The Summer of Sir Lancelot

protested Paul Ivors-Smith, the Registrar. ‘He‘d cancelled all his medical journals and resigned from the BMA — rather rudely, I gather.‘
    ‘Yes, the poor fellow was becoming very peculiar towards the end,‘ agreed the Professor, resuming their walk from the lecture theatre towards the surgical block. ‘Good morning, Nurse,‘ he broke off smoothly. ‘Enjoying life on your new ward? I‘m so glad.‘
    Paul Ivors-Smith, a tall, fair-haired, droopy young surgeon in his thirties, thoughtfully stroked his chin. He hadn‘t much of it, but it did for the purpose.
    ‘I would make no secret,‘ Professor Hindehead continued, ‘that Slasher Spratt‘s translation into a Cambrian troglodyte bettered your chance of becoming one of my colleagues instead of one of my staff.‘
    ‘You mean getting that vacancy as a consultant?‘
    The Professor nodded. ‘Exactly. The post must be advertised, of course, but that is merely a formality. You‘ve only one serious rival, Simon Sparrow. Luckily for us, his sponsor Cambridge is utterly useless in committee. He simply sits drawing extraordinary animals on his blotting paper. With Slasher hors de combat you can certainly rely on me to swing things in your favour. Good morning, Mr Jeavons,‘ he interrupted himself. ‘Stitches out yesterday? Good. Why, you‘ll be swimming at the seaside in a couple of weeks.‘
    Paul anxiously twitched his old school tie. ‘The committee might elect some brilliant outsider,‘ he suggested. ‘From New Zealand or... Manchester, or somewhere.‘
    ‘My dear boy, we never elect outsiders at St Swithin‘s. It tends to make us a race of intellectual Pitcairn Islanders, but at least one knows where one is.‘ The Professor gave a sigh. ‘And brilliant men are so often quite unreliable in matters of dress, eating habits, or political views. Anyway, Paul,‘ he ended more briskly, ‘your work on the new steroid alone deserves the recognition of consultant status.‘
    ‘Awfully good of you to say so, sir.‘
    ‘How's Sir John, by the way?‘ the Professor added casually.
    ‘Father‘s in fine form, thanks. He hopes you‘ll come to dine soon. Oh, and — ‘ Paul shot a glance over his shoulder, ‘he says to sell your holding of Imperial Coppers.‘
    The Professor‘s eyebrows quivered.
    ‘Indeed? As an academic clinician one does so dislike becoming involved in commerce, but... I‘ll phone my broker straight away.‘
    ‘Perhaps Sir Lancelot won‘t choose to stay long in the hospital,‘ added Paul more hopefully as they neared the steps of the surgical block, ‘with the students making a pin-up of him chucking himself from a window.‘
    ‘Oh, that picture? Collapse of stout surgical party, eh?‘ The Professor laughed. ‘We shall see the back of him in a day or two, mark my words. You understand, Paul, he means nothing here any more. Nothing at all. The day of the surgical mastodon is over.‘
    All the same, as the Professor watched Sir Lancelot with gay step reenter those rubber-floored disinfected corridors of power, he wished that window had been rather higher up.
    ‘Good morning, Nurse. Good morning, Sister,‘ beamed Sir Lancelot, making his way briskly down the main surgical corridor in his country tweeds. ‘Good morning, Harry. Anything good for the Gold Cup this afternoon? Oystercatcher? I‘ll risk a pony.‘
    Through a door at the end he strode into the Nurses‘ Home, and tapped on the door marked MATRON.
    ‘Good morning, Matron. Good morning, my dear,‘ he greeted his niece, who was standing with clasped hands in the corner. ‘You‘re looking well on it, anyway. Enjoying the work?‘
    ‘I find it very rewarding, thank you, Uncle,‘ replied Euphemia, with an air that made a Jane Austen heroine look like one of James Bond‘s girl friends.
    ‘Splendid. Studying hard in the evenings, I hope?‘
    ‘Yes, Uncle. I have just finished the kidney.‘
    ‘It was very good of you to take Miss Spratt a month early,‘ he added to the Matron. ‘I fear she was becoming rather — er, bored in the country. I am sorry I could not bring her personally, but I have been totally incapacitated for some weeks with my back.‘
    ‘Really, Sir Lancelot? I‘m so sorry.‘
    The Matron, a large, pink, well-starched lady resembling those polished blocks of pink granite in the geological museums, handed him a cup of the greyish liquid laughingly passed off in nurses‘ homes as coffee.
    ‘I do hope you are quite recovered?‘
    She