The Summer of Sir Lancelot

letter Mrs Chuffey carried up with the boiled eggs.
     
    ‘My dear Lancelot, [it said]
    So good of you to drop me a line while you are in Town. I‘m glad to say I‘ve never been fitter, and give thanks to your great care and skill every time I sit down to eat. I shall be quite up to the Lord Mayor‘s banquet next winter - which as you may have heard will be a somewhat important one for me personally!
    As for Chadwick, he is rather a tough customer but perfectly straightforward, and quite a decent little person at heart. It is strange you should ask after him, for I heard in the City only today that he is in difficulties — rather serious ones. Take-over trouble, I believe. You will realize that I cannot put more on paper, I‘m sure.
    What a miserable start to the Test. I do wish England could find a decent pair of openers.
    Yours ever,
    Kenneth.‘
     
    Sir Lancelot took it from his pocket and read it over again. ‘Difficulties,‘ he murmured fondly. ‘Rather serious ones.‘ He already saw himself buying up Witches‘ Pool at the auction. He twitched his MCC tie. His back felt splendid.
    These pleasant thoughts were interrupted by his brother-in-law-clearing his throat.
    ‘I still have that nagging pain in the right side,‘ he announced gloomily.
    After all, it Sir Lancelot insisted on staying he might as well cadge some medical advice. Like many men with a youth spent grinding their fellows into the mud of football fields or proceeding at great rates up rivers in reverse, Mr Nightrider was a chronic hypochondriac.
    ‘Perhaps you should try loosening your waistcoat.‘
    ‘It comes on immediately after meals,‘ persisted Mr Nightrider, indicating the pathological area. ‘I fear it may be something organic. The appendix, perhaps? The gall bladder?‘
    ‘Wind,‘ diagnosed Sir Lancelot briefly. ‘Yes, Mrs Chuffey?‘
    ‘What would you be fancying for lunch, Sir Lancelot?‘
    ‘Lunch!‘ Mr Nightrider spilt his coffee. ‘But surely, Lancelot, you are leaving this morning? I mean, the congested roads this time of the year — ‘
    ‘I have to get a haircut, and I might as well spend the afternoon at Lord‘s. I think a grilled Dover sole, Mrs Chuffey, and one of your apple pies. They are quite delicious, Geoff,‘ he added as the door shut.
    Tm afraid I‘ve not had the opportunity of judging. Her cooking has been somewhat uninspired during our tenancy.‘
    ‘That reminds me.‘ Sir Lancelot relit his pipe. ‘I was down at my solicitors‘ on Thursday. You don‘t seem to have paid your first quarter‘s rent.‘
    Sir Lancelot had his hair cut in London only at Humble‘s in St James‘s, an establishment all mahogany and discreet whispers which had snipped the heads of Church and State for nearly two centuries. When an hour later he turned the familiar corner from Piccadilly, he drew up aghast. Where Humble‘s had once stood with the durability of the Rock of Gibraltar was now a large hole with mechanical grabs and bulldozers mudlarking in the bottom of it.
    ‘Blasted property developers!‘ he snorted.
    Wandering towards Piccadilly Circus as the sun began to melt the morning mist Sir Lancelot‘s eyes fell on a pair of glass doors labelled GENTLEMEN‘S HAIRDRESSER AND STYUST.
    ‘Good morning,‘ fluted the young man in a nylon overall buttoned round the neck like the doctors on American television shows. ‘And what can we do for you?‘
    ‘I want a haircut.‘
    ‘This way, if you please. And how would you like your hair cut, sir?‘
    ‘In silence.‘
    The hairdresser gave a watery smile. ‘I mean, in what sort of style? We have several very fetching ones for the older man. "The Diplomat”, perhaps? “The Coronet”? Extremely popular is our “Presidential Executive”. Or perhaps,‘ he suggested, inspecting the site of operations, ‘something more dashingly younger? An exciting little fringe over the brow — ‘
    ‘Short back and sides and the morning paper,‘ snapped Sir Lancelot, taking the chair.
    The surgeon stared absently at a picture paper for some time, until thought transported him to more agreeable surroundings. If he stayed at Lord‘s until the close of play, he reasoned, he would unhappily miss his twilight fishing at Witches‘ Pool. But one could not have everything, and perhaps for once he could break his rule about fishing on a Sunday. He gave a grim smile. At least the pool would be free from intruders. Perhaps permanently? His informant, like all City bankers,