by Evelyn Waugh
*The rest omitted owing to blind stupidity of editor and printer.
THE NATIONAL GAME
My brother said to me at breakfast:
“When you last played cricket, how many runs did you make?” And I answered him, truthfully, “Fifty.”
I remembered the occasion well for this was what happened. At school, oh! many years ago now, I had had my sixth form privileges taken away for some unpunctuality or other trifling delinquency and the captain of cricket in my house, a youth with whom I had scarcely ever found myself in sympathy, took advantage of my degraduation to put me in charge of a game, called quite appropriately a “Remnants’ game.” I had resented this distinction grimly, but as a matter of fact the afternoon had been less oppressive than I had expected. Only twenty-one boys arrived so, there being none to oppose me, I elected to play for both while they were batting. I thus ensured my rest and for an hour or so read contentedly having gone in first and failed to survive the first over. When eventually by various means the whole of one side had been dismissed—the umpire was always the next batsman, and, eager for his innings, was usually ready to prove himself sympathetic with the most extravagant appeal—I buckled on the pair of pads which a new boy had brought, although they were hotly claimed by the wicket keeper, and went out to bat. This other side bowled less well and after missing the ball once or twice, I suddenly and to my intense surprise hit it with great force. Delighted by this I did it again and again. The fielding was half-hearted and runs accumulated. I asked the scorer how many I had made and was told: “Thirty-six.” Now and then I changed the bowlers, being still captain of the fielding side and denounced those who were ostentatiously slack in the field. Soon I saw a restiveness about both sides and much looking at watches. “This game shall not end,” I ordained, “until I have made fifty.” Almost immediately the cry came “Fifty” and with much clapping I allowed the stumps to be drawn.
Such is the history of my only athletic achievement. On hearing of it my brother said, “Well, you’d better play today. Anderson has just fallen through. I’m taking a side down to a village in Hertfordshire—I’ve forgotten the name.”
And I thought of how much I had heard of the glories of village cricket and of that life into which I had never entered and so most adventurously, I accepted.
“Our train leaves King’s Cross at nine-twenty. The taxi will be here in five minutes. You’d better get your things.”
At quarter past nine we were at the station and some time before eleven the last of our team arrived. We learned that the village we were to play was called Torbridge. At half past twelve, we were assembled with many bags on the Torbridge platform. Outside two Fords were for hire and I and the man who had turned up latest succeeded in discovering the drivers in the “Horse and Cart”; they were very largely sober; it seemed that now everything would be going well. My brother said,
“Drive us to the cricket ground.”
“There isn’t no cricket ground,” brutishly, “is there, Bill?”
“I have heard that they do play cricket on Beesley’s paddock.”
“Noa, that’s football they plays there.”
“Ah;” very craftily, “but that’s in the winter. Mebbe they plays cricket there in the summer.”
“I have heard that he’s got that field for hay this year.”
“Why, so ’e ’ave.”
“No, there ain’t no cricket ground, mister.” And then I noticed a sign post. On one limb was written “Lower Torbridge, Great Torbridge, Torbridge St. Swithin,” and on the other “Torbridge Heath, South Torbridge, Torbridge Village,” and on the third just “Torbridge Station,” this pointing towards me.
We tossed up and, contrary to the lot, decided to try Torbridge Village. We stopped at the public house and made enquiries. No, he had not heard of no match here. They did say there was some sort of festification at Torbridge St. Swithin, but maybe that was the flower show. We continued the pilgrimage and at each public house we each had half a pint. At last after three-quarters of an hour, we found at the “Pig and Hammer” Torbridge Heath, eleven disconsolate men. They were expecting a team to play them—“the Reverend Mr. Bundles.” Would they play against us instead? Another pint all round and the thing was arranged. It was past one; we decided to lunch at once. At quarter to three, very sleepily the opposing side straddled out into the field. At quarter past four, when we paused for tea, the score was thirty-one for seven, of these my brother had made twenty in two overs and had then been caught; I had made one and that ingloriously. I had hit the ball with great force on to my toe from which it had bounced into the middle of the pitch. “Yes, one,” cried the tall man at the other end; he wanted the bowling; with great difficulty I limped across; I was glad that the next ball bowled him. One man did all the work for the other side—a short man with very brown forearms and a bristling moustache.
At quarter to five we went out to field and at seven, when very wearily we went back to the pavilion, only one wicket had fallen for 120. The brown-armed man was still in. Even on the occasion of my triumph I had not fielded; this afternoon, still with a crushed toe, I did not do myself credit. After a time it became the habit of the bowler whenever a ball was hit near me, immediately to move me away and put someone else there; and for this I was grateful.
In the shed at the end of the field there was no way of washing. We all had to change in one little room each with his heap of clothes; we all lost socks, studs and even waistcoats; it was all very like school. And finally when we were changed and feeling thoroughly sticky and weary, we learned from the cheery captain with the brown arms that there were no taxis in Torbridge Heath and no telephone to summon one with. It was three miles to Torbridge Station and the last train left at half past eight. There would be no time for any dinner; we had heavy bags to carry.
One last sorrow came upon us when it would have seemed that all was finished, and just as we were coming into King’s Cross I found that somewhere in that turmoil of changing I had lost my return ticket. My poor brother had to pay, I having no money. When he had paid he discovered that he would have no money left for a taxi. We must go back by tube and walk. To travel by tube with a heavy bag is an uneasy business. And when I returned home, I reasoned thus with myself; today I have wearied myself utterly; I have seen nothing and no one of any interest; I have suffered discomfort of every sense and in every limb; I have suffered acute pain in my great toe; I have walked several miles; I have stood about for several hours; I have drunken several pints of indifferently good beer; I have spent nearly two pounds; I might have spent that sum in dining very well and going to a theatre; I might have made that sum by spending the morning, pleasantly, in writing or drawing.
But my brother maintained that it had been a great day. Village cricket, he said, was always like that.
BY EVELYN WAUGH
Novels
Decline and Fall
Vile Bodies
Black Mischief
A Handful of Dust
Scoop
Put Out More Flags
Work Suspended
Brideshead Revisited
Scott-King's Modern Europe
The Loved One
Helena
Men at Arms
Love among the Ruins
Officers and Gentlemen
The End of the Battle
The Ordeal of Gilbert Pinfold
Stories
Mr. Loveday's Little Outing, and Other Sad Stories
Tactical Exercise
Basil Seal Rides Again
Charles Ryder's Schooldays
The Complete Stories of Evelyn Waugh
Biography
Rossetti
Edmund Campion
Msgr. Ronald Knox
Autobiography/Diaries/Letters
A Little Learning
The Diaries of Evelyn Waugh
The Letters of Evelyn Waugh
Travel/Journalism
A Bachelor Abroad
&n
bsp; They Were Still Dancing
Ninety-Two Days
Waugh in Abyssinia
Mexico: An Object Lesson
When the Going Was Good
A Tourist in Africa
A Little Order
The Essays, Articles and Reviews of Evelyn Waugh
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