The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [584]
I was standing at the touchline with Alf Widdershaine, watching the proceedings.
“Is there anything more we could have done?” I whispered.
“No,” said Alf after a pause. “I just hope those neanderthals can cut the mustard.”
I turned and walked back towards Landen. On his lap was Friday, gurgling and clapping his hands. I had taken him once to the chariot race in the novel of Ben-Hur, and he’d loved it.
“What are our chances, darling?” asked Landen.
“Reasonable to middling with the neanderthals playing. I’ll speak to you later.”
I gave them a kiss each, and Landen wished me good luck.
“Dolor in reprehenderit—Mummy,” said Friday. I thanked him for his kind words and heard my name being called. It was Aubrey who was talking to the umpire, who, as custom dictated, was dressed as a country parson.
“What do you mean?” I heard Aubrey say in an outraged tone as I moved closer. It seemed there was some sort of altercation, and we hadn’t even begun play yet. “Show me where it says that in the rules!”
“What’s the problem?” I asked.
“It’s the neanderthals,” he said between gritted teeth. “According to the rules, it seems that nonhumans are barred from taking part!”
I glanced back to where Stig and the four other neanderthals were sitting in a circle, meditating.
“Rule 78b-45(ii),” quoted the umpire as O’Fathens, the Reading Whackers’ captain, looked on with a gleeful expression, “ ‘No player or team may use an equine or any other nonhuman creature to gain an advantage over the opposing team.’ ”
“But that doesn’t mean players,” I said. “That rule clearly only refers to horse, antelope and so forth—it was brought in when the Dorchester Slammers attempted to gain the advantage by playing on horseback in 1962.”
“The rules seem clear to me,” growled O’Fathens, taking a step forwards. “Are neanderthals human?” Aubrey also took a step forwards. Their noses were almost touching.
“Well . . . sort of,” I answered hesitantly.
There was nothing for it but to seek a judgment. Since the rules regarding on-field litigation had been relaxed ten years ago, it was not uncommon for the first half hour of a match to be taken up with legal wranglings by the teams’ lawyers, of which each side was permitted two, with one substitute. It added a new form of drama to the proceedings but was not without its own problems: after a particularly litigious SuperHoop six years ago, when a legal argument was overturned in the high court two years after the match was played, it became mandatory that three high-court judges be at readiness to give an instant, unquestionable ruling on any legal point.
We approached the Port-a-Court, and our respective lawyers made their representations. The three judges retired to their chambers and returned a few minutes later to announce:
“It is the finding of this Croquet Appellant Court in the action Mallets v. Whackers (neanderthal player legality) that the Whackers’ complaint is upheld. In the eyes of English law, neanderthals are not human, and cannot play.”
The Reading side of the crowd erupted into joyous yells as the judges’ ruling was run up on the screen.
Aubrey opened his mouth, but I pulled him aside.
“Don’t waste your breath, Aubrey.”
“We can prepare an appeal in seven minutes,” said Mr. Runcorn, one of our lawyers. “I think we can find a nonhuman precedent in the Worcester Sauces v. Taunton Ciders SuperHoop semifinals of 1963.”
Aubrey scratched his head and looked at me. “Thursday?”
“A failed appeal could result in a two-hoop forfeit,” I pointed out. “I say we get the lawyers working on it. If they think it’s worth a try, we’ll lodge an appeal at the end of the first third.”
“But we’re five players down, and we haven’t even picked up our mallets!