‘No, thank’ee,’ says this fellow. ‘I’ve had my pint for the day. Never take more during the season.’ And he sat himself down, cool as be-d----d, at my table.
‘Well, I’m relieved to hear it,’ says I, rising. ‘You’ll forgive me, but—’
‘Hold on,’ says he, laughing. ‘I’m Brown. Tom Brown – of Rugby. Don’t say you’ve forgotten!’
Well, in fact, I had. Nowadays his name is emblazoned on my memory, and has been ever since Hughes published his infernal book in the ’fifties, but that was still in the future, and for the life of me I couldn’t place him. Didn’t want to, either; he had that manly, open-air reek about him that I can’t stomach, what with his tweed jacket (I’ll bet he’d rubbed down his horse with it) and sporting cap; not my style at all.
‘You roasted me over the common-room fire once,’ says he, amiably, and then I knew him fast enough, and measured the distance to the door. That’s the trouble with these snivelling little sneaks one knocks about at school; they grow up into hulking louts who box, and are always in prime trim. Fortunately this one appeared to be Christian as well as muscular, having swallowed Arnold’s lunatic doctrine of love-thine-enemy, for as I hastily muttered that I hoped it hadn’t done him any lasting injury, he laughed heartily and clapped me on the shoulder.
‘Why, that’s ancient history,’ cries he. ‘Boys will be boys, what? Besides, d’ye know – I feel almost that I owe you an apology. Yes,’ and he scratched his head and looked sheepish. ‘Tell the truth,’ went on this amazing oaf, ‘when we were youngsters I didn’t care for you above half, Flashman. Well, you treated us fags pretty raw, you know – of course, I guess it was just thoughtlessness, but, well, we thought you no end of a cad, and – and … a coward, too.’ He stirred uncomfortably, and I wondered was he going to fart. ‘Well, you caught us out there, didn’t you?’ says he, meeting my eye again. ‘I mean, all this business in Afghanistan … the way you defended the old flag … that sort of thing. By George,’ and he absolutely had tears in his eyes, ‘it was the most splendid thing … and to think that you … well, I never heard of anything so heroic in my life, and I just wanted to apologize, old fellow, for thinking ill of you – ’cos I’ll own that I did, once – and ask to shake your hand, if you’ll let me.’
He sat there, with his great paw stuck out, looking misty and noble, virtue just oozing out of him, while I marvelled. The strange thing is, his precious pal Scud East, whom I’d hammered just as generously at school, said almost the same thing to me years later, when we met as prisoners in Russia – confessed how he’d loathed me, but how my heroic conduct had wiped away all old scores, and so forth. I wonder still if they believed that it did, or if they were being hypocrites for form’s sake, or if they truly felt guilty for once having harboured evil thoughts of me? D----d if I know; the Victorian conscience is beyond me, thank G-d. I know that if anyone who’d done me a bad turn later turned out to be the Archangel Gabriel, I’d still hate the b----d; but then, I’m a scoundrel, you see, with no proper feelings. However, I was so relieved to find that this stalwart lout was prepared to let bygones be bygones that I turned on all my Flashy charms, pumped his fin heartily, and insisted that he break his rule for once, and have a glass with me.
‘Well, I will, thank’ee,’ says he, and when the beer had come and we’d drunk to dear old Rugby (sincerely, no doubt, on his part) he puts down his mug and says:
‘There’s another thing – matter of fact it was the first thought that popped into my head when I saw you just now – I don’t know how you’d feel about it, though – I mean, perhaps your wounds ain’t better yet?’
He hesitated. ‘Fire away,’ says I, thinking perhaps he wanted to introduce me to his sister.
‘Well, you won’t have heard, but my last half at school, when I was captain, we had no end of a match against the Marylebone men – lost on first innings, but only nine runs in it, and we’d have beat ’em, given one more over. Anyway, old Aislabie – you remember him? – was so taken with our play that he has asked me if I’d like to get up a side, Rugby past and present, for a match against Kent. Well, I’ve got some useful hands – you know young Brooke, and Raggles – and I remembered you were a famous bowler, so … What d’ye say to turning out for us – if you’re fit, of course?’
It took me clean aback, and my tongue being what it is, I found myself saying: ‘Why, d’you think you’ll draw a bigger gate with the hero of Afghanistan playing?’
‘Eh? Good lord, no!’ He coloured and then laughed. ‘What a cynic you are, Flashy! D’ye know,’ says he, looking knowing, ‘I’m beginning to understand you, I think. Even at school, you always said the smart, cutting things that got under people’s skins – almost as though you were going out of your way to have ’em think ill of you. It’s a contrary thing – all at odds with the truth, isn’t it? Oh, aye,’ says he, smiling owlishly, ‘Afghanistan proved that, all right. The German doctors are doing a lot of work on it – the perversity of human nature, excellence bent on destroying itself, the heroic soul fearing its own fall from grace, and trying to anticipate it. Interesting.’ He shook his fat head solemnly. ‘I’m thinking of reading philosophy at Oxford this term, you know. However, I mustn’t prose. What about it, old fellow?’ And d--n his impudence, he slapped me on the knee. ‘Will you bowl your expresses for us – at Lord’s?’
I’d been about to tell him to take his offer along with his rotten foreign sermonising and drop ’em both in the Serpentine, but that last word stopped me. Lord’s – I’d never played there, but what cricketer who ever breathed wouldn’t jump at the chance? You may think it small enough beer compared with the games I’d been playing lately, but I’ll confess it made my heart leap. I was still young and impressionable then and I almost knocked his hand off, accepting. He gave me another of his thunderous shoulder-claps (they pawed each other something d--nable, those hearty young champions of my youth) and said, capital, it was settled then.
‘You’ll want to get in some practice, no doubt,’ says he, and promptly delivered a lecture about how he kept himself in condition, with runs and exercises and forgoing tuck, just as he had at school. From that he harked back to the dear old days, and how he’d gone for a weep and a pray at Arnold’s tomb the previous month (our revered mentor having kicked the bucket earlier in the year, and not before time, in my opinion). Excited as I was at the prospect of the Lord’s game, I’d had about my bellyful of Master Pious Brown by the time he was done, and as we took our leave of each other in Regent Street, I couldn’t resist the temptation to puncture his confounded smugness.
‘Can’t say how glad I am to have seen you again, old lad,’ says he, as we shook hands. ‘Delighted to know you’ll turn out for us, of course, but, you know, the best thing of all has been – meeting the new Flashman, if you know what I mean. It’s odd,’ and he fixed his thumbs in his belt and squinted wisely at me, like an owl in labour, ‘but it reminds me of what the Doctor used to say at confirmation class – about man being born again – only it’s happened to you – for me, if you understand me. At all events, I’m a better man now, I feel, than I was an hour ago. God bless you, old chap,’ says he, as I disengaged my hand before he could drag me to my knees for a quick prayer and a chorus of ‘Let us with a gladsome mind’. He asked which way I was bound.
‘Oh, down towards Haymarket,’ says I. ‘Get some exercise, I think.’
‘Capital,’ says he. ‘Nothing like a good walk.’
‘Well … I was thinking more of riding, don’t you know.’
‘In Haymarket?’ He frowned. ‘No stables thereaway, surely?’
‘Best in town,’ says I. ‘A few English mounts, but mostly French fillies. Riding silks black and scarlet, splendid exercise, but d----d exhausting. Care to try it?’
For a moment he was all at a loss, and then as understanding dawned he went scarlet