Before I could congratulate myself further, I was distracted by what sounded like a pack of foxhounds in the hall.
Was it possible that all this racket could issue from the lungs of a single dog? Yes, it was – if that dog was the terrier Bartholomew. And if so, then Stephanie Pinker, née Byng, could not be far behind. By the time I got into the hall, the creature was halfway up the main staircase with Stiffy about three steps behind and losing ground fast. ‘Come here, you naughty boy!’ she was shrieking. ‘Stinker’ Pinker was at the foot of the stairs in clerical garb and linen jacket, gesturing weakly.
‘What ho, Stinker,’ I said, sotto voce. ‘Don’t forget you don’t know who I really am. I’m pretending to be Jeeves’s valet. And he’s Lord Etringham. It’s a long story. And I thought I quite clearly said No Dog.’
‘Stiffy said she wouldn’t miss the cricket for the world. And she said everyone loves Bartholomew. I tried to reason with her, but you know what she’s like.’
At this point, Stiffy returned to ground level, with the yapping Bartholomew cradled to her bosom. ‘Hello, Bertie,’ she said, planting a smacker on my cheek.
‘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.