by Alec Waugh
And there was her husband Graham, the father of the children, talking about the cricket match next Saturday. Cricket. That little girl had never heard of cricket. Cricket: her doctor: that was how she thought of him. Not as Dr. Harvey. Not as Alec: her doctor. He was a cricketer, too. What was he talking about now to that wife who was five years older than himself: that wife whose father was a publisher; who reviewed books for The Globe. Was he talking about next Saturday’s cricket match, and thinking behind his talk about that afternoon; as she was doing?
‘One of the happiest days of my life, he had called it. What had he meant by that? That he wasn’t really happy, or that in a life that had been full of happy days, this had been one of the happiest. Was that what he had meant? He ought to be a happy man. A man with ideals. A man with a purpose in life: who felt that he was realizing those ideals in his life. But that was his profession, that was his public life. What about his private life.
One of the happiest days of my life.’ What had the day meant to him. His words came back to her. ‘I’ve the feeling that I’ve known you all my life.’ And ‘I’ve got that feeling too,’ she had answered him.
‘We work on the same wavelengths,’ he had said. ‘We can talk in shorthand.’
Was he thinking about her now? If he was, what was he thinking? ‘Your black hair, there’s a lustre to it, the way you move … a sultriness about you.’
That was within five minutes of their first meeting. What was he thinking now; after that second meeting by the close; and their picnic lunch today in her pinchedin little office. What is he thinking about me now? In what way …
‘What’s on the box tonight, Ilse?’ Graham was enquiring.
‘Another Maigret after the news.’
‘We mustn’t miss that, must we?’
All over England now that was what wives and husbands were asking one another. Was that what her doctor was asking Melanie?’
‘Is this what he’s doing now?’ she asked herself half an hour later. Watching this very drama unfold, wondering, just as I am wondering, into whose coffee cup that woman is going to empty the powder she bought that morning at the pharmacie. If only he were here, so that she could lean across and whisper, ‘Who do you think it’s for, the uncle or the lover?’
It was an exciting story, but she could not concentrate upon it. She was restless. She should be sleepy, but she wasn’t. She needed movement. She slid out of her chair. She patted Graham on the shoulder. ‘I’m going up,’ she whispered.
The laundry had come back that afternoon. She laid it out on her bed; dividing Graham’s shirts from her underclothes. She looked at the laundry book. Two pounds fifty-seven pennies. A lot. She ought to do more of the laundry herself. But Graham’s shirts always looked so much better when they came back from the laundry, so spruce and crisp. He needed to inspire confidence. People brought him their troubles and the best way to cope with them was to give the impression that he had no troubles himself, that he knew how to avoid troubles. She encouraged him to spend money on his clothes. He had a long neck and she had advised him to have his shirts made for him. ‘It’s an economy in the long run,’ she had said. ‘You’ll go on wearing, them after you’d have thrown away a ready-made one.’
She noticed that the collar of one of his shirts was frayed. She would send it back to his shirtmaker. The new collar would have to be made out of the tail, but no one was going to notice that the back of his shirt was made of a different material. He always wore that kind of shirt under a coat, and one of his cuffs on one of his other shirts was frayed. She could fix that herself. She had a sewing machine and could turn the cuff. She put those two shirts away. Then made a pile of the others and put them in his cupboard.
She then went through her own clothes. At the top of the pile was a nightdress with rather wide sleeves that buttoned at the wrist. It buttoned at the neck, and its front was pleated and fluffed like a man’s evening shirt. It was very short. It did not reach three inches above her knee. He had given it to her as a Christmas present five years ago. ‘When I saw it on a dummy in the window, I could hardly keep my hands off it,’ he had said. ‘I’ll wear it on New Year’s Eve,’ she said. It was their most romantic night for many moons.
Subsequently she had kept it for occasions. They had called it her ‘courting nightie’. She looked at it and smiled. She was in a funny mood tonight: why not? She showered and powdered herself with aquarius. She pulled back her coverlet. She stretched herself on her bed; but she did not pull up the sheet. She lifted her arms and crossed her hands behind her neck.
VI
The following Saturday was fine. There was a mist over the garden in the early morning.
‘But it’ll be all right,’ Graham said. ‘It’ll be clear by ten.’
He was whistling happily as he shaved.
‘We’ll get the boys early out on to the pitch,’ he said. ‘Roll it for half an hour and it’ll be a daisy.’
He was not only the captain of the village side, he was the groundsman too.
‘I drive Thatcher mad,’ he said—Thatcher was his gardener. ‘He grudges every minute the boys spend upon our wicket. He thinks the paddock should be rented out to someone who pays rent for it. He can’t see the point of our losing money on it. As though we weren’t losing money on those roses that he sends up to the Chelsea Flower Show.’
The whole household was dedicated to the cricket. Alistair and Dominic pulled the roller: they also opened up the decrepit shed that was designated as a pavilion. They arranged deck chairs in the shadow of the oak tree. They set up the scoring board and arranged the tin painted numbers at its foot.
They helped their father mark out the wicket, carrying out the frame that stamped the creases. They mixed the whitewash in the pail. They pitched the stumps. They set up the table on which the tea would be arranged later.
In the kitchen Anna with two of the members’ wives who took it in turns to cut slices of bread, spread them with jam and butter: cut up cucumbers and lettuces; divided the cakes into appropriately proportioned sections.
‘Is this what Melanie’s doing now?’ Anna wondered.
She could not picture Melanie in quite this role. Was her doctor the captain of the village side? Or was there some local squire on whom such responsibility devolved.
The match was due to begin at 2.30. That at least was the time given in the notice posted in the window of ‘The Crown’—the Inn that faced the paddock—and to which the team retired for refreshment when the match was over; and by twenty past two, the Graham family was on parade. The scoring table had been set up near the telegraph. Anna had laid out her scoring kit upon it. Alistair and Dominic were throwing catches to one another. Graham in white flannels and a striped college blazer was seated in a deck chair by Anna. Ilse sat on the other side, knitting. A number of flannelled villagers were standing in the doorway of the Crown, beer mugs in their hands, waiting for their opponents to arrive.
‘I go on believing,’ Graham said, ‘that when a game is posted to begin at 2.30, the umpires in their white coats will leave the pavilion at twenty-five past two. But it never does work out that way. How many hours I must have spent in my life waiting for matches to begin.’
The opponents eventually arrived at five minutes past three. They had, they explained, gone to the wrong ground, and the local inn beside that wrong ground had proved so congenial a resort that they had lingered there until, at three o’clock, the publican had announced, ‘Time gentlemen, please.’
‘That means,’ Graham said, ‘that their bowlers will be unsteady on their feet. Let’s hope we win the toss.’
He did, and opened the innings for the village. ‘With any luck, I’ll get a full pitch in the first over.’ He got a couple and each was despatched safely to the boundary.
Graham was a hard-hitting batsman.
‘I’ve got no style,’ he said. ‘But I’ve got a good eye and strong wrists. I enjoy my cricket.’
So did the village enjo
y his cricket. Hard, high and often was his motto. He always scored four times as fast as his partner at the other end. More often than not he was the first one out with the telegraph reading 26—1—17. But today he looked likely to make a good deal more than 17.
The two boys were feverishly excited; they kept the score in their heads. ‘He’s 26 now,’ they would say, ‘that’s half way to his 50.’
‘Has he made a 50 yet this year?’
‘No. I don’t think he has.’
‘What about that match at Downside?’
‘That was last year, silly.’
‘Yes, so it was.’
‘Fancy mixing two years up.’
‘Well, it was at the end of the season, wasn’t it: the last match but one.’
‘Ah, there goes another one. Well hit, well hit. They’ll get two, no, they’ll get a third. Oh, thát’s too short a one. Be careful, Daddy.’
‘Three … that’s 29. Another single and he’ll be in his 30’s.’
‘I always think that 30 looks a three times bigger score than 29.’
‘In the same way that 10 looks much more than 9. When one’s got double figures, one’s innings has really started.’
As he marked down the runs, Anna wondered how her doctor was faring at Basingstoke. Had his side won the toss? Was he the captain? She had not asked. It had never occurred to her that he would not be. But there might well be someone senior in the village. The parson perhaps or the lord of the manor. If they had such a thing there. Graham had lived in Shenley all his life, as his father had before him. Of course he was the captain; just as his father had been, in his day. Was that how it was with her doctor?
How little she knew about him. Was he a stylish player? Graham had always insisted that he himself was not a stylish batsman. Did she herself know the difference between a stylish and unstylish one? Did being stylish mean that you hit the ball along the ground instead of up in the air? Will I ever see my doctor bat? Our villages are too far apart to play each other. We meet, he and I, at Winchester, then go in different directions. We both might play against a village near Winchester. Bramleigh, say, but we wouldn’t play each other. If his village were to play at Bramleigh, I could go and watch; but how could I manage that; what excuse, what explanation could I give. Unless I knew someone in the Bramleigh side.
I must ask to see my doctor’s fixture list. Wouldn’t it be maddening though if Bramleigh was on his fixture list, if when the Saturday came round, I should have to think, He’s playing there this Saturday, where we were playing two Saturdays ago, and that the same village boys who were watching Graham then, will be watching him today. What excuse could I find for going there?
And there out in the middle, Graham was continuing to belabour the bowling.
‘Another 3. That makes him 41,’ shouted Alistair. ‘Only 9 more for his 50. When he gets his 50, the scorer waves a handkerchief. Don’t forget that, Mummy. Have you got a handkerchief to wave, have you got yours ready?’
‘Hurrah,’ shouted Dominic. ‘There’s another 2. That makes him 43. Only 7 more.’
Anna studied her scoring sheet. She pencilled a mark above each 10. She didn’t make it 43. Only 42.
‘I think you’ve got it wrong,’ she said. ‘42’s what I make.’
‘Oh, no, Mummy, no, it can’t be. We’ve both been keeping the score.’
‘But in your head, not on paper.’
‘Our heads are better than your paper, Mummy. Let’s look.’
They leant over her shoulder, between her and the other scorer, comparing the one’s entry with the other’s.
‘Yes, look here it is,’ said Alistair, ‘after Daddy hit that 6. He got a single, so that he got down to the other end and kept the bowling. Then he hit a 3 off the first ball of the next over; look here it is in the bowling analysis.’
‘Plain as a pike staff,’ interjected Dominic.
‘That’s what you did, Mummy, missed out that single.’
She stared at the two sheets, checking on the bowling analysis. Yes. That’s what she had done. Her mind was wandering and she had missed that single.
‘Look, look,’ Dominic was shouting. ‘Another long hop to Daddy. He’ll get a 6; that’ll give him his 50, yes, it will.’
Graham swung at the ball. He got it in the drive of the bat, and it soared high, higher towards the boundary.
Dominic and Alistair clapped their hands. ‘It is going for a 6, it is, it is.’
The fieldsman backed to the boundary’s edge; the ball started to descend. But it was well over his head. It was no use his trying to jump for it. It landed among the cars.
‘Well hit, well hit.’
Everyone was clapping.
‘Wave your handkerchief, Mummy,’ the boys were shouting, ‘wave your handkerchief.’
And to think that I missed that single, Anna thought. I ought to be ashamed of myself. Wool gathering like that.
Two minutes later Graham was back in the pavilion, his wicket flung away as he always did when he felt that he had made enough. ‘I wonder if it’ll be fine on Wednesday,’ Anna thought.
VII
It was: a sunny windless day. Anna packed a half bottle of Chianti in her basket. She had brought a second tumbler. As she came out of the bureau she saw the doctor strolling along the wall. A group of small boys were playing football on the grass. They had rigged up a goal with coats and hats. One of the boys kicked the ball too hard and it ricocheted off a flying buttress at an angle, bouncing towards her doctor. He picked it up. One of the boys shouted out, ‘Can we have our ball, please, Mister.’ He punted it high in the air towards them. He watched it rise against the sky. ‘Not bad,’ he said, ‘not bad. Cricket’s my game. But I enjoyed rugger.’
She set her bag between them on the seat. ‘I’ve brought rather more this time,’ she said. ‘I knew it was going to be a sunny day.’
‘The sun won’t always go on shining,’ he said, ‘sooner or later I’ll be taking you to the George and Dragon for that cheese salad.’
‘You talk as though these picnics were a permanent Wednesday date.’
‘I don’t see why they shouldn’t be, do you?’
‘I can’t say that I do.’
‘I’ve a feeling that I shall be rather pleasantly surprised when I wake up one Wednesday and see raindrops on the windows.’
‘There’ll be enough mornings like that when the winter comes. Let’s enjoy the summer while we can. How did your cricket go, by the way?’
‘Not too bad. Not too well … a low scoring game. I made a dozen.’
‘Did you get any wickets?’
‘A few.’
‘How many?’
‘Five.’
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’
‘Somebody has to take them.’
‘But if you weren’t bowling well, the captain would have taken you off. Or are you the captain?’
‘I’m not the captain.’
‘Who is?’
‘The local milkman. We’re a very democratic village.’
‘I think that’s nice.’
‘He comes round in the morning to the back door for orders. Then three hours later on the cricket field, he says, “I think we’ll let Bert have a shot at this end, Doctor.”’
‘Yes, I think that’s very nice.’
‘Is it all like that in Italy?’
‘I don’t know how it is nowadays in Italy.’
‘Was it ever that way there?’
‘Everything has always been very different there,’ she paused. ‘I like the way that things are here,’ she said.
She had taken particular care about the lunch that morning. She had ordered a brown loaf and spread cream cheese on it; with a thin sliver of smoked ham on top. She had found some figs and some macaroons. It was a light lunch but it was a little special. And that was what he called it ‘special’. ‘That’s how I should expect it to be from you. You are someone very special.’
He seemed to be trying
to say more than he actually said. But then that was how the English were. She could see how an Italian woman could be exasperated by the English reserve. But she could also understand how an Italian woman could appreciate the understatement of the English after the fulsomeness of an Italian courtship … having to multiply by three, instead of having to divide by seven.
An open car with a loudspeaker drove down the street.
‘There will be a special matinee this afternoon of the Lincoln Cycle of Mystery Plays in the grounds of the Bishop’s Palace,’ it announced. ‘A few seats are still available. The cycle starts at 2.15. Do not miss it.’