by Simon Raven
‘Jollah gad shah, Bertah,’ honked the Mem from the midst of her manifold refreshments in front of the Pavilion door, ‘you shah the little baggahs.’
It was impossible to distinguish whether the last word intended beggars or buggers. Whichever it was, it conveyed an almost physical disgust.
Not to go into the details of our discomfiture, I shall say tout court that Kola Bert made an immaculate 49, which included every stroke in the book; and that when he was given out l.b.w., one run short of his fifty and on a highly questionable decision (he almost certainly snicked the ball before it hit his pads), he went with a good grace and without hesitation, as a gentleman should. No ugly flush of the face, no shaking of the head, no reproachful look at the umpire, no slamming and slapping of baton pad as he departed: he simply went, followed, I’m happy to recall, by a huge volley of clapping, and received by the Cadets on the boundary (who had now concluded their educational tour of the mines) with a cheer to warm his heart till the day it turned to dust.
As he entered the Pavilion, he stooped to give his wife a quick and sweaty kiss on the cheek. ‘Bravah, bravah,’ she bleated, ‘oh bravah, dear old chap.’ Watching from the boundary for the next batsman to emerge, I saw that a single tear (of pride? love? gratitude? pity?) was running down her ogreish jowl, and I forgave her all.
‘What I never understood,’ said James, when we were discussing the incident a long while later, ‘was why that man Ted told you that Bert was an ill-tempered cheat.’
‘He explained, after the game, that it would have been a very different matter if Bert had done badly. He might even have refused to go out. It had happened – according to Ted.’
‘Seems odd to me,’ James said. ‘If he was that sort of chap, he’d have shown some sign of annoyance or recalcitrance at being given out even when he had done well. He might have pulled himself together pretty quick and gone with a smile in the end, but for a few seconds at least the bad sportsmanship would have shown. It always does. But not in this case – not for a single flick of the eyelid.
‘It’s my view,’ James went on, ‘that Kola Bert was absolutely pukkah right through. That was what I got wrong at the time. I thought that if Barry got him all knotted up with those high lobs, he’d lose his rag and make a fool of himself. Then, later on, I thought, at luncheon perhaps, the Mem would push herself in on the act, reckoning aggression to be the best form of defence as such a woman would, and that with a little luck she too would lose her wool and give me the chance to pick her off.
‘But the origin and basis of the entire scheme was the notion, promoted by Ted and confirmed by that horrible OC blazer, that Bert was hairy at the heel – which simply wasn’t true.’
‘I dare say Ted got it all wrong,’ I said, ‘he had chips along both shoulders, to say nothing of nervous eczema.’
‘But what about that made-up blazer?’ said Sandy. ‘That was real enough.’
‘I’ve written to check the record,’ said James. ‘There’s no doubt Bert was at Charterhouse. He was a Saunderite – contemporary of Ronald Storrs.’
‘But as you pointed out,’ Barry persisted, ‘there is no such thing as an Old Carthusian blazer, or at any rate it is not officially recognised. Bert was out of order there.’
‘But was it really so very dreadful?’ said James. ‘I was furious at the time because I was narked by that bloody Mem woman. Another day I’d just have laughed. It was probably she that had it made for him – stupid kind of cock-up these women make when they will interfere. Particularly a stuck up blowsy old bitch like that.’
‘She wasn’t so bad,’ I said. For the first time I told them about the tear.
‘Crocodiles put on the same performance,’ said James, ‘it only meant she was going to eat another piece of him when they got home.’
‘I don’t know. Tough she may have been, but then you’ve got to be if you’re going to live out here.’
‘Fat lot you know about living out here,’ said Barry.
‘I wish,’ I said, ‘that I was going to have the chance to learn a lot more. Seems such a damned shame – to go home after only six months.’
For the appointed day had duly come and gone, and now we were all four Second Lieutenants, four brand new Second Lieutenants just about to go home. Independence was to be bestowed on India earlier than anyone had thought; Attlee’s Labour Government was ‘bringing the boys home’, not only from India but from other parts of the Far East, as fast as possible; and so far from being urgently despatched to points East of Mandalay (as I had boasted to my parents we should be) we were sitting in the most run down and visibly rotting Officers’ Mess (Napier Mess) of all the four such in the Transit Camp at Deolali, waiting for a passage back to England with the lowest possible priority.
‘What makes you think we shall ever get home?’ Sandy now said.
Deolali was so famous for frustration and delay that it had given its name to a form of madness – Deolali (sometimes pronounced Doolali) Tap. Men were abandoned there for ever, the legend said: your papers disappeared through a crack in the floor, after which you lost your official identity and with it your pay, your rations and any possibility of a passage, so that there was nothing to do but turn your face to the wall and die. But generally there was an intermediate period: before you took to your bed for ever, you made a last effort, uttered a final protest, which took the form of hideous fits of gibbering and foaming – Deolali Tap.
We had been there three weeks. At first the Field Cashier had looked kindly upon us and advanced us plenty of money against arrears of pay: now, when we skulked into his office, we were peremptorily waved away by a Lance-Corporal. Clearly we had no further claim; we were losing our substance, our identity… Any minute now we should be attacked, as inexorably and mortally as if by Rabies, by Deolali Tap. Something must be done to revive us, to make us aware again, or we were surely lost. It was in this predicament, as the result of an idle boast by Spotty Duvell that he could out-drink any man in Deolali, that James issued his Challenge and A GRAND DRINKING MATCH was proclaimed along the Lines. At last life had meaning and interest enough to make us bustle again.
James and Spotty were both to deposit Fifty Guineas, making a Purse of One Hundred Guineas for the winner. (Although everyone else was counting his Annas, James and Spotty, each being the man he was, had ample resources.) The Match would take place at Nine p.m. on the night of June 10, 1947, in Napier Mess. Two Judges were appointed by common agreement; and the Laws which they had to enforce were these:
I. At Nine of the Clock on the Afternoon of the Day Appointed, the Two Principals should present themselves on the Ground (Napier Mess); and at Ten Minutes after Nine they should come to the Scratch (the Mess Bar), where they would exchange Compliments in a gentlemanly fashion.
II. At Fifteen Minutes after Nine the Judges would supervise the pouring of the first potation, a Double Whisky for each Contestant. Each Contestant must then drink his Whisky, neat from the glass, by 9.20, at which time the Judges must be satisfied that both potations had been absolutely consumed, and would then cause to be poured two more of the same amount of the same Liquor. These in turn must be consumed by 9.25, when two more potations would be poured, etc, etc, etc.
III. The First of the Principals to puke on the Ground (i.e. anywhere in Napier Mess), to faint, have a fit, fall and be unable to rise, die, or declare himself unable to consume, in whole or in part, a properly presented potation, would be disqualified and The Match and The Purse would thereupon be awarded to his Opponent. But if both Principals puked on the Ground (i.e. anywhere in Napier Mess), fainted, had a fit, etc, etc, etc, after consuming an equal amount of Liquor (in which matter the Judges’ Computation would be absolute and final), the Match would be pronounced a Tie. It was to assist the Judges in this respect (e.g. in the assessment of partly consumed potations) that the Contestants were required to drink their Whisky neat from the glass. However, there would be no objection raised against the Contestants’ drinking
chasers of water, or any other liquid they might favour, from separate glasses.
IV. Spectators would be admitted, but they must keep a distance of not less than Five Yards from the Principals and the Judges; and the Stewards would ensure that a passage of Four Foot wide was clearly marked and respected by all, to enable the Contestants to reach the Jakes without let or hindrance. Nota bene: Voiding of Bladders or Bowells by the Principals would be perfectly in order, always provided:
a) Such functions were performed in the proper Offices of the Jakes;
b) Contestants were back on Scratch (i.e. at the Bar), having fairly finished their current potation and being ready to receive the next, by the time allotted; and
c) Contestants admitted one Judge to accompany them into the Water Closet to determine whether or not they threw up (vide Law III).
V. Bets might be struck with the Principals up to the time appointed for the Match to commence. Once the Principals had arrived on the Ground they might no longer take or lay the odds on or against themselves or each other. Spectators, however, might wager among themselves ad lib both during ‘orders’ and ‘in running’.
As the days passed and excitement mounted among gentlemen of the fancy, Spotty emerged a clear favourite at 6 to 4 on, though respectable sums were invested on James (by those who could still find them) at 7 to 4 against. As much as 100 to 1 was offered in some quarters against a tie, and 500 to 1 (generally thought to be rather mean odds) against the death of one Contestant. I myself staked two Rupees (about three shillings), at 2,000 to 1, on both Principals dropping dead and ten Rupees (all I could raise for the purpose) on a victory for Spotty at even money – a price briefly on offer when a rumour that Spotty had the clap (started by me) caused fluctuations in the market.
‘Damned disloyal I call that,’ said James when he heard.
‘One has to take the practical view. I know you’re a reliable drinker but you haven’t quite had Spotty’s experience.’
‘I don’t get drunk, if that’s what you mean.’
‘It’s exactly what I mean. There’s nothing in the Laws saying the winner has to be sober, only that he mustn’t be sick or pass out. Spotty has had practice – almost every night he has practice – at getting drunk, i.e. drinking the stuff by the bucket, without being sick or passing out. You have had no such practice. You’re not even having it now.’
‘I don’t have to make a hog of myself just because of the Match.’
‘But you will have to make a hog of yourself in order to win it. You might at least find out what it feels like…have the odd net, so to speak.’
‘But you don’t want James to win,’ said Sandy spitefully; ‘you’ve backed Spotty Duvell. So why are you giving him all this advice?’
‘Because I don’t want to see Spotty Duvell walk all over him. The honour of Charterhouse is at stake here. James must put up a good show. What on earth will Hedley Le Bas say,’ I said to James, ‘if he hears you’ve collapsed after the first few rounds of a public Drinking Match? Whatever would Bags Birley feel about it?’
‘I fear lest Bags would deprecate the whole proceeding,’ said James, ‘whatever the result.’
‘Not if you win. To win is to succeed, and as you yourself once told me, success brings its own exculpation.’
‘So in the last resort…you really want me to win – although you’ve had a bet against me?’
‘That’s about it.’
‘It makes no sort of sense.’
‘It makes admirable sense,’ I said, ‘it means financial emolument in case of personal disappointment. By the same token, I’ve also had a bet that you and Spotty will both fall down dead. Should this sorrowful calamity occur, 2,000 Rupees would at least be some kind of compensation.’
The day before the match it became clear that if everyone who wanted to attend were to be allowed in, Napier Mess would totter to the ground. The entire Transit Camp was buzzing with almost hysterical excitement, and literally hundreds of pounds’ worth of bets had been struck by men of all ranks from the Commandant himself (or so it was rumoured) down to the very punkah wallahs. Since Napier was one of the Officers’ Messes all non-commissioned spectators were automatically excluded, but even then the crowd would be enormous. In the end, it was decided that the Principals and the Judges should have the right to make a certain number of nominations, and that for the rest a further 100 cards of admission would be distributed by ballot. Ticket holders, when their names were made known, were offered anything up to £20 by crooked Quartermasters who were making important books on the event or by senior Officers either in transit or on the Staff. I myself was one of James’ nominees.
‘You don’t deserve it,’ he said as he handed me my pass, ‘and if you sell it I’ll kill you.’
‘I wouldn’t miss this for a dukedom,’ I said, and almost meant it.
‘In that case,’ said James, ‘I invite you to be one of my seconds.’
Next to hearing the news of my Scholarship at King’s and of my 1st XI cap, it was the proudest moment of my life.
At exactly 9 p.m. on the appointed evening, James entered Napier Mess attended by Sandy and myself. All of us were wearing Tropical Service Dress, in those bleak days the nearest one could come to Full Dress or Ceremonial. James’ lapels carried the insignia of The Norfolk Regiment (the Greenjackets were not accepting anyone back from Bangalore as Officer of theirs, and thank you for your kind application); while Sandy sported the Petard of The Royal Fusiliers and I displayed the Bugle Horn of The Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry (Wellington’s beloved 43rd). Though I say it myself we made a brave group – and so, I am glad to report, did Spotty Duvell and his seconds, who were already on the Ground. Lieutenant Duvell (for he had been granted two pips straight away in recognition of his former seniority) flaunted the Rose of Yorkshire, while the two Ensigns who flanked him both bore the Sphinx. (Take heed, take heed, for we shall see such heraldry no more amid the drab artisans who man the Army of our age.)
The two groups bowed to each other, then stood easy and talked low and nervously among themselves. The crowd buzzed and seethed; the Stewards marshalled it well back, and marked the route to the Jakes with white ropes; the Head Barman, in high turban, stood strictly to attention behind two rows of twenty glasses; punkah wallahs plied their fans with a frenzy as if the penalty for sloth were death. No doubt about it: Napier Mess, like Todger’s, could do it when it tried.
At 9.10 there was a long roll of kettle drums, followed by total silence. The two Judges (one of whom wore the crepuscular Kilt of The Black Watch, while the other carried the Harp of Ulster on his breast) beckoned to James and Spotty. The seconds of either party backed off, to a special row of seats by the double door which led to the verandah. James and Spotty advanced to the Bar, bowed again to each other and shook hands; then each retired to his own place, some three yards respectively to left and right of the Head Barman, whither he was attended by one Judge. There was another roll of kettle drums; the Head Barman measured two exact doubles into the left hand glass of either rank; the Judges stepped up to him, agreed the measures, and carried them to the Principals; and at a sign from the Senior Steward a rocket went up from the verandah to notify the masses outside the Mess that The Grand Drinking Match was now in train.
Spotty took his double in one go. (I thought of Hedley and Gerald at the Tavern.) He did not chase it with water, as his theory was that the bulk of the water increased the likelihood of his throwing up. James, on the other hand, drunk his whisky in sips, taking a gulp of water from a separate glass between each sip; for his theory was that the water rendered the Usquebaugh less toxic and therefore more readily assimilable. Thus Spotty had nearly five minutes to wait, after taking his bumper, until James had sipped his way through his first glass, which the Judge at his elbow announced had been fairly drained with twenty seconds to spare. A green flare was then fired from the verandah to inform the crowd that both Contestants were safely through the first round; the ke
ttle drums sounded once more; and the Head Barman measured double whiskies into the second glass of each rank of twenty.
And so the thing went solemnly on for the first six glasses. Spotty continued to drink in single sconces; James continued to sip whisky and gulp water. Both had unquestionably put up empty glasses within the time and the conditions ordained: neither showed the slightest sign of having been affected by what he had drunk: neck and neck, nothing to choose.
But after draining his seventh glass Spotty belched very fiercely; and towards the end of his eighth James had to reswallow a sip which had obviously come back. During the ninth round both parties were in trouble with their bladders; both retired with a Judge apiece, Spotty after his customary bumper, James when he was about a third the way through his glass; and both returned, certified by the Judges to have pumped only, James just in time to sip and chase his way (with some bulging of cheeks) through the remaining two-thirds of his portion.
And so the ninth green flare rose toward the eastern stars, proclaiming that after nine rounds neither Champion was yet unhorsed.
Meanwhile the ‘layers’ inside the Mess were doing brisk business ‘in running’. The quiet dignity of James’ demeanour had caused the odds against him to ease a shade, and at one time they were as low as 5 to 4; but his slight disorder in the eighth round brought them swiftly back to 6 to 4. As for Spotty, his crudity of method at first put the backers against him, and at one stage you might have had even money about him, for the first time since the discredited rumour of his clap. His mighty belch, however, somewhat reassured the punters, on the ground that it was better out than in. 6 to 4 on was now standard about Spotty, while James was slipping away, because of a slight sweatiness in his appearance on his return from the loo, to 7 to 4 against and even 2 to 1.
