He paused, choosing his next words carefully, then continued. “I wouldn’t have anything to say about this, except for the fact that no actual good would come of it. The people I’m thinking of aren’t the kind to come round with argument or persuasion. You wouldn’t make them think any differently. All you’d do would be to… what’s the bloody word? Polarise, that’s it. You’d polarise the feeling in the village, very probably stirring up much worse trouble for yourselves in the process. Several of the ones who’re more or less on your side might well change over to the opposition if they thought you were trying to ride roughshod over the feelings of people who live here.”
“Huh!” snorted Stephen, getting angry. “It’s okay for them to ride roughshod over our feelings, then, is it? But I’m not to utter a word of retaliation, in case I hurt their tender feelings. Is that it?”
“No, Steve,” said Tom, still speaking carefully. “No, it’s not that at all. It’s that — this is only my personal opinion, you understand, but you asked me to speak — it’s that all you’d get out of it would be the self-satisfaction of telling these people what you thought of them. You won’t actually get any good out of it. And even the satisfaction would be pretty short-lived, if I’m any sort of a guesser. Because they’d simply up and go to another pub for their drinks, taking others with them more than likely. There would be a nasty smell, and some of the unpleasantness would spill over into areas where you’ve got no problems at the moment — like the cricket club, for example. See what I mean?”
Stephen didn’t, but Richard did. “Stevie’s not the sort to offer the soft answer that turneth away wrath,” he put in gently, with an affectionate glance at Stephen. “He prefers the old-fashioned direct method. ‘Fuck you and the horse you rode in on’, and all that. But in this case, Stevie, I think Tom’s right. There’s no earthly point in stirring up a hornets’ nest unless there’s any actual advantage or benefit going to come from it. In this case, you’ll just cause a row, which no one can win, and that’s all.”
Tom nodded, looking earnestly and seriously at Stephen. “That’s my feeling, as I’ve said,” he said quietly.
Stephen looked from one of them to the other in some frustration. Then he saw Richard’s light-brown eyes fixed on him, widened slightly in concern and anxiety, and his face softened abruptly. “All right,” he said, and chuckled. Richard breathed a deep sigh of relief, and the tension ebbed out of Tom’s face also. “All right,” Stephen repeated, “I’ll be good. But if I promise — to both of you, cross my heart and hope to die and all that — that I won’t go storming into these people, will you at least tell me who they are? After all, I may not go and hit em on the nose, but at least I’d like to feel sure I’m not wasting friendly overtures, or betraying confidences, to people who are my enemies. Surely that’s reasonable, isn’t it?
“Fair enough,” said Richard. “But promise me — promise, Stevie, promise me — that you’ll keep your hair on, and not go chucking em out of the pub, or putting acid in their beer or something.”
Stephen laughed, a proper, full-bodied laugh this time, and all three of them relaxed. “All right, Rich, I promise,” he said, still laughing. “Though I must say, I reckon you’d be better at scotching em than I would anyway. I’d never have thought of putting dope in their drinks. Sugar in their petrol tanks is more my line.”
“Okay,” said Richard. “Who are these nasty bastards, then, Tom?”
“It’s mostly one man,” said Tom, still rather reluctantly. “Pat Gibson. He never lets a chance get past him without declaring that it’s a disease that ought to be cured, or some gibe about AIDS, or something of the kind. It’s him and his circle of pals, mainly. Plus one or two of the yuppies. Right-wing types to a man. But they shouldn’t worry people like you. They see life in primary colours, and you’re too big to be bothered by people like that, I should hope.”
“Mother Thatcher’s chickens,” grinned Richard, looking a shade anxiously at Stephen now that the names were out.
To his surprise Stephen’s frowning face had cleared, and he was smiling. “Pat Gibson, eh?” he murmured, more to himself than to the other two. “Well, that’s no big thing. I won’t go to him if I need a tooth out, though, eh?”
“He wouldn’t pull it,” said Tom, grinning in his relief at seeing Stephen’s own. “He’s been saying how he’s looking forward to having you knock on his door in agony with an abscess some night, and what a pleasure it’d be to tell you he wasn’t going to risk catching AIDS if you bit down on his fingers. Loudly.”
“When’s that bastard ever say anything other than loudly,” said Stephen with a chortle. “Oh, well, if it’s only that crush that we’ve got to worry about, I’m quite relieved. I never did like that loud-mouthed cunt of a dentist, and as for the yuppies, well, as you say, they’re not worth working up a sweat over. Maybe I’ll just happen to leave my Labour Party card lying about some time. That’ll annoy em. Still, thanks for telling us, Tom. It’s as well to know who your enemies are. At least you know where you stand with your enemies. It’s your friends you have to watch,” he added cynically. “Come on, Tom, stop trying to polish the stamp off those glasses and come and have a drink.”
* * *
Rather to Richard’s surprise, Stephen faithfully observed his promise not to provoke trouble with the local dentist and his cronies. He did occasionally derive a malicious pleasure from stirring up argument over politics when the despised yuppies were in attendance, taking particular delight in dropping odd references into such conversations to the vast extent of his own wealth. On one such occasion he ostentatiously sent Tom down to the capacious and munificently stocked cellar for a bottle of the most expensive champagne in the house, paying for it by lugging a huge fat wad of twenty-pound notes out and tossing several of them carelessly on the bar, and then swigging it from the bottle in front of the astonished and outraged young city types. The tormenting was almost spoiled, because he was quivering so much from internal laughter and excitement that he almost squirted the wine straight back out of his nose; but he managed to contain himself sufficiently to set the bottle down, grin insolently round the glowering faces, and stroll unconcernedly outside before collapsing in convulsive paroxysms of laughter round the back of the hotel. Richard and Tom caught each other’s eye and simultaneously shook their heads sadly. But Richard, at least, was having difficulty in concealing his own grin, and ceased trying when the infuriated young high-flyers stamped ungraciously out of the bar.
At last, one Sunday midway through a fine, sunny June, the great day arrived when Elderton Park were to arrive for their hastily rearranged tour.
Stephen and Richard had driven down very late the night before, after the league match on the Saturday, both in high spirits from anticipation, excitement at the prospect of showing off Stephen’s splendid pub to such men as Bill McKechnie, who were dedicated drinkers but very discerning all the same about the quality of the pubs they favoured with their custom, and from Stephen’s triumphant seventy-odd that day, batting at first wicket down, which he had, that season, made his own exclusive property.
They burst into the bar ten minutes before closing time, and Stephen, impetuous as always, talked ninety-nine to the dozen about the impending visit of his friends, and bought a round of drinks for everyone in the bar — having checked first and established that neither the local dentist and his circle nor the young City broking element were among those present. It was the start of a very happy week, with not the slightest foreshadowing of the calamity that was waiting to happen. The first chance steps towards accelerating catastrophe came, unseen, in the midst of the best fun of the week, and Stephen’s greatest triumph.
* * *
Bill brought a strong side down on the Sunday morning, with almost all the regular First XI and a handful of close contenders. They all admired the hotel unequivocally and, having sorted out room-mates and made the acquaintance of Tom and some of the regulars, got the week under way in fine style with a
hard-fought victory against a strong Worthing side. That evening they celebrated the start of the tour in the usual manner, wreaking great devastation on Tom’s beer supplies until five in the morning. (“I’ll have to ring round for extra deliveries first thing,” he muttered to Stephen, watching the consumption in great satisfaction, and some awe.) Monday’s game was against the local side, with Stephen playing for the village to strengthen the batting. The fine form he had shown all season did not desert him. He took three of his erstwhile teammates’ wickets, including Don Parker’s when he was well-set and looking very menacing on 49. He then led a valiant onslaught on the Elderton bowling in pursuit of a very stiff target of 284, scoring fluently all round the wicket for a very fine 81, and surviving all manner of sledging from his friends in the process. When he was out the village were within striking distance of the total, and they failed in the end by the narrowest of margins, the last wicket going down with the villagers eight runs short. He lost count of the jugs he had to buy in mock chagrin afterwards.
On Tuesday they had no fixture, so they consulted the local paper to find a cricket match within driving distance, then piled into cars and roared off to Brighton for the day. Tom’s frantic efforts to secure extra deliveries paid off while they were watching cricket, and they accounted for a good deal of them in the evening.
On the Wednesday they enjoyed a fine win against a very strong Brighton Brunswick side, and were then cast into anxiety when the sky clouded over and a very heavy shower of rain fell for an hour and a half in the evening. The following day’s game was the highlight of the week, against the President’s impromptu XI. Stephen had eavesdropped assiduously and shamelessly at every opportunity, and had been able to warn them that the local club had taken the match very seriously. They had borrowed the cream of the surrounding clubs’ players and assembled a tremendously powerful side, including four current Minor Counties players, two batsmen, a very quick opening bowler and a leg-spinner of prodigious gifts, who until two years before had regularly taken his hundred wickets for Sussex. It was the game of all games that they were anxious to play without interference by the weather.
Their apprehensions were unfounded, however. Thursday was a little overcast, but bright and warm, with enough of a breeze off the sea to keep the players cool.
The President’s side batted first, and racked up what was, even on a small ground, the colossal score of 362 for seven. “Christ,” said Bill as they sat in the dressing room after the declaration. “We’ll have to go some for this. Only good thing is, they got em so bloody fast they’ve still left us time to get em. You’d better be anchorman, Don,” he added to Don Parker, who was putting his pads on unconcernedly in his corner. “Need at least a hundred from you, mate.” Don smiled easily. “Hundreds won’t come easily against that attack,” he said. “But I’ll see what I can do.” He pulled his cap on and strolled outside to accustom his eyes to the light. Bill meanwhile turned to Stephen. “Present for you, our kid,” he said, tossing a large brown-paper bag across the dressing-room into Stephen’s lap.
Stephen opened it curiously. His face broke into a wide smile of delight. Richard watched, wondering what it could be. Then he smiled, equally delighted for his beloved friend, as Stephen drew out a new cricket cap, bright in the club’s colours. He stripped off the cellophane wrapping and unfolded the cap with fingers that trembled slightly. Then he jumped up and bounded across to the mirror to try it on, too pleased to speak.
“Hope it’s the right size,” said Bill, pleased at the happiness in Stephen’s face. “Been intending to give you your colours since the first month of the season, but we had to order a new stock.”
“Oh, Bill…” mumbled Stephen, still too overcome to say anything. He choked slightly as he went back to his seat to resume padding up. “Now’s your chance to earn it, too,” added Bill drily. “You won’t have many better chances. You’re first wicket down as usual. Play your own game, but be careful. Bloody careful. You won’t have faced any bowling better than this in your life, so have a good look at it before you try anything fancy.” Stephen nodded, his beam of gratification replaced instantly by an expression so serious as to be almost grim. “I… I shan’t let you down, Bill,” he said earnestly. “All right, son,” said Bill. “I know you won’t. Okay, lads,” he went on to his team as a whole, “let’s go for em.”
It had never been more vital to get off to a good start. The spirits of the Elderton players, watching anxiously from the neat little pavilion enclosure, initially went up like a rocket. Paddington Bear, on whom words of caution were a sheer waste, propped himself on his bat to await the first delivery from the Minor County quick. It was a very fast half-volley outside off stump, and he let it go by, to a chorus of ‘Well left!’ and ‘Steady, P-B’ from the spectators. The second ball was on a better length, but wider. P-B stepped easily across to the pitch of it, and drove it effortlessly through square cover for four. The third ball was a big in-ducker, but started a shade too far over towards leg stump. P-B straightened up and flicked it high over where square-leg would have been, into the hedge for six. He blocked a bullet-like yorker, ran the fifth ball perfectly between third slip and gulley for four, and waited to see what the bowler, astonished and infuriated by turns at such cavalier treatment, would think up for the final ball of the over. It was the fastest ball so far, a fraction short of a length, dead straight on middle stump. P-B hit it on the up, clean over the pavilion for six more. The roar from his team-mates exploded while the ball was still airborne.
Don Parker played sedately through an accurate over from the much more ordinary opener at the other end, taking a comfortable two and thrashing the last ball handsomely through extra-cover for four, to another roar from the pavilion, where everyone was feeling much better already. Twenty-six for no wicket, and only two overs gone.
But alas for their dreams of effortless victories. Their spirits, having gone up like the rocket, within seven balls had come down again like the stick!
The crack fast bowler was a cricketer of great experience, and he had seen often enough what could happen to a bowling attack put to the sword by a batsman like Paddington Bear. For his second over he carefully re-paced his run, adding ten yards to it and pausing several times to turn and glare ferociously at Paddington Bear. Then he fiddled with his field, while P-B leaned on his bat handle and yawned ostentatiously. Then he came hurtling in, leapt like a salmon into his delivery stride — and bowled a high, slow-medium donkey drop, pitched up on middle stump. Paddington Bear’s eyes widened as he watched the ball lolloping through the air towards him, unable to believe his luck. He stepped out to it and launched an on-drive at it that would have sent it in the wake of his last shot, over the pavilion. Unfortunately for him, it was a perfectly concealed leg-break. It turned the perfect amount to elude his ferocious drive, but not too much to miss the flashing blade altogether, flicked the outside edge and was swallowed without difficulty by the ecstatic wicket-keeper with a howl of “Yeeeee-haw! Beauty, Colin!” out of his mouth before he had even got the ball safely under control in his gloves.
There was a short, electric silence. P-B stood for a moment, all at sea outside his crease. He turned to look back at the jubilant wicket-keeper and slips. Then he turned back to stare at the bowler, and finally walked off, shaking his head in disbelief. He paused, however, as he drew level with the bowler, raised his bat to his shoulder and aimed it like a rifle at the grinning bowler. “You bugger,” he murmured, and resumed his long walk back to the dressing room amid a chorus of “well batteds” elicited as much by his gesture of sportsmanship as by his batting itself.
Stephen walked out to the wicket feeling more nervous than he had ever felt since his first few games for the club. He was not normally a nervous player, but receiving his club cap, the feeling that he was on trial by both clubs, and the extraordinary performance that was needed to win, or even make the scores respectable, weighed heavily on him. Richard, who was scoring alone, sat in his wooden bo
x, stroking himself in a vain effort to reduce the tension that gripped him and the anxiety for his friend to do well, and offered up a small prayer.
Don Parker came to meet Stephen and offered a word of advice to see himself well-settled before worrying about scoring. The advice was unnecessary, but it did have the valuable effect of calming his nerves a little. He took guard, and played out the rest of the over, delivered off the bowler’s normal run, very fast but with little movement. And the first ball of the next over, disaster struck again. Don Parker, as reliable and safe a batsman as there was in amateur cricket, got a ball that hit a greasy spot and never got more than an inch above the turf. It skidded underneath his immaculate defensive stroke, and hit him squarely in front of all three stumps. He hardly bothered to look up to see the umpire’s finger raised, walking off with his eyes closed in anguish. Stephen quaked, and waited.
There followed a scrappy period in which neither side gained any further advantage. And, somewhere in the course of it, Stephen made a momentous decision. He waited for a bad ball.
Watching from the pavilion, the others sat up and took notice. For several overs Stephen and his partner had played doggedly, fending off the good balls and ignoring anything that did not demand a stroke. Then, without any visible cause, Stephen changed his approach. He threw caution to the wind, and launched an onslaught that would have been worthy of Paddington Bear himself. The ace quick bowler, who was, perhaps, beginning to lose his freshness, sent down a fast half-volley on off stump. Stephen flayed it through extra-cover for four. He then gave four of the remaining five balls of the over the same treatment. The last ball he steered wide of gulley for a single.
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