Gilbert: The Last Years of WG Grace

by Charlie Connelly

  London County had won their first match convincingly three weeks earlier, beating Wiltshire by six wickets at Swindon, then earned a very creditable draw with the touring Australians at the Palace. They’d had to call themselves the South of England rather than London County in order for the match to be considered first class, but all the same the crowds turned out in great numbers and The Times compared the playing surface favourably with that of Lord’s and The Oval.

  He’d always been a man of drive and energy, thought Agnes; it was one of the things that had attracted her to him in the first place despite the awkward gait and curiously high-pitched voice, but it was almost as if he were pushing himself extra hard now for the sake of Bessie. Perhaps he was even punishing himself somehow, for not being able to save her despite his own medical training and expertise.

  Agnes had been one of the most enthusiastic advocates of his acceptance of the London County post; she’d urged him to accept it, which served to make his current diligence part of the grieving process. For Gloucestershire to cast a shadow over all that with their extraordinary communication, well, it was absolutely outrageous and she could quite understand his searing resentment.

  Grace himself struggled to process the slight in his mind. He’d never known anything like it before. The Gloucestershire committee had sent him a letter demanding to know how many matches he was intending to play for them in the coming season. Him! The captain! The man who, more than any other, had put the county on the cricket map! They presumed to ask him about his commitment to the team and the club? Who on earth did they presume to think they were? Granted, he lived in the London suburbs now and had what was effectively a full-time job administering and captaining the London County club, but he’d given them absolutely no grounds to believe this would affect in any way his commitment to Gloucestershire. Why, they’d never pursed their lips at any of his other commitments, such as when he played for the Gentlemen, the Gentlemen of the South or even his own W.G. Grace’s XI, so why should the beggars start complaining now? It was an outrage to call into question his commitment, an absolute outrage. Further, it was undignified and the most dreadful impertinence. What made it worse was that he realised the decision had been taken at a committee meeting on 16 May and he’d played two matches for Gloucestershire since then. Two! And nobody had given him any hint or suggestion as to what would be waiting for him in his postbag that Friday morning.

  One thing was certain: if they’d really seen fit to issue him with an ultimatum then, by heaven, they would have his answer to it.

  It wasn’t until Sunday evening that he felt composed enough to draft a response, but even then his pen pressed so hard it repeatedly tore through the paper. A scattering of screwed-up sheets accumulated on the floor around his desk until finally, with a scrawl of his signature, he sat back and read over his response.

  ‘To the Committee of the Gloucestershire County Club,’ it began.

  Gentlemen. In answer to yours of the 26th, re resolution passed on the 16th and kept back from me for reasons best known to yourselves, I beg to state that I had intended to play in nearly all our matches, but in consequence of the resolution passed and some other actions of some of the Committee, I send in my resignation as captain, and must ask the Committee to choose the teams for future games as I shall not get them up.

  I have always tried my very best to promote the interests of the Gloucestershire County Club, and it is with deep regret that I resign the captaincy. I have the greatest affection for the county of my birth, but for the Committee as a body, the greatest contempt.

  I am, yours truly,

  W.G. Grace

  He reread the letter three times before bundling it into the envelope. The final sentence was very strong and they wouldn’t like it one bit. But then they weren’t meant to like it. In addition it was, of course, entirely true. The committee had proved itself to be a gathering of jumped-up blackguards and charlatans well deserving of his contempt. He’d helped to found the club in the first place and had been its talisman and bedrock for more than 30 years. How could anyone question his commitment and service to the club with which he was most associated? He sealed the envelope, addressed it, held it in both hands for a moment, tapped it a couple of times, placed it on top of the pile of letters to be sent the following morning, walked out of the study and endeavoured to dissipate the remnants of his anger at the billiard table.

  Saturday 3 June 1899

  The train rattled through the East Midlands, and Grace sat with his back to the engine. Yorkshire’s Stanley Jackson sat opposite, smoking his pipe and reading the evening newspaper. The sun was setting out of the left-hand window and the Old Man watched as it lowered itself gently towards the fields, lending a pinkish fringe to the strands of cirrus high in the sky. The light streaming into the carriage grew more golden with each passing minute.

  He thought about the Test match just passed. An honourable draw that had looked, at 19 for four, as if it was heading towards a calamitous defeat. Thank heaven for Ranji and his exquisitely crafted 93 not out from a total of 155 for seven at the close.

  For once it was his own performance that concerned him. His captaincy had been sound, he thought. He’d bowled young Rhodes extensively, and the youngster on his debut had seven wickets from the match to show for it. Jack Hearne had been as reliable as ever, nearly 90 overs he’d bowled. Grace hadn’t put on one of his better showings with the bat. His 28 in the first innings gave England a good grounding of 75 with Charlie Fry for the first wicket, on which the rest of the team, with the exception of Ranji with 42, had failed to capitalise. In the second innings, however, with the match there to be saved, he’d contributed only a single before a sharp ball from Howell pierced his defence and knocked back his off stump.

  It was in the field that, for the first time, he truly felt the years catching up with him. He was, after all, approaching his 51st birthday: few men of his age were even playing outdoor sports beyond a round of golf and the hounds. However, the agile cover point of his youth had now been reduced to standing in position and stopping only those balls that came as near as dammit straight at him. In the Australians’ first innings he’d been only too aware of the catcalls of the crowd whenever the ball had sped past him and he’d failed to chase it. The very principle of an English crowd jeering the English captain angered him. They’d been quick enough to cheer the sharp reaction catch he’d taken in the second innings to dismiss Clem Hill, but he if he was honest with himself he was becoming something of a passenger in the field. The ground, he’d told Jackson at the start of the journey, was getting further away these days.

  He was still more than worth his place as captain, batsman and bowler – he’d made a handsome 175 for London County against Worcestershire just before the Test – but in the field he wasn’t making the contribution he should and with Test cricket improving notably in standard year on year there was little room for surplus players in the field. Although he was justifiably angry at the crowd’s reaction to his fielding, he couldn’t deny it had stung him. It was a damned impertinence, and he would never allow the derision of spectators to influence any decision he might make, but as the train barrelled through the flat lands of the east of England he debated with himself whether he was letting down his team-mates. The fielders either side of him were having to do his running as well as their own duties and, important figure to the team as he was, that wasn’t necessarily fair to them.

  This was to be a five-Test summer, too, the first time a series would be contested over so many matches. He would be 51 years old in a little over a month and, while his eye and his arm were as sharp and effective as they had ever been, his legs were not lasting the pace as they should. In that opening partnership with Fry he knew that many of the singles they ran could have been twos had his partner not been conscious of the Doctor’s glacial pace between the wickets.

  No, the team had to come first. If he wasn’t making the kind of contribution in every aspect of the gam
e worthy of a Test match player, let alone the captain, then he had no right to be there. He could make the runs, take the wickets, captain the side and take catches if the ball flew within reach, but if he couldn’t chase down the ball in the field nor take what could be crucial singles in a close game then his place should legitimately be in doubt.

  The sky had developed a purplish hue and the sun was now a deep orange as its lower circumference flattened against the horizon. Grace turned to look across at Jackson, face hidden behind his newspaper, pipe smoke rising gently above the top of the page.

  ‘It’s all over, Jacker,’ he said. ‘I shan’t play again.’

  Sunday 11 June 1899

  A week and a day later, having made a steady half-century for MCC against the Australians at Lord’s in the meantime, he walked through the door of the Sports Club in St James’s Square for the meeting of the selectors to pick the team for the second Test, also to be played at Lord’s. When he entered the room only Lord Hawke and H.W. Bainbridge, the Warwickshire captain, were present. No matter.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said before they had taken their seats, ‘first things first so we can then get on with the serious business of picking the team. I have decided that I shall retire from the England team and stand down from the captaincy with immediate effect. I feel that while I could hold down a place on the strength of my batting and bowling, in the field the ground has become too damned far away for me to warrant my future participation in Test matches and the time has come to make way for others.’

  Hawke and Bainbridge looked at each other in shock, then turned back to look at Grace.

  ‘Gilbert, my dear fellow,’ said Hawke, ‘you can’t be serious?’

  ‘I am quite serious, Hawke, and believe me I have given this matter a great deal of thought.’

  ‘But, Doctor, you are the mainstay of the side, its very bedrock,’ squeaked Bainbridge.

  ‘I was, Bainbridge, and in some ways I still am, but I must think of the overall benefit to the team of my continued presence and I do not contribute enough in the field. Gentlemen, do not attempt to dissuade me; you know me well enough to be apprised that my mind is not for changing.’

  ‘Doctor, please reconsider,’ said Hawke. ‘For your batting alone your place is assured.’

  ‘Please, Hawke, do me the honour of accepting my decision and we can then progress to selecting the team for the forthcoming Test.’

  And so the conversation continued, with both Hawke and Bainbridge intent on forcing a change of heart upon the greatest cricketer in the land and Grace as determined in defence as he’d ever been, playing each salvo back to the respective bowler with a sturdily dead bat until C.B. Fry walked into the room gushing apologies for his lateness.

  ‘Here’s Charles,’ said Grace, with renewed vigour. ‘Now, Charles, before you sit down, we want you to answer this question with a yes or a no.’

  Lord Hawke made as if to speak, but Grace silenced him with a raised hand.

  ‘Do you think that Archie MacLaren should play in the next Test match?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Fry as he sat down at the table, ‘yes, I do.’

  ‘That settles it, then,’ said Grace, drawing his hands together on the table top. ‘There is not room in the team for both MacLaren and myself. Now, to the next matter, who shall captain the side?’

  At the end of the evening Grace was the last to leave, deliberately so. He crossed the road and found the same bench on which he had sat a year earlier. It was a warm night, and a clear one. The Champion looked ahead of him into the darkness and ruminated briefly upon his decision. It was the correct one, unquestionably, for there was no room for sentiment when it came to choosing the England XI. The reluctance, nay, the horror, with which his fellow selectors had greeted his decision gave him a small amount of satisfaction, but they were never going to persuade him into changing his mind.

  There would be no farewell appearance, no hullabaloo like that which had greeted his 50th birthday, but that was no matter. It was a shame that his last Test innings for England would forever remain that ignominious single at Trent Bridge, but his record overall would speak for itself.

  He leaned his head back, stroked his beard and looked at the stars. They were particularly bright tonight, he thought. And they were quite beautiful. He stayed that way for a few moments, head raised blinking at the heavens. One of them, he noted, seemed slightly brighter than the others and looked to be almost pulsing, as if trying to catch his attention. He smiled to himself, said, ‘Goodnight, Bessie’, stood up and went in search of a cab.

  Saturday 22 August 1903

  Dinner the previous evening had been an agreeably upbeat affair. Bertie Lawton acted as host even though they were staying at his father’s Cromford house just outside Matlock Bath, and he was understandably in fine form: he’d just played a crucial role in Derbyshire beating Grace’s London County side by eight wickets despite having lost the first day’s play to rain. Although the margin of victory was great, the finish had been a close-run and thrilling thing: once London County had been bowled out for the second time Derbyshire only had an hour to score the 69 needed to win. Lawton scored more than half the runs which, added to his 55 in the first innings and the seven wickets he’d taken in the match, ensured he was in buoyant mood.

  His distinguished guest was a little more reserved. The Doctor had not shown the sparse crowd his best form with the bat: he’d been fortunate on two occasions in the first innings not to be caught when the ball fell just short of the fielders and was even luckier when caught in the slips off a no-ball. Eventually Lawton spreadeagled his stumps for 20, while in the second innings he was out leg before to his host for 21 having just driven him to the long-off boundary the previous ball. It had been, he rued, about the only shot he’d timed right in the whole match.

  ‘How that umpire gave me out leg before I’ll never know, Bertie,’ he said over the cheese board, ‘for that ball was missing my leg stump by about a foot.’

  ‘Ah, come now, Doctor, I wouldn’t have appealed if I hadn’t been certain and that ball was going on to hit middle and leg stumps,’ replied Lawton, before adding, mischievously, ‘indeed, the ball was heading almost precisely for the spot on the stumps where I bowled you out in the first innings.’

  Grace suppressed a slight rising of hackles and relaxed, offering a thin smile. He liked Lawton a great deal and saw a bright future for the lad. In addition, he was his weekend guest and it would be ill-mannered of him to lose his temper with the man at his dinner table.

  ‘Bertie,’ he said, ‘I am not disputing your conviction that you had me. But your conviction is quite misplaced on this occasion as the ball was comfortably missing leg. Had justice been served it is likely we would be toasting an honourable draw tonight rather than a Derbyshire victory.’

  Lawton chuckled. He knew well Grace’s antipathy for being given out leg before and knew he had never once walked off the field after being dismissed in that fashion satisfied he was out, and rather enjoyed a little affectionate teasing of the Champion.

  ‘Ah, Doctor, it is most gratifying to see that your will to win – or at least, not to lose – is as strong as it ever was. May it remain ever so.’

  He raised his glass.

  ‘I speak only the truth, Bertie. These old eyes have seen enough cricket balls coming down a cricket pitch to know whether they’re going to hit the stumps or not.’

  ‘It’s a pity then, Doctor, that your pad obstructed the path of that delivery because then we’d have known for sure that it was going to hit the stumps.’

  Grace could see that the discussion, light-hearted as it was, was destined to go round in circles. He was keen to adjourn to the billiard table and so smiled and raised his glass to Lawton in a manner that he considered did not concede the argument in the slightest.

  ‘What do you think, Jessie?’ asked Lawton. Grace turned his head and looked to the far end of the table at Lawton’s sister Jessie, dark-haired and pretty with e
yes that sparkled in the light of the candelabras.

  ‘I’m sure I’m wholly unqualified to comment, Bertie,’ she said with a smile, ‘especially when it comes to questioning the judgment of Dr Grace.’

  Lawton addressed Grace again.

  ‘Jessie is a very fine bowler, Doctor. She captains the Derwent Ladies and has taken many wickets for them this season.’

  Grace inclined his head at Jessie. He didn’t really approve of grown women playing cricket; he found it undignified, vulgar even. Yet at the same time he recognised something of Bessie in this girl: the liveliness, the way she brimmed with youthful vigour, her outgoing personality, her happy countenance. He felt a sudden yawning in his soul, the emptiness at his very core that manifested itself whenever he thought of Bessie.

  ‘Were you at Derby today, Miss Lawton?’ he asked.

  ‘I was, sir, yes,’ she replied, ‘although my viewing position was at midwicket when your wicket fell so I am afraid I shall have to decline offering an opinion on the veracity of the umpire’s decision.’

  ‘I’m very disappointed to hear it,’ he replied. ‘And what is it that you bowl for the Derwent Ladies?’

  ‘Oh, nothing special, sir,’ she answered, ‘I’m just delighted if I can pitch the ball somewhere near the wicket.’

  ‘Jessie is being far too modest, Doctor,’ interjected Lawton. ‘She is able to make the ball break as much as many bowlers whom we have both encountered in the first-class game. She has castled me on numerous occasions over the years since we were children. I fear I may have taught her too well for my own good.’

  ‘If she’s even half as fine a bowler as you, Bertie, then she will be a formidable prospect for any batsman.’