Gilbert: The Last Years of WG Grace

by Charlie Connelly

  He’d tried to balance the situation in his mind with the thought that cricket was doing its bit for morale, that it was good for the nation to keep some semblance of normal life and routine, but the empty grounds and the frightening reports of casualties from Mons had convinced him otherwise. Cricketers had no business playing on when men were dying in France.

  In frustration he smacked a golf ball hard across the turf; the sound of it hitting the fence 30 yards away was like a rifle shot. He threw down the club and strode off back to the house.

  He sat down hard in his chair, pulled himself towards the desk, picked up his pen and held it poised to write. The page was blank but for the embossed ‘Fairmount, Mottingham, Eltham, Kent’ at the top. He wrote the date beneath it and began.

  ‘Sir,’ he wrote, paused for a moment, and then allowed the pen to scratch away uninterrupted.

  There are many cricketers who are already doing their duty, but there are many more who do not seem to realise that in all probability they will have to serve either at home or abroad before the war is brought to a conclusion. The fighting on the Continent is very severe and will probably be prolonged. I think the time has arrived when the county cricket season should be closed, for it is not fitting at a time like this that able-bodied men should be playing day after day, and pleasure-seekers look on. There are so many who are young and able, and are still hanging back. I should like to see all first-class cricketers of a suitable age set a good example, and come to the aid of their country without delay in its hour of need.

  Yours, etc.

  W.G. Grace

  He laid down the pen, picked up the letter and read it. Then he read it again, folded it, pushed it inside an envelope and sealed it.

  He rummaged in a pile of papers until he found a copy of The Sportsman and leafed through its pages until he found the address he was after.

  ‘The Editor, The Sportsman, Boy Court, Ludgate Hill, London EC,’ he wrote, underlining with a flourish. He called for Eva, handed her the envelope and asked her to take it to the post office immediately.

  Within days the County Championship was called off and Surrey declared champions. Even the traditional end-of-season Scarborough Festival was cancelled. The Old Man would not take all the credit but he allowed himself a degree of satisfaction to think that his contribution had been of some assistance. A few days later he was pleased to be able to add his name to an appeal on behalf of the Prince of Wales Fund that appeared in the newspapers across the land. On breakfast tables and omnibuses, in libraries and smoking rooms, the following message was read and digested:

  TO THE CRICKET LOVING PUBLIC. Dear Sir. We, the undersigned, as cricketers, ask you to accord us the publicity which only your columns can give, in order that we may make a direct appeal to the vast cricket-loving public on behalf of the Prince of Wales Fund. This Fund, which has been called into being by His Royal Highness to meet the countless cases of misery and hardship which must inevitably follow on the heels of War, makes an instinctive and instantaneous appeal to the generosity of the public, and we as cricketers know that there is no public so sportsmanlike and so generous as the cricketing crowd.

  As the Prince has truly said, ‘this is a time when we all stand by one another’. All of us as a nation are members of a national team. We have before us as we write the vision of many a fair English cricket ground packed with eager multitudes. We have pleasant memories of the seas of faces which, in happier times, have watched us play. If only at this moment of trial we could gather in the sums which have been paid as gate-money at cricket matches, those on whom the war has laid a desolating hand would benefit indeed. The wives and families of our soldiers and sailors would, at least, be secure from want. It is this thought which has given rise to this particular appeal.

  We ask those who have watched us play and who have cheerfully paid their half-crowns, shillings and sixpences as gate-money to step forward and contribute over again their half-crowns, shillings and sixpences to the Prince’s Fund, out of gratitude for the enjoyment the cricket field has given them in the past.

  Let everyone who has followed cricket call to mind the matches he has witnessed and enjoyed, and let each one contribute according to the pleasantness of their memories. Then we shall have for those whom the war has robbed not only of happiness, but even the means of livelihood, a truly royal sum.

  Without any undue spirit of self-importance, we may perhaps say that we have contributed not a little to the interest the public takes in cricket, and, therefore, we make this personal appeal from ourselves to all those who love the game to send whatever they can spare to HRH. the Prince of Wales; Buckingham Palace, London, SW.

  Yours faithfully,

  J.W.H.T. Douglas, F.R. Foster,

  F.H. Gillingham, W.G. Grace,

  Harris, T. Hayward, G. Hirst,

  J.B. Hobbs, G.L. Jessop, W. Rhodes,

  R.H. Spooner, P.F. Warner, F.E. Woolley

  Monday 23 May 1915

  When he awoke that morning he knew there was no question of him playing. He hadn’t picked up a bat in anger in more than a year. He’d barely bowled even in jest and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been out with the beagles.

  He’d been torn when Alec Hearne’s letter had arrived asking him to play. It was for a good cause – the Lewisham Red Cross Fund – and Catford was local enough for it not to be an inconvenience. It was Archie MacLaren’s brainchild – he was stationed at Lewisham – and he’d be playing along with Jack Hobbs and ‘Shrimp’ Leveson Gower so there was a good prospect of a crowd. If W.G.’s name could be added to the poster the attendance was sure to buck up further.

  Archie had come to visit the previous month with Ranji – both of them in uniform – and they’d enjoyed a splendid day reminiscing, putting, playing billiards and rounding off proceedings with a few hands of whist. Archie had sold the game to him in terms that genuinely made him think he could and would play.

  It was at the end of the evening that the conversation turned more maudlin as they talked about poor Stoddart, another old colleague who’d died at his own hand the previous week.

  ‘I hear that on the evening he died Andy was in a tremendous funk, picked up his pistol and announced he was tired of it all and going to finish it,’ said MacLaren. ‘Ethel pleaded with him not to and even struggled with him for possession of the gun, but when she noticed it wasn’t loaded she relaxed a little, especially when she insisted he give her the box of cartridges which she went and locked away.

  ‘He went upstairs and a short while later there was a loud bang. Ethel found him lying dead across the bed with a gunshot wound to his temple. The pistol was in his hand and there was a second box of cartridges on the bed, with one missing.’

  The three of them were quiet for a moment, the old man with the long grey beard and tired eyes and the two khaki-clad officers, three of the greatest cricketers who had ever lived, staring silently into the flames of the fire and remembering a fourth. The Old Man thought of Ethel Stoddart, the feisty Australian singer who’d left her husband and travelled halfway round the world for Andy. Grace had travelled barely a mile to meet Agnes and certainly couldn’t countenance ever leaving her in such a situation. The poor man had clearly taken leave of his senses.

  ‘Poor Stoddy,’ said W.G., eventually breaking the silence. The others murmured their agreement.

  ‘Money worries, on top of everything else,’ added MacLaren. ‘Is money really worth taking your life for?’

  ‘I imagine the lack of it possibly is,’ said Ranji, and the trio lapsed into silence again.

  ‘So many good ones gone, and before their time,’ said the Old Man. ‘So many.’

  ‘Thank goodness you’re still in rude health, Doctor,’ said MacLaren.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, Archie. I’m an old man now.’

  He paused and looked into the fire again.

  ‘Before long there will be no one left to call me Gilbert.’

  He’d woken the nex
t morning and immediately regretted agreeing to play. He lay in the dark looking at the stripe of sunlight arrowing across the ceiling through a small gap in the curtains. Ordinarily he’d have been looking forward to the game, but in the seven months since the beginning of the war he’d lost all his appetite for games. He traced it back to that last appearance for Eltham against Northbrook the previous summer, his first game since war had been declared. The desire for the moment had deserted him entirely. Not only that, he’d been having doubts about his earlier determination that cricketers should go off to fight. The casualty figures were growing every day and he couldn’t help but think about how some of them may have been prompted to enlist by his letter to The Sportsman.

  He was sick with worry about Edgar, now promoted from Commander to Captain, and when he’d read of the Battle of Heligoland knowing that he was out there in that cold, unforgiving North Sea he’d not slept for days until he heard for certain that the boy was all right. Charles still visited regularly from Sheerness and he was relieved his youngest son wasn’t out in France or Belgium. He was maybe being oversensitive, but having buried Bertie and dear, dear Bessie already he didn’t want to go through the same agony again, and he certainly didn’t want Agnes to go through it too.

  Agnes, he thought, had never got over Bessie. She was a wonderful woman still but he could sense that shadow in her soul because it matched his. If anything happened to Edgar or Charles he didn’t think she’d survive it. And now he thought of all the mothers across the land collapsing to the floor with a scrunched telegram in their hands.

  He couldn’t play. That was clear. At the same time he’d given his word and his name would be on the posters. People would come to see him and the coffers would benefit. He’d have to come up with something.

  When he arrived at the Catford ground the early arrivals were delighted to see him and there were shouts of greeting to which he raised his hat, a fair few handshakes and a ‘I saw every run of your 152 against the Aussies at The Oval, Dr Grace’ from a white-haired old gentleman.

  MacLaren heard the commotion of his arrival and came out of the pavilion to greet him. His smile faded a little when he saw the Old Man.

  ‘Where’s your bag, Doctor?’ he asked.

  ‘Archie, I’m very sorry but I’ve been a little under the weather for the past two days,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I’m not well enough to play and certainly not to justify keeping a younger, fitter man out of the team. I wouldn’t miss the day for the world, though, so I thought I’d come here in person to tell you and stay for the match if that’s amenable to you.’

  ‘Amenable? Of course it’s amenable, as long as your health allows it. It’s wonderful to see you. I am very sorry that we won’t have you on the field, but just having you here is reward enough. I can’t thank you enough, Doctor.’

  He took a seat in the front of the pavilion and picked up a collecting box, a wooden affair with a handle, whitewashed with a painted red cross.

  He looked up and saw a man bending down and talking into the ear of the small red-haired boy in front of him, his son, about eight years old, pointing at the Old Man with one hand and pressing a sixpence into his palm with the other.

  The boy walked nervously towards him. Grace opened up a beaming smile, put his hand out towards him and said, ‘Come on, my boy, don’t be shy.’ The boy edged forward, his eyes on Grace, his mouth slightly open, held out the sixpence and dropped it into the collecting box with a wooden clunk. Grace reached out and ruffled his hair.

  ‘Thank you, my boy, I hope you’re the first of many today.’

  MacLaren went out to toss and elected to bat. His was the stronger team and the crowd looked forward to seeing Hobbs. The disappointment of the Old Man’s absence from the side would be tempered by the presence of the country’s greatest current batsman.

  The umpires walked out to the middle followed by the Catford team. MacLaren and David Mustard strode out to open the innings and a steady stream of well-wishers approached the Old Man to drop coins into his collecting box.

  During a lull he closed his eyes in the sunshine and was aware of a shadow falling over him. He opened his eyes.

  ‘Hello, Jack.’

  ‘Hello, Doctor, good to see you.’

  ‘I was very sorry about your benefit. A week earlier when you were making hay in the sunshine at The Oval …’

  ‘Well, more important events intervened. It was good of you to come, though, I was very glad to see you.’

  ‘Least I could do, Jack. You’re the finest batsman in the game. I only hope this blasted war is over soon and doesn’t disrupt your career for too long.’

  ‘That’s kind of you to say so.’

  ‘Not opening today?’

  ‘I’m going in at five.’

  There was a round of applause for the fifty partnership.

  ‘I hope we get to see you, these two look well set.’

  ‘I hope so too. I always raise my game when you’re in the ground, Doctor.’

  ‘Are you playing much?’

  ‘I’m going to be playing on Saturdays for Idle in the Bradford League. It’s a good standard.’

  ‘The leagues are still going even in the war?’

  ‘The Bradford League, yes. I’m working in a munitions factory and doing some coaching at Westminster School during the week, but my Saturdays are free so I’m glad to play some good-standard cricket to keep my eye in until this mess is all over.’

  ‘Good luck to you, Jack.’

  Eventually Hobbs went out to bat. Of all the batsmen Grace had ever seen, he enjoyed watching Hobbs the most. His poise, his timing, his range of shots – he was the most complete batsman he’d ever seen and when war broke out he was just reaching his peak. He was a good name for Archie to secure with so many well-known cricketers away at the front.

  When Hobbs had played himself in and looked well set, the Old Man got up and began to walk around the boundary with his collection box. Hobbs cut and drove and pulled with beautiful timing and made 126, 96 of them in boundaries and mostly in a partnership of 167 with Leveson Gower. Grace stopped and chatted with members of the crowd and held out his Red Cross box and at the end of the day was responsible for a sizable part of the £100 raised by the game.

  The match ended in a draw and everyone was satisfied. He sat with the players for a while afterwards but didn’t stay long as he was expecting a cable at home from Edgar. He said goodbye to MacLaren and Hobbs, walked out of the pavilion and around the boundary of the empty field as the sun set purple and fiery orange in the western sky. By the time he got home to Fairmount the stars were out.

  Saturday 18 July 1915

  ‘Gilbert, there’s a commotion outside. I think you should come.’

  Agnes was calling him from the back door. He left the basket of vegetables he’d picked, brushed the dirt from his hands and walked back to the house. He looked out of a front window and saw a platoon of men in khaki in the lane, lined up and facing the house. Their Colonel was marching towards the door, on which he rapped three times.

  Eva opened it and he heard the Colonel ask if Dr Grace was at home.

  ‘It’s all right Eva, I’m coming,’ he said and made his way to the door.

  ‘Can I help you, Colonel?’

  ‘Dr Grace. Please forgive the intrusion: Colonel Tamplin of the Veteran Athletes’ Corp. These are some of my men. We are all sportsmen. We are moving from Blackheath to Chislehurst and I couldn’t help noticing that the route brought us past your door. I hope you don’t mind, sir, but the men and I would like to send you our greetings and best wishes on the occasion of your sixty-seventh birthday today.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Colonel, very kind of you indeed. I am honoured.’

  The Colonel turned to the soldiers lined up to attention in the lane and Grace stepped outside the door on to the drive.

  ‘Company,’ called the Colonel. ‘Three cheers for Doctor Grace on the occasion of his birthday. Hip, hip.’

/>   ‘Hooray!’

  ‘Hip, hip.’

  ‘Hooray!’

  ‘Hip, hip.’

  ‘Hooray!’

  The Colonel turned and saluted the Old Man, who took two steps forward and addressed them all.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he began, ‘I beg to thank you for the honour you have done me. I never saw finer soldiers than I have seen here today and I hope to see as good wherever I go. I wish you all the best and a safe return from your service to your families.’

  He shook the Colonel’s hand, turned and bowed slightly to the men, and watched as the Colonel marched back to the lane and led them off up the hill towards Chislehurst.

  Once the sound of marching boots on the road had died away, he went back through the house and returned to his vegetables.

  Monday 7 September 1915

  It was late in the evening and he was catching up with some correspondence. The room was dark save for the vulcan glow of the last coals in the grate and the pool of light spilled on to his desk by the lamp. It lit his scratching pen, the embossed notepaper, the cricket ball that he threw from hand to hand whenever he was sitting there thinking. It lit his ink pot and blotter. It lit the thick corkscrew hairs of his beard and the cheeks, nose and forehead made leathery by decades of outdoor activity. It lit the thin strands of grey hair falling forward as he wrote and it was caught in the brightness of his eyes. The clock on the mantelpiece struck 11.30.

  That aside, the only sounds were the scratching of his pen and the quiet rush of air into his nostrils. He didn’t notice the faint booms from the direction of Millwall Docks: they were too distant, barely carried by the breeze from the north-west. His pen scratched on.

  Further north, Hauptmann Richard von Wobeser’s SL.2 Zeppelin crossed the Thames to Bermondsey and turned east, ready to unload bombs on Greenwich. Four were dropped close together, the sound of the explosions carried south-east, the edges smoothed off them as they spread until by the time they reached Mottingham they were faint, barely tangible, low rumbles, like distant thunder.