11

For the next few days our lives were dominated by preparations for Sir Lancelot’s arrival much more than the baby’s.

‘I’ll have to get some flowers and of course some guest towels and a special tray-cloth for his early-morning tea,’ said Nikki over her shopping list. ‘I suppose he does have early-morning tea?’

‘At seven-fifteen promptly,’ I told her. ‘And it must be china tea.’

‘China tea,’ she murmured, writing it down. ‘I hope they’ve got some in the grocer’s. I can fetch it when I collect the Bath Olivers and the Double Gloucester.’

‘And whatever you do, you mustn’t forget to put The Times on his tray. He likes to discuss the leaders over breakfast.’

‘Times on tray,’ repeated Nikki. ‘Do you suppose he’ll like our nice nylon sheets?’

‘I don’t think he will at all.’

‘I’d better buy a pair of ordinary cotton ones, then. And what on earth shall I give him to eat?’

‘He believes in doing himself pretty well, you know. He’s had some terrible rows with the dietetic experts.’

‘Perhaps a cold roast chicken would be safest?’

‘And I’ll get a bottle of decent hock. Also some whisky and soda – he always likes a night-cap. Major Marston hasn’t left any of his cigars about, I suppose?’

‘Talking of night-caps, shall I buy a hot-water bottle?’

‘Most definitely. And a thermometer thing to test the temperature of his bathwater. He generally brings his own trouser-press.’

We could hardly have been more thorough if we’d been expecting the Prime Minister himself.

Nikki said little more about Sir Lancelot’s proposition, for like all women she was more concerned making the house as spotless for him as his own operating table. As Major Marston seemed to have been camping out rather than living in the place before our arrival, there was a good deal of scrubbing and dusting for her to do with the assistance of our latest ‘woman.’ We had employed several of these since our marriage, all with varicose veins and obscure lumbar complaints which they described in loud voices over their buckets, before leaving abruptly through some unfathomable psychological disturbance.

As someone always seemed to want to clean the spot where I happened to be sitting, I generally went out and played golf with Grimsdyke. The rest of the time our guest mooched about the house telephoning complicated instructions to his bookmaker and reading the ‘Vacancy’ advertisements in the British Medical Journal.

‘Not much this week,’ he said, tossing the grey-covered paper aside on the following Sunday evening. ‘I usually stick to the “Miscellaneous” lot at the end. Occasionally you run across something like “Prosperous drug manufacturers want personable young doctor to take visiting Americans out to lunch.” But this week there’s only a lot of chaps trying to flog their old microscopes and a warning not to send original copies of testimonials.’

‘Something suitable for your peculiar talents is bound to turn up before long,’ I told him consolingly. ‘Who knows – they might be wanting a new MO at The Windmill.’

‘I never really lose any sleep over being unemployed, old lad. It’s the only chance I have to escape from this ghastly modern obsession about work. And thanks to the oil company, I’ve enough in the bank to keep body and soul apart a bit longer.’

He paused, sticking a cigarette in his holder thoughtfully.

‘On the other hand, of course, one can’t go on like this,’ he said abruptly.

‘But why not?’

‘Why not?’ He seemed for a few moments to be trying to find a reason. Then to my surprise he got up and started pacing about our sitting-room.

‘Old lad,’ he said suddenly. ‘Have you noticed anything odd about me while I’ve been here?’

I looked at him carefully.

‘You’re wearing the new cut-away sort of collar.’

‘No, no! Nothing like that. Something – well, fundamental, if you’ll excuse the word.’

‘I’ve thought you’ve been a bit moody. But I put that down to the after-effects of Poparapetyl and backing all the wrong horses.’

‘You have been witnessing,’ Grimsdyke declared quietly, ‘a soul in travail.’

‘Good Lord, have I really?’ I glanced at him nervously. ‘What on earth’s been going on?’

He sat down for a moment in silence.

‘As we’re alone, I’ll tell you. I’m going to get married.’

‘You’re going to get what?’

It was as though Romeo had announced in the middle of the balcony scene that he had to get back for his cup of Horlicks.

‘Don’t get excited, old lad,’ he went on quickly. ‘There’s nothing drastic in view. I mean I’m going to get married in theory. The practical will come later.’

‘Then I’m delighted to hear it,’ I said.

I felt the gratification of any Englishman whose friend announces he’d like to put up for his club.

‘But why this sudden melting of the heart?’ I asked. ‘A few months ago you sounded ready to enter a monastery, if you could only find one with central heating and a club licence.’

‘It’s Nature,’ Grimsdyke said simply. ‘I’ve been a beastly sort of chap–’

‘Oh, come! Unappreciated in certain quarters, perhaps.’

‘But I have. Mucking about with the affections of young women at the peak of their reproductive activity. But these last few days, enjoying the hospitality of your little home and watching Nikki turning out little white things, surrounded with all those baby’s baths and what not you’ve shoved upstairs–’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s the old paternal instinct, I suppose.’

‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of.’

‘Oh, I know. The psychological pundits are perfectly right, of course. It’s always there, however much you try and cover it up with a neat blue suit and few light hearted remarks.’

He was so distracted he let ash fall on his new silk waistcoat.

‘I don’t suppose the Grimsdykes came over at the behest of the Conqueror – much more likely at the behest of their creditors,’ he went on. ‘But did you know I’m the last of the line? I agree the proper reaction to that is, “And a damn good thing, too.” But it seems a pity that the breed, for all its imperfections, should be lost to public view for good. And the only thing I can do about it is having some offspring or getting a glass tank of preservative spirit and presenting myself to the Natural History Museum.’

‘You’d better have a drink,’ I said.

I felt the conversation was becoming rather a strain on both of us.

‘The trouble is,’ my friend went on, as I poured him some of Sir Lancelot’s special whisky, ‘that marriage mightn’t suit me.’

‘You might as well say that life mightn’t suit you. Mostly, it’s what you make of it.’

‘But I can’t run around in emotional short pants any more, that’s obvious. That awful gaffe I made on the ship, not to mention the even worse one in the Arundel, wouldn’t have happened if I’d known a bit more about feminine psychology than you can pick up in the back of a taxi. And I’m not getting any younger.’

He thrust his hands into his pockets despondently.

‘When I looked into St Swithin’s the other day it struck me how terribly young the sisters were getting. Significant, eh? Soon I’ll have a crow’s playground round my eyes, chins in cascades, and large areas of scalp exposed to the stares of passers-by. And damn silly I’ll look then with a bunch of flowers trying to woo some sweet young thing of twenty-one.’

‘But with an address-book like yours, Grim, you could get hitched up tomorrow if you wanted to.’

‘Of course I know dozens and dozens of women,’ he agreed, not looking particularly enthusiastic at the suggestion. ‘But…well, dash it, they’re all very well whooping it up in a night club at four in the morning, but how would they do at tea and cakes with all my ruddy aunts?’

‘A very old problem,’ I sympathised.

‘I remember my old grandpa,’ he continued reminiscently. ‘The one who was eaten by a tiger at eighty-four. “Gaston, my boy,” he used to tell me, “never go to bed with a woman you can’t face over breakfast.” I suppose the old boy was right, though I’ll bet the Mint to the parish poor-box he never took his own advice.’

‘But the world’s full of girls to face over breakfast,’ I consoled him.

‘Yes, and their families make damn sure to keep them away from chaps like me. And if I don’t find the right one pretty soon, I’ll be shackled for life to one of the other harpies. Half of them seem to consider themselves the future Mrs Grimsdyke already. They simply misconstrue my customary affability, like poor Nanki-Poo in The Mikado. Do you know, I’ve only got to ask a woman if she likes fried eggs and she starts stroking my lapels and purring wouldn’t it be nice if she could fry mine. I ask you!’

‘Then if you really want some fatherly advice,’ I said, as he distractedly helped himself to more whisky, ‘I’d tear up your address-book and start from scratch. Though for God’s sake don’t hurry – that’s fatal.’

He stared thoughtfully at his glass. ‘Could you give me some sort of idea of – well, a suitable type?’

‘My dear chap! It’s far more dangerous to advise a man on his choice of wife than his choice of doctor. You get blamed if either turns out to be a dud.’

‘I must find someone intelligent enough to talk to–’

‘Who won’t be too intelligent to talk to you.’

‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ He flicked the ash off his cigarette gloomily. ‘I don’t really suppose I shall ever discover a suitable mate.’

‘Of course you will, you idiot! You’re a member of a highly respectable, not to mention highly marriageable, profession. Any family would welcome you into their bosom, once you get over the habit of eyeing every female you’re introduced to as though you wanted to eat her.’

‘Then I’ll start looking tomorrow,’ he said, cheering a little. ‘Thank you, Simon, for your valued advice. Do you remember what old Sir Lancelot used to tell us as students? “For success in surgery, gentlemen, like success in everything else, you need three things – brains, beauty, and cash. If you’ve got one of ’em, marry the other two.” Who knows? I might find all three in the same pair of nylons.’

‘And even if you don’t, you’ll have a lot of fun looking for her,’ I laughed.

Our profound conversation was then interrupted by Nikki coming in with a bucket to scrub the carpet.