The Summer of Sir Lancelot

the counter. ‘Where is Sister? Where‘s Mr Cambridge? I have had more than enough of this blasted tomfoolery, and I demand to be taken this instant to — Ahhhhhhhh!‘
    His back had gone again.
    ‘Now, now! Come and sit down on this wheelchair.‘ The hostess, finding a clinical condition on her hands, was all solicitude again. ‘The back, is it? We mustn‘t overstrain ourselves, must we? You just relax and be comfortable,‘ she advised, draping a highly insanitary-looking pink knitted shawl round his shoulders, ‘and I‘ll wheel you to see the doctor. We don‘t want you to worry a bit, Grandpa.‘
    ‘Grandpa!‘ croaked Sir Lancelot.
    Luckily for his nursemaid, he found further speech impossible.
    Simon Sparrow was having a trying morning. His chief, Mr Hubert Cambridge, FRCS, was an amiable taskmaster but of such vague outlook that everyone in St Swithin‘s wondered how he avoided leaving his patients stuffed with swabs like teddy bears. He had totally forgotten the arrival of another weird group of doctors assembled by the United Nations and shot round the world to widen medical knowledge, forge links, and so on, and Simon had suddenly found himself left to run Out Patients alone. This professional advance since the days Simon and I were slung out of pubs together may surprise you, but it‘s always the way in medicine. As a student you reckon the housemen embody a wisdom stopping just short of Hippocrates. When you move up to Registrar, you wonder how 7 a bunch of dolts like them ever got qualified. And when you finally turn into a consultant, you thank your lucky stars there‘re so many people to make all the mistakes first.
    Simon had just got rid of a patient with an involved history going back to the Blitz and was snatching a cup of coffee when a nurse dashed in exclaiming, ‘Oh, Mr Sparrow! There‘s a patient outside in a wheelchair — ‘
    ‘Then I expect he‘s unable to walk, Nurse,‘ returned Simon briefly. As I said, it had been a trying morning.
    ‘But Mr Sparrow! He‘s the spit and image of Sir Lancelot Spratt!‘
    ‘Good God!‘ Simon swept his feet off the desk and pushed the coffee cup into a drawer. ‘Good — good morning, sir,‘ he added as a nurse wheeled the surgeon in.
    ‘Good morning, Simon,‘ he greeted his former protégé blackly. ‘Perhaps you would have the kindness to tell me what I may do with this?‘ The hostess had given him an iced bun.
    ‘Nurse, a vomit bowl,‘ suggested Simon quickly. ‘This is indeed an unexpected pleasure, sir.‘
    ‘One which I fear I am unable to share. Where‘s Cambridge?‘
    ‘He‘s gone to lunch with some Russians and Ghanaians and Americans, and people,‘ explained Simon in confusion. ‘I can easily get him - ‘
    ‘No, you‘ll do. It‘s only a minor spasm, thank God.‘ He rose stiffly from his wheelchair, the fires of anger now turned to ashes of exasperation. ‘That stupid woman with the overdeveloped maternal instinct insisted on this conveyance. I have only come for an X-ray. How's my godson?‘ he asked gruffly, suddenly remembering. ‘Put him down for a decent school and the MCC, I hope?‘
    Simon managed a smile. ‘I‘m afraid all that rather depends on my chances in the staff election this autumn.‘
    Sir Lancelot grunted. ‘I wish to have a little talk with you about that some time.‘
    With that frightful female propensity for returning to the point, Lady Spratt had been reminding him of it for the previous three weeks.
    ‘I now want to get my back X-rayed before the radiological department knocks off for lunch. You will kindly sign the necessary form.‘
    Simon raised an eyebrow.
    ‘I don‘t want to be tedious, Sir Lancelot, but don‘t you think I should take the history and perform an examination first?‘
    ‘Don‘t be impertinent!‘ The embers of Sir Lancelot‘s wrath flared up. ‘Are you suggesting I don‘t know my own mind?‘
    ‘No,‘ returned Simon calmly, ‘I‘m only suggesting the decision to have you X-rayed or not should be your doctor‘s responsibility. If you‘d like me to get Mr Cambridge — ‘
    ‘Good God, have you gone as insane as everyone else in the hospital? Who the devil put ideas like that into your head?‘
    ‘You did,‘ nodded Simon. ‘For years you drummed into us that every patient had to he thoroughly examined, even if it meant stripping a duchess to the buff in a horsebox — ‘
    ‘All right, all right,‘ snapped Sir Lancelot, taking off his