The Buttercup Field

by D J O'Leary

  As he waited at the counter Tolstoy turned around and took in the pavilion, somewhere he had not often visited. To his left was the home dressing room, to his right the visitors’, while he was in the meeting room, which doubled as a dining room during matches. There were honours boards on the walls where there were no windows, and glass cases containing caps, balls, bails and other fading witnesses to past glories. There were bats too, hanging from the walls, browned and peeling, dented and dusty, relics of an age when makers’ names were marks of quality, rather than badges of commerce. Beneath each glass case and bat could be seen a small typewritten label, explaining the significance of the particular artefact and its part in the club’s history to any who might be interested.

  On the wall above the entrance to the kitchen was a photograph, in a faded sepia tint, of a stern-looking man dressed in Victorian cricket garb, all starched formality and unyielding fabric, and holding a bat, probably one of those on the walls. This imposing figure was Hubert’s great-great-grandfather, Willem, who had played for the club in the early nineteenth century, and who had overseen the construction of the pavilion in the 1850s. The old boy had a severe glint about him. Narrow-faced, and probably narrow-minded too, like so many of the Victorian grandees, thought Tolstoy, a little unfairly. But, by all accounts, he had been a fair cricketer in his day. But it had been Hubert’s great-great-great-great-grandfather Cornelis, who had founded Stottenden Cricket Club shortly after the turn of the eighteenth century, although in those early days it was known simply as the Manor. Generation after generation of Stottenden inhabitants had since benefited from the de Groots’ philanthropy and had been able to enjoy cricket down the centuries.

  Tolstoy was still ruminating on what the ground would have looked like around two hundred and fifty years earlier, with no pavilion for starters, when he was pulled from his reverie by the mellow tones of Elspeth. ‘Here you are, Tolstoy,’ and she placed a pint glass, misted with cold, into his hand. He thanked her and for a few moments concentrated on the sharp lemon freshness as it washed away the summer dryness in his throat and quenched his thirst, adding a soothing chill to his overheated self. He placed the quickly emptied glass onto the counter, pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed delicately at his mouth.

  ‘Would you like a slither of cake?’ asked a dark-haired young woman from behind the counter. She was dressed immaculately, petite and possessed of boundless confidence, even when guilty of such an appalling malapropism. Tolstoy debated the worth of correcting her use of a verb describing the motion of a snake, slither, instead of “sliver”, a noun denoting a thin slice or splinter of something such as glass or cake. It had irritated him, and more so since she sounded reasonably well-educated, but perhaps not quite as well as she thought she was. He decided that playing the schoolmaster with her, especially in public, might not be a good idea. He bit back the correction, muttering a polite refusal, before following Elspeth back outside.

  She guided him back to his godfather. ‘Now, sit down,’ Elspeth instructed Tolstoy, indicating the vacant deckchair.

  Warily, for Tolstoy knew how treacherous this item of furniture could be, he lowered himself onto the striped canvas, all the while dreading what “touchdown” might bring.

  His misgivings were not without substance. His backside caught the front edge of the seat, and as the rest of his body looked ready to settle in, so the evil contraption, freed from its locked position by the inadvertent early brush with Tolstoy’s buttocks, collapsed, giving the unfortunate young man no chance of recovery, committed as he was to sitting, thus all his weight was in the act of being transferred from legs to the now non-existent seat.

  He collapsed, toppling backwards, feet waving frantically in the air, and for a moment, just one brief moment, he resembled nothing so much as a beetle that was struggling to get off its back and onto its feet again.

  The immediate audience failed dismally to suppress a titter at Tolstoy’s accident. He was covered in embarrassment and shame, the blush suffusing his features even more deeply than the previous one when he had trodden on the young woman’s hair.

  Elspeth came to his rescue, no trace of a smile on her face, only concern for his welfare. ‘Darling, are you all right? You haven’t hurt yourself, have you?’

  He responded with what was meant to be a reassuring denial, but on leaving his mouth it sounded rather more like an irritated grunt. With an effort he raised himself onto his elbows, then, by degrees onto his feet. He restored the deckchair from “flatpack” to seat mode and tried again, applying even more caution than he had shown at his first attempt. This time there were no alarums and, breathing a sigh of relief, he accepted the glass of lemonade which Elspeth had purchased for him after he had demolished the first one. ‘It’s a good job you weren’t holding this glassful,’ she said with a gentle smile and Tolstoy nodded his assent.

  ‘All straight, now?’ asked his godfather.

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Good. Ah!’ De Groot was watching the cricket and at that precise moment a wicket fell. ‘That could be the end of it now,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘We are seven down, with just 104 on the board. It’s not enough. Oh, wait! I forgot, we have Harry coming in at number nine.’

  ‘Harry?’ queried his godson.

  ‘Yes. Harry Stoke, the colonel’s gamekeeper. Moved to the village at the beginning of January to take over the shoot for the colonel, but he only recently revealed that he had played a bit of cricket. I have to say, he bats a lot better than most village number nines, in fact better than most village middle order batsmen. Thank goodness I insisted that he played for the Guns, because when he’s on song he is quite something with the bat. A real big-hitter. And a left-hander to boot. The thing is, he doesn’t play regularly enough, because the shoot occupies so much of his time. Says he doesn’t want to let anyone down, so he bats down the order and is ostensibly picked for his bowling, left arm seam.’

  De Groot swivelled in his seat to face his wife and their guest. ‘Well,’ he added, ‘we might see a few fireworks shortly, because Harry can certainly hit the ball,’ he paused, ‘well, except when he misses it of course!’

  The new batsman’s first shot illustrated perfectly what de Groot had predicted. ‘Hah! Harry is not going to let us down,’ pronounced Hubert as the noise subsided. ‘That’s a colossal shot. Six all the way.’ He applauded enthusiastically.

  Tolstoy, having admired the execution of the shot and the exaggerated follow-through, inquired of his godfather how another member of the Guns XI had fared. ‘How did Charlie bat?’

  ‘Very well for seven balls. A couple of boundaries, one a delicious on-drive, then an intemperate heave. A shame really, because he can usually be counted on to weigh in with a decent knock.’

  Satisfied that his old schoolfriend Charlie Hornchurch had at least scored a few runs, Tolstoy switched subjects and asked what the latest news on the Buttercup Field campaign might be.

  ‘Ah, well, we had a bit of drama. It must be almost four months ago. Yes, it was back at the beginning of April, and we really thought we had it cracked. Piers St John Worth, one of the village residents, although in fact he lives a little way out of Stottenden. He hasn’t been here that long, perhaps three years, certainly no more, anyway, he’s something in the City, but in his leisure time he’s an amateur botanist. Anyway he had everyone dancing in the pub one evening when he claimed to have found a buttercup in the Buttercup Field. And not just any old buttercup, but apparently a rare one, ranunculus arvensis he called it, although its common name is corn buttercup, or scratch bur. Piers said it was the first one to have been found this far south, and the first example in this country for a quarter of a century; the previous one was found in Shropshire. Now that was just what the campaign needed, a rare plant growing in the Buttercup Field, and not just any old rare plant, but a rare buttercup.’

  ‘Good gracious,’ exclaimed Tolstoy. ‘It mus
t have been some sort of joke. No one has ever seen so much as a petal in the Buttercup Field, let alone a buttercup.’

  Hubert smiled: ‘I kid you not. He had a photograph of it, which he produced at the bar. Jo, the barmaid – incidentally Elspeth thinks she has a thing for you – rang me and asked me to come over, which I duly did.

  ‘I have to say it was not the clearest of photos, and it was quite difficult to make out anything that remotely resembled a plant let alone a buttercup, and it was just too dark for anyone to be able to see it more clearly in the flesh, as it were. So everyone decided to celebrate anyway, because there was photographic proof, well of the leaves at least, there was no bright yellow flower. In fact, I could not see even a bud. So the Snitcher’s Head stayed open until very late that night.

  ‘The following morning we all gathered at the gate to the Buttercup Field and Piers led us in. He took us right to the spot where he had photographed the plant. And sure enough there it was, although, as I say, there was no evidence of a flower, but the leaves were definitely buttercup, Piers showed us a picture in a wildflower book. It was decided to keep an eye on the plant and not tell the council until the thing was in flower, then we would take thousands of photos of it and make a big deal about the Buttercup Field being a site of special scientific interest, and thus we would beat the developers and Jack Bentley.’

  Elspeth interjected at this point. ‘Since it is nearly the tea interval I think I shall beat the rush and fetch us a tray of tea and sandwiches. Is that all right with you Tolstoy? And you Hubert?’

  Both men nodded. Elspeth rose from her deckchair and made her way back to the pavilion. Before any more conversation ensued there was a further interruption as Harry Stoke got hold of the bowling again and hoisted the ball clear over the mid-wicket boundary for another six, a shot which, Tolstoy noted, had helped the batting side’s total past the 175 mark. Stoke had also just reached his half century and the Guns’ innings was looking far healthier now as they galloped towards two hundred.

  ‘I wonder if Harry’ll get to three figures,’ Hubert mused.

  ‘How many overs left?’

  ‘Let me see, I think, yes I think eight.’

  ‘Hmm, might be pushing it,’ at which point the gamekeeper struck another hefty blow which cleared the rope to more cheers.

  ‘Yes, and anyway he might run out of partners.’

  ‘Not if he can keep the strike, as he appears to be doing,’ Tolstoy observed.

  A groan from the spectators had godfather and godson focusing on the action. A wicket had fallen. Thankfully, thought Tolstoy, not Harry Stoke, who was by now in the seventies. ‘Well,’ said his godfather, ‘back to the Buttercup Field.’ And the pair of them returned to their original conversation.

  ‘Everything was looking fine for the next week or ten days, although there was still no sign of a flower, then we had a hard overnight frost, and the following day the thing we had all feared had happened – the plant had died. Piers was inconsolable. For days he was seen just standing in the Buttercup Field, head bowed as if he was praying for divine help. Finally it was decided to dig up the plant, and try to preserve it as evidence of a sort and suggest that another plant might grow in the spot next year.

  ‘And that is when things took a very interesting twist. Ned Kincaid volunteered to dig up the remains of the corn buttercup. Piers said it should be left in the ground, that something might grow from the roots, but Ned reckoned if there was one buttercup plant there, then there would be others. But when he dug into that horrible sticky Kentish clay he struck not more clay, but rather potting compost.’

  ‘Potting compost?’ queried Tolstoy. ‘In Kentish clay?’

  ‘Quite,’ said Hubert. ‘It had us all wondering. The committee called Piers to a meeting to quiz him about it. Maybe, as a botanist, we thought, he would know something about soils as well. It was all just informal, although initially Piers refused to make any comment about anything, soil or buttercup, but the committee persisted, indeed almost forcing him to answer their many questions. I mean it was all amicable enough as I say, and indeed I’m told everyone had quite a convivial evening as it happened. So much so that finally Piers caved in and spilled the beans. He confessed to the committee that he had crept into the field in February, with a plant that he had dug up from somewhere else in the country – so there’s another offence there, although no one is going to shop him because apart from the village no one else knew about the “rare” buttercup. He admitted he had been stupid, but it was all in a good cause, and he had learned that buttercups do not transplant easily, or at least ranunculus arvensis does not transplant that readily. So, anyway, there’s a bit of drama for you.’

  While Tolstoy was digesting the information about the buttercup plot, both men then turned their attention to the action in the middle, where there was more drama. The timing was unfortunate because local hero Harry Stoke, possibly looking to reach his century in dramatic fashion, heaved across the line at the opposition’s oldest team member, a local farm worker who had been bowling the slowest medium pace deliveries for at least half a century. Slow they may have been, but they were always accurate; hit it and the ball would invariably be dismissed to the boundary, miss it and it would be the batsman crossing the boundary rope. And that is precisely what happened to Harry. Ninety-seven not out and going for a big one he suffered the humiliation of having his middle stump knocked backwards very gently and off the players came, the Guns all out for 233, a more than respectable total, which they were confident could be defended. The members of the Beaters team formed a guard of honour to see the gamekeeper off and into the pavilion, which had been emptied of spectators to give both teams a modicum of peace and space, before trooping in behind him to take their places at the dining table for what many considered to be the best moment of the day – tea.

  Three

  The tea had been every bit as good as all the previous ones he had enjoyed at Stottenden, thought Tolstoy. Elspeth, refusing his offer of help with the transporting of food and drink, had brought back two huge plates, one piled high with assorted sandwiches and the other groaning with a veritable mountain of cakes. She had then returned to the pavilion for the cups of tea. Consumption was duly completed and, thus sated, relaxed and pleasantly warm, Tolstoy finally gave in to the tiredness that was sweeping over him in waves. Cautiously he leaned back in the deckchair and closed his eyes. The chink of crockery, the clatter of cutlery, the chatter of different conversations around him and the return of the players to the centre of the action faded gradually into the background. He slipped gently into the arms of Morpheus and dozed.

  ‘Warren, darling!’ Elspeth de Groot called softly, while simultaneously shaking him very gently. ‘Tolstoy, wake up.’ His eyelids flickered initially as he slowly returned to consciousness. Finally he opened his eyes. ‘Sorry, I must have dozed off.’

  He looked up at Elspeth and saw that she had someone with her. A female someone. Tolstoy, ever mindful of his manners, struggled to leave the deckchair, almost over-balancing before achieving verticality. As he drew himself to his full height of 6ft 1in he found himself face to face with the chestnut-haired beauty on whose tresses he had inadvertently trodden on his way around the ground. He blushed again. Considered a further apology. Rejected the idea because of the explanations it would entail to his godfather and Elspeth, and instead stared dumbly at the young woman.

  A smiling Elspeth said, ‘Tolstoy, may I introduce Henrietta Charles, the daughter of some dear friends.’ Tolstoy tentatively proffered his hand as Elspeth explained, ‘Henry, this is Warren Pearce, Hubert’s godson. Of course, we don’t usually call him Warren, because, for obvious reasons, everyone feels his nickname is a lot more fun to use.’ As Tolstoy’s slightly sweaty hand encountered the cool, smooth surface of Henrietta’s right hand for a surprisingly firm shake, he felt himself blushing even more deeply, and he became aware that his heart was beating
loudly enough for everyone around to hear.

  He muttered, or more correctly, croaked, a lame ‘How do you do?’ before subsiding into embarrassed silence. Henrietta, for her part, seemed content to let a blanket of disinterest cloak any response from her, and conversation between them consequently stalled before it could really get started.

  Elspeth, not one given to unnecessary chitchat, found herself trying to build a conversational bridge between the two. ‘We haven’t seen Tolstoy in ages, he used to be here most summers, but now, what with work, things seem to get in the way of visits to Kent. Do you get down to Kent regularly, Henry?’

  ‘Mmmm? Oh, sorry, not as much as Mummy and Daddy would like me to, but often enough for me.’

  Tolstoy found himself gazing at Henrietta and inhaling her perfume as if it were life-sustaining oxygen. She was stunning. He was smitten.

  He was also unable to form any thoughts, let alone words, that might detain Henrietta in conversation for a lifetime or two. What thoughts that did fill his head were hardly suitable for voicing to anyone anywhere at any time. And especially not Henrietta Charles. Certainly not after what he had done with one of his size 13 feet. Elspeth tried again. ‘Are you down for the day, or the weekend?’

  Henrietta, who had been looking over Tolstoy’s left shoulder at someone or something that evidently held a great deal more interest than did this stick-thin dullard standing before her, was slow to reply.

  ‘Um, the weekend,’ she said, in a distant voice.

  ‘So’s Tolstoy, aren’t you, darling?’

  He nodded. At that very instant a sentence occurred to him. One that he could direct at Henrietta. First though he had to let the words fall into a semblance of order. Unfortunately, by the time they did, and he had just about engaged voice to brain, Henrietta was announcing, ‘Oh, there’s someone I simply must speak to. Nice to have met you’ [to Tolstoy]. ‘Sorry, catch up later’ [to Elspeth]. And off she went. Tolstoy followed her progress as she made her way back through the throng of people. She did it so gracefully, he thought. She moved like an athlete, or a dancer, a ballerina. What a contrast, he thought, with himself.