At the commotion on that fatal mid day, Binky had in an ante room excused himself from his Lordship’s presence, being as his Royal Grace was more than surrounded by two of London’s leading dentists both trying to get a good look with pencil torches into his Lordship’s mouth as well as a throat specialist peeking into his Lordship’s trachea where it was believed a toothbrush bristle lay lodged.
Binky spying the altercation just a mere thirty yards away near the room’s main vast rose marble chimneypiece, hurriedly made his way through the nearly hysterically animated assemblage, while bracing himself to dispense suitable vowels to quell whatever disquiet had arisen. Until catching sight of the starring participant. Binky’s striped trousered knees buckling, his elbows gathering tightly into his ribs as his sides helplessly split with a silently cataclysmic laughter.
An apprehended red faced Schultz nailed to the floor by several knees. A detective’s hand over his mouth, an arm across his throat, feet shaken out of his shoes, one toe twitching whitely out of a considerable hole in his black sock. Binky’s pained face, eyebrows contorted to erase the glee, his hands held limp and helpless as he struggled walking backwards further and further away from the pinioned Schultz who at last managed to sink his teeth into one of the detective’s fingers as both of them howled out loud.
“Binky, Binky, for christ’s sake this isn’t funny, get them off, they’re trying to castrate me.”
Binky, mirth exploding through his teeth, taking a deep lungful of air and finally rigidly straightening his back to slowly march, chin raised with parade ground splendour, towards the pinioned Schultz. To stand tiptoe over him.
“My dear chap I have never seen you before in my life.”
“I swear Binky I’ll never forgive you for this.”
“Take the wretch away.”
“You son of a bitch, Binky.”
“And I must say to you gentlemen of our Metropolitan Police Force, such a splendid job you’ve done at downing this imposter.”
“Only doing our duty sir.”
The monocles and lorgnettes up over eyes looking distinctly the other way. A wide space opening wider around the red faced Schultz. Detectives lifting him by the armpits to his stockinged feet. As Binky feigned a presto pronto wide eyed surprise.
“O my goodness gentlemen. O dear me. But I do think there may be some misunderstanding here. Upon my word, it’s the well known impresario, Mr. Sigmund Franz Schultz. I simply did not recognise him in his floored horizontal position. You must not bring him to the tower for execution as he is, I fear, a very special guest and an acquaintance of some duration of Lord Nectarine’s.”
“Boy, Binky thanks a lot, you really know how to ruin friends and influence people, don’t you.”
Faces flushed and ties askew. Schultz sticking his foot back into his one shoe as security men with a litany of murmured apologies brushed and patted him and went searching for the other of his missing footwear. Binky, a hand on his strained stomach muscles now making a space for Schultz through the newly collected circle of interested folk. Pushing past a moustachioed eagle nosed chap with the conspicuously low rank of major who not only was assuming an instant vigilante posture but who also cleared his throat to loudly boom.
“A good bang with the broadside of a sword across the backside is what some of these wretched wogs need these days.”
“Ah Schultz, did you hear that. What on earth are we going to do with you. First nearly causing an international incident stumbling out at passing royalty in the Abbey. And now dear me here you are tail coat in tatters, shoe missing, with hysterical security men thinking you a terrorist assassin. One even overheard a thoroughly alarmed relative of the bride ask if you were related to the groom.”
“Christ Binky, I went the fuck out my door this morning to this wedding with a song in my heart.”
“When in fact Schultz as his Royal Grace might say, you should have gone out with a built in steel jock strap over your balls.”
“It’s all the result of what that bitch you made me visit in the hospital did to me, ripping up all my mail, my photographs, my invitations. So now I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. Jesus don’t they have any drink here.”
“Schultz, can’t you hear. Champagne corks going off like shotguns at the shoot. Ah waiter. Allow us to lighten your tray.”
“And you fucker. I saw you when you saw me when I was down. Look at this carnation you gave me. Everytime someone sees it I get suddenly jumped on by secret police.”
“Ah Schultz perhaps the hue is a little dark. But we do love you. We really do. You must never, even in your own most worst stricken abyss, think that we don’t. You’re the only man I know who can reduce dull reality to the sublimely ridiculous in a trice. One understands now why you’re sent Royal invitations to the palace.”
“For the confidence bolstering thanks a lot Binky. Boy do I need this drink. But before all this violence, the solemnity of that whole church ceremony really got me. No shit. I was nearly in tears. A nice guy like his Lordship tied up for life. Thank God I’m still married to the theatre. And nothing else.”
“And dear Schultz although you do sometimes sound like a colonel in a dud regiment, one does so admire your resolve and especially the way you so easily combine your social, emotional and theatrical activities.”
“Activities. You mean tragedies. Jesus where’s his Lordship so I can say something nice to him.”
“His Royal Grace, poor old devil, is at this very moment being attended upon in an ante room by a bevy of specialist chaps.”
“Holy shit he’s not clapped up or something.”
“And well you might Schultz, think such a dire thought. But an impacted molar is I believe the difficulty. And some little trouble in the trachea. One does I suppose so hate to see him sail off into what may be sometimes questionably referred to as wedded bliss. But then such disruptive things do befall one in life. Nevertheless let me propose a toast Schultz. To that stunningly inspired batsman and bowler, one of Oxford’s and England’s most revered cricketers, that dear dear old skin, his Amazing Grace Master of Foxhounds.”
“Sure, to his Lordship.”
“And Schultz to you. To finding your other shoe. And to victory. Both in showbizz and in matrimony.”
“Holy shit leave the matrimony out will you.”
Schultz downing two glasses of champagne one after the other, and watching over the rim of his tilted glass the dazzlingly handsome grey swallow tailed figure of Binky now followed by several ladies’ eyes as well as those of a rather slack wristed gaitered clergyman, as he strode away out across the polished parquet under the gilt and multi hued ceilings of this vast room. His quietly pleasant countenance smiling. His assuring fingers firmly shaking the outstretched hands. His lips dispensing his softly spoken whimsicalities, as he passed leaving these loud haughty echoing voices in his wake. Admirals, Bishops and holy cow his Excellency the Ambassador from across the street. Who’s got one of his Lordship’s gorgeous married sisters in deep conversation. And what perfume is this at my shoulder. And christ this orange fabric of real raw silk.
“Your shoe sir.”
“O hey gee thanks.”
“I hope you will forgive my amusement but you know you did really give a rather good account of yourself.”
“I rather to hell I didn’t if you want to rather know the truth. But if someone like you turns up with my shoe, holy christ, I wouldn’t mind losing both feet.”
“You’re much too flattering sir. But from your expression standing here alone just now, one would have thought the whole world had fallen in on you.”
“Do I look that bad.”
“Well perhaps not quite that bad.”
Schultz bending to tie his shoelace. And at the same time taking an eye straining gander at this creature’s splendid gaskins.