Doctor in Clover

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.'

They left me in the middle of the dance floor, feeling pretty cross. I'd been looking forward to a jolly little party with Britain's biggest sex symbol, and here she was pushed off to bed like a schoolgirl on holiday. I stared round, wondering what to do with the rest of the evening. As I didn't seem to know anybody, and Lord Nutbeam was starting to throw Charlotte Russe into the chandeliers, I thought I might as well go up to bed, too.

'Excuse me,' said a voice behind me.

I turned to find a tall blonde with a long cigarette-holder and one of those charm bracelets which make women sound like passing goods trains whenever they reach for a drink.

'You're Dr Grimsdyke, aren't you?'

'Quite correct.'

'Known Melody Madder long?'

'Years and years,' I returned pretty shortly. 'Almost at school together, in fact.'

'Really? How very interesting. Don't you think it's stuffy in here? Shall we go outside for a drink?' She took my arm. 'You can tell me the story of your life in the moonlight.'

'I don't really think you'd be very interested.'

'But I'm sure I'll be very interested indeed, Doctor.' She made for the terrace. 'Let's sit in the orangery, where we'll not be disturbed.'

I didn't see Petunia for the next twenty-four hours, Lord Nutbeam being in such a state after the party we had to spend a quiet day motoring in the mountains. In the end, I'd passed a pleasant little evening with the blonde, who's name turned out to be Dawn something and was one of those sympathetic listeners who make such good hospital almoners and barmaids. After a few glasses of champagne she'd got me telling her all my troubles, including Miles and trying to write a book, though I kept pretty quiet about Petunia and Jimmy Hosegood.

I'd already decided it was as dangerous to go mucking about gaily in people's love affair's as to go mucking about gaily in their abdomens, and to let poor old Pet manage this amorous Tweedledum herself. I supposed I could have told him she was married already with a couple of kids in Dr Barnardo's. I could have said she ground her teeth all night in bed. I could have challenged him to a duel, when at least I'd have stood the best chance of scoring a hit. But these ideas all struck me as leading to unwanted complications.

It was a couple of mornings later when I wandered down to the beach to find Petunia, and discovered Hosegood in the tent alone, on a deckchair that looked as unsafe as a birdcage under a steam-roller.

'Nice day,' he said, as I appeared. 'Great stuff for toning up the system, a bit of sunshine.'

As he was fully dressed except for his boots and socks, I supposed he was drawing up the beneficial ultra-violet rays through his feet.

'Mind if I sit down? I was looking for Miss Madder.'

'Make yourself comfortable, lad. She was called on some photographing lark somewhere.'

He seemed very civil, so I took the next chair.

'Enjoying all the fun of the Festival?' I asked.

Hosegood sighed.

'I'd be happier on the sands at Morecambe, I would, straight. I don't hold with all this flummery-flannery myself, though there's plenty as does. Not that I'm one to interfere with anybody's enjoyment, as long as it's decent.'