into the beck whence it was retrieved with a certain amount of profanity
by the invisible Maurice.
An old farm man once said to me when describing a moment of
embarrassment. "Ah could've got down a mouse 'ole.' And as I returned to
my place in the field I knew just what he meant. In fact the bowler at
the other end got through his over almost without my noticing it and I
was still shrunk in my cocoon of shame when I saw Tom Willis signalling
to me.
I couldn't believe it. He was throwing me the ball again. It was a
typ~cally magnanimous gesture, a generous attempt to assure me that I
had done well enough to have another go.
Again I shambled forward and the blue-shined lad awaited me, almost
licking his lips. He had never come across anyone like me before and it
seemed too good to be true that I should be given another over; but
there I was, and he climbed gratefully into each ball I sent down and
laid into it in a kind of ecstasy with the full meat of the bat.
I would rather not go into details. Sufficient to say that I have a
vivid memory of his red face and blue shirt and of the ball whistling
back over my head after each delivery and of the almost berserk yells of
the spectators. But he didn't hit every ball for six. In fact there were
two moments of light relief in my torment; one when the ball smashed
into the oak tree, ricocheted and almost decapitated old Len at the
other end; the other when a ball snicked off the edge of the bat and
ploughed through a very large cow pat, sending up a noisome spray along
its course. It finished at the feet of Mr Blenkinsopp and the pour man
was clearly in a dilemma. For the last hour he had been swooping on
everything that came near him with the grace of the born cricketer.
But now he hovered over the unclean object, gingerly extending a hand
then withdrawing it as his earthier colleagues in the team watched in
wonder. The batsmen were galloping up and down, the crowd was roaring
but the curate made no move. Finally he picked the thing up with the
utmost daintiness in two fingers, regarded it distastefully for a few
moments and carried it to the wicketkeeper who was ready with a handful
of grass in his big gloves.
At the end of the over Tom came up to me. "Thank ye, Mr Herriot, but I'm
afraid I'll have to take you off now. This wicket's not suited to your
type of bowling - not takin' spin at all.' He shook his he,ad in his
solemn way.
I nodded thankfully and Tom went on. "Tell ye what, go down and relieve
that man in the outfield. We could do wi' a safe pair of hands down
there.'
Chapter Twenty-Five.
I obeyed my skipper's orders and descended to the ravine and when
Maurice had clambered up the small grassy cliff which separated me from
the rest of the field I felt strangely alone. It was a dank,
garlic-smelling region, perceptively colder than the land above and
silent except for the gurgle of the beck behind me. There was a little
hen house down here with several hens pecking around and some sheep who
obviously felt it was safer than the higher ground.
I could see nothing of the pitch, only occasional glimpses of the heads
of ve' zn rlarness 3U~
players so I had no idea of what was going on. In fact it was difficult
to believe I was still taking part in a cricket match but for the
spectators. From their position along the wall they had a grandstand
view of everything and in fact were looking down at me from short range
They appeared to find me quite interesting, too, because a lot of them
kept their eyes on me, puffing their pipes and making remarks which I
couldn't hear but which caused considerable hilarity.
It was a pity about the spectators because it was rather peaceful in the
ravine. It took a very big hit to get down there and I was more or less
left to ruminate. Occasionally the warning cries would ring out from
above and a ball would come bounding over the top. Once a skied drive
landed with a thud in a patch of deep grass and with an enraged
squawking a Rhode Island cockerel emerged at top speed and legged it
irascibly to a safer haven.
Now and then I clawed my way up the bank and had a look at the progress
of the game. Len had gone but the lad in blue was still there. After
another dismissal I was surprised to see one of the umpires give his
coat to the outgoing batsman, seize the bat and start laying about him.
Both umpires were in fact members of the team.
It was after a long spell of inaction and when I was admiring the long
splash of gold which the declining sun was throwing down the side of the
fell when I heard the frantic yells. "Jim! James! Mr Herriot!' The whole
team was giving tongue and, as I learned later, the lad in the blue
shirt had made a catchable shot.
But I knew anyway. Nobody but he could have struck the blow which sent
that little speck climbing higher and higher into the pale evening sky
above me; and as it began with terrifying slowness to fall in my
direction time came to a halt. I was aware of several of my team mates
breasting the cliff and watching me breathlessly, of the long row of
heads above the wall, and suddenly I was gripped by a cold resolve. I
was going to catch this fellow out. He had humiliated me up there but it
was my turn now.
The speck was coming down faster now as I stumbled about in the tangled
vegetation trying to get into position. I nearly fell over a ewe with
two big fat lambs sucking at her then I was right under the ball, hands
cupped, waiting.
It fell, at the end, like a cannon ball, heavy and unyielding, on the
end of my right thumb, bounded over my shoulder and thumped mournfully
on the turf.
A storm of derision broke from the heads, peals of delighted laughter,
volleys of candid comment.
"Get a basket!' advised one worthy.
"Fetch 'im a bucket!' suggested another.
As I scrabbled for the ball among the herbage I didn't know which was
worse - the physical pain which was excruciating, or the mental anguish.
After I had finally hurled the thing up the cliff I cradled the
throbbing thumb in my other hand and rocked back and forth on my heels,
moaning softly.
My team mates returned sadly to their tasks but Tom Willis, I noticed,
hngered on, looking down at me.
"Hard luck, Mr Herriot. Very easy to lose t'ball against them trees.' He
nodded encouragingly then was gone.
I was not troubled further in the innings. We never did get blueshirt
out and he had an unbeaten sixty-two at the close. The Hedwick score was
a hundred and fifty-four, a very useful total in village cricket.
There was a ten minute interval while two of our players donned the
umpires' Coats and our openers strapped on their pads. Tom Willis showed
me the batting list he had drawn up and I saw without surprise that I
was last man in.
jute ver In marnes;Y "Our team's packed with batting, Mr Herriot,' he
said seriously. "I couldn't find a place for you higher up the order.'
Mr Blenkins
opp, preparing to receive the first ball, really looked the
part, gay cap pulled well down, college colours bright on the broad V of
his sweater. But in this particular situation he had one big
disadvantage; he was too good.
All the coaching he had received had been aimed at keeping the ball
down. An 'uppish'stroke was to be deplored. But everything had to be
uppish on this pitch.
As I watched from my place on the form he stepped out and executed a
flawless cover drive. At Headingley the ball would have rattled against
the boards for four but here it travelled approximately two and a half
feet and the fat lad stooped carelessly, lifted it from the dense
vegetation and threw it back to the bowler. The next one the curate
picked beautifully off his toes and flicked it to square leg for what
would certainly have been another four anywhere else. This one went for
about a yard before the jungle claimed it.
It saddened me to watch him having to resort to swiping tactics which
were clearly foreign to him. He did manage to get in a few telling blows
but was caught on the boundary for twelve.
It was a bad start for Rainby with that large total facing them and the
two Hedwick fast bowlers looked very formidable. One of them in
particular, ~ gangling youth with great long arms and a shock of red
hair seemed to fire his missiles with the speed of light, making the
batsmen duck and dodge as the ball flew around their ears.
"That's Tagger Hird,' explained my nearest team mate on the bench. "By
gaw 'e does chuck 'em down. It's a bugger facie' him when the light's
getting bad.'
I nodded in silence. I wasn't looking forward to facing him at all, in
any kind of light. In fact I was dreading any further display of my
shortcomings and I had the feeling that walking out there to the middle
was going to be the worst part of all.
But meanwhile I couldn't help responding to the gallant fight Rainby
were putting up. As the match went on I found we had some stalwarts in
our ranks. Bert Chapman the council roadman and an old acquaintance of
mine strode out with his ever present wide grin splitting his brick-red
face and began to hoist the ball all over the field. At the other end
Maurice Briggs the blacksmith, sleeves rolled high over his mighty
biceps and the ,bat looking like a Woolworths toy in his huge hands,
clouted six after six, showing a marked preference for the ravine where
there now lurked some hapless member of the other team. I felt for him,
whoever it was down there; the sun had gone behind the hills and the
light was fading and it must have been desperately gloomy in those humid
depths.
And then when Tom came in he showed the true strategical sense of a
captain. When Hedwick were batting it had not escaped his notice that
they aimed a lot of their shots at a broad patch of particularly
impenetrable vegetation, a mato grosso of rank verdure containing not
only tangled grasses but nettles, thistles and an abundance of nameless
flora. The memory of the Hedwick batsmen running up and down while his
fielders thrashed about in there was fresh in his mind as he batted, and
at every opportunity he popped one with the greatest accuracy into the
jungle himself.
It was the kind of innings you would expect from him; not spectacular,
but thoughtful and methodical. After one well-placed drive he ran
seventeen while the fielders clawed at the undergrowth and the yells
from the wall took on a frantic note.
And all the time we were creeping nearer to the total. When eight
wickets had fallen we had reached a hundred and forty and our batsmen
were running .
; 1
whether they hit the ball or not. It was too dark by now, to see, in any
case, with great black banks of cloud driving over the fell top and the
beginnings of a faint drizzle in the air.
In the gathering gloom I watched as the batsman swung, but only managed
to push the ball a few yards up the pitch. Nevertheless he broke into a
full gallop and collided with his partner who was roaring up from the
other end. They fell in a heap with the ball underneath and the
wicketkeeper, in an attempt at a run-out, dived among the bodies and
scrabbled desperately for the ball. Animal cries broke out from the
heads on the wall, the players were all bellowing at each other and at
that moment I think the last of my romantic illusions about cricket
slipped quietly away.
But soon I had no more time to think about such things. There was an
eldritch scream from the bowler and our man was out L.B.W. It was my
turn to bat.
Our score was a hundred and forty-five and as, dry-mouthed, I buckled on
my pads, the lines of the poem came back to me. "Ten to win and the last
man in.' But I had never dreamed that my first innings in a cricket
match would be like this, with the rain pattering steadily on the grass
and the oil lamps on the farm winking through the darkness.
Pacing my way to the wicket I passed close by Tagger Hird who eyed me
expressionlessly, tossing the ball from one meaty hand to another and
whistling softly to himself. As I took guard he began his pounding run
up and I braced myself. He had already dropped two of our batsmen in
groaning heaps and I realised I had small hope of even seeing the ball.
But I had decided on one thing! I wasn't going to just stand there and
take it. I wasn't a cricketer but I was going to try to hit the ball.
And as Tagger arrived at full gallop and brought his arm over I stepped
out and aimed a violent lunge at where I thought the thing might be.
Nothing happened. I heard the smack on the sodden turf and the thud into
the wicketkeeper's gloves, that was all.
The same thing happened with the next two deliveries. Great flailing
blows which nearly swung me off my feet but nothing besides the smack
and the thud. As Tagger ran up the fourth time I was breathless and my
heart was thumping. I was playing a whirlwind innings except that I
hadn't managed to make contact so far.
Again the arm came over and again I leapt out. And this time there was a
sharp crack. I had got a touch but I had no idea where the ball had
gone. I was standing gazing stupidly around me when I heard a bellowed
"Come on!' and saw my partner thundering towards me. At the same time I
spotted a couple of fielders running after something away down on my
left and then the umpire made a signal. I had scored a four.
With the fifth ball I did the same thing and heard another crack, but
this time, as I glared wildly about me I saw there was activity
somewhere behind me on my right. We ran three and I had made seven.
There had been a no-ball somewhere and with the extra delivery Tagger
scattered my partner's stumps and the match was over. We had lost by two
runs.
"A merry knock, Mr Herriot,' Tom said, as I marched from the arena.
"Just for a minute I was beginnin' to think you were going' to pull it
off for us there.'
There was a pie and pea supper for both teams in the pub and as I
settled down w~th a frothing pint of beer the thought kept coming back
to me. Seven not out! After the humiliations of the evening it was an
ultimate respectability. I had not at any time seen the ball during my
innings and I had no idea how it had arrived in those two places but I
had made seven not out. And as tte meal arrived in front of me -
delicious home-made steak and kidney pie with mounds of mushy peas - and
I looked around at the roomful of laughing sunburnt men I began to feel
good.
Tom sat on one side of me and Mr Blenkinsopp on the other. I had been
interested to see that the curate could sink a pint with the best of
them and he smiled as he put down his glass.
"Well done indeed, James. Nearly a story book ending. And you know, I'm
quite sure you'd have clinched it if your partner had been able to keep
going.'
I felt myself blushing. "Well it's very kind of you, but I was a bit
lucky.'
"Lucky? Not a bit of it!' said Mr Blenkinsopp. "You played two beautiful
strokes- I don't know how you did it in the conditions.'
"Beautiful strokes?'
"Most certainly. A delightful leg glance followed by a late cut of the
greatest delicacy. Don't you agree, Tom?'
Tom sprinkled a little salt on his peas and turned to me. "Ah do agree.
And the best bit was how you got 'em up in the air to clear t'long
grass. That was clever that was.' He conveyed a forkful of pie to his
mouth and began to munch stolidly.
I looked at him narrowly. Tom was always serious so there was nothing to
be learned from his expression. He was always kind, too, he had been
kind all evening.
But I really think he meant it this time.
Chapter Twenty-six.
"Is this the thing you've been telling me about?' I asked.
Mr Wilkin nodded. "Aye, that's it, it's always like that.'
I looked down at the helpless convulsions of the big dog lying at my
feet; at the staring eye the wildly pedalling limbs. The farmer had told
me about the periodic a.which had begun to affect his sheepdog, Gyp, but
it was coincir'e should occur when I was on the farm for another reason.
afterwards, you say?' Seems a bit dazed, maybe, for about an hour then
he's -mer shrugged. "I've had lots o' dogs through my hands ~0~;~; n
plenty of dogs with fits. I thought I knew all the G ~,A,o ~?',* %'
ding, distemper - but this has me beat. I've tried ~ ~ ~ ~0 ~
~ ~0 ~ " ~ A, '< Wilkin,' I said. "You won't be able to do much run`.~ ~
~, ~ ~ ~A ~ mind as .~, ~ ~ .P~A. o ~,A, `nal dog most of "'time.'
accuracy into . , j;' ~There's nothing actually wrong with his It was
the kin~ ~-' , Y>, ~ ~he cause is unknown but it's almost thoughtful and
methoc~.~., 0> ~,~ ~ the fielders clawed at the u.~ %,~3 ~'at's a rum
'un. If it's hereditary why frantic note..~0~ ' two years old and he
didn't start That's typical,' I replied. "Eighteen months to two years
is about the time it usually appears'
Gyp interrupted us by getting up and staggering towards his master,
wagging his tail. He seemed untroubled by his experience. In fact the
whole thing had lasted less than two minutes.
Mr Wilkin bent and stroked the rough head briefly. His craggy features
were set in a thoughtful cast. He was a big powerful man in his forties
and now as the eyes narrowed in that face which rarely smiled he looked
almost menacing. I had heard more than one man say he wouldn't like to
get on the wrong side of Sep Wilkin and I could see what they meant. But
he had always treated me right and since he farmed nearly a thousand
acres I saw quite a lot of him.
His passion was sheepdogs. A lot of farmers liked to run dogs at the
trials but Mr Wilkin was one of the top men. He bred and trained dogs
Vet in Harness Page 19
