The Captain and the Cricketer

by Catherine Curzon

  “Please, Tabs, can we not talk about that?” Because he hates me, because he thinks I’m a liar, because I screwed it up for the sake of a father who was never the most reasonable chap on a good day. “I’m going to make some calls of my own, but can you just get the word around to anyone in business, law, anything, who might be able to connect Randy Cheese to Longley Parva?”

  “Randy—? Ahem.” Tabitha, George was well aware, had worked in this business for long enough to know that, as the poster said, Loose Lips Sink Ships. “I’ll see what I can find out. Wasn’t he stopped from building some massive golf resort up in Scotland when he said he’d only locate it there if they took down the wind farm. And the mountain?”

  “Was he? I spent the last year sailing around the world, Tab, so I probably missed it. Look, I’m back in London tomorrow so I’ll give you a shout?” He managed a smile even though she couldn’t see him, and it made his face ache. “And before you ask, it won’t be at Kensington Palace, sorry.”

  “That’s all right, darling. You and me should have a night out on the razzle—we’ll sort out Randy, then I’ll fill you with Cava and you can tell me all about what happened with your chap.”

  “I’m not good company right now,” he admitted. “You enjoy your night.”

  “Thank you, darling. Gosh, I don’t like hearing my lovely George all sad.” Tabitha had adopted her Girl Guide pack leader voice. “But don’t worry, Auntie Tabs will look after you!”

  “Randy Cheese,” he reminded her. “And I’ll owe you one again!”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Henry spent his every spare moment in the practice nets at the cricket club. It was better than sitting about in the manor on his own, remembering George in every room. He couldn’t even sleep in his own bed anymore and had taken to kipping on a musty camp bed in the lounge, with Bad Billy’s portrait looking down on him.

  But that hadn’t helped much. Because Henry, in his hunt for paperwork that might save his home, had taken the portrait down, to see if there was anything hidden behind it. There wasn’t, but seeing the portrait up close, he’d realized that Billy was holding a silver oval in his hand. It must have been the miniature of himself and his lover, and their entwined locks of hair. They had lived in this house for years and died within days of each other.

  My dear, loving friend.

  But at the cricket club, he could forget everything. Find a willing youth to lob balls at him and knock them as far as he could. All that knotted despair in his body had a vent.

  He could forget the words he’d hurled at George, words he hadn’t meant. He had only wanted George to see that his career wasn’t everything. They had love. Still did, because Henry hadn’t stopped loving him.

  Even though George had gone.

  Each evening, when Henry came back from the cricket club, he would stand in his garden looking out toward the cottage. It was always in darkness. Because George had chosen his career over love. Perhaps that was sensible, in a way—love wouldn’t pay the rent. But surely there was some way that they could be together and George could go on pootling about on television in that bloody car and whipping off his shirt.

  Whipping off his shirt. An obvious signal to the entire viewing public that Captain George Standish-Brookes might not be entirely straight. Not one person had been surprised by the photograph of the formerly straightest man on television dancing with a man.

  But it wouldn’t do to dwell. Because Henry had handled the whole thing very badly. Even if he was hurt, George hadn’t meant to wound. If they’d had time, Henry knew that George would’ve come round. Would have dealt with it. But thanks to that bloody photo, they hadn’t had a chance.

  The media had descended on Longley Parva and the hunt was on for the mystery man. To save George his blushes, Henry had stood on the gravel car park outside his surgery and told the world, “George and I are old friends, just having a laugh, nothing wrong with that, eh? Two grown men dancing, enjoying each other’s company. Anyway, things to do, thank you, ladies and gentlemen of the press.”

  And each night, in the practice nets, after Henry had knocked the ball flying, it would always be brought back to him by his new friend.

  No one knew the name of the dog who had started to hang around the cricket club, so Henry called him Nimrod. A large, shaggy stray, with a sore on its side and a bend in its tail. A mix of Border Collie and god knew what else, with a Husky’s ice-blue eyes. After the third night of it hanging about the practice nets, drawn to Henry as if it somehow knew him, the vet took him home.

  Nimrod lay on the floor beside Henry’s camp bed, and as Henry endured through the sleepless hours of the night into morning, he was comforted by the snuffling of his dog. Not the dog that he had chosen, but the dog that had chosen him.

  Everyone in the village was abuzz about the Single Wicket match, but Henry kept himself aloof. So many questions from people about ‘your friend George’, and Henry could only shrug. No, I don’t know why he’s not in the village. No, I don’t know if there’s any tickets left. No, I don’t know when the footage of the dance will be shown on television. Would they never stop pestering him?

  But there was still the issue of the house. Another solicitor’s letter, this time from his own lawyer, explaining some fees that Ed Belcher was demanding. Henry had screwed the letter into a ball and hurled it across the garden as far as he could. It had landed on the undisturbed surface of the lake and floated for a moment before it capsized and sank.

  On the night before the match, Henry came home from the nets with Nimrod. The dog had been pampered at the surgery—shampooed, de-fleaed and bandaged up. He even had a microchip now, in case he should wander again. But the dog didn’t seem inclined to leave Henry’s side.

  That’s one friend, at least.

  Until Nimrod came to realize that Henry was a curmudgeonly, misanthropic, miserable old bastard and ran off like—

  Nimrod whisked his mended tail in an enthusiastic circle, tipped back his head to unleash a bark that could split eardrums at thirty paces and yanked his lead so hard that it slipped out of Henry’s surprised grip before he could stop him.

  “Nimrod!”

  The enormous dog hurtled across the garden with Henry in pursuit. Just as Henry registered that the lights were back on in George’s house, Nimrod took the fence in one effortless bound into the meadow, heading toward the cottage.

  Well, everyone was drawn to their local celebrity.

  Henry faffed with the bolt on his gate and managed to get it open, calling to Nimrod as he tried to follow him.

  Of all the bloody awkward things.

  He could hear the dog’s massive paws padding over the dry earth, the grasses swishing as he swept through the meadow, the swoop of that metronome tail back and forth and Nimrod’s regular, rhythmic panting. But he couldn’t see the damn creature in the rapidly failing light.

  “Nimrod, come back here, where do you think you’re going—bad dog! Nimrod!”

  Henry followed Nimrod as far as he could, until he came up against George’s garden fence. The dog was nowhere to be seen or heard. Henry was about to cup his hands around his mouth to call for his dog once again, when he dropped his arms to his side.

  One really can’t bellow across another chap’s garden.

  The kitchen door was open, a soft light shining out across the twilit lawn. From inside, Jez appeared, trotting out to stand beside the pond. He looked at Henry, his head on one side, then meandered happily over to greet him, whinnying a delighted welcome at his other pa.

  As Jez nuzzled at Henry over the fence, thoughts of the stable at home came into his mind. Henry closed his eyes and allowed himself a short reverie, of the jet-black foal in the stable yard at the manor, swishing his tail. That could’ve been theirs, they could’ve been a family. But circumstance had decided otherwise.

  Henry whispered into his mane, “I’m so sorry, Jez.”

  “Your ma and pa are going to be fretting!” George’s voice was
full of enthusiasm as he stepped out into the garden and turned back to address Nimrod, who was chasing him from the house. “Where do you live, boy, eh?”

  Surprised and embarrassed that his dog had gone uninvited into someone else’s house, and George’s cottage at that, Henry leaned over the gate and called to the human occupant. “Good lord, George—I’m sorry! That’s my dog!”

  “Fitz!” George spun on his bare feet and looked at Henry as though he was the most unexpected sight in the world. He glanced down at Nimrod then back at Henry and smiled. “He and Jez were trying to steal my chips.”

  “He’s been at the surgery all day—he’s the most well-fed, pampered dog in the South Downs. Bad Nimrod—bad boy! Stealing this nice man’s chips. Bad dog.”

  Nimrod tipped his head to one side, considering Henry as he wagged his tail from side to side. The dog was in no hurry to abandon his new friends at the cottage.

  “Sorry about that, George. He’s a stray. Been hanging about the practice nets. I’ve tried to find his owners, but… Well, he decided to adopt me, so there wasn’t all that much I could do.”

  “Nimrod?” George beamed, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. Instead he looked…tired, Henry thought, as tired as Henry felt, and his cheer sounded forced. “So, tomorrow… I hope you’re ready to defend your Single Wicket record? We’ve got a brand-new trophy, which I hope nobody will steal!”

  “The dog seemed to know me. I had this strange fancy that—” Henry shrugged. Canine reincarnation was not a subject for a vet to entertain. “Anyway, he needed a name, and that seemed as good a one as any. And—yes, I’ve been in the nets all week after work. I’m in fine fettle! And you? I do hope you’ll at least hit the ball this time!”

  The old jovial rivalry of youth was back in Henry’s tone.

  “Can we—” George swallowed whatever the question was, though, and instead held out his hand. “Bearing in mind that you’ll have a cricket bat in your hand tomorrow, can we at least call a truce?”

  Henry reached for George’s hand and shook. He didn’t want to let go, and looked away as their hands dropped apart. “I’m past walloping people with cricket bats. Although if Ed Belcher’s there tomorrow, I might be tempted!”

  “And I’m sorry you thought I lied to you.” George’s voice was quieter. “I’m sorry for all of it.”

  “I said a lot of things, George. I didn’t mean—I keep thinking it over, and I don’t… I was all over the place. I’m sorry if I hurt you. I didn’t mean to. I just wanted you to— Nimrod, stop that!”

  The dog’s paws were on the fence, slathering Henry’s face with his long tongue.

  “Nimrod, you ill-mannered cur!” Henry managed to maneuver his dog off the fence and wiped the slobber away with his handkerchief. George laughed and for a moment, they could be back where they were, about to fall into each other’s arms. That was then, though, wasn’t it, before those angry words had been exchanged?

  “Jez has been staying with royalty.” George smiled. “But he prefers LP, so we’re back for a couple of days and then— Georgie gave me a very dirty look when I arrived today. I think she missed me!”

  Henry smiled at the man he’d once held in his arms. Was there the slightest chance that they could salvage something from the rubble?

  “Are you—are you going to stay? For a spell?”

  “Ma’s back next week.” He shrugged. “I love her, but the thought of sharing the yoga temple…no thanks!”

  “I just hope Nimrod doesn’t slip his lead again, although I can’t imagine he’s the sort of chap to be interested in your mum’s lentil casserole.” Henry gazed at George, at what he could see of his face in the darkness, where the light from the house cast a glow over him. He tried not to stare, and looked down at his shoes as he knocked the toes lightly against the fence.

  He glanced up at George.

  “Did I do the right thing? When those reporters turned up in the village? I thought first of all that I’d ignore them, and then I thought, damn it, they’ll keep pestering me at the surgery and at home, so I thought, I’ll just go on camera and say my piece. Was—was that the right thing to do?”

  “I didn’t want them on your doorstep. I’m sorry for that too.” George gave a rueful smile. “Turns out my dad was wrong—nobody hates me for being gay. In fact, people don’t seem very surprised at all.”

  “You can’t apologize for the reporters. I didn’t mind, really.” Henry lowered his head. His eyes fell somewhere at the level of George’s chest. He dropped his head again and returned to staring at his toes. “I…I did it for you.”

  From inside the cottage the phone rang, splitting the idyllic night. George glanced back, clearly torn when he said, “I’m really sorry, I’ve got to answer that.”

  “It’s okay. I’d better drag this reprobate home before he causes any further havoc. Come on, Nimrod!”

  Henry clicked his fingers and the dog jumped over the fence into the meadow.

  “See you tomorrow then, George.” Henry waved as he turned to go.

  “Bye, Fitz, nice to meet you, Nimrod,” George called, and Jez whinnied his farewell.

  Back through the meadow, Nimrod trotting at his side, Henry wanted to look back over his shoulder at the cottage where he and George had been so happy. But instead he pressed on, making his way through the darkness in his cricket whites.

  Have I turned into a ghost?

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The following morning, George drained the last of his tea, slipped on his sunglasses and made his way out into the garden. The day had dawned bright and warm, the cricket team were safely billeted in a very pleasant country house hotel just half an hour down the road and the BBC were already here, filming the setting up of the cricket field and talking to the very characterful elderly chaps who served as volunteer groundskeepers. Tabitha adored them, of course, and they were more than happy to provide a bit of local color.

  He had lain awake all night thinking about the conversation with Henry, wishing he had found the courage to speak up, to ask if they might try again. Yet George couldn’t summon the words because he already knew that the answer would be no, and that would be too much to bear. Even so, his mind turned again and again to Nimrod and Fitz, to the stable his lover had started clearing, to the sundial and the double miniature, to Billy and Tobias, Nimrod and Rupert and all that he had run away from. Their ancestors had risked everything to be together and he— Well, it was a mistake he would regret for the rest of his life. He would never know a love like that again, and it felt like losing a part of his soul.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he told Georgie’s portrait as she looked at him accusingly. “He wouldn’t want me now anyway.”

  George’s run that morning had taken him around the village where he had grown up and where, for a few weeks in a glorious summer, he had been loved. It was like something from a time long since lost even now, with bunting fluttering in the soft breeze and every garden at its best. The streets were empty yet by lunchtime they would be full, and the village hall fund would be a lot better off by the time the sun set tonight. Where George would go when filming was finished he didn’t know, but he knew that it couldn’t be here, because property in Longley Parva came up for sale once in a very blue moon. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair on Henry to hang around, the proverbial thorn in his side.

  George caught his reflection in the window as he passed. In whites and his regimental cricket sweater he looked every inch TV’s George Standish-Brookes—unflappable, chappish and full of banter. Today it felt like the heaviest mask he had ever worn.

  Keep smiling and don’t think about what you’ve lost, about the man you love.

  Just do you.

  He walked to the kitchen door and looked out at the garden, where Lil was plaiting Jez’s black mane. The horse’s tail swished this way and that happily and George called, “He looks very snazzy, Lil!”

  “Best-groomed horse in the village?” Lil slapped Je
z’s side and grinned at George. “I should open a horse beauty parlor.”

  “You’d make a mint!”

  She reached in her bag for something. “For under your eyes.”

  “What’s that?” He wandered out to join her. “Are you saying I need to slap up again, Miss Dalrymple?”

  “Not, like, full makeup? But just a dab of Touche Éclat. Covers the shadows?” She inclined her head in a knowing fashion, blinking.

  “They’ll sort all that in the wagon,” he assured her warmly, though it was the confirmation that he looked as exhausted as he felt. “Do I look dreadful?”

  Lil turned her head just slightly in the direction of the manor, then looked back at George and shook her head.

  “No?”

  Even a yes or no answer from Lil elucidated nothing. He followed the path of her gaze to the manor, thinking that at least he could keep one promise to Henry. Today Longley Parva Manor would be saved. With that thought, George glanced at his watch, mindful that it wouldn’t do to be late for the illustrious guest who was due in Longley Parva today. After all, it wasn’t often that a billionaire came to the village.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Ed Belcher, successful millionaire, golfing enthusiast, stock exchange badass, mover and shaker and ball-breaker, all-round affable bastard, husband and father, arrived at Longley Parva cricket club with a spring in his step.

  Another deal had been made. Another yacht had been bought. Another Lambo in the garage. And, today, yawn bloody yawn, Ed bloody Belcher would be lensing more TV.

  Just another day in the successful life of Ed Belcher. Livin’ la vida Belcher.

  Not that Ed had any time for cricket. But one stuck one’s slightly doctored nose in. Especially when the Beeb were set up at the old cricket pav, waiting for Mr. Longley Parva himself. Cricket jumper in Sussex colors draped around shoulders, limited-edition Oakley sunglasses just so on mussed yet perfect hair, here was Ed—cock o’ the bloody walk.