by A. J. Cronin
‘Don’t be an ass, Carroll,’ said Miss Greville encouragingly.
I stiffened my shaking knees, determined not to be an ass. More than anything I had ever longed for in my life, I wanted to have the entry to that cricket ground and I knew that if I made a fool of myself with Heston I should be returned to the nursery of the back garden.
I began to hit out at everything. For five minutes Heston continued to bowl at an easy pace, then he increased his run and bowled faster, so fast indeed that I flinched away from the crease. Now it was not a question of hitting, although I made one good hard square cut off a short ball, but of keeping my wicket intact. At the end of the half-hour Heston had knocked out my stumps only three times and I saw with satisfaction that he was sweating.
I knew that I had done well and fully expected praise or at least congratulation. But although Heston had a private talk with Miss Greville, whom he seemed to regard with favour, to me he said no more than:
‘We’ll have to teach you not to run away from the fast stuff.’
But this indication, grudging though it was, that I could continue with him was enough to raise me to the heights. On the way home the Dursley-Petersen seemed to soar. Arrived, I rushed upstairs.
‘Mother, Heston’s taken me. Not counting the full toss he only bowled me twice.’ I considered myself justified in subtracting one I had played on to my wicket.
She had just come in and, still in her outdoor clothes, was beginning to make our tea. She looked even more pleased than I had expected. Amongst her other anxieties she had been worrying about the summer holidays and what she should do with me during the long two months of the school vacation, a situation complicated by the certainty in her mind that we could not afford to go away for a change of air.
‘So you can go to Willow Park in the holidays?’
‘Yes,’ I said boastfully, and with unutterable selfishness. ‘You’ll not see much of me, Mother. I mean to go there every day.’
Chapter Sixteen
The summer was unusually fine. The long, sunny days diffused a golden light. In the boundary wood of the cricket field honeysuckle flourished, twining wild over bush and hedgerow, and whenever I drew near to Willow Park the scent intoxicated me with the promise of the afternoon.
By some further quite unrecognized personal economies Mother had bought me in Ardfillan a second-hand Raleigh bicycle that gave the impression of being almost new. From Winton one evening she brought and unwrapped a parcel containing white flannels, a navy blazer and a blue and white cricket belt with a silvered snake clasp. Alone in my bedroom I tried on this rigout and studied myself carefully in the looking-glass—Miss Greville had instructed me never to say ‘ mirror’. I decided that my general aspect was that of a cricketer, and although hitherto I had entertained grave doubts of my own appearance, often wondering how two such handsome parents could have had so insignificant a child, regretting especially the green colour of my eyes even to the point of discovering in Pears’ Cyclopaedia that this almost invariably was the unhappy fate of offspring of blue and brown-eyed parentage—despite all this I was rather taken with this unusual reflection of myself. Did my eyes look a trifle less green, picking up the shade of the blazer and tending rather towards blue? Perhaps not, but I had grown a bit in a straight sort of way, my hair was a soft russet brown, and I had at least inherited my father’s fresh complexion and sound white teeth.
Was it this new look that falsely established my status at Willow Park, that select preserve of affluence and snobbery? More likely my sponsorship saved me from being regarded, and possibly discarded, as an interloper. Despite her eccentricities Miss Greville had a definite status in the town. Amongst the members of the club I passed as a visitor, staying with her, perhaps her nephew, for the holidays. The keenness with which I fielded and made catches won an approval that sanctioned this view.
With the Beechfield boys my situation was more critical. Many of these boys, whose parents were stationed with the army in India or elsewhere in what was then proudly referred to as the Empire, remained at the school during the holidays, and there were others living in Ardfillan, notably the boy called Scott-Hamilton, whose pad I had worn, and his younger brother, who came often to the ground for a scratch game. At first their attitude was stony, but one day, after I had held a particularly hot return, Scott-Hamilton, a strong tall boy of thirteen who was captain of the Beechfield eleven and like myself, a cricket maniac, lounged over with his brother.
‘Would you care to join us in a game? You’re here for the holidays with your aunt, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘By the way, what school are you at?’
This was a question I had long anticipated and to which, with premeditated cunning, I had prepared the answer, knowing that if in effect I had admitted to attending my unspeakable little school in Clay Street I would be damned and cast off on the spot.
‘I have a tutor,’ I lied calmly, yet excusing myself with the thought that after all, Miss Greville, if not my aunt, was a sort of tutor.
‘Oh, I say,’ said Scott-Hamilton in a tone of sympathy. ‘Have you been ill?’
‘Chest.’ I tapped my ribs in an offhand manner.
‘Hard cheese!’ murmured the younger brother.
‘Anyhow, it hasn’t jolly well interfered with your cricket,’ said Scott-Hamilton. ‘ Let’s pick sides.’
I breathed again. It had come off. I was accepted.
Heston, of course, could have given me away. But beyond the fact that I often came down in the mornings to help him with the roller, mark the crease, or put up a new net, Heston was on my side of the fence. The sense of equality between the amateur and the professional that developed half a century later was then not even dreamed of, and Heston’s position was that of a paid servant who must inveterately ‘sir’ his masters and be subject to their command and abuse: ‘ Heston, blanco my boots, will you?’ or, ‘Heston, give me half a dozen on the off side.’ ‘ Damn it, Heston, where the devil have you hidden my sweater?’ But Heston, if he suffered, was imperturbable, the most impassive man I had ever known. He had just failed to get his Hampshire county cap and, coming north to coach, had married the very pretty young waitress who served the teas at Willow Park. They had a baby girl, he was provided with a cottage and a garden, his home life was happy. Beneath that unconcerned exterior, I felt that he thoroughly despised the snobbery and ‘ side’ of his employers, some of whom, at least the newly rich, had all the affectations of the parvenu.
All that summer I played cricket with the Beechfield boys, in whose companionship the sweet sound of bat on ball became sweeter still. At last I had friends, the kind of boys I had always wanted as my intimates. The sun burned me a deep Indian red, real muscles appeared on my arms and legs, I had never felt or played better. Most delicious of all, an achievement beyond my wildest dreams, was the patronage, verging on friendship, with which the elder Scott-Hamilton, my senior by three years, had come to favour me. Friendship existed on my side, a longing for affection and companionship, but it was never returned in kind. He had a code of casual, superior, slightly bored indifference that must never be infringed. His favourite epithet of disparagement was the word ‘toad’. Demonstrativeness or gaucherie of any kind was met by: ‘Don’t be a toad, toad.’ He repeatedly enjoined all of us not to be toads.
Inevitably, there were dangerous moments, but I carried everything before me. Miss Greville, who from the first failed to esteem my cricketing belt with the snake clasp, had suggested a more stylish support for my trousers, and to this end she gave me an old tie of her brother’s—after his death a great many of his belongings had been returned to her.
‘I say,’ commented the younger Scott-Hamilton, who was more impressionable than his brother, ‘Carroll’s sporting an old E. tie.’
I then elaborated further, ignoring Spion Kop but bringing in Kenya, creating relations, all with a fertility of imagination and an offhand use of Beechfield slang that quite startled me.
Was I a snob? No. I was elevated far above myself. But most of these boys boasted, arrogantly and quite naturally, Douglas bragging of his father’s steam yacht, a yellow-funnelled monster that lay in the Gareloch, and young Colquhoun never failing to remind us that his parents kept fifteen servants in Bengal. I had nothing to boast of, so instead of exaggerating, I invented. But all that I said and did was defensive, the fervent, ridiculous and pathetic expression of a lifelong longing for social acceptance and equality.
I could not bear to think that autumn would bring the cessation of my joys, yet as the season drew to a close that sting was palliated by the thought of the final game, the traditional annual fixture between the boys coached by Heston and the second eleven of the club. Scott-Hamilton had picked our side: ten Beechfield boys and myself. True, I was last man on the list, but that did not seem to matter. I was in the eleven. From now on, as the afternoons drew in to early dusk, our practice at the nets became intensive. Although his attitude was casual, verging between boredom and a kind of sleepy indifference, I knew that Scott, as I now called him, wanted desperately to win this match. Not only was this his last year at Beechfield before going to Fettes, he had a special animus, amounting to a vendetta, against one of the Beechfield masters, Cunningham by name, a ‘complete outsider’, according to Scott, with no chin and buck teeth, who was captain of the club eleven.
Chapter Seventeen
The morning of the match was crisp and sunny with only a faint autumnal haze, which gave promise of a fine still day. It was of course a single-innings game, and was due to start at eleven o’clock. To my sorrow, Miss Greville was debarred from seeing me perform by an engagement at the vicarage where Mr Lesly, with extremely bad taste, had chosen this particular day for St Jude’s annual garden party. Yet, in a way, I felt slightly relieved at this enforced absence of my ‘aunt’, since there was always the horrid possibility that one or other of her more outspoken observations might expose the true nature of our relationship. It was enough that I carried her good wishes with me as, at ten o’clock, I set out for the club ground.
Now the game of cricket is presumably not a matter of passionate interest for every reader of this book, nevertheless this particular match was an exciting one, and since its upshot proved even more memorable, I must briefly describe it.
A coin was spun in front of the pavilion and Cunningham, having won the toss, elected to bat first. Our opponents, with a jocularity that we found offensive, were prepared to treat us lightly. They began by offering catches in the deep field which to their surprise we accepted. When they settled down to be serious it was a different matter. But our bowling was steady. Douglas, son of the yachtsman, had a particularly deceptive off break, and our fielding, of the swift dash and one-handed-pick-up variety, kept the score down, besides bringing frequent bursts of hand clapping from the spectators. Although Cunningham, unfortunately, carried his bat for fifty-seven, which included eleven boundary hits, they were all out just after one o’clock for a hundred and thirty-nine.
Mrs Heston had provided an excellent buffet lunch which was taken standing up, people moving about with plates of chicken salad and cold veal pie, in a general air of heartiness. All my running had made me extremely hot so that I did not feel up to eating much which, in view of the excellent fare, was rather a pity. But I had a ham sandwich and several glasses of lemon squash. As I went up for my final squash Mrs Heston, who must have known of me from her husband, said in my ear:
‘I do wish you a good knock, Laurence.’
After the luncheon interval it was our turn to bat. Scott, a first-class batsman and good all-rounder, had bowled without change at one end. Now, with Bethune, he went in to open our innings. How I admired as he walked elegantly to the wicket and calmly took centre. He played the first over confidently, scoring two off the last ball.
Seated on the pavilion veranda with the others, applauding that strong, clean, cover drive, I felt a rising hope—despite Mrs Heston’s good wishes—that I should not have to go in. Although in my usual fashion I had built extravagantly on a spectacular performance, now that deeds might be demanded of me, the prospect of that lonely walk to the wicket had begun to intimidate me. Thus far, while I had made no catches, I had fielded extremely well. My reputation might rest on that with safety. Bethune, having taken middle and leg, was now set to receive an over from Cunningham who, taking an alarmingly long run, delivered his first ball. Fast and well pitched up, it knocked out Bethune’s middle stump. One out, and only two on the scoreboard—it was a shock.
When Bethune returned, to averted glances, while I entered a painful nought in my scoring card—which I have retained to this day—Colquhoun followed. Next to Scott he was our soundest bat, one who could be relied upon to stay. Unfortunately, on this occasion, he remained for a bare ten minutes and a stodgy nine. The next batsman’s effort was equally short and even more uneventful. He contributed three. A chill air of despondency had now settled on the veranda bench. My agitation was increasing by the minute. Once the rot started the sorrowful procession continued and was held up only by Hailey, our wicketkeeper, who made a solid ten, all singles, before being caught and bowled by Cunningham. A final, momentary respite was provided by Douglas, the spin bowler who, hitting out at everything, scored fourteen including three wild but valuable boundaries that sailed over second slip’s head.
When Douglas left, out to a catch at long leg the score, aided by some kindly extras, stood at no more than ninety-two for eight wickets, of which Scott-Hamilton had made forty-six. And I now shivered as the younger Scott-Hamilton, who immediately preceded me on the batting order, went swaggering out to the pitch in a manner that made me envy his cheek. There was a good deal of the clown in Harry, he liked to raise a laugh even if against himself. On this occasion he succeeded. After taking guard in exaggerated fashion he walked up and down patting imaginary imperfections in the bone-dry pitch. Having succeeded in amusing the spectators, who as the afternoon wore on had grown in number, he took guard again and faced the bowler. The ball was a slow leg break. Harry turned to pull it to leg, missed his footing and sat down on his wicket. The result was an enormous shout of laughter in which, irresistibly, even the fielders joined. So in this atmosphere of hilarity I would have to go in. My pads were already on. With a frightful hollow in my stomach I put my bat under my arm and stumbled down the wooden steps of the pavilion into that wide green arena.
Scott came to meet me halfway to the wicket. Pale with anger and disappointment he greeted me with a string of scarifying bad words.
‘The bowling is absolute blank, blank tosh. These blank, blank toads have simply got themselves out. Just keep your blank end up and let me do the scoring.’
These profane injunctions did little to fortify me. I was so wretchedly nervous when I went to the wicket that I forgot to take guard. The game had degenerated into farce and in the interests of cricket must be terminated at once by my dismissal. The first ball shaved my wicket, the second hit me a sad crack on the elbow. It was then the end of the over.
While the field changed, Heston, who was umpiring at my end, strolled towards me, hands in the pockets of his long white coat.
‘Straight bat,’ he said mildly. ‘Don’t run away from them.’
In the events that followed Scott-Hamilton was the hero, I merely the accessory to the fact. It is enough to report simply and briefly that, with incredible good fortune, I stayed there for more than three-quarters of an hour, surviving by the skin of my teeth, while Scott hit up another thirty-one runs. His score was seventy-seven, my total no more than a miserable seventeen, but beyond keeping my wicket intact I had one moment of glory, when, off what proved to be the last ball of the match, I ventured on a square cut that somehow sped past cover point then trickled to the boundary. I did not realize that it was the winning hit until I saw Scott waiting for me to walk to the pavilion.
In the pavilion, as we took off our pads, he brushed off all congratulations.
‘I neve
r believed I would have the misfortune to know such a blank collection of blankety toads. You, Harry, were the toadiest of the lot. Lucky there was one toad,’ he announced, ‘who wasn’t altogether toadish.’ Then turning to me: ‘You’ll come home to tea with me, won’t you, Carroll?’
The invitation went to my head like wine. This was the final accolade, an honour and an intimacy I had never hoped, to attain. My powers in the game had already raised me well above myself. Now I floated, disembodied, an elected member of the élite.
When we had changed we set out, Scott, Harry and I, sauntering towards their house, which stood quite near, in a secluded position, behind the wood. On the way over we discussed the match, Harry with his usual sense of fun, Scott mockingly amused at Mr Cunningham’s discomfiture. To me the master had not appeared at all upset at the defeat of his side, rather the contrary, and apart from his unfortunate teeth he seemed a genuinely nice sort of man. He had clapped me heartily on the back and said ‘Well played’ as we came off the field. But it was enough that for reasons of his own Scott detested him. Strolling along easily in my new-found arrogance I derided the unhappy Cunningham, inventing comic names for him, of which one, ‘Rabbit Teeth’, won approval. Scott said that it would stick.
The grounds of the house were imposingly large. We went along an avenue of chestnut trees that revealed a paddock on one side and distantly on the other the fruit and vegetable garden, where two men were working, and beyond which I made out an inviting row of glasshouses. A shrubbery and a rock garden appeared next before finally we came to the house, a half-timbered mansion draped in virginia creeper, fronting a wide stretch of lawn flanked by twin herbaceous borders.
A woman, tall, thin, with greying hair and a distinguished look, was crossing the lawn as we approached. She was wearing gardening gloves and carried a trug in which lay a profusion of full-blown roses.
