Just Not Cricket

by Joyce Cato

  Just

  Not

  Cricket

  Joyce Cato

  ROBERT HALE

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was a perfect summer’s morning in late June when travel-ling cook, Jenny Starling, pulled her small cherry-red van into the modest car park on the edge of Much Rousham’s village sports grounds and cricket field.

  A large expanse of manicured green, it was surrounded by mature horse chestnut trees at the top of a slight incline at one end, which, along with a thick mist of cow parsley dancing amongst the tree trunks, hid most of the actual village itself from view. A long length of hedge composed mostly of native blackthorn, elder and hawthorns, ran along two of the other sides, providing wind breaks. On one side of these, Jenny could just make out the silvery traces of a river running almost parallel to the field, which might have been the river Cherwell. Or then again, might not. Her sense of geography wasn’t the best.

  The hedges were thick with the fast browning flowers of May blossom, and a greenfinch sang lustily, if not very tunefully, from one such thicket. A narrow country lane, heading to another tiny and rather obscure neighbouring hamlet, comprised the fourth length of the field, but Jenny doubted it saw much traffic, apart from the odd tractor or two. This roadway was lined by a tall chain-link fence, which circumnavigated the entire field. By the section of road, however, a plethora of pink-and-white striped weeds climbed and twined up the metal diamond struts vigorously, their trumpets rustling in a slight, warm breeze. Large patches of nettles, and candy-pink willow herb, growing in five-foot tall swathes, further combined to hide most of the lane from view.

  A quick glance at her wrist watch showed her that it was barely eight o’clock in the morning – which should give her plenty of time to set up. Already it felt distinctly hot, and she just knew that the rest of the day was going to be sweltering. Not ideal conditions for cooking in a cramped, confined space, perhaps, but she was in too good a mood to even think of complaining.

  Much Rousham’s annual grudge match against their arch-rivals, the nearby village of Steeple Clinton, was due to begin promptly at one o’clock, and this year being their centenary, the cricket committee had voted to push the boat out somehow. This had manifested itself in the form of their hiring Jenny to provide gourmet nourishment for the gladiators, rather than rely on the always welcome, if somewhat erratic, efforts of the cricketers’ wives.

  Now as she started to unload her van, her happy thoughts turned to which recipe she’d use for her strawberry scones, and which sponges she thought would best suit the occasion. Genoese were always popular, of course, but for sportsmen with a healthy appetite, perhaps a lemon curd cake or even a lemon Griestorte might be better?

  As she approached the small but picturesquely quaint wooden pavilion, which backed onto an area of the chain-link fence that was interspersed with hawthorn, she glanced around her in pleasure. The sun shone on the large, green patch of neatly mown grass, and through the trees, she could just make out the roofs of a small nest of thatched cottages. Everywhere, wild daisies, pretty powder-blue speedwell and bright buttercups were blooming, and birds flitted about, gathering worms and caterpillars for their growing broods. A small pile of cricket paraphernalia, including wicket stumps, bails and balls, was laid out neatly alongside the green-and-white-painted pavilion, obviously waiting to be set up, and it all combined to present a pleasant rural scene that could only be found in England.

  And even Jenny, who’d never been much of a sports fan (and knew as much about cricket as she did about nuclear fusion) could just about understand and appreciate the allure of the occasion.

  As she approached the wooden steps at the base of the pavilion, her arms laden with her favourite cooking utensils, she eyed the building thoughtfully. A set of three sturdy-looking steps led up to a narrow door, set uncompromisingly square in the middle of the building. It didn’t, Jenny had to acknowledge with a small sigh, look as if it was likely to possess a particularly generous kitchen. However, a large window on each side of the door suggested that there would at least be plenty of light inside, which gave her some cause for hope.

  Just then, the door opened and a man stepped out, smiling a warm welcome at her. He was tall and rake-thin, with close-cropped white hair and button black eyes, with a feathering of silver, short-cropped whiskers on his chin, which led Jenny to estimate his age to be somewhere in the late sixties. Dressed in white trousers and a dark green shirt, his face had the creases and deep tan of a man who had lived his life mainly outdoors.

  She saw his eyes widen as they took her in – a not uncommon occurrence, and one that she was used to. At six feet tall, with long, almost black hair and sky-blue eyes, her curvaceous figure could best be described as Junoesque. As such, Jenny was used to being viewed with considerable interest – especially by the male of the species – which sometimes bordered on the bemused. Not yet thirty, but looking considerably younger, she knew that she was not most people’s idea of a professional cook.

  ‘Hello, you must be the lady Mrs Enwright told me to expect. I’m James Cluley, the groundsman here,’ he introduced himself gallantly. ‘I’ve opened it all up for you and made sure that everything’s in order. The electricity’s on, and everything’s had a good airing. I hope you’ll find you’ve got everything that you need, but if not, just sing out and I’ll see what I can do,’ he promised. And so saying, he stepped to one side to allow her to pass.

  As she stepped inside the narrow door, long benches and rather battered lockers lining the walls showed her that they were in the main changing room.

  ‘The kitchen and storeroom are at the back, I’m afraid,’ James said cheerfully. ‘So you’ve not got much of a view of the cricket field.’ He opened an internal door on a direct line with the main door, allowing them to step into a tiny dark hallway, with two doors facing them. The space was bisected by a rather dimly-lit corridor, at the end of which was one door marked ‘Ladies’ and at the other by a door marked ‘Gentlemen’.

  Of the two immediate doors facing her, the one on the left opened to reveal a cheerful if somewhat functional white-and-yellow painted room, housing the very modest kitchen facilities that Jenny had feared. On the plus side, it had a set of rather rickety-looking French doors on the side wall, which were currently shut, but which could be opened to let in a cooling breeze if needed. The first thing she did was to walk across and check them, but she found they were locked.

  ‘Oh sorry, I meant to open them up for you. I’m the only one with the key,’ the old man apologized, seeing what she was doing and patting down his pockets absently. A small frown tugged at his white eyebrows, telling her that he was not finding what he was looking for. ‘I keep all the keys. I can let you have that one, if you like.’

  ‘Oh, please, don’t bother,’ Jenny said, since the continued half-hearted patting of his pockets seemed to be coming to nought. ‘Every fly and wasp in creation would probably come in if I opened them anyway,’ she added philosophically.

  He grinned in acknowledgement. ‘Right you are. Well then, as you can see, we’ve got electric rather than gas,’ James said, clearly proud of his little domain as he pointed out a strictly average oven with the usual standard grill and four rings on the hot plate. ‘And of course, hot and cold running water.’ He indicated a large Belfast sink. ‘We’re connected to both the national grid and the water mains.’

  Jenny smiled
gently. ‘It’s a lovely kitchen,’ she said firmly, and tried to mean it. And then rather spoiled it, by sighing at the single oven. ‘But I’ve got no time to lose if I’m to get all my baking done in time,’ she pronounced resolutely. And with that, she dumped her first load of equipment onto the small, scrubbed, wooden kitchen table that stood squarely in the middle of the room and metaphorically rolled up her sleeves.

  Taking the hint, the groundsman instantly became all business. ‘Please, you must let me help you unload the van,’ he offered generously.

  Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Jenny promptly accepted the offer. And so for the next quarter of an hour or so, they worked in amicable tandem, scattering her accumulating cooking gear around the workspaces, and offloading a large portion of her ingredients into the small fridge and a standing cupboard that James Cluley insisted on calling the ‘pantry’.

  Once they were finished, Jenny, always one to get her priorities right, instantly put the kettle on to make a pot of tea and busied herself with mugs, sugar and milk, which were to be found in one of the two painted cupboards that lined the walls.

  ‘I understand that the tea is to be ready at four, or thereabouts, and will be followed by a buffet supper at 7.30, once the match is over?’ Jenny asked, just to be certain that Mrs Enwright had got the timetable right. If there was anything Jenny hated, it was to keep hungry people waiting.

  James nodded. ‘Yes. The match starts at a quarter past one, and we always stop for tea at four. But the timing of the supper buffet will rely far more on the state of play and the light, of course. Not that we need worry about that – the forecast is set to be fair all day.’

  Jenny blinked, feeling somewhat baffled. To her, food was all that mattered, so fitting the consumption of it around something as unimportant as the vagaries created by a game of cricket sounded outrageous, but she was prepared to be magnanimous. Besides, she’d deliberately planned her savoury menu to be flexible. Baked and stuffed aubergines with tomato, onion, garlic, herbs, raisins, pine kernels and chopped parsley could be eaten hot, cold, or re-warmed. As could spinach filo pie, quiches, and of course, any number of other assorted pastries. And bowls overflowing with salad could be kept in the fridge until needed, and freshly-baked bread smelt and tasted good no matter what. She’d had the foresight to prove a lot of her bread overnight, where possible, so those loaves and buns, at least, she could start baking right away.

  She finished making the tea and poured out two mugs, handing one over to her new friend.

  ‘That all sounds fine,’ she said brightly, and took a grateful sip from her mug. ‘So, I take it you’ll be rooting for Much Rousham?’ she asked, with a smile.

  James grinned back at her. ‘I was born and bred here, so yes, of course I will,’ he admitted. ‘We’ve got a good team this year too, so expectations are high. Mind you, I’ve got in-laws playing for Steeple Clinton, so I’d better not let my wife catch me out being too partisan.’

  Jenny laughed. ‘Uh oh. Like that, is it?’

  ‘’Fraid so. Anyway, I’d better let you get on,’ James said, finishing his mug and setting it down on the draining board beside the sink. ‘If you need anything, like I said, just let me know.’

  ‘Thanks, I will.’

  Jenny watched the old man leave, before looking around her at the sacks of flour and sugar, the butter warming on the windowsills to soften, and contentedly contemplated a morning filled with baking. Already she was making a mental list of what needed doing first – which was, of course, to get on with the bread.

  As the bread began to bake, and she set about making the first of several batches of scones, Jenny began to hum softly to herself. The sun was shining, she had goodies to bake, and soon she’d have a lot of hungry mouths to feed.

  All was right with her world!

  Jenny had just added a little rum to the mixture that would shortly become a Gateau Belle Helene, when she heard a cheerful ‘Coooeee’ echo in from behind her, and turned to smile at the little woman who was standing in the doorway.

  At barely five feet tall, with curly brown hair and twinkling brown eyes, she instantly reminded Jenny of a curious robin. She was even wearing a red-fronted dress (the rest of it being mainly navy blue) and she held in each hand a large plastic supermarket bag that clinked intriguingly as she raised them up slightly to show them off.

  ‘Hello, you must be the fabulous cook that Margie’s been going on about for the past week. I’m Caroline Majors, wife of the opening bowler, for my sins.’ The fifty-something woman grinned and gave the bags another gentle shake. ‘Me and the old boy have been put in charge of the booze this year.’

  Jenny smiled and nodded. ‘That’s fine.’ She didn’t pretend to be an expert on wines or alcohol, and in her experience, most clients preferred to see to that aspect of the catering themselves. ‘I don’t know if there’s room in the fridge, though,’ she added, with a worried glance at the small white appliance beside the sink, which was currently stuffed to the gunwales with her salads, sauces, milk and cream.

  ‘Oh that’s OK, I knew there wouldn’t be, which is why I’ve got iceboxes in the car. Won’t be a sec, and I’ll get them stashed.’ So saying, the little woman darted back out, reminding Jenny even more of a robin. Within just a second or two (or so it seemed) she bobbed back in again with a pair of white coolers, and in a remarkably short time, set about her task of stashing the bottles away, chattering constantly as she did so.

  ‘I think this year we’re really going to give the Steeple Clinton lot a bashing. Well, we will if Tris is in good form, and doesn’t have too much of a hangover, the silly little sod,’ she clarified with a chortle.

  Jenny blinked.

  ‘I’m not sure that he should be playing at all this year, since he’s caused so much bad feeling what with one thing and another, but he is the best batsman we’ve got, no matter what Max says, so you have to put up with it, don’t you?’

  Jenny thought it best simply to nod.

  ‘Oh, and I do so hope that Michelle won’t come to watch him play, but I suppose she’ll have to. Mind you, it’ll probably all end in tears before bedtime, as my old ma used to say. Or teatime, probably in this case.’ Caroline Majors paused, both to take a much-needed breath, and to eye the bottle of supermarket rosé wine that she was holding suspiciously out in front of her. ‘A bit of a cheap plonk, this. I can’t think why the old boy got it.’

  Jenny, furiously whipping up some meringue mix by hand, opened her mouth to ask who Michelle was, then closed it again as she was promptly told.

  ‘Michelle and Max are supposed to be celebrating their ten-year wedding anniversary next month, but there’s a nasty rumour going around that they’ll likely be heading for the divorce courts instead. Not so sure I believe that myself,’ Caroline put in judiciously, then added somewhat cynically, ‘Michelle’s the sort who knows which side her bread is buttered, if you know what I mean. So she won’t take that lying down, if it’s true. Still, let’s hope it won’t affect Max’s fielding. He caught out Rolly Tompkinson last week when nobody else could!’

  ‘Ah,’ Jenny managed. She was beginning to get the hang of this. Obviously, no social disaster was too bad, in Caroline’s opinion, so long as it didn’t affect the outcome of the cricket match.

  It was starting to feel warm inside the pavilion now, and Jenny was glad that she was wearing a cool, flowing outfit that consisted of a multi-coloured flowery skirt that billowed around her calves as she moved, and a loose, short-sleeved, plain cream blouse. Her companion, who was still in full spate, was similarly attired, she noticed. But then, thin fabrics, with plenty of room for the air to circulate, were obvious choices for a day like today.

  ‘I just hope the Steeple Clinton lot don’t try and bring in a ringer, like they did last year,’ Caroline was saying now with a snort, relegating some more cheap plonk to an inferior cooler. ‘They tried to make out that a fellow with a summer cottage classified as a resident. Just because he playe
d for his Cambridge college!’ Caroline’s curls bounced indignantly around her head, as she tossed it back with a snort of glee. ‘Not that that helped them any, as it turned out. Which served them right! We still had them all out for … what was it now?’ She paused to cock a hand on one hip, her brow furrowed furiously in thought. ‘Was it 106? Although, this time the …’ And here she paused to take in another much needed breath, and widening her eyes, spoke in impressive capital letters, ‘LORD OF THE MANOR won’t stand for any such nonsense for the centenary. And quite right, too.’

  ‘Strict, is he?’ Jenny asked, much amused by the woman’s benign, non-stop gossip, and checked to make sure that her home-made ‘instant’ raspberry jam wasn’t catching on the bottom of the saucepan.

  Of course it wasn’t. It wouldn’t dare.

  ‘Yes. Not that he’s really the lord of the manor as such, or that trophy wife of his, heaven forbid, a real Lady.’ Caroline sniffed.

  Jenny, who had already surmised as much by the way that her companion had deliberately exaggerated his title, bit back a smile.

  ‘He just happened to buy the manor after the Dewhursts had all died out, that’s all. Oh, and apparently he’s been given one of those peerages for his services to industry, or charity, or whatever it is that the Queen likes to dish out nowadays, like Smarties. So technically he’s a Sir, and he lives in the manor. But,’ Caroline added with a sort of fond but chagrined grin, ‘that doesn’t stop Tris playing the role of the quintessential reprobate son for all that he’s worth. And he does do it with such elan, you have to give him that.’

  Jenny nodded. Tris again. The one who hopefully won’t have too much of a hangover to play well. Little by little, more by osmosis than anything else, she was beginning to sort out the characters in Caroline Majors’s own private soap opera.

  ‘He’s up from London for the weekend, naturally,’ Caroline swept on. ‘Not that you can call what he does working, of course,’ she added scornfully. ‘Playing with other people’s money, and loosing it for them, more often than not, or so I’ve heard,’ she added darkly. ‘Funny that, since he never seems to have trouble filling his own pockets.’