The Summer of Sir Lancelot (16 page)

‘Really?‘ Mrs Perrins sat up. ‘What‘s he like?‘

Mrs Bowler picked up the Bridge at Arles. ‘He wanted kidneys for breakfast,‘ she explained.

‘I mean, is he an old doctor?‘ asked Mrs Perrins. ‘Or is he an — er, young one? Gregory, stop that kicking this instant! You‘ll hurt your shoes. He‘s English, I hope,‘ she added nervously.

‘He‘s old and fat with a dirty great beard,‘ replied Mrs Bowler, pocketing her duster as the door-bell rang.

Sir Lancelot was just coming downstairs, rubbing his hands. He was in an excellent mood, despite cornflakes for breakfast. ‘This should be a proper holiday for me,‘ he assured himself. ‘If I had my time over again, by George! I‘d be a GP like a shot.
That‘s
where the real medicine is. Mrs Bowler, send the first patient into the surgery, if you please,‘ he added to his handmaiden.

His back that morning was splendid.

‘You‘re Mrs Perrins?‘ Sir Lancelot greeted his first caller jovially, picking up a record card and pushing a pair of Dr Dinwiddie‘s socks from the consulting desk. ‘And this charming lad is yours? What‘s your name, my little man? Gregory? Right, sit down there, Gregory, and keep quiet. Now, madam,‘ he continued expansively as she eased herself into the patients‘ chair, ‘what‘s the trouble?‘

Mrs Perrins didn‘t like the look of the fat old man in the tweed suit. She wondered where Dr Dinwiddie had dug him up. But as an old customer of the firm, she‘d stand no nonsense from anyone fresh across the counter. Opening her handbag, she produced a sheet of writing paper.

‘First of all there‘s my list,‘ she began firmly.

Sir Lancelot frowned. ‘You mean you are walking down on one side?‘

‘I want some cotton wool, of course, bottle of aspirin, cream for my poor hands, tinted lip salve, blackcurrant throat pastilles — Gregory so loves sucking them - liquid paraffin, surgical spirit, bottle ot sparkling glucose drink, that surgical detergent, and my usual mixture.‘

Sir Lancelot frowned harder. ‘I don‘t think I quite follow you.‘

‘I want a prescription for them, of course,‘ she explained to the new man. ‘And can I get a hot-water bottle on the Health as well?‘

Sir Lancelot rose. ‘I fear you have been misdirected. I noticed the cash chemist‘s on the far side of the railway station. Good morning. Mrs Bowler! The next case.‘

‘But I always have these!‘ exclaimed Mrs Perrins in surprise. ‘I‘m entitled to them. I‘ve stuck on my stamps, the same as everyone else.‘

‘I fear you are confusing the Ministry of Health with the King Korn Company.‘

She bit her lip. ‘Anyway, there‘s my chest,‘ she retreated. It wasn‘t her idea of a consultation to leave empty-handed.

‘Very well,‘ Sir Lancelot agreed. ‘Remove your garments and I shall examine you.‘

‘Examine me!‘ This was too much. ‘But I don‘t want my chest
examined.
I was examined thoroughly the winter before last. I only want some more medicine.‘

‘Either I examine your chest or you take it to another doctor. Mrs Bowler!‘

‘Yers?‘

‘Kindly step in while I examine a female patient.‘

‘I‘ve got my dusting to think of.‘

‘And I‘ve got my reputation to think of. Gregory, you will kindly shut your eyes and face the wall.‘

‘Now perhaps I can have my bottle of medicine,‘ Mrs Perrins asked grimly, doing up the last buttons of her blouse afterwards.

‘But, madam, you do not require a bottle of medicine. You need a skipping rope.‘

She looked blank.

‘You are grossly overweight, that is all. You must eat only one meal a day and skip for half an hour before and after. I much regret that the rope must be provided by Woolworth‘s rather than the Government. Good morning.‘

‘I‘ve never been treated like this in my life, neither by a so-called doctor nor anyone else,‘ she burst out indignantly. ‘And if you won‘t give
me
proper treatment,‘ she declared, dragging her trump card from the corner, ‘perhaps you‘ll take pity on this little child. There‘s a nasty lump on his wrist,‘ she added with maternal pride.

‘Indeed? Let me see, boy. Ah, a ganglion. Mrs Bowler! Bring me a bible.‘

‘A wot?‘

‘Perhaps you are unable to lay your hands readily on the Good Book? This will do equally well.‘

Reaching for Price‘s
Medicine
in the bookcase, Sir Lancelot hit the affected part with it, as though swatting a wasp.

‘You‘ve hurt the little darling, you brute!‘ cried Mrs Perrins as Gregory let out a howl.

‘No doubt, but I have effected a cure. These harmless swellings are traditionally dispersed with a sharp blow from the family Bible. You will find that — ‘

‘He ought to be in hospital, the poor mite!‘

‘He ought not, but that is anyway a matter only for myself to decide. Good morning.‘

‘I‘ll write to the papers!‘

‘Please do. Good morning.‘

‘I — I‘ll report you to the authorities,‘ she quivered.

‘I hope so. Those authorities will be most interested to hear of your pharmaceutical shoplifting over the years. Good morning.‘

She grabbed little Gregory. She stormed from the surgery. She stamped across the hall, slamming the front door hard enough to knock out one of the little panes of coloured glass.

‘Next patient, if you please, Mrs Bowler,‘ demanded Sir Lancelot calmly. ‘After that pantomime let us hope we can get down to some real medicine.‘

‘There‘s been a call tor you to go to Sycamore Avenue.‘ Mrs Bowler lit another Weight. ‘Name of Hardjoy, with a sprained foot.‘

‘That can wait till I‘ve finished. When I go out kindly clean up this clinical pigstye. How on earth did halt a steak pie get in the sterilizer?‘

The next half-dozen patients all complained of headaches. It felt like a weight on the top of their heads and had tilled every waking moment for many years. All seemed surprised when Sir Lancelot immediately stripped them to perform a complete neurological examination.

‘Madam, I am a doctor, not a clairvoyant,‘ he complained rather peevishly to the last of them, a pretty young woman in a hat like the cover of a seedmaker‘s catalogue. ‘All must be removed, I‘m afraid, including the charming headgear. Mrs Bowler!‘

‘I am perplexed,‘ he announced, by the time the hat could be replaced again. ‘Everyone in Leafy Grove seems to be suffering from severe headaches and I can discover nothing to cause a single one of them.‘ He stroked his beard. A thought struck him. ‘Married long?‘ he asked the patient suddenly. ‘Eight years, Doctor.‘

‘Your husband, madam. His occupation?‘

‘Travelling salesman.‘

‘H‘m. Not at home much?‘

‘Not much, Doctor. And... and...‘ She hesitated.

‘Doesn‘t take much notice of you then?‘

‘That‘s it, doctor.‘ She looked relieved.

‘It is your husband,‘ explained Sir Lancelot kindly, showing her to the surgery door, ‘who must cure your headache, unfortunately not myself‘

‘But he doesn‘t know any medicine, Doctor!‘

‘Luckily for us all, scientific knowledge is not necessary. Just pass my message on. Good morning.‘

She tripped across the front hail. She was so perplexed, she let the door slam and knocked out another pane of glass.

‘Surely this isn‘t general practice?‘ Sir Lancelot muttered to himself. ‘These people don‘t need medicine. All they want is a sympathetic ear. The doctor‘s job is to cure the sick, not to coddle the well.‘ He stared across a row of back gardens under the grey summer sky, ending at the parish church next to a cinema announcing BINGO TONIGHT. ‘Though this place is enough to give Mark Tapley a shocking melancholia,‘ he concluded sombrely.

The next patient was a worried-looking man with a cough, complaining he had been passing worms.

‘How many cigarettes a day do you smoke?‘ cut in Sir Lancelot, eyeing his mahogany fingers.

‘About sixty or seventy, Doctor, I suppose. Bit more at weekends.‘

‘Good grief, man! Think yourself lucky you didn‘t see a fall of soot. Bring a specimen. Good morning.‘

He was followed by a girl turned sixteen who wanted him to persuade her parents she should get married.

‘Married?‘ He looked astounded. ‘What on earth is wrong with young people these days? Marriage is something which sets in much later, like arthritis.‘

‘Gerry and I have been going steady six months,‘ she told him pertly. ‘We know our own minds.‘

‘On the contrary, young lady, I would advise you to remember your endocrine cycle still has its L plates on. Good morning. Next case.‘

There followed five people wanting certificates for a week off work. ‘This will never do.‘ Sir Lancelot threw open the waiting room door. ‘The old St Swithin‘s technique, I feel, is needed. Kindly stop talking, everybody,‘ he announced briskly. ‘All those hopeful for certificates, free milk, bottles of medicine, new teeth and glasses, stand up. Come on now!‘ he commanded as one or two patients rose uncertainly. ‘Right — over by the window. All coughs, a group by the fireplace. Stomach disorders in the corner, and rheumatics under the Rembrandt. Your name, madam?‘ he asked the one still seated.

‘Mrs Peckwater, Doctor.‘

‘You are near term, I believe? Please step this way.‘

‘I got here before she did,‘ muttered a man in the corner.

Sir Lancelot glowered. ‘Possibly. But at least I can be sure this lady is suffering from a genuine clinical condition. Mrs Bowler, sweep up this glass. I don‘t want to spend the entire day suturing feet.‘

‘I‘m going,‘ his helpmeet announced, folding the flowery apron. ‘Going? Rubbish! How do you imagine I can examine a female patient without you?‘

‘It‘s a wonder the poor things let you lay hands on them at all,‘ she retorted, stubbing out her Weight. ‘Bluebeard!‘ she added, slamming the front door and knocking out the rest of the glass.

‘What impudence!‘ Sir Lancelot grabbed the telephone. ‘Hello? Mrs Chuffey? You are to come to my Leafy Grove address at once. I don‘t care if he is holding a luncheon party for the entire Cabinet, you must arrive here on the first train. Thank you. Kindly take a seat in the waiting room,‘ he added to a red-faced man hobbling through the front door with a stick.

‘You the new doctor?‘

Sir Lancelot eyed him. ‘That is so.‘

The man‘s glance was as friendly as fall-out. ‘I‘m Mr Hardjoy. I sent for you a good two hours ago.‘

‘The doctor is not sent for,‘ returned Sir Lancelot briskly. ‘He is asked to call.‘

‘Don‘t give me that. I‘ve paid my contributions.‘

‘Mr Hardjoy — ‘ Sir Lancelot tugged his beard. ‘As I doubt whether you are entirely familiar with the book of Ecclesiasticus, I will mention that you are enjoined by Holy Writ to honour a physician. But as you are a coward — ‘

‘What? You call me a coward-‘Mr Hardjoy raised his stick.

‘You are a coward,‘ continued Sir Lancelot evenly, ‘because you know my profession gives its services without thought of reward, convenience, or even personal health, and you behave towards it in a manner that would not be tolerated by a shopkeeper or publican or anyone else entitled to throw you out on your rather filthy neck.‘

‘You... you... ‘ Mr Hardjoy lifted a fist. ‘I‘ll raise this with the Medical Council!‘ he shouted.

‘Please do. Most of the members are personal friends of mine. Please don‘t push, damn you!‘ he added shortly to a little man in a black suit trying to edge through the front door. ‘Take your place in the queue, like everyone else.‘

‘Dr Dinwiddie?‘

‘Sir — Dr Spratt. I‘m his locum.‘

The man gave a thin smile. ‘I am Dr Fudds, from the Ministry of Health. I have called - dear me, you really should get this glass swept up -we do send so many circulars about tidy surgeries — I have called to raise with Dr Dinwiddie the matter of over-prescribing for his patients. We are most concerned about such things at the ministry, you know. Most concerned. A very serious business indeed. If I may now take half an hour or so of your time — ‘

‘Ye gods!‘ cried Sir Lancelot. He stamped into the surgery. He slammed the door. He snatched up a sheet of writing paper.

‘The Secretary,‘ he wrote rapidly. ‘The “Ginger Group” Dear Sir, I wish to join your Society at once. I enclose my cheque. Yours, L Spratt.‘

He threw down his pen. He stared blankly through the window. ‘Surely
something
can save the doctor for doctoring?‘ he demanded.

An object outside caught his eye. ‘I wonder,‘ he murmured. He stroked his beard. ‘I wonder... ‘

12

‘Mrs Perrins?‘ asked Mrs Chuffey severely in the waiting room. ‘Aren‘t you an old patient? This is Sir Lance - Dr Spratt‘s morning for new ones. But I shall inquire whether he is able to make an exception.‘

It was a fortnight later, the last Wednesday of July, with the country still freezing from Margate to Llandudno.

‘I didn‘t actually want to bother the doctor,‘ replied Mrs Perrins meekly. ‘I‘d just like to bring a few things back.‘ She indicated a shopping-bag filled with pharmaceutical supplies. ‘And can you tell the doctor how I‘m enjoying my new treatment?‘ she added, as Mrs Chuffey collected the booty.
‘Such
a nice man he sent me to!
So
understanding.‘