“And?” He gazed at me through those dark eyes and fierce eyebrows, his face not revealing one iota of his thoughts.
“He wants me to play cricket for the Divisional team,” I rushed out the words, “and says he wants me to attend practice at Eltering nets next Saturday afternoon.”
“Did he now?”
He lapsed into an unhealthy silence, and I didn’t know how to continue. Was I supposed to press home my point?
I waited for what seemed an eternity and decided I must make the next move. “He asked if you would change my duties,” I said weakly.
“Rhea, you ought to know better than listen to Alex Benwell. You know what he’s like . . .”
“Like?” I asked, innocently.
“Yes, like. You’ve seen him? The size of him?”
I nodded.
“Beer. That’s the result of years of drinking gallons of beer, and all at cricket matches. Cricket’s not a sport for him, Rhea, it’s an excuse to go boozing on a Saturday night. That’s how he gets out of Saturday night duties, Rhea; puts it all down to sport. Just because the Superintendent’s a member of the Yorkshire Cricket Club . . . you didn’t approach him, then? You didn’t seek him out to fix this for you?”
“No, sergeant.”
“Not like some I know,” he said without halting for breath. “Some less honourable members of this section always wheedle their way into the cricket team to avoid Saturday duties, Rhea It means the rest of us, me included, have to do their duties for them, week in and week out . . .”
“He asked if I could attend the nets, Sergeant. I suppose he wants to see me play.”
“All right, if that’s all. Nets it is. Next Saturday — you don’t play football, do you?”
“Not really, sergeant,” I had to admit.
“Now that’s my game, Rhea. Pure English football. I play football in the winter, you know. To keep fit. That’s a real game, a real sport, a real contest . . .”
He was making a note in his pocket book, reminding himself to change the duty sheets. “Don’t make this a habit, Rhea. I know you are not a skiver who wants only to have each Saturday off . . .”
“No, sergeant, not at all. It’s just that Sergeant Benwell suggested it . . .”
“I don’t like that man,” said Sergeant Blaketon, closing his book. He drove away with a heavy and worried frown on his handsome face.
I enjoyed my session at the nets. There would be some fifteen off-duty policemen there, all testing their new boots, their freshly laundered whites and their muscles. I had a go at bowling and found my old skills returning, although my efforts with a bat weren’t particularly promising. I fielded one or two nice balls and spent a very enjoyable three hours. Mary had come with me, chiefly for the outing in our car with the family, and the three elder ones spent the afternoon running about while I kept half an eye on them. Mary and the baby popped into town to do some shopping.
It wasn’t a bad arrangement, but Mary was quite firm about accompanying me. She was determined to come with me upon every trip because it would give her a Saturday outing with me, and in some senses it would make our life resemble that of normal weekend people.
However, the outcome of my first practice was that I was selected for the Divisional Police team to play in the Ryedale League. Our opponents would be teams from the villages of the district. Because the police had no home ground, we begged and borrowed fields from other clubs and because Eltering was the most central, we were allowed to use it whenever Eltering had an away game. That became our home ground, the away grounds being remote villages and hamlets in the moors and dales.
It would be impossible to describe the sheer enjoyment we experienced at those villages, but our match against Brantgate First Eleven one Saturday in June typifies our experiences. This can be taken as the sort of match in which we engaged. It was an away match for us, which meant we had to tolerate Brantgate’s unique pitch. I had never played there, but my colleagues assured me a treat was in store.
Sergeant Benwell collected several of us at Eltering Police Station and I was surprised to find myself being transported in a battered old ambulance. This was his cricket coach, the vehicle he used to ferry himself and his pals to distant matches. Mary had decided not to come because Elizabeth was feeling off colour, so I decided to travel with the others and give her the use of our car, should she need it.
The retired ambulance rumbled and rolled across the countryside and we climbed steeply into the depths of the moors. Half an hour later, we were trundling merrily across the heights with staggering views spread below our lofty route. We could look down upon a multitude of deep valleys and admired the sheer breathtaking splendour of it all. The glaciers of old had done a wonderful sculpture job on those hills.
“Down here,” announced Alex Benwell, as he turned into a narrow lane. His route dropped sharply from elevated moorland road, turned left down the sheer side of a valley, then twisted and wove between high drystone walls. We drove slowly down the 1-in-3 gradient, the old truck groaning in low gear towards the bottom. Down there nestled the hamlet of Brantgate, a sleepy moorland collection of farms and cottages.
Suddenly, we rounded a blind corner and there, right across the road, was a five-bar gate. Its purpose was to prevent the free-ranging moorland sheep from invading the village gardens, and as we approached it, Sergeant Benwell pressed his foot on the brake. Nothing. Nothing happened.
“Brakes have gone!” he shouted as we began to gather speed. The monster gate loomed closer and I saw him grip the steering wheel firmly between both hands. Then I felt the ancient vehicle rapidly accelerate. He’d put his foot on the accelerator and we roared towards the stout gate. The nose of the heavy vehicle rammed it amidships, and the gate flew open with a crash. The force of it sent the latch flying over one wall and while the gate stood wide open for a fraction of a second, we hurtled through. The gate, as if on springs, rebounded from the wall and slammed shut. But we were through and were now careering headlong down the continuing gradient. Benwell knew the road and he was a first-class driver; he had to be, to guide the brakeless old truck down this steep, winding lane. By the grace of God, nothing was coming up the hill; there was no room to pass even a bike. By knowing his vehicle so well, and being such a fine steersman, he suddenly turned the wheel and we roared off the road into a long field. He allowed the low gears to control the forward rush and after about a hundred yards, the ambulance eased to a smooth halt. Seven cricketers emerged, some feeling sick and others marvelling at his motoring skills. But Benwell was unruffled.
He kicked the front wheels and said calmly, “It’s never done that before,” then walked off to the pavilion.
We followed, the other police players having made their own way to Brantgate. The pavilion was little more than a decorated hen-house, but we managed to change into our whites and find somewhere to spread open the cricket bag with its pads, balls, bats, bails and score book. As we busied ourselves for a practice session, the Brantgate captain came in.
“Now then,” he said gruffly. “Most of you fellers are newcomers, aren’t you?”
“Eight or nine of ’em,” confirmed Alex Benwell, tying his laces.
“Then you’d better come with me,” said the captain, “and I’ll explain the rules.”
“Rules?” I queried, wondering if I had heard the word correctly. I was under the impression that all games of cricket were played with the same rules.
“Local rules,” said Alex Benwell. “Go out and listen to him.”
We obeyed and the dour Yorkshireman, whose cricket gear comprised a white shirt and grey flannels fortified by a pair of stained white boots, led us away. We followed through long grass for a considerable distance and he halted on a neatly shorn piece of land. It was twenty-two yards long by about ten feet wide. All around was long grass, knee high in places and I noted the outfield was surrounded by an electric fence. Furthermore, it was impossible to see one of the boundaries because the pitch had bee
n hewn out of a steep sloping hillside. The pitch was the only flat part of the field; above it, the outfield rose steeply towards a wooden fence several yards distant, and the electric fence was mid-way up that slope.
“Now then,” said the captain. “I’m Jake Foston, captain of this team. This is our cricket pitch — I allus fetches new lads out to have a look at it because it’s not a normal one. It’s a good pitch, mind, takes spin very well and is as level as a billiard table top. Our lads have done some good work. But yon outfield is a bit brant.”
I knew this was the dialect word for steep, and could see how the village got its name.
“Now, we can’t help that. Nature’s made this field and nature’s got to be respected. Out in mid-field there’s an electric fence, that’s to keep cows off this pitch. It’s switched off now, but you’ll have to watch it if you have to chase a ball. Leap over it if you can — it’s nobbut a couple of foot high. Beyond that there’s the real boundary, and yon railings mark it. Through there is six.”
“You mean over there, surely?” asked someone from our side.
“Nay, through is six. If a ball goes through there, our lads could run ten or fifteen while you find t’ball among t’nettles. So we play fair and allow six. If you clout it over that fence, then it’s eight.”
I began to wonder what sort of signals the umpires would use to signify these scores, and also how our scorer would record these runs, but Jake thundered on.
“Down t’hill,” he said, “you’ll not see t’boundary because it’s out o’sight. You’ll need a feller down there to call back the score. He’ll have to be a bit sharp because he’ll not be able to see t’batsmen nor can he know when t’ball’s heading his way. So you lads will have to yell at him. ‘Ball’s coming,’ or summat like that. ‘Left or right a bit.’ He’ll soon cotton on.”
Jake paused to allow us to think about that part of the game, then he continued, “Beyond yon electric fence there’s lots of cow-claps. If a ball goes in one and stops there, we give you five runs. That’s to let you have time to wipe it clean before chucking it back at your wicketer and we reckon that’s fair. Cow-claps are five. That hen-house,” and he indicated a hen-house tucked in the upper corner, “if you clout that hen-house it’s a six. If it goes inside, it’s eight.”
“It won’t be easy, fielding in this long grass,” a policeman player said, guardedly.
“No, it’s not, but we’re used to it,” smiled Jake. “And we can’t cut it just for a cricket match or two, our cows need feeding, and this is good cow grass.”
We followed upon a brief circuit of this unique cricket field and had no alternative but to agree with Brantgate’s interpretation of the rules. We were assured that their scorer, who would sit in the pavilion alongside ours, would keep us informed, and that he was an honest as a new babe.
“Now,” he said, “there’s one other thing.”
We waited with bated breath.
“We’re a team member short, lads, one of our best players had to rush off to hospital with his missus. She’s calving, he reckons, and he had to take her on his tractor.”
I tried to visualise the farmer’s pregnant wife sitting on a tractor and being rushed off to the maternity ward. I also wondered what the hospital authorities would make of it when the pair arrived.
“So?” asked Alex Benwell.
“We’ve a player to stand in for him, from another team.”
“I’ve no objections, have you?” Alex faced us.
We all shook our heads.
“Then that’s him,” and the host team’s captain pointed to a sturdy farmer in his sixties. Ebenezer Flintoft wore thick hobnailed boots, corduroy trousers lashed around the knees with bits of string, a thick working shirt with no collar and the sleeves rolled above his elbows, red braces and a flat cap. He beamed at us as we stared at him, and I noticed his mouth was devoid of teeth. He needed a shave too, for his chin bristled with grey hairs.
“It’s t’father-in-law of our opening bat,” announced Jake. “He’s over for t’day, helping out with some pigs, but said he’d help us out if we were stuck.”
We agreed to this last minute substitution, but didn’t really see that it mattered. The fellow was clearly a non-cricketer and had come along as a goodwill gesture.
The rules having been explained, we tossed and lost. Jake elected to bat, and I knew why. We’d have an awful job coping with stray balls in that outfield, and so we did. They knocked our bowling all over the field, causing the ball to get stuck in cow-claps, to get fast in the hedge, to get lost in long grass, and to vanish over that hidden boundary below us.
It is difficult, due to the passage of time, to highlight the most memorable aspects of that enjoyable game, but one character does stand out above all the others. It was the last minute addition, Ebenezer Flintoft with his flat cap, hobnailed boots and braces.
He came in at No. 5 and we then realised their best batsmen had performed. If they were putting Ebenezer in to bat at this early stage, the remainder must be rubbish. Sergeant Benwell decided to give our opening bowler another crack at them, fully expecting him to skittle out the remainder for a very low score.
But they had expected nothing like Ebenezer. He flung the bat around like lightning, hitting everything that moved. He kept scoring fours, sixes and eights with monotonous regularity, and nothing seemed to beat him. He was very evidently having a whale of a time. The others came and went, but Ebenezer returned to the pavilion not out and beaming all over his whiskery face. “By gum,” he said, “I right enjoyed yon knock about. How many did I get?” He’d scored 125 out of a total of 187.
We broke the proceedings for tea, and it was magnificent. The wives of the Brantgate team laid on a gorgeous tea worthy of any moorland funeral, and we resumed the game shortly after five o’clock. We didn’t stand a chance of reaching their score, although sixes and eights could soon rattle up a useful total.
Sergeant Benwell was our opening batsman and I was amazed to see that Ebenezer was their opening bowler. The large, heavy Yorkshireman took a short run, whirled his arm in a peculiar sideways motion and delivered a ball that utterly beat poor old Benwell.
By some good luck, he survived the first over and began to score off the second bowler, but when Ebenezer returned, I could see that poor old Sergeant Benwell was struggling. He was clean bowled with the fourth ball of the second over, and this signified our impending collapse.
We did manage a creditable 56, all scored off the other bowlers, because Ebenezer was totally unplayable. We limped back to the pavilion, beaten and trounced by this village team from the moors.
But they treated us well. We were invited to the local pub for a friendly drink, and the blacksmith did something to Sergeant Benwell’s brakes which made his old truck mobile once again. The way home was jolly and happy as we sang loud songs and told countless jokes. I certainly enjoyed that day’s cricket, and all that followed.
I was to learn later that Ebenezer played for most of the moorland village teams. He lived in an isolated farm which did not belong to any village, consequently he was invited to play in several teams. He invariably won the match when they played outsiders, and I wondered how the teams coped if he was supposed to play for both. Knowing how these fellows played, he probably did play for both sides, just to even things out!
Some weeks later, I was chatting to a farmer from the moors and mentioned that match, with special reference to Ebenezer’s role.
“Aye, Mr Rhea,” he said, “if awd Ebenezer had taken t’game seriously, he might have been some good at it.”
* * *
I did not play cricket every Saturday, for my performances were by no means memorable. I was unreliable as a batsman, erratic as a fielder and moderately useful as a bowler, so I played only when the best could not be spared from their shifts and unexpected duties. But I enjoyed my games. They did provide me with several opportunities to take Mary and the family into the country and they did introduce me to ot
her members of our widespread Division. The social life was fine.
My own sport, which I had practised as a youngster before marriage, was cycle racing. It was not a sport which was encouraged within the police force, and I sold my trusty drop-handlebar special ten-speed lightweight Tour de France model. I could never envisage myself aboard such a machine in full uniform, with my backside elevated, my head down and my big boots turning lightweight pedals. This meant I no longer partook in cycle races or time-trials.
Furthermore, I never expected to use my cycling skills in the police force, but one night, I was instructed to take the Ashfordly official police cycle and patrol the main road. The reason was that the county car had broken down and my motorcycle was due for a service. And so it was with great amusement that Sergeant Bairstow allocated me a cycle beat from 10 pm until 2 am.
I found the huge black monster and trundled it from the garage, where I dusted it down and tested things like tyres, brakes and lights. Everything worked well, thanks to the immaculate attention of P.C. Alwyn Foxton. He kept everything in fine working order. With some trepidation, therefore, I mounted the massive cycle with its double crossbar and straight handlebars and sallied forth upon my cycle patrol. It was, in truth, the very first, and indeed only, cycle patrol I performed in my career.
It wasn’t long before I was enjoying the experience. I could feel the wind against my cheeks and I enjoyed the solitude and silence. Memories flooded back as I pressed those heavy pedals round and round.
I patrolled the main road and took little sojourns into the lanes at the side of the highway, calling at villages and inspecting out-of-the-way lock up properties while on patrol. I had lost a little of my racing ability but the old techniques soon returned as I steered the heavy cycle about its business. I found hill climbing difficult because of the straight handlebars, and found the heavy gears rather clumsy but a bonus did occur due to the weight of the cycle. Once I had encouraged it to speed along in top gear, its own momentum kept it going and it was possible to reach a moderately high rate of knots. I liked this sensation, and concluded that Sergeant Bairstow had unwittingly done me a favour tonight.
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 1–5 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 72