After he’d gone I opened the card. It was from Smew. Apparently he was holding a grand reception from three until five in the afternoon. The venue was the reading room of the great library, and I was invited. This more or less eliminated the other possibility open to me; namely, that of joining Gallinule and his companions in their chosen hostelry. I could imagine the sort of day that lay ahead of them and it was not uninviting. The drink flowed unusually freely when Gallinule was ‘in the chair’, and a pleasant time was therefore guaranteed. At the back of my mind, though, was the question of finance. I could hardly show up at the Maypole with my newly acquired coin and try to get it past the publican. Also, I might be put under pressure to purchase a ticket for the company’s forthcoming play. Once more the problem came down to money. The price was sixpence; and sixpence I didn’t have. As much as I wanted to see this tragedy, I didn’t savour the prospect of sitting in a pauper’s seat.
I looked again at Smew’s invitation and decided I had no alternative but to accept. Indeed, it struck me that it would have been churlish not to. Here I was, being invited to the most prestigious social event of the season, one that was likely to be the envy of many, yet I was considering giving it a miss! I chided myself for being so foolish and set about getting ready.
The card said three o’clock but I determined to make my entrance at half past. Turning up any earlier would have made it look as if I had nowhere else to go, aside from which I wanted to avoid the awkwardness of being first to arrive. As it happened I need not have worried: that particular honour fell upon Sanderling. At three thirty I walked into the reading room to find him attired in his smartest dandy coat, and doing his best to converse with Wryneck. I could see immediately that he was struggling. The two of them appeared to be discussing the numerous portraits hanging around the walls, but there was a very obvious distraction. Close by stood a table laden with glasses, all brimming with wine, and as yet untouched. Poor Sanderling was plainly undergoing a mild form of torture. I watched with interest as he nodded and concurred with Wryneck, all the time casting glances at the wine as though he feared it would suddenly vanish. Meanwhile, Wryneck explained each painting down to the last tiny detail, before steering his hapless pupil towards the next masterpiece, and then the one after that. I wondered how long Sanderling would be able to bear being deprived of the drink that was so near and yet so far. Soon Whimbrel joined me, quickly followed by Dotterel, Brambling and Garganey. These last three were slightly damp. It was now raining outside, apparently, as well as being dark and gloomy. Exactly why our ancestors established the feast at this dismal time of year I didn’t know, but I presumed it was because they needed an excuse to stay indoors.
I glanced around at my companions and noticed that Dotterel seemed rather ill at ease. There was evidently something bothering him but I didn’t get the chance to find out what. Next moment Smew emerged from within some inner sanctum wearing the ceremonial crown and looking unquestionably regal. He regarded the little gathering for some moments, and then spoke.
‘Why, Wryneck,’ he said, ‘aren’t you going to offer our guests some wine?’
‘Ah, yes,’ Wryneck answered, ‘I was so absorbed with the royal paintings that I clean forgot.’
For some reason the wine glasses ranged along the table were of many different sizes. They stood there glowing under the chandelier and I thought they looked most enticing. The larger glasses were towards the back; the medium and small ones nearer the front.
‘Like a drink, Sanderling?’ said Wryneck.
‘Yes, please,’ came the reply.
Wryneck turned and selected the smallest glass and handed it to Sanderling. Whether he did it on purpose I couldn’t tell, but I found I was unable to continue witnessing Sanderling’s torment. Instead I joined a short queue comprising Dotterel, Garganey, Whimbrel and Brambling. Wryneck favoured us all with large measures, but for himself he chose a glass of equal size to the one he’d given Sanderling.
Smew waited gracefully until last.
The eight of us must have looked quite magnificent as we stood assembled in our courtly attire, each holding a glass of the empire’s finest wine. Here we were, the very cream of imperial government, enjoying one another’s company in a library of international renown. All the same I couldn’t help thinking that there was some special element lacking from the occasion. To put it another way, there was no sense of allurement: no sparkle. I was unable to put my finger precisely on what we were missing, but the feeling persisted nonetheless.
I was then struck by an unrelated secondary thought. It occurred to me that we might all be expected to exchange gifts at some stage during the afternoon. A cold chill ran through me as I realised I’d made no provision for this whatsoever. Realistically, I couldn’t envisage Dotterel or Garganey producing a sackful of carefully wrapped parcels out of the blue. On the other hand, I would not have put it past Whimbrel to distribute presents left, right and centre just for the sake of it. How embarrassing, then, to be unable to offer anything in return.
I was still considering my options when Dotterel cleared his throat and addressed Smew directly.
‘Smew,’ he said, ‘there’s a matter of great urgency which I think demands the immediate attention of the cabinet.’
‘Not now, Dotterel,’ said Smew.
‘But it’s most important.’
‘Not now,’ Smew repeated. ‘It will have to wait.’
‘You mean until tomorrow?’ Dotterel enquired.
‘I mean until after the twelve-day feast.’
‘It can’t wait twelve days!’
‘Of course it can,’ said Smew. He had adopted a kind yet masterful tone of voice. ‘Nothing should be allowed to interrupt the festivities,’ he continued. ‘Affairs of state must be put to one side for the time being. So please, Dotterel, try to enjoy yourself and let’s hear no more about it.’
‘Very well,’ conceded Dotterel, bowing his head slightly and accepting a second glass of wine.
This was provided by Shrike, who had appeared as if from nowhere carrying a tray of drinks. After serving Dotterel he began circulating amongst the rest of us, and this time I was glad to see Sanderling receive the biggest glass of all. The general conversation then became much more convivial. Even Dotterel seemed to overcome his disquietude, if only temporarily.
The paintings lining the walls were not all portraits. Some of them depicted maritime scenes from the history of the empire. Sanderling now seized the opportunity to demonstrate what he had learned during his time at the admiralty. One enormous canvas showed a flotilla of sailing ships, merchantmen by the look of them, beating along some wild shore in search of a safe harbour. Taking Wryneck by the sleeve, Sanderling guided him over to the picture and started explaining it to him. Cleverly, though, he made no attempt to talk about artistic technique: brushstrokes, light, colour, perspective and so forth. This would have led him straight out of his depth. Instead he described how a ship actually sailed, commencing from first principles.
‘What you need to understand,’ he began, ‘is that the wind doesn’t simply blow the ship along. Rather, the ship takes the wind and shapes it to its own requirements.’
Wryneck stood listening intently as Sanderling outlined the basic laws of sailing. Dotterel and Garganey also moved a little closer, clearly impressed by Sanderling’s wealth of knowledge. It was a shame he had no ships with which to put it all into practice.