It was the last full week of May and summer had arrived. We spent our days on country walks and enjoyed afternoon teas at an enterprising tea shop in Chipping Bevington that had placed one or two tables on the pavement outside in the Continental style. Many of the local residents were mystified by the notion of sitting outside to sip their tea and eat their cake, but we blazed our customary trail through the stodginess of convention and after a couple of days the pavement tables were as well frequented as any in Paris or Rome as the more adventurous denizens of the town joined us for al fresco tiffin.
Friday was a day spent at home, dealing with more than the usual number of problems and complaints from the builders and listening to the apologies of the telephone engineers who were having more difficulties than they had foreseen with the installation of the telegraph poles and cables between the house and the rest of what they called “the network”. I tried to lose myself in reading the newspaper and baking, but stories about the tram company chairman being accused of impropriety with a lady of the night and the financial director of the same company accused of embezzlement did little to distract me, and somehow baking had lost its shine after half my efforts during the week of the storms had either rotted or gone stale before we could eat them.
It was a relief when they had all finally packed up for the week and gone home, leaving us with a muddy building site in the front garden and still no telephone, but with the prospect of a fuss-free weekend by way of compensation.
We dressed formally for the dinner which was to be held at an hotel in Chipping Bevington (Littleton Cotterell being without the facilities to provide a grand dinner, though I gather that Joe had offered them exclusive use of the snug of the Dog and Duck). Sir Hector, naturally, was being driven to the do by Bert and had generously offered to pick us up on the way.
‘I know a lot of chaps do it,’ he had said, ‘but I don’t hold with driving when you’ve had a few drinks. Knew a fella in India, had a skinful at the club, completely pie-eyed, tried to ride his bicycle back to his bungalow, fell off and got mauled by a tiger.’
Lady Hardcastle had laughed.
‘I really don’t think there are many tigers in Gloucestershire, Hector, and I can’t imagine how one might fall off a motorcar.’
‘No, m’dear,’ he had insisted, ‘the principle still holds. Can’t control a machine when you’ve had a few drinks and it would be a shame to miss out on the wine. The Grey Goose has the most excellent cellar. Landlord’s a bit of an oenophile; used to be a wine steward in London.’
And so we had accepted his kind offer and were ready and waiting when, at seven o’clock on the dot, Bert had rung the doorbell.
The journey had been swift and comfortable, with Sir Hector in voluble mood (I suspect he’d already had a pre-prandial scotch or two) and Bert rolling his eyes at his employer’s more outrageous stories. We were soon outside the Grey Goose, with the doors of the motorcar held open for us by young men from the rugby club, dressed in white tie, but with waistcoats in the same shades of blue and gold as Sir Hector’s.
There was champagne in the bar where we were introduced to several of the team members and were accosted by several of the Old Codgers who seemed genuinely delighted to see us. When the gong sounded for dinner, Sir Hector offered Lady Hardcastle and me an arm each and we walked into the dining room behind the club president and his wife. As the special guests of the Grand Eternal Poobah we were seated at the top table where the table linen was crisp and white, the cutlery silver and the glassware crystal; quite a luxurious setting for a rugby club dinner.
The food was certainly above average but, as promised, it was the wine that really set the Grey Goose apart. Glass after glass of the most perfectly matched wines accompanied each course and by the time we arrived at the port (for which the ladies were allowed to remain), both Lady Hardcastle and I were really rather squiffy.
The company, too, had been most convivial. The club president, Lancelot Treble, was a jovial man in his forties, with a quick wit and a stock of anecdotes which became racier and racier as the evening wore on and the level of wine remaining in the bottles went down. His speech of congratulation to the First XV for their unexpected victory had been short and heartfelt, and with enough good natured humour to save it from ungracious boastfulness. His wife, Cissie, was easily his comic equal, and her humorous observations on the other club members rendered even those of us who didn’t know them helpless with laughter.
Shortly before midnight, Mr Treble stood and called for order. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said in a loud, clear voice. ‘I fear our time here is coming to an end. The good folk of The Grey Goose wish us well, but wish us gone. They have homes to go to, and have requested in the friendliest and most respectful terms, that we sling our collective hooks and leave them to tidy up.’
There were mixed calls of “Shame!” and “Good for them!”
He waited for the commotion to die down. ‘And so I should like to propose a vote of thanks to the chef, the staff and to the landlord for laying on this sumptuous feast.”
Cries of “Hear, hear!”
‘And,’ continued Mr Treble, ‘that we repair to the clubhouse to end the night in the traditional manner.’
Cheering ensued.
‘There’s a charabanc to take the gentlemen back to the club, and taxicabs and carriages have been arranged to take those ladies home who do not have their own transport.’
There was more cheering and a good deal of kerfuffle as goodbyes were said to wives and sweethearts and the gentlemen of the club readied themselves for the serious business of… whatever it was that rugby club members got up to when the ladies weren’t around.
We found Bert asleep in the motorcar a short way down the High Street and, having woken him and given him time to collect his wits and start the engine, asked him in as sober tones as we could manage if he would be an absolute poppet and take us home. With a knowing smile, he agreed, and in almost no time at all we were tucked up and sleeping off the effects of a really rather splendid evening.
We slept in on Saturday morning. There was little for me to do other than get breakfast, and we had agreed as we tumbled into the hall and struggled with our coats and hats that breakfast could wait. It was eleven o’clock by the time I stumbled blearily into the kitchen in my dressing gown and started the fire in the range. The doorbell rang.