Chapter 14: Biathlon

The last test match had finished and as the players not destined to go on the winter tour prepared for their hibernation, much-loved bats were receiving their special annual treatment. The reek of linseed oil was in the air. Wistful was the word uppermost in Judge Embert Wimple’s mind at this time of year. How many more test series could a man of well over eighty expect to see? No doubt that depended on the extent to which mind and body were kept active. Happily for his honour, this was not a problem. As to the body, he still managed a ninety-minute daily walk at a pace which would have left many of his juniors floundering in his wake, had they cared to try keeping company with him. The mind was also well placed, for the judge was still working on his Theory of Everything. Having done all he thought reasonable with regard to the infinite – the shape and extent of the universe – he was about to address the equally mysterious matter of the infinitesimal, by delving into particle physics.

All in all, there were few cobwebs in the judge’s cranium, though according to Mrs Wimple, there was at times a possible question of bats in his belfry. Esmeralda was matching her husband in her own way, being by now a considerable figure in the local art world. Her paintings were selling as fast as she could produce them and she had been prevailed upon to run a course for aspiring brush-wielders. Fortunately, she did so at night school – a relief to the judge, who had had glum forebodings of a domestic tiff when his wife had initially toyed with the idea of inviting her pupils to the Wimple residence.

With scant knowledge of what the day had in store, the judge arrived at court to find that he had been assigned the case of Bellamy versus Hall, which appeared to be yet another affair arising from the world of sports and games. This was becoming an epidemic. Also, the incident concerned had taken place far outside Judge Wimple’s normal jurisdiction. However, both parties lived within five miles of his court, so he was not disposed to make anything of the point. The plaintiff, Colin Bellamy, was represented by one of the judge’s most long-standing sparring partners, Desmond Oddley-Staggers, while another old stager, Daniel Pettigrew, appeared for the defendant, Philip Hall. With everyone in place, the judge addressed Oddley-Staggers. “Let’s get the show on the road, Mr Barstow.”

Thumbs in waistcoat pockets, Oddley-Staggers gave the slightest bow that decorum required. “May it please Your Honour, this is a case in which a simple sporting encounter, intended to be joyous, became quite the reverse. It took place on the eighteenth of December last, this hearing having been delayed owing to my client’s recent illness. Both parties here have high reputations in the field of conkers.”

“Conkers?” said the judge. “Do you mean as in horse chestnuts?”

“Yes. No doubt most of us, of our gender anyway, are familiar with the old school playground game. Over the years, this has developed into something of a sport, with regional, national and international adherents. The position was that my client and the defendant both had aspirations to reach the UK finals, from which position either might have become world champion. At the time in question, they were leading contenders for the county.”

“Just a moment,” the judge interjected. “You indicated a world championship. I have always thought of conker-playing as a peculiarly English activity.”

“That might have been the case at one time, Your Honour, but if it was, it is no longer so. Indeed, I believe a German gentleman has recently come to prominence.”

“Has he really?” said the judge. “You surprise me in two ways. First, I had no idea that this pastime had reached such a stage. No doubt we shall soon see it as an event in the Olympic Games, perhaps contemporaneously with tiddlywinks. Second, I once spent some time in a village in Germany. I recall that there were two horse-chestnut trees bracketing the door of a Wirtschaft – that is a public house. I well remember seeing conkers galore on the ground. None of the locals took any notice of them. In fact, my wife and I collected a hundred and twenty-seven fine specimens in less than an hour. We placed them in a basket and had great enjoyment from looking at them for some time. I find it gratifying that our Continental neighbours are getting the idea. However, I am interrupting you. Please continue.”

“Your Honour’s comments are as always most interesting and educational. The litigants here were convinced that the winner of their encounter would very likely have represented his county in the national play-off. It must be admitted that the rules are not always entirely clear. The local attitude is a traditional one, which is to say that when a particular conker succeeds against another, it takes the gains from the defeated one. For example, if one conker has, say, ten victories and prevails against another with fifteen successes, it becomes what is known as a twenty-fiver. If it then further defeats another twenty-fiver, it become a fiftyer, and so on. It is quite common for a conker to mark up several hundred points in this way.”

The judge knew the rules perfectly well. In fact, as a schoolboy, he had once had a seventy-sixer. “I understand,” he said. “Go on.”

“Thank you. On this occasion, the parties decided to make a day of it. They hired a coach to take them and their supporters to the coast, where everyone concerned was expected to have a good time, after which the match would take place on high ground abutting the sea. All proceeded as planned until three o’clock in the afternoon, when the contestants met. By all accounts, it was a gruelling battle. It is not unusual for spectators to count the blows and if necessary, we could produce a witness who would state that there were thirty-six strikes on each side before a result was reached.”

“I don’t think we need that,” said the judge, who was deeply engaged and wanted no interventions other than his own. “I know how the game is played. Proceed.”

“My client’s conker prevailed, fragmenting its opponent with the thirty-seventh blow. Normally, one would expect a handshake at such a juncture. However, on this occasion, the defendant became querulous and heated words were exchanged, including an allegation of victory being achieved by sharp practice. Mr Hall snatched my client’s conker and threw it into the sea. Some grappling ensued and, locked together, the two men rolled over the adjacent cliff, after which hostilities were discontinued. My client sustained injuries. He makes no claim in that respect, but contends that he was deprived of the chance of becoming the British and perhaps even the world champion. For this, he seeks compensation.

“Thank you, Mr Stairwell,” said the judge. “Now, I think it is time for us to hear from the defence.” He turned his eyes to Pettigrew. “Proceed, Mr Pettifog.”

Was that deleterious or a good try? Defending counsel was not sure, but he maintained his composure. “Thank you, Your Honour. My learned colleague’s comments are interesting, but leave much unsaid.”