Jeeves and the Wedding Bells(48)

The long and the short of it was that Bartholomew launched himself off his mistress’s lap like a terrier who’s been told that they were about to close off the last rabbit hole in Dorset. The lung power required to bark and run simultaneously had been developed by years of practice, and he covered the mown grass in a blur. He arrived at his chosen destination a moment before the descending red ball, timed his leap to perfection and, closing his jaws at the moment critique, as I believe it’s known, landed a juicy one on the Venables rear end.

The fielding side was divided in the aftermath of this event, some inclining to anger at the missed catch and concern for the fielder, others offering ribald suggestions for treatment and who might administer it.

The batsmen were unconcerned, and the game, minus Rupert Venables, left its slow movement behind and came to its noisy climax. The Dorset Gents went past 200 with eight wickets down, and when the ninth man was judged leg before wicket to Jeeves, with the score at 220, Sir Henry called us together.

‘There’s time for one more over,’ he said. ‘Beeching, you bowl it. They need six to win, we need one wicket. A draw’s no use to me.’

‘Surely a draw would be a happy outcome on such a pleasant afternoon,’ said Woody.

Sir Henry’s face went an odd shade of purple. ‘I tell you, young man, a draw is no earthly good. Do you understand? We are going to win this game. We will take that last wicket. No other result will do. Have you thoroughly grasped that now?’

‘Yes, Sir Henry.’

‘Get back to your places.’

I retreated to my post in front of the pavilion, praying that the wretched thing wouldn’t come anywhere near me. Woody went to the end of his run and moved a few fielders this way and that.

The batsman facing him was not the number eleven but the chap who’d been in for hours. Woody seemed to be offering him a single so he could have a go at the tailender, but the Gent was too canny for that. Five balls went by without a run and without a wicket. I was relieved that any chance of my involvement was now almost out of the question. They still needed six to win off the last ball. A draw now looked so certain that even Honest Sid Levy would have closed his book.

In his frustration, Woody banged the final ball of the match hard into the turf, about halfway up the track. Unable to resist, the batsman went back on to his heels and gave it a mighty whack to leg. High in the air it went, hovering up there, like a red bird against the sky. It seemed to have someone’s name on it for sure, though it was only as it began its spiralling descent that I understood that name was mine.

I could feel the boundary rope against the heel of my boots. I raised both hands in what may, I suppose, have looked like prayer.

It’s a rum thing, but although you could hardly have imagined a closer match, not everyone at the ground was following it with their full attention.

As the ball plummeted towards me, Lady Hackwood said, ‘I’m bored, I’m cold and I want a drink.’

In amazed response, there came the sound of a frisky brook going over the strings of a particularly well-tuned harp.

Sir Henry Hackwood yelled, ‘Catch it, you fool!’

A dog unseen began to bark.

I don’t know which of these sounds made me jerk my head like a frightened thoroughbred, but my money would be on the harp, since it was Georgiana’s face I had in my eyeline as the ball hit my upturned hands. It would have been one thing if I’d simply let it drop, but my sudden movement made me palm the thing upwards, giving it the extra boost it needed to carry over the rope for the winning six.

Dinner at Melbury Hall that night was about as much fun as the burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna, with the role of the corpse – or ‘corse’, as I seem to remember the poet had it – assigned to B. Wooster.

Hoad had apparently had another ‘funny turn’ after his impression of a limpet at the crease and the services of Wilberforce, stand-in footman, were once more in demand. It was with a leaden heart that, after an icy visit to the staff ablutions, I exchanged the cream flannel for the evening wear and went down the lime-wood staircase to old Mrs Padgett’s galley.

‘By ’eck, Mr Wilberforce, I ’eard all about that cricket match. Sir ’Enry’s been locked in the library since he come ’ome. Mr Bicknell’s run off his feet taking in whisky and soda. ’E must be on his fifth by now.’

‘I envy him, Mrs Padgett. There are times when only oblivion will do.’

‘Ah, don’t talk so soft, Mr W. It’s only a game.’

‘If only, Mrs P. Now, what shall I do?’

‘Fetch me over them little pots on the chest there. I’ve made soufflés to start. Sir ’Enry’s right fond of a cheese soufflé and I thought as how it might cheer him up.’