Anna Martin's British Boys Box Set: My Prince - The Impossible Boy - Cricket

by Anna Martin

  “Yeah. Like I said, we went to school together. It’s the only reason I go to this church. Paul being there makes it slightly more bearable.”

  “This is fucking crazy,” Henry muttered.

  Ryan snorted. “Look, he went to university. He has a master’s degree in theology. He has spent the past decade dedicating himself to both study and prayer. If nothing else, you have to admire his devotion.”

  “Is he homophobic?” Henry demanded.

  “Not at all,” Ryan said. “I promise you now, that man knows more about scripture than you and I combined. He can preach for days on the inconsistencies in the Bible. He doesn’t gloss over them, or pretend they’re not there, because it’s clear to anyone with half a brain what they are and where they are. He did this sermon once about how the Bible has been changed over time—bits have been chopped out and changed and rewritten. He says his job is to find the meaning behind the text, find the truth and the faith in it, and preach that.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t religious.”

  “I’m agnostic,” Ryan said, signalling to turn back into the main part of the village. “All I’m saying is, you don’t need to worry about Paul starting a lynch mob to burn you at the stake for being gay. He’s not that type of man. Give him a chance.”

  Henry was silent.

  “That,” Ryan added, “and he’s my friend. We play cricket together, and he will definitely buy a round at the pub.”

  Despite himself, Henry laughed.

  “Okay,” he said. “Okay, I’ll give him a chance.”

  They headed straight for the Dog and Duck and parked in the small car park at the back. There was a beer garden back here too: a fairly small area, with a clutter of picnic benches under bright red and white umbrellas. Further back, away from the road, there was a children’s play area—a huge adventure playground type thing, complete with a drawbridge, slides, a rope swing that looked enticingly dangerous, a climbing net, and several levels and turrets to explore. There was also a swing set, the entire area full of soft wood chips to minimise any potential injuries.

  Sundays at the pub were busy, partly due to the quality of the roast dinners, partly because it was one of the hubs of civilisation in the village. With a dozen or so children crawling over the playground, Henry was fairly certain the pub inside would be packed too.

  Henry was quickly learning that being by Ryan’s side afforded him certain privileges. Ryan could, and would, pop behind the bar to pour himself a pint. It usually earned him a swat round the ear from his sister, but she didn’t seem to mind too much. He also seemed to be able to command a table somewhere to sit down and eat, even when the pub was full.

  Fortunately, there was no need to steal anyone else’s seat. Despite the number of children in the playground, their parents were sitting outside in the insipid sunshine watching them, freeing up space in the dining area.

  Henry grabbed a corner booth just as another group was vacating it and pulled out his phone to send a quick text to Shenal while Ryan got the drinks. After a few more visits to the pub, Henry had found first a tolerance, then an appreciation that was threatening to spill over into an obsession, for the local ciders. Sure, they were potent, but he was going to eat dinner, so he felt less guilty for drinking in the middle of the day.

  “I sent Shenal a text,” Henry said as Ryan slid a pint toward him over the table. “I don’t think she was doing anything today, so she might want to join us.”

  Ryan nodded. “Okay, cool. I won’t order until Paul gets here, anyway.”

  “Will he be long?”

  The smell of roast beef was wafting enticingly from the kitchens, and, having missed breakfast, he was suddenly starving.

  “Shouldn’t be. He has to lock up the church once all the little old grannies have left, but he’ll come over then.”

  “Hey,” Henry said teasingly, “That’s my little old granny you’re talking about.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” Ryan said, touching the imaginary brim to his hat and thickening his accent even further. “Don’t mean any ’arm by it, sir.”

  “Shut up.”

  Shenal and Paul arrived at almost the same time, although from opposite doors, and for a moment Henry wondered if they’d ever met before. Apparently not.

  Finding himself in the middle of a round of awkward, laughing introductions, Henry managed to get the two acquainted as Ryan ambled off to the kitchen to put their order in, effectively skipping the line of people at the bar who were waiting to do the same thing. No one seemed to notice, or care, that Ryan was blatantly abusing his position as the pub landlady’s brother to get his lunch quicker than everyone else.

  “How do you know Henry, then?” Paul asked Shenal as Henry sat back in the booth.

  She rolled her eyes and laughed. “It’s a bit of a long story, actually. I’m his great-grandmother’s solicitor.”

  “Oh.”

  “Nell hired Shenal, who hired an investigator to track me down in New York,” Henry offered. “She’s helping us both out with the house and the estate.”

  “I keep meaning to come down and see what you’re doing,” Paul said. “I’ve heard quite a lot along the grapevine.”

  “It’s slow going,” Henry admitted. “But it’ll get there. Give us time.”

  Shenal glanced over to the bar, which was marginally less busy than it was when they walked in.

  “Let me get a round in,” Paul said hurriedly, his eyes following the direction of hers.

  “Oh, you don’t have to—”

  “No, I want to. What are you drinking?”

  “Pint of Gold,” Henry said.

  “Same, please.”

  If he was surprised, Paul didn’t show it. “No problem.”

  “Ryan will have the same,” Henry called after him, then turned to Shenal with a gleam in his eye. “He likes you.”

  “What?” Shenal said, flustered. “Shut up.”

  “No, seriously! He likes you. I can tell.”

  “You’re talking crap, Henry,” she said, seemingly unconsciously smoothing down the light fabric of her shirt. She was wearing jeans, which was unusual, and sparkly flip-flops the same colour as her indigo shirt. With her hair loose in a glossy slick down her back, Henry thought she looked more “off duty” than she did during the week, and guessed she hadn’t planned on leaving the house when she got his text.

  From the little he knew of her father, Mr. Gupta didn’t approve of much his youngest daughter got up to, and studiously ignored most of it. Consequently, she was treated vastly differently than her elder sisters had been when they were younger, although by her age they were both already married.

  Since his mind had wandered to the topic of Shenal’s family, Henry decided to chase a few more answers down.

  “So, you’re the youngest of five kids?” he said.

  “Yeah,” Shenal said. “My eldest brother is fourteen years older than me.”

  “Wow. And have you lived here all your life?”

  “All my life, yes. My parents moved here just before I was born. My mum didn’t want to raise another child in London. Both my brothers live back there now. One of my sisters is in Manchester, and the other lives about ten miles from here.”

  Ryan returned from the kitchen and slid back into the booth next to Henry.

  “It’ll be about twenty minutes,” he said. Henry hummed in response.

  “Are you close to your brothers and sisters?” he continued. “I’m an only child. I’ve always been sort of fascinated by big families.”

  “We’re sort of close,” Shenal said. “I suppose the age gap affects us. I mean, the next youngest in the family is Anjali, and she’s nine years older than me. I was a surprise.”

  “I was the heir.”

  Shenal laughed. “I don’t know which is worse.”

  “My mother never wanted children. My father just wanted a son so he could name me Henry Richardson III.”

  Elbowing him in the ribs
, Ryan chimed in, “Do you ever use the ‘third’ bit?”

  “Oh, fuck no,” Henry laughed. “I hate it. I mean, I only just found out that I was named for Nell’s son, and I think that’s cool but slightly weird. I still can’t get over the fact that I’ve had this great-grandmother all this time and never knew about her. My dad would sometimes talk about how his father had emigrated from England, but I never thought that we had any living relatives here.”

  “What about your mother?” Shenal asked.

  “She’s a difficult woman,” Henry said carefully. “I love her, of course, but like I said, she never really wanted children. Then when I came along she developed this obsession, of sorts, about keeping me safe. So I wasn’t allowed to do things like summer camp or anything she considered dangerous. She wanted to keep me close so she could keep an eye on me.”

  “That must have been tough.”

  “It made being independent quite hard, yeah. I went to college in New York just so I could be close to home, and because they promised to fund it for me as long as I didn’t move out of the city. Which was fine by me, I mean, it’s cliché, but I love New York. Staying there wasn’t an issue.”

  Paul returned carrying a tray that held their drinks and distributed them around the table. He ended up next to Shenal, and Henry smirked to himself.

  “We were just discussing our parents,” Henry said, filling him in.

  “Ah.”

  A handful of children and a large dog tore through the pub at a ridiculous speed, falling over each other in their rush to find their respective owners.

  “I can’t get used to how you allow kids in bars over here,” Henry said, shaking his head as the adults dished out packets of crisps to the children, who headed straight back outside.

  Ryan shrugged. “Some places don’t let children in. Here, though, it makes sense to. There’s space outside for the kids to play. The parents come in here and will stay all afternoon. Everyone’s happy.”

  As Henry took a long pull on his drink, he heard Ryan’s name yelled at the pitch and tone which suggested another child had entered the building. Ryan looked up, beaming.

  A young boy struggled out of his father’s arms and toddled across the room, straight into Ryan’s arms as he was swept up, the both whooping.

  “Hey, Jack Jack,” Ryan said. “Come meet my friends.”

  “Okay,” the little boy said happily.

  With the child on his hip, Ryan slid back into the booth. “You know Uncle Paul, right?”

  “Hiya!”

  “And this is Henry, and Shenal.”

  “Hiya!”

  “He doesn’t say much else yet,” a tall man said, the one Henry had presumed to be Jack Jack’s father. “He’s a bit of a slow talker.”

  Ryan laughed. “Just wait. He won’t stop talking soon. Guys, this is Andy, Stella’s boyfriend.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  Ryan went round the introductions again, bouncing the little boy as he did. Henry watched and formed impressions. Andy was clearly a tradesman. He had the strong, built look that came from physical labour, tanned skin, hair bleached by the sun. He was attractive in a rugged sort of way—and why was it that nearly all the guys in this little corner of the world looked rugged? Not that Henry was complaining.

  “Stella’s out back,” Ryan offered as Andy took his son back. “If you go out there, tell her I’m starving.”

  “Not doing that,” Andy said. “I like my balls where they are, thank you very much.”

  “That’s your nephew?” Paul asked Ryan as Andy pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe something from Jack’s face.

  “Yeah,” Ryan said. “Crazy little fucker, but I love him to bits.”

  “He looks more like Stella than Andy.”

  “Of course,” Ryan said and winked. “He was intelligent enough to grab hold of those good-looking genes.”

  “Right,” Andy said, “let’s go find Mummy, shall we? And tell her to not give Uncle Ryan any roasties at all.”

  Ryan pulled a face at Andy’s back as Jack looked over his dad’s shoulder and waved, his little fist clenching and unclenching as he grinned at them.

  Leaning in close, Henry whispered in Ryan’s ear, “Roastie?”

  He felt Ryan’s smile as the other man turned to whisper back: “Roast potatoes.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  They were interrupted by the arrival of their lunch, four enormous plates of beef, potatoes, stacks of vegetables. A jug of rich gravy was placed in the middle of the table, along with a variety of mustards, salt, and pepper.

  “Thanks, love,” Ryan said to their server.

  “This looks fucking awesome,” Shenal said as she poured the gravy over her meal with a generous hand.

  “My veggies,” Ryan said. “Beef from down the road.”

  “Something to be said for local food,” Paul said. “Pass the salt.”

  Henry was used to his mother’s substantial servings, but this was above what even she would put in front of him. He poked with his knife at a round, golden, doughy… thing and leaned into Ryan again.

  “What’s that?”

  “Yorkshire pudding,” Ryan said with his mouth full of meat. “Eat it, it’s good.”

  As much as he was reluctant to admit it, it was good, although possibly one of the most carb-laden things he’d ever eaten. Then again, everything was good. Stella apparently roasted her carrots and parsnips with honey, served shredded cabbage with pancetta bacon, and put mint in with the peas. The potatoes were enormous, green beans sharp and soft. The beef was perfectly cooked (just slightly pink in the middle), and the gravy, fuck, the gravy.

  It took a serious amount of restraint not to lick his plate when he was done.

  “That,” Henry said, tossing his paper napkin onto the empty plate, “is possibly the best thing I have ever eaten in my entire life.” He paused. “Ever.”

  Ryan looked up from his task of mournfully trying to scrape the last of the gravy out of the jug with his last scrap of Yorkshire pudding and licked his thumb.

  “It’s not bad,” he said. “I hope she does lamb next week.”

  “Put in a request,” Shenal said. “You’re her brother. She might listen to you.”

  “I’m her brother, which is why she doesn’t listen to me,” Ryan countered.

  Their plates were cleared. Then their server came back with a blackboard. “Do you want to look at the puddings?”

  “I want to look at them,” Paul said. “I don’t want one to come anywhere near me. I’m going to be working that off for a week as it is.”

  “Do they have spotted dick?” Henry whispered to Ryan, this being the only English dessert he had any desire to try.

  “Not unless you’ve got a problem down there,” he whispered back. Then, in a more regular volume, “Just crumbles today, looks like.”

  “Ah well. Another time.”

  “So,” Ryan said decisively, slapping his hands down on the now-clear table. “Cricket season is just about starting up. Are you playing this year?”

  “Stick me on the reserves,” Paul said. “I’ve got a job that interferes with Sunday matches, unfortunately.”

  “Rumour has it that we’re not playing Sunday matches this year,” Ryan said. “It’s going to be Wednesday nights and Saturdays.”

  “Youth club on a Wednesday night.”

  “Fuck’s sake,” Ryan exclaimed. “Come on, mate. Be a bit flexible. Do the youth club on a Thursday. Go fucking wild.”

  “The WI meet on a Thursday. I need to be there to give them access to the hall.”

  “WI?” Henry asked.

  “Women’s Institute,” Paul offered. “Bunch of middle-aged women who sit around crocheting things and drinking tea. The whole Church of England has a very strong connection with tea.”

  Shenal downed her pint and grinned at Henry. “Henry could play,” she said innocently.

  “Henry could do what now?” Henry asked.

&nb
sp; “Do you know what cricket is?” Ryan asked, a soft note of teasing in his voice.

  “Cricket?”

  “It’s a game.”

  “Okay, cricket the game, not cricket the chirpy little bug. Yeah, I’ve heard of it.”

  When they laughed, with him, he was pretty sure, not at him, he felt a sudden rush of affection for these people. They were probably his friends. That was a good thing.

  “I play for the village cricket team,” Ryan said. “Opening batsman.”

  “Am I supposed to know what that means?” Henry asked, propping his chin on his hand, his elbow on the table.

  “It means I go first. When they throw the ball, I hit it with the bat.”

  “Oh! We have that in New York too,” Henry said, taking his turn to do the teasing. “It’s a more civilised sport. We call it baseball.”

  “Civilised?” Shenal said, scandalised. “Oh no. Ohh no. You’ve done it now.”

  “Done what?” Henry asked.

  “You’re in. Just so we can prove a point,” she said.

  “To play cricket?”

  “Yup.”

  “Oh, no I’m not.”

  “I think you are,” Paul said, grinning too.

  “I don’t know the first thing about cricket.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Ryan said. “It’s only twenty-twenty. You’ll pick it up soon enough.”

  “Twenty-twenty? Seriously, guys, you’re killing me here.”

  Shenal leaned forward and caught him in an intense stare.

  “You listening?” she demanded.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “In twenty-twenty cricket, each team plays one innings. That means—”

  “I know what that means,” Henry interrupted. “You play an inning in baseball.”

  “Good. Don’t interrupt me. Each innings consists of twenty overs, hence, twenty-twenty, got it?”

  “Yup. What’s an over?”

  “Getting there. An over consists of six balls bowled towards the batsman for the opposing team. Twenty lots of six balls, then they swap.”

  “Got it. How do you score?”

  While Shenal and Henry traded tense, snappy sentences, Ryan and Paul watched in fascination.

  “You can score runs in two ways. One”—she counted off on her fingers—“by literally running from one end of the playing area to the other. Two, if the ball you’ve hit reaches the boundary of the field and it’s touched the ground, you score four points. If it clears the boundary without touching the ground you score six.”