Just Desserts (The Simon Bognor Mysteries)

by Tim Heald

  Aubergine Bristol came sauntering out to take up the struggle. Her bosom looked splendidly ample under the white shirt, stretched tight across her chest; her thighs showed sturdy and masculine under her divided skirts. She waved her bat with aplomb and menace. Bognor came to meet her, fearing a message of rebuke from his captain. Instead she merely said, ‘Only just over thirty. Aubrey says not to hurry, but it’s up to us. There’s no one after.’

  Bognor smiled wanly and returned to the batting crease where he was now due to face ffrench-Thomas. When he got there he found Luigi Dotto, the wicket-keeper-cum-chef. He slapped Bognor amiably on the back with his leather gauntlet. ‘Hugh and I hope you aren’t getting out of your depth,’ he said, smiling. ‘We don’t want you to be hurt.’

  ‘Very solicitous of you,’ said Bognor, trying to appear cool.

  ‘We would prefer you not to continue to pester Gabrielle,’ he continued, still smiling. His voice, however, was charged with exaggerated Mediterranean menace.

  ‘Oh.’ Bognor disliked intimidation, even though it frightened him. ‘I have a job to do, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What a pity,’ the Italian smirked, and raised a glove in the direction of ffrench-Thomas.

  ‘Come along you chaps,’ shouted Blight-Purley, irascibly. ‘We haven’t got all day.’ All day was exactly what they did have, thought Bognor ruefully. He settled down to watch the bowler thunder into action once more. It was an unnecessarily long run, quite as alarming as Dotto’s spoken threat. He watched the strides lengthen, raised his bat to meet the challenge and gulped as he saw the Bitschwiller rep hurl the ball into the ground a good three yards short of where he stood. In the words of the cricketing experts it then ‘flew’. The earth was rock hard and the ball bounced back at a sharp angle and sped up at him at around a hundred miles an hour. It all happened very suddenly and he was so shocked by the hostility of the assault that he remained stock still as it swung away from him, passing just over his right shoulder. ‘Well left!’ called Aubergine Bristol enthusiastically. She had obviously taken his drink- and terror-induced immobility for steadiness under enemy fire. Bognor went very cold. Behind him Luigi Dotto, who had caught the ball cleanly, came wandering closer. ‘The next one may not miss,’ he said softly. ‘You still persist in your pestering intention?’

  Suddenly Bognor became very angry. ‘Sugar off, you deplorable foreign person!’ he said, and watched, quite without fear this time, as the wicket-keeper shrugged and again waved a glove in the direction of the bowler. It was obviously the signal for another bumper, but Bognor was not going to be intimidated. He marched three paces down the wicket and very deliberately smacked the turf with the back of his bat as if to indicate that the ball’s behaviour had nothing to do with ffrench-Thomas’ strength or skill but was merely the result of some abnormality in the pitch. Then he returned. He was going to go down fighting. This time he waited until the bowler was halfway through his run up and then straightened and walked three paces backwards rubbing at his eye. ffrench-Thomas was forced to halt. Bognor went on rubbing, then returned to the crease. ‘Sorry!’ he called up to umpire and bowler. ‘Something in my eye. Gone now.’ Behind him Dotto whispered, ‘Next time there will be something in the eye.’

  The ball, when it came, was even deadlier than the last. Definitely designed to kill, if not to maim. His response was determinedly suicidal. Just as it was delivered Bognor gave a sort of manic hop, raised his bat, and aimed a blow which was halfway between a swing and a karate chop. There was a hideous moment when it seemed the ball must hit him smack between the eyes but an instant before that happened he felt the immensely satisfying thud of his bat striking the leather exactly where the bat is supposed to contact the ball. He half-stumbled from the force of the impact and was then aware of really quite enthusiastic applause. The ball had cleared the square leg boundary full toss. His effort of self-defence and defiance had turned into a textbook hook shot—precisely the sort of thing which the very best batsmen are supposed to employ in such circumstances. Aubergine Bristol exclaimed, ‘Shot!’ and ffrench-Thomas stood with his hands on his hips staring angrily and thoughtfully. The next four balls were gentler, and he managed to score two runs from them, such was his confidence. The game regained something approaching composure. The two of them pushed the score along surely until Aubergine edged one to first slip where it was caught. The next two batsmen managed a mere single between them while Bognor watched helplessly from the other end. As Ebertson arrived at the wicket, a further nine runs were still required. Bognor was twenty-one not out and the effects of Bitschwiller and bile were beginning to wear thin. ‘This is where we cement our alliance,’ said Ebertson, speaking rather fuzzily. Bognor realized with surprise that he was wearing a gumshield. ‘Pring says “well done, but take it slow”.’

  ‘Right you are,’ said Bognor. ffrench-Thomas had been rested for an over or two. Now he was brought back to finish things off.

  Bognor viewed him with less stark terror than before, but he was still nervous. Besides, the nearness of victory was making him apprehensive. The first delivery was quick and straightish. He was caught in hopeless indecision, uncertain whether to play forward or back. To his chagrin he missed altogether and was appalled to hear the collapse of his wicket behind him. Out. Bowled. He stood for a moment surveying the ruins, and then turned to walk, only dimly aware of a shout from behind him. Halfway to the pavilion he was joined by Ebertson. He seemed very excited. ‘You’re not out. Back. Blight-Purley called a no-ball. He says ffrench-Thomas threw it. Chucked it. It wasn’t a legal delivery.’

  Finally the message got through. Bognor turned to see that altercation was taking place. The players had crowded round the two umpires who were themselves engaged in noisy and acrimonious debate. By the time he had returned, however, the decision had been confirmed. No-ball. He was still in and there were only eight runs now required. Somehow he played out the rest of the over, scoring no runs from it but retaining his wicket. As the field changed over he held a conference with Ebertson again. The American was confident. ‘I’d say ffrench-Thomas and Dotto have it in for you and Blight-Purley,’ he said. ‘I wonder if their dislike extends to me?’

  ‘Let’s concentrate on one thing at a time,’ said Bognor. ‘Let’s beat them at cricket, then we can consider the other.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Ebertson’s stance was unusual, owing much, of course, to his American antecedents. His legs were slightly splayed, and he carried the bat high off the ground as if he were intending to hit across the line rather than down it in the approved English manner—sabre rather than foil. This was exactly what he did with the first ball bowled at him. It was a medium pace full toss, the sort of delivery one might have expected from a baseball pitcher, and Ebertson swung mightily and half-successfully. The ball caught the edge of the bat and screamed away towards third man. It was not what he had intended but it was effective. They ran two. Six still to win. Ebertson was evidently intent on dangerous living for he played an identical shot to the next ball. He missed. The ball was not, however, straight. The mistake was not important. Nevertheless it was obvious to everyone that Ebertson was on borrowed time. The principles of batting may seem eccentric but they were well founded. The American was not applying them. Bognor realized that it was imperative to get Ebertson away from the bowling even though it was not particularly hostile. It would also help to score the necessary runs before the decidedly more dangerous ffrench-Thomas returned. The next ball hit Ebertson’s thigh and ran away towards an empty space in the field. ‘Run,’ shrieked Bognor to the immobilized Ebertson, who was too busy rubbing his leg to consider runs. The leg bye was duly completed. Five to win, three balls of the over remaining. From the first, Bognor achieved an undignified prod past point which brought two; the second he missed; and by great good fortune the third he turned to long leg for a single. The end of the over. Only two runs needed, ffrench-Thomas bowling to Bognor. This over was crucial. He stared long and hard at the grou
nd, wondering what on earth to do. His concentration was such that he scarcely noticed the appalling Dotto mutter, as he passed him, ‘This will hurt.’ Instead he found himself reciting the words of Sir Henry Newbolt:

  ‘There’s a breathless hush in the Close tonight—

  Ten to make and the match to win—

  A bumping pitch and a blinding light,

  An hour to play and the last man in.’

  Not entirely accurate, but uncommonly close. The last man was in. The fiendish ffrench-Thomas was bowling fast; the pitch seemed bumpy. The crowd, or spectators (‘crowd’ being too grand a term for the distinguished but not overlarge concourse gathered by the pavilion and tent) was extremely silent, gripped presumably by the tension and drama of the situation. There was at least an hour left, but it was not going to be necessary.

  ‘And it’s not for the sake of a ribboned coat,

  Or the selfish hope of a season’s fame,

  But his Captain’s hand on his shoulder smote—

  Play up! Play up! and play the game!’

  Well, he wasn’t doing this for Pring. He was doing it, in an odd roundabout sort of way, for his country. In some bizarre fashion, no longer very clear to him, the heroics he was performing were connected with the death of Escoffier Smith and Dmitri Petrov. Moreover, the battle between him and Hugh ffrench-Thomas and Luigi Dotto increasingly seemed to have to do with something more than cricket.

  He snapped out of his reverie, pulled at the peak of his cap, looked around at the predatory fielders, and settled himself to await the onslaught. Thud, thud, thud—ffrench-Thomas’ boots thumped the turf with the sound of a racehorse entering the final furlong. The ball speared to exactly the same spot as the other bouncers, reared before Bognor could decide on an appropriate response, and struck him just above the heart. Dotto had been right. It did hurt. He dropped his bat and massaged the affected spot, screwing his face into an expression of anguish as he did so.

  Umpire Blight-Purley came unsteadily across to see if he was all right, and to offer partial advice. ‘Stand up to the bugger,’ was what he said. Bognor merely grunted and picked up his bat. The next ball landed a little closer and shot up. This time he played back but the ball cut in, missed the bat and caught Bognor full in the middle of the stomach. Immediately he doubled up, half-winded and gasping. Dotto and Blight-Purley both approached, but he waved them away still grimacing. The second blow had removed all trace of inebriation, but it was at least two minutes before he felt well enough to stand and take a third. Again the ritual: the heavy, powerful, ever-quickening run; the flurry of arms; the searing pace of the projectile; its angry, fizzing sound. Bognor watched, the pain promoting a desire for swift and comprehensive revenge. For once ffrench-Thomas’ aim was marginally less sure. The length was the same, but instead of being straight, this one pitched well outside the off stump to Bognor’s right. With surprising alacrity he flashed at it in a passable imitation of a square cut, his right foot across, arms outstretched, bat almost horizontal. Not for the first time aggression, bravado even, paid off. The ball flew from the bat, fell short of the man fielding at point, evaded his grasp, sped on past and rolled like an angry little meteor across the short-cropped turf and over the thin white boundary line. Four runs. Blight-Purley’s XI one hundred and sixty for nine. Bognor twenty-eight not out. Ebertson two not out. Blight-Purley’s XI win by one wicket. Bognor experienced a feeling of achievement and euphoria such as he could not recall since he had passed the Civil Service Exam and been accepted by the Board of Trade.

  The first to congratulate him was Ebertson: ‘Played, dammit!’ he exclaimed striking Bognor smartly on the shoulder. ‘First time that’s happened in living memory.’ Blight-Purley echoed this. Likewise Pendennis who had been umpiring at the other end. Other members of the opposing team, though conspicuously not ffrench-Thomas and Dotto, proffered similar applause. Back at the pavilion there was more. It was heady stuff. Pring was standing there, a glass of bubbling Bitschwiller in each hand. ‘Well played, you chaps,’ he said, giving them both champagne. ‘Historic stuff. I’d no idea you had it in you, Simon. Fantastic’ ‘Fantastic!’ ‘Well played, old boy.’ ‘That six was the best thing I’ve seen in years.’ ‘How are the injuries?’ ‘That second one must have hurt.’ It was all most unusual for a man more accustomed to the world’s and his intimates’ brickbats, but Bognor found that he slipped surprisingly easily into the part of traditional British hero. All that was required was a self-deprecating half-smile, an occasional shrug, a few ‘thank yous’, and a measure of appreciation for the efforts of others. He did not say ‘It was nothing actually’ but that was the impression he managed to convey.

  The celebration continued for an hour or so in almost entirely liquid form. Bognor smoked a cheroot or two and drank. Aubrey Pring and Aubergine Bristol, it now transpired, were spending the night at Petheram. So was Gabrielle. Amanda Bullingdon, who had driven down with Gabrielle, was offered a lift home in Blight-Purley’s Jag. Eventually, at around half-past seven, a distinctly intoxicated trio fell into the car preparatory to the long drive home.

  ‘Good day,’ said the Colonel, as he turned the car unsteadily on to the main London road.

  ‘Very good day,’ echoed his passengers.

  ‘Neither of you two in a particular hurry to get home?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I thought,’ Blight-Purley coughed and crashed the gears simultaneously, ‘we might stop off at Wittering Saint Jude for a snackerel.’

  ‘What, the Orange Lily?’ asked Amanda Bullingdon. ‘Cedric Pottinger’s place?’

  ‘Yes. Not far off our route. I’m sure we could have an agreeable light supper there.’

  No one could think of any reasonable objection. Bognor, comfortably sitting in the rear seat, allowed himself to contemplate the back of Amanda Bullingdon’s head, which seemed in the evening light to have taken on a rather alluring sheen. They were all in their different ways feeling mellow with confidence and the satisfaction of work well done. They were not, as Blight-Purley would have put it, ‘on the qui vive’. Which is why none of them noticed the blood-red Maserati behind them, an ostentatious machine with infinitely more power than the Colonel’s ageing Jaguar, but which obstinately refused to pass them; which, indeed, never came within thirty or forty yards, but which never quite lost sight of them.

  6

  THE ORANGE LILY WAS named in honour of the Royal Sussex Regiment who had earned the sobriquet in their days as the 35th Foot. The Earl of Donegal had chosen orange facings for the regimental uniform in deference to his hero, William of Orange. The lilies had come later after they had routed the Royal Roussillon French Grenadiers at Quebec in 1759. The modern pub originally dated from a similar period and, although it boasted a public bar which attracted local residents of the more prosperous kind, it was less of a pub than a restaurant with rooms, in the French manner. The food was very good and very expensive and rooms were always full at weekends. Unless there was racing at Goodwood there were few weekday residents, but the restaurant continued to earn the patronage of the county’s numerous stockbrokers and barristers.

  ‘Colonel,’ said Cedric Pottinger, as the party debauched into his hostelry. ‘How very agreeable!’ He was a surprisingly thin man of around fifty with shifty eyes and a mauve-veined nose.

  ‘Cedric,’ said the Colonel. ‘Good to see you. This is Amanda Bullingdon, whom I think you’ve met, and this is Simon Bognor, whom I believe you haven’t. Simon has just won a vital game of cricket virtually single-handed, and we’re celebrating.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Pottinger. ‘That would be at Petheram I suppose.’

  They agreed that it would be at Petheram and proceeded to the saloon bar, be-beamed and be-chintzed, where they ordered Pimms all round. They arrived in silver tankards complete with orange and lemon and sprigs of borage. Bognor noticed that Pottinger continued to shimmer about greeting other guests and rubbing his hands. Evidently he was not what in catering circle
s was called a ‘grand bonnet’; more of what Americans referred to as a ‘maitre d’. He seemed to Bognor to exhibit an unpleasing attitude of perpetual cringe.

  ‘The chef’s Albanian,’ remarked Blight-Purley, noticing Bognor’s disapproving attitude. ‘He can cook too, unlike most Albanians.’ The menu bore a few peripheral signs of Albanian influence—a rose-leaf jam offered as a sauce with some of the puddings, potatoes with Macedonian honey, dolmas and a touch of yoghurt here and there. For the most part, however, it was glossy Anglo-French, and suddenly realizing that they had eaten extensively during the day, they all opted for the same: Vichyssoise followed by vitello tonnato and salad. To drink with it, Sancerre.

  ‘We were lucky no one got hurt,’ said Blight-Purley when they had ordered.

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ said Bognor, whose bruises were painful.

  ‘No, but nothing broken. There could have been, you know.’

  ‘There did seem to be a rather violent attitude about,’ said Amanda Bullingdon. ‘I mean more so than usual.’

  By common consent, however, they left it there or thereabouts. On their own Bognor and Blight-Purley might possibly have sifted the significance of the unusually hostile fast bowling and ffrench-Thomas’ rifling blows in the Colonel’s direction. But neither, it seemed, wished to involve the girl. Or conceivably they were sufficiently suspicious, in the omnivorous manner of their profession, to avoid giving her any indication of what exactly it was that they now suspected. Instead they turned to more trivial discussion—travel, politics, sport and, inevitably, food and drink. This proved so engrossing that none of them noticed the distinctive purr of an ageing Jaguar from the direction of the car park. The noise occurred at about the moment that they were taking the first mouthfuls of emerald green mint and grapefruit sorbet: a soft, low, throaty hum; a slightly crashed gear change; acceleration into the distance; silence punctuated by the slosh of their sorbets and the muffled indiscretions of their fellow eaters. After they had finished, Pottinger insisted they had an Armagnac for the road so they went back into the flowery lounge and drank that and coffee with home-made fudge and strange sweet pink confections composed mainly of coconut. It was after ten when they finally went back out into the car park. Bognor stretched and sniffed country air. He felt sleepy and replete.