by Anna Reader
“Oh, bravo, father,” Algie cried, hugely impressed by this display.
The cricketers on the other hand were howling in dismay, and Hector looked decidedly unsteady on his oversized feet. Applesby Parva’s reputation was in tatters; a dark fate surely awaited Jago’s men if they returned home to their village drinking hole, the Dashel and Oss, and announced their defeat.
“My god,” Applesby-Parva’s spin-bowler said in disgust, shaking his head and clutching at his straw-coloured curls. “Tis the End of Days. I never thought I’d live to see it.”
“It must not stand!” Jago declared, eyeing Lord Alverstock with a mixture of admiration and loathing. “We can’t allow such a black-spot to rest upon our reputation. Marmaduke!” he cried, “come ‘ere.”
A wiry fellow with a magnificently bushy beard was suddenly thrust forwards by his team-mates, a clay pipe poking belligerently from his thin lips. “You must show this ‘ere gentleman that we can drink in Applesby Parva, and that ‘ector here is just off his oggies.”
Marmaduke scowled and his lips curled into something approaching a smirk. This, it would appear, was a signal of cooperation.
“I am of course more than willing to oblige you by competing with another of your comrades, my dear fellow,” Lord Alverstock said, still betraying not a hint of inebriation, “but are you sure it’s wise? I don’t want to make it any worse for you than it already is, you know.”
Jago ground his teeth and slammed a couple of coins on the bar. “Pour ‘em, landlord,” he said, as another member of the team began massaging Marmaduke’s shoulders, for all the world as though he were about to step into a boxing ring. Roddie cocked a doubtful eyebrow but said nothing, simply pouring another pair of pints. It was the most popular his cider had been in weeks, and he was really rather pleased by this unexpected surge in custom.
“On your marks, then,” he said in that tobacco-stained burr. “Drink!”
Marmaduke was considerably slower than Hector, but once again Lord Alverstock let the cricketers have a win, luring them into a belief their man could restore their honour. He even went so far as to miss the bar slightly when he thumped his empty pint glass down, giving the illusion of being a touch squiffy.
When it came to sinking the second pint, Lord Alverstock permitted himself another narrow victory; and by the time they had reached the third, he had expertly dismantled Marmaduke’s gruff bravado. The clay pipe trembled in the man’s uncertain lips, and his voluminous beard suddenly looked decidedly sheepish, rather than lustrous.
“Pa,” Purdie breathed in delight. “That was magnificent.”
“Terribly sorry, old boy,” Lord Alverstock said to Jago, who was just beginning to realize the enormity of what he had done; two of his best players were propping up the bar, pie-eyed and with spirits crushed, and the rest of the team were milling around in a decided funk. “It looks as though you might be a couple of players down.”
“We’ll ‘ave to forfeit,” Jago said bitterly. “The first time in twenty years Appleby Parva won’t have fielded at team at the Chettleforth ashes. And on my watch.”
“Never fear,” Algie said, stepping forwards and dragging Purdie with him. “We’d be delighted to play for you, wouldn’t we, sis?”
Jago’s eyes narrowed in profound scepticism. “A woman? Play cricket? So ‘help me God, if you’re poking fun at a man when he is in his hour of need….”
“It’s no joke, sir,” Purdie said, demonstrating a few expertly mimed strokes. “I may be a lady, but I’ll be a damned sight better than either of those two lushes.”
“She plays for Cambridge, actually,” Lord Alverstock informed the gentleman, reaching into his pocket for his cigarette case, “and is one of the best opening batsmen I’ve ever had the pleasure of watching.”
“I’m not too shabby either,” Algie added cheerfully, not in the least put out by his father’s high praise of his sister – he had always been more of a rugger man, but like any natural athlete was able to turn his hand to any sport with a tolerable degree of competence.
“It ‘aint natural,” Jago said, looking at Purdie through narrowed eyes. “I don’t believe no maid can hold a cricket bat.”
“Not only hold it, dear boy, she can hit a very fine six.”
Jago held his breath, wheezed, and appeared to be choking. After a moment or two his face turned beetroot.
“I say, is he alright?” Algie asked. “Chap doesn’t look as though he’s breathing.”
“’e’s laughing,” one of the other players explained. “Don’t ‘appen often.”
“A six!” he said at last, holding on to his ribs for dear life. “Priceless!”
“I can, you know,” Purdie retorted, her pride stung. She was used to gentle mockery, of course, but it never got any easier to bear; if there was one thing she couldn’t stand, it was men assuming she couldn’t play a decent game of cricket. That and cold soup – a barbaric invention.
“In fact, I’ll lay you a wager – if I hit a six during this game, we’ll write off your debt to my father. If I don’t, we’ll pay you double.”
Jago stopped laughing and licked his lips. He was in absolutely no doubt that this slip of a girl obviously couldn’t hit a four, let alone a six; heck, he’d be impressed if she managed to connect bat to ball at all. And frankly, he had nothing to lose – Marmaduke and Hector obviously couldn’t play, so why not let the girl make a fool of herself? That way he’d avoid forfeiting the game and paying a debt, and the only horror of the day would have been his men’s defeat at the hands of a fancy London gentleman.
“Alright, missy,” he said at last, not quite managing to suppress his chuckles. “I must be addled, but you can play. I don’t know what thee’ll do about whites, though - you can’t go out like that.”
“Reckon I can help you there, Miss Emmeline,” Roddie said. “My young lad’s got a spare set, and ‘e can’t be much bigger than you.”
“Thank you, Roddie,” Purdie replied, beaming, as she leant across the bar to plant kiss on his cheek. What a pleasing turn of events – though she couldn’t for the life of her work out why her father had engineered this situation.
Roddie blushed and edged clumsily towards the door behind him. “You keep an eye on things ‘ere – I won’t be a minute.”
“Why don’t you swap clothes with Marmaduke?” Jago suggested, looking at Algie’s slim frame. “Reckon they’ll fit right enough.”
“Well, alright….but he’d better take very good care of this jacket,” Algie said, eyeing the tipsy cricketer suspiciously. “It’s dashed comfortable, and I simply don’t have the time to trawl through the thrift shops of Cambridge looking for another.” Algie, you see, was a notoriously careful with money, and never brought his tweed new if he could help it.
“I’ll look after it for ‘ee,” Marmaduke hiccupped, with a foggy scowl. “And don’t you go tearing my whites – my Ma only mended the last rip this mornin’.”
“I shall be extremely gentle with them,” Algie assured the man. “Come along then – into the back so we can make the exchange.”
The two men ambled off towards a secluded corner, and Lord Alverstock surveyed the scene in satisfaction. “I dearly hope Woods packed a boiled egg or two,” he said aloud, just as Roddie returned with the miniature white uniform. “I’m absolutely ravenous.”
Roddie handed the clothes over to Purdie, and heaved an enormous, vinegar-filled jar from behind the bar. “You can ‘ave one of these on the ‘ouse,” Roddie said, in a sudden fit of generosity. “I ‘aven’t sold that much cider in weeks.”
A delighted Lord Alverstock went fishing for the plumpest egg, and Purdie disappeared through the door and into the family living quarters to get changed. She and her twin soon reconvened, both in trousers which were a shade too short, but full of vim and vigour.
“Now, about that six…” Lord Alverstock said, wiping his vinegary fingers on his handkerchief and whispering something into his daughter’s ear.
THIRTEEN
A large crowd of locals had already settled themselves around the edges of the outfield by the time Algie and Purdie set forth from the pub with the Appleby-Parva boys: picnic rugs were spread over the grass; bottles of wine were being poured into beakers; sardine sandwiches were being handed around; and the sun was hovering above it all in its golden glory. Purdie and Algie joined the rest of their new team in the pavilion as Jago strode out into the middle of green for the toss of the coin. A tall, lithe man suddenly sped past the twins and jogged out to meet the umpire, a blue cap pulled down low over his eyes. Purdie found herself admiring the gentleman’s easy, loping run and impressively broad shoulders.
“Golly,” she said out loud, pulling a cigarette down from behind her ear and accepting a match from her brother, “he’s a handy looking fellow.”
“Aye,” said Abraham Anderson, one of Chettleforth’s shining lights in the cricketing arena and long-time friend of the twins, “that’s young master Petroc, just down from London. ‘e agreed to lead us out today, seeing as what his uncle used to be chairman of the club.”
“Well, he certainly looks like he could larrup a Dukes,” Purdie said, looking on as her man lost the toss to this mysterious newcomer.
“’e can, ‘e can,” Abraham concurred, failing to detect the particular note of interest in Purdie’s voice.
“Right boys,” Jago said, trotting back to the pavilion. “He’s sending us out to bat first. Bartholomew, Algernon, pad up.”
Purdie spotted her father in the crowd, sitting on a rug next to Lady Alverstock and tucking into what looked like a very hearty slice of Woods’ game pie. Taking a bottle of beer from the bucket propped outside the pavilion, Purdie settled down on the steps and prepared to watch her brother rack up the runs.
“Once more unto the breach, dear friends,” Algie cried, scything his bat back and forth as he loosened his shoulders and offered up a few shadow strokes to the cricketing gods.
“Good luck, Algie,” Purdie shouted, clapping her hands and whooping as he trotted out to the crease.
The sun beat down upon the two teams, and Purdie was pleased to see that there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky. “Ball shouldn’t move too much today, then,” she remarked to Jago, who was sitting next to her. He scowled and spat out the piece of grass he’d been chewing; she was right of course, but it unsettled him to hear a woman talking about the arcane mysteries of swing.
“We’ll see about that,” he replied with a glower; feeling that it was more important to quash the uppity girl sitting next to him rather than to forecast favourable conditions for his batsmen.
A tall, lanky boy who worked as an apprentice in the butcher’s shop sprinted towards his mark and hurled the ball at Bartholomew, who flicked it away for a quick two runs.
“Well played, sir,” Lord Alverstock bellowed, enjoying this brisk beginning to the match.
The next ball was a corker which beat the batsman, brushing past the stumps into the wicket-keeper’s hands. Purdie whistled, and Jago silently plucked another long piece of grass and slipped it between his two front teeth.
The third delivery gave Bartholomew a single run, which put Algie on strike for the first time. He stepped forwards as the bowler ambled back to the beginning of his run-up, and marked his position in the ground with a few jabs of the bat.
The butcher’s apprentice charged in and released a quick, short ball. Algie stepped forwards with one long leg and swatted it out to the boundary for four. Purdie raised her bottle in a silent toast, and a wave of polite clapping erupted around the pavilion. The next ball yielded another efficient boundary, and with the final delivery of the over Algie nicked it for a single and stole the strike.
The mysterious Londoner was now bowling to Algie from the pavilion end. As he marked out his run-up a ripple of excitement passed through the fielders; and no wonder – his first delivery was a rocket which went whizzing past Algie’s bat, missing the bails by a whisker.
“I say, is everyone here an amateur?” Purdie asked Jago, her eyes wide with surprise. The bowler was standing against the sun so all she could make out was his impressive silhouette. Who the blazes was he? she wondered. She certainly hadn’t seen bowling like that on a village green before, and the game that had begun with her father’s theatrics suddenly took on scintillating new dimensions.
“They should be,” Jago replied, temporarily forgetting his animosity, “but stone me if that emmet don’t look like he can bowl ‘em.”
Algie seemed to be finding something inexplicably amusing, but pulled himself together in time for the second zinging delivery. Algie’s bat somehow managed to connect, and the ball trickled away from the stumps. He ran for the single, and shared a few animated words with the mysterious bowler once he reached his end.
Bartholomew looked uncertainly down the wicket, and waited for the next delivery. When it came the batsman seemed to close his eyes, dabbing at the ball ineffectually so that it edged his bat and flew straight into the ready hands of the wicketkeeper. A roar of celebration erupted from the crowd, and the fielders crowded around their bowling star, slapping him on the back and ruffling his hair in delight. Bartholomew marched back to the pavilion, feeling both a sense of relief that the ordeal was over, and the inevitable humiliation of having delivered so little for his team.
“Where’s Arthur?” Jago asked, looking about for his number three bat.
“Call of nature,” someone yelled back from the pavilion. “’e’s been gone a good ten minutes. Pickle never agrees with ‘im, but ‘e always insists on ‘aving it.”
Jago swore fluently and looked about him in desperation, aware that if he didn’t get a man out to bat within the next couple of minutes, they’d be given a timed out. Three of his team were still lounging about in their civvies, one wasn’t wearing shoes, and the rest didn’t have a bat between them. Jago’s darting eyes alighted upon Purdie, who was already kitted out in Roddie’s son’s pads.
“Get out there,” he barked, pushing her up from the step. “No one else is ready!”
Needing nothing more by way of invitation, Purdie leapt onto her feet and jogged out onto the field, dancing about on her tip-toes to get herself warmed up and ready for battle.
“Come on, sprog!” her father roared from the side-lines. The rest of the spectators sat in bemused silence, none of them having seen a female batsman before and, frankly, not sure that they wanted to. A champagne cork popped limply out of its bottle, but otherwise the only sound was the gentle hum of assorted seasonal fauna as she ran towards her crease. Algie met her in the middle of the pitch, and they bumped gloves.
“Now, don’t over-react,” he said, the corner of his lip twitching slightly, “but I think you know the bowler. Don’t let it rattle you, Em – and for god’s sake, be careful. This chum of yours can bowl.”
As Algie ambled back to his crease Purdie looked about her in mild confusion, scanning the field for this supposed acquaintance. And there he was, shining the ball against his trousers.
“Dashwood,” she muttered, her eyes narrowing and heart lurching. “I might have known.”
He grinned back at her, raising his hands and eyebrows in an apparent demonstration of innocence.
Edging back towards her stumps, Purdie hit her bat against her pads and jumped up and down, trying to quash the butterflies in her stomach. And then it was time – Peter came charging towards her and sent down a medium-paced ball, obviously not entirely comfortable with unleashing his full artillery on a woman he had, only a few days previously, tried to take out for dinner. Purdie turned it away to the boundary with a dismissive flick of the wrists, and absorbed the tentative applause of the bewildered spectators. “Of all the coves to be a nephew of the chairman of this club,” she said to herself, trying not to grind her teeth.
The second ball came flying towards her, rather faster this time, and she dropped to her knee to send it skidding away for two.
“She’s always be
en such an elegant player,” Lord Alverstock said to his lady wife, who wasn’t sure whether to be filled with material pride or horrified by this display of athleticism on the part of her only daughter.
“If only she’d applied herself so enthusiastically to her harp-lessons,” her mother sighed wistfully.
By the time it came to the third ball Peter had evidently decided to stamp his authority on the encounter, sending a blistering Yorker hurtling towards the exquisite Emmeline. Undeterred, she intercepted with her bat and harnessed the ball’s speed to send it hurtling just shy of the rope. Algie raised his bat in salute; what a contest this was likely to be.
Algernon scored a very respectable three runs off the next over, and then it was Peter’s turn to bowl again. Instead of striding back to the beginning of his run-up however, he handed the bowl to one of his team-mates and moved to slip.
“He’s testing her,” Lord Alverstock said to his wife with a chuckle. “Seeing if she can play spin.”
“And can she?” Lady Alverstock demanded, rather more interested in the answer than she would have believed possible.
“Wait and see,” came her husband’s enigmatic reply.
The new bowler took a few slow steps towards his mark, and lofted a beautifully placed ball with just enough turn. It hit a divot and spun threateningly towards the stumps, but Purdie blocked it with a neat defensive shot. The next ball landed very close to her feet, and again she blocked it smartly with the bat.
“He’s rather good,” Lord Alverstock observed.
The third delivery slipped from the bowler’s hand rather too early, and was destined to go astray. Purdie skipped towards it and belted away the full toss, setting herself and Algie up to run a brisk three.
“Well run, lads!” Jago cried from the pavilion, entirely forgetting his earlier prejudices and revelling in the discovery of two such handy players. “That’s the badger!”
