The Summer of Sir Lancelot by Richard Gordon

rather unhappily - no offspring of my own, I am rather out of touch with such problems. Why not let me stand you a treat in some restaurant or other tonight?‘ he offered more heartily. ‘Perhaps we can iron out some of the wrinkles? I am quite prepared for your sake to put off my return to Wales for another twenty-four hours.‘
    ‘Thank you very much, Uncle,‘ agreed Euphemia quietly.
    ‘How much did Tolly get nicked, by the way?‘ he added suddenly.
    ‘Ten pounds, Uncle.‘
    ‘Cheap at the price. Who did you get against? Old Bisby? He‘s been much less fierce since I removed his prostate, I fancy.‘
    ‘Tim has left London anyway, Uncle,‘ explained Euphemia, swallowing. ‘He starts his job today at the Nicol Jarvie Hospital in Edinburgh.‘
    ‘The Nicol Jarvie? But dammit girl! That‘s a nuthouse.‘
    She nodded. ‘Yes, Uncle. Tim is going to be a psychiatrist.‘
    ‘Har!‘ Sir Lancelot rubbed his hands. ‘Of course, that would explain everything.‘ Sir Lancelot accepted all psychiatrists as mentally unbalanced by definition. ‘Well, goodbye, Euphemia. Be at my house in Harley Street tonight at seven-fifteen prompt.‘
    ‘Yes, Uncle. Goodbye, Uncle.‘
    ‘Oh, and Euphemia... ‘ Sir Lancelot twitched his nose. ‘Just a tip from an old man. If you want to keep out of trouble, don‘t use so much Cologne in future. It makes you stink like a kept woman.‘
     

8
     
    ‘But I saw it!‘ exclaimed Sir Lancelot jubilantly. ‘Every single ball of it! Square cuts, cover drives, late hooks, tickles round to leg... I saw the lot. It was an experience as unforgettable as one‘s first view of the Acropolis.‘
    He rustled The Times against the coffee pot. A headline on the sports page announced:
     
    ENGLAND SAVED
    STRONGI‘TH‘ARM AND WINTERBOTTOM PUT ON 225
     
    ‘I‘m sure you want me to tell you all about it,‘ he offered handsomely.
    It was breakfast time the following Monday morning. Mr Nightrider was getting abreast of events from his wife‘s Daily Mirror, between glaring at The Times which Mrs Chuffey had loyally whisked straight to Sir Lancelot‘s bedroom. His wife was toying with a kipper, wondering if the remains of the coming luncheon party would stretch for supper. His twenty-one-year-old daughter Felicity w as thinking of a young man called Ron, with whom her parents were as yet unacquainted. His eighteen-year-old son Randolph had his mind fixed on Folkestone, a popular English seaside resort. His younger twins, Hilda and Herbert, released from their highly relieved institutions for half-term, were independently wondering how to attach a tin can, or preferably the cat‘s tail, to the rear bumper of Sir Lancelot‘s Rolls. Both had a sharp sense of humour.
    Nobody round the table was taking any notice of Sir Lancelot, because none of them was in the slightest interested in cricket. And neither, it suddenly occurs to me chillingly, might you be. So I will skip his account of the historic partnership between Yorkshireman and Lancastrian that sunny Saturday afternoon at Lord‘s, when even the mighty Australian Duffy was hammered all the way from the Warner Stand to the Tavern -those interested can anyway look it all up in Wisden — and return to the scene as Sir Lancelot was ending magnificently, Then with the very last ball of the day, b‘ellowman got Strongi‘th‘arm in the gully with his chinaman. What do you think of that?‘
    He replaced the salt cellar, pepper pot, and butter knife with which he had been illustrating his talk.
    ‘I must see Mrs Chuffey in the kitchen,‘ announced Mrs Nightrider, rising quickly.
    ‘I am glad you have good weather for your journey home this morning,‘ added Mr Nightrider as his children disappeared as well.
    Spreading The Times across his knees in the armchair, the surgeon felt for his pipe. His departure had been delayed further through a generous decision to spend Sunday taking Euphemia to the Zoo, the Tower of London, the British Museum, and