The Summer of Sir Lancelot (14 page)

‘I feel faint again,‘ declared Anthony Waterfall.

‘Leave me flat, blast you, leave me flat!‘ roared Sir Lancelot from the pavement. ‘Don‘t sit me up, you idiots! You‘ll shell out my intervertebral discs like peas from a pod. Flat, man, flat! Dammit, officer, didn‘t you do any of your first-aid training at all?‘

It started to rain.

It rained all that night. The following morning came widespread thunderstorms, killing sheep and cattle, and one or two golfers. The Test Match was abandoned as a draw. The Centre Court shimmered like the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens. The rain rattled steadily on the windows of the best bedroom of the Harley Street house, where Mrs Chuffey had shifted Sir Lancelot. It ran dow n the panes of the drawing room, as Mr Nightrider stood looking miserably into the streaming street. His son was corrupted, his daughter infatuated, his two little ones confirmed cat-stealers. The luncheon had been a ghastly failure. His authority in the Cultural Committee was in tatters. Sir Lancelot lay immobile upstairs, probably for the span of his remaining days. And no Wimbledon.

He heard a sound behind him.

‘Daddy-‘ It was Hilda and Herbert.

‘Yes, my children?‘ he returned patiently.

‘Daddy, there‘s a smashing old movie on the telly tonight. It‘s called
The Man Who Came to Dinner.
Can we stay up and watch it please, Daddy?‘

‘No. No, you cannot stay up and watch it. Television is a very stupid diversion. It is not nearly so dramatic as real life.‘

Mr Nightrider looked out of the window again. He bit his lips. Hot, unparliamentary, unutterable, almost unthinkable phrases jostled behind them.

‘If only,‘ he told himself, ‘I could be given the Chiltern Hundreds, just for ten minutes.‘

10

All July it rained. Icy gales swept the beaches, where holidaymakers huddled against groynes or behind barricades of deck-chairs, determined to enjoy themselves. The lifeboatmen had barely time to dry their oilskins, and floods swept half Hunstanton into the Wash. Bisley was shot in a downpour, even the Durham Miners‘ Gala was damped, the raspberry crop was ruined, and the weather men on television made Job look like Mr Micawber.

The rain quite spoiled the effect of the Ivors-Smiths‘ new Bentley, when Simon returned the dinner invitation in Dulwich one Friday towards the end of the month.

‘What a darling little house!‘ Deirdre exclaimed in the hail. ‘Thank you, Simon, do take it, it‘s quite warm indoors.‘ The evening had been chilly enough to necessitate wearing her mink. ‘And you‘re not really in the depths out here in Dulwich, are you, Nikki?‘

‘Well, we don‘t actually hear the beat of the tom-toms.‘

She sighed. ‘I‘m afraid I always feel utterly lost once beyond Knightsbridge.‘

‘But, Deirdre,‘ asked Simon mildly, unstoppering the sherry, ‘didn‘t you start your nurse‘s training at the old Clapham Fever Hospital?‘

‘Oh, but that was years ago,‘ she said quickly.

‘Surely, my dear,‘ asked Nikki sweetly, ‘you can‘t want us to pretend you‘re
that
ancient?‘

‘Getting much tennis this year, Paul?‘ Simon cut in.

‘Yes, we took on our students last Saturday.‘ Paul gave his weak smile. ‘I‘m afraid they trounced us terribly.‘

‘You and I are rapidly approaching the age when it‘s wiser to challenge the porters at bowls.‘

‘Paul will be giving up tennis next year, anyway,‘ observed Deirdre, twirling her glass.

‘Really?‘ Simon was surprised.

‘He just won‘t have the time. Will you, Paul? I mean, of course if. ..if he‘s elected to the staff.‘ Deirdre gave a laugh. It sounded to Nikki as joyful as the crack of a window-pane. ‘The best man win, and all that, Simon, you know,‘ she ended jollily.

‘Excuse me.‘

The telephone was ringing.

‘Hello? Mr Sparrow here,‘ Simon said outside in the hall. ‘I‘m on second call-‘

‘Spratt here.‘

‘Oh, good., .good evening, Sir Lancelot. I do hope you‘re feeling better?‘

‘Thank you, I have recovered by treating myself with masterly inactivity. I want a word with you.‘

‘Yes, of course— ‘

‘Be at my Harley Street house by nine sharp tomorrow morning.‘

He rang off.

‘My house surgeon, about a drip,‘ Simon explained, rejoining the party. ‘We were talking about holidays,‘ Deirdre informed him. ‘Where are you going this year? I suppose we shall be doing our usual stint at Cannes.‘

‘That woman!‘ complained Nikki bitterly, tying her apron for the washing-up after her guests had gone. ‘From the way she carries on you‘d imagine she was the daughter of a hundred earls, instead of a superannuated staff nurse from the prostate ward.‘

‘She‘s entitled to crow a bit, after drawing a cash prize in the marriage lottery,‘ Simon conceded generously while reaching unenthusiastically for a drying-cloth.

‘I suppose being terribly rich must help getting on the staff of a hospital,‘ added Nikki gloomily, turning on the hot water. ‘Like it does with everything else.‘

‘Must be useful having a stockbroker for a father,‘ decided Simon, vaguely starting work on a saucepan. ‘You know, that sort of lark is quite beyond me. It‘s the most I can do to fill in my pools. But old Paul, now, he reads the
Financial Times
quite as closely as he does the
Lancet.
Where does this go?‘ he added, waving the pan.

‘Really, Simon! You ought to know the anatomy of the kitchen by now. Up there. I can‘t understand,‘ she went on, starting work with the steel wool, ‘why Paul doesn‘t simply retire to the Bahamas, without bothering to become a consultant at all.‘

‘Oh, I don‘t know. It‘s a pleasant life for a man being “on” at a London hospital.‘ Simon leant reflectively on the draining-board. ‘You have a common room and top table in the refectory. Your lunch is always hot and everyone laughs at your jokes. You‘re soon so important, people soon start forming processions behind you almost automatically. You have the last say in everything, from a patient‘s beer for lunch to life and death. Also, you get paid about three times as much as a GP,‘ he ended, picking up the colander.

His wife started scraping the plates. ‘If you don‘t get the job, darling — what next?‘

‘I‘ll find a niche in some surgical Siberia. How would you like to live up North?‘

‘I don‘t exactly jump for joy at the idea of leaving our home.‘

‘I‘ll send you out to work,‘ smiled Simon, polishing a soup spoon. ‘You should be in good practice, after your do-it-yourself revision course in obstetrics and paediatrics. Good Lord!‘ The spoon hit the floor. ‘I quite forgot — it was Lancelot on the phone this evening.‘

‘Really?‘

‘He wants to see me tomorrow.‘

‘Indeed?‘

‘But aren‘t you surprised? It must mean he‘s decided to stir himself about the job, despite the fact I made it pretty plain that morning in Out Patients I intend to cherish my independence.‘

‘No, I‘m not surprised at all,‘ said Nikki. ‘Don‘t put that ladle away, darling. It hasn‘t been washed yet.‘

By nine the next morning Simon had his red Mini parked in Harley Street. He mounted the steps and was about to ring the bell when the door flew open. He faced a tall, bowler-hatted, saintly-looking man, whom he recognized as the Chairman of the Governors.

‘Oh!‘ exclaimed Simon. ‘Is — is Sir Lancelot Spratt in?‘

‘Sir Lancelot Spratt is
always
in,‘ snapped Mr Nightrider, hurrying off. The surgeon was at that moment in the drawing-room reading
The Times—
his brother-in-law had long ago taken to ordering two copies-and bidding farewell to Lady Spratt.

‘I hope you have better weather in Majorca, my dear. There would seem to be six feet ot snow on the Costa Brava.‘

‘You‘re sure you‘ll be all right driving to Wales tomorrow?‘

‘Perfectly. I walked eighteen times round Regent‘s Park yesterday, and I haven‘t had a spasm for a week. By George! I‘ll be glad to feel a rod in my hands again. Particularly as I heard from Brackett and Knockett that piece of river pollution, Chadwick, is still in London. And I won‘t be sorry leaving Geoff,‘ he added feelingly. ‘The feller has hardly gone out of his way to be hospitable to us.‘

‘Here comes Simon Sparrow,‘ Lady Spratt announced, glancing through the window. ‘I want you to promise you‘ll definitely do something for him.‘

‘Really, Maud,‘ returned Sir Lancelot impatiently. ‘It is all most unethical, and anyway nothing is quite so boring as hospital politics.‘

‘You know who‘ll get the job instead, of course? Paul Ivors-Smith.‘

‘Rubbish! Not that chinless belly-farrier,‘ Sir Lancelot dismissed him. ‘But he has Professor Hindehead behind him.‘

Sir Lancelot grunted.

‘And you know perfectly well, Lancelot, that in hospital politics the Professor would make Machiavelli look like Eric or Little by Little.‘

‘But why on earth,‘ exploded Sir Lancelot, ‘should the Professor support that feeble — ‘

‘Really, Lancelot! Be your age. You know Paul‘s father‘s a wealthy stockbroker?‘

‘Yes. Pompous little twerp.‘

‘The Professor‘s after him for a packet to finance research on his Unit - it will help his long-range attack on the Honours List.‘

‘Tricky Dicky a knight?‘ His eyebrows shot up. ‘Where did you get all this from?‘ he added quickly.

‘It was all in the letter Nikki Sparrow sent me yesterday.‘

‘Nonsense! I read it.‘

‘Ah, but you only read the lines. You should know by now, my dear, that women always put the important items between them.‘

‘Your taxi for the airport, madam,‘ announced Mrs Chuffey at the door. ‘And a gentleman to see you, sir.‘

‘Show him in,‘ ordered Sir Lancelot, rising. ‘Off you go, Maud. Have a good time and bring me back a bottle of Fundador. Come in, Simon,‘ he added, after briskly kissing his wife goodbye. ‘I wish to have a talk with you on a matter of some seriousness.‘

‘Yes, of course, sir,‘ agreed Simon, switching on an expression of solemnity and standing by the fireplace.

Sir Lancelot cleared his throat. ‘I gather,‘ he began, ‘you are aspiring for the honour of a place on the St Swithin‘s consultant staff?‘

‘That‘s quite right, sir.‘

‘H‘m. It is, of course, nothing to do with me, but - good morning, my dear,‘ he broke off as Felicity appeared at the door. ‘Heard from young Randolph? He can‘t be liking it much on that farm your father sent him to in Scotland, not in this weather.‘

‘I was just going out, Uncle Lancelot. Did you want anything from the shops?‘

‘Thank you, no. By the way, didn‘t I see in the paper this morning your friend Ron has had a play accepted for television? The title escapes me, but I fancy it was something to do with bedbugs. You must be extremely pleased,‘ he told her genially. ‘Perhaps your father will be more inclined to receive him as a successful West End playwright?‘

She sniffed. ‘Yes, Uncle, of course. Naturally, Uncle.‘

‘His television thing is at the end of next month, I believe? I really must tell Mrs Chuffey to watch. Quite a sound girl, that,‘ Sir Lancelot added to Simon. ‘She has become most considerate towards me over the past few weeks. But of course her father has been behaving so oddly. Where was I?‘

‘The St Swithin‘s staff, sir.‘

‘Yes, of course.‘ Sir Lancelot sat down. ‘I have myself, of course, retired completely from the hospital — How's that niece of mine getting on?‘ he asked suddenly.

‘Very well, I should think. Sister Virtue‘s already promoted her from the soiled linen to the washing-up.‘

‘She‘ll be a useful member of St Swithin‘s, mark my words, now she‘s got over her juvenile infatuations. I soon put a stop to that, by Harry!‘ He produced his pipe. ‘What was I saying?‘

‘About how you‘d retired,‘ supplied Simon patiently.

‘Exactly. I have really no right whatever to raise my voice in St Swithin‘s politics,‘ Sir Lancelot continued, leaning forward to knock the pipe out against his heel. ‘I have moreover not the slightest — Ahhhhhhhhh!‘

‘Are you all right?‘ cried Simon, leaping forward.

‘Lay me flat, boy, lay me
flat‘.
Damnation! Do you know less surgery than the trainer of Tottenham Hotspurs?‘

Simon looked round wildly. ‘I - I don‘t seem to see anything flat.‘

‘What‘s wrong with the blasted floor? That‘s better,‘ conceded Sir Lancelot gruffly, as Simon dragged him to the hearthrug.

‘Don‘t you think I ought to have another look at this back?‘ asked Simon, sounding concerned.

‘I am quite able to treat my own complaints, thank you.‘

‘You know perfectly well what you taught us, Lancelot,‘ insisted Simon firmly, rolling the surgeon on to his face, ‘that doctors make rotten patients and
vice versa.
May I pull up your shirt?‘

‘You blasted well leave my underwear alone!‘