Head Count

by Judith Cutler

  Marcus Baker, their skipper, and Ed van Boolen shook hands with each other and with us. Marcus won the toss and elected to bat first. Their opening bats trotted to the middle and took guard. To my shame I prayed that if anyone had to give Dennis Paine out for whatever reason it would be Robin. Des, our huge opening bowler, marked out his run-up.

  Holding my arm out to establish all was ready, I held my breath. For an instant I felt like a conductor ready to bring her orchestra into a great opening chord. It was time. From now on I must think about nothing except the players and the ball.

  I caught Robin’s eye. ‘Play,’ I said.

  As far as I knew, not many people knew that Des and Mike, whose language never ceased to shock me, were an item, so I never said anything that might hint at it. But I had to say something about the way Mike was sledging Marcus, coming in at second wicket down. As the field changed at the end of the over I caught Robin’s eye again. He strode purposefully over: there was still something of the beat officer in his walk even if he now spent his days glued to a computer. Together we called Mike over. ‘We’re not in Australia, Mike,’ I said, ‘and there are a whole lot of children here. I’m not having it – understood?’

  ‘OK, boss. But I’m right about his wife being a—’

  ‘Enough!’

  Robin’s body language as implacable as I like to think mine was, he waited for me to finish what I’d started, the best sort of support. I summoned Ed, who was inclined to offer a matey smile, as if I was having a bit of a joke.

  I wasn’t. His eyes dropped first.

  Play continued, with Marcus scoring quite freely, until Mike neatly stumped him. I gave Mike a dry grin: that was the way you made your point to opposing batsmen, with your gloves, not your mouth.

  St Luke’s had achieved a respectable score by the time their forty overs were completed; to my secret relief, Dennis Paine hadn’t had to bat. But he still had to field, of course. The prospect didn’t stop me enjoying my tea, however – a sandwich and cake feast for all – during which any animosity was traditionally forgotten. Robin and I mixed with the players, on the receiving end of banter, true, but dishing out as good as we got. Of Gerry there was mercifully no sign, though I’d seen Joe and Nicky with some other kids on the climbing frame. Soon Marcus joined me, first to thank me quietly for dealing with Mike, and secondly to tease me very publicly for collapsing at his barbecue. ‘It was like dealing with a Victorian maiden!’ he said. ‘Like this!’ He gathered me in his arms and, as he gripped tightly round my waist, I promptly tipped backwards in a mock swoon.

  All very daft. It gained a round of ironic applause from both teams.

  At this point Brian Dawes appeared, his smile very formal.

  Greeting him enthusiastically, I spread hands to encompass the whole scene. Benches and deckchairs for the players in what would have been a pavilion on any other ground – the spot nearest the loos, at any rate. Deckchairs in little knots round the boundary. A few blankets beside them for babies. Children in the playground. ‘What a good decision you governors made,’ I declared in my most carrying voice. ‘This is what villagers should be doing, isn’t it? Gathering as a community to everyone’s benefit. The proceeds of the raffle will be split between the school and the club. Ideal.’

  He demurred, as well he might, knowing it was a kindly lie as well as I did. But my declaration of gratitude opened the way to a lot of other people wanting to speak to him and indeed enthusiastically shake his hand – possibly as a result of the very strong Pimm’s circulating in some areas. Robin and I eased ourselves to one side, to compare notes and possibly to avoid any discussion with anyone about the stance we’d taken with Mike. Especially with Mike. He was in animated conversation with Des, who was the last man to bat. Meanwhile someone’s child was having a tantrum; above the sound of her screaming and yelling, I thought I heard another, older female voice, in much the same hysterical mode.

  Robin rolled his eyes. ‘Let’s leave them to it, shall we? Nothing to do with us, after all. Do you have a warning bell or does one of us have to go and yell? Ah-ha!’ he said pouncing on the old-fashioned playground bell we used. ‘Always wanted to ring one of these – ever since I was five.’

  Before he could live out his dream Ed materialised at his elbow, as if he’d taken lessons from the Cheshire Cat, to say the opening batters were ready. That wasn’t going to stop Robin’s fortissimo venture into campanology. Despite the appalling din, however, there was no sign of Marcus, who was, after all, due to lead his men on to the field. Without him, the Bay team gathered on the boundary, having a team huddle worthy of the England squad. At last their wicketkeeper, Angus, I think, broke away to say their twelfth man would come on until Marcus returned. ‘Bog, I suppose,’ he said helpfully.

  As I took my place, Dennis Paine was fielding as far from me as it was possible to get. But as a bowler he could soon be within spitting distance, an image I wished I hadn’t thought of.

  ‘Play.’

  Wrayford had a strange innings. Ed, usually the mainstay of the side, was out for his first duck of the season – a golden one, too, since he was out first ball. Mike, in general a slogger who hit the ball as if he was executing it, played a gentle but very efficient game, accumulating runs without anyone noticing. The lad from Tonbridge School who rather expected to sign up for Kent managed an undistinguished two. One way and another, however, Wrayford got to within eleven runs of the St Luke’s total with one over to go. Two wickets to spare. Tight. But with Des at the crease with Mike still in place at my end, anything was possible.

  A single to third man – not what you’d expect from Mr Muscles.

  Mike would want to try his luck now, surely – but another nibble with just a single to prove it. Four balls. Nine runs to tie, ten to win. Hmm. Two more twos. Then six to win off two balls. An almighty swipe from Des nearly took Robin with it, but the ball fell short of the boundary, bobbling up almost into a fielder’s hands. A good throw might achieve a run-out. It fell twenty metres short, was scooped up by Marcus who hurled the ball with all his might – and suddenly I was crushed on the ground, the wind knocked out of me. And no wonder: fourteen stone of sweaty Dennis was lying on me. As he scrambled to his feet, leaving me, still spread-eagled, to follow suit, he let fly a tirade of vituperation at Marcus. The gist was that the man was an idiot to throw so badly: he could have knocked the esteemed umpire’s head off. By now Des and Mike had gathered me up, and Robin was remonstrating with Marcus, in somewhat less colourful language but with equal vigour. Marcus, red-faced with anger or embarrassment, said all he’d been trying to do was run Des out. ‘It was a bad throw, OK? Ball slipped out of my hand. And I’m sorry she’s upset. But it was an accident.’

  ‘It would have hit her fucking head, man – didn’t you learn anything from Phil Hughes’ death? Or perhaps you did!’ Mike yelled.

  Yes, a cricket ball was hard. A missile. One of the best Australian cricketers of his generation had been killed by a short-pitched ball.

  Everyone was yelling now. I’d better take control of the match – and of myself.

  Just as I did when I had warring factions in the playground, I held up both hands. ‘Enough. We’ll talk about this later. But we have a match to finish. Sadly I can’t recall how many you ran, lads. Robin, can you?’ We edged away for a confab.

  ‘I was so concerned I lost count too. But now I really think that big guy saved your life. Whether what Marcus did was deliberate I couldn’t tell. Not to swear in a court of law. Either way.’

  ‘Like I said, let’s worry about that in a minute or two. Let’s get this game over. God, there’s going to be a fight any moment! Can you trust me on this? I don’t think it’s in the Laws but it’s what I’d do in a kids’ match.’

  ‘You might want to tell them just that,’ he said dryly.

  ‘I’m going to, don’t you worry!’

  I summoned the captains and spoke to them as if they were six-year-olds. At any other time it would have b
een a joy to watch their faces as I told them that I was declaring the last ball dead – that it would have to be bowled again so that both umpires could give it their proper attention. ‘So we’re back to six off two balls for a Wrayford win, and five for a tie. And if we have any more dissent, Robin and I will abandon the match with no result. Do you all hear?’ I added, to the rest of the teams. ‘Excellent.’

  As I handed him the ball, Dennis said, sotto voce, ‘Christ, you’ve got fucking guts.’

  I had an idea it was meant as a criticism of our decision, but couldn’t be sure. Actually, perhaps it wasn’t.

  Any captain will tell you that in this situation his last instruction to his bowler, often given right at the end of his run-up, is not to bowl a no-ball, which will add one to the score whatever the batter does and result in another ball being bowled – another scoring opportunity. What Marcus said to Dennis I couldn’t hear. But I did get a strong sense of Dennis making a very pungent response. He didn’t bowl a no-ball or a wide. He bowled a very good yorker, and Mike was left fending off with some desperation.

  Six off the last ball. Robin and I exchanged a glance.

  As the ball left the bat we all knew it was going to be good. But possibly none of us quite expected to hear the unmistakeable – and decidedly pleasurable – sound of a windscreen being broken.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Our contract with the club covered just such a problem. The car owner, Ed and Mike could sort out insurance details. Joining the melee in the nominal team area, I was sipping what Robin told me should be brandy but was in fact champagne from the hamper he and his wife had brought with them, clearly slightly misjudging the social milieu. Will was all for making Marcus’s throw at me a police matter, the concern and anger in his face as comforting as the fizz, in their way. ‘And don’t tell me you want nothing to do with it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of doing so. Though actually it’d be terribly hard to make any charge stick, wouldn’t it? Accidents do happen in cricket, as in any sport. No one was hurt. No TV umpire to refer to. And Marcus apologised. End of, probably.’

  ‘Hmph. There’s quite another conversation I might want to have with him, actually. Wasn’t he the guy from whose garden you saw unlit boats coming into the harbour at St Luke’s Bay?’

  ‘Yes. His, and then Justin Forbes’.’

  ‘And since Forbes isn’t here – is he? – then I can have a word with the one who is. Hang on – sorry.’ He turned away to take a phone call.

  I suppose there were a lot of things I ought to be thinking and saying, but suddenly my legs went weak and I really needed to sit down in a hurry.

  A hand grabbed my elbow and steered me towards one of the wooden picnic tables that the PTA and cricket team had paid for. Another hand removed the glass. My head went down between my knees. Whoever the first-aider was I couldn’t for a moment see. All I could do was imagine what that ball would have done if Dennis hadn’t intervened. And I came to a sudden but deep conviction: being alive, no matter how hard it had been at times, was better than being dead. I sat up, with a genuine smile on my face. ‘I’m fine. Victories off the last ball always have this effect on me.’ An emergency vehicle siren? ‘I do not need an ambulance!’ I declared, to whoever might be listening.

  ‘That’s good because it’s a fire engine,’ Des said flatly. ‘It’s heading into the village. No, you should keep your head down.’ His large hand meant I couldn’t argue. ‘You were right to bollock Mike, by the way. He was way out of order. Though, they say, he was right about Mrs Marcus. Grazia. We reckon she was born plain Grace and decided it wasn’t posh enough. Snotty cow. Loathes her husband playing cricket. Loathes his friends. Loathes his friends’ children. And – this might be the thing that applies to you, now, Jane – she loathes any woman her husband might fancy.’

  I snorted. ‘Marcus? I can tell you it’s not mutual.’ I came up more slowly this time. ‘Any more of that champagne? The ball didn’t actually reach me, after all, so I don’t have to worry about alcohol making concussion worse. Funny thing: Dennis Paine’s never been my idea of a hero, but he did well this afternoon, didn’t he?’

  ‘I reckon you might owe the bugger your life. But that doesn’t mean you have to like him or his brother. Nasty piece of knitting, that one.’

  I nodded absently before returning to a more immediate topic. ‘What’s the consensus amongst the players? Both teams?’

  ‘There isn’t one. Most of St Luke’s fielders were in the deep, hoping for catches on the boundary. So they wouldn’t have had a good view. Most of ours were down here, cheering our guys on. The batters were simply going hell for leather for a run – heads down, ready to dive.’ Then Mike scratched his head. ‘I suppose if you wanted to make an issue of it, either as the one that nearly got hit or just as an umpire, then some people might have caught it on mobile phones. But it’s not very likely, is it? Hello, it looks serious,’ he added as two more fire engines hurtled past the school, followed by an ambulance and two police cars. ‘Anyway, if you promise not to faint, I’ll go and, as your bloke would say, make a few enquiries. If you don’t see me again it’s because I’ve nothing to report.’ He seemed to be channelling Dixon of Dock Green as he walked heavily off.

  My bloke, if such he was, was still on the phone, looking very serious. Before I could make my brain even consider what I ought to do next – the effects of the shock or the shampoo? Who knew? – Robin came over, sitting beside me. ‘If it’s OK by you, I’ll recommend a written warning for Marcus. A suspension, if you prefer. By accident or design, what he did was dangerous.’

  I nodded. ‘Des there is trying to find if anyone videoed it. That might help. If anyone did or if anyone cares to admit it. This bubbly’s good: you ought to try some.’

  ‘I would if I could find Elaine’s picnic hamper. Yes – you’ve already met her, haven’t you? I’ve an idea she’s joined the team washing up.’

  ‘But she’s a guest!’

  ‘You pick up a lot as a washer-up. And even at weekends you never stop being a police officer, you know.’

  ‘But—’

  He overrode me, saying loudly, ‘Nice little school you’ve got here, isn’t it? And being able to use the kitchen’s a bonus.’

  ‘Pity everyone has to use mini loos – only the umpires get into the main part of the school,’ I added in a similarly public voice.

  ‘Ah, I noticed you used keys as if it was Fort Knox.’ Another police car shot by. ‘Lord, a burglar’s delight: all Kent’s rapid response cars in one square mile. Meanwhile, for Marcus both a written warning and a suspension? I’ll sort it. But I think one of those cakes would perk you up – and sustain me.’ He returned with two chocolate diabetes bombs.

  No one showed any interest in whatever was attracting all the emergency vehicles, and despite myself I soon got sucked into discussions about cricketing matters – all the while studiously avoiding the subject of Marcus’s throw. We talked about plans for improved changing and showering facilities, not forgetting full-sized loos, and the formation of a women’s team. No, I didn’t have time to coach it or manage it. Being a teacher I could mostly manage being in two places at once, but three was more difficult.

  Despite my firm rejection, I had a feeling that I wouldn’t hear the last of it. As a diversion, I suggested everyone should be on their way to the Jolly Cricketers, where Diane was laying on a barbecue. It was actually Ed’s duty to see that all the litter was gathered up and the school and its grounds were left pristine. Then he was supposed to check that everyone had left school premises and that it was safely locked up. But there was no sign of him. I grabbed Des and Mike and persuaded them to organise a last tidy of the field. When they’d done that I’d take care of the school buildings. It seemed that Robin and Elaine weren’t sure whether to go to the party: I got the impression that he wasn’t enthusiastic but that she was. In fact she became quite insistent.

  In his place I probably wouldn’t have been keen: I knew from
personal experience how unpleasant it could be when players came at you with alcohol-fuelled complaints. I just hoped that I’d get more understanding than criticism this time.

  Another person I didn’t see was Brian, usually efficient to the point of officious in double-checking that the premises were secure. But I was as happy with his room as with his company; bag in hand, I turned the last key in the last lock. Will was waiting. Wouldn’t it be lovely if we could spend an evening together without having to talk shop?

  We fell into step with Robin and Elaine, who smiled at me as if I was an old friend, but said nothing about the incident.

  ‘Like you said to Brian Bores-for-England,’ Robin was saying, ‘it’s a nice community event – no one wants to go home.’ He nodded at the knots of people still chatting on the pavement and in the road.

  Will grunted: ‘Some of them have strange notions of what constitutes parking cars, rather than simply abandoning them where they feel like it.’

  It felt as if he was making an effort to keep my mind off other things, so I said, ‘It’s clearly an issue we’ll have to address for next season, before the locals start to complain. Rightly,’ I added, as an SUV driver attempted a three-point turn rapidly escalating into double figures. I clutched Will’s arm. ‘It’s that woman who was in the pub – isn’t it?’