The Summer of Sir Lancelot

ninety-four to get, if the weather breaks we may have ‘em struggling by tomorrow night. I know you, don‘t I?‘ he added affably to the General. ‘Weren‘t you next to me in the pavilion on Saturday?‘
    ‘Certainly. Capital cricket.‘
    ‘Magnificent! Are you free, my dear sir? Then come along, before it starts to rain. My car is in the mews. Goodbye, Geoff, thanks for putting me up. Don‘t bother about my luggage, Mrs Chuffey has already put it in the boot. Excuse me, officer. Hello, Randolph, did it win? Madam, what delightful Siamese cats! Now out of my way you pie-faced little horrors,‘ he directed to Hilda and Herbert. ‘You a fisherman, sir?‘ he asked the General. ‘Thank heavens, in a few hours I shall have in my ears once more the delightful music of my own trout stream. Ahhhhhhhhh!‘ he added, as Herbert stuck his foot between Sir Lancelot‘s legs and sent him rolling down the steps into Harley Street.
    ‘I feel faint again,‘ declared Anthony Waterfall.
    ‘Leave me flat, blast you, leave me flat!‘ roared Sir Lancelot from the pavement. ‘Don‘t sit me up, you idiots! You‘ll shell out my intervertebral discs like peas from a pod. Flat, man, flat! Dammit, officer, didn‘t you do any of your first-aid training at all?‘
    It started to rain.
    It rained all that night. The following morning came widespread thunderstorms, killing sheep and cattle, and one or two golfers. The Test Match was abandoned as a draw. The Centre Court shimmered like the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens. The rain rattled steadily on the windows of the best bedroom of the Harley Street house, where Mrs Chuffey had shifted Sir Lancelot. It ran dow n the panes of the drawing room, as Mr Nightrider stood looking miserably into the streaming street. His son was corrupted, his daughter infatuated, his two little ones confirmed cat-stealers. The luncheon had been a ghastly failure. His authority in the Cultural Committee was in tatters. Sir Lancelot lay immobile upstairs, probably for the span of his remaining days. And no Wimbledon.
    He heard a sound behind him.
    ‘Daddy-‘ It was Hilda and Herbert.
    ‘Yes, my children?‘ he returned patiently.
    ‘Daddy, there‘s a smashing old movie on the telly tonight. It‘s called The Man Who Came to Dinner. Can we stay up and watch it please, Daddy?‘
    ‘No. No, you cannot stay up and watch it. Television is a very stupid diversion. It is not nearly so dramatic as real life.‘
    Mr Nightrider looked out of the window again. He bit his lips. Hot, unparliamentary, unutterable, almost unthinkable phrases jostled behind them.
    ‘If only,‘ he told himself, ‘I could be given the Chiltern Hundreds, just for ten minutes.‘
     

10
     
    All July it rained. Icy gales swept the beaches, where holidaymakers huddled against groynes or behind barricades of deck-chairs, determined to enjoy themselves. The lifeboatmen had barely time to dry their oilskins, and floods swept half Hunstanton into the Wash. Bisley was shot in a downpour, even the Durham Miners‘ Gala was damped, the raspberry crop was ruined, and the weather men on television made Job look like Mr Micawber.
    The rain quite spoiled the effect of the Ivors-Smiths‘ new Bentley, when Simon returned the dinner invitation in Dulwich one Friday towards the end of the month.
    ‘What a darling little house!‘ Deirdre exclaimed in the hail. ‘Thank you, Simon, do take it, it‘s quite warm indoors.‘ The evening had been chilly enough to necessitate wearing her mink. ‘And you‘re not really in the depths out here in Dulwich, are you, Nikki?‘
    ‘Well, we don‘t actually hear the beat of the tom-toms.‘
    She sighed. ‘I‘m afraid I always feel utterly lost once beyond Knightsbridge.‘
    ‘But, Deirdre,‘ asked Simon mildly, unstoppering the sherry, ‘didn‘t you start your nurse‘s training at the old Clapham Fever Hospital?‘
    ‘Oh, but that was years ago,‘ she said quickly.
    ‘Surely, my dear,‘ asked Nikki sweetly, ‘you can‘t want us to pretend you‘re that ancient?‘
    ‘Getting much tennis this year, Paul?‘ Simon cut in.
    ‘Yes, we took on our students last Saturday.‘ Paul gave his weak smile. ‘I‘m afraid they trounced us terribly.‘
    ‘You and I are rapidly approaching the age when it‘s wiser to challenge the porters at bowls.‘
    ‘Paul will be giving up tennis next year, anyway,‘ observed Deirdre, twirling her glass.
    ‘Really?‘ Simon was surprised.
    ‘He just