The Summer of Sir Lancelot

won‘t have the time. Will you, Paul? I mean, of course if. ..if he‘s elected to the staff.‘ Deirdre gave a laugh. It sounded to Nikki as joyful as the crack of a window-pane. ‘The best man win, and all that, Simon, you know,‘ she ended jollily.
    ‘Excuse me.‘
    The telephone was ringing.
    ‘Hello? Mr Sparrow here,‘ Simon said outside in the hall. ‘I‘m on second call-‘
    ‘Spratt here.‘
    ‘Oh, good., .good evening, Sir Lancelot. I do hope you‘re feeling better?‘
    ‘Thank you, I have recovered by treating myself with masterly inactivity. I want a word with you.‘
    ‘Yes, of course— ‘
    ‘Be at my Harley Street house by nine sharp tomorrow morning.‘
    He rang off.
    ‘My house surgeon, about a drip,‘ Simon explained, rejoining the party. ‘We were talking about holidays,‘ Deirdre informed him. ‘Where are you going this year? I suppose we shall be doing our usual stint at Cannes.‘
    ‘That woman!‘ complained Nikki bitterly, tying her apron for the washing-up after her guests had gone. ‘From the way she carries on you‘d imagine she was the daughter of a hundred earls, instead of a superannuated staff nurse from the prostate ward.‘
    ‘She‘s entitled to crow a bit, after drawing a cash prize in the marriage lottery,‘ Simon conceded generously while reaching unenthusiastically for a drying-cloth.
    ‘I suppose being terribly rich must help getting on the staff of a hospital,‘ added Nikki gloomily, turning on the hot water. ‘Like it does with everything else.‘
    ‘Must be useful having a stockbroker for a father,‘ decided Simon, vaguely starting work on a saucepan. ‘You know, that sort of lark is quite beyond me. It‘s the most I can do to fill in my pools. But old Paul, now, he reads the Financial Times quite as closely as he does the Lancet. Where does this go?‘ he added, waving the pan.
    ‘Really, Simon! You ought to know the anatomy of the kitchen by now. Up there. I can‘t understand,‘ she went on, starting work with the steel wool, ‘why Paul doesn‘t simply retire to the Bahamas, without bothering to become a consultant at all.‘
    ‘Oh, I don‘t know. It‘s a pleasant life for a man being “on” at a London hospital.‘ Simon leant reflectively on the draining-board. ‘You have a common room and top table in the refectory. Your lunch is always hot and everyone laughs at your jokes. You‘re soon so important, people soon start forming processions behind you almost automatically. You have the last say in everything, from a patient‘s beer for lunch to life and death. Also, you get paid about three times as much as a GP,‘ he ended, picking up the colander.
    His wife started scraping the plates. ‘If you don‘t get the job, darling — what next?‘
    ‘I‘ll find a niche in some surgical Siberia. How would you like to live up North?‘
    ‘I don‘t exactly jump for joy at the idea of leaving our home.‘
    ‘I‘ll send you out to work,‘ smiled Simon, polishing a soup spoon. ‘You should be in good practice, after your do-it-yourself revision course in obstetrics and paediatrics. Good Lord!‘ The spoon hit the floor. ‘I quite forgot — it was Lancelot on the phone this evening.‘
    ‘Really?‘
    ‘He wants to see me tomorrow.‘
    ‘Indeed?‘
    ‘But aren‘t you surprised? It must mean he‘s decided to stir himself about the job, despite the fact I made it pretty plain that morning in Out Patients I intend to cherish my independence.‘
    ‘No, I‘m not surprised at all,‘ said Nikki. ‘Don‘t put that ladle away, darling. It hasn‘t been washed yet.‘
    By nine the next morning Simon had his red Mini parked in Harley Street. He mounted the steps and was about to ring the bell when the door flew open. He faced a tall, bowler-hatted, saintly-looking man, whom he recognized as the Chairman of the Governors.
    ‘Oh!‘ exclaimed Simon. ‘Is — is Sir Lancelot Spratt in?‘
    ‘Sir Lancelot Spratt is always in,‘ snapped Mr Nightrider, hurrying off. The surgeon was at that moment in the drawing-room reading The Times— his brother-in-law had long ago taken to ordering two copies-and bidding farewell to Lady Spratt.
    ‘I hope you have better weather in Majorca, my dear. There would seem to be six feet ot snow on the Costa Brava.‘
    ‘You‘re sure you‘ll be all right driving to Wales tomorrow?‘
    ‘Perfectly. I walked eighteen times round Regent‘s Park yesterday, and I haven‘t had a spasm for a week. By