This Was a Man

by Jeffrey Archer

  “You must be an artist yourself.”

  “I wish,” he said, giving her a warm smile. “The nearest I ever got was when I won an art prize at school and decided to apply for a place at the Slade, but they turned me down.”

  “There are other art colleges.”

  “Yes, and I applied to most of them—Goldsmiths, Chelsea, Manchester. I even went up to Glasgow for an interview, but always with the same result.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “No need to be, because I finally asked a member of one of the interviewing panels why they kept rejecting me.”

  “And what did they say?”

  “‘Your A-level results were impressive enough,’ the young man said, holding the lapels of his jacket and sounding twenty years older, ‘and you are clearly passionate about the subject and have buckets of energy and enthusiasm, but sadly something is missing.’ ‘What’s that?’ I asked. ‘Talent,’ he replied.”

  “Oh, how cruel!”

  “No, not really. Just realistic. He went on to ask if I’d considered teaching, which only added salt to the wound, because it reminded me of George Bernard Shaw’s words, those who can, do, those who can’t, teach. But then I went away and thought about it, and realized he was right.”

  “So now you’re a teacher?”

  “I am. I read Art History at King’s, and I’m now teaching at a grammar school in Peckham, where at least I think I can say I’m a better artist than my pupils. Well, most of them,” he added with a grin.

  She laughed. “So what brings you back to the Slade?”

  “I go to most of the student exhibitions in the hope of spotting someone with real talent whose work I can add to my collection. Over the years I’ve picked up a Craigie Aitchison, a Mary Fedden, and even a small pencil sketch by Hockney, but I’d love to add these seven drawings to my collection.”

  “What’s stopping you?”

  “I haven’t had the courage to ask how much they are, and as she’s just won the Founder’s Prize, I’m sure I won’t be able to afford them.”

  “How much do you think they’re worth?”

  “I don’t know, but I’d give everything I have to own them.”

  “How much do you have?”

  “When I last checked my bank balance, just over three hundred pounds.”

  “Then you’re in luck, because I think you’ll find they’re priced at two hundred and fifty pounds.”

  “Let’s go and find out if you’re right, before someone else snaps them up. By the way,” he added as they turned to walk toward the sales counter, “my name’s Richard Langley, but my friends call me Rick.”

  “Hi,” she said as they shook hands. “My name’s Jessica Clifton, but my friends call me Jessie.”

  40

  “IF YOU PULL your sweater down,” said Karin, “no one will notice that you can’t do up the top button.”

  “It’s twenty years since I last played,” Giles reminded her, as he pulled in his stomach and made one final attempt to do up the top button of a pair of Archie Fenwick’s cricket trousers.

  Karin burst out laughing when the button popped off and landed at her feet. “I’m sure you’ll be fine, my darling. Just remember not to run after the ball, because it could end in disaster.” Giles was about to retaliate when there was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” he said, quickly placing a foot on the rebellious button.

  The door opened and Freddie, dressed neatly in crisp whites, entered the room. “I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but there’s been a change of plan.”

  Giles looked relieved, as he assumed he was about to be dropped.

  “The butler, our skipper, has cried off at the last minute, a pulled hamstring. As you played for Oxford against Cambridge, I thought you’d be the obvious choice to take his place.”

  “But I don’t even know the other members of the team,” protested Giles.

  “Don’t worry, sir. I’ll keep you briefed. I’d do the job myself, but I’m not sure how to set a field. Could you be available to take the toss in about ten minutes? Sorry to have disturbed you, Lady Barrington,” he said before rushing back out.

  “Do you think he’ll ever call me Karin?” she said after the door closed.

  “One step at a time,” said Giles.

  * * *

  When Giles first saw the large oval plot of land set like a jewel in the castle’s grounds, he doubted if there could be a more idyllic setting for a game of cricket. Rugged forest covered the hills which surrounded a couple of acres of flat green land that God had clearly meant to be a cricket pitch, if only for a few weeks a year.

  Freddie introduced Giles to Hamish Munro, the local bobby and the Village captain. At forty, he looked in good shape, and certainly would not have had any trouble buttoning up his trousers.

  The two captains walked out onto the pitch together just before two o’clock. Giles carried out a routine he hadn’t done for years. He sniffed the air, before looking up at the sky. A warm day by Scottish standards, a few stray clouds decorated an otherwise blue horizon, no rain, and, thankfully, no harbingers of rain. He inspected the pitch—a tinge of green on the surface, good for fast bowlers—and finally he glanced at the crowd. Much larger than he’d expected, but then it was a local derby. About a couple of hundred spectators were sprinkled around the boundary rope waiting for battle to commence.

  Giles shook hands with the opposing captain.

  “Your call, Mr. Munro,” he said before spinning a pound coin high into the air.

  “Heads,” declared Munro, and they both bent down to study the coin as it landed on the ground.

  “Your choice, sir,” said Giles, staring at the Queen.

  “We’ll bat,” said Munro without hesitation, and quickly returned to the pavilion to brief his team. A few minutes later a bell rang and two umpires in long white coats emerged from the pavilion and made their way slowly onto the field. Archie Fenwick and the Rev. Sandy McDonald were there to guarantee fair play.

  A few moments later, Giles led his unfamiliar band of warriors out onto the pitch. He set an attacking field, with sotto voce advice from Freddie, then tossed the ball to Hector Brice, the Castle’s second footman, who was already scratching out his mark some twenty yards behind the stumps.

  The Village’s opening batsmen strolled out onto the pitch, rotating their arms, and running on the spot, affecting a nonchalant air. The local postman asked for middle and leg, and once he’d made his mark, the vicar declared, “Play!”

  The Village openers made a brisk start, scoring 32 before the first wicket fell to Ben Atkins, the farm manager—a sharp catch in the slips. Hector then followed up with two quick wickets and it was 64 for 3 after fifteen overs had been bowled. A fourth inning partnership was beginning to take hold between the publican Finn Reedie and Hamish Munro, when Freddie suggested that Giles should turn his arm over. A call to arms the captain hadn’t seriously considered. Even in his youth, Giles had rarely been asked to bowl.

  His first over went for eleven, which included two wides, and he was going to take himself off but Freddie wouldn’t hear of it. Giles’s second over went for seven, but at least there were no wides and, to his surprise, in his third, he captured the important wicket of the publican. An LBW appeal to which the tenth Earl of Fenwick pronounced “Out!” Giles thought he’d been a little fortunate, and so did Reedie.

  “Leg before pavilion more like,” muttered the publican as he passed the earl.

  One hundred and sixteen for 4. The first footman continued with his slow leg cutters from one end, accompanied by Giles’s attempt at military medium from the other. The Village went into tea at 4:30 p.m., having scored 237 for 8, which Hamish Munro clearly felt was enough to win the match, because he declared.

  Tea was held in a large tent. Egg and cress sandwiches, sausage rolls, jam tarts, and scones topped with clotted cream were scoffed by all, accompanied by cups of hot tea and glasses of cold lime cordial. Freddie ate nothing,
as he penciled the Castle team’s batting order into the scorebook. Giles looked over his shoulder and was horrified to see his name at the top of the list.

  “Are you sure you want me to open?”

  “Yes, of course, sir. After all, you opened for Oxford and the MCC.”

  As Giles padded up he wished he hadn’t eaten quite so many scones. A few moments later, he and Ben Atkins made their way out onto the pitch. Giles took guard, leg stump, then looked around the field, displaying an air of confidence that belied his true feelings. He settled down and waited for the first delivery from Ross Walker, the local butcher. The ball fizzed through the air and hit Giles firmly on the pad, plum in front of the middle stump.

  “Howzat!” screamed the butcher confidently, as he leapt in the air.

  Humiliation, thought Giles, as he prepared to return to the pavilion with a golden duck.

  “Not out,” responded the tenth Earl of Fenwick, saving his blushes.

  The bowler didn’t hide his disbelief and began to shine the ball furiously on his trousers before preparing to deliver the next ball. He charged up and hurled the missile at Giles a second time. Giles played forward, and the ball nicked the outside edge of his bat, missing the stump by inches before running between first and second slip to the boundary. Giles was off the mark with a scratchy four, and the butcher looked even angrier. His next ball was well wide of the stumps, and somehow Giles survived the rest of the over.

  The farm manager turned out to be a competent if somewhat slow-scoring batsman, and the two of them had mustered 28 runs before Mr. Atkins was caught behind the wicket off the butcher’s slower ball. Giles was then joined by a cowhand who, although he had a range of shots worthy of his calling, still managed to notch up 30 in a very short time before being caught on the boundary. Seventy-nine for 2. The cowhand was followed by the head gardener, who clearly only played once a year. Seventy-nine for 3.

  Three more wickets fell during the next half hour, but somehow Giles prospered, and with the score on 136 for 6, the Hon. Freddie came out to join him at the crease, greeted by warm applause.

  “We still need another hundred,” said Giles, glancing at the scoreboard. “But we have more than enough time, so be patient, and only try to score off any loose balls. Reedie and Walker are both tiring, so bide your time, and make sure you don’t give your wicket away.”

  After Freddie had taken guard, he followed his captain’s instructions to the letter. It quickly became clear to Giles that the boy had been well coached at his prep school and, fortunately, had a natural flair, known in the trade as “an eye.” Together they passed the 200 mark to rapturous applause from one section of the crowd, who were beginning to believe that Castle might win the local derby for the first time in years.

  Giles felt equally confident as he steered a ball through the covers to the far boundary, which took him into the seventies. A couple of overs later, the butcher came back on to bowl, no longer displaying his earlier cockiness. He charged up to the wicket and released the ball with all the venom he possessed. Giles played forward, misjudged the pace, and heard the unforgiving sound of falling timber behind him. This time the umpire wouldn’t be able to come to his rescue. Giles made his way back to the pavilion to rapturous applause, having scored 74. But as he explained to Karin as he sat down on the grass beside her and unbuckled his pads, they still needed 28 runs to win, with only three wickets in hand.

  Freddie was joined in the middle by his lordship’s chauffeur, a man who rarely moved out of first gear. He was aware of the chauffeur’s record and did everything in his power to retain the strike and leave his partner at the nonstriking end. Freddie managed to keep the scoreboard ticking over until the chauffeur took a pace back to a bouncer and trod on his stumps. He walked back to the pavilion without the umpire’s verdict needing to be called upon.

  Fourteen runs were still needed for victory when the second gardener (part-time) walked out to join Freddie in the middle. He survived the butcher’s first delivery, but only because he couldn’t get bat on ball. No such luck with the last delivery of the over, which he scooped up into the hands of the Village captain at mid-off. The fielding side jumped in the air with joy, well aware they only needed one more wicket to win the match and retain the trophy.

  They couldn’t have looked more pleased when Hector Brice walked out and took his guard before facing the last ball of the over. They all recalled how long he’d lasted the previous year.

  “Don’t take a single, whatever you do,” was Freddie’s only instruction.

  But the Village captain, a wily old bird, set a field to make a single tempting. His troops couldn’t wait for the footman to quickly return to the line of fire. The butcher hurled the missile at Hector, but somehow the second footman managed to get bat on ball, and he watched it trickling toward backward short leg. Hector wanted to take a single, but Freddie remained resolutely in his place.

  Freddie was quite happy to face the Village spinner for the penultimate over of the match, and hit him for 4 off his first ball, 2 off the third, and 1 off the fifth. Hector only needed to survive one more ball, leaving Freddie to face the butcher for the final over. The last ball of the over was slow and straight and beat Hector all ends up, but just passed over the top of the stumps before ending up in the wicketkeeper’s gloves. A sigh of relief came from those seated in the deckchairs, while groans erupted from the Village supporters.

  “Final over,” declared the vicar.

  Giles checked the scoreboard. “Only seven more needed, and victory is ours,” he said, but Karin didn’t reply because she had her head in her hands, no longer able to watch what was taking place in the middle.

  The butcher shone the ragged ball on his red-stained trousers as he prepared for one final effort. He charged up and hurled the missile at Freddie, who played back and nicked it to first slip, who dropped it.

  “Butterfingers,” were the only words the butcher muttered that were repeatable in front of the vicar.

  Freddie now had only five balls from which to score the seven runs needed for victory.

  “Relax,” said Giles under his breath. “There’s bound to be a loose ball you can put away. Just stay calm and concentrate.”

  The second ball took a thick outside edge and shot down to third man for two. Five still required, but only four balls left. The third might have been called a wide, making the task easier, but the vicar kept his hands in his pockets.

  Freddie struck the fourth ball confidently to deep mid-on, thought about a single, but decided he couldn’t risk the footman being left with the responsibility of scoring the winning runs. He tapped his bat nervously on the crease as he waited for the fifth ball, never taking his eyes off the butcher as he advanced menacingly toward his quarry. The delivery was fast but just a little short, which allowed Freddie to lean back and hook it high into the air over square leg, where it landed inches in front of the rope before crossing the boundary for four. The Castle’s supporters cheered even louder, but then fell into an expectant hush as they waited for the final delivery.

  All four results were possible: a win, a loss, a tie, a draw.

  Freddie didn’t need to look at the scoreboard to know they needed one for a tie and two for a win off the final ball. He looked around the field before he settled. The butcher glared at him before charging up for the last time, to release the ball with every ounce of energy he possessed. It was short again, and Freddie played confidently forward, intending to hit the ball firmly through the covers, but it was faster than he anticipated and passed his bat, rapping him on the back pad.

  The whole of the Village team and half of the crowd jumped in the air and screamed, “Howzat!” Freddie looked hopefully up at the vicar, who hesitated only for a moment before raising his finger in the air.

  Freddie, head bowed, began the long walk back to the pavilion, applauded all the way by an appreciative crowd. Eighty-seven to his name, but Castle had lost the match.

  “What a cruel ga
me cricket can be,” said Karin.

  “But character-forming,” said Giles, “and I have a feeling this is a match young Freddie will never forget.”

  Freddie disappeared into the pavilion and slumped down on a bench in the far corner of the dressing room, head still bowed, unmoved by the cries of “Well-played, lad,” “Bad luck, sir,” and “A fine effort, my boy,” because all he could hear were the cheers coming from the adjoining room, assisted by pints being drawn from a beer barrel supplied by the publican.

  Giles joined Freddie in the home dressing room and sat down on the bench beside the desolate young man.

  “One more duty to perform,” said Giles, when Freddie eventually looked up. “We must go next door and congratulate the Village captain on his victory.”

  Freddie hesitated for a moment, before he stood up and followed Giles. As they entered the opposition’s changing room, the Village team fell silent. Freddie went up to the policeman and shook him warmly by the hand.

  “A magnificent victory, Mr. Munro. We’ll have to try harder next year.”

  * * *

  Later that evening, as Giles and Hamish Munro were enjoying a pint of the local bitter in the Fenwick Arms, the Village skipper remarked, “Your boy played a remarkable inning. Far finer teams than ours will suffer at his hand, and I suspect in the not-too-distant future.”

  “He’s not my boy,” said Giles. “I only wish he was.”

  41

  “DID YOU KNOW that Jessica has a new boyfriend?” said Samantha.

  Sebastian always booked the same corner table at Le Caprice where his conversation wouldn’t be overheard and he had a good view of the other guests. It always amused him that the long glass mirrors attached to the four pillars in the center of the room allowed him to observe other diners, while they were unable to see him.