DOCTOR IN CLOVER

I didn't have the chance for a word with Melody, because she was kept talking in a corner by Adam Stringfellow. And anyway my attention was divided between Hosegood, who'd gone green, and Quintin Finn, who was asking my opinion of all his pictures.

'Do go and see my next one, dear,' said Quintin. 'I'm a commando major, and it's ever so exciting. There goes the shooting bell again. I do so hope this won't make us late this evening. My chauffeur Roland gets ever so cross if I keep him waiting, the naughty thing.'

'With the permission of Mrs Madder and the man with the chronic hay-fever,' Stringfellow announced, as the bell stopped, 'we will now go again. Quiet everyone, for God's sake. At your marks, Melody? Right. Take five. Action.'

That time they started, but Melody got her lines mixed up.

'Again,' said Stringfellow, with the expression of Sir Lancelot Spratt when the gastroscope bulb went out. 'No wonder people watch television. Take six. Action.'

Poor Melody, possibly rattled by the sight of Hosegood undoing his waistcoat, made a mess of it again.

'In Heaven's name, Miss Madder! You've only to say, "Thank you for a wonderful evening." Do try and concentrate, darling, please.'_

'Don't you talk to my daughter in that tone,' said Mum.

'If you interrupt any more, Mrs Madder, I shall ask you to leave the set.'

She got up. 'You will, will you? And where would any of you be without my daughter, I'd like to know?'

'I'm sorry, Mrs Madder. Deeply sorry. But I am suffering from bad nerves and an inadequate budget and I cannot stand any more nonsense from you or anyone-'

There was a howl beside me, as Hosegood staggered to his feet gripping his epigastrium.

'Damn it!' he gasped. 'It's all the fault of that bloody ginger tart!'

'What did you call my daughter, you swine?' Mum shouted. 'Marry her? Over my dead body!'

And she hit him on the head with a convenient carpenter's hammer.

19

'What am I supposed to do at this performance, anyway?' asked Petunia.

'Nothing, except read Sir Lancelot's little speech. I've sub-edited it a bit, by the way. I didn't think there was much point in your quoting in Latin.'

'Won't I have to talk to a lot of doctors?'

'Only my cousin Miles, and he's been incapable of speech for days. The posh job he's after at St Swithin's is decided next Thursday week.'

Petunia lit a cigarette.

'One thing, I'm not half so scared of doctors and hospitals as I used to be. Not after visiting poor dear Jimmy after his accident.'

'How is the patient, by the way?'

'Oh, fine. The doctors have let him out for convalescence. He's gone to Morecambe.'

It was the middle of September and autumn had come to London, with the news-vendors' placards changing from CLOSE OF PLAY to CLASSIFIED RESULTS and the first fierce winds starting to tear the summer dresses off the trees. I'd just picked up Petunia at her Chelsea flat and was driving her across to Sir Lancelot's meeting in St Swithin's.

'I'll nip in and collect his Lordship and his lolly,' I said, drawing up in Belgrave Square. 'Once you've said your little piece he's only got to hand Sir Lancelot his ten thousand quid, then we can all go off and have a drink. It's as simple as that.'

I found Lord Nutbeam sitting by the fire, sealing the envelope.

'Hello,' I greeted him. 'And how are we feeling this morning?'

I'd become a little worried about my patient in the past few weeks. He'd been oddly subdued and gloomy, and inclined to sit staring out of the window, like in his worst Long Wotton days. But I supposed this was reasonable in a chap who'd just finished a couple of months trying out all the night-clubs in London.

'I am still a little low, thank you, Doctor. A little low. Indeed, I fear I'm hardly up to the strain of presenting my modest donation in person.'

I nodded. 'I certainly wouldn't recommend a stuffy meeting if you don't feel equal to it. Though everyone will be frightfully disappointed, of course.'

'Besides, I have a visitor calling at noon, and I shouldn't like to keep him waiting.'

'I'll give it to the Lord Mayor to hand over, then,' I suggested.

'The Lord Mayor? I'd prefer it if you'd just quickly present it yourself, Doctor.'

'Me? But dash it! I'm not nearly important enough.'

'Oh, come, my dear Doctor. I assure you that you are, in my eyes, at any rate. I shall stay here, I think, and read a book. Or perhaps I shall play a few pieces on the piano.'

'Right ho,' I agreed, anxious to be off. 'I'll tell you all the nice things they say in the vote of thanks.'