The Summer of Sir Lancelot

psychosis? You can‘t imagine how difficult it is, propping The Practice of Psychiatry against the bathroom mirror and performing a do-it-yourself psychoanalysis. He even thought of consulting Dr Uanrhys across the valley, but he‘d already discovered the old fellow became as testy with patients as with any other interruptions to the fishing season.
    The diagnosis dawned when Tim found himself making too many visits to Davis the chemist‘s, where young Bronwen Davis dispensed bottles with the air of an overtired film star signing autographs. You can‘t suddenly give up all your usual female company without ill-effects, Tim told himself soberly, any more than you can give up all your usual vitamins.
    Meanwhile, Euphemia was feeling exactly the same. She put it down to Sir Lancelot‘s fishing stories.
    They met when Euphemia called at Davis‘ shop for Sir Lancelot‘s toothpaste. Tim offered her a lift home in his car. Their love grew as quickly and firmly as a prize marrow. Already they were coyly discussing together those exciting fundamental questions, like whether to have oil-fired or gas central heating. And all this before breakfast, mind you, a time when Don Juan might be forgiven for preferring his morning paper.
    ‘But Tim — !‘ Euphemia unsnuggled suddenly. ‘You must do something about Uncle.‘
    ‘I suppose I can‘t go on being a blot on his bad books,‘ he agreed gloomily. ‘Without his clearance, your father wouldn‘t let you marry Dr Kildare himself.‘
    ‘He‘d make me a ward of court, or whatever it is. Then we‘d have to fly to Gretna Green. Or would that be unprofessional conduct?‘
    ‘I don‘t think the General Medical Council‘s had much experience of the situation.‘ Tim rubbed a well-shaved chin. ‘Odd, isn‘t it, how some people positively invite you to put your foot in it, like an old slipper? That‘s exactly the case with old Slasher — I mean, dear Uncle. For some reason we don‘t seem to drive through life on the same side of the road. I‘ve half a mind you know, Effie, simply to march up the front drive, ring the doorbell, and tell the old boy to his bearded face that I‘m going to marry you. Do you think that would do the trick? You could always see the dogs were chained up somewhere, I suppose.‘
    He stared for a moment across the swirling surface of Witches‘ Pool.
    ‘Anyway, darling, I‘ve a month left to work on him before you start at St Swithin‘s.‘
    ‘Tim‘ - Euphemia bit her lip. ‘Do you know why I really decided to be a nurse?‘
    ‘So that you could marry a charming young doctor, like all the others. And in the end you needn‘t have bothered, you see.‘
    ‘No, it wasn‘t that, but I think I‘d better tell you that in fact I want to — ‘
    ‘Good lord!‘ Tim leapt up. ‘Is that the time? I‘ve all my visits to finish this morning before surgery. I‘ve got to be in town by ten.‘
    ‘You‘re wanted at the hospital?‘
    ‘Well, no, not exactly, it‘s a sort of civic meeting I‘m obliged to attend.‘
    ‘Darling! That sounds frightfully impressive.‘
    ‘Yes, I‘m sure it will be. See you tomorrow, dear - same time, same place? One day we‘ll uproot this hawthorn bush and plant it in our front garden. And rely on me to cook up something for Uncle,‘ he added, as she resnuggled briefly. ‘With a little applied psychology I guarantee I‘ll soon have him eating out of my hand like a bearded budgerigar. Meanwhile, though,‘ he reflected, ‘I think I‘d better keep out of his sight for a bit.‘
    Ten minutes later Sir Lancelot, rising stiffly from his bed, glanced through the window to observe his niece walking briskly in the garden. He gave a grunt of approval. He had always advocated to his patients a sharp walk before breakfast, and these early strolls certainly seemed to be doing the child a world of good. He stretched painfully. ‘Enter,‘ he commanded, as a knock came at the door.
    It would be seven forty-five precisely, and Millichap with his tea.
    ‘Good morning, Sir Lancelot. I hope the back is somewhat better?‘
    ‘Thank you, Millichap, the spasm is definitely less. I should like a couple of codeine, if you please, and you‘d better give me half an hour‘s massage.‘
    ‘Certainly, sir.‘
    ‘You know, Millichap,‘ conceded Sir Lancelot generously, rolling over for him to start operations, ‘I really don‘t know how we could exist without you, especially so far from civilization here in the