I entered the net, made a mark in front of the stumps and prepared to take my medicine. Woody ambled in like a thoroughbred going up to the start. A second later, a red pill whipped past my groping bat. Jeeves, with his sleeves rolled up, came off a shorter run-up, with the dignified tread one would have expected. The ball, however, as it approached, hissed and buzzed like a hornet whose siesta has been interrupted. I made a stab at where it pitched, but it was no longer there, having made off sideways.
Woody let out a roar of delight. ‘I say, well bowled, Jeeves. I might have guessed you’d be a spinner.’
‘Thank you, sir. I fear I am a little rusty. It is a long time since I have had the opportunity.’
Cantering in again, Woody let rip another snorter that I failed to see, though I fancy I smelt the leather as it whipped past the proboscis. I wondered if he was getting a bit of Amelia business off his chest. When Jeeves came in for a second go, I cunningly took a swing – not at where the ball bounced but at where it had finished last time; unfortunately this one zipped off the other way.
Hands on knees, Woody continued his heartless cackling. ‘I say, have you ever played professionally? Wasn’t there a Jeeves who played for Worcestershire?’
‘Warwickshire, sir. A distant relation. I believe he took four wickets for the Players against the Gentlemen at Lord’s in 1914. Alas, it was to be his swansong.’
‘What a shame. Retire, did he?’
‘No, sir, he volunteered.’
‘I see. And … That was it, was it?’
‘The Battle of the Somme, sir. He was in C Company of the 15th Royal Warwicks. The assault on High Wood.’
‘Bad show,’ said Woody.
It was quiet for a moment; you could hear the rooks chattering in the elms and cedars.
‘You ready, Bertie?’ called out Woody. ‘Slower one coming up.’
For the first time, there was a brief meeting of willow and leather, the ball scraping along the side of the netting and back to the feet of the bowler.
‘Good shot, sir,’ said Jeeves.
‘Keep your left elbow up, Bertie,’ said Woody. ‘Lead with the left. The right hand’s just there for a bit of guidance and punch if you need it.’
‘Right ho.’
I doubt whether I connected with more than half a dozen of Woody’s languid whizzers, though one of them connected most definitely with the Wooster soft tissues, causing some vigorous rubbing of the affected area and a rather insincere apology, I thought, from the bowler.
‘Must you chuck it down so bally fast?’ I said.
‘Part of your preparation for tomorrow, old chap.’
‘Who are these Dorset Gentlemen? Old alumni of the local Dotheboys, I suppose. Sherborne, is it?’
‘No, no,’ said Woody. ‘They’re a load of the most fearful toughs, Jeeves tells me. The match against Blandford Forum last year had to be abandoned.’
‘Can this be true, Jeeves?’
‘I have done some research into the players who comprise the team, sir. It seems that few of them are from Dorset and none of them are gentlemen.’
‘So this is how they’ll go after you, Bertie,’ said Woody, sending down another nasty lifter.
As for Jeeves’s bamboozling slower deliveries, they remained untouched by human bat, as it were. When Woody took his turn with pads and willow, even he treated them with respect, getting his nose right over the top and more or less smothering the wretched thing as it spat and fizzled on the turf.
Jeeves assured us that Sir Henry was placing him far enough down the order that he would be unlikely to bat, so when Woody felt he had got the old juices running again, we called it a day and set off across the grounds towards where cooling waters and preprandial drink would be awaiting the privileged pair, while more sweated labour was doubtless planned for Bertram.
THE FIRST PLAYER arrived soon after the church clock had struck noon. It was Esmond Haddock, and the time that had passed since I last saw him had done nothing to lessen his resemblance to a classical deity whose noble brow ought to be worth twenty runs to us, I reckoned, before he even faced a ball.
Bicknell was stationed in the porch when Esmond’s roadster hove alongside. The trusty butler made for the steps, but I beat him to it and managed to alert Esmond to my new status as I opened his car door.
‘Ah well, the first time we met, Bertie, you were pretending to be Gussie Fink-Nottle,’ he said. ‘So I suppose this is a slight improvement.’
Esmond was escorted by Bicknell into the long room, where he stood before the fireplace in a blazer of startling colours, sipping a gin cup with a fistful of herbiage in it. At ease, with no aunt or dowager in sight, he held forth to Sir Henry and Lord Etringham with tales from the Hampshire hunt. Things could hardly have got off to a juicier start, I felt. Sir Henry’s face was all ruddy delight as he eyed up the Apollo of Andover.