DOCTOR IN CLOVER

I reached London in time to decide comfortably which West End restaurant to try for dinner, and felt it would be rather pleasant to drop into my club for a whisky and soda. The first person I met in the morning-room was old Miles.

'My dear chap,' I said, offering him a cigar.

'How's the new job going at Swithin's?'

'Congratulations.'

'That's jolly kind of you. But I believe you very kindly gave me them shortly after the book came out.'

'Not that. I mean on becoming a member of this club.'

He seemed to have some difficulty in talking, what with grinding his teeth.

'Oh, that. Thanks. Actually, old Carboy put me up. He says an author needs a bit of standing. Care for a drink?'

'No. No thank you. I must get off to a meeting at St Swithin's.'

He turned to go.

'Gaston-'

'Yes, Miles?'

'I admit I'm finally on the consultant staff at St Swithin's. I admit I've struggled and schemed all my life to get there. I admit it is my major ambition achieved even before my middle age. But damnation! When I think of all the work, the years, the worry…and…and…you, just scribbling away on bits of paper…'

The poor chap seemed about to burst into tears, which I'm sure would never have done in the Parthenon.

'Here, steady on, old lad.'

'All right. I'll steady on. I won't say any more. Except one thing. Do you happen to know, Gaston, that you have made me the laughing-stock not only of St Swithin's but of the entire medical profession? Do you? I am aware of it. I am aware of it perfectly well. People don't come out with it, of course. Oh, no. Not now I'm a consultant. But the students…only the other day I heard one shout, "Three cheers for Clifford Standforth" as I walked in to lecture. Everyone knows as well as I do that you made the character a ghastly caricature of myself. Your own cousin, too!'

'If I may refer you to that little bit inside the fly-leaf, all characters are entirely imaginary and any resemblance-'

'Bah!' said Miles, and walked out.

'Give my love to Connie,' I called after him.

I ordered my drink and wondered if I could nip down to Cartier's before they shut and buy a wedding present for Petunia. I'd been rather startled when she'd told me at the studio the day before she was marrying Jimmy Hosegood after all.

'It was Mum, I suppose,' she explained. 'She wanted me to marry Jimmy, so I didn't. Then she didn't want me to, so I did. But I'm terribly in love with him, darling. Even Mum's becoming reconciled. Now he's got a seat on my board.'

I didn't say anything. I supposed all women are a bit potty, and actresses especially so.

'Besides,' Petunia went on, 'look at the difference in him now he's got back from Morecambe. He's even skinnier than Quinny Finn.'

The odd thing was, after Hosegood's blow on the head he could eat as much as he liked without putting on an ounce. A jolly interesting piece of clinical research, I thought, which I'd have written up for the _British Medical Journal_ if they hadn't been after my address all these years over those arrears of subscription. As for Petunia, she was just the same, though I noticed she'd turned into a blonde.

I lit another cigar, and was making for the front door feeling pretty pleased with myself, when I heard a roar behind me.

'You, boy!'

I turned round

'You, Grimsdyke. I want a word with you.'

'Ah, yes, sir.'

'Come here. And shut the door after you.

I can't tolerate draughts.'

'No, sir.'

'Sit down there. Not like that, boy. You haven't got a spinal curvature, have you, from leaning all your life on the counters of four-ale bars?'

'No, sir. Sorry, sir.'

'Now just you listen to me, young feller me lad.'

Sir Lancelot sat back and placed his fingers together.

'I recall you once tried to make a fool of me as a student. Some nonsense about distributing invitations for my nonexistent birthday party. I could easily forgive that, knowing your pathetically infantile sense of humour. But I cannot forgive your making a much bigger fool of me in front of a duke, a marquis, and a couple of earls, not to mention a mixed bag of civil dignitaries. And please chuck that cigar away. If you haven't the taste to choose something better, my advice is to give up smoking.'

'Yes, sir. Terribly sorry, sir. But I did explain in my letter of apology how I'd sort of put the _carte blanche_ before the horse.'

'An explanation is not an excuse. Fortunately for St Swithin's, nobody quite understood what passed between us on the platform. I suppose they were all too intent looking at the young woman you brought.