Lady Emmeline and the Swansong Caper

by Anna Reader

  “They ought to be taking care of their children,” Lady Alverstock replied, lips pressed together in displeasure, “not hurling eggs at the men who do a jolly fine job running this country of ours.”

  “Really, mother,” Algernon said, boldly entering the fray in support of his sister, “I do wish you’d heard Ms Woolf’s speech at Newnham last year. I’m quite sure it would have changed your mind on this.”

  “A deeply immoral woman, as I understand it,” Lady Alverstock said, pressing her straw hat onto her head as her husband whipped around yet another hairpin turn. “We must simply agree to disagree, children. Men belong in the workplace, and women belong in the home.”

  Algie and Purdie looked at one another in familiar dismay, and decided to turn their attention to the rather more neutral landscape. For her part, Purdie hadn’t the least idea of how she was going to break it to her mother that she very much intended to become a journalist for National Geographic once she’d graduated from Cambridge. The image of her only daughter charging about the deserts of the world in khakis was unlikely to be favourably received.

  “It is far too beautiful a day for politics, my chitterlings,” Lord Alverstock cried out, wafting his hand towards their exceedingly pretty environs in a gesture of approval. “We shouldn’t be arguing with one another – we should be revelling in poetry.”

  “The boy stood on the burning deck, his feet were covered in blisters. The sun had burned his knickers off...,” Algie began, always ready to oblige with a lewd verse or two.

  Purdie giggled, and Lord Alverstock honked the horn as his son delivered the punch-line.

  “Steady on, Algernon, think of your poor mother,” Lord Alverstock said with a chuckle. “How about a song?”

  Moved by the sunshine and the hay-bales and the skipping lambs, Purdie launched into a rousing rendition of “Jerusalem,” and was soon joined by the family chorus. It was thus that they arrived in Chettleforth, bouncing over the cobbled stones towards the churchyard where the vicar always let them leave their car during their day-trips.

  Lady Alverstock dismounted from the car, gathered her shopping basket in her arms and headed for the local haberdashers. “I’ll meet you at the village green shortly after one,” she said to her family as she set off for her morning of errands. “Do be good.” And with that she bestowed a benevolent smile upon the trio and trotted off.

  “As my dear old father used to say,” Lord Alverstock announced, waiting for his wife to disappear around the corner, “time spent in reconnaissance is seldom wasted. Come along, children.”

  The threesome sauntered through the cobbled streets, smiling at passers-by and generally feeling at peace with the world – it was a glorious day, there was the match to look forward to, and they were on the cusp of recovering a treasured family heirloom from the sticky paws of a feckless cousin. Really, it was the sort of day which begged to be seized.

  “I don’t suppose there would actually be time to pop in to see the Hardy manuscript?” Purdie asked, looking longingly at the signs advertising its location in the village hall. “It would only take the briefest of moments…”

  “Of course there will, Em,” replied Lord Alverstock, “but shall we hold that thought until tomorrow? Time and tide and all that, my love.”

  “Swot,” Algie said, elbowing her lightly in the ribs.

  “You know you want to see it just as much as I do, Angel Clare,” Purdie retorted. “Alright then,” she sighed, “for the Greater Good.”

  Cousin Eustace’s abode was, just as Purdie remembered from the few occasions they’d been invited to tea over the years, an alarmingly chintzy sort of affair. As a three storied, Regency-style house situated in a quaint English seaside town, it ought to have been quite the spectacle; Eustace, however, had managed to mask its charms behind acres of net curtains, elaborate aquatic-themed topiary in the highly-manicured front garden, and what appeared to be a family of gnomes on the lawn frozen in the middle of a game of croquet.

  “Fabulous,” Purdie said with masochistic glee. “How do we get in?”

  “Eustace is a creature of habit,” Lord Alverstock replied cheerfully, slipping his hand into the pocket of his linen jacket, “and always leaves a spare key at White’s, in case of emergencies.” He plucked the item from said pocket, and dangled it in front of his children.

  “And how did you get your hands on it?” Algie asked. “I hope you didn’t burgle White’s, Pa. That’s arguably a bridge too far.”

  “Certainly not,” his father replied, in righteous outrage. “I bribed the doorman. Come along.”

  Lord Alverstock opened the small wooden gate which led up to the front door, strolled nonchalantly past the gnomes, and put the key in the lock. As quick as a flash, nothing happened. “Must be a bit sticky…” he muttered, jangling the key about and shaking the door in a bid to find the sweet spot. Still nothing gave, and Lord Alverstock pulled the key back out of the lock, looking down at it in dismay.

  “The blighter must have changed the locks and forgotten to leave a new key at the Club,” Algie said darkly, considering this to be deeply unsporting of his horrid relation. “How utterly thoughtless of him.”

  “Should we try to find an open window?” Purdie asked, looking doubtfully up at the house and wondering how they could possibly manage a break-in in broad daylight.

  “How would we explain that to the locals, Em?” Algie demanded with a shake of the head. “Strolling in as though we own the place is one thing, but scrambling on top of one another’s shoulders like a circus act to force our way in to a second storey window would look distinctly smoky.”

  “It’s no good,” Lord Alverstock said. “The back garden looks out over the cricket pitch - we’d be in full view of every man and his dog if we tried that this afternoon. And this part of the house is completely visible to the high street – sod’s law your mother would catch us.”

  “Heaven preserve us,” Purdie said, crossing herself. “So….?”

  “So we need an excuse to get into this blasted house,” Lord Alverstock said, just as the glorious sound of leather hitting willow rang through the air.

  “Heads!” a voice rang out from behind the house, as a careless warm-up shot was likely sent hurtling towards any early spectators. Suddenly, Lord Alverstock started to laugh. The twins looked at one another in mild confusion.

  “Pa?” Purdie asked. “Are you alright?”

  “Never better,” he cried, hurdling back over the gate and setting off around the house towards the pavilion. “We need to get the pair of you into the batting order!”

  “Do you think the old nugget’s gone soft?” Algie asked, in a conspiratorial whisper. “The cheese and the pickle parting ways?”

  “If you are asking, Algie, whether father is losing his mind,” Purdie replied, her lips twitching, “then no – I don’t think so. I think he’s got a Plan.”

  The pair followed their father’s footsteps around the house, and spotted him standing by the pavilion, deep in conversation with one of the umpires. It was an exceptionally pretty ground – the grass beyond the outfield was dotted with the occasional willow-tree, the pavilion offered a view of the sea, and cousin Eustace’s house was just set behind the score-board, lending the scene a very pleasant back-drop. The twins had spent many a happy afternoon watching the Chettleforth Challengers battle the cricketers from the neighbouring villages, and Purdie had scored her first ever four here, when she was barely fourteen years old and the home team were short a man.

  “Hallo, Mr Reynolds,” Algie said, striding out across the turf. “Lovely day for it.”

  “Maybe it is, and maybe it isn’t,” the home umpire Mr Reynold’s replied, glaring up at Algernon from under his dense, grey, beetling brows. Rafe Reynolds was not a social beast; he loved cricket, sailing, the odd tot of rum, and little else. He articulated this misanthropy using a raft of cryptic phrases learnt from his eccentric mother, always failing to realize that this merely lent his gruff demean
our an irresistibly mysterious flavour that only made people want to talk to him more. Algie and Purdie had known him all their lives, and refused to be cowed by his apparent dislike of the entire population of Chettleforth. For his part, Rafe Reynolds harboured a secret soft-spot for the twins, who always lent a dash of colour to proceedings with their reckless charm.

  “When are the teams due to arrive?” Purdie asked, casting her eyes over the well-kept wicket in admiration.

  “N’ery too soon for judgment day,” Rafe replied, with a tap of the nose.

  “After lunch, then,” Lord Alverstock said, by now an effective code-breaker of Rafe’s gnomic utterances. “I presume they’re in the Lamb and Flag, enjoying some of Roddie’s cider?”

  This almost drew a smile from Rafe’s thin lips. An incline of the head signalled that Lord Alverstock had hit the nail on the proverbial head.

  “Well, I think we ought to go and buy the visitors a drink,” his Lordship declared, with what one might almost call a vulpine grin. “See you anon, Rafe.”

  Mr Reynolds grunted, and went back to setting the rope around the boundary.

  And so, Purdie and Algie found themselves trotting after their father once more, as he set off for the local public house at speed.

  “I say, Pa,” Algie said, almost breaking into a jog to keep up with his father’s determined strides, “how is this helping us to breach Eustace’s defences?”

  “Cider holds the key,” Lord Alverstock cried, raising a declamatory finger.

  “You’re as bad as Rafe,” Purdie said, yomping after the pair. “Cider holds the key, indeed – in my experience it leads to nothing but a jolly vicious hangover.”

  “Precisely, my cherub,” Lord Alverstock replied, as he crossed the pub’s threshold and made a beeline for the bar. “Hallo, Roddie!”

  Algie and Purdie followed their father into the cool, dark, oak-lined room, and spied eleven likely looking men dressed in whites and gathered around a cluster of tables in the corner. The Lamb and Flag never served food as a rule, however on match-days the landlady would stretch to thick cuts of bread, cheese, and jars of home-made pickle. The away team were tucking in to this spread with gusto, and each had a flagon of ale by his elbow. Roddie’s wasn’t a particularly strong brew, hence the sportsmen’s relaxed approach to drinking before a very important league game. Lord Alverstock, however, had decided to intervene.

  “A pint of cider and two of ale please, Roddie,” Lord Alverstock bellowed, loudly enough for his voice to carry to the men in white. “This cider of yours,” he continued, “is invariably the highlight of my holiday. Without doubt, the finest in the county.”

  This provoked a hum of dissent from the cricketers, who hailed from a village which also prided itself on the superlative flavour of its apples.

  “D’you know,” Lord Alverstock said sonorously, as the landlord handed him his glass of the warm, potent nectar, “I truly believe I could drink a pint of this faster than anyone else you’ve ever served.”

  “’E’s never bin drinkin’ with ‘ector, then,” one of the cricketers growled to his mates, snickering into his pickle.

  “In fact, I’d be prepared to stake a bob on it,” Lord Alverstock cried, laying down the gauntlet for all to see. The scent of a wager was in the air.

  “You might as well just ‘and yer money over now, save yerself the ‘uuumiliation,” the captain of the team snorted, as his men thudded their jars of ale on the table in gruff agreement.

  “Ha!” Lord Alverstock replied with a swash-buckling cry. “Hand my money over, indeed! I doubt any one of you could keep up with me over half a pint, let alone the full shebang.”

  “You can’t let ‘im talk to us like that, Jago!” one of the cricketers said to his captain, the look of combat swelling the man’s pupils and turning his hands into ham-hock fists. “We can’t let no toff disrespect our menfolk. Ain’t right. Ain’t proper.”

  This declaration was met by further grunts of approval, and eleven pairs of hostile eyes fixed their attention on Lord Alverstock’s pint of Roddie’s cider.

  “Reckon you’re right there, Arthur,” Captain Jago growled. “Hector! Fancy showing this fine London gent how we drinks down in Applesby Parva?”

  Hector obligingly pushed himself up from the pub bench and revealed himself to be a giant of a man, well over six foot and with forearms the size of Purdie’s torso. The prehensile slope of his forehead, dead-eyed expression, and slight droop of the bottom lip indicated that he was not, perhaps, a thinking man, but he certainly looked like a ready vessel for Roddie’s tonic.

  “Are you quite sure about this, Pa?” Algie whispered under his breath. “He looks like an absolute brute.”

  Again, Lord Alverstock gave vent to a piratical laugh. “Another pint of cider for my friend here,” he said.

  Lord Alverstock had been coming to his pub for many years, and Roddie knew better than to question his ability to handle his drink. Still, Hector Galvin was a behemoth of a man, who thwocked sixes as though he were playing with a tennis ball. Legend had it that he’d head-butted a bull when he was barely out of short trousers and never been quite the same since; still, it was well known throughout the county that he could sink a brace of pints without feeling any the worse for it.

  The lumbering giant rolled across the room, cheered on by the raucous support of his kinsmen, until he was standing next to Lord Alverstock. Purdie and Algie looked up at him in dismay, and wondered once again what on earth their father could be thinking.

  “Here you are then, sir,” Lord Alverstock said, handing his opponent a jar. Hector’s gaping nostrils were assailed with a combined scent of straw, paint-stripper, and silage; to a man accustomed to drinking ale, it came as something of a shock.

  “You know the rules,” Roddie said in his deep Cornish burr. “Start drinking on go, and first to empty the vessel wins.”

  “Come on, Daddy,” Purdie said, her competitive spirit riled by the unexpected contest. “Remember the family motto: animo profundo.”

  “It’s the profundo we need here, Pa,” Algie agreed, patting his father on the back. “Show us how it’s done!”

  The cricketers across the room were already guffawing into their glasses. They knew what their man was capable of; he had bested all comers at the inaugural Applesby Parva beer festival the previous autumn, and was sure to make short work of this uppity tourist. What they had failed to consider, of course, was that Roddie’s cider often had an emphatic effect on the uninitiated.

  “On yer marks,” Roddie said, as the men raised the pints to their lips. “And….go!”

  The two men tipped their pints back amid cheers of support from their family and cricket team respectively, and thudded the empty vessels down on the oak bar almost simultaneously. “It goes to ‘ector, by a whisker,” Roddie announced dispassionately, much to the delight of Hector’s team-mates.

  “Do you know, I think Pa let him win that,” Purdie whispered in Algie’s ear. “He definitely pulled back at the last moment.”

  “Well done, sir,” Lord Alverstock said, thumping Hector on the arm in approval. “Shall we say best of three?”

  Hector looked back to his captain for instructions, trying to ignore the burning sensation tickling his gullet. “Go on then, Hector,” Jago said with a nod of the head. “Finish the job.”

  Roddie poured out two more pints of cider, and set them out on top of the bar. “Ready, then?” he asked. The two men picked up their drinks and gave a curt nod. “Go!”

  Once again, the tankards were tipped back and the cider disappeared. The cricketers were less interested this time and had started chatting amongst themselves, absolutely confident that their man would secure victory without any trouble; yet when the tankards thudded back down on the bar, Roddie called out Lord Alverstock’s name.

  “That’s more like it,” Purdie said into her brother’s ear. “I think he’s trying to make the giant drink as much as possible.”

  The unfamilia
r, fruity brew had by now gone straight to Hector’s head, and he looked at his challenger through suddenly rather blood-shot eyes.

  “One more round please, Roddie, if you’d be so kind,” Lord Alverstock said, his faculties wholly unimpeded.

  The cricketers had by now abandoned their chatter, and most had gathered around the bar in disbelief.

  “I’ve never seen him beaten,” the wicket-keeper, aghast, said to one of the team’s spin bowlers. “That old fella must have cheated or summat.”

  “Now don’t you go bandying around accusations like that, Jim,” the bowler replied, sagely. “That’s a serious thing to lay on a man. The third pint will decide it. ‘appen Hector just lost concentration for a moment there.”

  Unbeknownst to the cricketers, Lord Alverstock currently held the Combined Forces record for the fastest yard of ale, and had been quaffing cider since an idyllic youth spent largely in Somerset. He was yet to meet a man who could beat him either on pace or head for drink, and had little doubt that he could emerge victorious over anyone put forward by the Applesby Parva first eleven. He therefore felt entirely relaxed as Roddie pushed yet another pint towards him – if anything the contest had given him an appetite, and he had a sudden hankering for a pickled egg.

  “On your marks then, gentlemen,” Roddie said, eyeing Hector with some concern. “And…go.”

  It was then that Lord Alverstock unleashed his true potential. The cider disappeared in a matter of seconds, and Hector was still choking down the second half of his pint when the empty tankard was smacked down in front of the landlord.