The Summer of Sir Lancelot

with prominent ears, which at that moment were red. He nervously twitched his clerical grey trousers. He had imagined the doctor to be slovenly, ignorant, and probably insane. The distinguished-looking forthright figure he now-found behind the consulting desk made it difficult to raise the subject of his visit.
    ‘Gwatkin? Gwatkin?‘ muttered Sir Lancelot. ‘Didn‘t you once play cricket tor Oxford?‘
    ‘That‘s right,‘ he admitted, the ears becoming more incandescent.
    ‘Medium-pace bowler with a good leg cutter, it I recall? How can I be of service?‘ the surgeon invited.
    ‘Doctor, I am — er, naturally anxious to do all I can for my parishioners. And particularly for these fifty or so you‘ve sent me in the past fortnight. But I am not a medical man, Dr Spratt.‘
    ‘Neither are they medical patients,‘ Sir Lancelot told him genially. ‘Do you realize the surgeries of this country are choked w ith people who've nothing wrong with them except a failure to cope with the ordinary, relatively simple and usually extremely dull problems of everyday life?
    And that the useless drugs they swallow would alone pay for the upkeep of your entire Establishment?‘
    ‘I agree, Dr Spratt, people seem to take rather a lot of pills here in Leafy Grove.‘ The Rev. Gwatkin shifted in his chair. ‘But it‘s the doctors who sign the prescriptions,‘ he pointed out.
    ‘They don‘t want pills,‘ declared Sir Lancelot. ‘They want sympathy. Their own families have heard the tale of woe so often they‘re fed to the back teeth. People used to confide in you fellers before medicine became respectable, but now they reckon the doctor with all his scientific mumbo-jumbo is a better bet. I suppose,‘ he broke off reflectively, ‘it‘s because we try to achieve our results in this world and you in the next.‘
    ‘Naturally, Dr Spratt,‘ continued the Vicar defensively, ‘I am always ready to listen to anyone‘s troubles but — ‘
    ‘You did a capital job on Mrs Perrins, by the way,‘ Sir Lancelot congratulated him. ‘You‘ve made an honest woman of her. I mean, you‘ve restored her sense of moral values. Sympathy!‘ Lie gazed through the window. ‘By George!‘ He jumped up, seized with an idea. ‘Felicity, my dear!‘ he called through the surgery door. ‘I have a job for you. My niece, Miss Nightrider,‘ he introduced her, as the Vicar‘s ears, which had dimmed a little, switched on again.
    ‘You have a spare downstairs room in that enormous vicarage, I‘m sure? Good. Then I would like you to start the country‘s first sympathy clinic. I will pay you a small salary, Felicity, and after six months I shall expect enough material for a paper in the Lancet. It may well be a milestone in family doctoring,‘ he ended, rubbing his hands.
    ‘But, Dr Spratt! I — I‘m afraid it may not be thought quite regular in some quarters,‘ muttered the Vicar, his ears now seeming in danger of bursting into flames.
    ‘Rubbish, man. Her father runs the Morality Foundation. By the way, Felicity,‘ he added, scribbling on a piece of paper, ‘you might get these two items at the chemist‘s. One you rub on and the other you inhale — ah, the doorbell,‘ he broke off. ‘I suspect it is the herald of Mrs Peckwater‘s coming baby. I‘ll answer it,‘ he boomed genially to Mrs Chuffey. ‘Ye gods!‘ he cried on the doorstep.
    Sir Lancelot‘s face, which had been wearing an expression far sunnier than the weather, instantly frosted over.
    ‘What the devil do you want?‘ he barked.
    ‘I just had to talk to you, sir.‘
    In the excitement of running a general practice Sir Lancelot had totally forgotten Tim Tolly.
    ‘The feeling is not reciprocated.‘
    ‘But, sir!‘ complained Tim. ‘My whole life is ruined.‘
    ‘I am sorry, though I find it difficult to believe.‘
    ‘Euphemia‘s written to say you‘ve forbidden her to see me again.‘
    ‘An extremely sensible course. Good morning.‘
    ‘She says you‘ll send her home to Singapore it I do.‘
    ‘By the very first aeroplane. Good morning.‘
    ‘But, Sir Lancelot!‘ He stuck a foot in the door. ‘She is half of my very self!‘
    ‘In that case you must tolerate the amputation. Hello?‘ he said as the hall telephone rang. ‘For Mrs Peckwater? Right. I shall be along instantly. Mrs Chuffey! The maternity bag, if you please.‘
    ‘Harry the gateman says Ganymede, sir,‘ Mrs Chuffey announced, handing him the heavy leather case.
    ‘Ring