The Summer of Sir Lancelot

the blasted floor? That‘s better,‘ conceded Sir Lancelot gruffly, as Simon dragged him to the hearthrug.
    ‘Don‘t you think I ought to have another look at this back?‘ asked Simon, sounding concerned.
    ‘I am quite able to treat my own complaints, thank you.‘
    ‘You know perfectly well what you taught us, Lancelot,‘ insisted Simon firmly, rolling the surgeon on to his face, ‘that doctors make rotten patients and vice versa. May I pull up your shirt?‘
    ‘You blasted well leave my underwear alone!‘
    ‘There doesn‘t seem anything wrong,‘ Simon confessed five minutes later, ignoring protests as calmly as a paediatrician.
    ‘Nothing wrong? Then why do you imagine I am getting these attacks of excruciating agony, blast you?‘ countered Sir Lancelot.
    ‘Perhaps you should have another X-ray?‘ Simon considered.
    ‘When I‘ve only just had one? You young profligates are all the same with the Government‘s money. No wonder I have to pay such ghastly taxes.‘
    ‘As a matter of fact, I think I should do a lumbar puncture,‘ Simon decided.
    ‘Not bloody likely! With a spinal needle you‘d leave my back looking like double top on a dart-board.‘
    ‘Then I can only suggest radiant heat and procaine.‘
    ‘Radiant heat? You might as well rub me with a live toad at the full moon.‘
    Simon bit his lip. ‘I do wish you didn‘t find it necessary always to be so rude, Lancelot. I am only doing my best.‘
    ‘Oh? So we‘ve become rather grand, have we?‘ snarled the surgeon from the hearthrug. ‘When you were one of my students, boy, you were glad enough I was merely rude, instead of reporting you to the Dean as lazy and incompetent.‘
    Simon went pink. ‘Perhaps you will allow me to point out that I am, in fact, no longer a student?‘
    ‘I sometimes find that difficult to believe.‘
    ‘Yes, Lancelot.‘ Simon nodded briskly. ‘It was always your greatest fault in the wards, missing the blatantly obvious.‘
    ‘Get out.‘
    ‘Is that the painful spot?‘ asked Simon, pressing.
    ‘Get out!‘ roared Sir Lancelot. ‘You incompetent swollen-headed little twit! Get out before I—‘
    He was alone on the hearthrug.
    It was twenty minutes before coherent thought could be restored. ‘Ungrateful young cad!‘ he muttered, easing himself up. He found with relief he could get to his feet. ‘Only a brief spasm, thank God,‘ he grunted, pulling himself by the marble mantelpiece. ‘I wonder what exactly it is?‘ he mused, eyeing himself in the mirror. ‘I wonder if I should really see a neurological specialist?‘ he added, tugging his beard. ‘Or some other specialist?‘ He thumped the marble. ‘By George! I‘ve got it! No ruddy specialist at all. What I need is the opinion of a down-to-earth straightforward family doctor. Mrs Chuffey! Mrs Chuffey!‘
    ‘Sir?‘
    ‘The telephone directory, if you please, A to D.‘
    ‘Certainly, sir.‘
    ‘And, Mrs Chuffey — bring me a bottle of Bollinger. A trifle early, but I am in need of both a sedative and an analgesic.‘
     

11
     
    Sir Lancelot rang the bell.
    Nothing happened for several minutes, which were extremely uncomfortable because the rain was seeping down the neck of his overcoat.
    He rang the bell again, and stamping his feet on the mat turned to survey the suburb of Leafy Grove.
    This part of London — which is probably an earthly paradise for its inhabitants, from the way they fight to board the Southern Electric and return there each night — consists mainly of Anne Hathaway‘s cottages tor stockbrokers‘ clerks. At that hour of the morning these were usually kissing the wife, patting the dog, and battening on their bowlers, before leaving to broke stocks furiously in the City until it was time to pat the dog, kiss the wife, and unbatten again. But it was Sunday, when the glistening road was empty save for a milk float crawling up the wrong side, and the railway station, which other days made the Black Hole of Calcutta seem pretty roomy, was deserted except for a cat sniffing the misdirected fish.
    ‘Well, it certainly isn‘t Las Vegas,‘ grunted Sir Lancelot. ‘Is everybody dead in there?‘ he bawled, ringing the bell again and bashing the knocker for good measure.
    Something offensive caught his eye in the porch of the little detached stucco-fronted house.
    ‘A doctor should have a clean plate quite as much as a clean collar,‘ he declared, producing the yellow silk handkerchief and imparting lustre to