One of Stephen’s special pleasures was sitting outside his house in Graham’s car when Graham dropped him off after matches. It was his first experience of the delight of conversation with a worldly, knowledgeable but sympathetic adult, and it acted on him like some magical drug on a willing new addict. He sometimes found it especially hard to credit his good fortune in having it so easily and freely available, on tap. Sometimes they sat there in the cocoon of darkness until two and three in the morning, the conversation putting out runners and sports until it seemed to Stephen that they must cover the whole of human knowledge in a single night.
* * *
It was the most golden of all golden days in the sun, and Stephen wanted one run for his hundred. Graham ran up to bowl to him, and Stephen knew before the ball left his hand that he would give him a nice, easy long hop outside the off stump, and so it turned out. Graham stood back and offered him a warm, conspiratorial smile as the ball sat up and asked to be hit. The ball was actually his father, shrunken to the size of the armadillos used in the croquet match in Alice in Wonderland, and his bat was the stiffened form of his mother. He and Graham had carefully dipped her in starch before the match, then laid her, glowering furiously but impotently through the glistening coat of varnish they had applied when she had dried out, on the back seat of the car when they set off for the match.
He connected with the ball sweetly, right on the point of his mother’s chin, and his father sped like a rocket to the extra-cover boundary. The father-ball cannoned with a report like a thunderclap against an advertising board beyond the boundary rope, and rebounded back into the field. Then things began to go horribly awry. Instead of rolling to a halt, the ball uncoiled itself like smoke, and his father, reconstituted and growing at terrible pace back to his proper size, began to race towards Stephen. At the same time the varnish peeled off his mother, and she began to unstiffen and curl up towards him in his hands. Her legs, compressed to form the handle of the bat, came unglued. She flailed in his hands, and fell, writhing, on the pitch. Both of them started growing to vast size, and towered above him, blotting out the sun. He heard Graham’s voice, grown thin and toneless, crying out to him to do something. He knew that if he could only do whatever it was he would be safe, but he couldn’t quite hear what it was that he had to do. The monstrous shapes of his parents coalesced to form one enormous black shadow, and the light vanished. His last conscious memory was Graham’s voice, calling, “Stephen… Stephen… Steve…”
“STEVE!” roared Bill. “Wake up! We’re here. Come on, you little sod, WAKE UP!” He took Stephen by the shoulders and shook him hard. Stephen gave a convulsive shiver and opened his eyes. For a second he gazed wildly about him, wondering where he was, still in a cold, clammy sweat from the nightmare. Then he came to his senses, and dragged a deep breath down as the relief washed over him. “Ooogh!” he said, as he flexed cramped, stiffened limbs. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Couple of hours, I should think”, said Bill. “You and most of ’em. Lucky I stayed awake. Driver got himself lost twice. Still, we’re there now. Look lively.”
“Whassa time?” asked Stephen, rubbing his eyes and stretching.
“Ten past midnight. Don’t worry. Bar’ll still be goin strong. John here never closes.” He hastened on towards the back of the big forty-seater coach, shaking and bawling at sleeping players.
Stephen did some more luxuriant stretching, stood up and looked about him. Graham’s head appeared over the head-rest in front of him. He gave Stephen a sleep-drugged grin, and shook his head to clear it. “You were snoring well”, he said. Stephen blushed in the ghostly light from the few little reading lights above the seats here and there along the bus. The back was in complete darkness, with cricketers festooned about the seats in a variety of uncomfortable-looking postures, still asleep or groaning into semi-wakefulness under Bill’s less than gentle ministrations.
Eventually they all tottered blearily off the coach, most of them still trying to shake themselves properly awake, and stood around in a bunch in a dark, steeply sloping yard. Stephen could see that they were at the back of a large building, in which he could make out a glass door by the faint light coming from behind it. “Down there”, came Bill’s voice. “That’s the back entrance of the pub.”
“Do they know we’re late?” came a voice which Stephen thought he recognized as Don Parker’s.
“Yeah”, came Bill’s voice again. “I phoned from a call-box by the side of the road, twenty miles back, while you lot were all gonkin.”
“Gonking?” muttered Stephen, turning to the dark shape of Graham beside him. “What’s gonking?”
“I don’t know, for sure”, said Graham. “Bill’s always coming out with words I’ve never heard of, but I imagine from the context it probably means sleeping.”
“Marinespeak”, said a voice. “Bill was an officer in the Marines”, it continued, and they recognized it as belonging to Colin Preston, the airy square-cutter. “Either that or he plays the trivia machine in the Rat’s Castle. There’s dozens of questions on Marinespeak on it.” There was a general chuckle. The club captain’s addiction to trivial pursuit games on pub machines was well-known. The crowd began to drift towards the dimly illuminated rectangle in the looming cliff of the building.
They went in single file along a narrow corridor towards another door, outlined above, below and down one side by narrow lines of bright light. Stephen was temporarily dazzled as the door was opened, and a few moments later they were all standing in a small reception area, blinking like owls in the sudden glare of lights.
“Leave the bags here”, said Bill, dumping his own bulky holdall and his cricket bag beside the reception counter. “Bar’s through there”, he said to Stephen, gesturing and immediately leading the way. The others all deposited bags, holdalls and cases about the reception area and followed him into the bar. There were three or four late drinkers leaning on the bar, and a wiry, thin-faced man behind it, holding a glass up to one of a vast array of optics as they piled into the room. The drinkers glanced round, and all broke into simultaneous smiles of recognition. “Eh, howdo, lads”, came a chorus of welcome. The landlord wiped the bottom of the glass he was holding carefully along the bottom of the optic and turned towards them.
“Hullo, lads”, he cried. “Good to see you again.” The warmth in his voice was unmistakably genuine.
“He seems very pleased to see us”, murmured Stephen to Graham.
Graham grinned. “He is. He takes two months’ money off us in the week we’re here, the way we spend”, he said in a low voice, for Stephen’s ears only. “I must say, it’s good to be back”, he went on in a normal voice.
The landlord opened the hatch and came through to the customers’ side of his bar, and was immediately engulfed by a swarm of cricketers, competing to shake his hand, slap him on the back and generally make a fuss of him. “He’s popular”, murmured Stephen more or less to himself.
“He’s a bloody good bloke, is John”, someone said, and Stephen looked up to find Alan beside him. “He always looks after us right royally”, Alan went on. “Never closes the bar, always buys his round, and never complains about the singing. Hi, John, how you doing, you old bugger?” he said, pumping the landlord’s hand. “This is Steve Hill, new member this season. His first cricket tour, this is.”
“Eh, well, you’ll do a’reet wi this lot”, said the man, grabbing Stephen’s hand and shaking it long and vigorously. “They’re a good crowd a lads, are these. You’ll find us a’reet, an all. Always look after ’em, we do — don’t we Fred?” he called. A short, fat man of indeterminate age had appeared in the bar from beyond a partition and, on seeing who had arrived to fill the room to overflowing, had followed the landlord round and was being fallen upon with great affection by the cricketers.
“Owd Fred, my barman”, said the landlord, turning back to Stephen, still clutching his hand in a vice-like grip. “Been ere over fifty year, has Fred, though you
’d never know it look at im. Now then, I’m John Tozer, I’m t’guvnor ere, an very pleased to meetcha. Lemme say howdo to’t rest of em, an we’ll ave a drink.” He released Stephen’s hand as if he was parting from a beloved friend, and moved on to greet the remainder of the party. Fred meanwhile had gone back behind the bar, and was already filling glasses.
Stephen felt very happy. “Nice to feel you belong, isn’t it?” said Graham, materialising beside him out of the crowd with a pint of lager in each hand. “Cheers, Stephen. Good tour.” They drank.
Half an hour later the orgy of reunions and greetings had come to an end, and the party had resolved itself into groups of three and four. The landlord was sitting on a barstool talking animatedly with Bill and Don Parker, (“…an ow many toons’ve you ad this season, Don?” Stephen heard in broad north Yorkshire brogue.) Fred, the barman, who was, Stephen had heard incredulously, eighty years old, was bustling about behind the bar, serving continuously while he listened, with his head cocked on one side and his eyes bright with intelligence, to an account from Alan and Colin of the events of the year since he had seen them last. The few local after-hours drinkers were laughing and chatting with other groups.
Stephen, as new boy, took a back seat, sipping his lager at nothing like the rate the others seemed to be drinking at, and listening to the conversations going on all round him. A deep, glowing feeling of contentment enveloped him. He felt almost as if he was properly, fully alive for the first time. After a while Graham separated from one of the groups and came to sit with him, and he felt a wave of affection sweep over him, mingled with gratitude — it was Graham who had initiated him into all this, who had, in a sense, freed him from the prisoning confines of his life up to then. He smiled softly at Graham. “Happy?” asked Graham. “Happy”, he said, and his eyes were shining.
By half-past two everyone was thinking about bed. Several of the party were already dozing where they sat, and virtually everyone’s eyelids were drooping heavily. “Can we sort out the rooms, John?” asked Bill, and the two of them headed for the door. There Bill turned and called “anybody wanting to turn in?” There was a murmur. “Well, if you do want to we’re going up to sort out rooms and dish out keys now. Come with us if you want to.” He followed John out into the passage to reception. Graham glanced enquiringly at Stephen, and Stephen nodded. They got up and went, with several of the others, after the skipper and the landlord, finding them with their heads together over a sheet of paper on the reception counter.
“Right”, said Bill, surveying the group gathered round him. “Don and Simon, twenty-one. Here y’are.” He handed Don Parker a key on a huge plastic fob. “Colin, who you sharing with? Pete Staples, yeah? Right, you’re in nineteen.” Colin took his key and joined Don and Simon rummaging among the mountain of baggage. “Graham? You and Steve, isn’t it? Yeah”, he mumbled to himself, ticking names on the sheet of paper, “fourteen. Here, Graham.” Graham took the key and turned to find that Stephen had salvaged their bags. He relieved him of his own, and led the way up a flight of stairs to their room. “Same room as I had last year”, he said over his shoulder as they entered a long corridor.
“Who were you with last year?” asked Stephen, unable to suppress a slight tremor in his stomach as he asked.
“I was with Bill last year”, replied Graham. “He wasn’t club captain then — this is his first year — so he didn’t have skipper’s privilege.”
“Does he really fart a lot?” asked Stephen with interest, remembering what Bill had said.
Graham chuckled. “Not as much as some of them’ll tell you”, he said. “And a lot more than he’d admit. Ah. Here we are.” He halted beside one of the uniform cream-painted doors along the corridor, with a bright brass number 14, and unlocked it.
The room was not very big, but the twin beds were big, old-fashioned and, as Stephen discovered by immediately plumping himself down on one, comfortable. “That one suit you?” asked Graham, sitting on the far one, under the window.”
“Yes, fine”, said Stephen, bouncing up and down on the bed.
“Do you mind having a window open?” asked Graham. “I like to, but I don’t mind if you’d rather not”
“No, carry on”, said Stephen. “I like a bit of air.” He watched Graham covertly as he threw the heavy sash window wide open. I think, he told himself, the time has come. But not tonight… He felt oddly placid, and not impatient at all. “Ought to have a shower”, said Graham, turning back from the window, “but I don’t think I can be bothered. Have it in the morning. Don’t mind me if you want one, though.”
“No, I’m too tired”, murmured Stephen, yawning. “Morning’ll do for me too.”
They started to undress. Stephen saw in a single rapid glance Graham’s neat, prominent genitals. He felt a brief, hot flush pass over him, and could not help taking a second covert look. As he did so he saw Graham doing exactly the same, and laughed to himself.
“What’s funny?” asked Graham, falling into bed.
“Nothing.” As Stephen slid beneath the counterpane he looked up, and their eyes met. He gave him a friendly, sleepy smile. “Good night, Graham”, he said softly, already curling up comfortably in the cool sheets.
“Good night, my dear… chap” said Graham, turning off the light at the switch by his bed. Stephen’s mind registered the hasty addition of the final word. He just had time to formulate a last thought. Tomorrow night, I think… He was asleep.
* * *
The tourists got off to the best possible start the following day. When they arrived at Collingham Bridge’s beautiful ground at ten-thirty the tough, springy turf of the immaculately mown outfield was still silver with dew, and very wet. The sun was a watery phantom, barely visible behind a high blanket of bright white cloud.
Bill won the toss and batted, and against a very good bowling side, expertly handled and led by the Collingham captain, they made 286 for seven — a highly respectable total, but far from unbeatable on a small ground. Don Parker scored an immaculate ninety, Graham a fine fifty-three, and Stephen a lively eighteen in a frantic run-chase towards the declaration. Then they bowled the powerful Yorkshire side out for 261. Stephen took two wickets with his airy, flighted off-spin, and rounded off a thoroughly happy day by catching the last man on the long-on boundary to end the game. His pleasure in a good catch was magnified by the fact that it was off Graham’s neat, unostentatious seam-up trundlers.
The applause was tumultuous, and sporting, coming as much from the Collingham Bridge players on the balcony of their honey-coloured stone pavilion as from the tourists. Stephen and Graham were surrounded by the rest of the team, slapped on the back until their shoulders ached, and had their hair ruffled until it felt as if it was coming out in tufts. Then heads were lowered in the charge for the dressing room and the drinking to come.
By the time their coach deposited them back at the hotel in Malton a good many of the side were already happily drunk. Graham was sober, but he was highly elated, since his bowling rarely brought him tangible results. Stephen too was in an exalted state, partly because he had had a fine game and thought he had rarely been happier, partly because he had drunk four pints on a capacity of rather less, and partly because he had made his decision.
When the team were snugly ensconced in John Tozer’s back bar — which they had made their own — and the serious drinking was in full swing, the two of them joined in, but both kept a careful watch on themselves, and poured a quantity of beer into various plant pots, umbrella stands and other people’s glasses when the owners weren’t watching. At half-past ten Stephen looked round to see who was sober enough to be worth saying goodnight to, and found that this by now meant half a dozen of the hardest-headed. He pleaded tiredness, and quietly slipped out, followed by a ragged chorus of “Why was he born so beautiful?” He was followed fifteen minutes later by Graham, bowling imaginary top-spinners along the corridors and replaying in his mind the ball that had brought him his wicket that evening.
>
* * *
Stephen waited for a few minutes after they had said good-night, then called softly across the room. “Graham.”
There was a rustling of bedclothes. “Whassup?” Graham said sleepily.
“You still awake?”
“No, you young ass, I’m talking in my sleep”, came the reply, but there was a kindness in the voice that robbed it of offence.
“Can I ask you something?”
There was a pause, with more rustling, and Stephen could make out Graham’s dim shape as he sat up slightly in bed. “What’s the matter?” Graham’s voice now sounded awake and alert, with just the faintest muzziness from beer.
“Nothing’s the matter. I just want to ask you something. If it’s okay”, said Stephen.
“Well, yes, of course you can. I hope it doesn’t require me to think much”, said Graham, taking his cue from Stephen and speaking very quietly. “Go ahead.”
A moment later he woke up properly, as he heard Stephen slip out of bed and pad barefooted across the room to his own. A hand felt along the bedclothes seeking an empty part. Then he felt Stephen perch himself on the edge of the bed beside his chest. He could smell a faint scent of the soap Stephen had used in the shower. His senses were all alert now, and he could feel his pulse go on to rapid fire. For a moment he had nothing to say.
“Graham”, said Stephen after a long pause. “Do you know what they think about you in the club?”
Graham felt a bead of sweat ooze from his forehead and trickle maddeningly down his face, but he dared not free a hand to brush it away for fear of upsetting the equilibrium of the moment. He was not absolutely certain what was to come, but he had a fair idea, and with it a strong intuition that it must be allowed to take its course. He waited, with further beads following the first. At last he said, forcing himself to keep his voice even, “I…er…I think I could probably make some sort of a guess…” He let it hang in the thickening darkness of the room, waiting for Stephen to speak again.
Out of Bounds Page 7
