Blotto, Twinks and the Stars of the Silver Screen Read online

  Twinks, much of whose adult life had been spent listening to men talking about cricket, had mental resources to deal with the situation. While keeping a glow of interest in her azure eyes and murmuring the occasional reaction of ‘Splendissimo!’, she mentally recited the text of her recent translation of The Art of War into Gujarati.

  At one point J. Winthrop Stukes turned a beady eye beneath a beetle brow on Blotto and asked in a seemingly casual manner, ‘Do you know anything, young feller-me-lad, about the national game they play out here?’

  ‘You mean the game the Yank boddoes play?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘It’s called baseball.’

  ‘Full marks, yes. And what do you think of it?’

  Another person, recently arrived in America, might have prevaricated, minced his words a little until he had sounded out his questioner’s views on the subject, but it was not in Blotto’s nature ever to be less than honest, so he replied, ‘Though I’ve never actually seen the game played, I gather it wouldn’t be my length of banana at all. Apparently the whole clangdumble lasts for ever. People keep throwing the ball at people who keep missing it and the spectacle’s about as interesting as a nun’s diary.’

  Privately, Twinks thought that her brother’s description could just as well have applied to cricket, but she was far too tactful and generous-spirited to say so.

  Blotto went on, ‘In fact, there’s not a dog’s whisker of difference between baseball and an English game called “Rounders”, which is only played by girls and sissies.’

  There was a long silence. Then J. Winthrop Stukes rose to his feet and stretched out a hand to shake Blotto’s firmly. ‘You’re a man after my own liver, young feller-me-lad. I couldn’t have described baseball better myself.’

  The younger man blushed his thanks.

  ‘And in fact it was in order to put that question that I invited you over here. You see, I run this cricket team called the White Knights—’

  ‘Yes. Ponky gave me the SP on that little caper.’

  ‘Tiddle my pom!’ said the Ponky in question. He might have said more, but his vocabulary was, as ever, limited in the presence of Twinks.

  ‘Anyway,’ Stukes went on, ‘it’s very important that I only get the right sort of coves joining the White Knights. First of all, obviously, they have to be English. There are a few Yanks out here who don’t play cricket too badly, but they can never muster the insouciance and verve of a true Brit. And they practise, which is rather unsporting and takes away the fun of the game.’

  ‘You’re bong on the nose there,’ Blotto agreed fervently.

  ‘Some of them, I’m sorry to say,’ Stukes continued, ‘are fans of baseball, too. In fact, some of them have even been known to see similarities between the two games.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be jugged like a hare!’ said Blotto, appropriately shocked.

  ‘Tiddle my pom!’ said Ponky Larreighffriebollaux, equally shocked.

  ‘So you see, young feller-me-lad, before I offered you a game with the White Knights, it was desperately important that I found out your attitude to the game – so-called – of baseball.’ He snorted with blue-blooded derision. ‘I’m afraid my team can’t carry any fellow-travellers. But I put the question to you and you came up with the perfect answer. As did Ponky when I asked him. So he’ll be on the strength in the match. So, Blotto, since you’ve passed my test with flying colours, I’m asking if you’d be free to play for the White Knights tomorrow.’

  ‘Toad in the hole!’ said Blotto.

  ‘Tiddle my pom!’ said Ponky.

  ‘I’ve scrubbed everything else out of the diary for the next five days,’ said Blotto.

  ‘Ah,’ said J. Winthrop Stukes. ‘Something I should tell you, young feller-me-lad . . . I’m afraid we don’t do full five-day test matches out here.’

  Blotto looked as if he’d just been hit on the back of the head with a lead-filled sock (as he would be later into his Californian adventure). ‘That’s a bit of a candle-snuffer. So what . . . do you just squeeze the whole rombooley into four days?’

  ‘No. One day,’ Stukes confessed.

  ‘Well, I’ll be kippered like a herring! That’s like village cricket,’ Blotto said contemptuously. ‘How in the name of Wilberforce does it work?’

  ‘We limit the time. One side bats for three hours. Then we have lunch and the other side bats for three hours.’

  Blotto was so shocked by this sacrilegious abuse of his favourite game that the ability to speak deserted him for a moment. Eventually he said, ‘It is like spoffing village cricket, not like the real thing.’

  ‘We’ve had to do it,’ Stukes apologised, ‘because of the demands of the film industry.’

  And to show a bit of mercy to the spectators, thought Twinks. Though of course she would never vocalise such heresy in her brother’s hearing.

  ‘You see, young feller-me-lad, most of the chaps involved in the games are actually making movies as we speak. Some of them don’t work at the weekends so we have a lot of fixtures then, and if it’s a weekday, one day off might be tolerated, but there’s no way five would be.’

  ‘Toad in the hole!’ Blotto was still in a state of shock. Typical of the Americans, he was thinking. Straightforward perversity, fiddling with something that doesn’t need fiddling with and ending up spoiling it completely. Like that business of driving on the wrong side of the road. And saying ‘gotten’ when they meant ‘got’. Still, he was in Britannia as a guest of J. Winthrop Stukes and his breeding would not allow him to take issue with his host. He would just have to suppress his feeling of shock and move the conversation on. ‘So, which pineapples are we up against?’ he asked. ‘Who’s the opposition?’

  ‘We’re playing The Trojan Horse.’

  ‘Are we, by Denzil? Trojan, are they? I’m not sure where Trojia is.’

  ‘No, no, they’re Yanks mostly. All laddies who are working out here on a movie of that name.’

  ‘The Trojan Horse?’

  ‘Exactly. Gives me a bit of a problem, as it happens.’

  ‘Oh? Sorry, not on the same page?’

  ‘Well, I’m actually in The Trojan Horse.’

  ‘Inside it?’ The story vaguely resonated from something one of the classics beaks at Eton had talked about. ‘With all the soldiers?’

  ‘No, no, no. I’m actually in the movie. Being made by Humungous Studios.’

  ‘Ah. Good ticket.’

  ‘Presumably,’ asked J. Winthrop Stukes with characteristic actor’s vanity, ‘you’re familiar with my screen work?’

  ‘Screen work? What, you mean making screens like those Japanese boddoes who—?’

  ‘No, no. My movies. Presumably you have seen all of my movies?’

  ‘Well, er, um,’ said Blotto, unwilling to admit that he’d never seen any of them.

  ‘I obviously have copies of all of them here in my private cinema,’ Stukes went on, ‘should you wish to have another viewing of some of my finest work – in fact, without sounding my own trumpet, I have to say it’s some of the finest work ever seen in Hollywood – you only have to say the word.’

  ‘That’s very British of you,’ said Blotto, ‘most generous.’ Then, quickly, before he could be dragooned into the private cinema, ‘And what part are you playing in The Trojan Horse?’

  ‘Methuselah.’ Blotto had only heard of ‘a Methuselah’ as in a very large bottle of wine, so he didn’t question what a character from the Old Testament might be doing in an epic about the Trojan War. ‘So you see,’ Stukes went on, ‘in this forthcoming cricket match I could really be playing for either side.’

  ‘But I thought you said the White Knights were your team.’

  ‘They are.’

  ‘So you don’t really have a problem, do you? A boddo’s loyalty is always to his own team.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Stukes approved of Blotto’s sentiments. The young man was clearly one of the best kind of Englishmen. If his cricket skills matched his character,
he could be a very useful addition to the White Knights.

  ‘What’s this Trojan Horse about?’ asked Blotto.

  ‘It’s about the Trojan Horse.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Blotto. ‘Good ticket.’

  ‘It’s the latest epic by Gottfried von Klappentrappen.’

  During the encounter with Zelda Finch on the S.S. Regal no mention had been made of her husband, nor of the film he currently had in production, so the name rang no bells with Blotto. His sister, though, who had kept her ears open during the transatlantic crossing, took in its resonance.

  J. Winthrop Stukes leant forward to his latest recruit to the White Knights and asked eagerly, ‘So tell me, young feller-me-lad, which side of the wicket do you bowl?’

  The sun had long before sunk over the horizon of the Pacific, and it was by moonlight that the old actor led them out of the authentic Tudor French windows on to the green space at the back of Britannia. His guests realised at once that what he had built there was a full-size replica of Lord’s cricket ground, complete with an exact copy of the Pavilion, containing a facsimile Long Room.

  Blotto tested the ground beneath his feet. ‘This is tickey-tockey,’ he said. ‘Feels just like the real thing.’

  ‘So it should do, young feller-me-lad,’ said J. Winthrop Stukes. ‘Every square inch of turf on this pitch was imported from England.’

  ‘Good ticket,’ murmured Blotto, already excited about the prospect of the next day. It would be the first time in his life that he had played outside the official cricket season. The world could hold no greater attraction for him.

  7

  White Knights v. The Trojan Horse

  The vast expanse of Britannia’s replica Lord’s had a very efficient – and very expensive – watering system so the sacred turf could resist the dehydrating blaze of the Californian sun. That had been working at full power overnight and the grassy surface on to which Blotto stepped the following morning was springy and yet somehow unfamiliar. Now, though his brain was totally inadequate when challenged by anything mildly intellectual – indeed his beaks at Eton had even discussed in the staff room whether he possessed such an organ – in matters of cricket or hunting it matched the speed and perception of his sister’s.

  He very quickly worked out the difference between what he was standing on and an English pitch. The original surface on which the turf had been laid had not been softened by the incessant rain of his home country. Beneath only a few inches of soil was solid rock.

  Blotto nodded sagely. If called upon to bowl he would adjust his action accordingly.

  Twinks was fully reconciled to spending the day in front of the Britannia’s Pavilion watching cricket. It was a tedium to which someone of her breeding would have to become inured, like sitting through interminable operas, listening to the braying of Old Harrovians or dining with the Royal Family.

  She had, needless to say, brought in her trunk a wide variety of wardrobe choices for California. To suit a day’s cricket-watching she selected a grey silk dress with a tasselled fringe which revealed a lot of white-stockinged knee when she moved. In a different climate she would have left her arms bare, but under the Californian sun it was wiser to keep them covered. For the same reason, rather than the head-hugging cloche hat she might have worn at the real Lord’s, she sported a wide-brimmed straw number with a trailing white silk ribbon around it. Clutched in her hand was the sequined reticule that was always with her. Its contents had helped her and her brother out of many a sticky situation.

  Twinks checked her appearance in the Hollywood Hotel mirror before Corky Froggett drove them to Britannia, and even she could not help admitting that she looked stunning. The trip across America in the open Lagonda had brought more colour than usual to her alabaster features.

  How tiresome, she thought: that’s probably going to lead to even more men falling in love with me.

  Twinks was so used to her brother’s prowess on the cricket pitch that she hardly noticed how well he played that day for the White Knights (who, incidentally, for people who are interested in that kind of stuff – and the law of averages, if not logic, suggests there must be some – batted first). Unaware of his exceptional abilities, J. Winthrop Stukes had put the newcomer way down the batting order at Number Seven. However, Blotto’s call to the wicket came earlier than he might have expected.

  And when he went to the crease, he found himself trembling. He wasn’t afraid of the opposition’s bowling – he wasn’t afraid of anyone’s bowling – it was who was doing the bowling that made him go weak at the knees.

  The opposition’s attack was led by a tall, unfeasibly handsome man whom Blotto instantly recognised as Hank Urchief, star of Chaps’ Lonesome Stand and so many other classic cowboy adventures, and being in the presence of his cinematic hero jangled his nerves. Surely Chaps Chapple, who always emerged triumphant from any kind of gluepot, would have no problem winning something as minor as a cricket match?

  Hank Urchief, it later turned out in conversation, was broadening his range from cowboy roles and actually playing the lead part of Theseus in The Trojan Horse. (The fact that Theseus had nothing to do with the Trojan War or the Trojan Horse hadn’t troubled the director at all. Gottfried von Klappentrappen wanted to get a Minotaur into his movie, so he rearranged Greek mythology to accommodate that change. It was the Hollywood way. Though they dutifully credited academic advisers on the end credits, everyone in the movie industry knew that mythological and historical accuracy was for sissies. In the same way, von Klappentrappen introduced Jason into the script, because he fancied having a bunch of Argonauts around. Hercules had a bit part too, even though he was Roman rather than Greek. And Helen of Troy only just escaped sharing top billing with Cleopatra.)

  Hank Urchief, however, turned out not only to be unfeasibly handsome (which any fan of the Chaps Chapple movies already knew), but also an unfeasibly good bowler. Where he had learnt his cricket from nobody could work out (particularly since he’d been brought up on a turkey farm in Minnesota). Maybe he was just a natural ballplayer, maybe it was a skill he was born with. Anyway, its effect was that Saturday at Britannia saw him taking five wickets for eleven runs – he even had Ponky Larreigh-ffriebollaux out for a duck to a sneaky leg-break – which was why Blotto found himself at the batting crease much earlier than he’d expected.

  Blotto was still shaking when he faced the first ball from his hero. And as it bulleted past him he made no move to defend his wicket. Fortunately for him, the delivery just missed, though had the left-hand stump had another layer of varnish on it, Devereux Lyminster might have faced a fate unprecedented in his history – registering what was known to the tedious cognoscenti of the game as a ‘Golden Duck’ (out first ball with no score).

  Blotto, however, was used to conquering adversity on the cricket pitch. While he might be tongue-tied when he was introduced to Hank Urchief socially, he was fine letting his faithful bat do the talking. He squared up for the next delivery, resolutely erasing from his mind the knowledge that it was being bowled by Chaps Chapple. And he sent the ball over the Pavilion for a six.

  After that early lapse, Blotto found his rhythm.

  The fact that he stayed there for the rest of the morning and managed to fit a century into the time allotted made J. Winthrop Stukes realise what a rare talent he had on his team.

  Twinks was only mildly aware of what was happening out on the pitch. She was much more interested in the other spectators on the seats in front of the Pavilion.

  Though her brother had very definitely met Zelda Finch on the S.S. Regal, Twinks had not, so she did not recognise the extremely soignée lady sitting nearby. Of course, Twinks did not address any remarks to the woman – they had, after all, not been introduced – but when she asked one of the white-coated oriental flunkeys for a glass of iced lemonade, the older woman, hearing her accent, commented, ‘Oh, you are English?’

  Twinks looked through the speaker with an x-ray gaze of which her mother would have
been proud.

  But Zelda Finch had clearly been away from England too long and caught the infection of American brashness. She continued to speak as though they had been introduced, and since she did actually volunteer her name, Twinks considered to reciprocate would not be excessively bad form. Besides, it didn’t matter. She was in the United States of America; nobody there would recognise bad form if it came up and bit them on the nose.

  ‘I am Honoria Lyminster,’ she announced, ‘though people call me Twinks.’

  ‘And may I ask how you come to be here in Hollywood, watching cricket?’

  ‘I’m with him,’ replied Twinks, gesturing towards Blotto, who had just sent another six over the roof of the Pavilion.

  ‘Oh?’ Zelda’s tone was icy. The immaculately lipsticked mouth pursed into a small ring of annoyance.

  But her mood swiftly changed as Twinks said, ‘He’s my brother.’

  Zelda’s ‘Ah’ was much more friendly. Even though the last time she’d seen him he had placed her on top of the wardrobe in her state room, she still had her eye on Blotto. In fact, he was the reason she’d come to Britannia that morning. She had no more interest in cricket than Twinks had. And though starting an affair with Blotto in Hollywood, under the nose of her notoriously jealous husband, and the glare of publicity spread by gossip columnists like Heddan Schoulders, would not have the anonymity of a dalliance on S.S. Regal, the thought of the danger rather excited her.

  The thought of Twinks’s beauty was rather less appealing. Though she had ruled herself out as a love rival, the girl was still distressingly younger than Zelda Finch, and the actress was very sensitive to the challenge of the young. She immediately saw Twinks as a rival for all those opportunities to be tied to railway lines that no longer came her way.

  ‘Are you actually working on a movie right now?’ she asked.

  ‘Working on a movie? Why in the name of strawberries should I be doing that?’

  ‘Well, every beautiful woman who comes to Hollywood wants to be in the movies.’