less stressful than now but a doctor’s hours were long. Morning and evening surgeries were held from Monday to Saturday, and home visits included Sundays. It was almost a seven- day week. My mother used to insist that my father took us out on his half-day, which was Wednesday. We would go to Derby or Nottingham to eat, or to the cinema.

An evening treat I remember well was being taken, when I was about eight years old, to the Grand Theatre, in Babington Lane, to see the great American singer Paul Robeson. He sang negro spirituals and Ole Man River. Afterwards he autographed my programme.

My parents liked to keep up with the arts. My father came from a musical family. His mother had a singing school in St John’s Wood in the early years of the last century (the Australian composer Percy Grainger was a pianist there) and his sister, Olga, became a violinist.

My father went as a chorister to Westminster Cathedral in 1905, when he was nine. A few years later his mother moved to Paris and he enrolled at the Sorbonne to take artistic studies. The First World War had started, and while a student, in his spare time he worked in a Paris hospital, tending the war-wounded. After obtaining his Baccalaureat he came to England and joined the Artists’ Rifles. He was sent to the Western Front.

On patrol one night he came face to face with a German squad. Grenades were thrown. He lost an eye and the hearing in one ear and was covered in shrapnel wounds. The Germans took him to a field hospital, where he spent several weeks recovering.

Facilities were so poor they used paper as bandages. He was eventually repatriated. The great suffering he had seen and endured made him decide to become a doctor. That suffering was on a very personal level, too. His younger brother, Arthur, was shot down over France.

My father went on to read medicine at Downing College, Cambridge, and then at Barts. Barts was not encouraging. He was told that, with his war injuries, he stood little chance of succeeding. But he persevered, obtaining his qualifications in 1922.

Also that year he met and married my mother, a Belgian woman from Liege who was working in London. When she married her Englishman she anglicised her name, and they were known to friends as Teddy and Jane. Despite the long working hours they managed a social life of tennis and bridge.

Dr Dawson, who had a surgery in Uttoxeter Road, was a very good friend, and his son, Peter, became a lifelong friend of mine.

In 1939 we (my parents, younger brother John, me and our Great Dane, Hefty) moved to our new house, The Shutters, which was at the end of Dale Road, Spondon. I think it has since been renamed Pheasant House.

My mother had her own taste and style and completely redesigned the house. The living quarters were put on the first floor, as was the front door, with steps either side leading up to it.

During the Second World War my father worked all hours. As well as his daily surgeries, he conducted medical examinations for the Army two mornings a week in a building overlooking the market square.

As part of his war work he also took maternity cases, and he liked to say, with a smile, that he was responsible for bringing 1,000 babies into the world.

He only lost one mother and it upset him a good deal. Nevertheless, this was quite an achievement, for in those days there were no antibiotics, refined X-rays, or scans.

GPs had to rely very much on their own diagnoses, by looking and feeling and asking questions; carefully watching a patient’s colour and the way they moved. He had only one eye, yet it was an artist’s eye, trained to see detail. He was also part of Spondon First Aid Post, on call at any time if bombs were dropped.

He designed the menu for their New Year social and supper in 1940. The choice was sausage and mash, or steak and kidney pud – very warm and filling during those bleak years.

The practice continued to grow over the next 10 years. My father and his two partners, one of whom was called Dr Murdoch, looked after some 9,000 patients. It was the second largest practice in the Midlands.

Perhaps the size of the panel reflected his reputation as a kind, considerate and humane doctor. He greeted his patients with a smile and always stressed the importance of optimism and good humour. He was a man of immense courage who was completely dedicated in his work.

In 1948 the NHS was created. Originally he voted against it but came to wholeheartedly support it, despite all the changes and new regulations. He gave up midwifery, but continued to work long hours. In 1951 he bought an 80-acre farm in Suffolk, managed by my brother and myself.

He was a remarkable man, full of tact and wisdom. He was totally dedicated in his calling to ease suffering and to promote optimism and well-being among his fellow man.

After he retired in 1962, my parents moved to our village in Norfolk. Sadly, my mother died in 1964. My father continued to work as a locum for the GP local practice until he was 80. He was in constant demand, his weekly surgery was always packed and he was on call throughout the night, too.

Every day he did the Daily Telegraph crossword, occasionally winning the prize money, and sometimes had a flutter on the horses.

He never lost his interest in painting and kept a portfolio of his work. This included quick sketches of people he encountered, as well as watercolours and oils.

At the end of his life, when ill, he used to sit up in bed executing little paintings of flowers. He died in 1979 at the age of 83.

• Do you remember Dr Rudge? Perhaps you were one of the 1,000 babies he bought into the world. If you have memories to share, create a separate article about your recollections of Dr Rudge.

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