The Summer of Sir Lancelot (10 page)

‘How are you enjoying being a handmaiden of healing?‘ Tim grinned back.

Euphemia wrinkled her nose. ‘Are there any models here, darling?‘ she asked suddenly.

‘Models? What, you mean the real ones you actually see in adverts? I believe they all have to work so hard they go to bed with a glass of milk at ten-thirty.‘

‘But how about the men who employ the models? You know, the agencies. Like Collins, McKnight, and Wade. Are any of them here?‘

Tim laughed. ‘They‘re much more likely to be at home, swallowing alkali for their ulcers.‘

‘Look - ‘ Euphemia pointed. ‘Who‘s that man in a macintosh?‘

‘Macintosh?‘

‘Yes, up in the band.‘

‘I suppose he‘s one of the cabaret turns.‘ Tim shrugged his shoulders. ‘Though he doesn‘t seem quite the Asquith‘s usual style.‘

‘Why, there‘s another one,‘ she indicated. ‘And another.‘

‘It must be some elaborate comic act. Anyway, now the music‘s stopped we‘ll soon find out.‘

7

‘Nothing up my sleeve,‘ asserted Mr Geoffrey Nightrider, MP. ‘Nothing whatsoever. Observe.‘

He shot his cuffs. He was a tall, bony, bald fellow, with a marked air of dedicated superiority. You felt he would have looked good done in stained glass.

‘Here I have a perfectly plain silk handkerchief, as may be purchased in any haberdashery. Kindly note the front...the back. I screw the handkerchief thus in my fist. And behold! The answer‘s a lemon.‘

With finger and thumb he placed the fruit delicately on the sideboard. Mr Nightrider was a keen amateur magician. He entertained his family with it generously, and all his friends were privileged to sit through an hour or two‘s tricks after dining.

‘My next,‘ he continued, still looking saintly, ‘will be the Afghan Bands. Nothing, I assure you, up my sleeve. Ah, good morning, Mrs Chuffey,‘ he broke off, hastily shoving his implements into a drawer.

‘Good morning, sir. Going to be another scorcher later on, I‘d say.‘

‘My breakfast,‘ he announced, rubbing his hands. Though a man with strict views on self-indulgence, his fifty press-ups every morning in the bedroom had left him a confirmed breakfast-addict.

‘Oh, no, sir. This tray‘s for the Master, sir.‘

‘Indeed?‘ He looked at her with the expression of a saint whose halo had fused at a particularly awkward moment.

‘I just came to get the best dining room cruet, sir.‘

‘Mrs Chuffey — ‘ He surveyed bleakly the steaming porringer, the brace of boiled eggs cosy in their little woolly jumpers, the neat toast in its silver rack, the coffee pot exhaling so fragrantly. He continued in a fruity voice, ‘I do not wish to sound legalistic, but I think I must point out that
I
am the Master now.‘

‘Oh, no, sir,‘ she insisted politely. ‘Sir Lancelot will always be the Master to me.‘

‘Is that,‘ he demanded sternly, ‘my
Times?

‘It was the one in the hall, sir.‘

‘If you please, Mrs Chuffey!‘ He held out his hand. ‘At least I shall insist on reading my newspaper first, even if I must eat my breakfast second. What damn cheek!‘ he added as the cook carried the tray upstairs. ‘Thank heavens the fellow is going to decamp before lunch.‘

He stared grimly through the dining room window at a hazy summer‘s Saturday morning in Harley Street. It had seemed such a sound idea when his sister Maud had suggested a few weeks before that he rent her London house. The delightful new home Mr Nightrider was building in Kent had progressed at the speed of the pyramids, suddenly leaving his family roofless. Anyway, he wanted to stay the summer in town, having added to his duties in the House and in the Chair of both St Swithin‘s Governors and the National Council of Morals, Chairmanship of the new Committee of Commonwealth Culture — he collected committees as other men collect stamps or wives. The rent was pretty stiff, of course. But Harley Street was delightfully central, the house big enough comfortably to entertain cultured guests from the Commonwealth, the furniture was tasteful, the cook was in residence. And his brother-in-law, Sir Lancelot, was permanently occupied fishing in Wales.

Mr Nightrider rubbed a chin like the front of a tank. A fair and righteous man, he had felt it only proper to lodge Sir Lancelot in the spare room for his night in London. Though he found his company as congenial as a dental abscess — the man seemed to have no respect whatever for Governors of hospitals or of anything else — he felt a second night‘s hospitality reasonable when his brother-in-law pronounced himself exhausted with frustrating and unfinished business. He now hoped the goodness of his heart wouldn‘t have to show further elasticity.

‘If only I had not to preserve the dignity of a Member of Parliament,‘ he muttered, ‘how I would give that fellow a piece of my mind!‘

He sat down and started reading
The Times,
wondering when breakfast was going to appear. It did in twenty minutes, simultaneously with Sir Lancelot.

‘My dear fellow, good morning, good morning,‘ the surgeon began heartily. ‘What a good omen this mist is! When it clears by and by, it will help Jowler get a bit of movement off the wicket.‘

‘I am afraid I am not familiar with the niceties of cricket. Tennis is a more rewarding spectacle to me, and I hope on Tuesday to take advantage of my ticket to Wimbledon.‘

‘Girls in frilly knickers playing pat-ball,‘ Sir Lancelot dismissed it genially. ‘Do get on with your breakfast if you want, Geoff. I‘ve had mine.‘

‘So I noticed.‘

‘Good gracious, man, you don‘t cat that Beaulieu‘s marmalade stuff, do you?‘ added the surgeon. ‘You know they soak the oranges in sulphuric acid till the skins drop off? Where‘s the paper?‘ he demanded, looking round.

‘I don‘t know, but possibly my wife or Hilda have it in their rooms,‘ replied Mr Nightrider bleakly.

He had just hidden it under the cushion of the armchair, being fond in the evening of doing the crossword, which Sir Lancelot mutilated briskly on sight.

‘I don‘t suppose anything interesting‘s happened.‘ Sir Lancelot settled in the chair and lit his pipe. ‘Though I always miss
The Times.
It does one good to have at least one real laugh a day.‘

‘You mean the Fourth Leaders? I myself sometimes find them quite amusing.‘

‘Good grief, no! There‘s no need to be
deliberately
funny in
The Times,
any more than to be deliberately funny in
Punch.
Do get on with your bacon, Geoff, it‘ll be quite disgusting cold.‘

You may remember we last saw Sir Lancelot standing on the pavement outside a fishing shop, radiating black thoughts like gamma rays from a radioactive isotope. Now he was staring benevolently at his brother-in-law forking up breakfast, with an air of docility suggesting he‘d undergone the leucotomy Tim Tolly suggested. Why, you may ask, this surprising change of mood? I‘ll tell you. It was through a letter Mrs Chuffey carried up with the boiled eggs.

‘My dear Lancelot, [it said]

So good of you to drop me a line while you are in Town. I‘m glad to say I‘ve never been fitter, and give thanks to your great care and skill every time I sit down to eat. I shall be quite up to the Lord Mayor‘s banquet next winter - which as you may have heard will be a somewhat important one for me personally!

As for Chadwick, he is rather a tough customer but perfectly straightforward, and quite a decent little person at heart. It is strange you should ask after him, for I heard in the City only today that he is in difficulties — rather serious ones. Take-over trouble, I believe. You will realize that I cannot put more on paper, I‘m sure.

What a miserable start to the Test. I do wish England could find a decent pair of openers.

Yours ever,

Kenneth.‘

Sir Lancelot took it from his pocket and read it over again. ‘Difficulties,‘ he murmured fondly. ‘Rather serious ones.‘ He already saw himself buying up Witches‘ Pool at the auction. He twitched his MCC tie. His back felt splendid.

These pleasant thoughts were interrupted by his brother-in-law-clearing his throat.

‘I still have that nagging pain in the right side,‘ he announced gloomily.

After all, it Sir Lancelot insisted on staying he might as well cadge some medical advice. Like many men with a youth spent grinding their fellows into the mud of football fields or proceeding at great rates up rivers in reverse, Mr Nightrider was a chronic hypochondriac.

‘Perhaps you should try loosening your waistcoat.‘

‘It comes on immediately after meals,‘ persisted Mr Nightrider, indicating the pathological area. ‘I fear it may be something organic. The appendix, perhaps? The gall bladder?‘

‘Wind,‘ diagnosed Sir Lancelot briefly. ‘Yes, Mrs Chuffey?‘

‘What would you be fancying for lunch, Sir Lancelot?‘

‘Lunch!‘ Mr Nightrider spilt his coffee. ‘But surely, Lancelot, you are leaving this morning? I mean, the congested roads this time of the year — ‘

‘I have to get a haircut, and I might as well spend the afternoon at Lord‘s. I think a grilled Dover sole, Mrs Chuffey, and one of your apple pies. They are quite delicious, Geoff,‘ he added as the door shut.

Tm afraid I‘ve not had the opportunity of judging. Her cooking has been somewhat uninspired during our tenancy.‘

‘That reminds me.‘ Sir Lancelot relit his pipe. ‘I was down at my solicitors‘ on Thursday. You don‘t seem to have paid your first quarter‘s rent.‘

Sir Lancelot had his hair cut in London only at Humble‘s in St James‘s, an establishment all mahogany and discreet whispers which had snipped the heads of Church and State for nearly two centuries. When an hour later he turned the familiar corner from Piccadilly, he drew up aghast. Where Humble‘s had once stood with the durability of the Rock of Gibraltar was now a large hole with mechanical grabs and bulldozers mudlarking in the bottom of it.

‘Blasted property developers!‘ he snorted.

Wandering towards Piccadilly Circus as the sun began to melt the morning mist Sir Lancelot‘s eyes fell on a pair of glass doors labelled GENTLEMEN‘S HAIRDRESSER AND STYUST.

‘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: