The Captain and the Cricketer

by Catherine Curzon

  “King Fitz.” George ruffled his lover’s hair. “Ruler of all he surveyed.”

  Henry placed his hands on his hips, feet spread, and realized he’d posed like Henry VIII as painted by Holbein.

  “And over here, the tearooms, which were apparently at one point home to a wizard…”

  “Not a shirtless wizard, Tab,” George teased. “Though I could daub myself in woad and yell at the night a bit if it’d look suitably savage on camera? Bare-arsed, every muscle tensed, all fire and brimstone? More Sauron than Gandalf?”

  Henry stared. Tabitha stared. Mrs. Tanvir, who had just appeared at her front door with her tartan shopping trolley, stared.

  “Hello, Mrs. T.!” George called cheerily, waving his hand. “Do you think I’d make a good naked wizard?”

  “Erm—possibly?” She looked from George to Henry and her gaze settled on Tabitha. A smile came to her face and she nodded. “Morning to you! What do you think of our little village?”

  “It’s charming!”

  “Mrs. Tanvir makes excellent jam,” Henry offered.

  The lady in question fluttered at Henry’s praise. “You’re very kind, Henry!” She raised her hand and rolled her trolley off toward the bus stop.

  “All this marvelous jam in the village.” Tabitha was tapping on her phone again. “We’ve had Bake Off, why not—Jam Off? Wait—I have it! The Village Green Self-Preserves Society! Classic 1960s pop on the theme tune, bunting—” Tabitha stretched her arm in an arc from one side of the road to the other. “A balloon arch! Oh, can you see it? I can!”

  “Aaaaand this is what I’m trying to tell you, Tabby.” George laughed. “I just offered the holy televisual grail, the Standy-Bee bum, and you were more interested in bunting, because this village is bloody perfect!”

  “The bum and the jam, though—that would work. Although possibly not smeared in the jam. Then again…”

  George rolled his eyes and ambled on with Jez at his side, giving Mrs. Tanvir a polite bow as they went. He called over his shoulder, “Secret History of an English Village. It fits my brand perfectly and it can only help keep the village hall standing!”

  Henry swept his hand toward the unassuming building. Hall was a rather grand word for it—hut would’ve been better.

  “And here it is! Formerly farm buildings, requisitioned in the early twentieth century for the village. All sorts of things go on here. It can turn into a theater for am-dram, a polling station during elections, a clinic for baby weigh-ins—then there’s the parish council meetings, playgroup, keep fit classes, Brownies, Guides, Scouts, Cubs, St. John’s Ambulance, youth club… You name it, it goes on here. And unfortunately”—Henry pointed toward the thatch—“the roof’s knackered. When it rains, the kids have to run around fifteen different buckets, like an obstacle course.”

  Henry knew it was hardly the most visually appealing of buildings. It still had its workaday farmyard appearance, and over the years it had been inexpertly patched up. Part of its wall was made from corrugated iron, another part was made from vivid red modern bricks, and exterior lights clung to its pebble-dash like barnacles.

  “For reasons which are mysterious to me, we can’t get rid of the thatch and have tiles instead, even though it has to be replaced every few years. It’s expensive, and…well…” If the village was going to be on telly, then Henry may as well make sure it was worth Longley Parva’s while. “Hence all the fundraising that goes on.”

  “Very interesting.” Tabitha nodded slowly. “You could build a new hall, of course?”

  “Which would cost a great deal of money.” Henry whistled through his teeth and realized too late that he sounded like a mechanic assessing the cost to repair a car.

  “Tab, what Henry isn’t telling you is that I’m going to be donating a portion of my profits from the tie-in book to the village hall fund.” George quirked his eyebrow as though to suggest this wasn’t to be sniffed at. “They’ll be able to afford a new hall, all right.”

  Henry didn’t tell you because Henry didn’t know. But Henry covered his surprise with a smile. He tipped his head to one side, doing his best sympathetic gaze for Tabitha. He could almost hear the plaintive piano music which, had this conversation been filmed, would now be building in the background into a strident orchestral sweep, while some chap warbled incoherently over guitars to the crescendo.

  “It’s the only way, Tabitha, for a rural community like Longley Parva…” He patted George’s shoulder. “Selfless generosity, that’s what we have to rely on.”

  Tabitha nodded. Henry was fairly sure she had tears in her eyes. She looked away, toward the humble, shabby village hall.

  “Wow. You two. My goodness. Henry—those eyes of yours are dangerous. You nearly had me reaching for my bank app to make a transfer!”

  “All donations gratefully received, Tabitha.” What had Henry become? Was it George’s fault? But no—it felt good. Shameless, yes—but bloody good.

  “Take no more than you need and all that, Tab.” George looked to Henry and smiled. “And yes, I know it’s easy to say that when you have much more than you need, which is why it won’t be in the script.”

  “Of course, of course.” Tabitha nodded toward one of the posters advertising the next fundraising event. “Now—this 1940s dance next week. We’re all set for filming, yes? Let’s get a small camera crew down.”

  Henry shoved his hands into his pocket. “Mrs. Dalrymple’s organizing it—I’ll pop in and speak to her if you like?”

  “I very much would like!”

  “One thing, Tab, because I promised Fitz.” George took his sunglasses from his pocket and cleaned them casually on the bottom of his cricket sweater. “I know I had a bit of a joke about it, but I don’t want to make the village something to laugh at. And if anyone doesn’t want to be on camera—I have a feeling Fitz will be one of them—we’re not going to be the pushy telly folk. I’m going to be living here, and I don’t want to be burned in a giant wicker cricket bat.”

  “Who doesn’t want to be on the telly?” Tabitha tipped back her head and laughed. “I mean, I don’t, of course. But—all right. We’ve got release forms and the like, and the dreaded face-shaped oval of blur! Then we’ll avoid shooting anyone who doesn’t want to be involved.”

  “Good.” Henry grinned at her. “By the way, if you think it would help the village if I was on screen for a bit, I don’t mind, you know. I am the lord of the manor, after all. It would be a bit odd if I wasn’t in it. I’d hate for people to think that I was some dreadful curmudgeon.”

  Tabitha grabbed Henry’s arms. “Lovey, you have to be.”

  “But make me look idiotic…” Henry wagged his finger. A long line of Justices of the Peace awoke in his blood. “And I’ll put you in the ducking stool over the village pond.”

  “Fitz, you don’t have to—” George frowned and quickly put his sunglasses on, concealing his eyes. Then he patted Jez’s neck and walked on, murmuring to the foal as it trotted beside him.

  “You still have a ducking stool?” Tabitha grinned. “And stocks, too? We could put George in them, couldn’t we?”

  There had been a time when Henry would have agreed and been the first in the queue with a cabbage to lob, but he had to laugh.

  “The stocks and the stool are in a museum now, I’m afraid. I was only joshing!”

  He didn’t feel any humor in his own joke, though. What had he said to make George retreat? Didn’t he want everyone in the village to be in his program?

  “To the pub, I think!” Tabitha struggled on the gravel road in her kitten heels, so Henry took her arm in gallant fashion and led her toward The Green Man.

  “Be prepared to watch George get swamped in the pub garden!” Henry led the way toward the motley collection of wooden picnic tables and wonky sun umbrellas advertising obsolete drinks. The sun-dappled garden was already busy and Henry was proven right as a swarm of well-wishers descended like excitable wasps, leaving George and Jez in the middle of t
hem, the little horse proving as popular as his guardian.

  Out came the beer mats and the Biros, the phones and the smiles, and George did his duty with that bright, never-fading smile.

  “He’s so good at this.” Tabitha smiled indulgently at George. “There’s a lot of people I work with in TV who’d boot everyone out of the garden and hurl tables if anyone dared to come up and speak to them. But look at George—he loves it!”

  It didn’t annoy Henry now, even though it was barely a week since George had gatecrashed the Bonny Baby Contest. He took a seat and passed Tabitha a menu from another table.

  “I can recommend the pie.” Henry hoped she wouldn’t notice the sharing platters.

  “Pie? Oh, look—homemade Scotch eggs! How terribly rustic! With meat, I see—in London now, you’re hard-pressed to find one that’s not been hewn from an avocado.” Tabitha laughed. “Your face, Henry! Hahahaha, yes, avocado.”

  “What a world we live in…”

  Jez was first to arrive at the table, having dodged the fray in a moment when George was occupied by a smiling baby in the crook of either elbow. It was another couple of minutes before he could make good his escape and join the trio, bringing with him a solitary small boy who left only when George had written exactly the right inscription on his proffered beer mat.

  “I think everyone’s probably got an autograph now,” George said with an exaggerated puff of air. “They’ll get sick of me soon enough when they realize I’m living here.”

  “Scotch eggs made from avocado, George, that’s what they eat in London. Can you imagine?” Henry’s eyes were wide with horror. “Have you ever eaten one?”

  “I don’t think so.” George shook his head and glanced around before lowering his voice. “Look, I don’t want you to think you have to agree to appearing on TV because— Well, I don’t want you to do anything because you think you have to.”

  Under the concealing safety of the table, Henry tapped George’s knee.

  “It’s all right, really. I’d like to. It’s for the sake of the village, after all. A chap’s got to do his duty and all that.” He rested his hand on his chin. “You never know, it might even be rather fun.”

  “Don’t think you have to change.” George smiled, momentarily touching his hand to Henry’s beneath the table. “You’re perfect as you are.”

  Jez, seemingly as happy with his fans as George was, turned and trotted away across the garden, his tail swishing. George watched with a lazy smile as assorted children followed in his wake, calling for him to wait. Then George’s smile faltered, his face darkening with concentration.

  “Is this wishful thinking, Fitz, or does Jez’s limp look a bit easier to you?”

  “In my expert opinion, do you mean? Yes, I think it does. Wonder how much exercise he was getting at Ed’s stables? Probably shut the poor sod away and hoped he’d disappear.” Henry heard a shocked intake of breath from George. He patted his hand quickly. “But you took him away from that, so… You’ve given him a snug little house and a garden to roam about in, and he goes off on walks and it’s the exercise that’s helping him. As well as—” Henry didn’t want to cause a scene in the beer garden, even if he wanted to twine his fingers with George’s. He cleared his throat. “As well as love. And maybe that’s the most important thing of all.”

  “If that’s what he needs, then he’ll be winning the Derby this time next year.” George laughed, but even behind the sunglasses Henry could feel the warmth in his gaze. “No, Jez’s life is all cuddles and fun now, no racing, no hassle, just kids telling him how cute he is. He’ll probably end up being the star of the doc!”

  “He’ll be on kids’ TV in no time. The face of a thousand lunchboxes!” Tabitha put down the menu that she had been pretending to be absorbed by.

  “Right, who wants what? I’m going for the famed steak and ale pie,” George decided. “Full-on rural pub grub!”

  “I will too.” Tabitha rubbed her hands together with relish. “Made with your local ale, too, I see. You’re all over their menu, Captain George!”

  Henry winked at his boyfriend.

  “Comes with George’s face airbrushed onto the crust!”

  It apparently took Tabitha a moment to realize that he was joking.

  “Pie, Fitz?” George stood. “Keep an eye on Jez for me?”

  And he was gone again, just in time to miss the roar of the Ferrari as it raced into the pub car park in a cloud of dust. Ed Belcher emerged from the car’s air-conditioned confines, resplendent in a black shirt that was open just a little too far and jeans that were just a little too tight. He called, “Is that my old nag? Tired of it already, has he?”

  Henry whispered to Tabitha, “Here we go—the delightful Ed Belcher has arrived.” He got up and stroked Jez, eyeing Ed carefully. It wouldn’t do to be antagonistic, but Henry was tired of being polite to the man who wanted to make him homeless.

  “Ed! You’ll be on the lemonade, then. Don’t drink and drive.”

  “I’m not staying, Henry, but when I saw Foal 12 here abandoned in the beer garden, how could I drive by?” He boomed a laugh, barely glancing at Tabitha. “I told Standish-Brookes it was a cripple but he’s a sentimental old bugger. Too squeamish to have it shot, was he? Thought he’d foist it off onto the pub instead?”

  “He has a name, Ed. And a loving home with George. And it just so happens that Jez has a fan club among the locals to rival George’s. He likes coming to the pub garden.”

  Henry was aware of Tabitha’s scrutiny, and wondered if this was how psychics felt, because he knew exactly what she was thinking. This’ll make great telly!

  Ed turned slightly, putting his back to Tabitha so he could ask in a leering whisper, “Who’s the bird? Bit long in the tooth, Fitzwalter, is she rich?”

  For a crazed second, Henry wondered if he could get away with saying that Tabitha was his property lawyer. But truth was easier to maintain than a lie.

  “This is Tabitha Shakespeare, George’s television chum. Tabitha, this is Ed. He’s…” An arsehole. “The descendent of that chap who may or may not have been killed in a duel.”

  Tabitha revealed her teeth to him. Her fake smile was almost convincing.

  “Nice to meet you.” She obviously met shits like Ed all the time in the world of telly.

  “Ms. Shakespeare!” Ed was practically bowing. “I bet George’s told you all about me, hasn’t he? I imagine you’ll be wanting my card to talk about how we can help each other?”

  He pulled out his fat wallet and opened it to remove a business card. It was gold, and embossed in silver, and he held it out with a look of pride. Jez shied away from Ed, nearly standing on Henry’s foot as he stepped sideways, trying to evade the man who would have sanctioned his death. No wonder the foal was flourishing away from Ed. It was a wonder that anything could avoid withering within a five-mile radius of the man.

  But what business did George have, talking to Ed about the documentary? Unless it was a wind-up. Maybe so. Maybe George was going to cast Ed as the baddie, and he didn’t know.

  “Thank you.” Again Tabitha’s fake smile as she took the card from Ed and tucked it into her leather phone case. She made no attempt, Henry noticed, to offer her own card in response.

  “Call me.” Ed pointed what he probably thought was a commanding finger. “Let’s talk turkey.”

  He gave Henry a swift look up and down and turned, the sunlight catching the enormous silver dollar symbol on his belt buckle as he strode away.

  Tabitha grimaced. “What a revolting individual! Let’s talk turkey, for heaven’s sake—does he think he’s on Howard’s Way?”

  Henry thought it best not to make his partisanship too obvious.

  You never know whose ears might be flapping in The Green Man’s beer garden.

  “That’s our Ed, a bit of local color for you. Ball-breaking stock exchange type. Went to school with George and me. Married my ex, in fact.”

  “Your ex? Oh, I didn’t realize
he was—”

  Perhaps Tabitha had noticed how Henry dropped his chin to his chest, awkwardly fascinated by the sight of his own shoes. She grinned kindly at him.

  “Ah, I see. It’s all right, Henry.”

  Ed honked the Ferrari horn in an approximation of George’s trademark toot-toot, but it sounded different coming from the supercar. It wasn’t friendly, the promise of approaching silliness, but an aggressive, demanding sound that bellowed look at me, world! No, he couldn’t see Ed Belcher ever replacing Standy-Bee in the public’s affections, no matter how fickle.

  At the sound Jez lifted his head and looked up at the car. He gave a whinny and tossed his mane in a gesture that might, if one were being fanciful, be taken as a show of a rather defiant attitude. It might also be taken as very Standy-Bee, the same look George had given when he’d showed up to the school disco wearing mascara. Ed and his cronies had laughed but George hadn’t cared because George had known he could get away with it, that he was as close as a rural Sussex private school would ever get to seeing David Bowie.

  And those long, dark eyelashes had framed George’s eyes beautifully.

  Henry turned toward the horse, pressing his face to its mane. How were he and George to keep this a secret? Would they have to move away? And yet, the Reverend and the Squire had kept their love a secret for years. So, then, could Henry and George.

  When he returned, George was carrying a tray on which were two pints of Spitfire and a cool-looking glass of white wine. Jez trotted over to welcome him and together they walked over to the table. George put down the tray and took his seat opposite Henry with a broad smile.

  “You remembered!” Tabitha took the wine. “Cheers, you two!”

  “I’m not about to forget, Tabs.” George laughed. “I’ve bought you a few in my time!”

  Henry saw movement from the corner of his eye and noticed Lil Dalrymple approaching Jez. The foal whinnied a greeting and she affectionately rubbed his nose, pouting her shiny lips at him.

  George peered up at her and slowly slid his sunglasses down his nose. He cocked his head to one side before asking, “Lil, is it fair to say that you know as much about makeup as you do about horses?”