01 Teacher, Teacher!

by Jack Sheffield

  “We’re gonna stuff ‘em this year,” said Big Dave. “Ah can feel it in m’bones.”

  “Y’reight there, Dave,” agreed Little Malcolm. “Ah can feel it an’ all.”

  The team had assembled outside the cricket pavilion, a tired-looking wooden hut with a green corrugated roof and whitewashed, sun-blistered doors. It was erected on top of a short, steep grassy slope at the edge of the cricket field. Steps sawn from ancient railway sleepers led down the slope to a rickety gate attached to the white paling fence that surrounded the field. Wooden benches had been set into the grass on either side of the steps forming a tiered amphitheatre of seating.

  We all sat there like students in a lecture theatre, an assorted collection of men and boys, ages ranging from sixteen to sixty-six. Everyone in the team appeared excited at the thought of the annual match against Ragley’s oldest rivals. It was soon clear that, with the exception of England playing Australia in the Ashes series at Headingley, this was the most important fixture in the cricket calendar.

  “This could be our year, Grandad,” said Tommy Piercy, the strapping sixteen-year-old butcher’s boy, known by everyone as Young Tommy so as not to be confused with his grandad of the same name.

  Old Tommy Piercy took off his flat cap and wiped his bald head with a large spotted handkerchief.

  “Mebbe so, mebbe not,” said Old Tommy as he puffed slowly on his old briar pipe. Old Tommy had been a member of Ragley cricket team for fifty years. Although his fading eyesight had reduced his batting average to one point five, it was said in the village that what Old Tommy didn’t know about cricket could be written on the back of a fag paper. He looked up at his favourite grandson.

  “Ah’ll tell thee summat,” he said. “It’s nigh on twenty year since we beat ‘em.”

  Everyone nodded in agreement. Only Old Tommy, Big Dave and Little Malcolm had ever played in a winning Ragley team against Morton. The enormity of the task weighed heavily on their shoulders as they stared at the overgrown cricket field.

  “Grass’ll need cutting, tha knows,” said Deke Ramsbottom, his beer belly straining the seams of his denim cowboy shirt. It was unbuttoned to reveal his hairy chest and a shiny gold medallion the size of a teapot stand. Deke was always selected as the team’s wicket keeper because he could neither bat nor bowl, but his selection was secure so long as he brought with him his two hard-hitting sons, Shane and Clint.

  “Y’reight there, Deke,” said Little Malcolm, still nodding in agreement, “grass does need cutting.” Little Malcolm did a lot of nodding.

  Deke looked up at his two sons.

  “My lads’ll sort it,” he said.

  Shane ruffled his younger brother’s long, permed locks.

  “C’mon, Nancy, let’s get it done,” he said cheerfully.

  Clint flashed his brother a disapproving glance but, wisely, said nothing. His big brother’s muscles bulged under his Status Quo T-shirt and the letters H-A-R-D were tattooed on the knuckles of his right hand. Whilst the long-haired Clint frequented Diane’s Hair Salon every Friday night, Shane simply visited Trevor the gentleman’s barber in Easington once every two months. Trevor liked to give value for money and was known locally as ‘Chainsaw Trev’ because of the severity of the short back and sides he gave to every customer.

  Clint knew when to keep quiet. He caught up with his long-striding brother and they both set off to put some petrol in Stan Coe’s gang mower.

  The rest of us looked at the state of the cricket field. Around twenty cows munched contentedly at the long, lank grass in the bright morning sunlight. In the centre of the field, a rectangle of large metal spikes with a thick rope attached to each one protected the cricket square from Stan Coe’s herd of Friesian cattle.

  “Wicket looks good,” said Peter the Bank Manager. Peter Duddleston managed one of the two banks in Easington and lived in a pretty cottage next door to The Royal Oak. Peter’s off-spin bowling was generally regarded as cannon-fodder by opposing batsmen but the fact that he contributed bats, pads, wickets and cricket balls every season meant his place in the team’s middle order was guaranteed.

  “It certainly does,” said Allan the Accountant. Allan Bickerstaff was the team’s Treasurer and was famous for his sartorial elegance. His neatly creased white flannels and flawlessly ironed shirt contrasted sharply with the scruffy, dishevelled appearance of Big Dave when they walked out together to open the batting. Allan had modelled his style on his hero, Geoffrey Boycott, and would spend an hour mustering a dozen runs. He was proud to tell everyone that his batting average of sixteen point five was the best in the team.

  “Looks a fast wicket t’me,” said Big Dave. “What d’you think, Tommy?”

  Whilst Big Dave was clearly the captain and led from the front, he acknowledged that Old Tommy knew every blade of grass on the cricket square.

  “Aye, ah reckon it is,” said Old Tommy, his eyes watery behind a cloud of smoke.

  I looked at the bumpy, sloping rectangle of close-cropped ryegrass that was Old Tommy’s pride and joy. This was a long way from Lord’s Cricket Ground.

  “D’you reckon we should bat first if we win t’toss?” asked Big Dave.

  The whole team turned to look at Old Tommy’s wrinkled and weather-beaten face. This was a big decision. He puffed on his pipe and the sweet smell of Old Holborn tobacco mixed with the powerful odour of cow dung hung on the gentle breeze.

  “Nay, lad,” said Old Tommy. “Yon wicket’ll be green ‘n fast at t’outset. Let Young Tommy bowl from t’pavilion end and he’ll nail yon buggers t’sightscreen.”

  Everyone nodded in agreement at Old Tommy’s wise words. The team talk was over, tactics were clear and the other players went off to find wheelbarrows and shovels to clear the field of the flat pancakes of cow dung.

  Old Tommy and I remained.

  “So, have you had a good season, Tommy?” I asked, eager to show interest.

  “We’ve got a lot of potential,” replied Old Tommy cautiously.

  “What position are you in the York and District league?” I asked innocently. I was unaware that Ragley had not won a game so far in the season.

  The wise old man put his hand on my shoulder.

  “Put it this way, young Mr Sheffield,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “the only thing below us in t’Easington ‘erald and Pioneer is t’Fishing News.”

  He paused to let this sink in.

  “An’, by the way, when we’re batting keep thy umpire’s finger in thee pocket. D’you get me meaning?”

  He winked, grinned, pulled down the neb of his flat cap to shield his eyes from the sun and set off to supervise the preparation of the wicket.

  “I’ll be back this afternoon,” I shouted after his stooped figure.

  York was full of tourists. I avoided the crowds in the Shambles and walked down Parliament Street to do my shopping. At the end I turned into Coppergate to look at the archaeological excavations, destined to become a reconstruction of the Anglo-Danish settlement at Jorvik. These were exciting times in this wonderful city, the jewel in the crown of Yorkshire.

  Not for the first time I thanked Petillius Cerialis who in AD 71 decided to build his fortress on the banks of the River Ouse in the midst of the dense woodlands of the Vale of York. It became the military headquarters of the Roman Imperial Army and Eboracum was born.

  I walked slowly up Lendal towards the City Library and then enjoyed the peace of the Museum Gardens. The carved stone towers of York Minster, the largest medieval cathedral in Britain, were etched against a cloudless sky. It was a perfect day for a leisurely boat trip down the river. It was also a perfect day for a game of cricket.

  Back in Ragley village, all roads led to the cricket field. The whole population seemed to be on the move. Men carried deck-chairs, young women pushed prams, George Hardisty and his wife Mary carried a wicker-work picnic basket and Deke Ramsbottom roared by in his Land Rover to check that his two sons had erected the marquee borrowed from the Ragley Scout
Troop.

  Nora’s Coffee Shop had done a roaring trade and was about to close for the afternoon so that Nora Pratt could join her brothers, Victor and Timothy, at the cricket field. Tidy Tim had arrived early and was carefully arranging his three folding chairs in a neat line directly behind the bowler’s arm at the pavilion end. Word had got around that Young Tommy Piercy, Ragley’s new Freddie Trueman, was to open the bowling with Big Dave, and Tidy Tim did not want to miss the fun.

  When I arrived at the field, the whole team were gathered around the cricket square and Young Tommy had just completed the final trim of the wicket with an expensive Qualcast mower, purchased recently from the club funds, after long debate by the Committee, for £21.95.

  Outside the marquee some plastic tables and chairs had been arranged and Vera the Secretary was sitting alongside Shirley the Cook and Ruby the Caretaker. Vera was wearing her new straw hat and showing a magazine article to Shirley and Ruby. It was about the announcement by Princess Margaret and the Earl of Snowdon of their divorce.

  Vera shook her head sadly. “If only she’d married that handsome RAF man,” she mused, and Shirley and Ruby nodded knowingly. Unknown to Vera, inside the marquee, her brother Joseph had just uncorked a second bottle of white wine to share with Albert Jenkins. Next to him, Victor Pratt was ordering two pints of real ale and a lime and lemonade. The bar was doing a roaring trade.

  I took in the scene around me. With the sun shining on the white picket fence, the bunting fluttering on the marquee and the Ragley and District Brass Band playing ‘Land of Hope and Glory’, the whole cricket ground looked a picture. But as Vera used to often remind me, “Appearances can be deceptive.”

  In front of the pavilion, Ernie Morgetroyd, the Morton umpire, resplendent in his huge white coat, was deep in conversation with John Pruett who was carrying another white umpire’s coat over his arm.

  I walked over to meet them.

  “Is that for me?” I asked John, pointing at the white coat.

  “Y’don’t know t’situation, then?” said Ernie ominously.

  “Let me explain,” said John, taking me by the arm.

  “Allan Bickerstaff’s had a bad fall rushing to unpeg his wife’s washing. He tripped over the clothes prop and he’s twisted his ankle.”

  “Oh dear,” I said. “So who’s playing instead?” I asked innocently.

  “You are,” said John, “and I’m umpiring.”

  “Me!” I yelled. “You’re joking! I haven’t played since I was at school.”

  Ernie Morgetroyd grinned from ear to ear. This was music to his ears.

  John was insistent. “There’s no one else, Jack. Don’t worry. You probably won’t have to bat. It’s just to make up the numbers. Allan’s sent his cricket flannels and shirt. You’re about his size. I’ve asked Anne Grainger to call into school to pick up your trainers so you’ll certainly look the part. Go on, you can do it.”

  John Pruett could be very persuasive.

  Twenty minutes later Geoff Pickersgill, the Morton captain, won the toss and elected to bowl. Big Dave shook his head in disappointment. This was a bad start.

  Little Malcolm bravely volunteered to open the batting with his giant cousin and together they strode out to the crease, the little and large of Ragley village cricket. A murmuring of nervous conversation rippled round the ground as Big Dave took his guard to receive the first ball. Rodney Morgetroyd, the Morton opening fast bowler, ran in like an express train and hurled a lightning delivery at Ragley’s favourite son. Big Dave didn’t blink and promptly clubbed the ball to the far end of the ground for three runs.

  This brought Little Malcolm to face the bowling. The next ball was a bouncer. It leaped off the corrugated pitch and hit Little Malcolm just over the left eye. What Little Malcolm lacked in stature he made up for in courage. He was five feet four inches of pure Yorkshire grit and he didn’t flinch. The third ball crashed into his rib cage with a sickening thud. Little Malcolm knew he mustn’t rub the fiery pain as this was a sign of weakness and would encourage the bowler. This was also the era before body padding and helmets and, in any case, Little Malcolm would have refused them, as he didn’t want to be called ‘a big girl’s blouse’ by Big Dave.

  The next ball was on a good length and Little Malcolm bravely put his left foot down the wicket and smacked the ball back over the bowler’s head for the first four of the game.

  “Stuff it!” exclaimed Handsome Rodney in frustration.

  “Up yours, Goldilocks,” retorted Little Malcolm and walked down the wicket confidently to prod down a few of the bumps in the pitch.

  The game was on; the crowd clapped appreciatively, the scorers rummaged to find the right numbers to hang on the rusty hooks of the wooden scoreboard and John Pruett put the fourth of his six old pennies into his pocket to remind him of the number of balls bowled.

  The Ragley innings went well. Big Dave smashed a quick twenty-five; Little Malcolm cut and pulled his way to a lifetime-best fifty-six and Shane Ramsbottom followed the disappointment of his dad’s first-ball duck with an exhibition of big hitting. He struck three sixes, including one that went into the marquee and caused the Revd Joseph Evans to spill a full glass of Muscadet. At the end of their forty overs, Ragley’s total was 163 for 6 and, much to my relief, Old Tommy and I had not been called upon.

  The Morton fielders sportingly clapped the unbeaten Ramsbottom brothers and followed them into the pavilion for tea and sandwiches.

  With a ham and lettuce sandwich in one hand and a large mug of black tea in the other, I walked outside to find a shady spot. I found one under the drooping branches of a huge weeping willow tree and sat down to enjoy my lunch when I heard a familiar voice.

  “Hello, Jack. I didn’t know you were a cricketer.”

  It was Beth Henderson in a light blue summer dress and open-toed sandals. Her fair hair looked even blonder than I remembered and her pale shoulders had begun to redden in the sun.

  “I’m not,” I replied. “I was press-ganged into playing. Come to that, I didn’t know you were a cricket fan.”

  She smiled and sat down lightly on the grass next to me.

  “This match is always a good day out,” she said, “even though Morton always win,” she added mischievously.

  The Ragley Brass Band suddenly started up again with their rendition of ‘The Dam Busters March’ and I looked at the summer scene around me.

  “Isn’t this the most perfect day?” I said.

  She stretched out and lay back on the grass, her hands behind her head.

  “Perfect,” she said and closed her eyes.

  Not for the first time I thought how pretty she was.

  “I’m forgetting my manners,” I said hurriedly. “Would you like a drink from the marquee?”

  “That would be lovely,” said Beth, sitting up and rubbing the strands of grass from her shoulders.

  As we arrived at the marquee, the two umpires suddenly appeared and walked purposefully towards the cricket square.

  “You’ll need to go in a minute, Jack,” said Beth urgently. “Don’t worry about the drink, you’re fielding now.”

  Big Dave was shouting into the marquee where Deke Ramsbottom, resplendent in his wicket keeper’s pads, was sinking his second pint of Tetley’s bitter.

  “Perhaps I could buy you that drink after the game?” I asked. “That’s if you’re still here,” I added hopefully.

  “I’ll definitely be here,” said Beth cheerfully. “You never know, you might even win!”

  “And if we do?” I asked expectantly.

  “Then we’ll utilize your tidy kitchen and I’ll make you the best meal you’ve ever tasted,” said Beth.

  There was a new enthusiasm in her voice that excited me. It was as if she had let go of a heavy burden and wanted to live life to the full again. As I joined the Ragley team and walked down the pavilion steps, I was determined to do my best to help win the game. I couldn’t have had a greater incentive.

  We troope
d out onto the field behind Big Dave to enthusiastic applause and I was told to field on the boundary in front of the pavilion.

  “Good luck, Mr Sheffield,” shouted Ruby as I took my place on the boundary rope and the game began.

  John Pruett told the Morton opening batsman that Young Tommy would be bowling the first of the forty overs and that he was ‘right arm fast’. This was the understatement of the year. The first ball almost took the batsman’s cap off before he could blink. It soared over the head of Deke Ramsbottom behind the stumps and crashed into the fence for four byes. Tidy Tim wrote a neat number four on his scorecard in the ‘extras’ column and the crowd clapped politely. The Morton innings had begun.

  I was kept busy running around the boundary. Old Tommy had been positioned to field forty yards from me beneath the shady branches of a tree that bordered the ground, so it was up to me to collect any balls that went in his direction as well. Slowly the Morton score climbed but Big Dave kept pegging them back. As each bowler could only bowl a maximum of ten overs, Big Dave had saved one over each for Young Tommy and himself to bowl the final two overs.

  Morton’s score of 156 for 7 meant they only required eight runs to win and still had three wickets in hand. They were clear favourites to win but in the thirty-ninth over, Young Tommy, bowling as if his life depended on it, took two wickets and only conceded three runs. The final over bowled by Big Dave would decide the match and a hush descended on the crowd.

  Geoff Pickersgill had played a captain’s innings, pushing and prodding his way to a gallant 46 not out. It was his job to win the match for his team and he made up his mind to attack Big Dave’s first ball.

  In lower league cricket it is unusual to hear the crisp crack of willow striking a cricket ball with perfect timing. Whereas a Garfield Sobers or Don Bradman would always use the ‘sweet spot’ of the bat, the village cricketer is used to the sound of a dull thud as shot after shot is mistimed with a cross-batted swipe. Today was different. Geoff Pickersgill launched himself at the first ball of Big Dave’s over. The sound of his bat striking the ball was like a gunshot and it echoed round the ground. All eyes looked skywards as the small red cricket ball hurtled high into the air and then began its descent in my direction.