Free Doctor In The Swim by Richard Gordon

bands. Squiffy had always gone about looking as though an arm or a leg were likely to drop off at any moment, and if it had he would never remember where he’d left it, being pretty absent-minded as well.
    Naturally, we all three had a jolly good giggle about the dear old days at Whortleton. I couldn’t stop that warm intragastric feeling coming back every time I took another look at Lucy, even though I kept reminding myself that I was present merely as the Squiffingtons’ professional adviser. And I had to admit that poor old Squiffy himself was in something of a state. He’d always been a restless sort of bird, writhing about as though he’d just put on a new pair of woollen combs. Now the poor fellow was as jumpy as a plate of snap-crackle-pop when you pour the milk on.
    ‘Bashing atomic physics from nine to five must be no end of a strain,’ I suggested, feeling for a diagnosis over the teacups.
    ‘It’s all most frightfully secret, of course,’ said Squiffy, reaching for the cake. A greedy beggar he’d been at school, I remembered.
    ‘Perhaps you’d explain the quantum theory to me when you have a moment? I’m afraid my own knowledge of physics pretty well ended on Archimedes’ bath night.’
    ‘The quantum theory?’ mumbled Squiffy through the cake. ‘I’m not at all certain that isn’t on the secret list.’
    ‘But surely, George!’ complained Lucy. ‘Must you always behave like an oyster with laryngitis? You could at least tell us where you’re stationed.’
    ‘More than my life’s worth. Top security. Yes, indeed! A lot of people would like to find out in – in – you-know-where.’
    ‘I suppose you must know the famous Sir James?’ I hazarded.
    ‘Oh, Jimmy? Yes, very well. Jolly good boss, too. Saw him only yesterday.’
    ‘Remarkable how quickly he’s recovered from that bad car smash.’
    ‘Yes, it is, isn’t it?’
    ‘Considering it happened only last Saturday.’
    ‘Oh, yes?’ said Squiffy.
    ‘Out in Australia,’ I went on.
    ‘You mean that Sir James?’ asked Squiffy crossly. ‘Why didn’t you say so in the first place?’
    ‘I don’t think we’re being kind to George’s nerves, Gaston.’
    ‘Let’s stop talking shop,’ said Squiffy, trying to pout and eat cake at the same time.
    Lucy patted my hand on the sofa. ‘Gaston will tell us absolutely everything that happened since that awful nanny with the moustache bundled me into the train at Whortleton.’
    I sat back to oblige, but I’d hardly opened my mouth before a chap in a white jacket opened the door and announced, ‘Mr Basil Beauchamp.’
    ‘Basil Beauchamp!’ I jumped up. ‘Oh no! You don’t mean the actor?’
    ‘Of course,’ smiled Lucy. ‘Quite an honour, isn’t it? Show Mr Beauchamp straight up.’
    I said nothing. For the second time this bounder Basil was blighting my life, another second and he bounced in, all teeth and carnation.
    ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ I asked at once,
    ‘Good lord, Grim,’ returned Basil, the number of teeth on view diminishing quickly. ‘But what on earth are you doing here?’
    ‘What, you two know each other?’ asked Lucy, looking surprised.
    ‘Know each other? Why Basil and I have been pals for years and years. Haven’t we, Basil? When I was a medical student we used to share the same digs,’ I explained.
    ‘La Vie de Bohème ,’ said Basil quickly. ‘Those carefree prentice days.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘Yes, Dr Grimsdyke and I were indeed once en garçon in the same atelier . One leads that sort of life while one is waiting for managements to discover one. I believe Dr Grimsdyke still expresses his gratitude for my tempering his own youthful excesses. It was I who kept your nose to the midnight oil, eh, dear chappie? I say, what gorgeous gladioli,’ said Basil, burying his nose in them and changing the subject.
    I felt my blood pressure leaving the launching-pad. The chap was nothing but a ruddy liar. Basil Beauchamp (pronounced