The Summer of Sir Lancelot

by Gordon, Richard

‘Good morning,‘ fluted the young man in a nylon overall buttoned round the neck like the doctors on American television shows. ‘And what can we do for you?‘

  ‘I want a haircut.‘

  ‘This way, if you please. And how would you like your hair cut, sir?‘

  ‘In silence.‘

  The hairdresser gave a watery smile. ‘I mean, in what sort of style? We have several very fetching ones for the older man. "The Diplomat”, perhaps? “The Coronet”? Extremely popular is our “Presidential Executive”. Or perhaps,‘ he suggested, inspecting the site of operations, ‘something more dashingly younger? An exciting little fringe over the brow — ‘

  ‘Short back and sides and the morning paper,‘ snapped Sir Lancelot, taking the chair.

  The surgeon stared absently at a picture paper for some time, until thought transported him to more agreeable surroundings. If he stayed at Lord‘s until the close of play, he reasoned, he would unhappily miss his twilight fishing at Witches‘ Pool. But one could not have everything, and perhaps for once he could break his rule about fishing on a Sunday. He gave a grim smile. At least the pool would be free from intruders. Perhaps permanently? His informant, like all City bankers, was never given to overstatement.

  ‘Shampoo and set afterwards?‘ the hairdresser‘s voice broke into these happy thoughts.

  ‘Thank you, no.‘

  ‘Attention to the beard?‘

  ‘Thank you, no.‘

  ‘Toilet water? Deodorants? Bath essence?‘

  ‘Thank you, no.‘

  Sir Lancelot turned a page of his paper. He would be leaving unfinished business in town like forgotten swabs in a belly, he reflected, but he couldn‘t stand Geoff Nightrider for more than a couple of days on end — it was perfectly outrageous how the fellow treated the Harley Street house exactly like his own home. And that wasn‘t to mention his ghastly hookworm of a wife, nor those oversights of Borstal, Felicity, Randolph and the twins.

  He wrinkled his nose.

  ‘What‘s that?‘

  ‘Male Cologne, sir.‘ The hairdresser produced a large fancy bottle. ‘Dab or two behind the ears, sir?‘

  ‘If you so much as touch me with that stuff, young man, I shall take great pleasure in emptying the entire contents up your — Ahhhhhhhhh!‘

  Sir Lancelot jumped up. The bottle crashed to the tiles.

  ‘Ye gods!‘ he barked. ‘What infamy!‘

  His eyes, straying idly across the paper, found themselves exchanging glances with Euphemia. Beside her was that parboiled sex maniac, Tolly. The rest of the photograph was filled with policemen.

  ‘You‘ve gone and smashed our nice Cologne,‘ complained the hairdresser peevishly. ‘Fresh opened this morning, too.‘

  ‘What odium! What disgrace!‘

  The paper shook in his hands. He managed to focus on a headline, DOCTOR, NURSE IN PUNCH-UP. He forced himself to read on:

  ‘Dr Timothy Tolly and fiancée Nurse Euphemia Spratt enter a police van after last night‘s raid on Mayfair‘s classy Asquith Club. The doctor‘s black eye came in a scuffle with police as the pair tried to make a getaway. Both appear this morning at Addlestreet Police Court.‘

  ‘What humiliation! What turpitude!‘

  ‘You‘ll have to pay for the damage what you done to Sidney‘s Cologne,‘ threatened another young man in a nylon overall. ‘It‘s no good turning nasty.‘

  ‘What debasement! What obloquy!‘

  Sir Lancelot‘s eyes reached the bitter end:

  ‘Nurse Euphemia should come in useful with that eye. She is the niece of former Harley-street surgeon Sir Lancelot Spratt.‘

  ‘What scandal! What stigma!‘

  ‘You watch your language in our saloon,‘ complained several other overalled young men, gathering round. ‘We‘ve got some very nice customers.‘

  ‘Get me a cab!‘ Sir Lancelot blindly pushed notes into somebody‘s hands. ‘St Swithin‘s Hospital!‘ he thundered to the driver, climbing in. ‘Main gate. What a ghastly stink!‘ he added, throwing open both windows. ‘Who the devil did you have in here last trip, man? The entire chorus from Drury Lane?‘

  ‘'Ullo, Sir Lancelot!‘ Crimes paused from pushing a trolley across the St Swithin‘s courtyard. ‘Have you heard the great news, sir? Jowler got the last four wickets this morning for five runs. Them Yorkshire tykes don‘t half lap up Aussie blood once they‘ve got their tails up.‘

  But Sir Lancelot took no notice, not even of this momentous news. He strode grimly from the gate towards the Nurses‘ Home.

  Crimes sniffed. The old gaffer pongs a bit, I must say,‘ he muttered to himself. ‘P‘raps it‘s a sign of old age.‘

  ‘Come in,‘ invited the Matron crisply. ‘Oh, it‘s Sir Lancelot. I thought you had gone home to Wales?‘

  ‘Matron, I demand an explanation,‘ he began at once. She raised her eyebrows. ‘I should have thought that I was the one entitled to voice that remark. Sister Tripp,‘ she broke off to the thin woman in the starched bonnet who acted as her familiar. ‘Will you open the other window? It seems to have become rather stuffy in here.‘

  ‘I demand an explanation,‘ continued Sir Lancelot, quivering, ‘why you gave permission for my niece not only to visit haunts of sin, but to do so in the most undesirable company.‘

  ‘I trust you do not imagine that she did so with my permission?‘

  ‘How the devil could she have left the hospital without showing her late pass?‘ demanded the surgeon impatiently.

  ‘Over the mortuary gate.‘

  ‘Rubbish! My niece would never commit an underhand act like that.‘

  ‘Please show Sir Lancelot the bolster, Sister Tripp,‘ directed the Matron. ‘Sister Tripp,‘ she broke off sharply, ‘have you taken to using perfumery?‘

  ‘Perfumery, Matron! On duty, Matron? Dear me, dear me!‘

  ‘Then it must be my imagination. Nurse Spratt left this in her bed,‘ she explained calmly.

  ‘The little devil!‘ Sir Lancelot hissed, eyeing Exhibit A. ‘By jove, she shall pay for this! I‘ll rain down fire and brimstone on her thicker than a cloudburst at Old Trafford. I‘ll make her ears tingle as though she‘d dipped the pair of them in hydrochloric acid. I‘ll certainly-‘

  ‘I‘m sure you will, Sir Lancelot.‘ The Matron gave a little sniff. Old Tripp absolutely reeked of eau-de-Cologne. She‘d be going about in a padded bra and eyeshadow next.

  ‘And where exactly is the black lamb of my family?‘ the surgeon ended hotly.

  ‘You will remember she has an appointment this morning in Addle Street.‘

  ‘And me a magistrate too!‘ He snorted. ‘I think it would be more appropriate if you administered the wigging, Matron. In the first instance, at any rate.‘

  ‘But I‘m afraid it is nothing to do with me, Sir Lancelot.‘

  He frowned. ‘But you‘re the Matron, dammit.‘

  ‘Miss Spratt has, of course, automatically become expelled from the hospital.‘

  ‘Expelled?‘ Sir Lancelot looked blank. ‘Expelled?‘ He tugged his beard. ‘But... but... you can‘t expel her.‘

  ‘My dear Sir Lancelot! I have in the past had the disagreeable duty of banishing girls for far less.‘

  ‘You are not going to expel Euphemia!‘ he commanded.

  ‘Why not, pray?‘

  ‘Because... because, damnation! She‘s my niece.‘

  ‘Really!‘ The Matron stared. ‘I should have thought you were the last to encourage favouritism in the hospital - Come in!‘

  The corpus delicti entered.

  ‘How much were you nicked?‘ demanded Sir Lancelot at once.

  ‘Good morning, Uncle.‘ Euphemia wore the expression of Joan of Arc at lighting-up time. ‘Forty shillings.‘

  ‘H‘m.‘

  ‘Miss Spratt,‘ began the Matron, taking from Sister Tripp a pink Ministry card headed WOMAN 18 AND UNDER 65 (PINK). ‘I must ask you to remove your personal belongings from the hospital within the hour, as we shall be wanting your room.‘
/>   ‘Yes, Matron.‘

  ‘Look here,‘ exploded Sir Lancelot. ‘This is utterly preposterous. It was a mere girlish prank - ‘

  ‘A prank!‘

  A grin spread like oil across his storm-tossed features. ‘Of course it was, Matron. A mere lark. The whole evening was conceived in a spirit of pure fun. Wasn‘t it, girl? Eh? Eh?‘ he barked. ‘After all, Matron, you must make allowance for her being but a child of eighteen.‘

  ‘If she is old enough to nurse, Sir Lancelot, she is old enough to behave herself properly.‘

  ‘Besides, she was seduced.‘

  ‘What!‘ cried Sister Tripp.

  ‘I mean in the abstract sense, dammit!‘

  ‘I‘m sorry, Sir Lancelot.‘ The Matron sounded a shade weary. ‘But you cannot seriously expect me — ‘

  ‘Euphemia,‘ ordered Sir Lancelot, ‘leave the room.‘

  There was a pause.

  ‘Sister Tripp,‘ requested the Matron, ‘see if the second post has come. I am perfectly impervious to blandishments, Lancelot,‘ she added when they were alone.

  ‘That girl‘s name is Spratt.‘

  The Matron said nothing.

  ‘A name borne honourably through the wards of this hospital for three generations. I don‘t intend to see it disgraced by the headstrong frolic of an overgrown schoolgirl under the influence of a faintly camouflaged medical student.‘

  The Matron pursed her lips.

  ‘She‘s a good nurse, isn‘t she? Liz Virtue says so, and she‘d have blackened Florence Nightingale herself.‘

  The Matron murmured, ‘Admittedly so.‘

  ‘I assure you I have never asked anyone in the hospital to do me a favour until this very moment. Give that girl any punishment you like short of the sack. In return I personally guarantee her conduct in the future will be impeccable.‘

  ‘That is, of course, an impressive pledge — ‘

  ‘Besides, Hester,‘ he added, quietly, leaning on the desk, ‘you haven‘t forgotten the past, have you?‘

  Once they had shared a mad, mad moment. Sir Lancelot had been a young registrar. Matron was a junior nurse. It was late. They were alone in a darkened corridor. Their emotions had melted from the heat of an exhausting day in the operating theatre. She passed him with a kidney-dish. He pinched her behind. Somehow, she had never forgotten it. Nobody had pinched it since. As a matter of fact, nobody for years could possibly have thought of such a thing.

  ‘There were only a few circulars,‘ announced Sister Tripp, reappearing.

  ‘Please send in Nurse Spratt,‘ asked the Matron.

  Outside in the sunlit courtyard Sir Lancelot mopped his face with the yellow silk handkerchief. He wanted to get away from the hospital. He wanted to inhale the tranquillizing atmosphere of Lord‘s. He wanted to collect his thoughts. He wanted a drink.

  ‘Well, that was a near squeak.‘ He turned to Euphemia, at his side. ‘I will confine myself, my dear, to the single observation that should anything in the slightest irregular occur in future I will simply ship you straight home to Singapore.‘

  ‘Yes, Uncle,‘ said Euphemia meekly.

  ‘And that includes setting eyes on this man Tolly.‘

  ‘Yes, Uncle.‘

  A little tear glistened in the sunshine. Sir Lancelot tried hard to ignore it.

  ‘Look here, Effie,‘ he admitted brusquely, ‘I — I have perhaps not afforded you the guidance you deserved, arriving in a strange land to start an exacting career. You see, having — rather unhappily - no offspring of my own, I am rather out of touch with such problems. Why not let me stand you a treat in some restaurant or other tonight?‘ he offered more heartily. ‘Perhaps we can iron out some of the wrinkles? I am quite prepared for your sake to put off my return to Wales for another twenty-four hours.‘

  ‘Thank you very much, Uncle,‘ agreed Euphemia quietly.

  ‘How much did Tolly get nicked, by the way?‘ he added suddenly.

  ‘Ten pounds, Uncle.‘

  ‘Cheap at the price. Who did you get against? Old Bisby? He‘s been much less fierce since I removed his prostate, I fancy.‘

  ‘Tim has left London anyway, Uncle,‘ explained Euphemia, swallowing. ‘He starts his job today at the Nicol Jarvie Hospital in Edinburgh.‘

  ‘The Nicol Jarvie? But dammit girl! That‘s a nuthouse.‘

  She nodded. ‘Yes, Uncle. Tim is going to be a psychiatrist.‘

  ‘Har!‘ Sir Lancelot rubbed his hands. ‘Of course, that would explain everything.‘ Sir Lancelot accepted all psychiatrists as mentally unbalanced by definition. ‘Well, goodbye, Euphemia. Be at my house in Harley Street tonight at seven-fifteen prompt.‘

  ‘Yes, Uncle. Goodbye, Uncle.‘

  ‘Oh, and Euphemia... ‘ Sir Lancelot twitched his nose. ‘Just a tip from an old man. If you want to keep out of trouble, don‘t use so much Cologne in future. It makes you stink like a kept woman.‘

  8

  ‘But I saw it!‘ exclaimed Sir Lancelot jubilantly. ‘Every single ball of it! Square cuts, cover drives, late hooks, tickles round to leg... I saw the lot. It was an experience as unforgettable as one‘s first view of the Acropolis.‘

  He rustled The Times against the coffee pot. A headline on the sports page announced:

  ENGLAND SAVED

  STRONGI‘TH‘ARM AND WINTERBOTTOM PUT ON 225

  ‘I‘m sure you want me to tell you all about it,‘ he offered handsomely.

  It was breakfast time the following Monday morning. Mr Nightrider was getting abreast of events from his wife‘s Daily Mirror, between glaring at The Times which Mrs Chuffey had loyally whisked straight to Sir Lancelot‘s bedroom. His wife was toying with a kipper, wondering if the remains of the coming luncheon party would stretch for supper. His twenty-one-year-old daughter Felicity w as thinking of a young man called Ron, with whom her parents were as yet unacquainted. His eighteen-year-old son Randolph had his mind fixed on Folkestone, a popular English seaside resort. His younger twins, Hilda and Herbert, released from their highly relieved institutions for half-term, were independently wondering how to attach a tin can, or preferably the cat‘s tail, to the rear bumper of Sir Lancelot‘s Rolls. Both had a sharp sense of humour.

  Nobody round the table was taking any notice of Sir Lancelot, because none of them was in the slightest interested in cricket. And neither, it suddenly occurs to me chillingly, might you be. So I will skip his account of the historic partnership between Yorkshireman and Lancastrian that sunny Saturday afternoon at Lord‘s, when even the mighty Australian Duffy was hammered all the way from the Warner Stand to the Tavern -those interested can anyway look it all up in Wisden — and return to the scene as Sir Lancelot was ending magnificently, Then with the very last ball of the day, b‘ellowman got Strongi‘th‘arm in the gully with his chinaman. What do you think of that?‘

  He replaced the salt cellar, pepper pot, and butter knife with which he had been illustrating his talk.

  ‘I must see Mrs Chuffey in the kitchen,‘ announced Mrs Nightrider, rising quickly.

  ‘I am glad you have good weather for your journey home this morning,‘ added Mr Nightrider as his children disappeared as well.

  Spreading The Times across his knees in the armchair, the surgeon felt for his pipe. His departure had been delayed further through a generous decision to spend Sunday taking Euphemia to the Zoo, the Tower of London, the British Museum, and Madame Tussaud‘s. She had expressed herself extremely interested in each.

  ‘As I‘m here, Geoff, I might as well look into Lord‘s before driving on west,‘ he mentioned.

  Mr Nightrider groaned inwardly — but so loudly it nearly resonated through.

  ‘I do not in the slightest wish to appear inhospitable, Lancelot,‘ he said quickly, ‘but I had planned a small luncheon party here today for Anthony Waterfall. The author, you know.‘

  ‘I hope you didn‘t imagine I would intrude?‘ Sir Lancelot started operations on the crossword. ‘I shall be taking a luncheon basket to Lord‘s.‘
>
  ‘Excellent!‘ exclaimed Mr Nightrider. There is no condiment, I believe, to match fresh air. I shall be bringing my own tea to Wimbledon tomorrow. I am much looking forward to it.‘

  ‘ “Poet asleep on the heather”,‘ murmured Sir Lancelot, chewing his pencil.

  ‘I am a little concerned about the health of my daughter Felicity.‘ Mr Nightrider felt he might as well slip in a quick consultation before his guest left. ‘Since starting that temporary job in the Chelsea bookshop, she has become peculiarly fidgety and feverish. St Vitus dance, do you think? These last few days she has been quite unable to keep still for a moment. I trust no form of tubercular infection? The thyroid gland, I understand in young persons — ‘

  ‘ “Kipling”!‘ announced Sir Lancelot, writing it in. ‘ “Kip-ling”. Felicity off colour? I‘d give her a good old-fashioned dose of salts.‘

  ‘And the pain in my own side is no better,‘ Mr Nightrider added gloomily. ‘I have also developed the most distressing symptom of waking at night with a violent start.‘

  ‘It‘s probably your missus kicking you. Yes, Mrs Chuffey? For my luncheon basket? Something quite simple — say, smoked salmon sandwiches and a bottle of hock.‘

  ‘My own guests will be obliged to make do on potted shrimps,‘ observed Mr Nightrider pointedly as the door shut.

  ‘I‘d have thought you could lash out a bit more, Geoff. After all, you‘re living here at a peppercorn rent.‘

  ‘Some peppercorns!‘ he grunted, reaching for his parliamentary hat and brolly. But at least, he told himself, he would have an absentee landlord on his return.

  Sir Lancelot continued operating on the crossword. He had great fun changing a carthorse into an orchestra and pig mines into impinges, and had just transformed pied mice into an epidemic when the door slowly opened.

  ‘Uncle Lancelot — ‘ Felicity edged in.

  He looked up. He neither approved nor disapproved of his brother-in-laws daughter. She was a tall, thin, pale, sandy female, given to acne. She was not a girl who found herself noticed much by young men. Indeed, she was not a girl who found herself noticed much by anybody.

  ‘Uncle Lancelot, have you views on the Arts?‘ she inquired.