by Jeff Keithly
“Lady Delvemere! What an unexpected pleasure! Just wanted a quick word with Bernie before the party.”
“What’s he done this time? Aren’t you going to arrest him?”
“Nah, let him off with a caution for impersonating a lord, and criminal abuse of a tie.”
Her eyes sparkled gaily. “Really pathetic, isn’t it? Are you coming to the party? Of course you are – black tie, you look smashing.”
“Just my usual Wednesday night attire, Jane. Look, I won’t keep you – I know you need to get ready. I’ll see you later.”
“Right, see you at John’s, then.” And with that heartbreak smile and an airy flutter of her fingers, she was gone from my life. Again.
III
Ten years ago tonight, on a stormy autumn afternoon, Ian Chalmers, the charismatic captain of the Hastewicke Gentlemen, boarded his twin-engine Cessna at Gatwick for a routine business trip to Paris. Instead, he had joined Glenn Miller’s choir invisible. Early the next morning, his business partner, awaiting his arrival, reported him overdue. Two days later, the plane’s tail section was found floating in the Channel. The main wreckage, and Ian’s body, were never recovered.
The team were shattered. For a time, we considered never playing again. How can you overcome the loss of such a man? Ian was the heart and soul of the team – our unquestioned leader, on and off the field, a rugby player of consummate skill and ferocity, the most charming and loyal of companions off the pitch, the ringleader of a thousand merry pranks, dating back to a time when we were all kids together. He seemed to lead a charmed life – born wealthy and noble, lucky in love and business, unfailingly generous, tall, strong and unfairly handsome, with a charmingly self-effacing sense of humor. And then, one day, he was gone.
For many months afterwards, the team struggled to come to grips with his death. And then, late one night in the venerable bar of the Hastewicke Gentlemen’s Hampstead clubhouse, John Weathersby, Lord Southhampton, our loose-head prop and newly-elected skipper, rose to his feet. “Here’s to Ian – may all the buxom barmaids in rugby Valhalla vie to fill his horn.”
We somberly raised our glasses and drank the toast. John remained standing. “Listen. We can’t replace Ian. But we can remember him, as long as one of us has the strength to raise a glass. I propose that we gather together each year on the anniversary of his death, and tell stories about the old bugger. My house, my treat.”
And so it came to pass that I stood in the sumptuous, candlelit main hall of Penthorne House, John Weathersby’s posh Notting Hill address, on the night of October 11, 2005, with my arms around two of my teammates, clutching a flute of Veuve Cliquot and fighting back the tears. For some reason, I found myself harkening back to the first time I laid eyes on the man who would have such a profound effect on my life.
Hastewicke, in Devon, is one of the oldest public schools in England, an academic hothouse which, for more than two centuries, has nurtured some of the most exotic blooms of British society: poets and Prime Ministers, saints, scientists and scoundrels, explorers, big-game hunters, and an impressive roster of the mightiest names in Debrett’s Peerage.
Each year, Hastewicke also admits a handful of scholarship students of humbler means. In the fall of 1969, having attracted the favorable attention of the masters of my neighborhood school, I received the Sir Arthur Nichols Scholarship, and found myself, a skinny little sprog nine years of age, enrolled at Hastewicke.
I’ll spare you the gory details; suffice to say that life among the sons of the mighty and privileged wasn’t always easy for a publican’s son from East London. There was a series of ugly and humiliating incidents involving the scholarship boys, which culminated in the expulsion of my best mate, a gentle and studious lad named Bill Tanner, when a valuable watch, stolen from another boy in our house, was found under Bill’s mattress.
The next day, I was in the changing-room, miserably donning my gear for our afternoon cross-country run, when I heard Colin, son of Lord Westbrook and the ringleader of the gang of bullies who were making our lives so miserable, laughing to his cronies that it was he who had stolen the watch, planted it in Bill’s room, and told the headmaster where to find it.
We Cockneys regard swearing as a Shakespearean art-form, and some of my dad’s customers, sailors and stevedores from the splintery end of the London docks, were true virtuosos. They would have wept with quiet pride if they could’ve heard my frank appraisal of Colin’s character and ancestry. Our little chat swiftly escalated into an epic fistfight, which culminated with my pushing Colin’s head into a toilet and pulling the chain.
When he arose, bloodied, dripping and murderous, two of his minions had me by the arms. He drew back his fist. “You’re dead meat, Reed, you little Cockney pile of shit. It’s your word against mine. The headmaster will never believe you.”
Then a heavy hand fell on Colin’s shoulder. “No – but I will.” Looking up, my wondering eyes beheld a towering fourth year who looked familiar, in some sort of vaguely heroic context. “Now go piss your beds, you pathetic firsties, while I decide your punishment.” Colin opened his mouth to bray forth an indignant reply, but a swift kick to the backside sent him and his swarm of sycophants stampeding for the exit.
My benefactor bent down and studied my battered face critically; then he broke into a radiant grin. “No permanent damage. I say – I like your style! Ever think of coming out for rugger?”
That was the first time I met Ian Chalmers.
IV
“D’you remember that night in Melbourne?” cried Richard Devilliers, our dapper, silver-haired fullback, raising his voice to be heard over the noisy throng near the bar. He had been Ian’s best mate on the team, and the Chalmers memorial was especially hard on him. “The Aussie Rules football match? It was Ian’s turn to buy the beer, and as he staggered toward the aisle, he caught the eye of a buxom sheila the next row up. She whispered something to her husband, who suddenly bellowed....”
“Hey, mate! If you drop your pants, she’ll bite your ass!’” laughed Dr. Vince Maitland, chief of oral surgery at the Royal College of Medicine and my counterpart at flanker on the Hastewicke Gentlemen.
“Don’t interrupt, Vince! Ian thought about it for a moment, then fwp! Down came his trousers and he assumed the position. He was expecting a friendly nip; instead, she lunged at him like a snake from a drainpipe and sank her teeth into his right buttock. He let out a bloodcurdling falsetto scream – ‘Eeeyaaaagh!’– that echoed from one end of the stadium to the other. Everyone in the bloody place turned to look, even the players on the field! Mums were covering their kids’ eyes... absolute bedlam! Ian pulled up his pants and tried to lose himself in the throng, but when security arrived, what were we chanting?”
“Throw ‘im out! Thrown ‘im out! Throw ‘im out!” we all roared delightedly.
The evening had reached the stage of mellow hilarity, the better to mask the essential melancholy of the occasion. John’s magnificent hospitality – oceans of drink, a groaning sideboard and the classical opulence of Penhurst House itself – had worked its annual magic.
The big room held a motley throng of players, wives, girlfriends, club officials and hangers-on; the ancient rafters rang with laughter, animated conversation, and, from one corner, the sweet strains of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.” These were men I had known almost all my life – men I had grown up with, spilled blood with, traveled to the far corners of the earth with, drunk far too much with, shared triumph, despair and imbecility with, in equal measures. Many were men I admired, for their skill on the pitch, their wit and intelligence, their companionship. A few I held in lower esteem – the braggarts and the cheats, the cheap-shotters, the stuck-up bastards. Some had always regarded me fondly; others, with supercilious distaste. But tonight, clashing egos and past injustices were forgotten. We were everything a rugby team should be.
Off to one side, near the French doors, sat Sir Percival Henry St. John Barlowe, our burly, bearded tight-head prop, sipp
ing soda and lime under the watchful eye of his wife Sarah, a formidable raven-haired woman in scarlet silk. A year or two older than I, Harry had promised his wife that he would quit drinking; she had allowed him to join the Vegas tour, his first in two years, only on the condition that he stay on the wagon. To the best of my knowledge, he had manfully stuck to his pledge. He was talking to Roger Seagrave, the slim, elegant winger, nearly 55 now, who stood with his arm encircling the newly-svelte waist of his wife, Catherine. Over the past two years, Catherine had shed almost 15 stone – over 200 pounds -- a triumph of self-discipline that had left her glowing with pride and good health.
I saw Bernie Plantagenet over by the gigantic fireplace; he was talking animatedly to Sir Chester Atkinson, “Jester” to his mates, the towering and eccentric electronics entrepreneur who had replaced Ian as our number 8. Evidently Bernie hadn’t let our earlier conversation spoil his evening. My traitorous thoughts turned naturally to Jane, and when I turned, there she was at my elbow, as if summoned by telepathy.
“You miss Ian terribly, don’t you?” she asked sympathetically. “You look done in.”
I replied truthfully. “He was unfailingly kind and generous. He didn’t have to be. He was a happy soul, and he wanted everyone he cared about to be happy too. And one day he was there, and the next he was gone. So yeah, I miss him.”
“Buy a girl a drink?” she asked, taking my arm.
I walked with her to the bar, ordered her a Bellini. Since she appeared to be in no hurry to be rid of me, we strolled out onto the terrace; we leant on the stone balustrade and looked out over the swath of landscaped common that separated the two rows of houses, bathing in the ravishing fragrance of roses. The sounds of the party washed over us through the open French doors. I turned to look at her; a balmy breeze stirred her shoulder-length hair.
“Why did you come to see Bernie tonight?” she asked, without turning her head. “Is he in trouble?”
I wasn’t best sure how to reply to that. On the one hand, I would cheerfully have committed murder to keep Jane from being hurt, yet all my professional instincts were whispering that hurt was lurking just around the corner, like a mugger in a doorway. On the other hand, Bernie’s transgression, whatever it was, was not yet part of our official inquiry, and at least for now, I felt bound to respect his confidence. I decided to stall for time. “Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know... he hasn’t really been himself since you came back from tour. You know Bernie – not a care in the world. But he’s been... snappish. Off his feed. The other night I got up for a pee, and he was gone. I found him sitting in his study, just staring into the fire. He always sleeps like the dead. It’s not like him.”
“If he’s in trouble, he hasn’t confided in me. You know I like Bernie – you can’t help but like him. If he needs help, I’ll do whatever I can.” I glanced ostentatiously at my watch. “Damn, it’s late. Early meeting tomorrow. I’d best find John and say my goodbyes.” I patted her arm awkwardly. “Try not to worry. And if anything’s wrong, tell Bernie to ring me. Any hour, day or night.”
“I will.” Her face was wintry and bleak. “Bernie told me you were almost killed last night. Is it true?”
I thought about lying. But I couldn’t – she was the one person I had never truly lied to. For, but not to. “Yes. I made a mistake. But it was a mistake I would make again, I’m afraid.”
“You’ve always been reckless, Dex. It’s one of the things I’ve always loved about you. And one of the reasons I chose Bernie.”
There was nothing to say to that; I turned to go. A small voice, almost a whisper, held me back. “Can I tell you something, Dex? That night, when we met at the Park Hotel. That wasn’t just chance, you know – I knew you’d be there.” And with a maddeningly enigmatic glance over her shoulder, she turned back to the moonlight.
V
Re-entering the great hall, I cast about the vast, oak-paneled room, but our host had disappeared. I set out to find him, down Persian-carpeted hallways, past Impressionist oils and Renaissance tapestries. Outside Weathersby’s study, I paused to admire a fine, floodlit marble bust of Caligula, reputedly almost two thousand years old.
Abruptly the door to the study flew open, and Robert Leicester, Lord Palmerston, the famed philanthropist and Hastewicke Gentlemen outside centre, stalked forth. Rather out of keeping with the general mood of the gathering, his brow was furrowed, and he looked decidedly pissed off about something. He started as he saw me and his expression changed at once to one of fond sadness. “Dex! Your turn next, is it?”
“Actually, I was just looking for John. My turn for what?”
For a moment, Bob looked flustered, but he recovered well. “Oh, you know John. Loves to bore the socks off of you, gabbing on about his latest acquisition. He’s in his study, fondling it as we speak. Thought you were his next victim.”
“Right – I’ll just say my goodbyes then. See you next week at practice.”
Leicester strode off down the hall without another word, evidently preoccupied, or swollen of bladder. I knocked at the doorframe and entered at John’s cheery “Come!”
Weathersby stood in the centre of the room, cradling an immense double-bore rifle, a blissful smile on his broad, sable-bearded face. The loose-head prop’s mule-broad shoulders and massive girth strained the seams of his white Egyptian cotton shirt. His tie was undone, and he held a frosty and ample G&T in his free hand, which he raised in salute as I entered. “Dex! Sorry we haven’t had much of a chance to chat tonight. How are you! Come see my latest prize!”
I took the rifle from him, amazed at its weight. It was an old Holland & Holland .450/.500 side-by-side, and had obviously seen an amplitude of both hard knocks and tender care. Its magnificently-burled walnut stock was scratched and dented, but lovingly-oiled; the bluing on its engraved barrels was worn down to bare metal in places. But when I opened the breech, the action worked soundlessly, without a trace of play. I examined the inscription on the intricately-engraved breech-plate: “D. Finch-Hatton, Nairobi, Kenya.”
“H&H Nitro Royal Express hammerless sidelock double, calibre .450/.500, vintage 1904 – a true elephant gun, so powerful it once killed two Cape buffalo with a single shot,” John said. “You recognize the original owner?”
“Denys Finch-Hatton. Immortalized by Isak Dineson in Out of Africa, and badly impersonated by Robert Redford in the film version.”
“Spot on. Had my eye on this gun for years – knew it was out there, for the right price. It’ll be the centrepiece of my collection.”
John’s enthusiasm for Victorian collectibles, and the safari age in particular, was legendary. He owned one of the finest collections of African memorabilia in England – guns, photographs, camp equipment, ivory, skins and other trophies, native art and other artifacts. “Still in working order?” I asked.
“Shot it myself only yesterday, at the Holland & Holland range.” He pulled open his shirt, to reveal a deep purple bruise, in the shape of a rifle-butt, on his heavily-muscled shoulder. “Amazingly accurate, but it kicks like a bloody mule. Have a look at the cartridges.” He gestured toward his desk; I opened one of the boxes and whistled as I pulled out a gleaming, cigar-sized cylinder of brass, tipped with an immense nickle-plated bullet. “Over an ounce of lead there, with enough powder behind it to shove it clean through an elephant and out the other side.”
“Congratulations, John – it’s a beautiful piece. Must’ve cost a bloody fortune, with a pedigree like that.”
“Two bloody fortunes,” he grinned. “But it’s only money. Had a bit of luck on the futures market last week, and I thought, what better way to spend it?”
“Well.” A delicate pause. “Another year gone by. Thanks for another lovely party. Most generous of you, as always.”
“You’re not going? But the night is young!”
“Duty calls. Some of us, unfortunately, have to work for a living.”
“Come on, Dex – one for the road, while I call you a t
axi.” He gestured toward a well-stocked drinks cabinet and reached for the phone; I helped myself to a generous Springbank while he rang the taxi company. “Ten minutes, he says.”
“Ta.” I gazed into the fire for a moment, marshaling my thoughts. “You played well in Vegas, for an old fat bastard. What’s your secret, then?”
“Avoid training like the plague, but eat a hearty breakfast an hour before game-time. Sex with multiple partners the night before. That, and silk jock-straps. No chafing.”
“Ah, for the life of a lord.” I raised my glass.
John laughed. “It was quite a good tournament, though. I particularly enjoyed the final – always relish a chance to trample the Yanks into the dust.”
“You don’t like Americans?”
He shook his head. “Too full of themselves – treat you like they’ve known you for years and shagged your sister besides on the strength of a few minutes’ acquaintance.” He looked at me with evident amusement. “You don’t agree?”
“I find them refreshing, myself. Unpretentious, and good for a laugh. You have to admit that there’s good fun to be had in Vegas.”
“No argument there. You just have to be prepared to pay for it.”
“Speaking of which, I hear we have you to thank for Suite 455. That was uncharacteristically generous of you.”
He fixed me with a bright stare; for just a moment, some of the hearty good humour left his eyes. “And who told you that?”
“Sorry, I can’t reveal my sources. But really, that was above and beyond the call.”
“Yet you chose not to take advantage of the opportunity.”
“No need – I was rooming with The Gland.”
“Ah.” His face cleared, as if a mystery had been resolved. “He left not a strip club or blackjack table untried, I suppose?”
I nodded. “And you? Did Suite 455 feel your mighty presence?”