'The Croquet Final' by Arthur Marshall
Arthur Marshall (1910-1989) was a wonderfully witty and very English writer and raconteur, perhaps best known as a team captain on the BBC's long-running game show Call My Bluff . Early in his career he was rightly celebrated for his radio sketches where he imitated the schoolgirl stories of Angela Brazil. 'The Croquet Final' is taken from Follow the Sun, a collection of his writings which appeared in 1990.
'By Jimini, girls,' vociferated Madge Bellamy, leaping from bed and rattling back her cubie curtains. 'What a spifflicating day for the croquet final between Gloria Doubleday and Blodwen Parks. 'Come on Gloria,' she carolled to her special chum, 'what about a tip-top sluice in the seniors' lavabo. How's your eye old girl, eh?'
'First rate thanks Madge,' riposted Gloria, rinsing herself vigorously with a copious spongeful of creamy suds. 'And I do hope Blodwen's in topping fettle, too,' she added, generously.
'Oh, Blodwen's still frowsting under her eiderdown,' scoffed Rosalie, 'she doesn't care a tinker's cuss for hygiene.'
'And another thing,' rydered Madge, 'it's common knowledge amongst the juniors that she keeps a bottle of Australian Burgundy in her boot-locker.' This was indeed true: poor Blodwen Parks had fallen a victim to the pleasures of the grape, and how she kept up the gruelling pace at croquet nobody could fathom.
By half past two that afternoon the atmosphere round Main Lawn had tensed almost to breaking-point. Blodwen, a triumphant sneer on her ashen face, was streets ahead, having coaxed her orange spheroid through hoop after hoop. Gloria bit her lip and bent low over her mallet. Her plaits flopped forward over her face but she tossed them relentlessly back, and in that grim gesture those watching sensed the titanic struggle to come; Gloria meant to win and it was plain as a pikestaff. Her mallet rose, quivering like a thing possessed, then - Bing.
'Bravo, bravo,' chorused the juniors and, scarcely daring to open her eyes, Gloria realised from their cheers that she had roqueted Blodwen right out of position.
Gloria's blood was up and there was no holding her: it was Bing one minute, Ping the next.
Then, last hoop, and anybody's game.
Blodwen, with a daring fluke off Gloria's plimsole, had placed her coloured ovoid right in the mouth of the penultimate objective. Gloria steeled herself for a final effort: Bang, Swoosh, Click: - Bang - Swoosh - Click.
Then, something seemed to snap inside Blodwen, her mask dropped and she became a livid gibbering Thing. Forcing a dreadful oath from her lips she seized her heavy hickory mallet. 'Take that, you devil,' she hissed, and she hurled it at Gloria with the full force of her opulent biceps. Gloria leapt nimbly aside with all the agility of the trained athlete and the mallet, singing harmlessly past her, tinkled to rest against the Pankhurst railings.
To negotiate the last hoop, and peg smartly out, was for Gloria the work of a moment and cheer after cheer echoed round the ancient elms. She had won, she had won! Miss Pringle's case of championship balls was hers.
Later that evening there came a knock at her cubie. It was Blodwen.
'I say, Gloria,' she ventured, 'don't think me a softie but, well, I've come to eat humble pie. The best girl won this afternoon. Congratters, and shall we - shake?' Both girls fought back their tears for a space, then, when she could speak, 'Shake?' cried Gloria. 'I should jolly well think so. And I say, Blodwen, you've been looking a bit pasty lately. I've a ripe pippin in my locker. Kept it for morning but, may as well have it now. What do you say to our polishing it off, and keeping the doctor away, together?'
And the two girls snuggled cosily down, and munched and munched and munched.
'By Jimini, girls,' vociferated Madge Bellamy, leaping from bed and rattling back her cubie curtains. 'What a spifflicating day for the croquet final between Gloria Doubleday and Blodwen Parks. 'Come on Gloria,' she carolled to her special chum, 'what about a tip-top sluice in the seniors' lavabo. How's your eye old girl, eh?'
'First rate thanks Madge,' riposted Gloria, rinsing herself vigorously with a copious spongeful of creamy suds. 'And I do hope Blodwen's in topping fettle, too,' she added, generously.
'Oh, Blodwen's still frowsting under her eiderdown,' scoffed Rosalie, 'she doesn't care a tinker's cuss for hygiene.'
'And another thing,' rydered Madge, 'it's common knowledge amongst the juniors that she keeps a bottle of Australian Burgundy in her boot-locker.' This was indeed true: poor Blodwen Parks had fallen a victim to the pleasures of the grape, and how she kept up the gruelling pace at croquet nobody could fathom.
By half past two that afternoon the atmosphere round Main Lawn had tensed almost to breaking-point. Blodwen, a triumphant sneer on her ashen face, was streets ahead, having coaxed her orange spheroid through hoop after hoop. Gloria bit her lip and bent low over her mallet. Her plaits flopped forward over her face but she tossed them relentlessly back, and in that grim gesture those watching sensed the titanic struggle to come; Gloria meant to win and it was plain as a pikestaff. Her mallet rose, quivering like a thing possessed, then - Bing.
'Bravo, bravo,' chorused the juniors and, scarcely daring to open her eyes, Gloria realised from their cheers that she had roqueted Blodwen right out of position.
Gloria's blood was up and there was no holding her: it was Bing one minute, Ping the next.
Then, last hoop, and anybody's game.
Blodwen, with a daring fluke off Gloria's plimsole, had placed her coloured ovoid right in the mouth of the penultimate objective. Gloria steeled herself for a final effort: Bang, Swoosh, Click: - Bang - Swoosh - Click.
Then, something seemed to snap inside Blodwen, her mask dropped and she became a livid gibbering Thing. Forcing a dreadful oath from her lips she seized her heavy hickory mallet. 'Take that, you devil,' she hissed, and she hurled it at Gloria with the full force of her opulent biceps. Gloria leapt nimbly aside with all the agility of the trained athlete and the mallet, singing harmlessly past her, tinkled to rest against the Pankhurst railings.
To negotiate the last hoop, and peg smartly out, was for Gloria the work of a moment and cheer after cheer echoed round the ancient elms. She had won, she had won! Miss Pringle's case of championship balls was hers.
Later that evening there came a knock at her cubie. It was Blodwen.
'I say, Gloria,' she ventured, 'don't think me a softie but, well, I've come to eat humble pie. The best girl won this afternoon. Congratters, and shall we - shake?' Both girls fought back their tears for a space, then, when she could speak, 'Shake?' cried Gloria. 'I should jolly well think so. And I say, Blodwen, you've been looking a bit pasty lately. I've a ripe pippin in my locker. Kept it for morning but, may as well have it now. What do you say to our polishing it off, and keeping the doctor away, together?'
And the two girls snuggled cosily down, and munched and munched and munched.
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