Jeeves and the Wedding Bells (16 page)

‘Don’t call me that.’

‘But I’ve always called you that. It’s your name, you chump.’

‘Didn’t Stinker tell you?’

‘Tell me what?’

I told her.

‘What an absolute riot,’ said Stiffy. ‘Kindly fetch me a drink at once, Wilberforce.’

The Rev. Pinker rolled his eyes and I rolled mine back as I trotted off to oblige. I don’t know what Bicknell put in his gin slings, but with the company on its second refill the volume of conversation had gone from
mf
to
f
, as Hymns A and M has it. It was at this moment that Lady Hackwood and Dame Judith Puxley decided to come in from the hall and join the party.

The effect on Esmond was like one of those sudden freezes on a December afternoon in New York, when one minute you’re strolling along the sidewalk whistling ‘Danny Boy’ and the next you feel that if you don’t get inside a cab that instant your limbs will start to drop off. A look of horror came over his face – a look that suggested he had motored across half of England to have a day off from this kind of natural hazard.

Conversation remained sticky until the arrival of Georgiana and Amelia. They had sportingly put their troubles behind them and had dug out the freshest and floweriest of summer dresses; they swooshed into the long room, bestowing smiles to left and right. You couldn’t help thinking that their finishing schools would have been proud of them.

While the nobs went off to a buffet luncheon in the dining room, I repaired to the kitchen and was happy to see there was still a quadrant of Mrs Padgett’s pie, as well as sliced tongue and a bottle of beer.

I wouldn’t say the mood was confident as I set off, refreshed, for the cricketing arena; but as the last smudge of cloud shifted
to one side, allowing the sun to get at the uplands of Dorset, even T. Hardy would have had to admit that things could have looked a dashed sight worse.

The pavilion had a low picket fence in front and a balcony on the upper floor under a thatched roof. Pinned to the inside door of the home dressing room was a handwritten batting order, which read:

Melbury Hall XI vs Dorset Gentlemen Saturday 19 June

1. Rev. H. Pinker

2. Mr S. Venables

3. Mr E. Haddock

4. Mr P. Beeching

5. Mr H. Niblett

6. Hoad

7. Sir H. Hackwood

8. Wilberforce

9. Liddle

10. Lord Etringham

11. Mr R. Venables

Start: 2.15 Tea: 4.15 Stumps: 6.30

As I may have mentioned, I had never been much of a cricketer, but just seeing the order of battle did somehow stir the old juices; I felt like a retired war horse in the paddock when he hears the distant sound of a bugle.

The home side arrived in dribs and drabs, well enough
refreshed, to judge from the repartee. Farmer Niblett turned out to be a fine specimen of West Country manhood, his face, neck and arms tanned to the colour of a ripe cobnut.

Sir Henry put his face round the door of the dressing room. ‘All right, men?’ he barked. ‘I’ve won the toss and we’re batting. Pinker and Venables, get your pads on. I should say we need at least two hundred on this pitch. Two twenty would be better.’

Outside, the Dorset Gents were limbering up – and an unnerving sight it was. A couple of burly fellows were touching their toes and whirling their arms about, while the others flung cricket balls at each other. They all seemed able to pluck the cherry from the air one-handed, however fast it was travelling. Eventually, they wandered off into the middle and took their places with rustic noises and the odd handclap of encouragement.

From among the cars behind the pavilion, the soft thump of metal on metal, followed by a loud rattle of clashing crockery announced that Georgiana had arrived with the tea things.

Pinker, H. and Venables, S. went out to bat, to the applause of the crowd – which, with the entire household of Melbury Hall, plus supporters of the Gents and sundry sporting folk of Melbury-cum-Kingston, must have numbered almost a hundred.

I found that Jeeves had materialised by my side.

‘Did you manage to place your bet?’ I said.

‘Yes, thank you, sir. The turf accountant was most obliging. I was able to link the outcome of the match to that of the daily double at Ascot this afternoon.’

‘And did Hackwood have enough of the stuff to make it a worthwhile wager?’

‘Emphatically so, sir. Sir Henry was able to negotiate the loan of a substantial sum from Mr Venables senior.’

‘But you told me the Colonial Service pension was paltry.’

‘I believe the Collector was obliged to draw on Mrs Venables’s means, sir. Yesterday was a day of intense financial activity. In the end, a telegraphic transfer was effected from London.’

‘So the moolah’s wrapped in Spanier’s Sausage Casing?’

‘One might so describe it, sir, though in this instance the casing forms the meat of the wager and Sir Henry’s contribution merely the outer membrane.’

‘How much is the old villain in for?’

‘I fear I am not at liberty to disclose, sir, though if the bet were to come good, it would certainly enable Sir Henry to refuse the importuning of the private school for a considerable period.’

‘Hickory Hot Boy, Jeeves!’ I said. ‘A most apt summation of—’

‘That’s smokin’ good.’

‘One can but hope so, sir.’

Out in the middle, hostilities had commenced.

‘But, Jeeves,’ I said, ‘suppose the nags don’t win. Or we come a cropper here, in the cricket. More than likely, I would have thought. Do you need all three parts to bring home the goods?’

‘Indeed, sir. Two winners would not suffice. It is a case of all or nothing.’

‘But if we lose, how will Sir Henry pay back old Vishnu?’

‘I did put that question to Sir Henry myself, sir, but it was not an eventuality he was willing to contemplate. He has developed an unshakeable faith in my equine selections and is confident of his ability to captain the cricket side to victory.’

I felt a slight queasiness when I finally cast the eyes pitch-ward to see Sidney Venables crouched, willow in hand, and the Dorset Gents opening bowler thundering in from the village end. I haven’t the faintest idea who Victor Trumper was, but unless he wore a striped tie beneath his belly and waved his bat like a dowager attempting to swat a wasp, his resemblance to S. Venables can have been no more than fleeting. The Nizam of Hyderabad, one felt, must have been quite a one for dishing out the old oil.

Things were on a firmer footing, in all senses, at the other end, where Stinker seemed to be taking root. His lower half remained attached to the turf, but he met the ball with a meaningful thump that sent it into the long grass. The Gents bowler stood with his hands on his hips and let him have what appeared to be a rather un-Christian appraisal of his batting style. Stinker simply turned the other cheek and carted the next one into a group of small boys on the opposite side of the ground.

‘Good shot, Pinker!’ called out Sir Henry.

I settled into a deckchair and picked up my copy of
The Mystery of the Gabled House
. My amateur sleuthing was interrupted by a tremendous commotion from the middle, where
Vishnu Venables was being given his marching orders by the umpire – the finger of doom belonging to a tallish cove I recognised as the landlord of the Hare and Hounds.

Esmond Haddock now made his way to the wicket, with a consoling word for the Collector as their paths crossed. If Esmond’s pre-lunch blazer had been on the loud side, the cap he had selected from a number in his bag made the many colours of Joseph’s coat look as dull as an army blanket. It appeared to be the cause of some ribaldry among the Dorset Gents, and the first ball sent down in Esmond’s direction made a good stab at removing it, peak first, from his head.

‘Hello, Wilberforce,’ said a friendly voice in my ear, and the next thing I knew the adjacent deckchair was full of summer cotton and dark, waving tresses. ‘Enjoying the cricket?’

‘Rather,’ I said. ‘Everything all right with the tea things?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ said Georgiana. ‘Why shouldn’t it be?’

‘It’s just that I heard you arrive and …’

‘Yes. Well, one of these wretched Dorset Gents had parked in the wrong place.’

‘So you nudged him out of it.’

‘Not deliberately.’

I didn’t want one of those
Hamlet
pauses developing, so I ploughed on. ‘You seem friskier today.’

‘Yes, I am. I don’t know what came over me yesterday. I wanted to apologise. I hope I didn’t embarrass you. Please forgive me.’

‘Think nothing of it. I’m sorry I was no help. I didn’t want to get under your feet.’

‘Absolutely. Now who’s this fellow in the hideous hat?’

‘Esmond Haddock’ I replied. ‘Huntsman, sonneteer and all-round good egg.’

The next half-hour went by in a sort of dream as we chatted pauselessly to the background noise of Stinker and Esmond bashing the ball about. It wasn’t until Woody had his turn that I saw what we’d been missing. The only way I can describe it is to say that it was like hearing a string quartet after an oompah band. Where the other chaps had humped and heaved, Woody eased the little red ball across the grass with a flick or a caress. Once he just seemed to lean over and whisper in its ear, yet when it rattled into the fence in front of the pavilion it snapped one of the pickets.

He was joined by Harold Niblett, who applied the long handle, as I believe the expression is, coming down the prepared surface to dispatch the Gents’ slow bowler over the top of a particularly tall cedar tree and into the lane. Great was the excitement among the half-dozen small boys who ran off to find it. While Niblett took the high road, Woody stuck with the low, continuing to bisect the sweating Dorset Gents, wherever their captain placed them; you almost expected to see scorch marks through the green.

‘I hope Amelia’s enjoying this,’ I said.

‘I think she is,’ said Georgiana. ‘Look, she’s stopped buttering the bread.’

I thought of pointing out that Amelia’s open mouth was a trap for passing insect life, but chivalry prevailed.

‘I’d better go and give her a hand and see how the urn’s coming on,’ said Georgiana.

‘Must you go?’

‘Yes, I must.’

The fun eventually came to an end when a steepler from Niblett was caught on the boundary and there arose the awful prospect that I might soon have to don the pads and gloves myself. The next man in was Hoad and I was relieved to see that he had based his attitude on that of Stonewall Jackson. It didn’t matter what they chucked at him; he met it with the same hunched prod, while the ball dropped on roughly the same spot near his feet.

If Hoad could best be described as inert, Beeching, P. was about as ert as they come, waltzing down the wicket to send the ball humming to all points of the compass. An excited murmur had started among the small boys and had now reached the pavilion – viz., that Woody was nearing his century. The entire ground seemed rapt; even Dame Judith Puxley for a moment set aside her
Letters and Inscriptions of Hammurabi
and raised her lorgnette.

To signify Beeching’s score, a boy propped a nine and a five on the grass against the scoreboard, where the total stood at 186. Woody glanced in the direction of the board, stepped down the wicket and, for the first time, lifted the ball from the turf, up into the air, and into the hands of an astonished fielder.

There was disappointed applause as Woody returned to the pavilion – unruffled, it seemed, and undampened by so much as a bead of p. The next man in was Sir Henry Hackwood, who set about the opposition with a relish I wouldn’t have thought
the old boy to have had in him. He loudly instructed Hoad not to run, as he would be dealing in boundaries only.

Perhaps it was the honour of batting with his employer or perhaps the prospect of finally registering a run after twenty minutes at the crease; in any event, Hoad suddenly hit the ball and bolted like a jackrabbit from his home ground with a screech of ‘Come one, Sir Henry!’ He arrived at the other end to find the baronet unmoved. The ball made its way back to the wicket-keeper, followed by a few choice comments.

Hoad’s return to the hutch meant that there was no longer any means of postponing the entry of Wooster, B. It’s a funny thing about cricket, but what from the sidelines looks like a gentle pantomime, white figures flitting to and fro, is quite different when you arrive in the middle. It’s hostile. The ground is hard and dusty; it bears the spike marks of battle. There may be a few ‘Good afternoon’s, but there are also some less cheery words. As the bowler starts his run-up, a silence descends on the fielders; the new batsman’s mouth is dry and his tongue flicks out in vain; the silence seems to close about his head. You see the straining, angry face of the fellow about to bung it down at you as hard as he can; the instant before the first glimpse of red is about as lonely as a chap can feel …

And then the wretched thing whipped past my groping bat to a chorus of oohs and aahs and a general sense that if there was one lucky blighter in England on this summer’s day his name was Bertram Wooster – or in the circs, I suppose, B. Wilberforce.

‘Eye on the ball, man,’ Sir Henry advised. ‘Keep your head still.’

As the Dorset Gent went back to the end of his run, I happened to glance over to the pavilion. Amelia and Georgiana, their tea preparations presumably complete, were standing by the picket fence, arms folded, chatting and watching the action. They were pointing at something that seemed to amuse them. I hoped it wasn’t me.

His face contorted with effort, the bowler chucked another fearsome one my way. I kept the old bean still, as per instruction, but forgot to do much with the bat. By the time I shoved it forwards, it was too late; there was a sound of splintering timber just behind me and a rather unsporting roar from the wicket-keeper.

I slunk back to the pavilion, trying not to catch anyone’s eye before I reached the lonely solace of the dressing room.

Liddle was the next man in and managed to squirt a couple away, while at the other end Sir Henry had a few more heaves. The upshot was that at teatime we had a total of 225 and the captain felt able to declare the innings closed.