The Summer of Sir Lancelot

by Gordon, Richard

  ‘In that case you must tolerate the amputation. Hello?‘ he said as the hall telephone rang. ‘For Mrs Peckwater? Right. I shall be along instantly. Mrs Chuffey! The maternity bag, if you please.‘

  ‘Harry the gateman says Ganymede, sir,‘ Mrs Chuffey announced, handing him the heavy leather case.

  ‘Ring Alf and stick a pony on.‘

  ‘Very good, sir.‘

  ‘But I can‘t live without her,‘ expostulated Tim Tolly, following Sir Lancelot down the garden path.

  ‘You managed to exist for some twenty-odd years in that condition. You have possibly gathered that I‘m extremely busy at the moment? I really must ask you to leave. Good morning.‘

  ‘Sir Lancelot! I‘ve come all the way from Edinburgh specially to see you.‘

  ‘Oh, for heaven‘s sake, man!‘ Sir Lancelot exploded. ‘All right, jump in the car. You‘ll come in useful for giving the analgesia.‘

  Tim had no chance of discussing his broken heart on the way to Mrs Peckwater‘s, as Sir Lancelot insisted on driving his Rolls at fifty miles an hour against all the traffic lights, bawling ‘Maternity case!‘ through the window at startled pedestrians in explanation.

  ‘I‘m glad Mrs Peckwater‘s obligingly gone off during my last day,‘ was all he said to his passenger. ‘Haven‘t had the chance of doing a delivery for forty years.‘

  ‘Forty years!‘ Tim looked concerned. ‘But I suppose the midwife will be on hand?‘ he added consolingly.

  ‘Midwife? You don‘t suppose I‘m going to be mucked about by some interfering Sarah Gamp who thinks she knows more than I do? Childbirth, Tolly, is a perfectly natural process. All the doctor does is field the little thing in the slips. I am much looking forward to the experience. And here we are, with the nervous father leaning over the gate. You may carry the bag.‘

  ‘Dr Spratt? I am, of course, Mr Peckwater,‘ This was a thin fair man with one of those precise flat voices you often hear asking questions at public meetings. ‘It happens to be our fourth happy event, Dr Spratt — ‘

  ‘Thank you, I already have the obstetrical history.‘

  ‘And I was thinking, Dr Spratt, after I had read a very moving article in the Sunday paper, not to mention seeing an extremely educational television programme, that I should like to be present to observe the miracle on this occasion, Dr Spratt.‘

  ‘What an utterly ghastly suggestion,‘ muttered the surgeon, stamping into the house.

  ‘It was said in this article,‘ continued Mr Peckwater, ‘that the father‘s place in childbirth is at the mother‘s side. This is Gran,‘ he broke off.

  ‘Charmed to meet you, madam.‘

  ‘Her time is very near, Doctor,‘ warned Gran.

  ‘Psychologists tell us — ‘ went on Mr Peckwater.

  ‘Oh, all right, all right, Mr Peckwater! Come and sit in if you like. After all, it‘s your party.‘

  Father went upstairs with the two doctors.

  ‘Well, my dear, quite comfortable!‘ began Sir Lancelot, breezing into the bedroom. ‘H‘m.‘ He stroked his beard. ‘Gran‘s right. Things certainly seem more advanced than I should have imagined when I called with the pethidine earlier this morning.‘

  ‘After all, she is a multip., sir,‘ murmured Tim Tolly at his side.

  ‘When I wish for your advice, young man, I shall ask for it. Please put a spare mask on the husband, though why the devil the man can‘t spend the time in the pub like a normal father is beyond me. Then show the patient how to use the trilene inhaler.‘

  ‘Dr Spratt,‘ Mr Peckwater continued undaunted through his mask, ‘have you read that most informative work, Childbirth Through Relaxation?‘

  ‘The only obstetrical book I‘ve ever read was McGregor‘s Fundamentals, and it‘s been out of print for twenty years.‘ Sir Lancelot rolled up his sleeves. ‘Have we plenty of boiling water, Tolly?‘

  ‘Gran has four kettles on, sir.‘

  ‘Good. Bring me a newspaper.‘

  ‘A newspaper? But sir -1 mean, you‘ll hardly have time to sit about—‘

  ‘I want to put my gear on it, you fool, not read the racing results. Newsprint is sterile, Tolly. Sterile. Don‘t they teach you anything useful at St Agnes‘?‘

  Sir Lancelot laid his instruments on the dressing table with the precision he demanded in the operating-theatre at St Swithin‘s. Tim fiddled with the inhaler. Mr Peckwater continued to chat affably about the miracle of childbirth, as though it were some new sort of detergent. Sir Lancelot laid a hand on the patient‘s shoulder.

  ‘Now, I don‘t want you to worry, my dear,‘ he instructed, in a voice that radiated confidence like the Eddystone lighthouse. ‘You could manage this inhaler by yourself, but the other doctor will help you. I assure you that all will be perfectly straightforward.‘

  ‘Thank you, Doctor... ‘

  ‘Right you are, Tolly.‘

  The patient became drowsy. Sir Lancelot started operations. There was a thump behind him.

  ‘I knew that blasted idiot would faint! Tolly — get him out of here at once.‘

  Gran, waiting expectantly on the landing, was surprised to see one of the doctors emerge not with a bawling baby but with the husband, apparently dead.

  ‘He just fainted, Gran, that‘s all,‘ Tim explained breathlessly. ‘Give him a glass of water and put his head between his knees and he‘ll be all right.‘

  ‘People will be demanding to see their wives‘ appendices removed next,‘ growled Sir Lancelot as Tim reappeared. ‘Now get back to the top end.‘

  ‘Everything all right, sir?‘

  ‘Of course everything‘s all right!‘

  Leaning against the bed, Tim fell to thinking of Euphemia. How on earth could she sever him from her life like that? Surely she couldn‘t be so scared of the old ogre Spratt? Why was she so frightened of being bundled home to Singapore? Once separated from his own company, he felt, it must be quite immaterial to the girl where she was.

  His speculation was broken by the sound of heavy breathing. He glanced anxiously at the patient. But the noise was emanating from Sir Lancelot.

  ‘All well, sir?‘ he asked again. ‘Will you be needing the forceps?‘

  ‘I am not in the habit, Tolly, of receiving suggestions from my anaesthetist.‘

  He bit his lip. ‘Sorry, sir.‘

  A couple of minutes later he noticed Sir Lancelot was sweating rather freely.

  ‘Tolly... ‘ Sir Lancelot‘s voice sounded strange. ‘I can feel a foot.‘

  ‘Then it‘s a breech!‘ Tim exclaimed.

  He joined the surgeon.

  ‘I expect it will work out all right,‘ Sir Lancelot muttered.

  ‘Not the way you‘re setting about it, it won‘t,‘ Tim told him crisply.

  Sir Lancelot glared.

  ‘You don‘t know the first thing about this, do you?‘ Tim continued quickly.

  ‘How — how dare you make such a suggestion?‘ returned Sir Lancelot, a little uncertainly.

  Tim took another look. ‘Why, you‘re making an absolute dog‘s breakfast of it.‘

  ‘What? I have never, in my entire career, been treated with such infernal discourtesy — ‘

  ‘Get out of the way, you old fool,‘ snapped Tim, giving the surgeon a shove. ‘I‘m going to scrub up.‘

  ‘Ahhhhhhhhh!‘ cried Sir Lancelot, tripping over the leather bag. ‘My back!‘

  To Gran, ministering to Mr Peckwater on the landing, this didn‘t sound at all like the cry of a new-born baby. She was even more surprised a second later to see one doctor emerging dragging the other.

  ‘Just lay him flat and keep him quiet, Gran,‘ Tim instructed briefly. ‘It won‘t be much longer now.‘

  ‘Any more casualties,‘ muttered Gran in contusion, ‘and I‘ll have to do the job myself.‘

  I am glad to say that Tim skilfully delivered Mrs Peckwater of a baby daughter. He and Gran cleared up the mess. Mr Peckwater returned to his usual informative self. The two men carried a strangely subdued Sir Lan
celot down to his Rolls.

  They hardly exchanged a word as Tim drove him home. In fact, they hardly exchanged a word for the rest of the day. Mrs Chuffey insisted Sir Lancelot went to bed and sent Tim on all his visits. Only after finishing the evening surgery into the bargain Tim found time to tap nervously on the surgeon‘s bedroom door.

  ‘Enter! Oh, it‘s you, Tolly.‘

  Sir Lancelot sipped the whisky and soda in his hand.

  ‘Tolly...‘ His voice was quiet. ‘What do you want for breakfast tomorrow?‘

  ‘I —I hadn‘t thought, sir.‘

  ‘You may have my bacon. You saved it for me this morning. Sit down.‘

  There was a silence.

  ‘I suppose you realized, Tolly, in that little suburban bedroom a long and — I believe — honourable career could have been besmirched for good?‘

  ‘I‘m afraid I didn‘t particularly, sir. I just wanted to get the baby out alive.‘

  Sir Lancelot grunted. ‘Yes, you were perfectly right to view it so. I did something that was totally unforgivable in any doctor. I took a chance on my own ignorance. Though things may have been all right in the end-‘

  ‘I'm sure they would, sir.‘

  ‘It could have been touch-and-go. Luckily for the patient and myself you happen to be a singularly strong-minded young man and took steps to bring my incompetence to my notice.‘

  ‘You‘re... you‘re very kind, sir.‘

  ‘I might perhaps have benefited from your acquaintance earlier in my career,‘ Sir Lancelot reflected. ‘The enormous disadvantage of being a consultant is that nobody tells you you‘re wrong. Except the pathologist.‘ He took another sip. ‘You love my niece Euphemia?‘

  ‘Very much, sir.‘

  ‘H‘m. Well, Tolly, you may see her if you wish. Whether the romance blossoms again is, of course, no concern of mine.‘

  ‘That‘s awfully good of you.‘ Tim jumped up. ‘I‘ll go up to London straight away, if that‘s all right with you.‘

  ‘That is not all right with me. Someone must look after the practice while I am incapacitated. You have three days‘ leave, I understand?‘

  ‘Yes, I — er, had permission to visit the library of the London Psychological Society.‘

  ‘I‘m afraid you are going to find it extremely expensive, young man, courting Euphemia with the assistance of British Railways.‘

  ‘As a matter of fact,‘ Tim explained with a faint smile, ‘the trip‘s being subsidized by a mutual friend — Charles Chadwick.‘

  Sir Lancelot‘s mood was so suppressed he could manage only a muffled snort.

  ‘He seems rather to have taken to me since I cured his gout,‘ Tim went on. ‘He won‘t see another doctor, but keeps sending for me. The old chap‘s got a bit of dyspepsia, which I think is due to business worries.‘

  ‘After all, I suppose marmalade is his bread and butter,‘ Sir Lancelot conceded.

  Tim gave another smile. ‘He gets quite lyrical about marmalade sometimes. Apparently his ancestor the original Beaulieu was a Palace footman, who hit on the magic formula when the royal marmalade boiled over as he was kissing George the Fourth‘s cook. Charlie Chadwick insists he married her afterwards - he wouldn‘t like anything in the slightest unrespectable about the firm. He‘s terribly upset because one of the big drug companies is trying to take him over.‘

  ‘I don‘t think I am very interested in the financial embarrassments of Chadwick,‘ announced Sir Lancelot wearily. ‘You will meet my niece tomorrow, as I wish you to chauffeur me to St Swithin‘s. This is no passing spasm, and I fear that I can shirk no longer having myself warded there under the Professor. He may be the biggest wart on the body surgical, but he knows more about the nervous system than I do.‘ Sir Lancelot took another sip. ‘By the way, Tolly, did you happen to notice if Ganymede won the Goodwood Stakes this afternoon?‘

  ‘Unplaced, I‘m afraid, sir.‘

  Sir Lancelot gave a sigh. ‘Indeed, I seem to be having a very bad day of it altogether.‘

  13

  August started hot.

  Bank Holiday trippers collapsed by the hundred, the yachts at Cowes lay gasping for a breath of air, and they were hosing down the elephants in the Zoo. The windows of St Swithin‘s Hospital stretched imploringly for a passing breeze, and Sir Lancelot lay in his private room on the ground floor covered only by a sheet. It was ten days after his disastrous maternity case, and he had just finished his lunch.

  The lunch at St Swithin‘s was carefully designed by the hospital dietician to be nutritious yet easily digestible, though admittedly a shade uninteresting. Sir Lancelot had added one or two items of personal taste, such as a pot of pâté de foie gras, preserved aubergines, pineapple in kirsch, and a half of champagne. He was pouring some Bisquit Dubouche, into his tooth mug, and alter carefully stowing the bottle behind the barley water in his locker reached for his bedside telephone.

  ‘Main gate, please. Harry? Spratt here. Anything good for this afternoon at Newmarket? Midsummer Madness, eh?‘ Sir Lancelot grunted thoughtfully. ‘All right, ring Alf at Crutchford‘s and put a monkey on for me. My dear man, I am quite aware that five hundred pounds is a great deal of money, thank you,‘ he ended, putting down the instrument, i shall very likely have no further use for the stuff, anyway,‘ he added to himself, ‘with the Professor operating on me tomorrow. Come in!‘

  Crimes appeared.

  ‘Well, well, well!‘ announced the porter cheerfully. ‘Sorry to see you, Sir Lancelot, in such a plight.‘

  ‘I am not, Crimes, in any plight,‘ returned Sir Lancelot severely. ‘I am extremely thankful that I may shortly enjoy the benefits of modern surgery.‘

  ‘You have a very nice way of putting these things, if I may say so, sir,‘ observed Crimes, producing his matchstick.

  ‘If you are impertinent, Crimes, I shall simply report the matter to the Hospital Secretary.‘

  ‘Sorry, sir. I brought your evening paper.‘

  ‘And what precisely happens to be your function in St Swithin‘s at the moment?‘ Sir Lancelot inquired, taking the paper. ‘I thought you were the Out Patients‘ oddbody?‘

  ‘I‘ve been promoted from that, sir,‘ Crimes told him proudly. ‘Though this week I‘m helping Harry on the gate and tilling in holiday reliefs. Monday I‘m back on my proper job.‘

  ‘Which is?‘

  ‘Mortuary porter,‘ Crimes informed him cheerfully.

  ‘H‘m,‘ said Sir Lancelot.

  ‘So we might be meeting again professionally, as it were? I meant that only in a humorous way of course,‘ he added, picking a front tooth.

  ‘Your sense of fun, Crimes, at times touches heights positively Gilbertian.‘

  ‘Thank you, sir. O‘course, it‘s all round the hospital how the Professor‘s going to chop up your poor old back.‘

  ‘I wish to damp your sense neither of humour nor of the dramatic,‘ Sir Lancelot told him briskly, ‘but in the interests of truth I will point out that the Professor is performing merely an exploration to investigate the cause of my pain.‘

  ‘Ar,‘ nodded Crimes, ‘that‘s what they all say to you.‘

  ‘Get out!‘ barked Sir Lancelot. ‘And once I‘m on my feet again the first thing I‘ll do is break your blasted neck.‘

  ‘Right-ho, sir. Goodbye,‘ ended Crimes cheerily, ‘and good luck.‘

  ‘blasted clockwork ghoul,‘ muttered Sir Lancelot.

  He turned to the lunch edition of the evening paper. An item on the front page caught his eye:

  SCENES ON STOCK EXCHANGE

  BROKERS FAINT

  UNITED DRUG PLUNGE

  ‘H‘m,‘ he observed. ‘I haven‘t got any of their ruddy shares, anyway.‘ He studied the racing form for some time, then finishing his tooth mug switched on his bedside fan, pulled up his sheet, gave a yawn, and composed himself for an afternoon nap.

  ‘Enter!‘

  A redheaded nurse of Euphemia‘s age put her head in the door.

  ‘Good afternoon, Si
r Lancelot. I‘ve come to make you comfortable.‘

  ‘Thank you, Nurse. I am perfectly — ‘

  ‘Sister said specially, Sir Lancelot,‘ she added firmly, striding in.

  She proceeded to make him comfortable, by sitting him up, violently shaking his pillows, slapping him down again, and tucking in the bedclothes so firmly that any movement was impossible save gentle respiration.

  ‘Sleep well, Sir Lancelot,‘ she called gaily, shutting the door. ‘Pleasant dreams.‘

  ‘Comfortable!‘ growled the surgeon, fighting his way out of the strait-jacket. ‘The damn woman seems to think I‘m a corpse already.‘

  After some minutes he had sheet and pillows arranged to his taste. He snuggled down his shoulders. He closed his eyes.

  ‘Enter!‘

  It was the redheaded nurse again.

  ‘Did you want a bottle before you dropped off Sir Lancelot?‘

  He eyed her. ‘My dear girl, I have known how to make such wishes public since I was in the bottom form at school.‘

  ‘Right you are, Sir Lancelot,‘ she said lightly. ‘Sleep tight.‘

  He shut his eyes again.

  ‘Enter!‘ he bawled, as another knock rang out. ‘What the devil do you want?‘ he asked angrily as Crimes reappeared.

  ‘Harry sent up a telegram, sir.‘ Crimes laid it on the bedside locker with a sniff. His eyes travelled to the empty tooth mug. ‘Glad you had your little drop after lunch, Sir Lancelot. The prisoner ate a hearty breakfast, eh?‘ He gave a laugh.

  ‘Get out.‘

  ‘We might as well enjoy these things while we can, I always say.‘

  ‘Get out.‘

  ‘Nice flowers you got here,‘ he went on, smelling the vase.

  ‘I will save you the bother of enlarging on your innuendo,‘ Sir Lancelot told him wearily, ‘by suggesting you are doubtless thinking how much better the display will be at my forthcoming funeral.‘

  Crimes looked shocked. ‘I‘d never imagine a thing like that, would I? I‘m all care and sympathy for you, Sir Lancelot. It‘s just that I feel a bit funny standing here on my own two feet while you‘re the one flat on your back awaiting the old chopper.‘

  ‘You have five seconds, Crimes,‘ Sir Lancelot told him evenly. ‘In which time either you will have left this room or I will have telephoned the Hospital Secretary to evict you with your cards in your pocket.‘