Love and Sir Lancelot by Richard Gordon

Author:Richard Gordon
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: House of Stratus

9

Our kindest social convention dictates that any really first-class clanger, though keenly observed by everybody at the time, is never commented upon afterwards, nor even assumed to have happened. Apart from Sir Lancelot Spratt mumbling something obscure about Simon Sparrow and Randolph Nightrider being in the same dreamboat, no one mentioned the touching little scene on the steps. Besides, they were all looking forward to a Marlborough Hotel lunch.

‘Would Dr Knickerbocker sit on Sir Lancelot’s right,’ Deirdre directed the fat American, ‘and Dr Burton on his left,’ she organized the thin one. ‘Clive, I’m afraid I must separate you from your charming fiancée, but I too must suffer separation from Paul.’

We have perhaps not seen Deirdre Ivors-Smith at her best. She was a conscientious and pleasing hostess, and if over-ambitious for her husband to rise in the profession she once shared herself, there was nothing else to jog the clever, lazy, well-off man into bettering his surgical status. Though perhaps the warmth of her charm that morning reflected her glowing anticipation of telling Nikki Sparrow about Simon’s repeat performance – right after lunch at the hospital jumble sale.

‘What will you have to drink, Dr Knickerbocker?’ Deirdre invited as the waiter approached.

‘Coca-Cola, thank you. I never touch alcohol,’ asserted the fat surgeon.

‘And Dr Burton?’

‘Oh, Scotch and soda. I never touch Coca-Cola,’

‘How about you, Pat?’ Deirdre gave a little laugh. ‘Though I’m afraid you must know very much more about the subject than me.’

Sir Lancelot glared at his hostess. Clive was lolling back in his chair apparently absorbing the menu.

‘I guess you’re eager to hear my technique of organ transplantation,’ Dr Knickerbocker rolled across the table.

‘Naturally,’ murmured Sir Lancelot, already wishing he had settled for the macaroni cheese.

‘They have some excellent oysters,’ announced Paul.

‘No thank you.’ Dr Knickerbocker held up a hand. ‘Oysters disagree with me.’

‘They disagree with me, too,’ nodded Dr Burton. ‘May I have a dozen?’

Dr Knickerbocker pitched into his organ transplantation.

He shifted lungs with the sole bonne femme, kidneys with the boeuf Strogonoff, hearts with the ice-cream, and pieces of liver with his Scotch woodcock. He lasted, with interruptions from Sir Lancelot trying to change the subject, until the coffee.

‘And what is your interest in medicine, Dr Moneypenny?’ he enquired, taking notice of the company as he tidied the last transplanted organ into place.

‘Neuromuscular physiology,’ explained Clive briefly. ‘I’ve spent three years finding out what makes a muscle contract.’

Dr Knickerbocker nodded gravely. ‘And what practical application has that, may I ask?’

‘None whatsoever.’

‘This very charming young lady you’re going to marry,’ cut in Dr Burton. ‘Is she connected with medicine as well?’

‘Oh, no,’ nodded Clive. ‘Pat’s a barmaid.’

Dr Knickerbocker gave a grunt, as though finding alcohol in his Coca-Cola.

‘You don’t say?’ smiled Dr Burton. ‘That’s nice.’

‘I feel I’m almost part of the hospital, I must admit,’ Pat smiled back, not seeming to find anything amiss in the conversation. ‘I work in the pub opposite St Swithin’s, you see. I think I see more doctors than the patients put together.’

‘You ought

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