Lempriere's Dictionary (24 page)

Had Lemprière known all this he might have deferred his questions till later in the evening, but his recidivist heart is set on things getting worse rather than better, and indeed they will, for Monsieur the Moustache has got the girl while her erstwhile companion is still dinging away in frustration, just another quarter-tone, the tonic’s a little out and on top of that people keep coming up and drinking vital parts of the instrument. The crone has left her place at the fire to show Septimus how the step should be done, toe in and
flick!
her shoe whirls off across the room to crash against an oil-lamp which spills a sinuous tongue of flame across the floor, but everything’s under control as the Pork Club rallies in common crisis, spraying the conflagration with beer, cider and the nastier wines (glad for a refill anyway) and no-one is so much as singed.

Everything starts up again, but a general and complex movement is taking place, a vague, concentric urge radiating out from the centre of the debauchees, from, in fact, the Crone. She has given up the dancing lesson
as a bad job and is turning around, putting the eye on the smoochers, snorters and swiggers who, under this weird pressure, begin to separate. Hands are discreetly removed from bodices, temptingly steatopygous posteriors are no longer being slapped, the sexes are parting like the Red Sea and fond farewells, blown kisses and entreaties to be true fill the melodramatic air like limp translations of a libretto by Calzabigi. An air of expectation begins to take their place. Fops, cads, toffs and swells are now corralled on Lemprière’s side of the room while wenches, damsels, nymphs and baggages take up positions on the other; a few look somehow familiar but there’s no time to ponder that now because the Crone has pounded her stout wand three times upon the floor and retreated back to the fire. The stage is bare and into it bounds Septimus.

His face is grave. Serious matters are impending as he addresses the bacchanals.

‘My friends,’ he begins, ‘dear ladies,’ turning behind him, ‘in this most excellent and convivial of clubs,’ (cries of ‘Hear, hear!’ and ‘None better!’) ‘we have all spent many happy hours which, could we but remember them, would most certainly never be forgotten. We have drunk,’ (mutters of ‘Very true’ and ‘No doubting that’) ‘we have sung, we have,’ a pause for obscene effect, ‘roistered!’ (‘Ha! We have at that,’ and ‘Best roistering in town’. Mutual ‘Well roistered, sir!’s are exchanged). ‘But,’ Septimus holds up his finger, they know what’s coming, ‘above all, we have eaten,’ they’re poised for it, ‘huge quantities of Pork!’

At the mention of pork the place erupts, whooping and hat throwing are general, a fight breaks out and the combatants are separated amid scenes of license and celebratory lewdness. From the fireplace, the Crone acknowledges the compliment by throwing a sizzling strip of crackling into the midst of the rejoicers who fall upon it with frenzied gnashing and drooling.

‘Madame!’ Septimus salutes her, and the company raise their glasses.

‘Drink hearty, my boys!’ she throws back and attempts a brittle pirouette which is noisily applauded. Septimus has caught them in appreciative mood.

‘My friends,’ he continues, ‘we have with us tonight a very dear acquaintance of mine.’ (Curious glances amongst the assembly, who is it?) ‘A young man cast adrift on life’s river. If he is too young to be an orphan, he is old enough to be our friend. Welcome with me my partner in the game this night, Mister John Lemprière!’ There is polite applause as Lemprière acknowledges the introduction. Septimus switches to mock-lecture tone.

‘Now, as all good cooks know, the most succulent, fragrant, the most sublime flitch of pig-flesh is deemed to fall short of its acme, to hurtle down from the zenith of Eumaeus’ pen when deprived of its natural
companion, its liquid bed-fellow…. My friends, I speak, of course, of drink.’

The Pork Club bangs its glasses three times on the table.

‘Yes my friends, drink. The solace of abandoned wives, the lubrication of our fleet; if it is good enough for sailors and their tarts,’ hands outstretched in appeal, plangent he goes on, ‘surely,
surely
it is good enough for us?’ A few grunts of’Certainly is’ confirm the truth of this.

‘And so we have a game,’ At this Septimus falls silent and paces the floor, fingers to the bridge of his nose all of a sudden in deep thought. An act.

‘… it may not be the most athletic of games, it may not be for the scholars or even the
hoi polloi
, but it has two great qualities. First, it involves jeroboams, nay salmanazars of drink,’ the Pork Club rumbles its collective appreciation, he’s gingering them up, ‘and second, it is at least
our
game.’ Dying fall, aah…. Sentimental glances are exchanged, the strong and the dissolute gaze down at their feet. Tears might be welling in their eyes.

‘My friends,’ Septimus recalls them before this gets too maudlin, ‘our thanks are due to two dear people; our gracious hostess,’ cheers for the Crone, ‘and perhaps, tonight, her husband-to-be, that stalwart progenitor … King Archon!’

This is a set-up. The Pork Club booes and hisses, death threats are offered and hideous expressions of loathing can be seen on every face. Lemprière is nonplussed, looking around for the object of so much hatred.

‘Over there,’ the earl whispers to him between shouts of ‘Cut his shrivelled ballocks off!’ and ‘Crush his face in!’

Sitting in a chair by the side of the fire at the foot of the stairs which run at a diagonal up the far wall is King Archon. His once-majestic face falls in unmuscled folds, expressionless, his lips twitch and drool and the drool smears a trail down his shirt. He seems unaware of the Pork Club’s vociferous disgust. The years have burnt away his life from within until only this remains and whatever once sustained him has been eked out further than nature should allow; abomination, old scum, he deserves death but his punishment for living, being life itself, is crueller and more drawn out than that. Filthy, scabrous remnant: long live the King! The compassion of his subjects dictates his life’s endurance although, in some other shape or effigy, the King will be killed tonight.

Septimus is quieting the mob now, readying them for the off. The Crone hobbles centre-stage to acclamation while the gallants begin to pair off.

‘Bon chance,’ the earl offers sportingly to his late interrogator.

On the far side of the room two of the more venerable courtesans have opened a book and are busy shouting the odds, taking bets in coin and credit notes of one sort or another. Lemprière’s on offer at sixes (and only
that generous because of Septimus) while Walter Warburton-Burleigh and the Pug (a barrel-like individual with squinty eyes) are strong favourites at 13-8. Lemprière drifts to tens. The smart money’s ignoring him. The bookmakers look familiar but before he can think about this he sees Septimus hand them a purse of coins which is accepted after some hesitation and the price comes in suddenly to fours.

The Crone, meanwhile, is doling out lumps of pork to the contestants and setting up an array of bottles on the table in the centre. There are bottles of all shapes, sizes and colours, some bound in raffia, some sealed with wax, and in front of each she places a small earthenware cup with a letter stamped upon it. There are twenty-six of these. On the other side of the room a small table supports a bowl of black beans. Something is stirring inside Lemprière, some inarticulate response to the iconography, but he doesn’t know quite what and before he can think about it Septimus swaggers over, about time too. Lemprière starts hissing his doubts, what is he doing here, what is going on? But his fellow player dismisses this as too metaphysical to be taken seriously.

‘That’s not what I meant,’ he hisses.

‘Just watch what the others do,’ advises Septimus, chomping on Lemprière’s pork, ‘and stop hissing.’

Most of the contestants have found their partners, final bets are being taken and the games seem about to start. The Crone has raised her rhabdos for silence.

‘The Game of Cups!’ shrieks the Crone.

‘Oink!’ oink Septimus, the earl and the other contestants.

‘The prize awaits the winner, let the game begin!’

‘Pythoigia!’ shouts everyone except Lemprière. Pythoigia?

‘What
is
the prize?’ he asks Septimus when the noise dies down.

‘You’ll find out,’ Septimus replies.

The Crone has retired to the fire. The first contestants rush to their places.

‘Eat more pork,’ Septimus advises and the earl nods sage agreement.

‘The more pork, the better your chances,’ he confirms.

The first pair are well into the first round of the game. One drains the cups before him in order, arrack, brandy, cider and so on while his partner takes up station by the bowl of beans.

‘Watch the rhythm,’ urges Septimus, ‘the rhythm’s the key.’

At every third cup drained, the player by the beans picks one out and spits it in a controlled parabola into the empty cup which the drinker holds up while reaching for the next. From nine beans spat, only three find their way,
ding!
into the allotted empty cup, all of which are immediately refilled in readiness for the next contestants.

‘Weak round,’ adjudged the earl.

By the time they have finished, the drinker is reeling and there is some jeering at his modest capacity.

‘Choes!’ screams the Crone.

This heralds the second round and the first two take up positions on bended knees, one by King Archon, the other by the Crone herself. They seem to be pleading with them, but to little avail. Meanwhile, the second team is in position, drinking and firing, firing and drinking, egg-nog, furmity,
pfft, ding!
gin, hock, Irrois, and on, five beans out of six so far, pretty good.

Lemprière’s attention is on the first team as they entreat the Crone and her scraggy appendage, King Archon.

‘Don’t worry too much about the Choes part of the game,’ Septimus says.

‘But what are they doing?’

‘One persuades King Archon to marry the Crone, the other the same in reverse; but forget it. It’s an interlude, treat it as a breather.’

‘Won’t we lose if….’

‘No, not at all. In all the history of the Pork Club, no-one has ever succeeded in persuading either of them. It’s considered sportsmanlike to try but save your energies for….’

‘Chytroi!’ shouts the Crone as the second team’s drinker drains the last cup. They have managed seven beans out of nine and the drinker is still standing, better than expected. They move on to the game’s final part, a mime of some sort.

‘What’s this?’ whispers Lemprière.

‘Where the Game is won or lost,’ Septimus replies. ‘The hopefuls improvise a dramatic entertainment along broadly tragic lines; the only hard and fast rule is that it must end with the death of King Archon, look, this is it now.’

One of the contestants looked as though he were trying to erect a ladder while the other brushed frantically at imaginary bees. Suddenly, both rush at King Archon with something that might have been a cauldron, one on either side, and empty its imaginary contents over his head. There is scattered applause for this.

‘Spirited, but nonsensical,’ comments Septimus.

The Game of Cups is in full swing now. Impassioned entreaties, elaborately coded body-language and beans fly around the room. The contestants who have finished are munching on pig-meat and swapping compliments on each other’s performances.

‘Darling!
Loved
your killing.’

‘How many did George get? Good God, really?’

‘Oh, you’re too modest. It was
simply
Plautine!’

Bean-spitters are swigging rapidly to catch their partners, there is a feeling of camaraderie amongst the finishers. The earl has wandered off to find his partner. The Game goes on and it is not until Walter Warburton-Burleigh and the Pug have arisen to take their places at Pythoigia that Lemprière realises he and Septimus are going last.

‘We’re last!’ he says to his partner, but Septimus is exchanging hostile looks with the Pug.

‘They’ll be the ones to beat,’ he confides.

‘You don’t seriously expect us to win, do you?’ Lemprière is aghast at the responsibility.

‘You better hope we do,’ Septimus ripostes. ‘I bet all your money on us.’

Whaat?

And sure enough, the lining of his coat is empty … an apparition in red ringlets and creamy satin, clever fingers in his pockets, oh you fool….

There is a certain predictability in the lunge Lemprière throws at Septimus. And something very inevitable about its missing. Lemprière is outraged. He stares out Septimus for several long seconds, should he try and hit him again? Lemprière is furious, but surprise at himself, a half-pleased feeling mixed in with the still-strong urge to break Septimus’s nose, is levelling him out and Septimus is apologising anyway … hell we can win and suchlike sentiments are rising in crescendo, an irresistible urge to do something really rather stupid and pull through is the right stuff for the occasion.

The Pug and Warburton-Burleigh are going like clockwork, slurp, slurp, slurp, arm out,
pfft … ding!
Warburton-Burleigh is sending the beans over in arcs of all descriptions, drawing high proscenium arches, perfect semi-circles and flat-out bean-to-cup bee-lines in the pungent air, child’s play. They’re on for nine out of nine.

‘Remember, rhythm,’ hisses Septimus as they get up. ‘Get it down at your own pace, but get it down whatever.’

‘Perhaps I should spit the beans,’ suggests Lemprière, who doesn’t remember agreeing to the drinking role.

‘No time to discuss the tactical fine points now. Look, see those two? Know why they’re smiling? They saw me put that bet on, they want us to lose, do you see? Smug bastards, we’ll wipe their faces in it. For God’s sake,
come on
John. It’s your money….’

The other contestants are applauding Warburton-Burleigh’s acrobatics, but everyone has half an eye on Septimus; how can he pull this one out of the fire? Especially with that half-blind lame duck as his partner…. Confidence is not high but best wishes will be with them. No-one really
wants to see the Pug and Warburton-Burleigh win the prize, Septimus is the last bastion.