The Summer of Sir Lancelot (8 page)

‘Good God!‘ Simon swept his feet off the desk and pushed the coffee cup into a drawer. ‘Good — good morning, sir,‘ he added as a nurse wheeled the surgeon in.

‘Good morning, Simon,‘ he greeted his former protégé blackly. ‘Perhaps you would have the kindness to tell me what I may do with this?‘ The hostess had given him an iced bun.

‘Nurse, a vomit bowl,‘ suggested Simon quickly. ‘This is indeed an unexpected pleasure, sir.‘

‘One which I fear I am unable to share. Where‘s Cambridge?‘

‘He‘s gone to lunch with some Russians and Ghanaians and Americans, and people,‘ explained Simon in confusion. ‘I can easily get him - ‘

‘No, you‘ll do. It‘s only a minor spasm, thank God.‘ He rose stiffly from his wheelchair, the fires of anger now turned to ashes of exasperation. ‘That stupid woman with the overdeveloped maternal instinct insisted on this conveyance. I have only come for an X-ray. How's my godson?‘ he asked gruffly, suddenly remembering. ‘Put him down for a decent school and the MCC, I hope?‘

Simon managed a smile. ‘I‘m afraid all that rather depends on my chances in the staff election this autumn.‘

Sir Lancelot grunted. ‘I wish to have a little talk with you about that some time.‘

With that frightful female propensity for returning to the point, Lady Spratt had been reminding him of it for the previous three weeks.

‘I now want to get my back X-rayed before the radiological department knocks off for lunch. You will kindly sign the necessary form.‘

Simon raised an eyebrow.

‘I don‘t want to be tedious, Sir Lancelot, but don‘t you think I should take the history and perform an examination first?‘

‘Don‘t be impertinent!‘ The embers of Sir Lancelot‘s wrath flared up. ‘Are you suggesting I don‘t know my own mind?‘

‘No,‘ returned Simon calmly, ‘I‘m only suggesting the decision to have you X-rayed or not should be your doctor‘s responsibility. If you‘d like me to get Mr Cambridge — ‘

‘Good God, have you gone as insane as everyone else in the hospital? Who the devil put ideas like that into your head?‘

‘You did,‘ nodded Simon. ‘For years you drummed into us that every patient had to he thoroughly examined, even if it meant stripping a duchess to the buff in a horsebox — ‘

‘All right, all right,‘ snapped Sir Lancelot, taking off his jacket. ‘But by George! You‘d better be bloody good.‘

‘I think our next step should be an X-ray,‘ announced Simon a few minutes later.

‘I am extremely gratified,‘ declared Sir Lancelot, doing up his cuff-links, ‘that your exhaustive history and examination should have brought you to the conclusion I already provided.‘

‘I‘ll take you down to X-ray myself,‘ continued Simon calmly, signing the form. ‘Yes, Crimes?‘

‘Thought you‘d like to know
⁷
, Mr Sparrow, we‘re making quite a stand at Lord‘s. Eighty-six for one, sir, and his Reverence has got his fifty. Sorry to see you‘ve lost the use of your legs, sir,‘ he added to Sir Lancelot from the door.

‘You keep a civil tongue in your head, you pantomime Dracula,‘ snapped the surgeon. ‘No, I do
not
want that beastly pink shawl! Get a move on, Simon man, for God‘s sake. Can‘t you see I‘ve already had more than enough to put up with this morning?‘

The X-ray Department at St Swithin‘s was a cellar under Out Patients, originally designed for the storage of such hospital necessities as splints, strait-jackets, coal, and the Governors‘ port. About the start of the century one of the younger surgeons acquired a machine for emitting the Röntgen rays, and was given a corner down there to play with it — the fellow was clearly a mug for passing fads, having already bought himself one of those motor cars.

Since the nineteen-hundreds X-ray apparatus has flourished in the cellar like mushrooms, into a frightening jungle of clicking and sparking machinery which certainly alarmed the pretty little girl alone in the tiny waiting-room — she was perhaps a sister of Miss Fernlove‘s — who thought it all as spooky as the Ghost Train at Battersea Fun Fair. Having an X-ray was pretty silly anyway, she reflected, because everyone knew she caught her cough when the mingy office turned off the central heating prompt on the first of April. But it was a morning off, and something to talk about all afternoon, and now they saw how she‘d landed up in hospital they might keep the central heating on a bit longer next year.

She looked from her magazine as a handsome doctor in a white coat brought in some poor old man with a beard. He must have been a very sick old man, she felt soulfully, because the doctor was making a terrible fuss of him.

‘I‘ll fetch the senior radiographer, Sir Lancelot, if you‘ll kindly go into that cubicle and remove your coat and shirt.‘

‘I presume I sit here in a state of profound hypothermia until you return?‘

‘Oh, no, there‘s a garment in there to slip on. Perfectly sanitary,‘ Simon added quickly. ‘It‘s washed between patients.‘

The pretty girl went back to her magazine, until she found one of those ladies in white overalls saying to her, ‘We‘re almost ready now, my dear. Just go into the cubicle and slip off your dress and bra. You‘ll find a smock thing in there to put on.‘

The smock thing was a bit weird, the girl had to admit, but she made herself look as pretty as possible before going back to her magazine. The poorly gentleman was still there, sitting on a chair reading that dull newspaper without any pictures. Suddenly she trembled. The old man was staring at her, with a look which fair chilled the blood in the veins. She gave a little gulp. The pair of them were all alone. The same thoughts shot into her head as had struck Clarice and Edna in midstream. The assault -such a widespread hazard for pretty young girls these days, it seemed - was actually about to descend on her. She drew her breath. The old man‘s mouth moved. His hands clenched and unclenched. She jumped up. She screamed.

‘Good God, what‘s the matter?‘ gasped the handsome doctor, rushing in with another lady in white.

‘It‘s him!‘ The pretty girl directed a trembling red-tipped finger. ‘He‘s looking at me something awful!‘

‘Madam,‘ shouted the poor old man, ‘I do wish you would stop having hysterics. I have merely been wondering, since you stepped out of the cubicle, whether you would have the kindness atter your X-ray examination of letting me have my shirt back?‘

Simon shrugged his shoulders. ‘Looks even better on a man,‘ was all he could bring himself to say.

5

Sir Lancelot Spratt strode down Piccadilly. It was five o‘clock the same day and still sunny enough to keep the policemen in their shirtsleeves, the pigeons dozing on the balconies, and the couples locked on the grass all over Green Park. But inside him it was blackest Arctic midnight.

His day had been as discouraging and frustrating as Napoleon‘s at Waterloo. His back was still sore. When the X-ray showed no lesion whatever, he accepted the verdict with annoyance rather than relief. St Swithin‘s Hospital seemed to treat him like Rip van Winkle‘s little brother. Simon Sparrow had been priggish to the point of impertinence. And that blasted girl had got lipstick all over his shirt.

Worse still, his solicitors were damn fools.

‘All I want from you,‘ he‘d explained in the office of Boarcastle, Perwit, Dewberry and Cramps in Austin Friars, ‘is some sort of definitive opinion that I can wave in the beastly fellows face, declaring that Witches‘ Pool is unequivocally mine.‘

‘Well, yes,‘ agreed Mr Dewberry.

After the sinusoidal opinions of Mr Evans, Sir Lancelot drew confidence from this ancient City Oltice filled with so many dusty objects well worn in the service of the law, such as Mr Dewberry.

‘There is of course no doubt whatever about the Pool being on my land.‘

‘Well, no,‘ agreed Mr Dewberry again, fingering the deeds on his desk. He was a tall, thin man with a hanging lock of grey hair, which he often chewed thoughtfully. ‘Though of course — ‘

‘Come, come, Dewberry! Surely you, my own London solicitor, cannot doubt my word in the matter?‘

‘Well, yes and no,‘ conceded Mr Dewberry. He took a brief chew at his hair. ‘Naturally, Sir Lancelot, there can be no doubt in your own mind about the rightness of your cause, and I can thoroughly sympathize with your attitude.‘

‘Good! Get your clerk feller to draw up the document.‘

‘Unfortunately, of course... ‘ Mr Dewberry put his dirty fingernails together. ‘There is a certain... shall one say, ambiguity? An area, one might put it, of vagueness? A clause in the deeds, one might express oneself, somewhat in doubt?‘

Sir Lancelot frowned. ‘What exactly are you trying to say, man?‘

‘I am doing my best, Sir Lancelot, to be quite explicit.‘ The solicitor sounded hurt. ‘I am only trying to put my opinion that the claim of both yourself and Mr Chadwick to Witches‘ Pool can be disputed.‘

‘Very well.‘ Sir Lancelot banged the desk. ‘We‘ll dispute it in court. Brief Sir Geoffrey.‘

Mr Dewberry helped himself to another
bonnebouche
of hair. ‘When I say, as I put it, the claim
can
be disputed, I mean, you understand, that in such a dispute you would not yourself, I fear... indeed, I very much regret... am very sorry to say... you would not... er, have a leg to stand on.‘

‘But that‘s outrageous!‘

‘I agree, Sir Lancelot, but it is also the fact of the matter. Shall I send the deeds back to you by registered post?‘

Half an hour later Sir Lancelot was in another office, in Grosvenor Square. The interview was even briefer. The tall pale man with the gardenia, who ran the manservants‘ bureau like an ambassador dealing with the heads of painfully dependent states, agreed that he certainly had chauffeurs but none who could equally handily gaff a salmon or net a trout.

‘I‘ll teach the feller,‘ Sir Lancelot offered handsomely. ‘A couple of afternoons on the river with me, and he‘ll be an expert.‘

‘My clients arc
extremely
particular,‘ observed the ambassador coldly, ‘and I do not think we have any of the rustic type.‘

Not before time, Sir Lancelot felt as he finally strode down Piccadilly, he could turn into a haven of sanity and peace.

You may have noticed the establishment of Brackett and Knockett, on the right opposite Green Park. You could describe them as fishing-tackle merchants, but that would be like calling Chateau Margaux a drink or the Mona Lisa a bit of wall decoration. The old gentlemen in striped trousers, moving gently behind the delicate screen of rods inside the door, admittedly sell lines, reels, spoons, wobblers, Devons, boot dryers, trout disgorgers, priests, tailers, creels, bottled minnows, and little paraffin things to keep your hands warm. But the transaction is merely incidental to swapping the latest gossip about fish. Sir Lancelot could spend hours in the place, describing a single battle of wits between him and a trout. It did him much more good than tranquillizers.

‘Afternoon, Pytchley,‘ he began, striding to the counter and mellowing at once. ‘Did you hear who won the Gold Cup?‘

‘Why, it‘s Sir Lancelot! Good afternoon, sir. Quite a pleasure to see you again. It was Oystercatcher, sir.‘

‘Har!‘ Sir Lancelot rubbed his hands. ‘Harry the gateman was right again. Now I can afford a really decent rod.‘

‘Would you care to browse through our selection, Sir Lancelot? I have another gentleman just choosing some waders. I shall be with you in a minute, sir.‘

Sir Lancelot ran an eye along the rods. Selecting one or two, he took them outside to the pavement and whisked them powerfully among the pedestrians, as though after a catch among the traffic. People stared, a cabby or two became witty, but such interruptions are midge-bites to a man concentrating on his casting. Sir Lancelot grunted. Any Brackett and Knockett rod was a work of art, naturally, but none seemed exactly what was wanted to belabour Percival‘s successors. Another caught his eye. The first switch told him this was the weapon of a fisherman‘s lifetime. He was like some master violinist at last getting his hands on a Stradivarius. The thing twitched in his hands with such lightness and power, he could see himself depopulating Witches‘ Pool in a couple of afternoons.

‘I‘ll have this one,‘ he announced. ‘Damn the cost.‘

‘I‘m afraid, Sir Lancelot,‘ Pytchley apologized, ‘that one is already sold.‘

‘Sold?‘

‘Yes, Sir Lancelot. Perhaps you did not observe the label on the handle? This gentleman bought it before trying on the waders.‘

‘You!‘ thundered Sir Lancelot.

‘My dear sir,‘ murmured Mr Chadwick. ‘Good afternoon.‘

‘What the devil are you doing in London?‘

Mr Chadwick blinked his bird‘s eyes. ‘I hardly feel I am entirely obliged to answer that question. But I will say how sorry I am that business brings me temporarily from our delightful countryside. On an evening like this, I could wish no more in the world than to be standing beside Witches‘ Pool — ‘

Sir Lancelot had quit the shop. He was standing on the pavement, quivering.

‘This is the end!‘ he cried.

But it wasn‘t quite. His eye fell on a newspaper placard displaying yet another regular feature of our native summer scene.