The Summer of Sir Lancelot by Richard Gordon

in the corner now sells them tea and iced buns. The word PLEASE has appeared on some of the notices. There is an appointments system, so that instead of patients arriving when they felt like it and having to wait halt an hour before seeing the doctor, now they come when they are told and wait an hour instead. But the long wooden benches are still as bare as butchers‘ blocks, and the patients still sit on them furtively reading their case-notes, like their forebears in suffering who were marshalled by uniformed porters with the bedside manner of Guards drill sergeants.
    Sir Lancelot automatically cast an eye at the large blackboard where housemen were expected to chalk their more reputable whereabouts, and abruptly came to a halt. He stiffened. He stared.
    ‘I know you,‘ he announced shortly.
    ‘Well, well! If it isn‘t Sir Lancelot. A pleasure, I‘m sure.‘
    A small cloud blew into the sunshine of Sir Lancelot‘s day.
    ‘You‘re Crimes.‘ He narrowly eyed a little man with a face like a well-worn brown boot, leaning against the blackboard in a blue uniform with St Swithin‘s crested silver buttons. ‘What the devil are you doing here? And all dressed up like that?‘
    ‘Why, it‘s my new post, sir,‘ the porter told him affably. ‘And a very happy one, I‘m glad to say. The pay‘s only fairish, mind you, but what‘s that if you meet a load of interesting people?‘ With a matchstick he seemed to be searching for some attractive dental cavity. ‘Besides,‘ he added, ‘I thought it might come in convenient, like. Ch?‘
    He gave a loud laugh.
    ‘Quite,‘ agreed Sir Lancelot briefly. After a pause, he added, ‘You‘re keeping well?‘
    ‘Well? Fit as a flea what‘s been at the liver salts, thank you, sir.‘ He inspected the point of his matchstick. ‘And how about yourself, if I may ask?‘
    ‘I am perfectly well,‘ the surgeon told him briskly.
    ‘Apart,‘ he added more hesitantly, ‘from some completely minor trouble with my back.‘
    ‘The back?‘ Crimes‘ eyebrows eased upwards. ‘That‘s something new, ain‘t it, Sir Lancelot?‘
    ‘I told you, it is a totally trivial matter. I have simply come for an X-ray.‘
    ‘Still,‘ observed Crimes, ‘you never know, do you?‘
    There existed between the two men a relationship of great delicacy. One which, I believe, has never been touched on before in literature. It had started thirty years previously, when one was beginning his career as a London surgeon and the other his career as a London taxi-driver.
    ‘I have some excellent news for you,‘ announced the young Mr Spratt, arriving one morning at Crimes‘ bedside up in Virtue ward. ‘I have decided that it will be unnecessary to operate.‘
    The young Crimes‘ face creased into a smile. ‘Well, that‘s a relief, and no mistake. I wasn‘t looking forward to it as much as my summer holidays, I don‘t mind telling you.‘
    ‘In fact, it will not be needful for you to stay here at all.‘ Mr Spratt stroked his ginger beard. ‘You may go home. This afternoon, if you wish.‘
    ‘Go on?‘ Crimes could hardly believe his luck.
    ‘I don‘t think it necessary to give you more treatment in a formal way,‘ the surgeon continued. ‘But I should like to know how you get on in the next few months.‘
    This was Sir Lancelot‘s most tactful formula for announcing the case was inoperable and the outlook hopeless. It had failed him only once, with a professional colleague who knew the ropes and answered grimly, ‘Just keep an eye on the front page of The Times.‘
    But young Crimes showed as much reluctance to join his forebears as any other tedious family gathering. Ten years passed. The mysterious lump in his liver remained as large as life, and so did the patient.
    ‘You‘re sure you‘re feeling quite well?‘ the surgeon had demanded a shade impatiently, at one of Crimes‘ regular visits to the Follow-up Clinic.
    ‘Never better, thank you, Doctor. Though mind you, I‘ve