Doctor in Clover

14

'Even Sir Lancelot himself doesn't know the full story about Dulcie Crimpole,' Miles whispered on the doorstep, as I left for the houseboat after dinner. 'I believe I read in an advertisement somewhere that vodka leaves no smell on the breath…'

I nodded. 'A wise choice at the time.'

'Having such a formidable rival for the job as Barefoot is bad enough as it is. But if the tale got out just at this particular moment-'

'Rely on Gaston, old lad. Compared with me an oyster is garrulous. Besides, I have problems enough of my own.'

'Not serious, I hope?'

'Purely professional, and happily resolving every moment.'

He frowned slightly. 'What exactly _are _you up to, Gaston?'

'One day I hope you'll find out.

Meanwhile, don't worry. I'll take any odds you end up with a permanent stable at St Swithin's.'

'It's certainly kind of you to give me some encouragement. I'm afraid I don't seem to get much of it these days.'

Dinner had been pretty gloomy that evening, with Miles brooding on Barefoot and even Connie hardly able to raise a laugh when I told a few funny stories to cheer them up. Falling into the prevailing mood, I started pondering on my own troubles with the book. Then I suddenly had another of those brilliant inspirations of mine. Here I was, stuck over portraying to the public the brilliant and dedicated young surgeon. And sitting opposite glaring into his raspberries was the prototype, known intimately from childhood. Whenever my Clifford Standforth was faced with a tricky situation I had only to ask myself, 'How would that chump Miles have tackled it?' and that should be good for another twenty pages. I was so taken with the idea I could hardly finish my coffee before hurrying back and trying it out on the typewriter.

I felt I could have the manuscript on Carboy and Plover's doormat in a fortnight, which I might have done if a telegram hadn't arrived a few days later from my forwarding address saying: