by Tim Heald
‘First-rate soup, don’t you think?’ he heard him say, and turned away thankfully.
‘You’re the lucky man who owns Hook,’ he said to Mr. Green who was drinking his soup with an unpleasant slurping noise.
‘Right,’ said Mr. Green. ‘You been there?’
‘Yes,’ said Bognor, ‘I particularly remember the Holbein in the hall.’
‘Hook’s a fine piece of property,’ said Mr. Green. ‘Cost me five million pounds. Five million pounds, did you know that?’
‘No, I didn’t. That’s remarkable.’
‘Wouldn’t think I came from Latvia, would you?’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘Well I don’t, I come from Manchester.’ Mr. Green laughed immoderately. ‘No, my old man, he came from Latvia. He had a little tailor’s shop in Manchester. Pity he never lived to see his son dining with dukes. You got property?’
‘A flat, in Regent’s Park, actually.’
‘You own it?’
‘No, I rent it.’
‘Silly boy, silly boy. You buy some property now before it’s too late. Otherwise you’ll never make money.’
‘I rather like the flat actually. It’s pretty.’
Mr. Green looked at him sharply. ‘You don’t want to make money, is that it? That’s what’s wrong with the country. No drive. No initiative. Nobody wants to make money any longer. Even my good friend, Canning, he has to come to me for help. So did poor Freddie. What a shame. What a gentleman! Hey,’ he leant forward conspiratorially, ‘you want any help on this? Just ask me. Anything I can do. Here,’ he reached in his pocket and brought out a visiting card. ‘You take this. Anything I can do, you let me know. Anything at all, but especially about poor Freddie. I’ve got my ideas.’ He tapped his nose, ‘Not now, you understand. But you want this cleared up, then you come to me. I could tell you a thing or two. Good grief, yes.’
By now Bognor was feeling battered. He found some consolation in Honeysuckle Johnson’s cleavage which faced him across the table, but she caught him staring, and he looked away again.
Somehow he got through the meal. With Mr. Green he discussed lingerie and property and tax, the cornerstones, it appeared, of the Green fortune; with Lady Maidenhead he discussed, incoherently, whether President Kennedy had been having an affair with Marilyn Monroe, whether Edward Heath had sex appeal, and whether Brighton or Le Touquet were suitable for dirty weekends. By the time the ladies retired he felt distinctly drunk. He also wanted to talk about something he understood.
For a few moments there was silence as everyone drew on their cigars. He looked round at the flushed faces. Everyone—Abney, Grithbrice, McCrum, Williams, Green, even old Lydeard—looked as if they were inebriated. Eventually, after everyone had had at least a sip and a puff, Grithbrice lay back in his chair and said languidly, and with a little slurring of the consonants:
‘Well, gentlemen, the night is young. What entertainment shall we have now?’
‘I don’t know about you chaps,’ said Basil Lydeard, ‘but I’m pretty tuckered. I think I shall have a small nightcap and then take myself off for an early night.’
‘Same goes for me,’ said the McCrum, ‘I’m just about ready to hit the palliasse.’
‘Oh come on,’ said Grithbrice, ‘how about a game of “Johnny, Johnny”? Bognor, do you fancy a game of “Johnny, Johnny”?’
‘Sorry,’ said Bognor, disliking him increasingly, ‘it’s not a game I know and I’m afraid I have to drive back to London.’
‘Oh, come. Canning, you’ll back me. I’m sure the ladies will play. I’m damn sure Honey will anyway, and, Archie, I bet Mabel will have a bash.’
‘I’ll play,’ said Williams, ‘but I don’t suppose half of us know the game. Will you explain or shall I?’
‘O.K.,’ said Grithbrice, ‘I’ll explain. Do I have your support, Canning?’
Sir Canning nodded. ‘If you insist. Only not for long. I suggest a thirty-minute limit.’
‘Done,’ said Grithbrice. Once again Bognor was reminded of the petulance he’d noticed earlier on the tennis court. The man had to have his own way.
‘It’s a simple game,’ said Grithbrice. ‘Full name “Johnny, Johnny, strike a light”. We draw lots to see who’ll be Johnny. Then we all go outside and count to a hundred while Johnny goes and hides. When we get to a hundred we call out, “Johnny, Johnny, strike a light” and “Johnny” strikes a light from the box of matches with which he is provided. He flings it in the air and everyone sets off in pursuit. It’s really a sort of “He” only in the dark. It has all sorts of possibilities.’ He grinned. ‘It usually ends up sinister or sexy. Everyone on?’
Nobody but Williams, Grithbrice and, to a lesser extent, Canning seemed keen but they all appeared to think a refusal to play would involve loss of face. A muted approval was gained and Grithbrice went off to tell the ladies. Five minutes later he came back, happy.
‘They agree on one condition, that there are no “Joannas”. In other words only the men are hunted. That seems in keeping with the contemporary role of the sexes, so I agreed on your behalf. So. Let’s drink up and begin. After all, Mr. Bognor has to get back to London and Archie and Basil have to get to bed.’
Outside it was very dark. There were clouds and a stiff breeze so that, although some stars could be seen, the moon was behind cloud most of the time. Every so often it emerged for a few seconds and the outlines of the trees and of the house were clearly visible. Grithbrice had got some matches in his hand. ‘Everyone draw one,’ he said, ‘and the one who gets the used one is Johnny.’
They drew the matches in silence. ‘Well?’ said Grithbrice. ‘Mine’s not used.’ There was a chorus of ‘Nor’s mine’ and then the McCrum said, ‘It looks like me.’
‘Do be careful, Archie,’ said Mabel McCrum, ‘look out for the river.’
‘O.K.,’ said Grithbrice, ‘off you go.’
The McCrum, kilt swirling in the breeze, trotted stiffly into the dark towards the cedar tree, and the rest of them began to chant out loud. ‘One… two… three…’ Bognor shivered. It was chill, and the wind whipping off the river in the direction of the house made it damp too. This was, as far as he was concerned, a bloody silly way to spend an evening. ‘Fifty… fifty-one… fifty-two.’ The moon came out for a second, throwing the branches of the trees into sharp relief. ‘Eighty-one… eighty-two… hurry, Archie, we’re coming soon.’ Bognor looked round at the rest of the party. Not one had thought to put on any extra clothes. The ladies were going to freeze. Especially the Johnson girl. Already she was clasping her arms to her largely naked bosom. ‘Ninety-eight… ninety-nine… one hundred.’
‘Now,’ shouted Grithbrice. ‘All together now. Johnny, Johnny, strike a light.’ The chorus echoed across the river and faded into the noise of the wind in spring leaves. They waited in silence for the McCrum to strike a light. ‘Hope he hasn’t dropped them in the river,’ said Dora Maidenhead, just as, away in the direction of the tennis court there was a sudden tiny light which arced up into the blackness and equally suddenly fizzled out.
‘O.K., everyone. Fan out and charge!’ shrieked Grithbrice, who became more enthusiastic by the second. Sir Canning’s dinner party obligingly disappeared in the gloom. Bognor, who had no wish to play a leading part in the proceedings, which he already found embarrassing, started at a run towards the court but, when he reckoned he was out of sight, slowed to a walk and ambled towards the cedar in the direction of the river. He decided to hide underneath it and wait for the charade to finish. He had been standing, leaning against the trunk, for the best part of a minute, shivering slightly, when he thought he heard someone coming towards him. Looking round he could see nothing in the pitch black. All the same he could swear there was someone close. He was about to call out, when the person leapt at him, pinned him to the cedar and began to kiss him passionately on the mouth. There must be some mistake, he thought, struggling to free himself. He tried to speak, but any attempt was frustrated by increasingly passionate
and professional kissing. After a few seconds Bognor began to enjoy himself, but who on earth could it be? It smelt very feminine and rather alcoholic. He prayed to God it wasn’t Cosmo Green, or even Sir Canning. But no, he had a strong impression of female breasts. Whoever it was, was strong and very determined and experienced.
‘Got him,’ came a cry from about a hundred yards away. It sounded like the insufferable Grithbrice. ‘Got him. He’s tripped over the net. Help!’ As quickly as she had begun, Bognor’s mystery lady disengaged and vanished into the night.
For a moment Bognor stayed exactly where he was, spread-eagled against the trunk of the cedar and panting slightly. Then he took out a handkerchief and felt his mouth. It was quite sore. What an extraordinary thing. Nothing like that had ever happened to him before. A case of mistaken identity, he supposed. He was almost certain it had been female, which narrowed it down to four. If it had been the Johnson girl then it had obviously been mistaken identity, and anyway he had an idea his assailant had been older. Mabel McCrum was out of the question. She was too short. So it must have been Lady Maidenhead or Lady Abney. Rather embarrassing either way. Still, he had to admit that after the initial surprise it had been rather fun. He hoped, though, that it had been a mistake and that there would be no follow-up. That could be very difficult. Particularly if Monica or Parkinson were to find out. He wondered if he should tell Monica.
As he mused in this perplexed way he was walking slowly back towards the house. Just as he passed a large rhododendron he was once again conscious of a person close to him, and once again he was not quick enough in taking evasive action. A hand spread over his mouth and an arm tightened round his throat.
‘Just stay right away from Tony,’ said Honeysuckle Johnson. ‘’Cos if you get nosey, you’ll get very hurt. Just remember. Stay away.’ Then without warning, she too disentangled herself, and made off into the darkness. Again Bognor was breathless. ‘Oh bugger,’ he said out loud and straightened his tie. This was getting silly.
Back at the garden door he found that he was the last to arrive back. Everyone, including Miss Johnson, seemed perfectly composed, except for the McCrum who was hopping about and massaging his ankle. ‘Bloody silly place to have a rope,’ he was saying. ‘Could have killed myself.’ But no one paid much attention, not even his wife.
‘Come along, Bognor,’ said Grithbrice. ‘We want to do another. Hurry up.’ He held out matches once more and the men all picked, except for Archie McCrum who said he’d had enough of being Johnny. This time it was Grithbrice who got the used match. ‘I warn you, I shan’t be so easy,’ he said, jogging out of sight. Sir Canning started the count. Bognor looked at the Ladies Maidenhead and Abney. Dora Maidenhead looked tipsy, Isobel Abney sober and unruffled. Perhaps it had been one of the maids. Maybe Sir Canning employed a nymphomaniac staff to minister to his guests’ needs.
They reached a hundred when the moon was behind cloud, and the wind had risen a little so that it was difficult to hear. ‘Johnny, Johnny, strike a light,’ they shouted lustily and watched. A second later Bognor, who had been gazing absent-mindedly at the sky, saw a match flare about sixty feet up. ‘There,’ he exclaimed. ‘Up there. In the cedar.’
‘You’re right,’ said Abney. ‘He’s climbed the cedar. Silly fellow. Still, he’ll be down it by the time we get there. And incidentally I don’t advise anyone else trying to go up it. Not even you, Peter, it’s too dangerous.’
They set off again, less eagerly this time. Bognor wondered if the mystery kisser would strike again and, to his shame, rather hoped she would. Provided he didn’t know who it was it didn’t matter. He decided to walk down to the side of the river and see what happened. He was there about five minutes, vaguely conscious that there was a lot of running about. Once two figures sprinted across the lawn ten yards from where he stood and another time he heard a crash and some heavy swearing. Nothing else. He strolled along the bank until he was next to the diving board and stood there staring at the river, which was choppy now, with tiny little white horses just visible even without moon. He felt a drop of rain and shivered. It was getting absurdly inclement. Again he heard the sound of running and two men passed him again, one chasing the other. He could make out their shapes dimly but it was impossible to see who they were. Then there was more swearing away to his left. It sounded like frustration, as if the hunter had lost his quarry. Then the footsteps—only one pair this time—came back in his direction, slowly at first—then faster. They were coming, he realized with the wakening of alarm, straight at him. Oh, God, he thought, another mistake. It was too. The footsteps were closing fast. Too late he tried to get out of the way, but before he could step aside he felt two hands in the small of his back, heard an anonymous voice whisper, ‘Drown, you little sod,’ and realized with horror that he was being pushed towards the river. He was only feet from the bank and his shove backwards to safety was too little and too late. He staggered forward, tripped on the top of the steps, and took a mouthful of oily, freezing water as he pitched into the Thames, head first.
5
HIS FIRST ATTEMPT AT a shout for help came out as a strangulated gargle. He floundered wildly for a second and tried to touch bottom with his feet. Too deep. Still, even in a tweed suit and with suede shoes he was a passable swimmer and he was only a couple of yards from the bank. He trod water for a moment, spitting and retching and shivering and then struck for the shore. He made it in two strokes, grabbed hold of the bottom rung and started to pull himself up. As he climbed he saw that his attacker was standing at the top of the ladder, though he could distinguish only a dim shape.
‘Give us a hand,’ he said, putting one hand up towards the bank. ‘Don’t just stand there.’
Suddenly the man moved. Before Bognor could move his hand, he brought his right foot down on the fingers hard and then aimed a kick at Bognor’s head which caught him a glancing blow above the left ear. Bognor fell back into the river with a sharp cry of pain. The cold water revived him. There was no point in trying to climb back again. The man was a maniac. He’d never make it. He trod water a few feet out and shouted, ‘Help! Man overboard. Help! Can’t swim.’ It was bitterly cold and the current was strong. He did a couple of strokes upstream to prevent himself following the Earl of Maidenhead down to Cookham Weir and bellowed again.
‘Help! For God’s sake, someone. Help!’ His left hand was quite numb and his head hurt where the man’s shoe had caught it. He took another mouthful of Thames and gasped. This wasn’t in the least funny. ‘Help!’ he shouted again, when to his relief there was a sudden flash and the whole of the river bank, the house, the cedar, the grounds and even the guests were illuminated.
‘There he is,’ he heard someone shout. ‘There, down by the diving board.’ He swam back to the steps. With the floodlights on he was surely safe. They couldn’t all be trying to murder him. He started to climb again. It was agony with his injured hand, but Sir Canning was kneeling solicitously at the top of the ladder and hauled him up.
‘Good God, man,’ he exclaimed. ‘You must be frozen. Mercer. Get blankets and brandy. Hurry.’ The rest of the guests looked on in apparent disbelief and then started to chatter inanely among themselves. Bognor was too dazed and numb to say anything. He just stood and shivered while Mercer and a maid draped blankets round him and gave him brandy.
‘Find him some dry clothes,’ said Sir Canning. ‘And get him dried out.’ He turned to Bognor. ‘How are you feeling now, old boy?’
Bognor’s teeth chattered and he nodded vaguely.
‘That’s all right, don’t try to say anything.’ Sir Canning looked at him with what was evidently intended to be a clinical expression, and said, ‘I don’t think we need worry about a doctor. Mercer and Lucy here will get you fitted out in some dry things. You’ll be all right after a few more glasses of that.’ Then he turned back to his other guests. ‘Come on, the rest of you,’ he said, ‘I think we could probably all do with a drink.’
A quarter of an hour lat
er, Bognor was wearing a pair of brown brogues two sizes too big for him, a pair of spongebag trousers which were a little too tight round the waist and were consequently kept in place with a very frayed old MCC tie, an olive-green silk shirt from Turnbull and Asser, an Old Etonian square (to which he was not entitled) and a blazer from Gieves which was too wide on the shoulders. Mercer had made a nourishing hot drink for everyone which was based on warm brandy and egg yolks and the entire party was sitting in the library where a log fire was burning. Two salukis and an Italian greyhound, which Bognor had not met before, were stretched out in front of the grate and the voice of Oscar Brown emanated from the stereo outlets at each corner of the room.
‘Must have tripped,’ said Bognor, who was still sober enough to be careful what he said.
‘But couldn’t you get out?’ asked Grithbrice. ‘I mean you can swim. After all it’s eight foot, even under the bank there, and you must have been in for at least five minutes.’
‘I must have panicked,’ said Bognor, ‘and it was too dark to find the steps. Besides I bruised my hand when I fell.’
‘That’s a perfectly horrid cut on your temple,’ said Isobel Abney, looking concerned. ‘How on earth did you manage to do that and bruise your hand? Poor lamb, you do seem to have been dreadfully clumsy.’
‘Anyway,’ said Sir Canning, ‘it’s hardly a very friendly welcome to Abney and I can only say that I am extremely sorry. Of course, you’ll stay the night.’ Bognor wondered if the nymphomaniac maid would be provided.
‘No,’ he said, ‘I really would like to get back.’
‘Only on one condition,’ said Sir Canning, ‘and that is that you won’t drive yourself. I don’t think you’re in any state to do that.’
‘Oh really, I’m fine. Honestly.’ He had to admit, however, that he didn’t feel fine.
Sir Canning moved over to a bookcase and pressed a button. The middle two shelves moved to one side, revealing an internal telephone. He dialled a number and then said: ‘Perkins. Have the Rolls outside in ten minutes would you… London… No, Mr. Bognor… hang on.’ He turned to Simon, confirmed the address and told Perkins it would be Regent’s Park.