“Defeat me? I smell of vomit, Captain bloody George. I can’t taste the jam with the tang of baby sick in my nostrils!”
“It’s a jacket, Fitz.” George laughed, a long, loud bray. “Take it off, man!”
“That’s altogether too casual for a man of my position.” Somehow, Henry had managed to speak though he had barely moved his lips. But his hand had already drifted to the top button of his jacket, as if George had him mesmerized by the sheer force of his personality. “Very well, then.”
Henry unfastened first the top button, then the second, his eyes never leaving George’s.
Oh, come to your senses, you idiot.
Henry broke his gaze and focused on his remaining buttons. George turned back to his adoring fans and, caving in to the clamoring of some of the children in the crowd, took a pen from one of the blushing mothers and began happily signing autographs. Cameras clicked, children laughed and right there, all smiles in the summer sunshine, George Standish-Brookes no doubt sold a dozen or more books on that magnetic personality alone.
Jacket draped over his arm, Henry cleared his throat, trying to make his way through the crowd, back to his jam-judging duties. If only he was on television and had recklessly driven a classic sports car through a group of pedestrians, it would’ve been much easier.
He took his pocket watch from his waistcoat and checked the time.
“Excuse me—please—would you—mind your back, sorry, coming through.”
“Jam-judging vet incoming!” George clapped his hands and the crowd parted ahead of Henry. “Thank you, my fellow Parvans!”
Henry looked back at George. As he raised his hand in a quick, small gesture of thanks, a smile edged onto his face. And that would never do.
He strode into the stripy gazebo, where there were trestle tables loaded with jars of jam. The jam makers’ looks of pride exceeded those of the parents in the Bonny Baby Competition.
“Where have you been? Teaspoons at the ready, Mr. Fitzwalter!”
Mrs. Fortescue pressed a metal spoon into Henry’s hand. He looked at his face upside down in its curved surface. Was there any point in him even beginning this, when George would surely arrive at any moment and charm everyone into submission? The jam was in neat, unlabeled pots, laid out side by side, just waiting to send him to an over-sweetened, sugary grave. And on the edge of his vision was George, still signing and posing, kissing cheeks and throwing babies aloft and ruffling the hair of adoring little children.
He probably makes bloody jam too.
“Greengage? Very good. Excellent.” The fruit had just the right sharpness, just the right sweetness. It was the best jam Henry had tried. But he should’ve guessed who’d made it before he locked eyes on Steph, who was grinning at him from outside the tent, her bobbed hair shining in the sunlight like an advert for shampoo.
And if she was here, then Ed wasn’t far away.
George and Ed—the most popular boy in school and the scourge of the common room together once more.
Can today could get any worse?
When Henry tried the next, sugarless, jam, he realized that he was wrong.
He couldn’t spit it delicately into his handkerchief, which was now wet with baby curds. He couldn’t see a paper napkin anywhere nearby. Henry would have to swallow it and nod politely, as he did with everything in his life.
Don’t make a fuss.
Except, wasn’t that just what he had done by rushing off from the Bonny Baby Competition?
“Now, Mr. Fitzwalter, is there a winner?”
Henry glanced toward Steph. She had, without doubt, made the best jam. But she couldn’t win. Because for several years, more off than on, they had had what one might call a dalliance. An understanding. And she had finally broken it off and married Ed. Ed, who had made his millions in the City and had returned to Longley Parva to live in the world’s most garish new-build faux-Georgian pile. The village gossips would have a field day if Henry awarded Steph the prize.
“I think it has to be the…the raspberry. This one.” Henry held up the jar, which should’ve been awarded a highly commended second place.
Steph’s grin faded and she wandered away.
Outside he heard George’s voice on the microphone once more, something about letting children have their photos taken with the Jaguar, television’s most famous motor. None of those children would be sick, Henry knew that already. Life just didn’t work that way. There was always sugar in George’s jam—the heavens were just aligned like that.
Henry shoved his hands into his pockets, his soiled jacket draped over his arm. He left the jam tent and paused, watching George. His erstwhile friend posed against his car, mugging for the cameras, arms around the shoulders of grinning children. It was so easy for him, the grin, the sparkling glance—he had never been any different. The most charming boy in the South Downs. And for some reason, George had been Henry’s best friend. It seemed impossible now. Henry was boring and George glittered.
“Fitz!” George waved his hand as though Henry might not be able to see him. “Come and get a snap with your old chum!”
No escape route presented itself. Henry crunched across the road, his brogues carrying him inexorably onward to the man who had once been his friend. Until that very public spat. Until Henry’s accusation. And everyone in the village knew. Perhaps, for appearance’s sake, it was best to pretend that everything had been smoothed over. Even though it hadn’t been and never would be.
“Captain George, old bean! Righty-ho, then.”
Henry wondered who on earth would bother taking a photo of him, but Steph emerged from the crowd, her phone angled for a landscape shot.
“That’s it, the invincible boys! Smile!”
Henry flinched as George’s arm came around his shoulder in a matey gesture, but he pasted on a grin nonetheless.
“Guess what, Fitz?” George squeezed Henry’s shoulders. “I’m here all summer. Isn’t that marvelous?”
Henry fidgeted his hands in his pockets.
“Erm…yes, that’s marvelous. Any particular reason why you’re gracing us with your presence for so long?”
“I’m mugging up on the ancestors and delving into the mystery of the Longley Parva Cup!”
Henry was still smiling because now other residents of the village had decided, for reasons best known only to themselves, to photograph their local vet with their local television celebrity. But there was no smile in his voice.
“The mystery is why you’ve never owned up to stealing the damned thing.”
“I didn’t steal it.” George’s fingers tightened on his shoulder and he whispered through his grin, his tone as cold as his smile was warm, “You’ve got me all wrong.”
“Don’t be daft, of course it was you. But go on then—” There was a challenge in Henry’s voice, the same tone he had used as a boy. Bet you can’t climb that tree, bet you can’t hit this ball for six, bet you can’t swim underwater all the way to the boathouse. “Prove me wrong—I’d love to see you try.”
“I shall! And I might even turn it into a program.” George held up one hand as though writing in the air. “The Secret History of Longley Parva!”
Henry threw back his head and laughed. “You don’t change, do you?”
“Neither do you, despite being covered in baby sick!” George looked at Henry, who was determined not to return his gaze. He wouldn’t, he told himself, because if he did, George would wink and laugh and try to win him over. “Bit whiffy in this hot sun, Fitz.”
“I’m a vet, I have a strong stomach. When did you last put your arm up a cow’s backside?”
“Last year!” George released him to take a baby from a young mother, his face a photo-perfect smile as he struck a pose. “For Comic Relief Does Farming? Didn’t you pledge a few pounds, old pal?”
“Only after you skidded over in a cowpat. Best laugh I’d had in ages.”
George laughed and turned away to sign another autograph. He always laughed at
himself, and it was one of his more annoying traits. The fellow was mostly impossible to rile. Not totally, but mostly.
“Righty-ho, I’ll be off then.” Henry was sure that George was too engrossed in his fan club to hear him. He could make his escape from the damn man unnoticed. But the devil had stolen his tongue and spoke for him. “You know where to find me.”
“Fitzwalter!” Ed Belcher’s bellow shattered the gentle sounds of the summer gathering. Its owner was striding across the crowded green toward Henry, incongruous in a pinstriped suit, his red tie caught over one shoulder and his slicked-down hair glistening in the sunlight.
Henry tried a polite smile but could only manage a grimace. “Ed, what can I do for you?”
“What’s this business with Stephy? Broke her back over the Aga churning out that jam!” He stopped a couple of feet from Henry. “Come on, let’s talk turkey. What was the deal?”
“The raspberry pipped the greengage to the post, I’m afraid.” It was a weak pun, but Henry went with it, and smiled at his adversary.
“That’s balls, Fitzwalter,” Ed barked. “Raspberry balls!”
“Easy, old thing.” George glanced back at them. “Women and children present!”
Henry took a step toward Ed and lowered his voice. “I could’ve given my ex-girlfriend first prize—and then all the gossips in Longley Parva and Magna would’ve done their worst. You need to remind yourself how village life works, Ed, because you’ll find yourself in a jam if you don’t.”
Henry grinned at his own joke, but Ed only glowered.
“You always were a little squirt, Fitzwalter, and you still are. If I were Alan Sugar, you’d make sure my wife won that ribbon and we both know it!” He attempted a smile, showing sharp, white teeth. “And I’m not far behind him nowadays, you know!”
Henry the judger of jam was silent, but Henry Fitzwalter the vet didn’t rest. He was fond of his patients, even if he wasn’t always fond of their owners. “How’s that pregnant mare of yours?”
“About to drop another winner for Epsom, I bloody hope!” He laughed, as though there was something hilarious about that statement. “Deal with many racehorses, do you? I thought you were a cow’s arse sort of chap!”
“Women and children!” George reminded him, earning another scowl from Ed.
“Mine is the nearest veterinary practice for miles, so…up to you, isn’t it?” Henry extended his hand to shake. Ed took it, gripping tightly enough to prove that he wasn’t only manly, he was the most manly in the village. It was a stock exchange sort of grip, a grip that said, I’ve made my millions, don’t get in my way.
“And you, Georgie-boy, you should be making a series about me! One of your things for the BBC—Ed Belcher, Millionaire!”
George’s reply was a disinterested smile and Ed looked back at Henry, still pumping his hand. Henry began to wince. He had only meant to shake hands as a gesture of farewell, not a fight to the death.
“Righty-ho, Ed—time I was gone, they’re announcing Guess How Many Sweets in the Jar in five minutes. Wouldn’t want to miss that!”
Henry turned away from Ed and rubbed at his hand, trying to revive his circulation. He bit back his retort. Stephy shouldn’t enter competitions if she can’t cope with losing. He wandered toward George’s car again, drawn there as if by a magnet. Its immaculate paintwork gleamed in the early summer sun.
Imagine going for a spin in it, roof down, wind in your hair, threading through the leafy Sussex lanes. Imagine how perfect that would be. Then imagine George sitting beside you.
Henry felt George’s eye on him.
“I mean it, Fitz,” George called in a mirthful tone. “I am not and never was the Longley Parva Bandit!”
“An elaborate double-bluff, Standish-Brookes!” Henry laughed. “What’s your plan, then, to unmask the Bandit? If—supposing—it’s not you? Because I never got to have the trophy, even though I won it, and I don’t like to sound like a man who bears grudges, but—”
“Tonight!” George stooped to address the little boy whose T-shirt he had just signed and told him, “Spread the word, my young friend, George Standish-Brookes will be revealing his next big project at seven in the pub and the whole village is invited. Drinks are on me!”
The boy blinked up at him and asked, “Can we be on the telly?”
“If your mum says yes!” George scrubbed the child’s hair. “Now go forth, spread the word!”
Henry took his fob watch out again. “What are you planning, Captain George?”
But Henry didn’t wait for an answer and began to make his way to the tea tent. He couldn’t face the evening without a stomach full of scones.
“Seven o’clock, Fitz,” he heard George call cheerily. “I’ll even buy you a drink, though I bet you won’t accept it!”
Henry skidded to a halt. He turned back to face George and pushed a lock of his unruly hair from his forehead. “Mine’s a pint of our local ale—if you can remember what it is!”
“Since I’m the face of Longley Spitfire, I have no trouble recalling it,” the newcomer laughed. “You might even see my mug gracing the pumps by Christmas!”
And I’ll take a marker pen and add comedy mustaches to them all.
“I’m sure I will!” Henry raised a hand in farewell and trudged toward the tea tent.
Chapter Two
In his best corduroy jacket, Henry headed to The Green Man. It was six-thirty by his fob watch—it was either that or arrive at seven-thirty, just to annoy George, and he was fairly sure that by arriving early he would rile George more. Henry pushed open the door into the pub. He should’ve known that the offer of free drinks from a TV personality would fill the building to bursting half an hour before kick-off. And George, of course, was already there.
The Green Man, usually brisk on a summer evening, was packed. There was barely room to move, let alone reach the bar, and the door to the lounge was propped open to allow the tightly wedged drinkers a chance at the celebrity whose presence had already filled the taproom.
George was at the center of the storm, standing beside the enormous stone hearth. One elbow rested on the carved wooden mantelpiece next to a signed photograph of him in the garb of a World War II fighter ace, a bottle of Longley Spitfire held in one hand. The photo was aged to look as though it were vintage and framed in a neat wooden frame with a cream mount. It was new, of course.
“There was no charge for the ads,” George was telling the groundsman with that same benevolent TV smile. “One does what one can for one’s village, and that includes shouting about their beer from the rooftops!”
No charge. Of course there was no charge, George wouldn’t want money for an advertisement when he could be paid in adoration, would he?
Because you love your village so much, you stole the bloody Longley Parva Cup!
Henry pouted and went to the bar. Before he could order his drink, he had a farmer on one side of him talking about the best treatment for mastitis in dairy cows and a woman old enough to be Father Time’s grandmother on his other flank, asking him about feline toothpaste. He nodded, listening to both of them, interjecting with the benefit of his learning and experience, all the while trying to catch the landlord’s eye.
Bob was gazing with unconcealed admiration at George, and his attention wasn’t easy to get. Henry cleared his throat, he tapped a bar mat meaningfully on the polished wooden surface, he raised his hand but, all the time, Bob watched the man who had brought a week’s worth of trade to his pub in one night. George, however, did glance to the bar. With a nod he called, “Bob, old pal, you’ve got chaps waiting for service!”
Only then did Bob unfold his burly arms and grace Henry with this attention. “Pint of Spitfire, vet’n’ry?”
Henry only realized then that the beer mat he’d been holding was emblazoned with George’s face. There was a sudden metallic taste in his mouth—he had gone off the idea of Spitfire, but it was his favorite ale.
“Yes, Bob—thanks.”
<
br /> Henry slipped the beer mat into his pocket.
“Getting a bit packed in here, isn’t it?” George addressed the question to the entire bar, all of whom, with the exception of one, called out their agreement. “Shall we take it outside?”
And so, George, at the head of a snake of villagers, led the way into the beer garden. Henry planted his feet on the ground, determined not to be swept along with them, but the tide was unstoppable and it was all he could do not to spill his pint as he was pushed and pulled across the room toward the open door and the scent of a summer evening beyond.
The sun still shone, balmy and bright, and bees buzzed here and there among the potted flowers, dancing with butterflies while a cat watched from the fence, every kind of creature summoned to this cricket jumper-clad Snow White. Even Ed and Steph were there, already seated at a table beneath a parasol, no doubt bonding over the open packet of salted peanuts that lay between them.
George climbed up onto an empty table, a rabble of adoring children crowding one another to sit at his feet, and every eye in the garden turned on him, awaiting the celebrity’s announcement.
“Fifteen years ago,” he began, “two young cricket stars—no offense, Ed, but you weren’t one of them… I believe your first and last crack at the eleven ended with you turning tail and running away from a particularly solid sixer!”
There was a ripple of polite laughter but Henry noticed that Ed’s own effort to join the mirth left him looking as though he had just smelled a cowpat.
“Two young men, myself and good old Henry, of course, were engaged in a titanic struggle for victory in the Longley Parva Single Wicket Cup. At stake, the infamous Longley Parva cup.”
The cup. More of a vase, in fact, stolen from the cricket pavilion fifteen years ago, and Henry knew who the villain was. George Standish-Brookes had taken the trophy rather than let his friend win it because George won everything and he couldn’t bear to be beaten by Henry. Not at cricket, of all things, even though Henry was the best by far, and George was the falsest friend a boy could ever hope for.
The Captain and the Cricketer Page 2
