CHAPTER FORTY THREE
A Spot of Cricket
To the delight of all cricket lovers, the opening day of the inter-colonial cricket match between the Victoria Seconds and Tasmania, on Saturday 26th of January 1895, provided fine weather and ideal conditions for the players. The Southern Tasmanian Cricket Association ground on which the game was to be played, was filled to capacity by the commencement of play at noon, and as Frances and her companions claimed their seats, they listened to the strains of the City Band’s music fill the Queen’s Domain.
To Frances’s relief, Wilfred Ballard speedily detached himself from their party, and joined a large group of his cigar-smoking gentlemen friends, leaving Frances with Crispin, Edwina Ballard, her daughter-in-law, Alice, and an impressive array of both the women’s friends. Being the only servant amongst such wealthy and illustrious women, Frances couldn’t help but feel rather insignificant, but as she glanced at their unfamiliar faces, she decided that fashionable female company was preferable to that of Wilfred Ballard. In the short time that Frances had been at Riverview, she had learnt that Mr Ballard was someone to be avoided at all costs, which was difficult, given his seemingly ubiquitous presence. Wilfred Ballard was a man who loved to talk, or rather pontificate, and Frances had spent many afternoons in the cluttered Riverview drawing room, enduring one of his homilies about his noble ancestors, and about his untainted pedigree.
Despite Mr Ballard’s early departure, Frances’s day did not improve. If anything, it deteriorated rapidly. As soon as the game got under way, Frances realised with dismay that her companions knew little, if not nothing, about the majestic sport of cricket. Edwina Ballard, it seemed, was there purely to socialise, drink lemonade, and not to watch the game. In the first half-hour of the game, for instance, Edwina and her friends had not so much as even glanced at the cricket.
While the conversation around her developed into the critique of spotted muslin and matching parasols, Frances suddenly wished she was sitting next to another cricket connoisseur—Michael Brearly perhaps. She sighed and sank further back in her seat. Beside her, Crispin had just woken from a boredom-induced sleep, and was stifling a violent yawn.
‘This is so dreary,’ he muttered in between yawns. ‘What a waste of a shilling.’
‘How can you say that?’ Frances retaliated. ‘Eady’s playing splendidly. If he keeps going on like this, he might get selected for the next Test Match.’
‘Who’s Eady?’
Frances shot her companion a look of exasperation. ‘Charlie Eady, Crispin. He’s one of the opening batsmen. He’s been out there for an hour at least. How could you have missed him?’
‘I must confess I haven’t been watching. I find cricket frightfully boring, particularly when there’s no competitive opposition.’
‘Boring?’ Frances repeated. ‘But you were so keen to come here today!’
Crispin had no desire to answer this question, and cunningly steered his way around the subject. ‘I just want to know why our Tasmanian boys are playing a seconds team from Victoria. I think it’s an insult not to send us their best players. Don’t you, Miss Norwood?’ Frances adjusted her hat, but said nothing. ‘I also like injuries. That always gets my attention. There’s nothing like a good solid knock to the head to liven things up.’
‘Crispin! That’s not a very nice thing to say.’
Crispin let out a low chuckle. ‘But it’s true! I knew this boy at school who was hit in the head by a cricket ball, and because the force of the ball was so great, he literally had the shape of the ball imprinted onto his forehead. Can you believe that?’
Frances was reminded of the infamous tennis match at Rosewood, and of Agnes’s injury. With a faint smile she returned her attention to the game, just as Eady’s batting partner, Gatehouse, hit the ball over the chains for five. Frances, along with the crowd around her, began clapping appreciatively. The remainder of the over was uneventful, but the first ball of the new over brought a Gatehouse mis-hit, which sent the ball hurtling towards a Victorian player in the outfield. The prospect of losing a Tasmanian batsman caused Frances to draw in a sharp breath, but her concern was short-lived. In the next moment, the ball slipped gracelessly through the fingers of the hapless fieldsmen, and onto the ground. The dropped catch sent the jubilant spectators to their feet, Frances included, and throwing feminine decorum aside, she let out a hearty cheer.
Suddenly, amidst the cheers and clapping, Frances heard the distinctive sound of a man’s voice behind her. ‘Ow, what!’ she heard the man shout, ‘how could you have missed that!? A blind man could have caught that one!’
Several spectators beside Frances erupted into laughter, but Frances, having recognised the familiar voice, stiffened, and without saying a word, sank despondently into her seat. Crispin noticed her sudden pallor, and asked her what the matter was.
‘Lemonade,’ Frances heard herself gasp, ‘I, I need something to drink.’
Before Crispin could reply, Frances rose to her feet again, and grabbing hold of Crispin’s arm, literally wrenched him out of his seat. ‘Come on, Crispin,’ she commanded, ‘we’re leaving. NOW.’ She tightened her grip on the boy’s arm, and blindly dragged him towards the aisle.
‘Ow,’ Crispin was moaning, ‘you’re hurting me!’
Frances ignored his protests and inquiring looks from nearby spectators, and hastened towards the entrance of the stand. She then fled outside, and into the safety of the crowds, that were congregating behind the scoreboard. She faltered and relinquished her hold on Crispin’s arm. While Crispin lifted up his shirt-sleeve to inspect the damage his governess had done to his bony arm, Frances pulled out her purse and began to count its contents.
‘You wait until Grandmother hears about this,’ Crispin was muttering beside her. ‘I’ve got your fingerprints all up my arm!’
‘Well if that’s all you have to worry about, you’re a very lucky boy.’ Having said this, she shot an anxious glance towards the stand, where Edwina and her friends were seated. They were still deep in conversation and appeared not to have seen Frances and Crispin flee.
‘Lucky?’ Crispin retaliated, ‘you almost cut off the blood supply to my arm.’
Frances extracted several coins from her purse, and thrust them into Crispin’s hand. ‘Here,’ she said, in her most authoritative tone, ‘take this money and go and get two glasses of lemonade.’
‘Huh! You hurt me, and then you ask me for a favour!’ He sniffed resentfully.
‘No arguing. If you go now, you can keep the change.’
Crispin seemed irresolute. ‘Do you promise?’
‘I give you my word. Now go before I have second thoughts.’
Even before Frances had uttered the last word of her sentence, Crispin had disappeared into the colourful throng of the crowd, leaving Frances alone and vulnerable amongst a few hundred strangers.
All of a sudden, she heard her name called, and turning around, found herself confronted by the very person she had been trying to avoid. Her astonishment at seeing George Brearly was great, and coupled with the humiliating recollection of their New Year’s Eve intimacy, she coloured, stepped back blindly, and momentarily loosened her grip on her purse. It slipped through her trembling fingers onto the carpet of green grass, opened up and disgorged her meagre collection of coins.
Frances dropped instantly to her knees and began gathering up her money, as did George, and Michael Brearly, who had only just joined them. Frances’s awkwardness was doubled by the doctor’s unexpected appearance, and for a brief moment their eyes met. The sight of his tender gaze upon her heightened Frances’s blush, and she hurriedly got to her feet. At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to disappear into thin air, but the reality was that she was now the centre of attention.