This is the first time that the Knolly Estate has allowed the
great man's memoirs to be published. What follows is the twenty seventh chapter of
'The African Adventure'.

Rhodes and Jameson were clearly more uncomfortable than either Bertie or me, or perhaps it is because we are made of sterner stuff — Hearts of Oak and all that. Anyway, they made their excuses to leave the breakfast table as soon as possible, leaving us with Elspeth, who took us to meet her head housekeeper. Not before, I hasten to add, Bertie had stuffed all available pockets with bread rolls, a knife, jam and some butter.

'For later,' was his only explanation.

So now to find an impartial, unbiased, trustworthy person for a very specific task. An umpire to oversee our match who would give at least a glimmer of a hope of an outside chance of fair play. To this end we were fortunate, inasmuch as there were three members of the household who were not required for duties that day and who could be made available to oversee our encounter. We could choose whomever we wished from the three.

Elspeth left us in the care of her housekeeper, Mrs Twistleton, who led us to a window that looked into the large kitchen where the three men were seated, breakfasting at a large, rustic bench. She pointed at each in turn and related in hushed tones some detail of each. We were out of sight of these men; our intimate conversation was out of their earshot.

Firstly, seated on the left-hand side of the table, was one Derrick Smallpiece, whom Mrs. Twistleton described as 'a specialist in the disposal of organic waste matter, and part-time scarecrow during the planting season'. He was an altogether rather rotund gentleman with an enormous red face that glistened as if wet. We realised that this was due to the quantities of butter and grease that were proliferated about his visage as a result of the vast quantities of food that he processed. His table manner was quite remarkable; he continually loaded great fistfuls of food into his mouth, failing to complete a consignment before shovelling in the next load. Somehow he managed to keep talking loudly throughout his mastication — mainly calling for more bacon and eggs and sausage and tea — and he breathed noisily through his nose so that his capacity for mastication and monologue might not be diminished. In short, he was a bloody guts.

Bertie blinked: 'NOT REALLY UMPIRE MATERIAL, EH?'

I blinked to concur: 'INDEED'.

'Does he know anything of tennis?' Bertie politely inquired of Mrs Twistleton.

She raised an eyebrow.

'I am not sure. But he does approach things in a whole-hearted manner and throws his weight behind whatever he does.'

'Hmmmm... I can see that,' I said.

Bertie blinked: 'TEE HEE!'

Next, Mrs. Twistleton indicated to the far end of the table, where there sat a rather shifty-looking cove with a seemingly pale grey complexion. His dark, narrowed eyes continually darted hither and thither as if looking for hidden things and clues all about the place and his ears were always cocked this way and that as if listening for snippets and gossip and secrets. Unlike Smallpiece, he ate not a thing, instead quaffing great draughts of dark coffee. He kept quite silent, save for several gaping yawns that would have not looked out of place had they been executed by a hippopotamus. He spent the entire time in the endeavour of making copious notes in a series of small, well-thumbed black books which he secreted in various pockets about his person. This was Atsov Tularri, a gentleman of possible Mediterranean or Eastern European origin and who, according to Mrs Twistleton, was the chief Knob-Polisher on the estate. This effectively gave him the run of the main house: he could go wherever there might be a knob to polish, be it on a door, a drawer, cupboard or elsewhere.

Mrs Twistleton said that he had only recently joined the household. Her previous knob-polisher had mysteriously vanished without warning and — just as mysteriously — Mr Tularri had arrived at the house the morning after this event, complete with his own knob-polishing equipment and a letter of recommendation personally written and signed by the Duke of Cambridge. The letter stated that he was was extremely keen and diligent, a trait for which Mrs Twistleton could vouch.

'Indeed,' she enthused, 'only last Wednesday, Maitland, the night watchman, was on his first round of checks at one o'clock in the morning. He came across Mr Tularri examining knobs in the drawing-room by the light of a single tallow-candle. And again last Sunday — he was polishing the knobs in the library at half-past-two in the morning!'

I blinked to Bertie: 'I WOULD TRUST HIM ONLY AS FAR AS I COULD THROW HIM.'

Bertie blinked back: 'AS FAR AS THAT? WONDER WHAT HE IS ABOUT?'

Clearly, this chap was on some kind of mission. Just as clearly, Mrs Twistleton was somehow enchanted by him and could not see that he was up to no good. Little did we know it at the time, but we were to encounter Mr Tularri again some while later. We watched as he yawned again for a full 30 seconds.

'I do not think that Mr Tularri is our umpire. It would appear that he is in need of some rest, what with his nocturnal knob-related activities and all,' said Bertie.

I noticed at this point that Bertie was starting to flag a little. I guessed that it was only a matter of time before the excesses of the previous night would take their toll during the daylight hours.

'Are you all right, Bertie?'

'I am slightly a-quiver. I think I may be about to relapse. Let us just hear the last gentleman and maybe we can get outside for some fresh air,' Bertie said.

Mrs Twistleton nodded toward the third gentleman. It was clear from his close-cropped snow-white hair and liver-spotted hands that he had seen a considerable number of summers. Nonetheless, he appeared dapper in his black suit and was well-groomed and well-behaved. He sat with a straight back and breakfasted in a precise manner, nibbling at slices of lightly-buttered toast and dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a starched napkin after sips of tea.

Mrs Twistleton began. 'This is Reverend Rodger Croton. He is —'

'Ah! Say no more! This is our man!' interrupted Bertie, sounding suddenly brighter.

'Bertie! We should let the lady finish. Let us hear of him before we decide.

'Nonsense! A man of the cloth? What else need we know? And look at him. Those other chumps cannot hold a candle to him. I am so sorry, madam. I do not mean to offend you or your staff.'

'It seems that Mr Harrison-Harrison believes that his search for an umpire is at an end,' said Mrs Twistleton.

'Indeed. And what of his choice?'

She smiled and prepared to answer, but before she could utter a word, Bertie set off to introduce himself to his chosen one. The kitchen door appeared stuck and required several full-bodied shoulder-charges. Eventually, the portal conceded and Bertie cartwheeled rather noisily into the middle of the room, banging his head against each and every one of the hanging copper pots and pans like some eccentric music hall drumming act. Understandably, this caused the occupants of the kitchen some consternation. The nervous Mr Tularri spouted coffee through his nose and bolted into the garden like someone who was more startled than someone who is very startled indeed. The terrified Mr Smallpiece swallowed a hard-boiled egg in its entirety — complete with shell and china eggcup — which became lodged in his throat. This caused him to choke and fall backwards onto the flagstone floor, rendering him as helpless as an upturned turtle, his fat legs and arms waggling uselessly in the air. Several of the kitchen staff, seeing him in this parlous state, immediately leapt into action and helped themselves to items from his mountainous breakfast before assisting the unfortunate fellow. Due to his weight and girth, the kitchen lads were not able to lift him; instead, they rolled him out into the garden and attempted to dislodge the food and crockery with a broom handle. The joint reaction of the remaining kitchen staff was to set about dealing with the apparent intruder, bashing poor Bertie about with whatever was to hand, including mops, brushes and the copper implements to which he had previously introduced himself.

Mrs Twistleton and I lost no time in rescuing my beleaguered chum. Well, we dove in just as soon as we had finished laughing at the episode that unfolded before us. Fortunately, Bertie was not hurt, although he was somewhat shaken. I wondered how he would cope. He apologised profusely for so frightening his assailants.

Throughout all the cacophony and mayhem, one person remained calm and unperturbed. Reverend Rodger Croton smiled serenely at the chaos that surrounded him.

'Is the Reverend our man, then?' asked Bertie, dusting himself off and removing pieces of bacon.

I nodded. 'You had better ask him if he is willing,' I added.

'Sir', began Mrs Twistleton, 'I really think you ought to know...'

Bertie held up a hand and stopped her again. 'Mrs T, please calm yourself. My colleague and I are fine judges of character. We know what we are doing.'

I nodded at her. Well, we thought we knew what we were doing.

Bertie began his interview.

'Reverend? My colleague and I will be soon be participating in a tennis match. Are you familiar with this particular sporting pastime?'

'Indeed I am, young man. Have been for a good while,' replied Croton.

'Good! Now, there is much at stake on the outcome of this match, and it is therefore vitally important that we have an umpire. Would you be willing to fulfill this role for us?'

'Why, I would be delighted, young man! Thank you!'

'Excellent! We will come by this way presently and you can accompany us to the courts!'

Croton beamed and shook our hands vigorously. Mrs Twistleton smiled to herself and walked out of the kitchen. She obviously knew something about Croton that we didn't — but we were soon to find out.

So... we had found ourselves an umpire. Now we had to find ourselves something to wear, and then we could turn our attention to the important little matter of giving our adversaries a good hiding.

The Great Knolly Archive

09.02.05 Front Page

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