by D J O'Leary
‘We think, on the side of right,’ said Elspeth, firmly. ‘Once these documents have been proved to be genuine, we would then be in a position to challenge Jack Bentley to have his set of papers authenticated, independently,’ she stressed the last word.
‘Hmm, this could make for some interesting times ahead,’ said the colonel. ‘I must say I should like to be there when old Jack hears about these documents. It will probably have him spluttering into one of his late-landed cognacs. I wonder if his documents were drawn up around the same time. That would create a few problems for everyone. Well, no point in speculating. We shall all soon know, one way or the other. I take it someone, one of you presumably, will let me know the upshot of the authentication of these documents when you hear from Kate?’
‘Of course,’ said Elspeth. ‘I shall ring you the second we find out.’
‘And if it’s good news,’ suggested Miriam, ‘perhaps we could organise some sort of celebration to follow at a later date. Maybe in the Snitcher’s Head?’
‘Or here,’ countered Elspeth. ‘After all, the documents belong here, and so will the land, if they are genuine pieces of paper.’
‘Yes, you’re right. It would be far more appropriate to hold any sort of celebration here at Stottenden Manor,’ conceded Miriam.
The colonel chipped in. ‘Well, I think it’s better not to get too far ahead of ourselves, after all we still don’t know if the documents are genuine. But I agree, some sort of village celebration here would be perfect.’ Miriam brought the conversation back to more mundane matters. ‘I have to say these canapés are absolutely wonderful. They really are terribly good. I’m terrible at making this sort of thing. I always struggle with anything foreign or fancy.’
‘We have Henrietta to thank for these deliciously tasty morsels,’ said Elspeth, dismissing her own contribution to the evening’s nibbles. ‘This wonderful young woman has clearly given up most of her day off to produce these stunning mouthfuls.’ More canapés were passed around, more sips of drink taken, and more casual chitchat was enjoyed. Until finally, with Elspeth beginning to glance with increasing frequency at her watch, the colonel and his wife got the message that it was time to go. Tolstoy went out to the cloakroom and gathered up their coats and hats, before handing them out. Finally, the pair of them were ready to brave the chilly evening and they departed.
Tolstoy returned to the library and asked Kate if she felt like joining them at the Vine, but, after thanking him for the invitation, she said she had other things on and so would have to give it a miss, but wished them bon appétit. She then got up from her chair, made her way over to the desk and picked up the envelope, now safely in its folder, tucked it under her left arm and made her way towards the library door. Tolstoy leaped to his feet and took her by the arm to steer her into the hall. ‘Thank you so much for sorting this out, and so quickly and efficiently, Kate. I really appreciate it. As Elspeth said earlier, I imagined the authentication taking ages. As it is, we may well know the fate of the Buttercup Field by this time next week. It’s fantastic of you to help out in this way.’
‘I’ll let you know the moment Wayne has any news. In fact, I shall get him to call me when he gets himself and the documents safely back to his place tomorrow. And you’re right, it really is exciting.’ Tolstoy helped her on with her coat and, with a final glance and smile at Tolstoy, she slipped out of the front door and was quickly lost to the darkness of the November evening.
Tolstoy remained at the open door for a few seconds, wondering if he should have arranged to see Kate over the weekend, but he just could not pluck up the courage to ask her out, as much as he wanted to. He had hoped she would agree to join them at the Vine, but it was too short notice for her, he appreciated, and after all, she did have a life of her own to lead. Slowly he closed the door and returned to the library.
Nine
Late the following morning Tolstoy wandered down to the cricket field. He had been feeling guilty for some weeks because he had been putting off the visit, and he knew he had to check things over and see what needed to be done to the outfield, the pitch and the pavilion, not to mention checking on the equipment and finding out what needed servicing and repairing. He had telephoned Bert Bryson, a cricket club member, who had also worked for the borough council as a grass cutter, with responsibilities for maintaining grass verges on all the roadsides in the area, clearing ditches on aforementioned roadsides, keeping the local cemetery tidy and, when it was called for, digging graves. He had been retired for some years, but he had now adopted the mantle of Stottenden CC’s head groundsman. And a couple of days earlier he had agreed to meet Tolstoy at the pavilion, to discuss what needed to be done over the winter.
Bert was a former player, a purveyor of handy leg spin and, in his day, an explosive and often match-winning batter. Sadly, his knees and a hip had rendered him incapable of playing a useful part in the village team, and so he had retired some dozen years earlier, but with the promise that he would take over the duties of preparing the outfield and pitch, and this he had done, to great acclaim, it had to be said. He had renovated the square, using Ongar loam. There was not a weed to be seen on the outfield, and despite the fact that he would have preferred a motorised roller, Bert had somehow managed, with the help of the heavy old manual roller, to iron out many of the irritating little ridges and kinks on both the square and the outfield that had bamboozled cricketers for years, and sent cricket balls flying over their heads, or whizzing unexpectedly to one side or the other of a fielder’s desperately flailing, outstretched hands. Bert was reliable, too. He was often to be seen during the winter months pottering about, prodding this, poking that, assessing what, if anything, needed to be done. He was already at the pavilion when Tolstoy arrived. Bert must have been examining something at the rear of the building, because, as Tolstoy approached from the Manor, the old groundsman emerged from behind the building.
He waited until Tolstoy was within hearing distance before greeting him. Tolstoy responded and by then was close enough to shake hands.
‘Bert, I’m so sorry that I haven’t had a chat with you sooner,’ said Tolstoy.
‘That’s all right, sir. No need to fret. Everything is under control ’ere.’
‘I’m glad to hear it, but I’m sure there are still things that need seeing to. I’ve had a few thoughts myself, but I wanted to hear what you have to say first. And please, call me Tolstoy, everyone does. I find “sir” a bit too daunting.’
‘Right oh, uh… Tolstoy. Well, I think we need a new shed to keep the equipment in. That lean-to at the back of the pavilion is about ready to drop. All it’ll take is a puff of wind and down she’ll come. So what I reckoned was maybe, putting up a shed, a decent-sized one, nearer the entrance from the Manor. We’d need power, light and water there, but it doesn’t ’ave to cost the earth.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ said Tolstoy. ‘Can I leave it to you to choose the shed? And do you know any electricians and plumbers who could do the necessary for water, and power?’
‘Yes, you can leave all that to me,’ said Bert, surprised that his suggestion had met with no resistance whatsoever. Not like with the old man. Old de Groot would have argued the toss, kicked up a bit of a fuss, before eventually insisting on finding the cheapest this or that. He never, ever considered anything new. So Bert thought he’d try his luck a little further, adding, ‘Also, the Road End sight screen needs some new wheels. Well actually, it wants rebuilding altogether. The base is held together with paint.’
‘Yes, I noticed that during the summer,’ said Tolstoy. ‘Is there a good carpenter in the village who could build two new sight screens, do you think?’
‘Hmm, I’ll think on that. There’s a chap in Goudhurst who might be able to take on the job, but it could turn out to be pricey.’
‘Well, we’ll see what sort of a price we’d have to pay for a ready-made one and compare it with one that is m
ade specifically to our specifications. I’ll look into that. Now, I think we could do with upgrading the spectators’ toilets, and you have actually been helpful there with your thoughts on a new shed, because I think it would be feasible to erect toilets at the rear of the pavilion. What do you reckon?’
Flattered to be consulted in this way, old Bert thumbed off his flat cap and ran a thoughtful finger through his sparse hair, before saying, ‘Is that toilets for the players as well then?’
‘No. The changing room facilities are pretty good. But the ramshackle affair on the far side of the pavilion does need a makeover or pulling down. I think the latter. We could then look into putting up some sort of building in that general area, with the drainage system – maybe instal one of those sewage treatment plants, or a septic tank – perhaps twenty-five yards or so beyond the pavilion, on the side furthest from the road. What do you think?’
‘Well, it all sounds like a lot of money to me. When do you propose to put up the new toilets?’
‘I think early spring, when the weather is better for working outdoors.’
‘Well, I can’t say as it isn’t overdue. Long overdue. I just ’ope the new toilets last as long as the old ’uns though, because these days nothing seems to last as long, does it?’
Tolstoy agreed. Then he said, ‘Just a couple more things. I’ve been thinking of getting a proper scorebox, you know, covered, with enough seating room for the two scorers and a couple of scoreboard operators. Any thoughts?’
‘Well, Tolstoy, that ’ould make for a classy club ground and no mistake. But again, cost?’
‘This will come out of my pocket. After all, I’m the numbers man for the club. I would like to present it to Stottenden in memory of Hubert. I haven’t mentioned this idea to anyone, especially not Mrs de Groot, because the idea only just came to me. So mum’s the word, but perhaps you could help research where we might obtain something like that?’
‘I’d be delighted, Tolstoy, and I think that’s a grand way to remember Mr de Groot, and indeed all ’is family.’
‘Good,’ said Tolstoy, ‘that’s settled then. Now, I think we need a proper roller. A ride-on one of around maybe, half or three-quarters of a ton. And also we need to look at the mowers. I’ve watched the ground staff at the county grounds and they use manual cylinder mowers for the pitch. We ought to follow that example. And I do think we could do better with a decent triple gang cylinder mower for the outfield, something like an Allen mower, although that would have to be second-hand, and one for which we could still obtain spare parts. The old mower we have, with just the one cutting cylinder, is nowhere near as efficient as an Allen would be. I think our present mower dates back to the 1940s, or even earlier, and I don’t think spares are that easy to get hold of. Have you any thoughts on where we might look?’
‘Well, an Allen triple gang would be ideal, manageable, and extremely efficient, but even second ’and they don’t come cheap, and finding a second ’and one could take quite a while. But councils are always auctioning plant and machinery and vehicles. It might be worth calling the borough council and seeing if they have anything going. It might be worth trying a plant hire company, although I should imagine anything from a hire company would ’ave been flogged to blazes. Or you could go to the auction at Paddock Wood. They often have those government surplus auctions there, where you can buy old police cars, Royal Mail vans and suchlike.’
‘What an excellent idea, thanks Bert, I shall certainly do that. Maybe that’s where we could pick up a roller as well?’
‘Yes, although the bigger cricket clubs and sports grounds may well ’ave something like a roller that they want to get shot of.’
‘How are you on the mechanics of mowers and rollers?’
‘Fine. Before I became a groundsman I did an apprenticeship at an agricultural and ’orticultural engineers, and they taught me everything I know. I can service anything, two-stroke, four-stroke, chain saws, mowers, chippers, stump grinders, pretty well anything. They trained me well. Unfortunately they hit a lean spell and, not long after finishing my indentures, they had to put me out to grass, so to speak.’ Bert paused and smiled at his little joke. ‘But full credit to ’em, one of the directors ’eard about the council’s scheme for training up groundstaff, put me on to it, told me to tell the council I could carry out basic maintenance on whatever machine I was put in charge of and the rest is ’istory.’
This potted autobiography made Tolstoy realise that Bert had been underused throughout his time with the cricket club. They had sent the machines away for servicing and repairs, he knew that because he had seen the numerous invoices from various engineering companies. He decided that Bert’s shed could and should be a lot larger, big enough to house the sort of equipment he would need to maintain the cricket club’s machinery. This was going to call for a longer session than he had time for today, but he would make sure he sat down with Bert sooner rather than later to work out what and how much.
‘Would you be prepared to service and repair, within reason, our equipment?’ asked Tolstoy.
‘Yes, I dare say I could do that. It’d make things a lot cheaper for the club, for a start.’
‘I want to make it clear that the club would pay you for all repair work and servicing that you carried out. As long as it will save the club some cash, and as long as you are happy to undertake the basic stuff.
‘I think we’re going to need to talk a little further about these matters,’ said Tolstoy. ‘How about we meet here next Saturday, same time. By then I should have a better idea of what we can afford, and you will be able to track down items that you think we should have. And that must include the pricing and sizing of sheds, although I think you’ll agree, we should be looking at something a little more ambitious than a large garden shed. I think we ought to have a building that will allow you to set up a work bench and store the tools you’ll need, and all that sort of thing.’
‘OK. Next Saturday’s fine by me. Eleven-thirty again?’
‘Yes. Right, I’m off to the Snitcher’s Head.’
‘Ah, so am I. I’m meeting Old Ned there for a pint. We always ’as a pint of a Saturday morning.’
‘Well, we may as well go over there together.’
The pair set off across the cricket field, passed into the Buttercup Field, straight across that to the gate that led directly onto the road. At which point Bert halted.
‘’Ello, then, what’s all this?’ He crouched down by the large gatepost to which the gate was hinged. ‘Looks like someone’s dug up the gatepost and moved it, either in or out, I can’t tell.’ Bert looked up at Tolstoy. ‘’Ave a quick look at t’other post see if any diggin’ has gone on there,’ he instructed. ‘If this post ’as been moved then t’other un ’as to ’ave been moved as well, unless the gate’s new and is a different size from the original.’
‘Nothing has been disturbed on this side,’ Tolstoy reported. ‘And the gate is the original one, I recognise some of the sets of initials carved into the top bar.’
‘Ah, I expect if you looks ’ard enough you’ll find mine and Ned’s and a few others,’ said Bert with a grin. He turned back to the post. ‘Now I wonder what’s been going on ’ere. It’s a puzzle, that’s what it is. And what’s stranger, is that I don’t recall seeing anyone working away at this, not in the last few days at any rate.’
He hauled himself to his feet, and after closing the gate, he and Tolstoy made their way across the road to the pub. Tolstoy did the honours, buying Bert, Old Ned and himself pints of bitter and cider. Then Tolstoy moved away from the bar and sought out a table. He sat down, stretched out his legs, took a long first pull at his beer, then, replacing the glass, he let out a long sigh. He reflected on the conversation with Bert and felt that the cricket club could only benefit from the old fellow’s expertise. Maybe they could find a willing apprentice among the club’s younger members, who could be tra
ined by Bert in the art of groundsmanship and agricultural mechanics. A pipe dream, he was sure, but it would be worth sounding out a few of the senior members of the club, who might just have an idea or two on that front. Perhaps even had a son, daughter or a grandchild who might be interested in helping out. Nothing like starting them early. Not that Bert was on his last legs or anything, but he might appreciate the help during the bleak winter days, and he would certainly enjoy the company. It was something to consider.He reached for his glass again and took a more modest sip, savouring it this time.
‘Hah, Warren Pearce. The very man.’ It was a plummy voice. Not one that Tolstoy thankfully had had to listen to too often, although that might be about to change.
He swivelled around and looked up at the figure of Jack Bentley. ‘Good morning, Jack. Why would I be the very man? The very man for what?’
‘The very man I want to speak to. Mind if I join you?’ Bentley had already begun to lower his ample backside onto the chair to Tolstoy’s right.
Tolstoy was peeved. He had been hoping to bump into Kate at some point, preferably here in the Snitcher’s Head, and he did not want anyone else to monopolise him in case it put Kate off coming over to speak to him.
‘I don’t know if you’ve heard,’ Bentley continued, ‘but a couple of my farm workers came up with something a couple of days ago.’
‘Oh?’ said Tolstoy. ‘What was that?’
‘A box, containing some old documents.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
Tolstoy waited, not wishing to give Bentley the satisfaction of having him ask about the significance of the documents. ‘They confirm what I had suspected all along, that Hubert’s grandfather Cornelis made a gift of the Buttercup Field to the parish council, for the use, and the betterment, of the village and its inhabitants, which I think you will agree would embrace a residential building project with affordable homes that would help to keep younger villagers in Stottenden.’