Damned Good Show by Derek Robinson Page A

ran a bath.”
    Bardney Castle House was five miles outside Lincoln. There hadn’t been a castle for three hundred years; a Queen Anne mansion occupied the keep. It had enough fluted chimneys to keep a small colliery in business. Peacocks strutted in the park. When Langham got out of the Rolls he had a sinking sensation in his wallet. It quickly passed. Someone else was paying for this feed.
    Zoë led him into a room lightly scattered with large pieces of furniture. “Mummy, I’d like you to meet Tony,” she said. “Tony, this is my mother, Lady Shapland.”
    â€œHow do you do.” As he came forward, Langham tried to hide the fact that he was both limping and hobbling. They shook hands. “Call me Philly. Short for philistine or philanderer or some damn thing,” she said. “I can never remember.” She was a deep redhead, exactly as tall as her daughter, and she was as American as Rita Hayworth. “Not to be confused with the female pony of the same name. Which reminds me. I had a horse like you, but I shot him.”
    â€œI say!” Langham’s brain was still sluggish. “Rather extreme, wasn’t it?”
    â€œWell, he couldn’t run, so he wasn’t worth a damn. What’s wrong with your feet?”
    â€œAh. Yes. Training exercise last night. Got slightly wounded.” He smiled. “Fortunes of war.”
    â€œTake your shoes off. Let me see.” He began to protest but she said, “Just do it. I own racehorses, I know about feet.”
    â€œMummy’s horse won the big race at Newmarket last Saturday,” Zoë said.
    â€œIf you insist.” Taking off his shoes meant bending his legs. His right knee suddenly hurt and he grabbed it. “Just a twinge.”
    â€œTake your pants off too.”
    â€œOh, look here. Is this absolutely essential?”
    â€œNobody marries my daughter who’s deformed, decrepit or defunct.”
    He lay on a sofa. She pierced and drained his blisters, and coated them with a dark green cream. “Snake oil,” she said. “Comanche chief sold it me on his deathbed.” She manipulated his knee. “Ice-cold compress tonight. Don’t do the Charleston for a week.” She looked at the scratches and bruises on his legs. “You got this way flying a Spitfire? Ever tried flying it
above
ground?”
    Zoë had given him a big Scotch and soda. He felt strong enough to shrug.
    â€œI’ll take the rest of your equipment on trust,” Philly said. She handed him his trousers. “This family needs a male heir. Husbands keep dying on me, and Zoë can’t tell a dime from a dollar. I had an idea. You like this place?”
    â€œBardney Castle? I’ve only just seen it.”
    â€œTake it. Wedding present. For you and her.”
    â€œFrightfully decent of you.”
    â€œDump the staff. Or keep ‘em, whichever you like. This is handy for your Spitfires, right? Your field’s just up the road. Okay, let’s have lunch.”
    They went into another room. “I was born in a shack in Kentucky you could fit in here and still have room to pitch horseshoes,” she said. “This is the Bishop of Lincoln. Charlie, meet Tony. Mind you, the fried chicken was better in Kentucky.”
    The bishop said grace. He was slim and brisk, with a full head of thick, silvery hair. Smoked salmon and wafer-thin brown bread were served, with a crisp white Bordeaux. “You play the banjo, I’m told,” the bishop said, amiably.
    â€œDo I?” Langham said. “I don’t think so.”
    â€œThat was the last chap,” Zoë told the bishop.
    â€œReally?” He shot his cuffs, and read the penciled notes on the left-hand cuff. “Nobody told
me.
I’m only her godfather,” he said to Langham. “Only the guardian of her morals.
Which
last chap?” he asked her.
    â€œThe stockbroker with the eyebrows.”
    â€œYou