The Garden of Unearthly Delights (27 page)

‘Thank
you, William,’ said Maxwell.

‘What
do we do now?’

‘First
we try and blend,’ said Maxwell, ‘check out what the locals are wearing and
nick some clothes. As you possess a natural flair for petty thievery, this will
be your job.’

‘And
then?’

‘Well,
I’ve got this far so I don’t mean to blow it all by doing something rash. I
intend to find out everything I can about the Sultan before I put my grand
scheme into operation.

‘You
haven’t explained to me about your grand scheme.’

‘You’re
right there,’ said Maxwell. ‘I haven’t.’

They crept from the cover
of the spreading chestnut tree, skulked from bush to bush, sidled down hedge-bounded
avenues and finally approached a grand-looking archway, beyond which lay all
the main buildings that composed the City of
Rameer
.

Maxwell
stared up. The arch was wrought in cast iron, an intricate tracery of metal
rose and briar. Across its top ran an arc of gilded lettering. Maxwell read the
words aloud.

‘The
University
of
Life
,’ he read.

‘What
does that mean?’ William asked.

Maxwell
scratched his head. ‘It doesn’t mean anything. It’s like the School of Hard
Knocks. It’s just a saying.’

‘Like,
the City of
Rameer
lies—’

‘City,’
said Maxwell. ‘Yes. University. It’s not the
City
of
Rameer
, it’s the
University.’

‘It
says, the
University
of
Life
,
not
Rameer. We’ve come to the—wrong place.’

‘No,’
Maxwell shook the head he had previously scratched. ‘Think about it. A
University used to be a place where the young came to be educated. A place of
learning. In this arse-about-face world, it’s a place where the young come to
be dc-educated. To have their learning removed.’

‘But,
why?’

‘Well,
if I knew that then— Sssh, what was that sound?’

‘I
didn’t—’

A cheer
went up and much applause.

‘It’s
over yonder hedge,’ said William. ‘Shall we take  a look?’

‘Indeed.’
They scuttled over to the hedge and Maxwell took a peep over. He blinked. And
blinked.

Then
blinked again and then ducked down beside William.

‘What
is it?’ the lad asked.

‘It’s —
a — a …‘ Maxwell gave his head another shake, then rose once more to take
another look. ‘It’s a cricket match,’ he whispered.

And it
was.

But not
like any cricket match he’d ever seen before. No, siree.

Upon a
lawn, so pure and flat as if it were of velvet, two teams were in play. With
the batsmen and their fellows, who looked on from the pavilion end, Maxwell
found no fault. Elegant young chaps were these in dapper cricket whites,
striped ties knotted through trouser-belt loops, club caps, rolled sleeves. In
every inch they looked the part, decked out for the summer game.

The
fault lay with the bowler and the fielders of the opposing team.

And the
fault was this: none of these was human.

They
were animals.

Now,
Maxwell knew, as every Englishman knows, that his national team has always had
problems with animals’: Jamaican fast bowlers, Australian body-liners,
Pakistani ball-tamperers. The British touring side never
ever
lost
abroad due to lack of skill. Oh no, after all, we invented the game, didn’t we?
It was always down to the dirty doings of the opposition. Animals they were.

Bloody
animals.

But
here, however, the ‘animals’ weren’t men. They really
were
animals.

The
bowler was an elephant, big and glossy black, though togged up in cricket
whites. He walked upon his hind legs and though slow upon the run up, bowled
the ball with an awesome force.

The
batsman took a mighty swing, but
crack
went the centre wicket.

The
crowd in the stand, consisting of numerous small boys in grey uniforms, clapped
politely. The elephant raised his trunk in triumph and his team-mates
surrounded him, congratulating heartily.

Maxwell
spied out a tiger, a wolf, a panther, all walking upon two legs and clad in
cricketer’s kit.

Maxwell
looked on with his jaw hanging slack.

A heavy
hand fell upon his shoulder.

‘What
are you skulking about there for, boy?’ asked the owner of the hand. ‘Why
aren’t you padded up?’

Maxwell
jerked around and found himself staring into the face of a tall
distinguished-looking gent. Maxwell took in a magnificent handlebar moustache,
a mortar board perched upon the head, a gown draped about the shoulders.

‘Ah,’
said Maxwell.

‘Ah,
what,
lad?’

‘Ah,
sir?’
Maxwell suggested.

‘Ah
sir, yes, sir. Where are your pads?’

‘My
pads?’ Maxwell looked down at himself. He was still wearing the Governor’s
white shirt and matching strides. Though these were now somewhat grubby, there
was no doubt that they did allow him to pass for a cricketer. ‘My pads, I’ve—’

‘Left
them in your locker, I’ll be bound.’

‘That’s
probably it,’ said Maxwell.

‘Are
you in the first team? I don’t recognize your face.’

‘I’m a
reserve,’ said Maxwell.

‘What’s
your name?’

Maxwell
was about to say, Ian Botham, but felt he could do better than that. ‘Flashman,
sir,’ he said. ‘Harry Flashman, and this is my fag, Tom Brown.’

‘Your
kit’s in an appalling state, Flashman, and it looks as if your fag’s been up a
chimney.’

‘I
locked him in the boot hole’, said Maxwell, ‘for not cleaning my kit.’

That’s
the ticket. Well, get over to the pavilion and get padded up.
Jennings
took a ball to the left eye in
the first over. Cleaved his skull open. The umpire gave him not out and the
captain’s been barking for a reserve for half an hour.’

‘But
I’ve no pads, sir,’ said Maxwell, who knew as much about cricket as he did
about architecture, and didn’t fancy losing an eye for sport.

‘Get
someone to lend you a pair, tell them Mr Pederast gave you permission.

‘But
sir, I—’

‘Cut
along,’ said Mr Pederast. ‘Or I’ll take you up to my study and you know what
that means.’

‘I
think I could hazard a guess,’ said Maxwell.

‘Off on
your way then.’

Maxwell
weighed up the pros and cons. He could easily just chin Mr Pederast and don the
mortar board and gown. But then he did cut a far more convincing figure as a
cricketer. If he went over to the pavilion he could probably talk his way out
of actually playing and he might be able to learn a few things also.

‘Come
on, Brown,’ said Maxwell. ‘The honour of the school’s to play for.’

William
hurried after Maxwell. Beyond the earshot of Mr Pederast, he asked, ‘Maxwell,
why did you call that man sir? What’s a cricket match? What are pads? What does
a reserve do? Who is Flashman? Why did you refer to me as Brown? What’s a fag?
What’s a boot hole? What—’

‘William,’
said Maxwell, ‘shut up.’

They
passed through a gap in the hedge and strode out towards the pavilion. And here
young William caught his first sight of the game in play and the players, er,
playing.

He made
a kind of strangled gasping sound and fell to his hands and knees.

‘What
are
you doing?’ Maxwell asked.

‘It is
the Pantheon, prostrate yourself.’

‘Certainly
not. William, get up at once.’

‘The
Pantheon.’ William began to babble away in words Maxwell took to be Latin.

‘Get
up, before somebody sees you.’

‘Get
down
before they see
you.’

Maxwell
rolled his eyes and sat down beside William. ‘What are you going on about?’ he
asked.

‘The
Pantheon. The gods beneath.’

‘The
animals?’ Maxwell, having put two and two together and come up with a number
substantially in excess of the approved
four,
had by now convinced
himself that the clothed animals were those of the trained and performing
circus variety and that this was some kind of entertainment. He did worry about
Jennings
having his skull
cleaved open, of course, but accidents
will
happen. Ask Aspinell.
‘Gods?’ asked Maxwell. ‘Are you serious?’

William
pointed a trembly finger towards the bowler. ‘Papa Legba,’ he whispered. ‘The
tiger is Ju Ju Hand. The panther, Ouanga. There is Jephthah and Papa Nebo and
Dr Poo-Pah-Doo. The bull is Unkosibomvu.’ And so on and so forth, until he had
named all of the visiting side.

‘And
the gods played cricket?’ whispered Maxwell to himself. ‘I wonder if that’s a
lost Jimi Hendrix track.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.
William, I never had you down for a superstitious lad. Surely that doesn’t
conform to your scientific outlook on the world.’

‘Up
until now I considered myself an atheist.’

‘Yes,
but
gods?
That’s pushing things a tad.’

Papa
Legba, if such was he, bowled a serious googly, but the new batsman managed to
catch it before the off stump and push it out past the silly mid on for a leg
by.
[5]

Ju Ju
Hand leapt up to take the catch, but fumbled his Ju Ju hands and the ball
caught him squarely between the eyes, felling him to the ground.

‘Beware
the thunderbolt,’ cried William, assuming the foetal position.

Maxwell
looked on, as the team-mates of Ju Ju Hand gathered about the fallen fumbler,
who was presently stretchered away from the field of play.

‘I
don’t think they’re gods,’ said Maxwell. ‘I don’t know what they are, but I
don’t think they’re gods.’

‘You
don’t think so, really?’

‘Nope.’
Maxwell shook his head. ‘Not gods.’ William climbed to his feet. ‘Please
forgive me for that unseemly lapse. We get a lot of religious dogma drummed
into our heads.’

‘So
what’s new?’ Maxwell helped the lad to his feet. ‘Let’s get over to the
pavilion. There might be some tea and cucumber sandwiches.’

As they
approached the pavilion, Maxwell counselled William to hold his peace. ‘Just
shut up and leave all the talking to me,’ he said.

The
pavilion was everything a cricket pavilion should be. All painted white, little
clock tower jobbie with weather-vane. Steps up. Veranda, Lloyd loom chairs.
Posts to lean against. That certain smell that only cricket pavilions have, the
one which is impossible to describe.

Maxwell
swaggered up the steps, wearing a foolish grin.

‘You
there,’ called a chap in whites, who was lounging against one of the
posts-to-lean-against and cradling a glass of what seemed to be Pimm’s in a
Languid hand. ‘Who are you there then?’

‘Are
you talking to me — there?’ Maxwell asked.

‘Yes,
you there, you.’

‘Flashman,’
said Maxwell. ‘Harry Flashman, and this is my fag, Brown.’

William
tugged upon his forelock.

‘I
don’t think I know any Flashman.’

‘I
don’t think I know
you,’
said Maxwell. ‘What’s
your
name?’

‘Archer.
Lord Edgar Archer. I’m the side’s captain.’

‘Archer?
Do you have a brother in service as a knight?’

‘My
elder brother Jeffrey. Do you know him?’

‘Like a
brother,’ said Maxwell. ‘He recently loaned me his horse, Black Bess.’

‘Damn
me for a bullygarve,’ quoth Archer minor. ‘He won’t even let me take her for a
canter round the paddock.

‘Brotherly
love, eh?’ said Maxwell.

‘We
never did,’ said Archer minor, reddening at the cheeks. ‘He never told you
that,
did he?’

‘We’re
very close,’ said Maxwell, making a knowing face.

‘Swipe
me. Well, I mean, care for a tot of something?’

‘A
drink would be nice, and a sandwich. Come on, Brown.’

‘Hold
on there a moment.’ Archer made a grave face. ‘Something’s not right here.’

‘What?’
asked Maxwell, making a fist behind his back.

‘Can’t
have fags in the long room.

‘Quite
so,’ said Maxwell. ‘Wait here, Brown. I’ll bring you something out.