The Summer of Sir Lancelot

up the bank, climbed breathlessly into their clothes, and made damply for their motor scooter and safety from bearded monsters who clearly embarked upon assaults as lightly as bidding you good morning. They left behind a more or less harmless old-fashioned Englishman, gazing sadly at the muddied waters of a favourite pool now as much use for fishing as the fountains in Trafalgar Square.
    ‘Ye gods,‘ was all Sir Lancelot Spratt could bring himself to say. ‘What is the world coming to?‘
    ‘Ye gods,‘ repeated Sir Lancelot over breakfast the following Monday morning, ‘what is the world coming to?‘
    ‘That‘s the nineteenth,‘ remarked Lady Spratt absently, reading a letter. ‘Nineteenth what?‘
    ‘The nineteenth time you‘ve made that observation over the weekend.‘
    ‘Well, what is it coming to?‘ Sir Lancelot notched the score to twenty, brandishing his Times like the banner of the Old Guard at bay. ‘Look at this - a group of family doctors have formed what they describe as a “Ginger Group” to get more pay from the Government. How on earth does the profession expect to retain even the shreds of public respect if it persists in behaving like a gang of disgruntled boilermakers? It is totally beyond me. I suppose next they‘ll be working to rule, and shoving a dirty great gastroscope down everyone complaining of a bellyache. Thank God I‘ve retired! Who‘s that letter from?‘
    ‘Nikki Sparrow. Simon‘s wife.‘
    ‘Ha! She‘s expecting again?‘
    ‘If she is, she doesn‘t find it a matter worth mentioning.‘
    ‘How's Simon like being registrar to old Cambridge? Stout feller, Cambridge,‘ Sir Lancelot reflected. ‘Never saved a life and never lost one. Such are the salt of the surgical earth.‘
    ‘Simon has decided to put in for your old job on the senior staff of St Swithin‘s,‘ Lady Spratt informed him. ‘The election‘s been definitely fixed for the end of summer.‘
    ‘Oh?‘ returned Sir Lancelot distantly. ‘Indeed?‘
    ‘Nikki Sparrow shares your own exquisite tact, my dear,‘ continued Lady Spratt, a little fluffy thing who against her husband was very much a soufflé compared to sirloin, ‘by not saying in so many words she‘d desperately like you to exert a little influence for Simon.‘
    ‘That would be most unethical.‘
    A little sigh fluttered from his wife. ‘And to think in your time you‘ve pulled more strings than a band of Welsh harpists. You could at least write to my brother.‘
    ‘My dear Maud, I wish you‘d realize I have left St Swithin‘s finally and completely. I wouldn‘t attempt to influence goings-on in the place any more than I would in the blasted Kremlin.‘
    ‘Very well.‘ She filed the letter under a plate for further action.
    ‘Most unethical.‘ Sir Lancelot reached for the stoneware jar of Beaulieu‘s Bespoke Marmalade, the treacly stuff which has apparently stickied our royal fingers every morning since George the Fourth. He was very fond of it. Breakfast at the Spratts‘ was always quite a spread with interesting things sizzling in little dishes round the edge, Sir Lancelot believing the modern habit of everyone sitting at the kitchen table neurotically shaking it out of packets to be the cause of such contemporary phenomena as juvenile delinquency, road accidents, broken homes, and the decline and fall of the British Empire.
    ‘And how are you intending to occupy today?‘ she asked.
    ‘I‘m going after that trout in Witches‘ Pool, ifl don‘t happen to find the place in use as a lido.‘
    ‘And tomorrow?‘
    ‘In the morning I am on the Bench, of course. In the afternoon I shall go fishing again.‘
    ‘I simply can‘t understand how you manage to spend day alter day doing absolutely nothing.‘
    ‘I wish you wouldn‘t fall into the vulgar error of thinking angling is doing nothing,‘ objected Sir Lancelot, munching a slice of toast loftily. ‘It is a skilful and absorbing pursuit, blessed by some of the finest pens in the English language. Ah, good morning, my dear,‘ he broke oft, as his eighteen-year-old niece Euphemia came in for breakfast.
    ‘Good morning, Uncle. Good morning, Auntie. What a delightful day! I‘ve been up for simply hours walking down by the river. It was so marvellous! The water seemed to be chortling to itself over some delicious secret it was hurrying to confide in the sea.‘
    ‘Any fish rising?‘ asked Sir Lancelot.
    ‘Surely, Effie,‘ Lady Spratt cut in, pushing across