DOCTOR IN CLOVER

By then I was as keen as old Nutbeam for Petunia to get clearance all round and come to the party. As Pet Bancroft she'd always been a very decent sort, whom you didn't mind introducing to your friends when she wasn't in her waiter-biting mood, but dancing round the room with Melody Madder I felt could make you seem no end of a chap. The odd thing was, though I hadn't been keen on marrying Petunia Bancroft I wouldn't at all have minded Melody Madder. I supposed Freud was right-if adult happiness comes from fulfilling the longings of childhood I'd always wanted to marry a film star, along with opening for England at Lord's and beating the school record of twenty-four strawberry ices at a sitting. The only snag was not much liking the idea of getting into bed every night with a limited company.

I idled away the following day seeing some of the films, which were all about peasants and chaps in factories who took a gloomy view of life, then I put on my white dinner-jacket and wandered into Lord Nutbeam's party. Sure enough, there was Petunia, bursting at the gussets with bewitchery.

'Miss Madder.' I bowed. 'May I have the pleasure of this dance?'

'Gaston, darling! But I must introduce you to Sir Theodore first.'

I'd heard of the chief financial wizard of union Jack Films, of course, generally making speeches after eight-course banquets saying how broke he was.

'What's he like?' I asked.

'Oh, perfectly easy and affable. As long as you're used to dealing with the commissars in charge of Siberian salt mines.'

I found him sitting over a glass of orange juice, with the expression of an orangoutang suffering from some irritating skin disease.

'Of course you know Quinny Finn?'

Of course, everyone knew Quintin Finn.

You keep seeing him on the pictures, dressed in a duffel coat saying such things as Up Periscope, Bombs Gone, or Come On Chaps, Let's Dodge It Through The Minefield. Actually, he was a little weedy fellow, who smelt of perfume.

'And this is Adam Stringfellow.'

I'd always imagined film directors were noisy chaps with large cigars, but this was a tall, gloomy bird with a beard, resembling those portraits of Thomas Carlyle.

Everyone shook hands very civilly and I felt pretty pleased with myself, particularly with my old weakness for the theatre. I was wondering if Pet perhaps retained the passions of Porterhampton, when she interrupted my thoughts with:

'I'd particularly like you to meet Mr Hosegood.'

Petunia indicated the fattest little man I'd seen outside the obesity clinic. He had a bald head, a moustache like a squashed beetle, and a waist which, like the Equator, was a purely imaginary line equidistant from the two poles.

'My future husband,' ended Petunia. 'Shall we dance, Gaston?'

I almost staggered on to the floor. It was shock enough finding Petunia already engaged. But the prospect of such a decent sort of girl becoming shackled for life to this metabolic monstrosity struck me as not only tragic but outrageously wasteful.

'Congratulations,' I said.

'Congratulations? What about?'

'Your engagement.'

'Oh, yes. Thanks. It's supposed to be a secret. Studio publicity want to link me with Quinny Finn.'

'I hope you'll be very happy.'

'Thanks.'

'I'll send a set of coffee-spoons for the wedding.'

'Thanks.'

We avoided Lord Nutbeam, chasing some Italian actress with a squeaker.

'Gaston-' began Petunia.

'Yes?'

'That's exactly what I wanted to talk to you about yesterday. Jimmy Hosegood, I mean. I don't want to marry him at all.'

'You don't?' I looked relieved. 'That's simple, then. Just tell the chap.'

'But Sir Theodore and Mum want me to.'

'Well, tell them, then.'

'You try telling them.'

I could see her point.

'Gaston, I need your help. Terribly. Don't you see, I've simply no one else in the world to turn to? How on earth can I get rid of Jimmy?'

I danced round in silence. It seemed a case of Good Old Grimsdyke again always tackling other people's troubles, helping them to get out of engagements or into St Swithin's.

'This chap Hosegood's in the film business?'

She shook her head. 'He's in gowns. He's got lots of factories in Manchester somewhere. But he puts up the money for the films. You follow?'

'But I don't even know the fellow,' I protested. 'And you simply can't go up to a perfect stranger and tell him his fiancйe hates the sight of his face.'

'Come down to our tent on the beach and have a get-together. I'm sure you'll think of something absolutely brilliant, darling. You always do. Promise?'

But before I could make a reply, Mrs Bancroft was elbowing through the crowd.

'Petunia-time for bed.'

'Yes, Mum.'

'Here, I say!' I exclaimed. 'Dash it! It's barely midnight.'

'The only advice I require from you is on medical matters, young man. Up you go, Petunia. Don't forget your skin-food on the dressing-table.'

'No, Mum.'

'Or to say good night to Sir Theodore.'

'Yes, Mum.'

'And Adam Stringfellow.'

'Yes, Mum. Good night, Gaston.'