The Holiday Round Part 17

"Surely, dear," he said gravely, "we decided that our child was going to play for Kent?"

"Not a girl!"

"Why not? There's nothing in the rules about it. Rule 197 (B) says that you needn't play if you don't like the Manager, but there's nothing about s.e.x in it. I'm sure Baby would love the Manager."

Mrs Jeremy smiled and ruffled his hair.

"Well," said Jeremy, "if n.o.body will bowl to me, I can at least take my bat out and let it see the gra.s.s. After six months of boots it will be a change for it."

He went out into the garden, and did not appear again until lunch.

During the meal he read extracts to his wife from "The Coming Season's Prospects," and spoke cheerfully of the runs he intended to make for the village. After lunch he took her on to the tennis lawn.

"There!" he said proudly, pointing to a cricket pitch beautifully cut and marked with a crease of dazzling white. "Doesn't that look jolly?"

"Heavenly," she said. "You must ask someone up to-morrow. You can get quite good practice here with these deep banks all round."

"Yes, I shall make a lot of runs this season," said Jeremy airily.

"But, apart from practice, don't you FEEL how jolly and summery a cricket pitch makes everything?"

Mrs Jeremy took a deep breath. "Yes, there's nothing like a bucket of whitening to make you think of summer."

"I'm glad you think so too," said Jeremy with an air of relief, "because I upset the bucket on the way back to the stables--just underneath the pergola. It ought to bring the roses on like anything."

AN INLAND VOYAGE

Thomas took a day off last Monday in order to play golf with me. For that day the Admiralty had to get along without Thomas. I tremble to think what would have happened if war had broken out on Monday.

Could a Thomasless Admiralty have coped with it? I trow not. Even as it was, battleships grounded, crews mutinied, and several awkward questions in the House of Commons had to be postponed till Tuesday.

Something--some premonition of this, no doubt--seemed to be weighing on him all day.

"Rotten weather," he growled, as he came up the steps of the club.

"I'm very sorry," I said. "I keep on complaining to the secretary about it. He does his best."

"What's that?"

"He taps the barometer every morning, and says it will clear up in the afternoon. Shall we go out now, or shall we give it a chance to stop?"

Thomas looked at the rain and decided to let it stop. I made him as comfortable as I could. I gave him a drink, a cigarette, and Mistakes with the Mashie. On the table at his elbow I had in reserve Faulty Play with the Bra.s.sy and a West Middles.e.x Directory. For myself I wandered about restlessly, pausing now and again to read enviously a notice which said that C. D. Topping's handicap was reduced from 24 to 22. Lucky man!

At about half-past eleven the rain stopped for a moment, and we hurried out.

"The course is a little wet," I said apologetically, as we stood on the first tee, "but with your naval experience you won't mind that.

By the way, I ought to warn you that this isn't all casual water.

Some of it is river."

"How do you know which is which?"

"You'll soon find out. The river is much deeper. Go on--your drive."

Thomas won the first hole very easily. We both took four to the green, Thomas in addition having five splashes of mud on his face while I only had three. Unfortunately the immediate neighbourhood of the hole was under water. Thomas, the bounder, had a small heavy ball, which he managed to sink in nine. My own, being lighter, refused to go into the tin at all, and floated above the hole in the most exasperating way.

"I expect there's a rule about it," I said, "if we only knew, which gives me the match. However, until we find that out, I suppose you must call yourself one up."

"I shall want some dry socks for lunch," he muttered, as he sploshed off to the tee.

"Anything you want for lunch you can have, my dear Thomas. I promise you that you shall not be stinted. The next green is below sea-level altogether, I'm afraid. The first in the water wins."

Honours, it turned out, were divided. I lost the hole, and Thomas lost his ball. The third tee having disappeared, we moved on to the fourth.

"There's rather a nasty place along here," I said.

"The Secretary was sucked in the other day, and only rescued by the hair."

Thomas drove a good one. I topped mine badly, and it settled down in the mud fifty yards off. "Excuse me," I shouted as I ran quickly after it, and I got my niblick on to it just as it was disappearing.

It was a very close thing.

"Well," said Thomas, as he reached his ball, "that's not what I call a bra.s.sy lie."

"It's what we call a corkscrew lie down here," I explained. "If you haven't got a corkscrew, you'd better dig round it with something, and then when the position is thoroughly undermined--Oh, good shot!"

Thomas had got out of the fairway in one, but he still seemed unhappy.

"My eye," he said, bending down in agony; "I've got about half Middles.e.x in it."

He walked round in circles saying strange nautical things, and my suggestions that he should (1) rub the other eye, and (2) blow his nose suddenly, were received ungenerously.

"Anything you'd like me to do with my ears?" he asked bitterly. "If you'd come and take some mud out for me, instead of talking rot--"

I approached with my handkerchief and examined the eye carefully.

"See anything?" asked Thomas.

"My dear Thomas, it's FULL of turf. We mustn't forget to replace this if we can get it out. What the Secretary would say--There!

How's that?"

"Worse than ever."

"Try not to think about it. Keep the OTHER eye on the ball as much as possible. This is my hole by the way. Your ball is lost."