Flashman's Lady

  It was pathetic. As a batter he’d looked sound, if dull, with some good wrist-work, but from the moment I saw him put the ball to his eye and waddle up with that pregnant-duck look of earnestness on his face, I knew he was a duffer with the ball. Quite astonishing, for he was normally a graceful, sure-moving man, and fast for all his bulk, but when he tried to bowl he was like a Shire horse on its way to the knackers. He lobbed with the solemn concentration of a dowager at a coconut shy, and I gloated inwardly, watched it drop, drove with confidence—and mishit the first ball straight down his throat for the simplest of catches.

  The spectators yelled in amazement, and by George, they weren’t alone. I flung down my bat, cursing; Solomon stared in disbelief, half-delighted, half-frowning. “I believe you did that on purpose,” cries he.

  “Did I——!” says I, furious. I’d meant to hit him into the next county—but ain’t it the way, if a task is too easy, we botch it often as not? I could have kicked myself for my carelessness—thinking like a cricketer, you understand. For with 21 runs in it, I might easily lose the match now—the question was: did I want to? There was Tighe’s red waistcoat under the trees—on the other hand, there was Elspeth, looking radiant, clapping her gloved hands and crying “Well played!” while Solomon tipped his hat gracefully and I tried to put on a good face. By Jove, though, it was him she was looking at—no doubt picturing herself under a tropic moon already, with inconvenient old Flashy safely left behind—no, by G-d, to the d---l with Tighe, and his threats and blackmail—I was going to win this match, and be d----d to everyone.

  We had a sandwich and a glass, while the swells chattered round us, and the Canterbury professional rubbed embrocation on Solomon’s knee. “Splendid game, old fellow!” cries the Don, raising his lemonade in my direction. “I’ll have some more of my lobs for you directly!” I laughed and said I hoped they weren’t such twisters as his first one, for it had had me all at sea, and he absolutely looked pleased, the b----y farmer.

  “It is so exciting!” cries Elspeth. “Oh, who is going to win? I don’t think I could bear it for either of them to lose—could you, Judy?”

  “Indeed not,” says Judy. “Capital fun. Just think, my dear—you cannot lose, either way, for you will gain a jolly voyage if the Don wins, or if Harry succeeds, why, he will have two thousand pounds to spend on you.”

  “Oh I can’t think of it that way!” cries my darling spouse. “It is the game that counts, I’m sure.” D----d idiot.

  “Now then, gentlemen,” cries Felix, clapping his hands. “We’ve had more eating and drinking than cricket so far. Your hand, Don,” and he led us out for the second innings.

  I had learned my lesson from my first bowling spell, and had a good notion now of where Solomon’s strength and weakness lay. He was quick, and sure-footed, and his back game was excellent, but I’d noticed that he wasn’t too steady with his forward strokes, so I pitched well up to him, on the leg stump; the wicket was getting the green off it, with being played on, and I’d hopes of perhaps putting a rising ball into his groin, or at least making him hop about. He met my attack pretty well, though, and played a hanging guard, taking the occasional single on the on side. But I pegged away, settling him into place, with the ball going into his legs, and then sent one t’other way; he didn’t come within a foot of it, and his off-stump went down flat.

  He’d made ten runs that hand, so I had 32 to get to win—and while it ain’t many against a muffin of a bowler, well, you can’t afford a single mistake. And I wasn’t a batter to trade; however, with care I should be good enough to see Master Solomon away—if I wanted to. For as I took guard, I could see Tighe’s red weskit out of the corner of my eye, and felt a tremor of fear up my spine. By George, if I won and sent his stake money down the drain, he’d do his best to ruin me, socially and physically, no error—and what was left the Duke’s bruisers would no doubt share between ’em. Was anyone ever in such a cursed fix—but here was Felix calling “Play!” and the Don shuffling up to deliver his donkey-drop.

  It’s a strange thing about bad bowling—it can be deuced difficult to play, especially when you know you have only one life to lose, and have to abandon your usual swiping style. In an ordinary game, I’d have hammered Solomon’s rubbish all over the pasture, but now I had to stay cautiously back, while he dropped his simple lobs on a length—no twist at all but dead straight—and I was so nervous that I edged some of them, and would have been a goner if there’d been even an old woman fielding at slip. It made him look a deal better than he was, and the crowd cheered every ball, seeing the slogger Flashy pinned to his crease.

  However, I got over my first shakes, tried a drive or two, and had the satisfaction of seeing him tearing about and sweating while I ran a few singles. That was a thing about single wicket; even a good drive might not win you much, for to score one run you had to race to the bowler’s end and back, whereas in an ordinary match the same work would have brought you two. And all his careering about the outfield didn’t seem to trouble his bowling, which was as bad—but still as straight—as ever. But I hung on, and got to a dozen, and when he sent me a full pitch, I let fly and hit him clean over the house, running eight while he vanished frantically round the building, with the small boys whooping in his wake, and the ladies standing up and squeaking with excitement. I was haring away between the wickets, with the mob chanting each run, and was beginning to think I’d run past his total when he hove in sight again, trailing dung and nettles, and threw the ball across the crease, so that I had to leave off.

  So there I was, with 20 runs, 12 still needed to win, and both of us blowing like whales. And now my great decision could be postponed no longer—was I going to beat him, and take the consequences from Tighe, or let him win and have a year in which to seduce Elspeth on his confounded boat? The thought of him murmuring greasily beside her at the taffrail while she got drunk on moonlight and flattery fairly maddened me, and I banged his next delivery against the front door for another three runs—and as I waited panting for his next ball, there under the trees was the beast Tighe, hat down on his brows and thumbs hooked in his weskit, staring at me, with his cudgel-coves behind him. I swallowed, missed the next ball, and saw it shave my bails by a whisker.

  What the blazes should I do? Tighe was saying a word over his shoulder to one of his thugs—and I swung wildly at the next ball and sent it high over Solomon’s head. I was bound to run, and that was another two—seven to get to win. He bowled again, and for once produced a shooter; I poked frantically at it, got the edge, and it went scuttling away in front of the bounds for a single. Six to get, and the spectators were clapping and laughing and egging us on. I leaned on my bat, watching Tighe out of the corner of my eye and conjuring up nameless fears—no, they weren’t nameless. I couldn’t face the certainty of it being published that I’d taken money from a tout, and having his assassins walk on my face in a Haymarket alley into the bargain. I must lose—and if Solomon rogered Elspeth all over the Orient, well, I’d not be there to see it. I turned to look in her direction, and she stood up and waved to me, ever so pretty, calling encouragement; I looked at Solomon, his black hair wet with perspiration and his eyes glittering as he ran up to bowl—and I roared “No, by G-d!” and cut him square and hard, clean through a ground-floor window.

  How they cheered, as Solomon thundered through the quality seats, the ladies fluttering to let him by, and the men laughing fit to burst; he hurtled through the front door, and as I completed my second run I turned to see that ominous figure in the red weskit; he and his cronies were the only still, silent members of that whole excited assembly. D--n Solomon—was he going to take all day finding the b----y ball? I had to run, with my nerve failing again; I lumbered up the pitch, and there was a great howl from the house; Solomon was emerging dishevelled and triumphant as I made the third run—only another three and the match was mine.

  But I couldn’t face it; I knew I daren’t win—after all, I wasn’t any too confident of Els
peth’s virtue as it was; one Solomon more or less wasn’t going to make all that much difference—better be a cuckold than a disgraced cripple. I had wobbled in intent all through the past half-hour, but now I did my level best to hand Solomon the game. I swiped and missed, but my wicket remained intact; I prodded a catch at him, and it fell short; I played a ball to the off, went for a single that I hadn’t a hope of getting—and the great oaf, with nothing to do but throw down my wicket for victory, shied wildly wide in his excitement. I stumbled home, with the mob yelling delightedly; Solomon 31, Flashy 30, and even little Felix was hopping from one leg to the other as he signalled Solomon to bowl on.

  There wasn’t a whisper round the field now. I waited at the crease, bowels dissolving, as Solomon stood doubled over, regaining his breath, and then picked up the ball. I was settled in my mind now: I’d wait for a straight one and miss it, and let myself be bowled out.

  Would you believe it, his next three balls were as squint as a Jew’s conscience? He was dead beat with running, labouring like a cow in milk, and couldn’t keep direction at all. I let ’em go by, while the crowd groaned in disappointment, and when his next one looked like going wide altogether I had to play at it, like it or not; I scrambled across, trying desperately to pull it in his direction, muttering to myself: “If you can’t bowl me, for Ch—t’s sake catch me out, you ham-fisted buttock,” and in my panic I stumbled, took a frantic swipe—and drove the confounded ball miles over his head, high into the air. He turned and raced to get under it, and there was nothing I could do but leg it for the other end, praying to G-d he’d catch it. It was still in the air when I reached the bowler’s crease and turned, running backwards to watch; he was weaving about beneath it with his mouth open, arms outstretched, while the whole field waited breathless—down it came, down to his waiting hands, he clutched at it, held it, stumbled, fumbled—and to my horror and a great shriek from the mob, it bounced free—he made a despairing grab, measured his length on the turf, and there was the b----y ball rolling across the grass away from him.

  “You—oh, you butter-fingered b-----d!” I roared, but it was lost in the tumult. I had regained my crease having scored one—but I was bound to try for the second, winning run with Solomon prostrate and the ball ten yards from him. “Run!” they were yelling, “run, Flashy!” and poor despairing Flashy couldn’t do anything else but obey—the match was in my grasp, and with hundreds watching I couldn’t be seen deliberately ignoring the chance to win it.

  So I bounded forward again, full of sham eagerness, tripping artistically to give him a chance to reach the ball and run me out; I went down, rolling, and d---e, the brute was still grovelling after his dropped catch. I couldn’t lie there forever, so I went plunging on, as slowly as possible, like a man exhausted; even so, I had reached the bowler’s crease before he’d recovered the ball, and now his only chance was to shy the thing a full thirty yards and hit my wicket as I careered back to the batter’s end. I knew he hadn’t a hope in h--l, at that distance; all I could do was forge ahead to victory—and ruin at the hands of Tighe. The crowd were literally dancing as I bore down on the crease—three more strides would see me home and doomed—and then the ground rose up very gently in front of me, crowd and wicket vanished from view, the noise died away into a soothing murmur, and I was nestling comfortably against the turf, chewing placidly at the grass, thinking, this is just the thing, a nice, peaceful rest, how extremely pleasant…

  I was staring up at the sky, with Felix in between, peering down anxiously, and behind him Mynn’s beefy face saying: “Get his head up—give him air. Here, a drink”—and a glass rattling against my teeth and the burning taste of brandy in my mouth. There was the deuce of a pain in the back of my head, and more anxious faces, and I heard Elspeth’s voice in distant, shrill inquiry, amidst a babble of chatter.

  “What—what happened?” says I, as they raised me; my legs were like jelly, and Mynn had to hold me up.

  “It’s all right!” cries Felix. “He tried to shy down your wicket—and the ball hit you crack on the back of the skull. Why, you went down like a shot rabbit!”

  “He threw down your wicket, too—afterwards,” says Mynn. “D--n him.”

  I blinked and touched my head; there was a lump growing like a football. Then here was Solomon, panting like a bellows, clasping my hand and crying: “My dear Harry—are you all right? My poor chap—let me see!” He was volleying out apologies, and Mynn was looking at him pretty cool, I noticed, while Felix fidgeted and the assembling mob were gaping at the sensation.

  “You mean—I was out?” says I, trying to collect my wits.

  “I’m afraid so!” cries Solomon. “You see, I was so confused, when I shied the ball, I didn’t realise it had hit you…saw you lying there, and the ball loose…well, in my excitement I just ran in and snatched it…and broke your wicket. I’m sorry,” he repeated, “for of course I’d never have taken advantage…if I’d had time to think. It all happened so quickly, you see.” He looked round at the others, smiling whimsically. “Why—it was just like our accident in the first innings—when Flashy put me out.”

  At that the chatter broke out, and then Elspeth was all over me, exclaiming about my poor head, and calling for salts and hartshorn. I quieted her while I regained my wits and listened to the debate: Mynn was maintaining stoutly that it wasn’t fair, running a chap out when he was half-stunned, and Felix said, well, according to the rules, I was fairly out, and anyway, the same sort of thing had happened in Solomon’s first hand, which was extraordinary, when he came to think of it—Mynn said that was different, because I hadn’t realised Solomon was crocked, and Felix said, ah well, that was the point, but Solomon hadn’t realised I was crocked, either, and Mynn muttered, didn’t he, by George, and if that was the way they played at Eton, he didn’t think much of it…

  “But…who has won?” demanded Elspeth.

  “No one,” says Felix. “It’s a tie. Flashy ran one run, which made the scores level at 31, and was run out before he could finish the second. So the game’s drawn.”

  “And if you remember,” says Solomon—and although his smile was as bland as ever, he couldn’t keep the triumphant gleam out of his eye—“you gave me the tie, which means”—and he bowed to Elspeth—“that I shall have the joy of welcoming you, my dear Diana, and your father, aboard my vessel for our cruise. I’m truly sorry our game ended as it did, old chap—but I feel entitled to claim my wager.”

  Oh, he was indeed, and I knew it. He’d paid me back in my own coin, for felling him in the first innings—it was no consolation that I’d done my dirty work a sight more subtly than he had—not with Elspeth hopping with excitement, clapping her hands, exulting and trying to commiserate with me all at once.

  “Tain’t cricket,” Mynn mutters to me, “but there’s nothing for it. Pay up, look pleasant—that’s the d---able thing about being English and playing against foreigners; they ain’t gentlemen.” I doubt if Solomon heard him; he was too busy beaming, with his arm round my shoulders, calling out that there was champagne and oysters in the house, and more beer for the groundlings. So he’d won his bet, without winning the match—well, at least I was clear where Tighe was concerned, for…and then the horrid realisation struck me, at the very moment when I looked up and saw that red weskit on the outskirts of the crowd, with the boozy, scowling face above it—he was glaring at me, tight-lipped, shredding what I guessed was a betting-slip between his fingers. He nodded at me twice, ominously, turned on his heel, and stalked away.

  For Tighe had lost his bet, too. He’d backed me to lose, and Solomon to win—and we had tied. With all my floundering indecision and bad luck, I’d achieved the worst possible result all round. I’d lost Elspeth to Solomon and his d----d cruise (for I couldn’t oil out of paying now) and I’d cost Tighe a thousand to boot. He’d expose me for taking his money, and set his ruffians after me—oh, J---s, and there was the Duke, too, vowing vengeance on me for deflowering his tiger lily. What a b----y pi
ckle—

  “Why, are you all right, old fellow?” cries Solomon. “You’ve gone pale again—here, help me get him into the shade—fetch some ice for his head—”

  “Brandy,” I croaked. “No, no, I mean…I’m first-rate; just a passing weakness—the bump, and my old wound, you know. I just need a moment…to recover…collect my thoughts…”

  Horrid thoughts they were, too—how the deuce was I going to get out of this mess? And they say cricket’s an innocent pastime!

  [Extract from the diary of Mrs Flashman, June—, 1843]

  The most famous thing has happened—darling Harry has consented to come with us on our voyage!!! and I am happy beyond all telling! He has even put aside the Prospect of his Appointment in the Life Guards—and all for Me! It was so unexpected (but that is so like my Dear Hero), for almost as soon as the match was over, and Don S. had claimed his Prize, H. said very seriously, that he had thought the matter over, and while he was reluctant to decline the Military Advancement that had been offered him, he could not bear to be parted from me!! Such Proof of his Devotion moved me to tears, and I could not forbear to embrace him—which display I suppose caused some remark, but I don’t care!

  Don S., of course, was very warm in agreeing that H. should come, once he had satisfied himself that my dear one was quite determined. Don S. is so good; he reminded H. of what a signal honour he was declining, in not going to the Life Guards, and asked was he perfectly certain he wished to come with us, explaining that he would not have H. make any sacrifice on our account. But My Darling said “No, thank’ee, I’ll come, if you don’t mind,” in that straightforward way of his, rubbing his poor head, and looking so pale but determined. I was overjoyed, and longed to be private with him, so that I might better express my Deep Gratification at his decision, as well as my undying love. But—alas!—that is denied me for the moment, for almost at once H. announced that his decision necessitated his immediate departure for Town, where he has many Affairs to attend to before we sail. I offered to accompany him, of course, but he wouldn’t hear of it, so reluctant is he to interrupt my holiday here—he is the Dearest of Husbands! So considerate. He explained that his Business would take him about a good deal, and he could not say where he would be for a day or so, but would join us at Dover, whence we sail for the Mysterious Orient.