Qualified

Quentin rode out of the gates at two o’clock; Francis had not let him down. It was good to be free of the confines of the estate, even though the grounds were larger by far than the entire village of Little Quigley. Satan seemed to read his rider’s mind and cantered directly to the village, coming smartly to a standstill at the doctor’s door.

The office was shut. Confound the man! He is always out and about helping people; it is inconsiderate and selfish when I have need of him!

He turned Satan around and, sensing his master’s mood, the animal slowed its pace; he too was reluctant to return to the close quarters of the stable without having a proper ride out.

They took the path through the wood, stopping at a clearing a little way from the track. Here, Satan was left to browse while Quentin, removing the lacquered box from his coat, attempted to teach himself the game of quoits.

Included in the kit was a length of dowelling, sharpened to a point at one end. This must be the peg at which the hoops are to be tossed. Quentin approached a spot near the centre of the clearing and stooped to push the point into the ground. But, when he straightened up, the stick fell over. After three further attempts resulted in identical failure, he was on the point of giving up and going home when he experienced the unnerving sensation of being observed.

He turned around, squinting at the surrounding foliage for a pair of eyes. A twig snapped. Several woodpigeons fluttered skywards. Quentin gasped; he turned again and was confronted by the large, brown eyes and quivering snout of a deer. He froze. The creature strolled away, chewing blades of grass in graceful nonchalance.

When Quentin had recovered from this vicious animal attack, the idea struck him to strike the spike home with a stone of some kind. He cast about until he espied a suitable candidate. How very primitive, he mused! This is how the earliest men must have carried on - when they were setting up their games of quoits. Civilisation, then, has not moved on at all! He shuddered to think of the ordeal that lay ahead. To mingle with the low fellows and base ruffians! To participate in their lowbrow pastime! The very idea made his flesh creep.

He forced himself to think of his father’s admonishments about the family name, honour, and unbeaten record, but such thoughts only served to lower his mood further.

A whinny from Satan punctuated his thinking. There was nothing for it but to make a good fist of it and do his level best. He stepped away from the peg, which was now firmly erect in the soil, and plucked a quoit from the carrying case. He turned the thing around and around in his hands but there was no indication of which way was up or should face forward or anything helpful at all. So he threw it, overarm, like one of the cricketers to whom he barely paid attention on the village green. The hoop went wide of the target, slapping flatly on the ground. It lay there, gaping up at him as if to say ‘O!’

O, indeed, thought Quentin, moving to retrieve it.

“Well, well,” said a voice, approaching from the rear. Quentin straightened up with a start and jumped around. The impertinent smile of that upstart stable boy greeted him most vilely.

“Be off!” Quentin snapped. “Let me enjoy my privacy.”

Francis chuckled and held up his hands. “I’ve no wish to intrude, sir, only I saw your horse and I thought I’d better check to see if you were all right, if you’d been thrown off. Horses can easily be spooked in these woods, sir.”

“Well, as you can plainly see I am perfectly fine. I repeat my earlier instruction, you tedious fellow: be off!”

Francis did not move. “Very well, sir, but I reckon you could do with my help, sir. With your wrist action, sir.”

Quentin bridled at the suggestion.

“I saw what you was doing, sir - it’s a technique I’ve never come across before. Perhaps it’s the way they do it in France or something.”

Quentin sneered. “They don’t play quoits in France; don’t be absurd. They play at boules and pétanque.”

“And the best of luck to them, but it’s a quoits tournament you have coming upon you and you’ll never score so much as a single point if you carries on the way you’re going.”

Quentin was incensed. “And you would know all about it, I suppose.”

“I profess some measure of expertise in the sport, sir,” Francis grinned. “It was the Squire himself as taught me.”

Quentin gaped but before he could utter a syllable of disdain the impudent stable boy was helping himself to the contents of the lacquered box.

“Nice hoop,” he ran his thumb around the rim.

“Replace that thing at once!”

Instead, Francis took out the remaining three. Almost too quick for Quentin to see, the stable boy flicked his wrist once, twice, thrice and again. Four quoits encircled the peg in a neat little stack.

Quentin’s mouth hung open. Francis winked.

“Show me!”

“Come here then, sir.”

Francis approached the young master from behind, reaching around to take his wrist. He placed a quoit in Quentin’s hand and marched him until he was directly over the peg.

“Now, release.”

Quentin opened his hand. The quoit dropped over the peg.

“A direct hit!” said Francis, his breath hot against Quentin’s neck.

“I am sure that would be disqualified,” said Quentin, more than a little uncomfortable at the stable boy’s proximity. “I am but a novice but doesn’t one have to stand at some distance away from the thingamabob?”

“I wanted to start off with success,” said Francis. “To keep your spirits up.”

“How kind.”

Francis pulled Quentin a step back from the peg and pressed another quoit into his hand. “Try now.”

Quentin released the quoit. It glanced off the peg and dropped to the ground.

“You do have to aim,” said Francis. He gave him another quoit. “Flick the wrist like this.”

He moved the young master’s arm to demonstrate. Quentin learned the motion and tossed the quoit. It slipped over the peg. Quentin gasped in delight and clapped his hands. “Again!”

Francis moved him back another step. This time it took three attempts to succeed. Gradually, they worked their way backwards across the dell, increasing the distance between thrower and peg one step at a time. Quentin, his confidence increased, told the stable boy he might now stand aside, and so Francis watched from a distance, dispensing tips and encouragement in equal measure.

The afternoon slipped away. Tree-shaped shadows extended across the glade but the young men did not notice. Quentin’s success rate was sixty-forty; Francis acclaimed this was not at all bad for a first day and vowed to help him practice every day until the tournament.

“I am sure I can manage alone,” said Quentin.

“I don’t think so, sir. There is something I haven’t told you.”

“And what might that be?”

“These quoits, sir, fine though they be - they won’t be the type used in the competition.”

“What mean you? These are my father’s quoits and he is the reigning county champion.”

“That’s true, sir, but this is a presentation set, sir. The competition uses rings of steel, sir. And they’re heavy, sir. Up to five pounds each.”

“Expensive!”

“That’s the weight, sir.”

“My word!”

“So you need my help, sir. To get your strength up. We can start with the real thing tomorrow, sir. I’ll get down to the village and borrow us some metal quoits. And we can practice with them, sir. And there’s still the scoring system to teach you, and-”

“Enough!” Quentin thrust the quoits at Francis’s chest. He peered into the stable boy’s brown eyes. “Can I do it, do you think? In a week?”

“With my help, sir, yes. You’ve come on in leaps and bounds today, sir. You should be very proud.”

“Is leaping and bounding required?”

“Not at all, sir. But you should be pleased with your progress today. You’ll soon be more than qualified. You’ll make your father proud.”

Quentin grinned. “Do you really think so?”

Francis grinned back. “I really think so.”

“Oho!” A third voice broke the moment. “What have we here?”

It was Doctor Goodhead. Quentin started and stepped back from the stable boy.

“Good evening, Kon-tan. Out for a tramp in the woods?” The doctor looked Francis up and down, a smirk contorting his lips.

“Quoits practice,” said Quentin. “What are you doing here?”

“It is my practice,” said the doctor, “to take this path through the woods; it is a shortcut that saves me hours every day. I saw Satan wandering around without a rider and I wondered if everything was all right.”

Quentin was amazed. “Thank you, Doctor; as you can see I am in good hands.”

“Quoits, eh?” Doctor Goodhead stroked his chin.

Inspiration struck! “You could teach me, Doctor. There is a yard behind your office. I could come there tomorrow afternoon! And every afternoon until the competition!”

Doctor Goodhead shook his head. “Oh, no, that will not do at all,” he laughed. “It is not in my best interests.”

Quentin looked stricken. “What mean you?”

“I mean that it is not in my interests to train up an opponent, for I am competing myself. Prepare to be trounced, young man, and soundly. Good evening.”

Doctor Goodhead tipped his hat and disappeared into the shadowy foliage. Quentin was dumbfounded for a moment. Then he noticed how dark the sky had grown and turned to Francis.

But of the stable boy there was no sign. The quoits, peg and carrying case lay abandoned on the ground.