The Summer of Sir Lancelot

‘And if you won‘t give me proper treatment,‘ she declared, dragging her trump card from the corner, ‘perhaps you‘ll take pity on this little child. There‘s a nasty lump on his wrist,‘ she added with maternal pride.
    ‘Indeed? Let me see, boy. Ah, a ganglion. Mrs Bowler! Bring me a bible.‘
    ‘A wot?‘
    ‘Perhaps you are unable to lay your hands readily on the Good Book? This will do equally well.‘
    Reaching for Price‘s Medicine in the bookcase, Sir Lancelot hit the affected part with it, as though swatting a wasp.
    ‘You‘ve hurt the little darling, you brute!‘ cried Mrs Perrins as Gregory let out a howl.
    ‘No doubt, but I have effected a cure. These harmless swellings are traditionally dispersed with a sharp blow from the family Bible. You will find that — ‘
    ‘He ought to be in hospital, the poor mite!‘
    ‘He ought not, but that is anyway a matter only for myself to decide. Good morning.‘
    ‘I‘ll write to the papers!‘
    ‘Please do. Good morning.‘
    ‘I — I‘ll report you to the authorities,‘ she quivered.
    ‘I hope so. Those authorities will be most interested to hear of your pharmaceutical shoplifting over the years. Good morning.‘
    She grabbed little Gregory. She stormed from the surgery. She stamped across the hall, slamming the front door hard enough to knock out one of the little panes of coloured glass.
    ‘Next patient, if you please, Mrs Bowler,‘ demanded Sir Lancelot calmly. ‘After that pantomime let us hope we can get down to some real medicine.‘
    ‘There‘s been a call tor you to go to Sycamore Avenue.‘ Mrs Bowler lit another Weight. ‘Name of Hardjoy, with a sprained foot.‘
    ‘That can wait till I‘ve finished. When I go out kindly clean up this clinical pigstye. How on earth did halt a steak pie get in the sterilizer?‘
    The next half-dozen patients all complained of headaches. It felt like a weight on the top of their heads and had tilled every waking moment for many years. All seemed surprised when Sir Lancelot immediately stripped them to perform a complete neurological examination.
    ‘Madam, I am a doctor, not a clairvoyant,‘ he complained rather peevishly to the last of them, a pretty young woman in a hat like the cover of a seedmaker‘s catalogue. ‘All must be removed, I‘m afraid, including the charming headgear. Mrs Bowler!‘
    ‘I am perplexed,‘ he announced, by the time the hat could be replaced again. ‘Everyone in Leafy Grove seems to be suffering from severe headaches and I can discover nothing to cause a single one of them.‘ He stroked his beard. A thought struck him. ‘Married long?‘ he asked the patient suddenly. ‘Eight years, Doctor.‘
    ‘Your husband, madam. His occupation?‘
    ‘Travelling salesman.‘
    ‘H‘m. Not at home much?‘
    ‘Not much, Doctor. And... and...‘ She hesitated.
    ‘Doesn‘t take much notice of you then?‘
    ‘That‘s it, doctor.‘ She looked relieved.
    ‘It is your husband,‘ explained Sir Lancelot kindly, showing her to the surgery door, ‘who must cure your headache, unfortunately not myself‘
    ‘But he doesn‘t know any medicine, Doctor!‘
    ‘Luckily for us all, scientific knowledge is not necessary. Just pass my message on. Good morning.‘
    She tripped across the front hail. She was so perplexed, she let the door slam and knocked out another pane of glass.
    ‘Surely this isn‘t general practice?‘ Sir Lancelot muttered to himself. ‘These people don‘t need medicine. All they want is a sympathetic ear. The doctor‘s job is to cure the sick, not to coddle the well.‘ He stared across a row of back gardens under the grey summer sky, ending at the parish church next to a cinema announcing BINGO TONIGHT. ‘Though this place is enough to give Mark Tapley a shocking melancholia,‘ he concluded sombrely.
    The next patient was a worried-looking man with a cough, complaining he had been passing worms.
    ‘How many cigarettes a day do you smoke?‘ cut in Sir Lancelot, eyeing his mahogany fingers.
    ‘About sixty or seventy, Doctor, I suppose. Bit more at weekends.‘
    ‘Good grief, man! Think yourself lucky you didn‘t see a fall of soot. Bring a specimen. Good morning.‘
    He was followed by a girl turned sixteen who wanted him to persuade her parents she should get married.
    ‘Married?‘ He looked astounded. ‘What on earth is wrong with young people these days? Marriage is something which sets in much later, like arthritis.‘
    ‘Gerry and I