I prepared myself to entertain my godfather in my own home with understandable nervousness. As a junior medical student at St Swithin’s I had been secretly proud, overawed, and hopeful of the connexion between us, but it had become clear at our first meeting in his operating theatre that Sir Lancelot himself made no allowances for the relationship.
‘You, boy!’ he had roared. ‘You latest viper in my well bitten bosom – what’s yer name?’
‘Why, I’m Simon Sparrow, sir,’ I said smiling behind my surgical mask.
‘Good God, are you? I thought you were Argyll Robertson.’
To my mystification everyone in the theatre broke into a roar of laughter.
‘Come over here and get your hands dirty,’ commanded Sir Lancelot, those parts of me visible between sterile cap and mask turning bright pink.
By the time I reached my lodgings that night my godfather had left me with the suspicion that I was not, after all, born to be a famous surgeon. This was confirmed a few months later when I was studying diseases of the eye, and discovered in a textbook of ophthalmology that ‘Argyll Robertson’ described ‘a small irregular pupil that reacts sluggishly.’ For the rest of the course he treated me with exceptional and unrelenting ferocity, just to prove that he dealt with all students equally.
I now opened the door of his car.
‘So this is your home?’ demanded Sir Lancelot at once, stepping out. ‘Stucco and solid comfort. Admirable.’
‘My wife, sir,’ I said.
Nikki approached down the path, looking as if she expected him to exclaim, ‘Fe fi fo fum!’
‘Enchanted,’ said Sir Lancelot. He bowed gallantly. ‘Didn’t I examine you in your surgery finals?’
‘Yes, you did,’ said Nikki, with an anxious glance.
‘There you are, Sparrow. I never forget a candidate. And I dare say, young lady, you still don’t know the three things you’d advise an elderly colonel with an enlarged prostate to avoid?’
Nikki shook her head.
‘Drinking stout, riding a horse, and reading the New Statesman and Nation,’ said my godfather briefly. ‘Let us go indoors.’
To my relief, he seemed to be in the mood of a jovial uncle up for the Derby.
Sir Lancelot immediately marched through the ground floor, examining our surroundings.
‘Excellent, excellent,’ he declared in the kitchen. ‘I agree with all these modern gadgets. I’m not half such an old-fashioned stick-in-the-mud as everyone makes out, my dear,’ he added to Nikki. ‘And after all, half the secret of successful surgery is making things easy for yourself. Eh, Sparrow?’
‘Oh, of course, sir.’
‘Television, eh?’ He frowned as he entered the sitting-room. ‘The destroyer of conversation, cerebration, and ocular accommodation. Don’t approve. Don’t approve at all. However, as it will doubtless shortly be made compulsory for the entire population, there’s nothing we can do about it except submit quietly to disuse atrophy of the grey cells.’
He inspected one of the Marston’s chairs.
‘Furniture modern, but well designed. Sloppy furniture’s the cause of half your backaches, which we never had when we all sat on planks as God meant us to. There’s nothing like upholstery for playing hell with your pelvis. How d’you heat the place?’
‘Central heating, sir,’ I told him. ‘Boiler in the basement.’
‘I approve of that, too. Why on earth the inhabitants of this country should persist in poisoning each other through their chimney-pots is totally beyond me. Rooms upstairs?’
‘Four, sir. Two baths.’
‘H’m. Well, Sparrow – your father told me you were doing well enough to buy and furnish your own house, but I must admit frankly I hadn’t any idea you were doing quite so well as this. Congratulations.’
Nikki and I exchanged a glance.
‘Well, you see, sir,’ I began hesitantly. ‘It isn’t quite as simple–’
‘There was once a time, I don’t mind telling you, when I didn’t think you had the brains to support a bowl of goldfish, let alone a wife. I can only say that I’m both thankful and honestly delighted I was mistaken.’
‘Perhaps I ought to explain, sir–’
‘Explain?’ He frowned. ‘Explain what?’
My courage failed me.
‘Oh, nothing, sir.’
‘How about a cup of tea? I’m famished.’
‘Yes, at once, sir. Just have a chair, sir.’
I stared hard at Nikki. She seemed to agree that it was simpler to leave things as they were.
‘I’ll take your things to your room,’ I went on quickly. ‘Thank you, Sparrow. And kindly remove the brown paper parcel from the larger suitcase.’
I struggled upstairs with his pair of heavy leather cases, and came down holding a large parcel tied with surgeon’s knots.
‘I must apologise that I never sent you anything for your wedding,’ Sir Lancelot continued as we sat down at the tea table. ‘As a matter of fact, I completely forgot the date. I was somewhat distracted over that St Swithin’s business at the time, you understand. I am glad now to be able to rectify the fault in much pleasanter circumstances.’
I opened the package while he spread his first crumpet. It contained a silver affair with a couple of small spirit lamps underneath, that looked the cross between a samovar and a portable steriliser.
‘It’s very, very beautiful,’ said Nikki, who is quicker at such things than me.
‘I am delighted you think so, my dear.’
‘It’s really most kind of you, sir. I’m sure it’ll look absolutely wonderful in the… in the…’
‘Just regard it as an expression of my good wishes,’ said my godfather airily. ‘Now young lady,’ he went on, to my relief turning his attention to my wife. ‘I should like a little chat with you. You trained at the City General, I believe?’
‘Yes, I did. Under Mr Diff.’
‘Know the feller well. Always makes his nephrectomy incisions too low. I will confess that I myself at first opposed admitting women students to St Swithin’s, largely because I felt there ought to be some entirely masculine preserve left in London outside Wormwood Scrubs. I imagined that in no time the medical school would be full of powder boxes and furbelows and babies in prams. But I was wrong, and I admit it,’ he continued frankly. ‘Most of the women turned out a damn sight better students than the men, not to say rather cleaner and better dressed. Do you know,’ he went on to me, ‘on one of my last ward rounds a feller actually turned up at St Swithin’s in a tweed jacket. And when I enquired if he wished to be directed to the golf course he had the impudence to reply that he’d come to learn medicine, not haute couture. The students aren’t what they were, and I’ll maintain that against anyone.’
My godfather sat looking regretful for the days when a single glance from himself could make a young man feel instantly hanged, drawn and quartered on the spot.
‘But times ever change, I suppose. These days I’m as out of date as a jar of leeches–’
‘Surely not, Sir Lancelot,’ interrupted Nikki politely.
‘But I am,’ he argued. ‘I’m a general surgeon, like Ambroise Paré and Lord Lister. I was taught to tackle anything from a brain to a bunion and from paronychia to pancreatitis. Which is distinctly passé‚ these days there’s a surgical specialist to match every organ.’
I knew that he was proud of his professional versatility, which he had exhibited even in his last week at St Swithin’s by insisting on removing a pair of tonsils. (Though the demonstration was not wholly a success, the throat specialist summoned when the patient showed no signs of recovery writing as his opinion, ‘I advise tonsillectomy.’)
‘Look at this National Health business,’ Sir Lancelot went on, the last crumpet disappearing. ‘Not that I disapprove of it. I don’t disapprove of anything that makes people call the doctor before it’s time to call the clergyman. I only object that we doctors know more about human beings than all the politicos in W
hitehall. But it had to come, I suppose. They can’t bribe the voters with beer any more, so they have to bribe ’em with bromides instead. What’s for dinner?’
‘Chicken mayonnaise,’ said Nikki.
I was delighted to discover that my wife was becoming rapidly softened towards Sir Lancelot, who – when he wished – had a manner which could not only charm birds from the trees but organs from reluctant patients.
‘And a bottle of Niersteiner ’fifty-two,’ I added.
‘Capital! Remarkable, isn’t it Sparrow,’ Sir Lancelot went on amiably, ‘how food similes have dropped out of fashion in medicine? I remember when we used to talk frequently of prune-juice sputum or anchovy-sauce sputum, or port-wine urine and coffee-grounds vomit. Now everything’s tested chemically and measured in millilitres–’
‘Just one moment, sir,’ I said, getting up.
For some minutes I had been aware of our sitting-room becoming prematurely dark. I was lamenting the storm overclouding a pleasant late August afternoon, when I noticed a large van obstructing the front window. Opening the front door with curiosity, I found four men in white aprons on the mat.
‘Number sixteen, Alderman’s Drive?’ asked the leader.
‘Yes, that’s right. But I haven’t ordered anything.’
‘We’ve come for the stuff.’
‘Stuff? What stuff?’
‘Why, all the stuff, of course.’
‘I don’t quite understand–’
‘The stuff from the house.’
With feelings perhaps resembling Grimsdyke’s in the Savoy Hotel at Poparapetyl, I noticed that the side of the van announced Hamble & Grimley Speedy Removers.
‘Surely there’s some mistake?’ I argued.
‘Doesn’t look like any mistake here, Guv’nor. See what it says on the paper – “Remove furniture to store from residence four o’clock Tuesday order of Mrs Marston.” Couldn’t have it plainer than that, could you?’
‘But it’s nothing whatever to do with Mrs Marston!’
‘Them’s our instructions, Guv’nor.’ The man turned to his companions. ‘Right you are, lads. Let’s get weaving.’
The four of them started to move in.
‘Now look here ! Just one minute–’
‘Come off it, Guv. We’ve got our job to do.’
‘But damnation! Can’t you show a bit of common sense?’
‘Common sense? ’Oo’s showing any common sense around ’ere, I’d like to know?’
We had a brief but urgent argument on the doormat, terminated by the arrival of an open scarlet Jaguar which roared up with Mrs Marston herself.
‘Who are these people?’ she demanded at once, glaring at me. ‘Why, it’s the doctor,’ she exclaimed. ‘That dirty dog hasn’t gone and cut his throat, has he? If he has, let the little tyke bleed to death. You can take it from me, he isn’t worth the saving.’
‘Just one moment, Mrs Marston,’ I said nervously. ‘I’m afraid there’s been something of a mix-up.’
‘I’ll say there has!’ She threw back her bright red hair. ‘Mix-up, indeed! And if I once get my hands on him I’ll have him so mixed up he won’t be fit for anything except the Chamber of Horrors at Madame Tussaud’s, where he ought to have been years ago. Right you are, men,’ she added to the removers, now standing uncomfortably twirling their caps. ‘Do your stuff.’
‘But one minute!’ I tried desperately to shut the door. ‘I – I’ve got guests inside.’
‘Guests? What on earth are you doing entertaining guests here?’
‘I – I rented the house. Furnished. By the year.’
‘You certainly did nothing of the sort!’
‘But I did,’ I insisted. ‘The other day. From your – er, Major Marston.’
‘Har!’ She sounded like Monica Fairchild, as Goneril. ‘From that rat? It’s not his house – it’s mine, and every stick and scrap inside it. So’s the money in his business if it comes to that, which I’m going to squeeze out of the vermin, penny by penny, in the Bankruptcy Court. Carrying on with that little mouse-faced secretary of his, who everyone knows has been in bed with half the Town Council–’
‘Please, please! Don’t turn us out just at this moment!’ I begged. ‘Won’t tomorrow do? I’ll buy the place if you like,’ I added frantically. ‘Furniture and fittings and all.’
‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you weren’t hand-in-glove with the nasty piece of garbage yourself,’ snapped Mrs Marston, becoming angrier. ‘And if you imagine for one moment you can buy me off–’
‘What the devil’s all this row about?’ demanded my godfather, appearing at my elbow.
‘And who might this happen to be?’
‘This happens to be, madam,’ said Sir Lancelot, instantly drawing himself up, ‘Sir Lancelot Spratt.’
‘Well, keep your great big bearded face out of it,’ said Mrs Marston.
Sir Lancelot gasped. I don’t think his expression had been seen on earth since the stone hit Goliath.
‘If these people stand in your way,’ Mrs Marston commanded the removers, ‘I’ll send for a policeman.’
‘Right you are, missus,’ said the foreman, and started moving out the hall table.
‘Has everyone gone totally insane?’ demanded Sir Lancelot as soon as he could speak. ‘Or is this your idea of a practical joke? What the devil’s this rude person doing in your house?’
‘You took the words right out of my mouth,” said Mrs Marston. ‘Don’t pack the silver, you men, until I’ve counted it.’
‘Sparrow!’
A lifetime of ordering people about half-covered by a surgical mask had given my godfather the ability to gesticulate fiercely with his eyebrows.
‘You will kindly explain instantly.’
‘Well, you see, this isn’t really our house, sir,’ I told him, hardly aware of my own words. ‘I rented it, sir. But I’m afraid I didn’t rent it from the landlord, if you follow me. I suppose this lady is perfectly entitled to take all the furniture, sir. But it’ll be quite all right for you to stay the night,’ I went on quickly, catching sight of the bundle of sticks and canvas propped behind the front door. ‘You can have my camp-bed.’
‘You expect me to sleep on that? Good God, man! Fetch my cases. Fetch them at once. This very instant. I refuse to stand here to be insulted for one more second. You will find me in the car.’
‘That’s solved our problem about Sir Lancelot’s money, anyway,’ I said to Nikki some time later.
We were sitting in the carpetless and curtainless rooms that Mrs Marston, in deference to my wife’s condition, had finally allowed us to occupy for the night.
‘I wish it hadn’t happened like this, though,’ said Nikki miserably.
I put my arms round her and smiled. Now it was all over I felt a peculiar sense of relief.
‘Nikki, my sweet, I know it all looks a bit disastrous at the moment. But if nothing worse happens in all our married life, we’ll still be one of the world’s luckiest couples, won’t we?’ I kissed her. ‘And they didn’t take the fridge?’
She shook her head.
‘Then we’ve still got our dinner – cold roast chicken and ’fifty-two hock. Come on, darling – we can eat it on the kitchen window-sill.’
13
My dear Mrs Marston–’ I began.
‘Call me Diane, dear, do.’
‘My dear Diane, we are completely in your hands. I’m afraid we’ve simply got nowhere to go, except your house.’
It was a morning more than a fortnight later when Mrs Marston and I met again. Our rendezvous was a small hotel in South Kensington, which seemed to exist largely for the convenience of old ladies, parsons, and men of faded military appearance. We were sitting together in a small dark lounge, thickly forested with ferns which looked as weary of their surroundings as the residents.
‘I’m sorry I made such a bloody little fool of myself the other afternoon,’ she apologised briefly. ‘It’s that terrible temper of mine. And I
was as strung up as hell. You know.’
‘Perhaps it was a rather inconvenient moment,’ I murmured meekly, calculating the chances of keeping a roof over the head of my wife and unborn child.
‘And now your lawyer’s told my lawyer the lot. And am I delighted! Do you know why?’
I shook my head.
‘I’ll tell you what I’m going to do the moment I lay hands on that senile delinquent of a husband of mine. I’m going to take him by the scruff of his dirty neck and drag him straight down to Scotland Yard and tell them to charge him with embezzlement, or whatever it is. Then I’m going to put on my best hat and sit in the front row at the Old Bailey, and after that I’m going down to Dartmoor to watch him breaking stones for the next fifteen years, which he’s deserved ever since he got out of the cradle.’
She paused, coiling her indignation for another spring.
Our meeting had been arranged by Mr Robbinson, my family solicitor, a thin bird-like man rustling in a nest of red-taped papers high above Chancery Lane, whom I had known since the days when he would playfully tickle my ears with a writ.
‘You have been a very foolish young man,’ he had told me severely, when I called at his office earlier in the morning.
I agreed with him. I had a pregnant wife, no home, little furniture, an infuriated godfather, and – worst of all – the self-humiliation of people who have bought gold bricks, shares in imaginary oil-wells, Tower Bridge, and other tempting bargains.
‘Surely you of all people must know the danger of scorning professional advice?’ Mr Robbinson continued. ‘The result may perhaps not be quite so disastrous in law as in medicine, but I assure you that it is generally equally uncomfortable for the patient.’
He drew a slip of paper from a desk piled with the hopes of a score of litigants.
‘I have been making a few enquiries about Marston,’ he went on in a gloomy undertone to his top waistcoat button, the confidant of all his conversations. ‘The man has absconded to Australia – an enterprising part of the world, with the added attraction of being beyond the jurisdiction of the British courts. He is in company with the co-respondent, upon whom he has no doubt lavished your quarter’s rent. You will, of course, never see your money again. If it is any consolation to you, neither will a lot of other people.’
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