The Summer of Sir Lancelot

lawn like split scrambled eggs. Contentedly sniffing the day and softly whistling a snatch from The Gondoliers, he strode towards that world of woods and water where the peace of the fisherman passeth all understanding.
    Fishing, as Izaak Walton would have argued more elegantly with Lady Spratt, is a rest to the mind, a cheerer of the spirits, a diverter of sadness, a calmer of unquiet thoughts, a moderator of passions, a procurer of contentedness, that begets habits of peace and patience in those who profess and practise it. This list, Sir Lancelot admitted when the year before he retired prematurely from the St Swithin‘s surgical staff, neatly matched his needs.
    But Sir Lancelot, like God, with whom he was sometimes understandably confused, moved in mysterious ways. He‘d simply delivered the St Swithin‘s annual Founders‘ Lecture — his theme was ‘The Importance of the Family Doctor‘, and he‘d never been in better form at a lectern — dropped his resignation into the Secretary‘s office, collected his hat, and disappeared. Admittedly, he was known to have trouble with his intervertebral discs, but as most consultant surgeons hang on to their jobs as doggedly as prime ministers he left his colleagues trying to decide if they were more astonished than affronted.
    ‘I have saved sufficient lives to satisfy my conscience,‘ he‘d explained to his surgical friend Mr Hubert Cambridge. ‘I have saved sufficient money to satisfy my needs, and sufficient students from the errors of their ways to satisfy posterity. I have no intention whatever of chasing guineas through the London traffic until I have one foot on the coroner‘s doormat. I simply wish to pass such time as may remain to me quietly fishing.‘
    ‘I fancy Professor Hindehead was rather put out you said goodbye only to Harry the doorman,‘ Mr Cambridge ventured.
    ‘Harry the doorman provided me with valuable racing information for twenty years. Professor Hindehead wouldn‘t even give me a second opinion.‘
    The St Swithin‘s consultants didn‘t elect his successor at once, but invited an amiable urologist from Johns Hopkins in Baltimore to take over his wards for ayear. They hadn‘t forgotten when Sir Lancelot diagnosed an inoperable cancer of the stomach from his own X-rays, gave his Rolls to Mr Cambridge, and left for Italy to die. Six months later he was back with a new set of X-rays announcing he‘d made a mistake, which was awkward for everybody, particularly as he wanted the Rolls back.
    The surgeon was so deep in agreeable reflections on fish as he tramped down the path towards Witches‘ Pool that he nearly bowled over Millichap, his faithful gillie, gardener, chauffeur, handyman, and former theatre porter.
    ‘Ah, Millichap.‘ Sir Lancelot beamed. On such a delightful morning he radiated generosity like the men in the trading stamp advertisements. ‘I shan‘t be needing you on the river. Take the day off,‘ he invited handsomely.
    ‘That‘s very good of you, sir.‘ Millichap was a tall red-faced man whom twenty years in Sir Lancelot‘s service, unhooking fish and carrying from his presence such offensive items as amputated legs and fainting first-year students, had left with the look of rotund dignity seen in those really well-nourished Victorian bishops.
    ‘Not at all, Millichap, you deserve it. By the way,‘ Sir Lancelot recalled, ‘I believe Lady Spratt would like you to drop into Abergavenny with the Rolls first, to pick up the groceries.‘
    ‘As you say, sir.‘
    ‘And I suppose this afternoon those new flies will be ready in Brecon, if you‘ve an hour to spare to drive over and collect them.‘
    ‘Yes, sir.‘
    ‘And I mentioned, I believe, I may have guests to collect from Cardiff this evening? Good. Well — enjoy yourself.‘
    Millichap shifted his feet. ‘Will you be going to court tomorrow, sir?‘
    ‘Of course I shall. Car at the door by nine sharp, if you please. I say, is anything the matter?‘ He caught the man‘s eye. ‘Not a recurrence of the dyspepsia?‘
    ‘No, sir. I am burdened with a problem of a rather personal nature.‘
    ‘But you must let me share it!‘ Sir Lancelot offered heartily.
    ‘I fancy you may well,‘ ended Millichap gloomily, moving off through the undergrowth with a rich episcopal sigh.
    Sir Lancelot shrugged his shoulders. Arriving at Witches‘ Pool, he set up camp behind the hawthorn bush, detached a small butterfly net from somewhere on his knickerbocker