The Buttercup Field

by D J O'Leary

  ‘Are you all right, Tolstoy?’ asked Elspeth. ‘Only you didn’t seem to have very much to say.’

  ‘Sorry, I was still a bit dozy, needed a bit more time to come to,’ he said. ‘Henrietta seemed very pleasant. She has a lovely voice.’

  ‘Oh she’s a super young woman and you’re right, she does have a lovely voice. Little wonder that she’s a newsreader on the BBC World Service. She reads the news on the main radio news programmes, sometimes she is on in the mornings, other times you hear her in the evenings. She has a truly wonderful voice. It’s really mellow. Perfect diction. She enunciates everything so clearly. Her parents are really proud of her. But she’s so wrapped up in her career that she’s still single. She seems to have no time to herself. I always thought these television and radio people spent their free time partying. Incredibly, her parents have met just two men, whom she has brought down here, in the eight years since she left university. She has probably had other boyfriends up in London, but I can’t understand why some man has not snapped her up already. She is perfectly gorgeous to look at and she has a brain as well. It’s a pity she didn’t stay a little longer just now, I’m sure the two of you would have got along well. Still you are bound to run into her again over the next two days.’

  Tolstoy hoped most fervently that he would run into her again, although not literally of course, and this time preferably without inflicting any damage to her. He glanced at the scoreboard and was jolted. ‘Good heavens! They’ve lost six wickets. How long was I asleep for?’

  Elspeth smiled. ‘About an hour and a half. You were so deeply asleep that I didn’t have the heart to wake you, well not until I spotted Henrietta heading in our direction, and then I really had to disturb you, otherwise it would have looked so rude, don’t you think, if I had left you snoring gently in the deckchair while carrying on a conversation across your sleeping self?’

  Tolstoy nodded his agreement before shaking the same part of his anatomy in wonderment that he had not been woken by the progress of the match, the fall of the wickets or the noise of the crowd. ‘Where’s Hubert?’

  ‘He’s had to go home. He is really not feeling too well. It’s his cancer. He is getting noticeably more tired and weaker too, and he seems to be in more pain daily, although he never actually lets on, he is so stoical about it.’

  There was a catch in her voice as she added, ‘They don’t expect him to reach Christmas, which means he will miss our ruby wedding anniversary.’

  Tolstoy put an arm around Elspeth’s shoulders. He said nothing, because there was nothing he felt he could say. He reflected ruefully that it was the second time in the space of a few minutes that he had been rendered wordless in the company of a woman. And on both occasions, he felt it was his inadequacy, his seeming inability to communicate with the opposite sex, that was the root cause of such reticence.

  ‘Thank you, Tolstoy.’ Elspeth eased away from him, composed herself, then sat down alongside him. ‘Let’s watch the action. Shouldn’t be too long now, I would have thought.’

  Indeed the Beaters were but a handful of runs away from victory, and barely had he settled back in his deckchair than a chubby batsman executed – the mot juste for the situation, thought Tolstoy – an elegant cut and the match was over, the Guns well beaten in the end. As the players left the field Tolstoy and Elspeth got to their feet again, the former then taking it upon himself to fold both chairs and take them over to the side of the pavilion where they were habitually stacked under an awning.

  ‘Will you be going to the pub with everyone?’ Elspeth asked.

  ‘Would that be all right with you?’ came the response. ‘Because if you have anything planned then of course I can give it a miss.’

  ‘No, dear, you go and enjoy yourself. I’ll have a light supper prepared for you for when you get in. Perhaps don’t be too late, though, because I think Hubert wants a further chat with you about everything.’

  ‘I won’t be late,’ he promised. Elspeth turned away to speak to someone, while Tolstoy heard himself hailed by someone in the pavilion. With a smile Tolstoy recognised his old school friend, and a popular member of the Guns XI, Charlie Hornchurch, poking his head out of the window of the “Home” dressing room. As Tolstoy approached the pavilion the head addressed him. ‘Tolstoy, you old dog! How are things?’

  ‘Charlie, my dear chap! Well. And you?’

  ‘Couldn’t be better. Let me finish changing and I’ll reveal all.’

  The head disappeared and Tolstoy moved around to the front of the pavilion.

  He and Charlie had known each other since prep school. The fact that Tolstoy’s friend was a fair cricketer, a solid batsman and fine close fielder, whereas Tolstoy was hopeless at cricket and all sport, merely served to bring the two closer. Tolstoy was in part responsible for Charlie’s presence in the Guns XI. It was he who had persuaded Charlie to come down to Stottenden with him and stay as a guest of the de Groots a few years earlier. Coincidentally on that weekend the village XI had been a man short and so Charlie, kitted out with borrowed gear, had been roped in to play and made an instant impression with the bat, so much so that the colonel and Hubert de Groot had jointly decided that he would be an ideal addition to their annual cricket match and thus it was that Charlie would spend more than an occasional spring and summer weekend in Stottenden, when he would also turn out for the village cricket team, as well as paying several visits during the shooting season.

  While waiting for his friend to reappear, Tolstoy allowed his gaze to sweep around the ground. He still found it hard to believe that one day it would be his, his responsibility. Would he want to change any of it? Not a chance. Would he try to improve the facilities? Possibly, but then again, perhaps not. Perhaps he should consider some form of permanent shelter from rain and relentless sunshine for spectators. But then again… A new score box might not be a bad thing, instead of the scoreboard, have the scorers inside the score box, an electronic one of course, that way they would be sheltered from the extremes of the weather and their scorebooks, more importantly would be spared the occasional soaking. Yes. A score box with room for maybe four people, to allow the scorers a couple of scoreboard operators as well. And four pairs of eyes would result in more accurate records of matches. Right. That was decided, then. He smiled to himself at having a goal. And such a positive one. He would tell his godfather. He hesitated. Maybe not. Perhaps he would look too grasping and vulture-like. Changing things before Hubert had played his final innings. Yes, it might be seen as being a bit insensitive. He would leave it.

  He was interrupted in his musings by the sight of the massed waves and curls of Henrietta Charles, in animated conversation with a tall, athletically built man. Her back was to Tolstoy, but he could see, just from the way her head was tilted, and the way she was leaning slightly towards the broad-shouldered man, that this was someone with whom she wanted to have a conversation, in contrast to her second, brief, encounter with Tolstoy. Then the man turned slightly in Tolstoy’s direction and he realised that it was Harry Stoke, the gamekeeper and heroic batsman. Well, Tolstoy shrugged mentally, I can’t compete with him for Henrietta’s interest.

  He turned away and focused his attention instead on the entrance to the pavilion, whence he expected to see Charlie emerge any time soon. Out of the corner of his eye he was still aware of Henrietta Charles, her head bobbing enthusiastically at something Harry was saying, but he managed to resist the temptation to turn around fully and gaze at her once more.

  He was then distracted by the dark-haired young woman who had earlier offered him a “slither” of cake. ‘Hello again. Are you waiting for me?’ She had paused on the steps of the pavilion, a quizzical look on her face.

  Tolstoy was instantly covered in confusion and blushed deeply. Another near-mute moment in female company for him, and he began to wonder about this particular day and what, or who, might still be lying in wait for him. ‘I’m sorry
? Um… I’m waiting for my friend Charlie, who is changing at the moment,’ he explained, his tone and look clearly confused and bordering on embarrassment.

  She smiled at him. ‘It’s OK, I was only joking. But you did look a little distracted, lost even, so I thought I’d check, that’s all.’ She came down the steps. ‘That was quite a crescendo to the match. So exciting,’ she added, then, without waiting for his response, made to move past him. Tolstoy, for his part, was wondering whether to correct her use of crescendo, when she meant climax, but once again decided against it. He moved aside slightly, although it was not necessary, since there were acres of space around him, and allowed her to ease past him.

  However she had only moved a few yards when she stopped, looked over her left shoulder and asked, ‘Are you going to the pub?’

  ‘Yes,’ a pause, ‘with my friend.’

  ‘Good, I’ll see you there, then.’ And with that she slipped away, Tolstoy’s eyes following her trim figure as she trailed after the throng that was heading for the entrance to the field, and thereafter, for the majority no doubt, the Snitcher’s Head. She was certainly not unappealing, he thought, lovely blue eyes – he had failed to notice what colour eyes Henrietta Charles had, although he guessed they would be green, given the colour of her hair. After all, that was the traditional combination, red hair with green eyes, wasn’t it? Whatever further thoughts he might have had about the colour of Henrietta Charles’ eyes, or the trim, young woman were stopped in their tracks by another call to him. ‘Warren!’ Tolstoy turned and waited for Neville Davis, the vicar of St Martin’s, to join him.

  ‘Good afternoon, Neville, did you enjoy the match?’

  ‘Yes, rather exciting I thought. A pity Harry didn’t get to three figures, still John Preddy is a wily old fox, his bowling looks so innocuous, so hittable. But more often than not it proves to be missable, as poor Harry found out.’

  ‘Yes. He’s earned the title “The Sly Slow Bowler” all right,’ agreed Tolstoy. ‘How come you weren’t playing for the Guns today? They could have done with a bit of your Caribbean clubbing. I saw your century earlier this season for the Village XI against Comenden, it was something to behold. How many balls was it? Sixty-eight? Shades of the legendary Sir Vivian Richards. Don’t tell me you were dropped for Harry Stoke?’

  The priest smiled at Tolstoy. ‘No, I wasn’t dropped. Out injured.’ And he held up his right hand. ‘I broke a bone when I tripped in the churchyard the other day, so for the next six weeks or so I am sidelined. Enough of me, did I see you chatting up Kate Harborne a moment ago? Nice woman.’

  ‘Is that her name? The dark-haired woman? Kate Harborne?’

  ‘Yes. She runs a gift shop in Tunbridge Wells. Quite successful, too, I’m told. Although she used to have quite a high-powered job working in a museum. She’s a historian, and I believe she used to specialise in old manuscripts, or some such. Nice woman.’

  ‘I was most certainly not chatting her up,’ Tolstoy mustered some indignation into his voice. ‘It was more a case of her chatting to me. Said she’d see me in the pub. I’ll certainly be there, for a short while at least, but not because of her. I’m taking my old school friend Charlie Hornchurch, who captained the Guns today, to the Squealer’s for a couple of catch-up pints.’

  ‘Have you heard about all the fuss over the Buttercup Field?’

  ‘Yes, Hubert has been telling me. But it sounds as if it is all going to end happily ever after.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure. A lot will depend on how the public hearing goes. There are those in the village who say that the government is very keen to push through developments such as the one being proposed by Jack Bentley. And it can’t be denied, we could do with more housing in the area, and maybe even the village. Yet somehow I wouldn’t like to see the Buttercup Field sprouting houses. It would be better if Jack Bentley sold one of his fields, perhaps on the outskirts of Stottenden, for residential development.’

  Tolstoy nodded his agreement, just as a hearty slap jolted him. His closest friend, the nearest he had to a brother, had stolen up behind him and announced his arrival in typical fashion. Charlie Hornchurch was a trifle shorter than Tolstoy, a trifle wider and a trifle heavier. He was also a trifle less serious than his old school friend. But then, reflected Tolstoy, he could afford to take life and himself less seriously, since he had none of the material worries of lesser mortals. As next-in-line to the fifteenth Baron of Upminster, whose wealth was vested in businesses and property in the south of Essex, but whose 1,000-acre family seat lay in the north of the county, nudging against the boundary with Suffolk, Charlie Hornchurch stood to inherit untold riches should he outlive the incumbent, his older brother, Algy, twenty-five years his senior, and childless. As it was, Charlie managed a more modest estate a few miles from the family seat as well as working in the City.

  ‘What ho, Rev! Enjoy the match?’

  ‘Yes, I was just telling Warren, it was rather good in parts. And it might have been a bit closer had Harry Stoke not been done by old John Preddy, who must bowl the slowest ball in England, but he gets more than his share of wickets for all his lack of pace. Right, must slip away, got to put the finishing touches to tomorrow’s sermon. Bye.’

  Charlie Hornchurch turned to his friend. ‘Now, Tolstoy, why so glum? It’s only a game after all.’ Hornchurch dropped a large leather holdall containing his kit and bats at his feet, in readiness for a goodish chat.

  ‘I’m not glum,’ insisted Tolstoy. ‘I was merely lost in thought momentarily.’

  ‘Really? You could have fooled me, old son. You look like the crow who lost his piece of cheese thanks to the flattering comments of the hungry fox. And if it wasn’t the result of what was an exciting match, then what is it that has left you so pensive?’

  Tolstoy opened his mouth to reply but was beaten to speech by a figure that loomed into view on his left. ‘Excuse me, sorry to butt in like this.’ The interruptor was a large man, in his late sixties or early seventies, it was difficult to tell. ‘Warren, how are you?’

  It was the colonel. ‘Good afternoon Andrew, very well thank you. You seem to have made a rather good signing for the Guns this year. Your keeper can certainly hit a cricket ball.’

  ‘Yes, in fact,’ he turned to Charlie, ‘not since your debut has a newcomer made such an impression on the team or on a match.’

  The modest Charlie demurred, ‘I don’t recall ever making such an explosive contribution to a game. And my best innings is a shade over fifty, so I think Mr Stoke has the potential to make a far greater impression on this match, and on the village XI than I could ever hope to do. He really can hit the ball. Surely he should be batting up the order?’

  ‘We discussed that, but he felt that until he is more established here, and he is still trying to sort out the shoot for me, it would be better all round if he came in to lift the tail, so to speak.’

  ‘He certainly did that,’ said a smiling Tolstoy. ‘Now, a change of subject,’ said the colonel. ‘I wondered if you were intending going to the Snitcher’s Head in the next few minutes, because if you are I am trying to get a few of us together to discuss tactics over the Buttercup Field.’

  ‘Yes, Charlie and I are about to make our way over there. Where though? It’s going to be heaving. Back bar?’

  ‘Yes, Nick Marten has promised to keep everyone else out of there until the committee has finished its business, which shouldn’t take too long. Right, see you there, Warren. Pleasure to see you again, Charlie.’ The colonel wheeled around and strode off in the general direction of the pub.

  ‘He’s such a gentleman,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Yes, he is. He’s been extremely active in the campaign to save the Buttercup Field. Have you been following events?’ A shake of the head from Charlie prompted Tolstoy to give his friend a brief run-down.

  After which he asked, ‘By the way, where are you staying? Did you
take my advice and book yourself into the Star and Eagle in Goudhurst?’

  ‘Absolutely. Good beer, great food and a lively crowd. An excellent recommendation, so thanks for that. A good runner-up to the Snitcher’s Head as well. Anyway, what were we saying before Andrew came along? Ah yes, I was accusing you of resembling a hungry crow that had lost its piece of cheese. You appeared to be about to explain everything, so I am all ears once more, my dear chum.’

  Tolstoy hesitated, then, ‘Hubert has deteriorated, which is depressing enough; he has always been there, but now he tells me time is running out. Then this afternoon he had to leave the match, wasn’t there for the finale, which is unheard of. And although she has seemed OK, Elspeth momentarily lost it today, and after he had left she told me that Hubert has been in a lot of pain of late and is not expected to make it to Christmas. She is extremely distressed. Normally she is not one for overt displays of emotion, but she let her guard drop after Hubert did the unthinkable and left this, his favourite cricket match, before it was halfway through and returned to the house because of the pain he was in.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Tolstoy. I had no idea. I mean, I knew he was unwell, hence me booking in to the Star and Eagle, but I had not realised that things were quite that bad. I didn’t manage to get to see him before the start of proceedings today, but fully intend to see him tomorrow at the Manor.

  ‘Well, here’s me, full of the joys of summer, and bursting with news of a job offer, and I ignore your obvious sadness, treating it far too lightly. Can you forgive an old friend?’

  ‘There’s nothing to forgive, Charlie. Hubert is very old. Far older than that even. An end awaits us all. I am over-reacting. It was just the way I found out.’

  ‘What do you mean?’