Quoits

Rolling over in his slumber caused a sharp renewal of agony in Quentin’s arm. Suddenly he was wide awake and painfully so. He lay still, waiting for the pain to subside into discomfort; he dared not move his other hand to wipe the sweat from his brow and upper lip.

Sunlight was streaming in through the window which meant he had slept until the afternoon - but how late was it? It struck him that he had missed the confounded tournament and his father must be sorely disappointed but the unaccustomed sight of his wardrobe doors hanging open revived a memory from the night before.

That fool of a stable boy!

He was probably making a fool of Quentin and, by extension, the entire Quigley family right that very minute. Making me the laughing stock of the county! O, Father is sure to cut me off without a farthing for this!

He endeavoured to remain motionless, being denied the release of pacing off his agitation around the room.

Slowly, the angle of the sunbeams changed as the afternoon drew to its close. Quentin was roused from his dozing by the sound of carriages and hooves on the gravel drive. And voices - raised voices all clamouring at once.

Ought I to risk blacking out from pain in an attempt to conceal myself under the bed, he wondered?

But there was no time. In stormed a figure in a tricorne and cloak. Francis shut and locked the door behind him.

“They think I’ve come up here to change my clothes, sir - which, as a matter of fact, I have.” He snatched off the hat and tossed it, quoit-like, onto the bed.

Quentin’s mind was in turmoil. “What happened? Tell me everything!”

“Oh, sir!” Francis’s eyes were wide; there was a pink indentation across his forehead and his hair was flattened and damp from wearing the hat all day long.

“Tell me!” Quentin urged. “For it is I who must face the Squire and not you.”

“Oh, sir!” Francis repeated. “I wasn’t half nervous, sir - by which I mean I was more than nervous - when the carriage dropped me off at the top of the street.”

Quentin was compelled to interrupt. “Pardon me - you went in the carriage?”

“Why, yes, of course, sir. I couldn’t ride up on Satan, could I, on account of your gentleman caller absconding with him in the night.”

“Quite.” Quentin sat back. His arm throbbed; Roderick had a lot to answer for.

“And it wouldn’t do to have the Squire’s representative arriving on foot now, would it, sir?”

“I suppose not, no.”

“James is in on it, sir. It’s going to cost you a round of drinks at the Lion and Lamb, sir - Don’t fret so, sir; you won’t be required to attend. Just leave a pound note behind the bar.”

“Who is James?”

“The coachman, sir! He’s been with your family for donkeys’ ages.”

“O...” Quentin mulled it over. “His name is James... I never imagined that but I suppose everyone must have a name.”

“He’ll be honoured to hear you think so highly of him. Any road, as I walked through the village, I kept my head down and my eyes on the cobbles, not wishing to draw attention, like, but then I thought to myself I was going about it all wrong and the young master doesn’t walk like that. So I held my head high, sir, and I threw my chest forward and I strode purposefully along that street and I even did that thing you do with your hips, sir, for extra authenticity. And so-”

“Wait a minute! What thing with my hips?”

“What, sir?” Francis looked askance.

“You said I do a thing with my hips. What mean you by that?”

“Oh, sir, I don’t mean to offend.”

“Show me!” Quentin demanded. He gestured to the space between the bed and the door, a distance of around twenty paces.

“Must I, sir?”

“Oblige me!”

“Very well, sir.” Francis crossed the room to the door.

“Was that it? I don’t get it.”

“I haven’t done it yet, sir. Like this, see.”

He stood up straight, threw his shoulders back and his chest and chin up. He lifted his heels from the floor and sashayed back to the bed. There was a definite sway to his hips. Quentin was horror-stricken.

“You have made me into a prancing popinjay!” he gasped.

“It did the trick, sir. Folk gathering on the green saw me coming.”

“I’m sure they did. You have made me a laughing stock.”

“Not quite, sir; if you’ll allow me to continue. Well, I arrive on the green. There is quite a crowd gathered already on account of there being little else on most people’s social calendars apart from the annual quoits competition. And Pancake Day, of course.

“Well, plenty of faces look surprised to see me and I think I’ve been rumbled even before first toss. They were expecting the Squire, you see, but I can’t explain how your father - my father, in this case - is indisposed because the minute I open my mouth to speak, that’s the cat out of the bag, sir.”

Quentin was relieved to learn the stable boy had not attempted to imitate him vocally. What kind of lisping ninny would he have portrayed?

“Any road, that doctor steps up and he explains about the Squire’s bad back and everyone believes him because it’s the truth and because it’s a doctor what’s saying it. Some folk tell me I’m doing my old man proud, stepping in to take the Squire’s place. Everybody’s looking me up and down and looking surprised but not displeased with what they see. I can see them nudging each other and murmuring but I pretend not to notice and I’m all aloof, like.

“Well, Scroggins rings a bell and announces the competition is about to get under way and so everybody shuffles off to get a good seat and-”

“Pardon me: ‘Scroggins’?”

“The postmaster, sir. That’s his name. He always officiates at the event, sir. His word is law.”

“Scroggins...” Quentin tried the name again. He shrugged and gestured to Francis to resume.

“It’s what they call a knockout, sir. They pull names out of a bag to begin with, pairing people up with their first opponent. Each pair plays a match. The winner progresses to the next round and the loser goes home, or to the pub, or stays behind to watch the rest - that’s up to them. In my first round, I’m drawn against a young farmhand called Toby. Lumpish great lumbering fellow with a face as red as a smacked bottom and no more wits than teeth in his head. When we shake hands before first toss, he’s champing on one of the metal hoops like a horse with a bit, sir. It’s no wonder he has so few teeth.

“Well, it was no contest, sir,” Francis grinned with pride. “Yon big lump kept throwing too far, didn’t he? Missed the peg by yards and almost brained two old ladies in the crowd. I, sir - or rather, you - didn’t drop a point. Every hoop stacked up on the peg, sir, pretty as a picture.”

“Bravo!”

“So, we’re through to the second round and this time it’s an older cove by the name of Sly. He’s the landlord of the Lion and Lamb, sir, but I don’t suppose you frequent that establishment.”

“Your supposition is entirely correct,” said Quentin. “Get on with it.”

“Well, sir. Sly is a worthier opponent than red-faced Toby. He’s got a steady hand and an unwavering eye and he barely drops a point. It all comes down to the final throw, sir. I’m up first and I’m sweating but I don’t dare take off the hat to wipe my brow. I makes the throw and it is perfection, if I might say so. The crowd applauds and Sly steps up. If he makes it, it’ll come down to a re-match. We all hold our breath. If I dropped a pin, you’d hear it. Sly levels the hoop, flexes his wrist a couple of times and throws - and he misses, sir. By quite a way. It’s completely out of character considering the way he’s been playing up to now. Everybody is surprised but Sly walks off, patting me on the shoulder as he passes. He goes back to his pub and that’s the end of it. I’m through to the final.”

“I don’t understand,” Quentin frowned.

“He threw it, sir.”

“Well, of course he threw it. That’s what you do.”

“I mean he threw the match, sir. He deliberately missed the peg so I would win.”

“Why on Earth would he want to do that?”

“Because he thought I was the Squire’s son, sir. And the Squire always wins.”

Quentin gaped. “What are you implying? Are you saying my father only wins because they let him? That there is no honour in quoits?”

“I don’t know, sir. But it’s time for the final and my opponent is not going to give me such an easy ride. Not by a long chalk.”

“Who was it?”

“Why, Doctor Goodhead, of course! He’s won through his matches with no trouble at all. He comes bounding up to the square and wishes me luck but I don’t so much as look at him - I don’t want him to see through my disguise. I stand there all snooty and aloof.”

“And he had no idea?”

“None whatsoever.”

Quentin was perplexed. He had hoped the doctor would know him in thick fog from a mile away but then, he supposed, it was better that he was deceived.

“It was a hard-fought contest, sir. Neither of us drops a point and we’re forced to tie-break. He’s a good player, sir, I have to own. Lovely wrist action and a smooth release. The hoops fly from his hand like a dream, sir. He makes it all look effortless.”

“Bully for him,” Quentin muttered. “Go on.”

“The tie-break goes on and on and it looks like we’ll be there long past sundown but then I get so hot, sir, from the hat and the cloak that I stops to have a drink of water. There’s a wench standing by with a ewer on a tray. I takes a drink and I tips it down my throat and it’s wonderful. Only in the doing so, sir, my cloak falls open and the doctor’s looking at me and he sees it, sir.”

“Sees what, for pity’s sake!”

“What I’m wearing beneath, sir. I’m still in my own clothes, sir.”

Quentin gaped. “O, you utter, utter fool!”

“I know, sir, but here’s the queer thing. The doctor redoubles his efforts and scores point after point. I’m struggling to match him. The air is electric, sir, with people hanging on our every move. Finally, one of us slips. The hoop rebounds off the peg and falls short. The next toss decides it, sir, and it’s all over.”

Quentin blinked. “Well, come on, man! Who was the victor?”

Francis sulked. “I’m hurt that you should have to ask, sir.” He reached into his cloak and withdrew a gleaming brass trophy. “The family honour is safe for another year.”

Quentin marvelled at the prize but before he could give voice to his thoughts or congratulate the stable boy, there came a loud knocking on the door.

“Open up!” said a voice. “It’s Doctor Goodhead.”