‘Leno Humphrey.’ Humphrey offer his hand and, from its softness, Jardine deduce that he more at home with pen and paper than beating or catching leather. ‘I hear you’re looking for cricketers,’ Humphrey say.
Trying to place the face, Jardine glance in the direction of the car park to his right. The skipper sight Humphrey’s car, a silver Jaguar glowing in the low sun. He beam to himself. After eight years in charge of the team, Jardine recognise that what a cricket club need more than players is a reliable driver. His star batsman sometimes managed to find himself out of position on a Sunday morning, kit at home, body ten miles distant with a female friend. A dependable driver could make the difference between winning and losing a crucial match.
‘Yes.’ Jardine careful not to sound too haughty. ‘Good men always welcome at the Walcott Cricket Club. What you do, Mr Humphrey, bat or bowl?’
‘Both,’ Humphrey announce without hesitation, and Jardine could sense a star in the making.
‘Fielding?’ Jardine continue. ‘Close to the bat or out in the deep?’
‘Slips, mostly.’ Humphrey catch an imaginary stinger to show the skipper that they getting a genuine all-rounder. ‘But wherever you expect a catch, Humphrey is the man.’
‘Nice,’ Jardine say. ‘Go and change then. The light still good, we’ll give you a little work out.’
‘Work-work-work out?’ Humphrey stutter, as though he had been expecting to complete a registration form there and then, hand over a cheque for $50 for his subs, and march straight to the number three position in the batting order. ‘Nurse Cleopatra Lyle said you looking for players, she didn’t say I had to face a trial.’
‘Insurance.’ Skipper Jardine take Humphrey by the shoulder to reassure him that there was nothing to worry about. ‘Think of it as a kind of physical. A fit-looking man like you won’t have any trouble passing a medical, will you?’
‘No,’ Humphrey bleat. ‘No.’
‘Well, consider it the same way – your doctor record your blood pressure when you go for your annual check, so we test your reflexes. Your sight, your balance, your limber – just to stamp that everything in order.’
Humphrey gulp hard. A worried look distort his face. His Adam’s apple rise and fall with a clucking sound.
‘Well, skipper.’ He rub his chin thoughtfully, ‘I can bat, bowl and field, but, to tell the truth, I’m a little rusty. Must be four years since I wield the old willow.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Jardine at his most buttery with the new prospect. ‘It’s just a short net – nothing too taxing for a man with your cricketing powers.’
‘I play every shot in the book, you know,’ Humphrey explain, but the words sound like the spluttering of a man swimming upstream in a heavy river. ‘Even if I can’t get the feet moving properly tonight, put me on any cricket ground in two weeks and you’ll see batting like you never see before!’
Skipper Jardine didn’t know what to make of this, but their squad was dwindling. Any addition could only strengthen Walcott CC, couldn’t it?
A couple of his men still hanging around after practice that Friday. In the near distance the skipper make out Stiffy Henry, the paceman, cleaning the spikes of his new bowling boots, and Kenroy Lauders, the offspinner, bowling at a single stump. He wave them over, introduce the potential recruit, and direct Humphrey to the changing room.
Twenty minutes later, the skipper, Stiffy and Kenroy lying on the grass, wondering if Humphrey was a bluffer fresh from some village behind God’s back, when he emerge from the changing room. In pristine whites and West Indies maroon cap, Humphrey stroll to the wicket with the languid walk of a man accustom to destroying an international attack. The three men scramble to their feet. They stare in amazement at this figure sauntering to the nets, bat under his left arm like Lawrence Rowe, and slipping on his gloves with the delicacy of a top surgeon.
‘Right,’ Jardine instruct the two bowlers. ‘Put him to the test, but go easy. He’s a bit rusty, he said, so nothing too heavy.’
Kenroy went first, a bit of gentle spin before the shock of pace bowling from Stiffy. He lobbed up a juicy off-break, wide and tempting, but with a hint of dip at the last minute. Humphrey swing, bat coming from behind his right ear, and Kenroy watch in horror as the ball sail over his head into the car park.
‘Swiper,’ Kenroy mutter to Stiffy as he signal for a boy to retrieve the ball. ‘The man’s a swiper.’
Six-feet, gangly and lithe, Stiffy measure out his run-up, seven paces, a third of his usual length. He wait patiently for Humphrey to settle into his stance then deliver a brisk one, straight and full. Bat arriving in an arc from behind his right ear, Humphrey swing again, and a thick edge send the ball swirling over deep third-man. The three club men shield their eyes from the sun to follow the ball’s trajectory. A four, they agree, if not a six. They look anxiously at each other: they recognise they have a job on their hands with Humphrey.
Kenroy’s second ball suffer the same fate as the first, and all his other offerings that evening. In a match, all three quickly conclude, a batsman like Humphrey who swished at every ball would tax and demoralise the wiliest bowler.
‘Defence!’ Jardine shout to Humphrey next over, when he realise that Humphrey seem like he patent the expansive drive. ‘Defence, Humphrey, let’s see your defensive shots!’
Defence? What defence? Quick bowling or slow, full or short, Humphrey greet the ball with the same extravagant swish. After fifteen minutes of some of the lustiest and most destructive batting the clubmen ever witness, calm as ever, without a bead of sweat on him, Humphrey walk over to the skipper.
‘Well?’ he ask, slipping off his gloves with the same surgical precision. ‘I’m in the team or not?’
What could Jardine do or say? Humphrey was enthusiastic. He was clearly passionate about the game. It didn’t harm a team to have a player like that. Yes, his method was basic, but his uncomplicated hitting might unsettle some good bowlers. Batting down the order, Humphrey might even scrape together some useful runs.
‘Let’s go inside,’ Jardine suggest. ‘Let’s talk man to man.’
Stiffy and Kenroy frown at Jardine. Give it to Humphrey straight, they plead with their eyes, tell him he would be welcome in ten years when he master the art of batting. Take on a slogger, they caution, and you telling the world that Walcott CC in trouble. Ignoring their murmurings, the skipper guide Humphrey by the shoulder towards the changing room.
‘A few rough edges here and there,’ Jardine explain in the shower. ‘Your defensive play isn’t exactly out of the MCC coaching manual, but I think we have enough to work on.’
‘Thanks, Skip.’ Humphrey apply a dollop of shampoo to his hair and pass the bottle to Jardine. ‘I know my methods are a little unorthodox, but when I settle in you’ll find Walcott CC getting a solid player.’
‘You know what?’ Jardine couldn’t believe he was actually agreeing with him. ‘You know what? You might be just the man we need.’
And so, the following weekend, at Jardine’s home, Humphrey sworn in as a full member of Walcott CC, registration complete, subs hand over, a small rum to toast the signing.
Five-feet-five, shining black eyes, elegant, her hair in neat twists, her hooped earrings dangling tantalisingly, Cleopatra Lyle, the club president, welcome Humphrey to the club as Jardine look across at her wondering why she was so much woman.
‘We need men like you, Leno,’ President Cleo say, all misty-eyed. ‘Three of the regulars get a sailing work, and the fellas who waitering in the quays no longer have the energy for a Sunday match. Teams used to fear Walcott CC. Three hundred used to be an average score for us. But now? Some of the men happy to struggle to 200.’
She turned to Jardine to her left and took his hand.
‘I’m thirty-nine, Leno,’ she continue, her voice quivering with emotion. ‘I turned down three marriage proposals for the good of this cricket club. Three invitations to the altar, one from the skipper in the days when he used his eyes and
followed his heart. Now he filling everyone else’s prescriptions, but like he lost mine. I was the scorer, Mr Humphrey, then manager. To keep the boys in order, they elect me president five years ago. I sacrificed everything for Walcott CC, Leno. I want you to help to make the club strong again.’
‘You can count on me,’ Humphrey say confidently, sticking out his chest and patting his stomach, ‘I won’t let you down.’
And so it was to prove.
* * *
‘It’s so good to be in the sun enjoying a tough game of cricket,’ Humphrey would gurgle when he score his usual dozen or so runs in a match. ‘So good.’
A slip catch, or a swift accurate throw to run out a batman, and Humphrey would describe the event in glorious colour on the journey home while his passengers snoozed. He loved the game. It was theatre, spectacle. It was right up his street after a week checking invoices and accounts.
Humphrey’s first telling contribution was against Byera Cavaliers. Walcott CC and the Cavaliers had a long history. Every year for the last fifteen they played home and away and, like a mother to a wayward child, Walcott CC gave the Cavaliers a sound beating.
Why they were so easy to roll over, Skipper Jardine used to sit and wonder after each victory. Most clubs with a healthy mix of young and old players would push Walcott hard. Everything was in Byera’s favour but, like a lover at a tricky zip, they always fumbled. If their hospitality wasn’t so good, Walcott CC would have scratched the fixture a long time ago. But their cooking was first class. You couldn’t top their roti or bakes after a match. And their cocktails! What did they put in them?
Weak as they were, the Walcott CC secretary could never find the courage to turn down Byera’s request for another opportunity for revenge. The year Humphrey joined, though, things were different.
‘The Cavaliers on form this year,’ Ivan Griffiths, their captain, march into the dressing room to warn Jardine. ‘Three of our players trained for a month with a professional, two qualified as league umpires, one has a friend who has a brother who played for West Indies Under-19s – Walcott CC in for a tanning today!’
It was a hot Sunday in June, extremely hot. Byera win the toss and decide to take the first knock. The sun stinging his balding head, a disgruntled Stiffy charge downhill, with Roseau Denton operating into the wind. It was boiling. Chasing a red ball to the boundary cost effort the fielders couldn’t spare. In six overs the Cavaliers had fifty-eight on the board. The score was eighty without loss after only ten.
Skipper Jardine scratch his head. What to do, he wonder, as the sun beat down on them, how to stem the flow of runs or buy a wicket? He summon Humphrey from square leg and offer him the red cherry.
‘You gone mad or what, Skip?’ Bramble Campbell, their top batsman, march over to Jardine as Humphrey marking out his run-up. ‘We could chase 300, but 750 is a whole heap of runs!’
‘Humphrey bowling,’ Jardine insist. ‘Players have to learn to take responsibility.’
The Humphrey run-up was unusual. A casual spectator walking the dog would definitely stop to get a better look at the accountant on the cricket field. For the first five or so steps, Humphrey didn’t actually leave his mark. Like a drunk dancing on the spot, his arms swish the air, while his legs seem to skid under him. When he eventually get going he waltz up to the wicket to deliver, on the tip of his toes. A gentle leap, he climb down from the dance step, and whoosh, he release the ball.
It was a round arm delivery, just about legal under the MCC regulations, arriving at the level of the batsman’s left shoulder. A full toss, a juicy lollipop. The batsman claim later, on another day he would have lashed the ball into orbit. Whatever it was, the opener swing at it greedily, but a fraction too early.
Everyone turn to follow the progress of the ball over long leg. Not ‘over’, they soon realise, but ‘to’ long leg.
‘Nooooooooooooooh!’ you could hear the batsman screeching a mile away. ‘Noooooohhhh! Umpire, call a no ball!’
For the ball dipping into Stiffy’s grateful palms as if he had a magnet guiding it home.
‘Nooooooooooh!’
Every Walcott man race up to Humphrey to congratulate him for breaking the partnership. They hug him, squeeze him. They just stop short of planting kisses. A Walcott man now, Humphrey chest swell with pride.
‘There’s more where that came from, you know,’ he promise his teammates. ‘Plenty more.’
With the fall of the first wicket, Byera Cavaliers lose their way. They try to hit out and falter, and when they defend to rebuild, they grind to a halt. In their forty overs they limp to 203. Five Walcott men knock off the runs in quick time. They demolish roti and bakes. They celebrate another victory with a bucket of cocktails.
‘I’m coming off my long run tonight!’ Humphrey declare on the journey home in the club minivan. ‘Fellas, I mean business, I’m taking my long run!’
In the singing and laughing and joking no one really pay much attention to his boast. And it was on the Saturday a fortnight later that Jardine found out exactly what Humphrey meant.
It was July then, hot. The island standing by for the hurricane season. Jardine getting ready to leave the pharmacy that evening when this woman rush in with a prescription. The woman in her early thirties, good-looking, with a neat triangular face and bright tiny eyes. Her hair was plaited into a set of delicate circles, horizontal on top, vertical at the sides. Ten hours of effort, if not more. Jardine marvel at the dedication of some West Indian women to their locks, not to mention the amount of money they threw at them.
‘Sorry,’ she said, passing him the prescription, ‘I need some eczema cream for my daughter.’
Jardine look at the address. ‘Humphrey,’ he say. ‘You’re Leno’s wife?’
‘Yes – and who are you?’
‘Gilbert Dessalines.’
‘Skipper Jardine?’
‘Yes, some people call me that.’
‘Captain of Walcott CC?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re shorter than Leno said, and a bit better-looking. But never mind, come with me!’
‘What?’
‘Come!’
‘Where?’
‘Don’t ask so many questions, just come, Mr Jardine!’
‘Something happen to Leno?’ he ask, getting a bit concerned.
‘No, he taking the children for a drive. Now hurry up.’
‘But?’
‘Come on, Skipper. I’m a busy woman. I have things to do.’
Jardine obey, and a few minutes later, he find himself stepping into this big house on Kanhai Road.
‘Let me show you Leno’s special room,’ she said to him, leading to a room at the back. ‘I wanted to turn it into a study for the children, but Leno doesn’t share when it come to games. See what you’ve done to my husband?’
‘But,’ Jardine stutter. ‘But, but, but …’
For, against the far wall, proud and upright, was a massive trophy cabinet. He could make out miniature cricket bats, a row of red and white cricket balls, dozens of cricket books, and West Indies shirts and caps. As he shield his eyes from the glare Mrs Humphrey take out the five closest medals, hold them up and read.
‘“Best Fielder”, “Most Catches”, “Top All-rounder”, “Outstanding Contribution”, “Ace Bowler”. What kind of club are you running, Jardine, what calibre of players you have? Leno only take up the game again seriously five years ago, how come he’s winning so many medals?’
‘Eugh,’ Jardine could only gulp in disbelief. ‘Eugh.’
‘And to make it worse –’ Delfreda Humphrey replace the medals. ‘To make it worse, Leno came home late from the Byera match two weeks ago and shaking me to wake up. He looking to come off his long run, he whispering in my ears, he mean business! I’m a West Indian woman, Mr Jardine. Could you tell your players that they mustn’t wake up their wife that time of night with their foolishness?’
Strictly confidential, Jardine decide, the moment he leave the house.
That revelation absolutely top secret. Cleopatra was the only person he could trust with it. How a player celebrated a victory was a private matter. But now the skipper look at Humphrey in a new light. Each time he make a contribution he imagine him buying another medal, then racing home and asking Delfreda permission to measure out his long run.
* * *
In his second year with Walcott CC, the club decide to enter the Saint Vincent and the Grenadines Tournament. A team from the capital, Kingstown, carry off the trophy in this competition for the last nine years but, with a settled team, President Cleopatra thinking WCC have a chance.
‘I’ve been watching cricket since I was a girl,’ she explain at their AGM, ‘and I believe we could match any side on the island.’
The president had done her hair for the meeting, patterned cane rows at the sides, supporting a lavish Mohican streak. Her eyebrows shape, and purple blush lightly apply to her cheeks. The shapely lips purple too.
Sitting on the chair beside her, Jardine could almost taste the French perfume he had bought her for her birthday a month earlier.
‘We played Layou in a friendly last year,’ President Cleo pointed out. ‘The result?’
The men know to let a rhetorical question hang, so they give the president her head.
‘A six-wicket victory. Rose Bank Weavers? A ninety-six-run win. Basin Hole Wanderers? A sound thrashing! If you men keep your composure, you could play with the best. You could compete like you did in the old days when you were hungry. I’m thirty-eight this year, what a wonderful present it would be to bring home the trophy before I turn forty!’
So that year the men practise. Senior men stay home on Saturday nights and watch television with their family, or play soca and reggae to them. They run miles to improve their fitness. Bowlers toughen their palms for sharp catches.
In the early rounds of the competition during May and June, they didn’t disappoint their followers. Fans couldn’t help noticing their discipline and determination. Every man seem to share Humphrey’s hunger for success. A difficult quarter-final against Cedars ended in their favour. The semi-final against Chateaubelair was a bitter tussle, and the victory sweeter because of it. Qualifying for the finals cause some spectators to shed tears. The team was fearless, fit, committed. They could take on any opposition!
So Many Islands Page 12