Jeeves and the Wedding Bells

by Sebastian Faulks

  It was a balmy evening as I sauntered up with Woody and Jeeves – or Lord Etringham as he remained until we were well down the crazy paving, through the Pineapple Gates and out of earshot of the house. To keep the charade intact, I was carrying Woody’s leather cricket bag, while he and Jeeves walked a few paces ahead.

  A stout net stood beside the pitch, with three stumps at the batting end and a single one for the bowlers. To say that I was out of practice at our national game would be a … What’s the word? Li-something. Jeeves would know. Undershooting by a fair whack, anyway. I had once opened the bowling at private school when some plague had laid low the brightest and best; at Eton I had been a wet bob, though an ineffectual one, we Woosters tending to the willowy and the prejudice in the boat running to avoirdupois, and plenty of it. All in all, it had been more than a decade since the cream flannel had graced the limbs and it was with no small trepidation that I donned the protective gear beside the net while Jeeves and Woody windmilled their arms in somewhat menacing fashion.

  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.

  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.

  From among the cars behind the pavilion, the soft thump of metal on metal, followed by a loud rattle of clashing crockery announced that Georgiana had arrived with the tea things.

  Pinker, H. and Venables, S. went out to bat, to the applause of the crowd – which, with the entire household of Melbury Hall, plus supporters of the Gents and sundry sporting folk of Melbury-cum-Kingston, must have numbered almost a hundred.

  I found that Jeeves had materialised by my side.

  ‘Did you manage to place your bet?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, thank you, sir. The turf accountant was most obliging. I was able to link the outcome of the match to that of the daily double at Ascot this afternoon.’

  ‘And did Hackwood have enough of the stuff to make it a worthwhile wager?’

  ‘Emphatically so, sir. Sir Henry was able to negotiate the loan of a substantial sum from Mr Venables senior.’

  ‘But you told me the Colonial Service pension was paltry.’

  ‘I believe the Collector was obliged to draw on Mrs Venables’s means, sir. Yesterday was a day of intense financial activity. In the end, a telegraphic transfer was effected from London.’

  ‘So the moolah’s wrapped in Spanier’s Sausage Casing?’

  ‘One might so describe it, sir, though in this instance the casing forms the meat of the wager and Sir Henry’s contribution merely the outer membrane.’

  ‘How much is the old villain in for?’

  ‘I fear I am not at liberty to disclose, sir, though if the bet were to come good, it would certainly enable Sir Henry to refuse the importuning of the private school for a considerable period.’

  ‘Hickory Hot Boy, Jeeves!’ I said. ‘A most apt summation of—’

  ‘That’s smokin’ good.’

  ‘One can but hope so, sir.’

  Out in the middle, hostilities had commenced.

  ‘But, Jeeves,’ I said, ‘suppose the nags don’t win. Or we come a cropper here, in the cricket. More than likely, I would have thought. Do you need all three parts to bring home the goods?’

  ‘Indeed, sir. Two winners would not suffice. It is a case of all or nothing.’

  ‘But if we lose, how will Sir Henry pay back old Vishnu?’

  ‘I did put that question to Sir Henry myself, sir, but it was not an eventuality he was willing to contemplate. He has developed an unshakeable faith in my equine selections and is confident of his ability to captain the cricket side to victory.’

  I felt a slight queasiness when I finally cast the eyes pitch-ward to see Sidney Venables crouched, willow in hand, and the Dorset Gents opening bowler thundering in from the village end. I haven’t the faintest idea who Victor Trumper was, but unless he wore a striped tie beneath his belly and waved his bat like a dowager attempting to swat a wasp, his resemblance to S. Venables can have been no more than fleeting. The Nizam of Hyderabad, one felt, must have been quite a one for dishing out the old oil.

  Things were on a firmer footing, in all senses, at the other end, where Stinker seemed to be taking root. His lower half remained attached to the turf, but he met the ball with a meaningful thump that sent it into the long grass. The Gents bowler stood with his hands on his hips and let him have what appeared to be a rather un-Christian appraisal of his batting style. Stinker simply turned the other cheek and carted the next one into a group of small boys on the opposite side of the ground.

  ‘Good shot, Pinker!’ called out Sir Henry.

  I settled into a deckchair and picked up my copy of The Mystery of the Gabled House. My amateur sleuthing was interrupted by a tremendous commotion from the middle, where Vishnu Venables was being given his marching orders by the umpire – the finger of doom belonging to a tallish cove I recognised as the landlord of the Hare and Hounds.

  Esmond Haddock now made his way to the wicket, with a consoling word for the Collector as their paths crossed. If Esmond’s pre-lunch blazer had been on the loud side, the cap he had selected from a number in his bag made the many colours of Joseph’s coat look as dull as an army blanket. It appeared to be the cause of some ribaldry among the Dorset Gents, and the first ball sent down in Esmond’s direction made a good stab at removing it, peak first, from his head.

  ‘Hello, Wilberforce,’ said a friendly voice in my ear, and the next thing I knew the adjacent deckchair was full of summer cotton and dark, waving tresses. ‘Enjoying the cricket?’

  ‘Rather,’ I said. ‘Everything all right with the tea things?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ said Georgiana. ‘Why shouldn’t it be?’

  ‘It’s just that I heard you arrive and …’

  ‘Yes. Well, one of these wretched Dorset Gents had parked in the wrong place.’

  ‘So you nudged him out of it.’

  ‘Not deliberately.’

  I didn’t want one of those Hamlet pauses developing, so I ploughed on. ‘You seem friskier today.’

  ‘Yes, I am. I don’t know what came over me yesterday. I wanted to apologise. I hope I didn’t embarrass you. Please forgive me.’

  ‘Think nothing of it. I’m sorry I was no help. I didn’t want to get under your feet.’

  ‘Absolutely. Now who’s this fellow in the hideous hat?’

  ‘Esmond Haddock’ I replied. ‘Huntsman, sonneteer and all-round good egg.’

  The next half-hour went by in a sort of dream
as we chatted pauselessly to the background noise of Stinker and Esmond bashing the ball about. It wasn’t until Woody had his turn that I saw what we’d been missing. The only way I can describe it is to say that it was like hearing a string quartet after an oompah band. Where the other chaps had humped and heaved, Woody eased the little red ball across the grass with a flick or a caress. Once he just seemed to lean over and whisper in its ear, yet when it rattled into the fence in front of the pavilion it snapped one of the pickets.

  He was joined by Harold Niblett, who applied the long handle, as I believe the expression is, coming down the prepared surface to dispatch the Gents’ slow bowler over the top of a particularly tall cedar tree and into the lane. Great was the excitement among the half-dozen small boys who ran off to find it. While Niblett took the high road, Woody stuck with the low, continuing to bisect the sweating Dorset Gents, wherever their captain placed them; you almost expected to see scorch marks through the green.

  ‘I hope Amelia’s enjoying this,’ I said.

  ‘I think she is,’ said Georgiana. ‘Look, she’s stopped buttering the bread.’

  I thought of pointing out that Amelia’s open mouth was a trap for passing insect life, but chivalry prevailed.

  ‘I’d better go and give her a hand and see how the urn’s coming on,’ said Georgiana.

  ‘Must you go?’

  ‘Yes, I must.’

  The fun eventually came to an end when a steepler from Niblett was caught on the boundary and there arose the awful prospect that I might soon have to don the pads and gloves myself. The next man in was Hoad and I was relieved to see that he had based his attitude on that of Stonewall Jackson. It didn’t matter what they chucked at him; he met it with the same hunched prod, while the ball dropped on roughly the same spot near his feet.

  If Hoad could best be described as inert, Beeching, P. was about as ert as they come, waltzing down the wicket to send the ball humming to all points of the compass. An excited murmur had started among the small boys and had now reached the pavilion – viz., that Woody was nearing his century. The entire ground seemed rapt; even Dame Judith Puxley for a moment set aside her Letters and Inscriptions of Hammurabi and raised her lorgnette.