by James Runcie
Jubilation! Zafar was on a hat trick, and, with only one wicket remaining, Grantchester had more than a chance of victory. Whittlesford needed four runs to win and there were two balls left. The new man at the crease was Horatio Walsh, the West Indian fast bowler. Because he was a left-handed bat, Sidney wondered whether Zafar might opt to bowl round the wicket but the canny Indian was more concerned with moving the position of his fielders.
Zafar smiled as he contemplated a delivery that might bamboozle Horatio Walsh. The two men were, perhaps, amused at the irony of the situation, complicit foreigners able to decide the fortunes of an English village cricket match between them: it was four runs on one side and a single wicket on the other.
If their roles had been reversed Zafar knew that Horatio would bowl fast and straight as he had done in the first innings, an in-swinging yorker straight to the feet. Zafar was a spinner, but that meant that he probably had a few more tricks up his sleeve. Would he bowl a straight leg-spinner and perhaps get an LBW? Or would he try a googly, anticipating Horatio’s expectation of a leg-spinning ball and delivering the exact opposite, hoping for a little nick that would go through to the keeper or edge to a fielder in close? The bowler needed to guess how well his opponent could read the grip in his hand or spot the flick of his wrist. Would Horatio dance down the pitch and attempt to meet the ball before it span; or would he stay in his crease and watch it carefully, defending with a straight bat? Zafar needed to decide whether Horatio was going to be adventurous or cautious. If cautious, then he would give the delivery plenty of air in the flight; if adventurous, he would give the ball more zip, expecting it to fizz off the wicket.
Andrew Redmond adjusted the field, adding a silly point and a short leg to the two slips and the wicket keeper. There were five men in close-catching positions, another at short extra cover, with the remaining fielders stationed at mid off, mid on, long leg and on the mid-wicket boundary. All the spectators were standing either directly outside the pavilion or at the edge of the ropes. This was Zafar’s chance to make local history. He could, perhaps, be the first Indian bowler to take a hat trick in England.
Sidney had raised his arm out to the left to hold up the game while fielders moved into their new positions. Andrew Redmond rubbed the ball against the side of his trousers one last time before handing it to his bowler.
Horatio Walsh walked down the pitch, gave it a little prod, smiled at Zafar Ali, and took guard. Sidney dropped his arm.
Zafar turned his back to the batsman, licked his fingers, and assumed his grip on the ball, shielding his right hand with his left so that no one could see the delivery he had in mind.
He turned. He looked the batsman in the eye. Then he ran.
He took seven steps.
He placed his left foot firmly on the ground, raised his right arm, and bowled. The ball span out of the back of his hand and into the air. It hovered in the trajectory, as if buoyed up by some invisible force, and then pitched on off-stump. The ball turned in towards the batsman. Horatio rocked on to the back foot and defended his off stump with a straight bat. But the ball swept past, keeping low off the seam, and hit him firmly on the right pad. Although his foot was quite far forward, it was dead in line with leg stump. There was the slightest of pauses. Zafar turned to Sidney and enquired: ‘How was that?’
The outcome of the game rested on a single decision. Sidney removed his right hand from behind his back. At first it looked as if he might be moving the fifth pebble from one pocket of his coat to another, but no. Slowly, but with calm authority, Sidney raised the finger of doom. The batsman was out LBW, Grantchester had won the game, and Zafar Ali had a hat trick to his name.
The players gathered round, shook each other by the hand and patted Zafar on the back in congratulation. Geoffrey Thomas, the captain’s brother-in-law who had dropped what might have been a crucial catch, was visibly relieved as his wife and daughter came to meet him.
His daughter Annie walked up to Zafar and touched his arm. ‘We’re so proud of you.’
Thomas restrained her enthusiasm. ‘That’s enough, thank you. He was only doing his job. Let’s get the beer out.’
Soon the players were lost in the kind of celebration and conviviality that, Sidney thought, only cricket can foster. He downed a glass of beer, thanked the cricketers for such a warm-hearted game and made his excuses to leave. He walked over and congratulated Zafar Ali once more.
‘Not a beer drinker?’ he asked.
‘I have a delicate stomach, I’m afraid. No alcohol. Mrs Thomas has kindly made me up a jug of lemonade.’
‘It looks good.’
‘Certainly your dog seems to think so. I put some in a bowl for him. I hope you don’t mind . . .’
‘Not at all.’
‘It’s a hot day. He looked thirsty.’
‘I hear you run a restaurant: is business going well?’
‘So far, so good. We stay open late and we are busy on Sundays. You English like your curry.’
‘I should pop in some time.’
‘You’d be very welcome. And thank you for the decision. I thought it might have been missing leg but I had to appeal.’
‘Not at all,’ Sidney replied. ‘I can assure you it was plumb.’
‘I wouldn’t want any favouritism.’
‘No,’ Sidney replied. ‘I try to avoid that. But it’s good to have you on our team. Might I see you at church one day?’
‘I am a Muslim, Canon Chambers.’
‘We are all children of Abraham,’ said Sidney. ‘I suppose if a man has God and cricket he doesn’t need much else . . .’
‘Except perhaps a wife . . .’ Zafar Ali finished his lemonade and poured out another glass. ‘Are you sure I can’t tempt you?’
‘No thank you. I’ve had a good beer and now I have my dog to walk. And we’d better not get on to the whole question of wives; unless, of course, you are thinking of getting married yourself?’
‘It’s a complicated situation.’
Sidney looked anxious. ‘Does your family have someone in mind?’
‘There are expectations, yes.’
‘But you would rather decide for yourself?’
‘As I said, there are complications. And in more than one family.’
‘Well, if you ever need to talk about it, you know where to find me.’
‘Do you know the Redmond family, Canon Chambers?’
‘Not well, but I often pass by the family shop. Do they supply your restaurant?’
‘Annie delivers our vegetables and household supplies.’
‘And is she, perhaps, the complication?’
‘You are perceptive, Canon Chambers.’
‘I saw the manner in which she greeted you and the way her father slapped her down. I am afraid you will have to make it a little less obvious if you wish to keep it a secret.’
‘That is the problem. We do not want it to be a secret at all.’
‘I could have a word with the family; if you think it might help?’
‘I need to talk to Annie first. Her parents and her uncles are always polite, but I can tell they want to keep me at a distance. I am their customer, nothing more. I know they are not happy.’
‘And you are?’
‘Not at the moment, Canon Chambers. I think none of us are very cheerful. But perhaps, with God’s help, things will come good.’
‘I certainly hope so. I will pray for you, Zafar, if you think that would be helpful.’
‘I need all of God’s help.’
‘Then that is what you shall have,’ Sidney replied, as kindly as he could, and looked for Dickens to take him home.
His Labrador seemed unusually sluggish. Sidney wondered whether the heat had exhausted him, or if he had eaten too much of the cricketers’ tea. Cheese never agreed with him, and the egg sandwiches had possibly been left out on a warming day for too long. In fact, Dickens became lethargic all evening, sleeping more than he usually did; so much so that Sidney thought that so
mething must be wrong. He decided to telephone Agatha Redmond, who had provided the Labrador in the first place and whose brother Andrew, Grantchester’s captain, was, after all, a vet.
‘It is odd that you should telephone as Dickens is not alone in feeling a little under the weather. The men in the family are ill too and I don’t think it’s the drink. They seem to have come down with some kind of food poisoning, Canon Chambers. We can’t think what it could be. I hope it wasn’t Mrs Maguire’s lardy cake.’
‘I very much doubt that.’
‘Has Dickens been sick?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘And what about you?’
‘I am well. But I didn’t really eat very much.’
‘Make sure Dickens has plenty of water. I can look in after church tomorrow.’
‘I am sure that will be fine,’ Sidney replied, although after looking at his exhausted dog, he was not sure that it was.
The following morning Dickens seemed to have returned to his usual self, and the Sunday was taken up with Sidney’s regular activities. It did seem strange that so many of the cricketers had suffered from upset stomachs as well as sore heads but there was nothing to cause any real anxiety, and in the days that followed Sidney was more interested to hear about Colin Cowdrey’s 176 not out for Kent against Lancashire, an exhilarating century for D.W. Richardson for Worcestershire against Gloucestershire at Stroud, and Miss Truman reaching the Lawn Tennis singles final in Paris. In fact he had put the weekend’s cricket out of his mind until Inspector Keating raised the subject at their regular backgammon contest on the Thursday evening.
The conversation began innocently enough. ‘I heard about the game,’ Keating noted after he had thrown a double three. ‘I was wondering about the origin of the word hat trick. Where does it come from? Cricket doesn’t have much to do with hats, does it?’
‘I think it was at Sheffield’s Hyde Park ground in 1858. An All-England cricket team was engaged in a cricket match against the Hallam XI. During the match, H.H. Stephenson of the All-England XI took three wickets in three balls. As was customary at the time for rewarding outstanding sporting feats, a collection was made. The proceeds were used to buy a white hat, which was duly presented to the bowler.’
‘And was Stephenson grateful?’
‘History is, I fear, silent on this important subject, Geordie. But Mr Ali’s hat trick certainly made our own little contribution to cricketing statistics.’
‘Although many of them drank so much afterwards I am surprised they are able to remember anything about it.’
‘Yes, I heard there was quite a celebration. There were plenty of sore heads and upset stomachs.’
‘Although that Indian chappie doesn’t drink alcohol, I’m told.’
‘And he was the hero of the hour.’
The inspector gave Sidney what was becoming one of his all-too-familiar steady looks. ‘You know he’s not well?’
‘I did not.’
‘Mr Ali has even had to close his restaurant. I am surprised you hadn’t heard anything. Mrs Maguire must have been keeping it quiet.’
‘What’s she got to do with it?’
‘Well it could have been one of her famous lardy cakes, couldn’t it?’
‘I doubt very much that Mrs Maguire’s cooking is to blame.’ Sidney was annoyed that he had to keep defending his housekeeper. ‘Baking is her absolute forte.’
‘The doctor’s been but I’ve also sent one of Jarvis’s men round to ask a few questions.’
‘That seems rather zealous.’
‘You can’t be too careful. Mr Ali has said that there might have been something wrong with the lemonade.’
‘Surely not?’
‘You would have thought not, but back in Newcastle there was a bit of an incident twenty-odd years ago. I was a small boy, mind, but there was something about the fruit crystals in the drink. They dissolved some of the coating of the pail it was in. Seventy people were poisoned.’
‘And that coating contained?’
‘Antimony.’
‘Isn’t that what Mozart died from?’
‘I wouldn’t know that, Sidney.’
Although Keating was exasperated by his friend’s flight of fancy his impatience did nothing to stem Sidney’s impromptu peroration. ‘I think it may have been in a pork chop. Trichinosis, I think it’s called. It’s ironic because Mozart’s last opera La Clemenza di Tito contains the poisoning of the Emperor Titus.’
‘I am sure it does.’
‘And so if you were correct then those who drank the lemonade would be the most affected: men such as Zafar Ali?’
‘Indeed, that would be the case. He may have been bowled without scoring,’ Keating observed, ‘but he’s certainly getting the runs now.’
Sidney wondered whether his friend had brought up the entire conversation in order to deliver his joke. He was certainly pleased with it. ‘You know he’s sweet on Annie Thomas, the grocer’s daughter? That’s not going down too well with the rest of the Redmond family, I am afraid.’
‘On the grounds of his race?’
‘And his religion. We can’t all be as broad-minded as you are, Sidney.’
‘I am not always tolerant. Poor Zafar. Such a nice man.’ Sidney finished his beer. ‘You’re not too worried about all this, are you?’
‘No, of course not. Although I wouldn’t like to think we had a poisoner in our midst. It can sometimes take a heck of a long time to rumble them. You know the case of George Chapman?’
‘The Arsenal manager?’
‘No, Sidney, that is Herbert Chapman; the man who had the idea of putting numbers on the backs of players’ shirts. I wish you knew as much about football as you did about everything else. George Chapman was a pub landlord, although his real name was Severin Klosowski. He polished off three of his wives by lacing their drinks over a sustained period of time and then blamed their delicate constitutions. I wouldn’t want the same thing to happen here.’
‘I am sure the Eagle is perfectly safe,’ Sidney replied as he took their two empty glasses over to the bar. There was no point looking for trouble, he thought to himself, and stomach bugs were common enough in Grantchester. He certainly wasn’t going to worry about such things now.
The barmaid leaned forward, and Sidney tried not to look too obviously at her cleavage. ‘What’s your poison?’ she asked.
The following Saturday was the day of Grantchester’s annual fête. Witnessing everyone going about their daily business, during a weekend when they were no longer defined by their professions, Sidney saw his parishioners with their guards down. This was when they were most themselves; more committed to their hobbies, perhaps, than their jobs. They were doing their best, as their ancestors had done before them, and he felt humbled by their quiet acts of goodness. Of course there were difficult people who were determined to make things awkward for everyone else, but they were in the minority, and as the day progressed Sidney felt a growing sense of pride for the people he served.
Amanda had been summoned from London, and she arrived with her friend Martita, an actress who was beginning to make her name in the film business and who had been prevailed upon to open proceedings by cutting the ribbon.
Sidney was cheered to show both girls off, and Amanda was looking spectacular, dressed in a silk French summer dress, based on a champagne ground and white spots, with a full knee-length skirt and a fichu top.
‘Martita keeps me on my toes,’ she whispered to Sidney after he had complimented her on her appearance. ‘And I don’t want to let you down.’
‘You are the most glamorous woman here,’ he replied.
‘Well, that is as it should be. I like to make a bit of a splash. It’s also good to give them a bit of gossip. I’m sure they were expecting Hildegard. When is she coming back?’
‘I’m off to Germany next week.’
‘Then do send her my love.’
‘Your love?’
‘Yes, Sidney, “m
y love”. I do like the woman.’
The vicar’s only duty at the fête was to judge the most beautiful baby competition. This event, like so many in Sidney’s life, may have seemed trivial but it was, in fact, a social minefield. It required a level of tact and diplomacy that would have tested the highest Foreign Office official, never mind a clergyman. He had learned that the best response to the presentation of a particularly ugly child was simply to say, ‘What a baby!’
The next most important thing was to select Mrs Maguire’s offering at the bring and buy stall and prevent the humiliation of the previous year in which her Victoria sponge, of which she was so proud, had been the last cake to sell.
Sidney knew what he had to do. On scouring the stall he saw a coffee and walnut loaf that he had to purchase if he was to retain the affections of his housekeeper. It cost him one and six; a small price to pay for a clean house and regular meals. He made sure that Mrs Maguire was aware he had bought it.
‘Oh, Canon Chambers, how did you guess?’ she laughed nervously.
‘It was the first cake to be sold. I had to fight other women off,’ Sidney lied.
‘It’s a pity you didn’t make two,’ Amanda joined in.
‘Oh but I did,’ Mrs Maguire replied. ‘There’s a Victoria sponge as well. I like to think of it as my trademark recipe. You can buy it now, if you like, Miss Kendall. It’s only a shilling.’
‘Of course,’ Amanda smiled. ‘I’ll be delighted. You must be relieved the stall is so popular.’
‘Relieved?’
‘I heard there were a few mutterings after the cricket last weekend?’
‘It was nothing to do with my baking, I can assure you.’
‘I am not suggesting any such thing.’
‘I think you were, Miss Kendall.’ Mrs Maguire was on her dignity. ‘I’ll have you know that everything I prepared for the cricket was made in hygienic conditions. No members of my family have ever had any food poisoning in their lives. And if you have any doubts,’ and here Mrs Maguire produced a moment of impromptu triumph, ‘look at Dickens.’