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.
The heat of the day was such that tea was taken outdoors. The mighty urn was placed on a trestle amid the plates of sandwiches and several examples of Mrs Padgett’s bakery. The home team was still pretty full of lunch, but the Dorset Gents, who had grazed more modestly at the Red Lion, set about clearing the decks. Sir Henry manoeuvred a beer barrel into place and tapped off the first glass for himself, before inviting the others to make free with it.
We were then lined up in teams in front of the pavilion while a Mr Jay, the photographer from the Melbury-cum-Kingston Courier (incorporating the Magnum in Parvo Gazette), took photo graphs. He spent an age with his head under the black cloth before he was satisfied that we were properly aligned; finally he held up his flash and the ordeal was over.
A reporter in a brown chalk-stripe suit and soft hat went about collecting names and checking them off against the batting order that he seemed to have purloined from the dressing-room door. ‘And you’re Mr Venables senior? Which one’s Lord Etringham? The readers do love an aristocrat. Righty ho. Thank you, gents. And have you any comment on the day, Mr Beeching? Is that “beech” like the tree or “beach” like the sand? That’s all tickety-boo. Anything else to say to our readers at all, sir?’
‘Oh, do let’s get on, shall we?’ said Sir Henry. ‘We’ve got a cricket match to finish here, you know.’
A couple of the opposition went off to pad up; the others looked happy to have stopped chasing leather all over the county. They had the satisfied look of labourers at day’s end as they settled on the grass with their beer and cigarettes.
The Melbury Hall XI was starting to take the field when I became aware of a discreet coughing in my ear.
‘I thought you would like to know, sir, that I sent a small boy to the village during the interval. In return for a sixpence, he placed a telephone call from the post office to the bookmaker in Dorchester.’
‘Any luck?’
‘Yes, sir. In double measure.’
‘I say, well done, Jeeves. So far so good, what?’
‘Indeed, sir.’
‘Any provision for a draw?’
‘Alas not, sir. The win is imperative.’
‘Well, I should have thought we’ve made enough runs.’
‘Yes, sir, though securing all ten wickets may prove difficult on such a benign surface.’
‘But they won’t have a Beeching, will they?’
‘They are said to be stronger with bat than ball, sir. Mr Beeching may yet rue giving up his wicket.’
‘Are you saying Woody got out on purpose?’
‘I believe he may have been embarrassed by the thought of scoring such a large number of runs. A gentleman should not score more than half his team’s total.’
‘How do you know that, Jeeves?’
‘It is my job to know, sir.’
‘You don’t just make these rules up?’
‘Certainly not, sir. Might I suggest you station yourself on the pavilion side of the field? In the event of a high catch, you will be less likely to be dazzled by the late afternoon sun.’
Sir Henry Hackwood had assumed the wicket-keeping gloves and was now setting his field as the Gents’ openers came out.
The umpires were in place and the sun was still high when mine host of the Hare and Hounds called out ‘Play!’ and Harold Niblett accelerated in from the Hall end of the ground. He leapt up at the crease and propelled the new ball down the track with a manly grunt; it bounced, reared up and touched the outside edge of the opener’s bat. It flew straight into the gloves of Sir Henry Hackwood behind the stumps, from where it fell harmlessly to the turf.