The Summer of Sir Lancelot

Richard Gordon
was born in 1921. He qualified as a doctor and then went on to work as an anaesthetist at St Bartholomew‘s Hospital, and then as a ship‘s surgeon. As obituary-writer for the
British Medical Journal,
he was inspired to take up writing full time and he left medical practice in 1952 to embark on his ‘Doctor‘ series. This proved incredibly successful and was subsequently adapted into a long-running television series.

Richard Gordon has produced numerous novels and writings all characterised by his comic tone and remarkable powers of observation. His
Great Medical Mysteries
and
Great Medical Discoveries
concern the stranger aspects of the medical profession whilst his
The Private Life of...
series takes a deeper look at individual figures within their specific medical and historical setting. Although an incredibly versatile writer, he will, however, probably always be best known for his creation of the hilarious ‘Doctor‘ series.

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

ALL PUBUSHED BY HOUSE OF STRATUS

THE CAPTAIN‘S TABLE

DOCTOR AND SON

DOCTOR AT LARGE

DOCTOR AT SEA

DOCTOR IN CLOVER

DOCTOR IN LOVE

DOCTOR IN THE HOUSE

DOCTOR IN THE NEST

DOCTOR IN THE NUDE

DOCTOR IN THE SOUP

DOCTOR IN THE SWIM

DOCTOR ON THE BALL

DOCTOR ON THE BOIL

DOCTOR ON THE BRAIN

DOCTOR ON THE JOB

DOCTOR ON TOAST

DOCTOR‘S DAUGHTERS

DR GORDON‘S CASEBOOK

THE FACEMAKER

GOOD NEIGHBOURS

GREAT MEDICAL DISASTERS

GREAT MEDICAL MYSTERIES

HAPPY FAMILIES

INVISIBLE VICTORY

LOVE AND SIR LANCELOT

NUTS IN MAY

THE PRIVATE LIFE OF DR CRIPPEN

THE PRIVATE LIFE OF FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE

THE PRIVATE LIFE OF JACK THE RIPPER

SURGEON AT ARMS

The Summer of Sir Lancelot

Richard Gordon

Copyright © 1965, 2001 Richard Gordon

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

The right of Richard Gordon to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This edition published in 2001 by House of Stratus, an imprint of Stratus Holdings plc, 24c Old Burlington Street, London, W1X 1RL, UK.

www.houseofstratus.com

Typeset, printed and bound by House of Stratus.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 1-84232-501-9

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher‘s express prior consent in any form of binding, or cover, other than the original as herein published and without a similar condition being imposed on any subsequent purchaser, or bona fide possessor.

This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author‘s imagination.

Any resemblances or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

1

It was one of those glorious blue and gold mornings in May, sent to fool us that summer for once won‘t be the usual programme of rain and bad light stopping play, Wimbledon flooded, frostbite at Henley, and the Derby run in a thunderstorm. Instead there seemed the chance at last of farmers ruined by drought, half the Guards fainting at Trooping the Colour, roads jammed to the coast, and the New Forest going up in flames. It was a Saturday, so Clarice and Edna could get out their little motor scooter and putter away from Birmingham right after breakfast. They‘d planned a picnic among the Herefordshire orchards, which, like the two girls, were all dolled up in their best spring finery.

It was a flagon of cider with the sardine sandwiches which braced them to press across the borders of Wales, where the mountains had drawn handkerchiefs of cloud over their faces to sink into an afternoon doze. But even such pretty girls on a motor scooter got nudged a good deal by the passing traffic, until they found refuge in a peaceful lane which wandered among the mountains before bringing them suddenly to the banks of a river. They stopped. The water frisked and laughed among the rocks, spreading into a deep clear pool at their feet. Birds swooped and skimmed over the surface. Bright-coloured flies hovered indecisively in the air. Oaks spread benevolent arms over soft new knee-high bracken. As for the human race, it seemed for the moment to have gone out of production.

‘It‘s lovely,‘ breathed Clarice, switching off the engine. ‘You wouldn‘t think, would you,‘ observed Edna, the thoughtful one, ‘we were hardly a hundred miles from the office and Mr Stallybrass?‘

‘I know what — ‘ Clarice unbuckled her shiny white helmet. ‘Let‘s have a swim.‘

‘A swim?‘ Edna‘s eyebrows, drawn with special care that morning, shot upwards. ‘But we haven‘t got our swimsuits.‘

‘Who said anything about swimsuits?‘ Clarice was the daring one, who even cheeked Mr Stallybrass. ‘Come on, Edna, there isn‘t a soul for miles. It‘ll be ever so cooling after the ride.‘

‘Oh, no! Not without swimsuits. My mum wouldn‘t like it.‘

‘Your mum would never find out, would she?‘

The water gurgled a throaty invitation.

‘But not a word to Mum, mind,‘ said Edna breathlessly.

It took the two pretty girls hardly a minute to slip out of their clothes and come giggling through the downy bracken to the water‘s edge. I hasten to add, in case you‘re thinking of giving this book to Auntie for Christmas, that nothing in the slightest rude is going to happen. It was but a scene of sunlit, innocent gaiety, which would have had Renoir reaching hastily for his paintbox.

‘Go on, Edna,‘ laughed Clarice, ‘you first.‘

‘No, you first. I bet it‘s proper cold.‘

‘Both together, then!‘

Hand in hand the two pretty girls fell into the pool, and with little shrieks started splashing each other‘s back.

A large hawthorn bush standing alone on the bank opposite emitted a howl.

‘Hey! You!‘

The girls submerged to the neck.

‘You pair of cretinous vandals!‘ A red-faced bearded gentleman in tweed knickerbockers and deerstalker emerged from the quivering bush. ‘You couple of barbaric morons, get out of my river this instant.‘

‘We — we‘re swimming,‘ Clarice‘s startled head addressed from the surface.

‘You don‘t imagine I think you‘re waiting for a blasted bus?‘

‘We‘ve a perfect right-‘

‘Do you realize, you half-witted harpies, I‘ve been stalking a fish there for two entire weeks? Don‘t you understand I have spent the whole day in this highly uncomfortable piece of shrubbery solely in the hope of seeing him stick his neck out of the water for a fly? Do you know you are now probably trampling the thing to death under your feet? Get out of that water, before I call the bailiff.‘

‘We‘ve no clothes on!‘ screamed Edna.

‘I‘ve seen more naked women than you‘ve had hot dinners,‘ the fisherman informed her briskly.

‘He‘s mad!‘ Edna had underwater hysterics. ‘Mad! Like you see in the papers.‘

‘Give over, Edna! We can‘t expose ourselves, can we?‘

‘Oh, Clarice! Let‘s get out. Before we‘re both assaulted.‘

‘If you‘re not ashore in two seconds,‘ added the bearded gent furiously, ‘I shall wade in and gaff the pair of you.‘

Indiscretion seeming the better part of valour, the two pretty girls scrambled blushingly up the bank, climbed breathlessly into their clothes, and made damply for their motor scooter and safety from bearded monsters who clearly embarked upon assaults as lightly as bidding you good morning. They left behind a more or less harmless old-fashioned Englishman, gazing sadly at the muddied waters of a favourite pool now as much use for fishing as the fountains in Trafalgar Square.

‘Ye gods,‘ was all Sir Lancelot Spratt could bring himself to say. ‘What is the world coming to?‘

‘Ye gods,‘ repeated Sir Lancelot over breakfast the following Monday morning, ‘what is the world coming to?‘

‘That‘s the nineteenth,‘ remarked Lady Spratt absently, reading a letter. ‘Nineteenth what?‘

‘The nineteenth time you‘ve made that observation over the weekend.‘

‘Well, what
is
it coming to?‘ Sir Lancelot notched the score to twenty, brandishing his
Times
like the banner of the Old Guard at bay. ‘Look at this - a group of family doctors have formed what they describe as a “Ginger Group” to get more pay from the Government. How on earth does the profession expect to retain even the shreds of public respect if it persists in behaving like a gang of disgruntled boilermakers? It is totally beyond me. I suppose next they‘ll be working to rule, and shoving a dirty great gastroscope down everyone complaining of a bellyache. Thank God I‘ve retired! Who‘s that letter from?‘

‘Nikki Sparrow. Simon‘s wife.‘

‘Ha! She‘s expecting again?‘

‘If she is, she doesn‘t find it a matter worth mentioning.‘

‘How's Simon like being registrar to old Cambridge? Stout feller, Cambridge,‘ Sir Lancelot reflected. ‘Never saved a life and never lost one. Such are the salt of the surgical earth.‘

‘Simon has decided to put in for your old job on the senior staff of St Swithin‘s,‘ Lady Spratt informed him. ‘The election‘s been definitely fixed for the end of summer.‘

‘Oh?‘ returned Sir Lancelot distantly. ‘Indeed?‘

‘Nikki Sparrow shares your own exquisite tact, my dear,‘ continued Lady Spratt, a little fluffy thing who against her husband was very much a
soufflé
compared to sirloin, ‘by not saying in so many words she‘d desperately like you to exert a little influence for Simon.‘

‘That would be most unethical.‘

A little sigh fluttered from his wife. ‘And to think in your time you‘ve pulled more strings than a band of Welsh harpists. You could at least write to my brother.‘