‘Not really.’
I shall never, if I live to be as old as Methuselah, forget my first sight of the dining room at Melbury Hall. As I think I’ve mentioned, the Hackwoods used only a few rooms for themselves: drawing room, library, long room with billiard table and this dining room, with conservatory off. But what rooms they were.
The dining table could have seated thirty; and if you’d shoved it to one side of the room, you could have got another thirty down a second table alongside. No wonder a private school was baying at the gates.
I entered through a swing door in the corner, bearing a tray with several bowls of cold cucumber soup. I put it on the sideboard, as instructed, turned, and let my eyes take in the awful scene.
The company was in the process of sitting down. At the head of the table was Sir Henry Hackwood, a rubicund old villain with a face like a fox and a glittering eye. Desperation and bad temper had coloured his features, though Scotch whisky may have lent a hand. On his right was what looked like a Persian cat in human form, which, I took it from Woody’s description, was Mrs Venables.
Georgiana wore a plain satin dress and a distant look. Amelia was in blue, though the rims of her eyes were red. Lord Etringham in his Drones club shirt-studs and exact bow tie was placed between them, exuding poise. Woody was below the salt, brooding. The Venables father and son filled in the gaps, the latter without drawing breath as he told a story about a visit to the Maharajah of Jodhpur.
The real horror lay in mid-table where, opposite one another, sat Lady Hackwood and her old school friend Dame Judith Puxley. Dame Judith had rows of black beads over her evening dress and an unblinking gaze, like a rattlesnake that’s just spotted its lunch. In appearance, her old classmate, Lady H, ran more to the blowsy end of things, but her voice was a pure icicle of disappointment. Between them they were about as welcoming as Goneril and Regan on being told that old Pop Lear had just booked in for a month with full retinue.
It was with a palsied hand that I began the soup service.
‘Damned annoying thing just happened,’ Sir Henry announced to the table. ‘Shields and Caldecott, couple of my best players for Saturday, have pulled out. Motoring off to Kent to play for some wandering outfit. It’s very short notice to replace batsmen of that quality.’
‘Really, Henry, it’s just a game,’ said Lady H. ‘What does it matter who plays for you?’
‘Because, my dear, the rest of the team are fellows from the house – guests and staff. We need a couple of strong players. Beeching?’
Woody looked up from his soup. ‘I’ll see if I can think of someone, Sir Henry. It’s Thursday, so—’
‘I know what day of the week it is, man. I thought you were supposed to be a sportsman.’
‘My work at the Bar has meant that I haven’t had much time recently, but I could try a few old friends from the Oxford eleven.’
‘We don’t want swots, you fool, we want batsmen.’
‘We did beat Surrey that year, and drew with Yorkshire, so …’
It was a couple of furlongs from Sir Henry’s seat to the Coventry occupied by Woody, but a glare made itself felt across the gulf and silenced the playmate of my youth.
‘Might I make a suggestion, Sir Henry?’ said Jeeves.
‘Ah, Etringham. I knew I could rely on you.’
‘My man Wilberforce is a keen cricketer. He has frequently boasted to me of his triumphs with leather and willow. I believe that when younger he had a trial for the county.’
I had got four soup bowls almost back to safety, but at this moment they broke into a spontaneous dance, the spoons going like castanets as I plonked the whole lot on to the sideboard.
I was about to protest, when I heard Jeeves continuing, ‘I feel sure that he would be able to find another player or two at short notice. His acquaintance is formed in large part from the sporting underworld.’
‘Sounds like an excellent chap,’ said Sir Henry. ‘Tell him to see what he can do. He’s got carte blanche.’
I don’t know if anything about this exchange has struck you as odd. No? Well, the thing that seemed peculiar to me was that no one consulted the fellow Wilberforce himself. It was as though I wasn’t there.
I heard the high horse neigh impatiently, and I cast a wistful glance in the direction of the saddle. Then I remembered what Jeeves had told me about Easton, the stand-in butler at Aunt Dahlia’s; I bit the lip and took the tray back to the kitchen.
By the time I came back with some sole fillets, Sidney Venables was addressing Lady Hackwood at the top of his voice.
‘The Pathan,’ he bellowed, ‘is a splendid chap and we always got on well with them, didn’t we, my dear? The Bengali, on the other hand, is a slippery customer.’