The Summer of Sir Lancelot (7 page)

‘Come, Euphemia.‘

His niece followed him demurely into the courtyard, where he talked to her for half an hour about the kidney. She listened in respectful but absorbed silence. Like Sherlock Holmes, Euphemia had her methods.

‘You are quite clear on the difference between a glomerulus and a tubule?‘ he ended, opening his pocket watch. ‘Excellent. Now I must go and fix myself an X-ray. Good-bye, my dear. We look forward to your company next long weekend leave, now — er — Dr Ewenny has resumed his practice at home.‘

Sir Lancelot strode across the courtyard where he had reigned for so many years with a flamboyant authority worth an approving nod from the Bourbons, and reached Out Patients in a mood as benign as the weather.

‘My dear Sister, don‘t bother yourself,‘ he boomed, as Sister Out Patients came fluttering up. ‘I am here merely for an X-ray, and perfectly able to look after myself. You would be far better occupied attending to that small child, who I fancy is about to vomit into the fire bucket.‘

He buried himself among the crowd.

The Out Patients Department at St Swithin‘s hasn‘t much changed since my day, either. It still greets you with an incurable smell of damp raincoats, Dettol, and distant frying fish. It‘s still as busy as the rush-hour at a London terminus, which with its grimy glass roof and iron pillars sprouting weird Victorian decorations it rather resembles.

But certain touches suggest the patients are no longer assumed to come entirely from the pages of Mayhews
London Labour and the London Poor.
A small counter in the corner now sells them tea and iced buns. The word PLEASE has appeared on some of the notices. There is an appointments system, so that instead of patients arriving when they felt like it and having to wait halt an hour before seeing the doctor, now they come when they are told and wait an hour instead. But the long wooden benches are still as bare as butchers‘ blocks, and the patients still sit on them furtively reading their case-notes, like their forebears in suffering who were marshalled by uniformed porters with the bedside manner of Guards drill sergeants.

Sir Lancelot automatically cast an eye at the large blackboard where housemen were expected to chalk their more reputable whereabouts, and abruptly came to a halt. He stiffened. He stared.

‘I know you,‘ he announced shortly.

‘Well, well! If it isn‘t Sir Lancelot. A pleasure, I‘m sure.‘

A small cloud blew into the sunshine of Sir Lancelot‘s day.

‘You‘re Crimes.‘ He narrowly eyed a little man with a face like a well-worn brown boot, leaning against the blackboard in a blue uniform with St Swithin‘s crested silver buttons. ‘What the devil are you doing here? And all dressed up like that?‘

‘Why, it‘s my new post, sir,‘ the porter told him affably. ‘And a very happy one, I‘m glad to say. The pay‘s only fairish, mind you, but what‘s that if you meet a load of interesting people?‘ With a matchstick he seemed to be searching for some attractive dental cavity. ‘Besides,‘ he added, ‘I thought it might come in convenient, like. Ch?‘

He gave a loud laugh.

‘Quite,‘ agreed Sir Lancelot briefly. After a pause, he added, ‘You‘re keeping well?‘

‘Well? Fit as a flea what‘s been at the liver salts, thank you, sir.‘ He inspected the point of his matchstick. ‘And how about yourself, if I may ask?‘

‘I am perfectly well,‘ the surgeon told him briskly.

‘Apart,‘ he added more hesitantly, ‘from some completely minor trouble with my back.‘

‘The back?‘ Crimes‘ eyebrows eased upwards. ‘That‘s something new, ain‘t it, Sir Lancelot?‘

‘I told you, it is a totally trivial matter. I have simply come for an X-ray.‘

‘Still,‘ observed Crimes, ‘you never know, do you?‘

There existed between the two men a relationship of great delicacy. One which, I believe, has never been touched on before in literature. It had started thirty years previously, when one was beginning his career as a London surgeon and the other his career as a London taxi-driver.

‘I have some excellent news for you,‘ announced the young Mr Spratt, arriving one morning at Crimes‘ bedside up in Virtue ward. ‘I have decided that it will be unnecessary to operate.‘

The young Crimes‘ face creased into a smile. ‘Well, that‘s a relief, and no mistake. I wasn‘t looking forward to it as much as my summer holidays, I don‘t mind telling you.‘

‘In fact, it will not be needful for you to stay here at all.‘ Mr Spratt stroked his ginger beard. ‘You may go home. This afternoon, if you wish.‘

‘Go on?‘ Crimes could hardly believe his luck.

‘I don‘t think it necessary to give you more treatment in a formal way,‘ the surgeon continued. ‘But I should like to know how you get on in the next few months.‘

This was Sir Lancelot‘s most tactful formula for announcing the case was inoperable and the outlook hopeless. It had failed him only once, with a professional colleague who knew the ropes and answered grimly, ‘Just keep an eye on the front page of
The Times.‘

But young Crimes showed as much reluctance to join his forebears as any other tedious family gathering. Ten years passed. The mysterious lump in his liver remained as large as life, and so did the patient.

‘You‘re
sure
you‘re feeling quite well?‘ the surgeon had demanded a shade impatiently, at one of Crimes‘ regular visits to the Follow-up Clinic.

‘Never better, thank you, Doctor. Though mind you, I‘ve taken a softer job driving an old bloke in the City. I reckoned the cabs were a bit rough for a chap with only six months to live.‘

‘Six months? How the devil did you get that idea in your head?‘

‘Why, from my notes, of course.‘

‘It was extremely improper of you to read them. Your case-notes are nothing to do with you.‘

‘I got what you wrote off by heart.‘ Crimes leant back in his chair. ‘ “A most interesting case. I must have him in St Swithin‘s for the postmortem. My provisional diagnosis is GOK.” Eh, Doctor? Now - as man to man, what does “GOK” stand for? After all,‘ he complained mildly, ‘I‘m the one who‘s got it.‘

Mr Spratt paused. ‘If you insist, it stands for “God Only Knows”. Look here, Crimes, I simply didn‘t want to hurt your feelings — ‘

‘Hurt my feelings? But, Doctor, it doesn‘t worry me a scrap that by rights I oughter be dead.‘ He produced his matchstick for running dentistry. ‘See here, sir, I believe in a bit of give and take. You keep an eye on the old ‘ealth, and I‘ll come every six months until the unfortunate eventuality what you‘ve prepared for takes place. That‘s a bargain, eh?‘

‘The interests of medical science — ‘ tried the surgeon uncomfortably. ‘There‘s just one thing, though,‘ Crimes mentioned. ‘I‘m forty next birthday, and you‘re forty-two. Pardon the liberty, I looked you up in my governor‘s
Who‘s Who.
So there might be a bit of a race of it in the final straight, eh?‘ He laughed. ‘But don‘t worry, sir,‘ he added affably, ‘I‘m a sportsman, and I can see you are too.‘

And now, Sir Lancelot reflected as he eyed his reluctant patient beside that blackboard, the fellow was actually employed in the hospital. It was like the lamb to the slaughter being taken on as a household pet.

‘I‘m glad you find the job congenial, Crimes,‘ Sir Lancelot nodded briskly. ‘I should avoid any heavy lifting.‘

‘I‘m sure that‘s good advice, Doctor.‘ He gave a wink. ‘We all begin to feel our age some time, don‘t we, sir?‘

Sir Lancelot strode into the crowd of out-patients without replying. That wink of Crimes‘ always had a stupidly uncomfortable effect on him.

‘Can I help you?‘

Sir Lancelot looked up. A pretty young girl in a smart mauve uniform stood smiling in front of him.

‘Help me?‘ he asked blankly.

He noticed a badge on her bosom saying HOSTESS. It‘s odd that our age seems to need a hostess at everything, from a transatlantic flight to a supermarket.

‘I expect you‘re a new patient, aren‘t you?‘

She gave a smile which was friendly and reassuring but not inviting. She had been trained specially to produce it.

‘My dear young lady, I assure you I can find my way perfectly well — ‘

‘Now, shall we go over here first?‘

The hostess took him gently by the sleeve. She had been trained specially to handle argumentative old men.

‘Miss Eernlove —‘

A nineteen-year-old girl with bright blond hair and jet-black eyebrows was leaning behind a counter in a mauve overall.

‘I have a new patient, Miss Eernlove. Will you take his particulars, please?‘

‘Name?‘ demanded the girl, her tone indicating the intrusion interrupted some particularly attractive private thoughts.

Sir Lancelot drew himself up. He didn‘t want unduly to offend these two females, but they had to be put in their place.

‘The name,‘ he announced majestically, ‘happens to be Spratt.‘

‘One “t” or two?‘ asked the girl.

‘Really!‘ harked Sir Lancelot. ‘I take it you are a new employee here? I should be obliged if you would kindly — ‘

‘Initial?‘ invited the girl tonelessly.

Sir Lancelot banged the counter.

‘Now, now!‘ The hostess gently waved a finger. She had been trained specially to handle violent cases.

‘Really, madam, I must call a halt to this... this... ‘

He glanced round wildly. There was nobody official in sight. No Sister Out Patients. Not even Crimes.

‘Initial?‘ repeated the girl flatly.

‘L,‘ snapped Sir Lancelot.

‘L for Lionel?‘

‘L for Lancelot, damn you!‘

‘Mind yer language!‘ snapped the girl, coming to life.

‘I‘m afraid these questions are all necessary, Lancelot,‘ purred the hostess. ‘You see, the doctors couldn‘t continue their great work of healing here otherwise. Just tell Miss Fernlove your age, now.‘

Sir Lancelot produced the yellow silk handkerchief.

‘Twenty-one,‘ he declared.

‘Occupation?‘ inquired Miss Fernlove.

‘Deipnosophist.‘

‘Religion?‘

‘Warlock.‘

‘Got a letter from your doctor?‘

‘No,‘ Sir Lancelot swallowed. ‘No, young lady, I have not got a letter from any doctor.‘

‘Got your P/P?‘

‘Thank you, but it was unnecessary to bring a specimen.‘

‘That‘s the form you get from the porter by the blackboard,‘ explained the hostess gently.

‘Good God!‘ Sir Lancelot re-exploded. ‘I‘ve come here for an X-ray, not to renew my ruddy dog licence-‘

‘Will you kindly remember you are in a hospital, Mr Spratt?‘ The hostess‘ smile, which had been steadily dimming, finally went out. ‘You must try and conduct yourself appropriately.‘

‘Look here, young woman, I‘ve spilt more blood in this place than you have circulating in your entire body — ‘

‘Please!‘ She shut her eyes. ‘Don‘t be crude.‘

‘Has everybody gone mad? Is the entire hospital in a state of anarchy?‘ Sir Lancelot took another bang at the counter. ‘Where is Sister? Where‘s Mr Cambridge? I have had more than enough of this blasted tomfoolery, and I demand to be taken this instant to — Ahhhhhhhh!‘

His back had gone again.

‘Now, now! Come and sit down on this wheelchair.‘ The hostess, finding a clinical condition on her hands, was all solicitude again. ‘The back, is it? We mustn‘t overstrain ourselves, must we? You just relax and be comfortable,‘ she advised, draping a highly insanitary-looking pink knitted shawl round his shoulders, ‘and I‘ll wheel you to see the doctor. We don‘t want you to worry a bit, Grandpa.‘

‘Grandpa!‘ croaked Sir Lancelot.

Luckily for his nursemaid, he found further speech impossible.

Simon Sparrow was having a trying morning. His chief, Mr Hubert Cambridge, FRCS, was an amiable taskmaster but of such vague outlook that everyone in St Swithin‘s wondered how he avoided leaving his patients stuffed with swabs like teddy bears. He had totally forgotten the arrival of another weird group of doctors assembled by the United Nations and shot round the world to widen medical knowledge, forge links, and so on, and Simon had suddenly found himself left to run Out Patients alone. This professional advance since the days Simon and I were slung out of pubs together may surprise you, but it‘s always the way in medicine. As a student you reckon the housemen embody a wisdom stopping just short of Hippocrates. When you move up to Registrar, you wonder how
⁷
a bunch of dolts like them ever got qualified. And when you finally turn into a consultant, you thank your lucky stars there‘re so many people to make all the mistakes first.

Simon had just got rid of a patient with an involved history going back to the Blitz and was snatching a cup of coffee when a nurse dashed in exclaiming, ‘Oh, Mr Sparrow! There‘s a patient outside in a wheelchair — ‘

‘Then I expect he‘s unable to walk, Nurse,‘ returned Simon briefly. As I said, it had been a trying morning.

‘But Mr Sparrow! He‘s the spit and image of Sir Lancelot Spratt!‘