'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!'
'The game's not lost until it's lost, Aubrey. We've got a few tricks up our sleeve, too.'
I wasn't kidding. I had visited the lawyers' pavilion earlier when they were performing background checks on every player on the opposing side. The Whackers' striker, George 'Rhino' McNasty, had fourteen unpaid parking violations and our legal team successfully pleaded that his case should be heard here and now; he was sentenced to an hour's community service, which effecti
vely had him picking up litter in the car park until the end of the second third. Jambe turned back to Mr Runcorn.
'Okay, prepare an appeal for the end of the first third. We'll start with what we've got.'
Even with our substitute brought on, we still had only six players to their full complement of ten. But it got worse. To play on a local side you had to have been born in the town or lived there for at least six months before playing. Our substitute, 'Johnno' Swift, had lived here only for five months and twenty-six days when he began his career at the Mallets three years before. The Reading lawyers argued that he was playing illegally in his first match, a transgression that should have won him a life ban. Once again, the judges upheld the complaint, and to another excited yell from the crowd, Swift walked dejectedly back to the dressing rooms.
'Well,' said O'Fathens, putting out his hand to Jambe, 'we'll just accept you've conceded the match, okay?'
'We're playing, O'Fathens. Even if Swindon were to lose by a thousand hoops, people would still say this was their finest—
'I don't think so,' interrupted the Whackers' team lawyer with a triumphant grin. 'You're now down to only five players. Under Rule 681 g, subsection (f/6): Any team that fails to start the game with the minimum of six players forfeits the match.'
He pointed out the entry in volume seven of the World Croquet League rule book. It was there all right, just under the rules governing the minimum raisin requirement in the buns served at the concession stands. Beaten! Beaten even before we'd picked up a mallet!
Swindon could weather it but the world could not — the Revealment would be proven false and Kaine and Goliath would carry on with their perverse plans unmolested.
I'll announce it,' said the umpire.
'No,' said Alf, clicking his fingers, 'we do have a player we can field!'
'Who?'
He pointed at me.
'Thursday!'
I was gobsmacked. I hadn't played for over eight years.
'Objection!' blurted out the Whackers' lawyer. 'Miss Next is not a native of Swindon!'
My inclusion would be of questionable value — but at least it meant we could play.
'I was born at St Septyk's,' I said slowly. I'm Swindon enough for this team.'
'Perhaps Swindon enough,' said the lawyer, consulting a rule book hurriedly, 'but not experienced enough. According to Rule 23f subsection (g/9) you are ineligible to play international-standard croquet since you have not played the minimum of ten matches to county standard.'
I thought for a moment.
'Actually, I have.'
It was true. I used to play for the SpecOps Middlesex team when I was based in London. I was quite good, too — but nothing like these guys.
'It is the decision of the Croquet Appellant Court,' intoned the three judges, who wanted to see a good game as much as anyone, 'that Miss Next be allowed to represent her city in this match.'
O'Fathens's face fell.
'This is preposterous! What kind of stupid decision is that?'
The judges looked at him sternly.
'It is the decision of this court — and we find you in contempt. The Whackers will forfeit one hoop.'