The Summer of Sir Lancelot (12 page)

‘Excellent!‘ exclaimed Mr Nightrider. There is no condiment, I believe, to match fresh air. I shall be bringing my own tea to Wimbledon tomorrow. I am much looking forward to it.‘

‘ “Poet asleep on the heather”,‘ murmured Sir Lancelot, chewing his pencil.

‘I am a little concerned about the health of my daughter Felicity.‘ Mr Nightrider felt he might as well slip in a quick consultation before his guest left. ‘Since starting that temporary job in the Chelsea bookshop, she has become peculiarly fidgety and feverish. St Vitus dance, do you think? These last few days she has been quite unable to keep still for a moment. I trust no form of tubercular infection? The thyroid gland, I understand in young persons — ‘

‘ “Kipling”!‘ announced Sir Lancelot, writing it in. ‘ “Kip-ling”. Felicity off colour? I‘d give her a good old-fashioned dose of salts.‘

‘And the pain in my own side is no better,‘ Mr Nightrider added gloomily. ‘I have also developed the most distressing symptom of waking at night with a violent start.‘

‘It‘s probably your missus kicking you. Yes, Mrs Chuffey? For my luncheon basket? Something quite simple — say, smoked salmon sandwiches and a bottle of hock.‘

‘My own guests will be obliged to make do on potted shrimps,‘ observed Mr Nightrider pointedly as the door shut.

‘I‘d have thought you could lash out a bit more, Geoff. After all, you‘re living here at a peppercorn rent.‘

‘Some peppercorns!‘ he grunted, reaching for his parliamentary hat and brolly. But at least, he told himself, he would have an absentee landlord on his return.

Sir Lancelot continued operating on the crossword. He had great fun changing a carthorse into an orchestra and pig mines into impinges, and had just transformed pied mice into an epidemic when the door slowly opened.

‘Uncle Lancelot — ‘ Felicity edged in.

He looked up. He neither approved nor disapproved of his brother-in-laws daughter. She was a tall, thin, pale, sandy female, given to acne. She was not a girl who found herself noticed much by young men. Indeed, she was not a girl who found herself noticed much by anybody.

‘Uncle Lancelot, have you views on the Arts?‘ she inquired.

Sir Lancelot frowned. Felicity stood twisting her fingers round a grubby handkerchief Apart from the acne, the poor dear had chronic sinusitis.

‘Daddy‘s terribly keen on the Arts, now he‘s on this Cultural Committee,‘ she continued quickly. ‘And of course every year he goes to the Royal Academy. But I‘ve begun to wonder if our civilization isn‘t cruel to the more unconventional younger poets and things.‘

‘It always has been, my dear,‘ replied Sir Lancelot patiently. ‘I am perfectly certain Shakespeare much disliked having to hold all those beastly horses.‘

She gave a sniff. ‘You mean, Uncle Lancelot, they are just as deserving of a subsidy as — well, the National Theatre and the Festival Hall?‘

‘I have never believed any talent should be buried. If it turns out to be counterfeit, it will ring false soon enough.‘

‘Thank you, Uncle Lancelot!‘ She gave her colourless smile. ‘Oh, and Uncle Lancelot — do you believe in class distinctions?‘

‘My dear girl, don‘t be ridiculous. To a medical man there are only two classes. Alive and dead.‘

‘Thank
you, Uncle Lancelot,‘ she ended gratefully. ‘Now I must rush for my bus.‘

She left the surgeon pondering on an Australian bird with a cautious tail in nine letters, from which his thoughts shortly strayed to Euphemia. At least his own side of the family, he told himself with a touch of conceit, didn‘t go about looking like illustrations from a textbook on deficiency diseases.

‘ “Cassowary”!‘ he exclaimed. ‘C — A — S — S — O — W — ‘

‘I say, Uncle Lancelot.‘

He threw a highly unwelcoming glance at the door. Randolph entered on tip-toe, closing it softly behind him.

‘Uncle Lancelot — ‘

The youth stood biting his lip. He was one of those pudgy pink-faced shining young men who always look as though they‘ve just stepped from a cold shower.

‘I say, will you help me have a bit of fun?‘ he invited.

Sir Lancelot raised his eyebrows. ‘What have you in mind? Hunt the slipper? Socratic debate? Thought reading? Rape?‘

‘Uncle, you‘re a sportsman — ‘

Sir Lancelot‘s look became even less hospitable. Not least among his lessons of life was discovering that this phrase generally ushered in a touch.

‘I mean, you‘ve bashed round racecourses and things,‘ Randolph continued, standing on one leg.

‘I have occasionally diverted myself with the Turf, like many English monarchs.‘

‘Jolly good. That is, you know the ropes and all that,‘ Randolph persisted, standing on the other one.

‘What exactly are you trying to get at?‘ snapped Sir Lancelot.

‘You see, I obviously don‘t know much about all that caper. I mean to say, with Dad being — you know.‘ He changed legs again. ‘Particularly as I‘m waiting to go up to Cambridge next term with a scholarship from the Youth Morality Foundation. Wouldn‘t do, you see.‘

‘I fail to entirely, but go on.‘

‘Fact is, I‘d rather like to have a little bit of a flutter.‘

Sir Lancelot let out a guffaw.

‘Great Scott, man, I imagined you wanted to nobble the favourite for next year‘s Derby.‘

‘You see, I‘ve been filling in with this welfare job down in Hoxton,‘ Randolph continued, expanding and raising a grin. ‘I met a very sound fellow down there who‘s mixed up in this horse business somewhere, and he told me the one which is absolutely certain to win the first race this afternoon at Folkestone.‘

‘Excellent.‘ Sir Lancelot slapped his knee. ‘Not half enough sporting spirit in the young these days.‘

‘Yes, but how do I put the money on?‘ asked Randolph, looking puzzled. ‘I suppose I could go to Folkestone, but it seems an awful long way — ‘

‘Here — ‘ Sir Lancelot scribbled on a strip torn from his newspaper. ‘Ring that number, ask for Alf and mention my name.‘

‘That‘s awfully good of you, Uncle — ‘

‘And now get out. I want to finish this damn crossword.‘

‘Yes, of course, Uncle.‘ He hesitated. ‘The horse‘s name is Goose Pimple, in case you‘re interested,‘ he added generously.

‘I never bet on meetings at seaside courses, but put your few bob on and jolly good luck to you.‘

Sir Lancelot bent his mind to the gap in ‘Where‘s my — of old Nile?
(Ant.
and Cleo.)‘,
until a minute later he was interrupted by the appearance of Hilda and Herbert, in tears.

‘Ye gods! I might as well be sitting in the waiting-room at Euston Station. Go and blow your noses and find your mother,‘ he commanded.

‘We‘ve lost Cissy the eat,‘ they wailed together.

‘It has probably been run over. It was an extremely unpleasant animal anyway. Now clear off.‘

‘She was our special pet,‘ lamented Hilda loudly.

‘No doubt your father will provide a replacement. Hop it.‘

‘Daddy says he can‘t afford another one,‘ cried Herbert.

Sir Lancelot threw his paper aside. ‘Look here, you beastly pair of felinophils, London is positively crawling with stray cats. Go and hunt round the dustbins till you find one. If you smother it with DDT you‘ll keep most of the fleas out of the drawing-room. Now get out before I bid you farewell with the toe of my boot.‘

‘S — E — R — P - F. — N - T,‘ Sir Lancelot pencilled in with satisfaction, picking up his paper again. He gave a groan. The door was opened. But it was only Mrs Chuffey.

‘Ah, my luncheon basket, no doubt,‘ he exclaimed.

‘No, sir. There‘s a gentleman to see you, sir.‘

‘A gentleman?‘ Sir Lancelot frowned. ‘What sort of a gentleman?‘

‘Oh, quite respectable, sir. He brought this letter.‘

It was addressed simply, ‘Sir Lancelot Spratt, MD, MS, FRCS.‘ He opened it.

‘Dear Sir Lancelot, [it said]

I was utterly delighted to hear you were seen back in St Swithin‘s the other day, and have presumably resumed your private practice in London. I am sure it would be a terrible loss to surgery if you persisted in living in the country. Believe me, as your last house surgeon before you retired, I am enormously relieved that I can once again call upon your wise counsel for my clinical problems. These at the moment, I regret to say, are heavy.

I have a general practice in this suburb, but I find the work somewhat hard going and not at all as things were in St Swithin‘s. I should be glad if you would kindly give me your opinion of this patient to begin with. I have been trying to make an appointment but something seems wrong with your telephone arrangements. However, I remember Mondays are your usual private consulting days. He is Mr Bovis, a wholesale grocer, who has had dragging pains in his left side for thirty years. I can make nothing of him.

With best wishes from your ever grateful former pupil,

Clement E Dinwiddie.‘

‘Dinwiddie?‘ Sir Lancelot‘s eyebrows shot up. ‘Sound feller. In g.p., eh?‘ He grunted. ‘Pity he‘s got the wrong end of the stick about me.‘

He turned the letter idly in his hands.

‘Where did you put the visitor?‘

‘In the waiting-room, sir. The new drawing room, that is.‘

‘H‘m.‘ Sir Lancelot stroked his beard. ‘Er - Mrs Chuffey, I presume my couch and so on are still in Mr Nightrider‘s study?‘

‘Oh, yes, sir.‘ She looked shocked at such mention of sacred relics. ‘I would never let them be moved for a moment, sir.‘

He paused. He looked at the letter. He rose. ‘You know, I think I rather fancy the idea of getting my hands on an abdomen again. Mrs Chuffey -show the patient in.‘

He strode from the room with the expression of one setting out on a promising morning for Witches‘ Pool.

9

‘Here we are,‘ announced Mr Nightrider, as their taxi turned into Harley Street, at lunchtime.

‘By the way, did anyone hear the score?‘ asked his old friend the Bishop of Montserrat, a fat man with the same sallow complexion as the pawpaws he regularly enjoyed for breakfast on his island.

‘We were all out for 351,‘ grunted General Bunch. ‘Last I heard, the Australians were ten for one. Jowler got Foreman pretty quickly.‘

‘I shall take my pleasure tomorrow afternoon at Wimbledon,‘ smiled Mr Nightrider. ‘I fancy von Schiermacher might well beat Gary Burkett.‘

‘My country will soon be playing at Wimbledon,‘ asserted the fourth passenger, a delegate from one of those African states which these days keep turning up so confusingly with a brand new name, Hag, and national anthem, and a prime minister we‘ve just let out of clink. ‘Our honoured President is very keen on sport. Oh, yes. He has opened many acres of tennis courts in our capital.‘

‘I doubt if the weather will hold,‘ complained Mr Anthony Waterfall, who was being squeezed into the corner. He was anyway a thin fellow, a good deal craggier than the photographs on the dust jackets of his books. If he always looked pretty miserable, it was through having a tortured soul. His soul had been tortured as regularly as the appearance of his publisher‘s autumn list for about twenty years, and he did rather well out of it. The lunch was to persuade him into lecturing about this soul all over Africa, preferably at his own expense.

All five glanced anxiously heavenwards as they climbed from the taxi. Like every previous day that June it had started as clear and blue as a starling‘s egg, but by midmorning great surly clouds were elbowing their way across the sun, until the sky now looked as grey and unattractive as a plate of cold porridge.

‘You must find this house remarkably convenient, Geoffrey,‘ observed the Bishop of Montserrat as the taxi was paid off.

‘Yes, I rented it for the summer from my brother-in-law. He‘s Sir Lancelot Spratt, you know — the surgeon.‘

‘Ah, yes.‘ The Bishop nodded. ‘He took the stomach out of Mandalay.‘

‘A surgeon?‘ Anthony Waterfall looked startled. ‘I hope there is nothing surgical left about? I have such a horror of things like that. I always faint immediately at the sight of blood.‘

‘Dear me, no, Mr Waterfall,‘ his host assured him. ‘All the medical impedimenta are kept strictly out of sight. And my brother-in-law himself, whom I invited for a few days, left this morning.‘

‘I do so hope you‘re right,‘ said Anthony Waterfall doubtfully. ‘If I even go to the dentist‘s, I am upset for weeks.‘

‘In my country we have many famous surgeons,‘ mentioned the African. ‘Oh, yes. Our honoured President is very keen on surgery.‘

‘So pleasant for your children to be near Regent‘s Park,‘ remarked the Bishop as they all mounted the steps. ‘They flourish, I trust?‘

‘Indeed yes, Arthur. My eldest, I am glad to say, suddenly seems to be taking a great interest in literature. Randolph is preparing his mind for serious work at Cambridge. And the two little ones shared the Good Conduct Prize at school. Here we are, Mrs Chuffey,‘ he added, opening the front door.

He was glad to notice her fresh white overall as she gathered the hats and umbrellas. He felt it important when entertaining members of Government committees to make a good impression. One never knew where it might lead to.