by H. S. Cross
The innings had gone a good deal better than John had hoped. The Old Boys had managed a hundred and three, unprecedented in John’s time at the Academy. Bradley and Fletcher had done particularly well as the last two in. In consequence, lunch was late and everyone ravenous, not least John. He chose carefully from the buffet, taking not so much that he would become soporific, but enough to fortify him for what was sure to be a long afternoon bowling. Burton would have to be pleased with his management of the Old Boys. As long as nothing tragic happened in the field, the day would have to be classed a success.
John joined his men at what was normally REN’s junior table. Burton sat at the masters’ table with various personages John did not know. The man looked, for all the success of the day, uncomfortably hot. Perhaps some political concern had exploded in his hands. Irrationalities like that made John certain he would never be a Housemaster, a Headmaster, or any master of visible importance. Give him his lessons, his games, his little demesne. Leave the sticky maneuvers to men who cared for such things.
—You came after Gallowhill, did you? one of the Old Boys was asking him.
—Yes, John replied.
—So you never knew him?
—Alas.
—He and I were boys here together, the man said.
—Were you indeed?
John tried to handle the man gently, but he was seized by irritation at the sentimentality that overcame everyone when Gallowhill was mentioned. Why should Gallowhill deserve such grief?
Meg always spoke of dying as a release from suffering. She quoted exclusively from the milk-and-honey parts of Scripture. This world was a shadow, she claimed. In the next, they would put on glory.
John longed to be comforted by her sentiments, but it was all too abstract. He knew only this life, this concrete, body-bound life, this meanwhile ruled by their inadequacies and yearnings. He reminded himself not to confuse the nostalgia that surrounded him with a philosophical frame of mind.
The man who had been at the Academy with Gallowhill had within his middle-aged face the anxious eyes of a Third Former casting about for the friend who was no longer there, adrift in the crowd without this essential ally. John wondered how he himself would behave were he ever forced to return to the scene of his own schooldays. But this was a topic both unsavory and inapt. The facts were simply that some men never forgot school; they defined themselves perpetually by those old relationships, by that ancient status or lack thereof, and by the boys they had been when everything had pressed together so hard they felt they couldn’t endure the intensity of living.
John grimaced at the Old Boy and loaded a fork with cold ham and cheese. Burton was winding his way through the throng. John put his fork into his mouth and ate. As Burton advanced through the room, groups congealed and dispersed around him. John made a mental note to speak with REN about images under a microscope and their similarity to groups in crowded rooms.
His body registered the event long before his brain caught up. First, his limbs froze. A hot tingling spread across the surface of his skin, beginning in his scalp and creeping down the back of his neck. Voluntary motion ceased. His heart and lungs, powered by a reptilian sector of his brain, continued to sustain life. He wished they wouldn’t. The rest of his brain sat listless in his skull, like a dumb and captive beast. Eventually it stirred, but only to lecture him on the impossibility of the coming moment. He was mistaken, it told him, about the identity of the person following Burton through the crowds. He was tired and imagining things. The man might look like a person he had once known, but as he hadn’t laid eyes on that person since the time he made it a cast-iron rule never to contemplate, how could he hope to recognize that person even if reality broke with its bonds and magicked him to the St. Stephen’s refectory? Fact: people changed beyond all recognition between the ages of seventeen and twenty-whatever; therefore fact: this person could not be that person; therefore fact: he had to keep his head and avoid letting insanity run away with him.
The person was surrounded by men John did not know, and the globule was bearing down on his table. He could flee. He should flee. Why wasn’t he fleeing? He was not fleeing for the simple reason that the entire affair was a mistake, a hallucination, and a disgusting display of lost nerve. There was simply not the remotest possibility that the person he had left in the place his cast-iron rules forbade him to recall had discovered him here in the most obscure corner of Yorkshire.
—Here he is, Burton said to a graying man in the group. Grieves, our young history master and able Captain of the Old Boys.
The gray man extended a hand, which John’s elbow forced him to meet.
—Capital innings, the gray man said.
John swallowed the saliva in his mouth and allowed the man to pump his arm up and down.
—Grieves, this is Overall, Chairman of our Board.
John managed to mumble a greeting. Overall released his hand and introduced him to two or three more gray men, also members of the Board. They seemed not displeased, yet not as cheerful as they might after satisfactory cricket and satisfactory luncheon. John was conscious of the underside of his rib cage tingling like his face and scalp, and then reality as he knew it perished. The person whom he could not hope to recognize, the person who did not belong in Yorkshire, the person from that outlawed time and place stood before him. This person stopped talking to the gray men and brought his full attention to the precise spot where John stood, lining up their gazes with a recognition that took John’s brain and split it.
—Grieves, Sebastian. Visiting us from Marlborough. But you know one another already, I’m told.
A hand was gripping his, though he scarcely felt it.
—Hello, John.
Catastrophic smile.
But Burton was filling the air with explanations great and small, introducing Overall and his men to the Old Boys at John’s table. The person continued to grip his hand:
—You look well.
The sooner this moment passed, the sooner he would be able to breathe. Not that breath was strictly necessary. Only his mind existed. Through every disaster, every destruction, it preserved him, the essential him. He could survive without the Academy, without teaching, without anything. Any moment now his hand would be free and he could escape. Before anyone had a chance to look for him, he’d be on a train to Scotland or the Channel Isles or even the Continent if necessary. He could work with his hands, digging ditches, allowing his skin to brown and harden in the Mediterranean sun.
—Bang-up spread, one of the gray men was saying.
The others were concurring. The intruder was smiling, at him. He released John’s hand only to come stand at John’s side.
—Fearful hock, he murmured in John’s ear. And an even worse claret.
John flinched. The person chuckled.
—There I go putting my foot in it again, the person said. It’s obvious I haven’t changed.
His sleeve brushed John’s. John took a step backwards and reached for his orange squash.
—Clever choice, the person said. Then, you’ve always been clever.
John slammed the glass down on the table. This was the moment to unleash a telling off the likes of which would make the Fifth Form quake. This person was committing a monstrous impertinence murmuring things into his ear. This person had no right to stand near him, no right even to exist. John opened his mouth to say all this.
—We must leave our Captain to his team, Burton announced. Now let me …
He conducted the gray men away. They drew the intruder along with them, but not before he could inflict another harrowing smile:
—I shall enjoy this, he said. Immensely.
* * *
Nathan’s parents welcomed Morgan warmly and insisted he sit with them. Nathan’s mother declared that he had grown; Nathan’s father congratulated him on his promotion to the First XI. When Morgan tried to explain that it was only for the day, Nathan listed all the boys who had been passed over for the honor.
Alex sat beside Mrs. Pearl and impishly stole bites of her Victoria sponge. She pretended to scold him, but his cheekiness amused her. Towards the end of the meal, Alex darted over to the table where Colin sat with his parents. Money changed hands. Alex returned, and while his father chided him, he had the nerve to aim a smirk at Morgan.
—Why do you look like the cat who ate the bird? Morgan demanded.
Alex mimed cleaning his whiskers and licking his paws. He was the most unsavory specimen.
26
If ever a day demanded a drink, this one did. But having a drink would only give that person a satisfaction he didn’t deserve. John did not have time to sift through details of the surreal encounter. He had no time to analyze what the person meant by I shall enjoy this. This, what? But, again, there was no time. John had to inspect the pitch. He had to rouse his players from postprandial stupor. He had to make final decisions about fielding positions. Bradley, he conceded, would have to keep wicket. No one else with plausible wicketkeeping experience had presented himself, and the Old Boys had to make a show of trying to stop the First XI. One of the older men had volunteered to bowl; John decided to let him start. Fletcher had offered to bowl as well, but after the claret John had watched him down at lunch, John didn’t trust him hurling hard objects. He would have to bowl himself, as usual, but with any luck the older man, whatever his name was, would provide periodic relief.
John had been watching the First XI for a month. He knew its strengths and weaknesses at bat, and he instructed his bowler (Old Boy circa 1890) to spin the ball as hard as possible and bowl a full length. After eight singles and a boundary, the man bowled a googly and took the wicket. John felt his energy surge. One out, only nine to go.
* * *
Droit spent the afternoon in a deck chair, peering through field glasses at visiting females and speculating about their biographies, carnal or otherwise. Morgan sat beside him sipping orange squash. The Old Boys had begun the innings hopelessly, and the XI had scored sixty-two runs in the first hour. Eventually, some codgers rotated on and others off, Grieves came in to bowl, and the Old Boys began to sober up. Bradley had been keeping wicket all afternoon and was getting better by the over.
When Buxton came in, the eighth man, Morgan went to get his pads and to warm up. Evidently, he would bat after all.
He began his stretches; the familiar routine did not calm him.
Never forget that there are ten others with you; if they fail, it is up to you to see the side through. A ridiculous maxim since he was not batting last. The truth was, if he failed, Andrewes and Radcliffe would see the side through and he would be humiliated in front of hundreds of people, including Grieves and Bradley.
Grieves bowled only one ball to Bux before asking for time-out and going to consult with a codger on the veranda. After a brief exchange, Grieves retired to the pavilion and the codger went to the crease. His flabby bowling delighted the XI, and two boundaries later, they had moved within thirteen runs of victory. A glance around the sidelines revealed a number of empty seats. Evidently, Grieves had conceded the match. Morgan would not be needed after all.
A mass lifted from his chest. He never got let off anything, but he was going to be let off this. He wasn’t going to have to bat, wasn’t going to have to stand near Bradley, and nothing was going to wreck the original point of the day, which was Polly. If the other one had been at his elbow, he would have been wondering whether Morgan was more relieved to be spared Bradley or Grieves himself, but the brat was not there, so he could just take his gauche ideas and … direct them at the pitch where the spectators had found something to gasp about. Morgan stepped around the veranda. The batsman, dumbfounded, was looking around for explanation. Bradley lay on the grass, holding the ball aloft in triumph. The umpire raised the finger. Morgan’s stomach lurched.
—Hang on, Wilberforce, Andrewes said jogging over to him. I’m putting Radcliffe in.
Morgan flushed. After ruining his day, Andrewes now proposed to let Radcliffe go in? He slammed his bat to the ground.
Always obey your captain without question.
Andrewes stood beside him, arms crossed, as the match trudged towards its inevitable conclusion. Radcliffe, in now with Buxton, was hitting the ball, some lazy codger was shuffling after it, Rad and Bux were taking a run, and Bradley was shouting at the codger to move it. Only when they’d taken three did the codger manage to get the ball to Bradley, who did not bother to conceal his frustration and disgust.
—Am I next? Morgan asked Andrewes.
—I’ll go, Andrewes replied. You come in last.
No jilting ever felt like this. Andrewes broke a crooked smile:
—It’ll be up to us to finish them off.
Morgan tore off his pads. With only ten runs to win and three more wickets to fall, he would never bat. He found himself glancing to the left, looking for the one who fed on his humiliations like a vampire. This, surely, was the time for him to appear with his doleful eyes, eyes Morgan longed to punch until they dimmed black and sank. But instead of glimpsing that boy, Morgan saw that Alex had drifted over to the pavilion and was chatting to one of the XI. Alex met his gaze. His mouth soured.
—Oi, Andrewes said, what’s this?
The XI leapt to their feet, and an energetic burst of applause announced that the spectators had not after all abandoned the match. Bux’s wicket had fallen, and worse, Grieves had emerged from the pavilion. Alex elbowed closer as Grieves strode across the lawn rolling down his sleeve, his shirt damp at the shoulder. Morgan sat down in disgust.
A flinty conversation ensued between the umpire, Grieves, and Andrewes. Finally, Grieves relieved the bowler and Andrewes trotted back to the pavilion.
—Enough mucking about, he announced severely. Sort yourself out, Wilberforce. If you have to come in, for God’s sake keep your eye on the ball, and don’t you dare funk it no matter how fast he bowls.
—Right.
Andrewes hauled him to his feet:
—I am dead serious, Wilberforce. If you let that ball past, I will personally thrash you until you bawl.
Morgan couldn’t decide whether to be insulted or flattered. He didn’t doubt that Andrewes meant it, but he didn’t need threats to rouse him. The promise of humiliation was enough.
* * *
He was sick to death of being treated like a pawn. He might be a lowly undermaster, but he was still a freeborn Englishman with all the rights due him. Those rights included not being saddled with noxious Old Boys; not being issued directives (sort out the cricket) without why or wherefore; not having to bowl unaided for hours while an inebriated side fielded like a flock of mental defectives; and it included the right not to have pestilence from the past thrust up his nose at lunch sans explanation of any kind. Last, finally, and paramount, he, John Grieves, had the right as Captain and as a human being to spend ten minutes in the pavilion applying a cold compress to his shoulder without being harassed by the Headmaster pro tem and asked what exactly he was playing at.
—I’m playing at cricket, thank you very much, and if you expect me to give the XI even a shred of difficulty during the last half hour, I advise you to return to your guests and leave me in peace.
Burton had turned a color that usually preceded volcanic talkings-to, but by some grace he left before saying anything at all. Out of principle, John had remained in the pavilion five more minutes until he felt a chill coming on. Only then had he emerged to do battle with whichever batsmen still remained to the XI.
He made a point of not looking where he knew Burton and the person were sitting. There was simply no energy to spare them beyond cursing their astronomical impertinence. What he needed to contend with was Bradley, a person John knew to have practiced a level of turpitude that even now made his stomach turn. A better man than he would stop the match and denounce Bradley before the assembly. John wanted to do that. He knew he ought to do that. But he didn’t do it. To make matters worse, Bradley had proved an efficient wicketkeeper, a
nd bowling to him made John feel like a conspirator. A call had been made early in the innings for an alternate wicketkeeper, but after seeing John bowl, no one but Bradley had the nerve to stand in the firing line and catch what John was sending down. Now, as John took the ball, Bradley came forward to confer.
—Thank Christ you’re back, Bradley muttered.
An instinct to grin competed with the desire to excoriate Bradley for blasphemy.
—Radcliffe’s batting hair-trigger. Andrewes coming in now. Watch for the pull shot.
—Yes, I know, John said testily.
—Last is Wilberforce, if it comes to that.
—Oh, it will, John declared.
Bradley gawked at him, struck pleasantly speechless. John waved him back to the wicket and shook out his arm as Andrewes approached the pitch.
* * *
Grieves was bowling like a demon. Obviously he’d been sacrificing babies in the pavilion because he was throwing faster than Morgan had ever seen. Andrewes and Radcliffe got a couple of runs off him, but then Grieves hurled the ball so fast they barely saw it. The next moment, Radcliffe’s wicket lay shattered on the pitch, and Radcliffe himself lay crumpled before it.
—Blood-y hell! cried Alex. Grieves hit Radcliffe!
Indeed it seemed that Grieves’s ball had clipped Radcliffe’s foot before taking the wicket. The XI rumbled mutinously, but eventually Radcliffe limped off the field under his own steam. Morgan checked his pads. Alex handed him the bat:
—Good luck.
Morgan walked away from Alex and took his place in front of the one person he wanted never to see.
—Well, Bradley murmured, look who it is.
Morgan refused to look at him. He looked at the crowd. He looked down the pitch at Grieves, dusty with the soil of play. He looked at Andrewes, bat in hand, ready to run, training his attention on Morgan as if sheer willpower could make him hit the ball. Morgan squared his shoulders.
—You and Andrewes last, eh? Think you can score eight before Grievesy breaks another foot?
Always smile in all circumstances.
