The Summer of Sir Lancelot (13 page)

‘A glass of sherry?‘ he invited, leading his four guests into the drawing room. He wondered if he might squeeze in a few conjuring tricks afterwards.

Mr Nightrider pulled up. He frowned. In armchairs on opposite sides of the fireplace sat an elderly man and a smart middle-aged woman, both concentrating on old copies of
The Field.
Neither took the slightest notice of the new arrivals.

‘Doubtless friends of my wife‘s,‘ he whispered quickly to his companions. ‘She will not be joining us at lunch, naturally.‘

He grimly determined to raise the matter, as he often put it rather nastily in the House, at a later and appropriate occasion.

‘You won‘t mind us, I‘m sure?‘ he asked the elderly visitor jovially.

The man looked up. ‘I‘ll shift my mac,‘ he murmured, freeing a chair. He got on with his
Field
again.

‘Luncheon will be ready in a minute, I am sure.‘ Mr Nightrider reached for the decanter. ‘Ah, here is Mrs Chuffey now,‘ he added with relief. ‘Perhaps, gentlemen, if we take our sherry glasses— ‘

‘Mr Gregson,‘ said Mrs Chuffey.

The elderly man rose and followed her out.

‘Extraordinary!‘ muttered Mr Nightrider.

‘Most,‘ grunted the General in agreement.

Mr Nightrider noticed the middle-aged woman eyeing him sternly over the top of her magazine.

‘Forgive me for not introducing,‘ he remarked hastily, raising a smile. ‘This is the Bishop of Montserrat, Mr N‘agga, General Bunch, and of course Anthony Waterfall. No doubt you are waiting to see my wife?‘

‘Very kind of you, I‘m sure, but I‘m waiting to see the doctor.‘

The smile switched off at the mains. ‘The...the...? One...one moment.‘ He shot outside. ‘Mrs Chuffey! Will you please inform that woman in the drawing room this very instant that the house is no longer in use for purposes of medical practice.‘

‘Oh, but it is,‘ she returned calmly. ‘Sir Lancelot is consulting. Dr Dinwiddie sent him quite a batch of new cases.‘

‘Sir Lancelot!‘ Mr Nightrider‘s eyes flashed to the closed door of his study. ‘Consulting, indeed! In my house! I think I‘ll just have a word with — ‘

‘Would
you mind?‘ Mrs Chuffey barred the way. ‘You can‘t go interrupting a surgical consultation like that. Really, sir! I‘d have thought a gentleman like you‘d have known better.‘

Mr Nightrider halted. He wiped his bald head with his handkerchief. ‘Perhaps we could have some lunch?‘ he asked weakly.

‘The shrimps are on the table, sir.‘

‘A slight but quite ludicrous mistake by the domestic staff,‘ he explained to his guests in the drawing-room. ‘I am sure you will overlook it when you see what excellent fare they provide. Would you now come through to luncheon? No, not you, madam, only the gentlemen.‘

‘I‘m afraid I‘m not very hungry,‘ protested Anthony Waterfall, sniffing in the hall. ‘The smell of antiseptic or whatever it is seems to linger in these doctors‘ houses. It quite turns my stomach.‘

They all sat down to their shrimps.

The author‘s appetite revived when he noticed the cold lobster and Chablis to follow, and Mr Nightrider, who usually took only mineral water with his food, downed half a bottle of wine and began looking less like a badly defeated amendment. By the end of the meal he was addressing his guests as though they were his right honourable friends on the benches opposite.

‘Culture, of course, is our most priceless export,‘ he mentioned as Mrs Chuffey cleared away the strawberries and left them with the decanter.

‘In my country we are already very cultured,‘ pointed out Mr N‘agga. ‘Oh, yes. Our honoured President is very keen on culture.‘

‘Have you thought, Mr Waterfall, how your delivering fifty lectures on “The Novelist‘s Soul in the Atomic Age” would be a contribution to our export drive quite equal to, shall we say, the Metal Box Company‘s? Port? We already have our glasses, Mrs Chuffey,‘ he broke off crossly as she burst in and started rummaging in the sideboard.

‘Beg pardon, sir. I was just looking for a specimen bottle.‘

‘A what?‘ Anthony Waterfall‘s jaw dropped.

‘A bottle for a specimen, sir. No, that‘s for blood.‘ She discarded one. ‘And that‘s for urine.‘ She put aside another. ‘This is the one for the stomach contents,‘ she added in the direction of the author. ‘Sir Lancelot is just drawing them out of a patient with a stomach tube.‘

‘I don‘t think I feel very well,‘ announced Anthony Waterfall.

‘Mrs Chuffey!‘ Mr Nightrider jumped up. ‘This is outrageous! Can‘t you see we‘re in the middle of our— ‘

‘I‘m sorry, sir,‘ she apologized, hurrying off with a pint-sized jar, ‘but I can‘t keep Sir Lancelot waiting. Not while he‘s got a stomach tube down a patient, can I?‘

‘Mr Waterfall, I must most deeply apologize! Some quite exceptional combination of unfortunate circumstances — ‘

‘Somebody give me air,‘ muttered the author, pulling at his collar.

‘Perhaps the lobster was a trifle heavy,‘ murmured the Bishop as the General threw open another window.

‘My country has the biggest lobsters in the world. Oh, yes. Our honoured President is very keen on — ‘

‘Remember reading a story once,‘ the General broke his silence. ‘By Conan Doyle. Or Cronin, perhaps? Can‘t recall. Chap affected by sight of blood like our friend here. Wife being operated upon upstairs. House like this, y‘know. Moulded ceilings. Chap noticed bloodstain up there. By the chandelier. Gets bigger. Bigger. Splash! Drop starts to fall — ‘

‘I think I want to go home,‘ decided Anthony Waterfall, rising shakily.

‘My dear, dear, sir!‘ Mr Nightrider hurried round the table. ‘Perhaps a little sit-down-‘

‘In the end it wasn‘t blood at all, o‘course,‘ explained the General.

‘I want to go to bed. Somebody take me home and put me to bed — ‘

‘I‘m sure that a few minutes in the chair by the window, my dear Mr Waterfall — And what the hell are you doing here?‘ he demanded as his daughter Felicity burst in.

‘Daddy — ‘

Her chin was in the air. Her flattish chest was heaving. Her sniffs resonated round the room.

‘Daddy, I wish to become married.‘

‘What? What?‘ cried Mr Nightrider. ‘Felicity, this is neither the time nor place — ‘

‘Doesn‘t your daughter‘s happiness come before anything else in the world?‘ she countered breathlessly.

‘Perhaps you would like us to withdraw at such a delicate domestic moment?‘ inquired the Bishop, who had been fanning Anthony Waterfall gently with his table napkin.

‘No, no! I am sure she has merely some form of acute hysteria — ‘

‘Mrs Chuffey!‘ Sir Lancelot‘s voice bellowed outside. ‘I want a vomit bowl.‘

‘Vomit bowl? Vomit bowl?‘ she muttered, reappearing to rummage in the sideboard again. ‘I don‘t know, really, I can‘t seem able to find a thing since the place was let.‘

‘His name is Ronald Bald, and he‘s a poet,‘ Felicity declared, her nostrils dilated like a winning filly in the final furlong. ‘I love him,‘ she added.

‘Hurry up, woman!‘ roared Sir Lancelot. ‘Or do you want to mop up the blasted floor?‘

‘Excuse me,‘ apologized Mrs Chuffey, tipping the fruit from the cut-glass bowl on to the tablecloth. ‘Coming, Sir Lancelot!‘

There was a groan, as Anthony Waterfall heeled into the grapes.

‘Better fetch a doctor,‘ grunted the General.

‘No, no!, Mr Nightrider grabbed his daughter. ‘Drag him to the window, Arthur, there‘s a good fellow, while I try to find the brandy... What‘s all this nonsense?‘ he snapped to her, out in the hall.

‘This is Ron,‘ Felicity indicated.

 ‘'Lo,‘ said a thin youth with a dirty shirt and side whiskers.

‘Get out of my house this very instant.‘

‘Oh no you don‘t,‘ replied Ron affably. ‘I ain‘t the sort to be pushed around. Get me?‘

‘Ron has a terribly independent mind,‘ Felicity explained.

‘Get out of this house before I—‘

‘Ron‘s a terrific poet, Daddy. Honestly! Soon he‘ll be better known than T S Eliot. He‘s writing a wonderful poem called
Tea and Wads.
He‘ll read you some of it, if you like.‘

‘I wouldn‘t mind,‘ conceded Ron.

‘He wants a grant from your Committee, Daddy,‘ she continued, sniffing eagerly, ‘to keep him till he finishes it.‘

‘Do you know who I have in there?‘ snapped Mr Nightrider. ‘None other than Anthony Waterfall — ‘

‘Strictly for Stonehenge,‘ Ron dismissed him.

‘If Ron can‘t get a grant, Daddy,‘ Felicity went on brightly, ‘we‘ll get married and you can support us for a year.‘

Mr Nightrider clasped his bald head. ‘I‘m asleep. Yes, I must he asleep. Any minute Mrs Chuffey will come in with the tea. Felicity... Felicity, my child... He ground one fist in another, as though pulverizing Ron‘s bones in a pestle and mortar. ‘What on earth gave you the idea of introducing this... this gentleman to your own home?‘

‘Why, Uncle Lancelot, Daddy.
He
doesn‘t believe in class distinction and
lie
certainly thinks poets should be subsidized. He told me so this very morning.‘

Mr Nightrider reached the study door as Mrs Chuffey emerged with the bowl.

‘You certainly can‘t enter now,‘ she told him shortly, ‘Sir Lancelot is in the middle of a very delicate investigation.‘

His hot reply was stifled by Randolph bursting through the front door, his usual tomato complexion turned to boiled parsnip. ‘Father, something terrible‘s happened.‘

His father glared.

‘I — I put some money on a horse, Father. And it lost.‘

‘Really, Randolph!‘ he snapped. ‘I cannot be expected to give attention to your minor misdemeanours at this very moment. For goodness sake, man! If you‘ve lost a few shillings on some bet, you‘ll have learnt your lesson - ‘

‘But it wasn‘t a few shillings, Father. It was - er, three hundred pounds. My scholarship for Cambridge from the Youth Morality Foundation,‘ he explained. ‘I wanted a car,‘ he amplified further, standing on one leg.

‘Three hundred pounds!‘ gasped Mr Nightrider. Even Ron looked impressed. ‘Your entire grant? Great heavens! What on earth put such wickedness in your mind?‘

‘Uncle Lancelot, actually.‘ Randolph stood on the other leg. ‘I had a chat with him this morning, and he gave me the name of his bookie.‘

‘Fit to travel, I think,‘ grunted the General, as the luncheon party appeared from the dining-room, bearing Anthony Waterfall like Hamlet‘s corpse.

‘Yes, yes! I‘ll get a taxi.‘ Mr Nightrider threw open the front door. On the steps were Hilda and Herbert, a policeman, a lady in a red hat, and a pair of Siamese cats.

These your children?‘ asked the policeman.

‘Mine? Yes, of course they‘re mine. But what on earth—‘

They stole my cats!‘ complained the woman loudly. ‘Stole them! Right under my very nose. Champions, they are, too. Extremely valuable, I‘ll have you know.‘

Mr Nightrider glanced round in panic. ‘I‘m sure, madam, that some mistake — ‘

‘I‘ll have to take particulars, sir.‘ The policeman produced his notebook.

‘And
they were being cruel to the poor darlings,‘ continued the woman. ‘There‘11 be other charges, mark my words,‘ she added with satisfaction. The RSPCA - ‘

‘But how on earth,‘ broke in the Bishop, still supporting Anthony Waterfall, ‘could respectable children like this possibly get the notion of stealing cats?‘

‘Uncle Lancelot,‘ explained Hilda, bursting into tears. ‘He told us this morning to help ourselves round the dustbins.‘

‘Good gracious, w hat‘s this, a revivalist meeting?‘ broke in Sir Lancelot jovially, advancing through the hall. ‘Good day, Mrs Conolly,‘ he added to his patient. ‘I‘m sure you‘ll have no trouble with it in future. Just go and see Dr Dinwiddie if you do. I will send my account later. Well, Geoff, you
do
seem to be busy. Why, you look like the end of an all-night sitting.‘

‘Lancelot — ‘ He swallowed. ‘I want a very serious word — ‘

‘My dear fellow, I can‘t possibly stop now. I must get to Lord‘s at once. Didn‘t you hear the lunch-time score? The game is in a most exciting stage. They‘re forty for four, and Jowler‘s got his tail up. With a hundred and ninety-four to get, if the weather breaks we may have ‘em struggling by tomorrow night. I know you, don‘t I?‘ he added affably to the General. ‘Weren‘t you next to me in the pavilion on Saturday?‘

‘Certainly. Capital cricket.‘

‘Magnificent! Are you free, my dear sir? Then come along, before it starts to rain. My car is in the mews. Goodbye, Geoff, thanks for putting me up. Don‘t bother about my luggage, Mrs Chuffey has already put it in the boot. Excuse me, officer. Hello, Randolph, did it win? Madam, what delightful Siamese cats! Now out of my way you pie-faced little horrors,‘ he directed to Hilda and Herbert. ‘You a fisherman, sir?‘ he asked the General. ‘Thank heavens, in a few hours I shall have in my ears once more the delightful music of my own trout stream. Ahhhhhhhhh!‘ he added, as Herbert stuck his foot between Sir Lancelot‘s legs and sent him rolling down the steps into Harley Street.