This is the first time that the Knolly Estate has allowed the great man's memoirs to be published. What follows is the twenty eighth chapter of 'The African Adventure'.

Anyone for Tennis Part 6

When we were preparing for our African sojourn, a tennis match was the last thing on our minds. Consequently, we were without the correct attire and we were also sans racquets. Some might say that we were somewhat ill-prepared to meet the challenge issued by Rhodes.

As we saw it, we had two options: to either play in our undergarments or to play in our dinner-jackets. Neither appealed. Bertie had already done enough cavorting in his combinations, and our dinner-jackets had not been cleaned since the eventful events of the night before.

We rummaged through our gear and both came to the same conclusion: our jungle khakis! We were soon resplendent in expansive shorts, scrim-neckerchiefs and knee-length, snakebite-proof socks. Alas, these had not seen the light of day since our sea voyage and, though cleaned by Mrs Grey's gals, still smelt faintly of fish.

'I feel that there is little need for the pith topi, Bertie,' I remarked.

'Oh! Sorry, old fellah. Force of habit.'

'Indeed. And I doubt very much that we will find gainful employment on the tennis court for either the compass or the mosquito net. Or the machete, for that matter.'

'Hmmm,' said Bertie, reluctantly replacing the items. 'I thought that some cold steel might help our opponents see sense if there are any disputed line-calls.'

We also were in need of some tennis racquets. Elspeth had anticipated this shortfall in equipment and dispatched Mrs Twistleton to assist us. We followed her to a storeroom of sorts and then watched as she sought her quarry, clambering over sundry strange items (including a stuffed warthog, a pantomime horse costume and a pile of skis) in the process. She rummaged
around and surfaced triumphantly.

'Here we are!' she proclaimed. 'Your racquets!'

Bertie and I looked at each other.

'But my dear Mrs T, these are snowshoes,' I said, trying my best not to upset her after her earnest effort.

'Oh! I do beg your pardon!', she said as she dove back amongst all of the stuff. She emerged again only a few moments later, brandishing two more wooden implements.

'Any better?' she asked.

Bertie slowly took the racquets from Mrs T and held them lovingly in his hands. He was misty-eyed as he told us:

'This... this is a pair of Wally Wingfield 'Thumper' autographed edition spharistike racquets, quite possibly the finest ever made. These are rare indeed. Are you sure that we can use them?'

Mrs T just shrugged.

'We normally beat the carpets with them,' she said.

With that, we left Mrs Twisleton and went to collect the Reverend Croton, who was not where we asked him to meet us. Bertie saw him first, wandering off in the direction of the tennis courts in animated discussion with our opponents.

'Come on Bertie, the game's afoot!' I rushed out in pursuit.

'Knolly, what exactly is that supposed to mean?' he called after me. 'The game is tennis. There's no game I know of called 'afoot', although I believe the Incas of South America played a game known as 'Ahfou', but you would need my machete for that.'

I waited for him to catch up and gave him one of my best glares, complete with bristling eyebrow effect.

'Umm... time and place, eh Knolly?'

'Correct.' I decided to try some psychological techniques on Bertie in order to focus his mind and to nullify the effects of his recent excesses.

'We must condition our minds as if for a chess match of titanic proportions,' I said.

'Why so?' asked Bertie.

I aired my philosophy.

'Because chess and tennis are so similar.'

'How so?'

'Ah! The placement of the serve dictating the pattern of events-to-come — the return, a riposte to the opening gambit intended to bamboozle — the strategic cogitations of the line of attack mirrored in the approach to the
net — the all-out attack on a major piece simulated by the volley or the slam, the backhand providing the cloak to distract and to hide the true intention of the gameplan, the cunning of the selection of spin.'

'But there isn't a net in chess,' said Bertie.

'I was speaking figuratively,' I replied.

'There are no bats, either.'

'I was just trying to draw some analogies.'

'You would be better off drawing some trees. Or some cats.'

Bertie's refusal to be drawn forced me to admit that tennis was, in fact, nothing like chess.

'Anyway, I was just going to slam the ball around as hard as we can, like we always do,' said Bertie.

'Yes. Yes, let's do just that. But remember, there are no cushions for that lucky bounce.'

I made a mental note to myself. Never, ever try psychology and philosophy on Bertie ever again. Never.

We arrived at the court. Rhodes and Jameson were already there, talking conspiratorially to each other. They were immaculately turned-out in their whites and All-England Club blazers and had clearly gone to great pains to ensure
that their belts — in this case, their MCC ties — peeked discreetly from under their jumpers. Such cads!

Croton seemed somewhat distracted, frequently looking at his pocket-watch and anxiously surveying the grounds. He headed slowly for the umpire's chair and began to nervously scale the steps. We watched in silence as he struggled to ascend his Kilimanjaro. He forgot to stop at the top and came down the other side. Looking rather bemused, he started up again. This
time he stopped at the peak and sat down. Only — he was facing the wrong way. The painful process started all over again and this time resulted in Croton being properly seated.

'Who wishes to choose ends?' called our umpire from on high.

Rhodes answered 'We'll toss a coin for it,' and made rather a show of producing a gold coin from his trouser pocket. He handed it to me. It was a gold crown minted when Cromwell was Lord Protector. I was impressed. I handed it to Bertie. He was also impressed but did not want to show it. Jameson just rolled his eyes and yawned.

'Your call, Rhodes,' Bertie offered.

With a deft flick o' the wrist, he sent the crown spinning high into the clear, bright African sky. Rhodes called 'TAILS!' and we waited for the coin to drop and for fate to declare who would serve first. Only... the coin did not come down. Rhodes thought that Bertie had palmed it.

'What tomfoolery is this, man?' boomed Rhodes, his face reddening by the second. 'Hand me back my coin!'

Now, I had seen Bertie execute some rudimentary prestidigitatory acts, but he was clearly as flummoxed as the rest of us as he stood, open-palmed, shrugging his shoulders and making strange 'but... but... but' noises. He didn't have the coin and it wasn't on the floor.

At this point, Croton interjected in a solemn voice from his precarious perch of the umpire's chair.

'Gentlemen. I feel that the coin has been taken by a being that moves on a higher plane.'

This was said with such solemnity and gravity that we were all unnerved. Jameson fingered a cross he produced from his pocket (an interesting good-luck charm); Rhodes began mumbling something that sounded like the Lord's Prayer; I started to wonder if I should have paid more attention at Sunday School; Bertie was still muttering his 'buts'.

'What do you mean by "a being that moves on a higher plane"?' I asked.

'A bird.'

We all asked the next question in unison.

"WHAT?"

Croton slowly pointed a bony finger and directed our gaze to an area of the grounds behind us. There stood a bird. Not just any bird. It was Elspeth's vulture and it was acting in a fashion that (one would imagine) was not at all typical of a rational, well-balanced, vicious, efficient hunting bird. It jumped up and down a few times and then fell backwards into a sitting position. From here, it waggled its scrawny legs in the air and then fell forward, seemingly in an attempt to crawl on its belly. All the while, it was shaking its head from side to side.

It transpired that the unfortunate avian was out for 'walkies' again and had tried to fly (in its case, a well-executed jump) over the court just as Bertie had flicked the coin — which it had inadvertently swallowed.

We stood stock-still as stuporous statues in stunned, stupefied silence.

'Shall... erm... Shall we serve first, then?' asked Bertie.

'Never mind that!' blustered Rhodes. 'I want my bloody crown back!'

He barged past us and made his way to where the vulture was trying to purge itself of its unwelcome windfall. It did not appreciate being taunted by a large, red-faced gentleman, so it went on the attack, waddling with giant black wings outspread toward Rhodes, who went running into the bushes. The vulture relapsed and so Rhodes went after it again, only to be chased off once more.

The bizarre game of catch-as-catch-can went on like this for a good ten minutes, until the vulture was finally able to expel the coin, along with the semi-digested remnants of a hearty vulture-breakfast. On seeing this, Rhodes went a strange colour and reciprocated all over his own tennis shoes. The vulture now realised that it had an empty stomach, and so, beating its wings, jumped and walked off noisily in search of more food.

Rhodes bent down and peered into the vulture-vomitus.

'It was tails,' he said in a thin voice, and then keeled over.

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