My knees quaking, I walked back with him to the arena. A basking onlooker who had been suddenly called upon to join the Christians among the lions could not have been more overcome than I was. I heard Lord Trimingham say: “Let’s hope this interruption will have unsettled him,” meaning Ted. I heard him telling me what to do, and then mechanically I followed the movements of his hand, signalling me to my place in the field. At last I came to rest in a fairy ring, and this absurdly gave me confidence, for I thought it might be a magic circle and would protect me. As my nervousness wore off, a sense of elation took possession of me. I felt at one with my surroundings and sustained by the long tradition of cricket. Awareness such as I had never known sharpened my senses. Responsibility instead of being a dread, became a stimulus. But was I so responsible after all? The game had begun again and Ted had begun hitting again; I saw two shots flash to the boundary. But they did not come my way and then I realized, almost with a pang, that it was most unlikely that they would, for my position was the least important, the least responsible, that could have been found for me. It was known, I now remember, as “square leg,” and was a place reserved for the least expert fieldsman. Nothing would come my way.
A mortifying thought! And mortifying, too, was the relief it brought me. Released from my self-preoccupation, I looked round at the figures on the score-board and knew that we were in the direst danger. Our captain knew it too, he was reorganizing the attack. Our men were being made to change their positions. Should I be ousted from my fairy ring, to which—when I was not occupying the corresponding position on the other side of the field—I so thankfully returned? No, I was not. Lord Trimingham did not look towards me; he was holding the ball, he was to be our bowler, the spearhead of our attack.
Ted was not facing him, his partner was. So many things in cricket happen when one is not looking; almost before I realized it, the man had been bowled out. He turned and looked ruefully at the three stumps behind him, one of which had been uprooted from the ground; then with dull eyes and heavy steps he walked back to the pavilion. It was proof of our captain’s popularity that even at this critical moment he was generously applauded. And it was proof, too, of the general nervous excitement that when the boy whose job it was to put the figures on the score-board, in his own nervousness, put them upside-down, a laugh went round the field. It came to me magnified through ears that, like the rest of me, had begun to tingle. Even mathematics, it seemed, were liable to nervous upset. The boy came back, peered at his handiwork, and, to the accompaniment of more laughter, slowly changed the figures round. One hundred and thirty-six: the village needed seven runs to win, and this was their last batsman coming out.
As he met the retiring batsman in midfield and exchanged a few words with him, at which each man nodded, I tried once more to make out where my true feelings lay. But they gathered round me like a mist, whose shape can be seen as it approaches, but not when it is on you, and in the thick whirling vapours my mind soon lost its way. Yet I kept my sense of the general drama of the match and it was sharpened by an awareness, which I couldn’t have explained, of a peculiar drama between the bowler and the batsman, between Lord Trimingham and Ted, who were now facing each other. Landlord and tenant, peer and commoner, Hall and village—these were elements in it. But there was another, the spot of bright colour on the pavilion steps which I knew was Marian.
It was a prideful and sustaining thought that whereas the spectators would throw themselves about and shout themselves hoarse, we, the players, were forbidden to show the least sign of emotion. Certainly Lord Trimingham, digging his heel into the ground, a trick he had before he started bowling, did not, nor did Ted, though his face was scarlet under his matted hair, and his shirt was sticking to his back. But they eyed each other warily, the Briton and the Boer, as warily as two men could, I thought, who were not actually seeking each other’s blood.
Lord Trimingham sent down his deceptively dipping ball, but Ted did not wait for it to drop; he ran out and hit it to the boundary. It was a glorious stroke, and the elation of it ran through me like an electric current. The crowd yelled and cheered, and suddenly the balance of my feelings went right over. It was their victory I wanted now, Ted’s victory, not ours, not Lord Trimingham’s. I did not think of it in terms of the three runs that were needed; I seemed to hear it blowing towards me like a wind.
I could not tell if the next ball was straight or not, but it was pitched much farther up, and suddenly I saw Ted’s face and body swinging round and the ball travelling towards me on a rising straight line like a cable stretched between us. Ted started to run and then stopped and stood watching me, wonder in his eyes and a wild disbelief.
I threw my hand above my head and the ball stuck there, but the impact knocked me over. When I scrambled up, still clutching the ball to me, as though it was a pain that had started in my heart, I heard the sweet sound of applause and saw the field breaking up and Lord Trimingham coming towards me. I can’t remember what he said—my emotions were too overpowering—but I remember his congratulations were the more precious because they were reserved and understated; they might, in fact, have been addressed to a man; and it was as a man, and not by any means the least of men, that I joined the group who were making their way back to the pavilion. We went together in a ragged cluster, the defeated and the surviving batsmen with us, all enmity laid aside, amid a more than generous measure of applause from the spectators.
I could not tell how I felt; in my high mood of elation the usual landmarks by which I judged such things were lost to view. I was still in the air though the scaffolding of events which had lifted me had crumbled. But I was uneasily aware of one separate element that had not quite fused in the general concourse of passions: the pang of regret, sharp as a sword-thrust, that had accompanied the catch. Far from diminishing my exultation, it had somehow raised it to a higher power, like the drop of bitter in the fount of happiness; but I felt that I should be still happier—that it would add another cubit to my stature—if I told Ted of it. Something warned me that such an avowal would be unorthodox; the personal feelings of cricketers were concealed behind their stiff upper lips. But I was almost literally above myself; I knew that the fate of the match had turned on me, and I felt I could afford to defy convention. Yet how would he take it? What were his feelings? Was he still elated by his innings or was he bitterly disappointed by its untimely close? Did he still regard me as a friend, or as an enemy who had brought about his downfall? I did not greatly care; and seeing that he was walking alone (most of the players had exhausted their stock of conversation), I sidled up to him and said, with a trembling voice: “I’m sorry, Ted. I didn’t really mean to catch you out.”
He didn’t answer at once, his thoughts seemed far away; then he smiled and said: “That’s quite all right.” A moment later his face changed, he looked concerned, and he said anxiously: “But you mustn’t mind about me. You’ll spoil it if you do. You ought to be all cock-a-hoop. I should be, in your place. That catch of yours was a beauty; I never thought you’d hold it. To tell you the truth, I’d forgotten your existence, and then I looked round and there you were, by God. And then I thought: ‘It’ll go right over his head,’ but you stretched up like a concertina. I’d thought of a dozen ways I might get out, but never thought I’d be caught out by our postman.”
“I didn’t mean to,” I repeated, not to be cheated of my apology.
At that moment the clapping grew louder and some enthusiasts coupled Ted’s name with it. Though we were all heroes, he was evidently the crowd’s favourite; and I dropped back so that he might walk in alone. His fellow batsmen in the pavilion were making a great demonstration; even the ladies of our party, sitting in front, showed themselves mildly interested as Ted came by. All except one. Marian, I noticed, didn’t look up.
As soon as we were back at the Hall I said to Marcus: “Lend me your scoring-card, old man.”
“Why didn’t you keep one, pudding-face?” he asked me.
&
nbsp; “How could I, you dolt, when I was fielding?”
“Did you field, you measly microbe? Are you quite sure?”
When I had punished him for this, and extracted his scorecard from him, I copied on mine the items that were missing.
“E. Burgess c. sub. b. Ld. Trimingham 81,” I read. “Why, you might have put my name in, you filthy scoundrel.”
“‘C. sub.’ is correct,” he said. “Besides, I want to keep this card clean, and it wouldn’t be if your name was on it.”
13
THE SUPPER at the village hall was graced by various local notabilities, as well as by the two teams; it seemed to me far the most magnificent occasion I had ever been present at. The decorations, the colours, the heat, the almost overpowering sense of matiness (a quality I greatly valued), went to my head quite as much as the hock-cup that was poured into my glass. At times I lost all sense of myself as a separate entity; at times my spirit fluttered round the peaked ceiling of the hall, among the Union Jacks and paper streamers, a celestial body, companion of the stars. I felt that I had fulfilled my function in life, nothing more remained for me to do: I could live forever on my capital of achievement. My next-door neighbours, both of them members of the village team (for we were dovetailed; at this democratic festival it was not thought proper for two members of the Hall party to sit together), must have found me poor company, for though I communed with them freely in the spirit, I had almost nothing to say to them in the flesh. Not that they minded; they were intent upon their food, and sometimes made remarks to each other across me as if I was not there. These I could seldom understand, but they evoked hilarious laughter; a nod or a grunt passed for a sally, until to my besotted senses the whole world seemed one laugh.
After the supper Mr. Maudsley made a speech. I expected it would be a very halting one, for I had never heard him say half a dozen words consecutively. But he was amazingly fluent. Sentence after sentence poured out, just as if he was reading it; and just as when he was reading prayers, his voice was uninflected and monotonous. Because of this, and the speed he went at, some of his jokes misfired; but those that took effect were all the more successful because of their dry delivery. With what seemed to me consummate skill he contrived to bring in almost every player by name and find something noteworthy in his performance. As a rule I turned a deaf ear to speeches, classing them with sermons as things intended for the grown-up mind; but this one I did listen to, for I hoped to hear my own name mentioned, nor was I disappointed. “Last, but not least, except in stature, our young David, Leo Colston, who slew the Goliath of Black Farm if I may so describe him, not with a sling, with a catch.” All eyes were turned on me, or so I thought; and Ted, who was sit-ting nearly opposite, gave me a tremendous wink. Wearing a lounge suit and a high starched collar he looked even less like himself than he did in flannels. The more clothes he put on, the less he looked himself. Whereas Lord Trimingham’s clothes always seemed part of him, Ted’s fine feathers made him look a yokel.
Speeches droned on—it was as if the flight of time had been made audible—and then songs were called for. On the dais at the end of the hall stood an upright piano, with a revolving plush-upholstered stool set invitingly in front of it. But now a murmuring began, the import of which at last reached me: where was the accompanist? He was called for, but he did not appear. Explanations were forthcoming. He had sent a message that he was seedy, but inexplicably the message hadn’t been delivered. A wave of disappointment swept the assembly. What was a cricket match, what was a supper, without songs? A chill settled on our wine-warmed spirits and there was no more wine to thaw it. It was early: the evening stretched ahead, an unending black. Would no one volunteer to fill the gap? Lord Trimingham’s ill-matched eyes, which always had the gleam of authority behind them, roved round the room and were avoided as sedulously as if they had been an auctioneer’s; certainly I kept mine fixed on the tablecloth, for Marcus knew that I could play the piano a little. But suddenly, when everyone seemed to be rooted in his place, immovably, never to rise, never to look up as long as an accompanist was being sought for, there was a movement, a flutter to the vertical, almost as if a standard was being raised; and before the relaxation of relief had had time to ease our stiffened bodies, Marian had walked swiftly down the hall, and was seated at the piano-stool. How lovely she looked in her Gainsborough-blue dress between the candles! From there, as from a throne, she looked down at us, amused and a little mocking, as though to say: “I’ve done my part, now you do yours.”
It was the custom, so I afterwards learned, that the first singers should be members of the two teams; all were called upon and some were badgered, but it was pretty well known, I fancy, who would oblige and who would not. The former, it appeared, had brought their music with them; this they produced apparently from nowhere, sometimes with a guilty and self-conscious, sometimes with a brazen, air; but one and all they seemed to be in awe of the accompanist, standing as far away from her as they could. Her playing fascinated me and I listened to it rather than to the songs. I could see her white, slender fingers (in spite of the perpetual sunshine, she had managed to keep them white) sliding over the keys, and what delicious sounds she coaxed out of that old tin-pot piano! I could tell how irregular its touch must be, but the runs came as smooth as water trickling. What fire there was in the loud passages, and what sweetness in the soft! And it was almost miraculous the way she was able to flick up the key that stuck and put it back in commission. A tactful as well as a skilled accompanist, she followed the singers and did not try to hurry or retard them; but her performance was in such a different class from theirs that the two did not quite match: it was as though a thoroughbred had been harnessed to a cart-horse. The audience appreciated this and their applause was respectful as well as rollicking.
When Ted Burgess was called upon he did not seem to hear and I thought he actually hadn’t heard. But when his friends in the various parts of the room began to repeat his name, adding facetious encouragements: “Come on, Ted! Don’t be bashful! We all know you can!”—he made no movement to rise; he sat on in his place looking stubborn and embarrassed. The company enjoyed this; their cries redoubled and became almost a chorus, whereat he was heard to mutter, rather ungraciously, that he didn’t feel like singing. Lord Trimingham joined his voice to theirs. “Now don’t disappoint us, Ted,” he said (the “Ted” surprised me; perhaps it was a concession to good-fellowship). “You didn’t keep us waiting in the cricket field, you know.” In the laughter that followed, Ted’s resistance seemed to crumble; he got up clumsily, carrying a fat roll of music under his arm, and stumbled towards the dais. “Careful, now!” somebody called out, and there was more laughter.
Marian appeared to take no interest in all this. When Ted reached her she raised her eyes and said something and he reluctantly handed her his sheaf of songs. Quickly she looked through them and put one on the music rack; I noticed that she dog-eared the page, which she had never done before. “Take a Pair of Sparkling Eyes,” announced Ted, as if they were the last thing one could want to take, and someone whispered: “Cheer up, it isn’t a funeral!” At first the singer’s voice was much less audible than his breathing, but gradually it gained strength and steadiness and colour and lent itself to the dancing lilt of the song, so in the end it was quite a creditable performance, which the audience seemed to appreciate all the more for its shaky start. An encore was called for, the first of the evening. Again Ted had to confer with Marian; their heads came close together; again he seemed to demur, and abruptly he left the piano and made a bow in token of refusal. But the applause redoubled; they liked his modesty and were determined to overcome it.
The new song was a sentimental one by Balfe. I don’t suppose it’s ever sung now, but I liked it, and liked Ted’s rendering of it and the quaver that threaded his voice.
When other lips and other hearts
Their tales of love shall tell
In language whose excess imparts
The power
they feel so well.
I remember the pensive look on the faces of the audience as they listened to this resigned and mellifluous presage of infidelities to come, unaware of its underlying bitterness; and I expect my face reflected it, for it seemed to me that I knew all about other lips and other hearts telling their tales of love, and knew how sad it was, and yet how beautiful; nor was I a stranger to the language whose excess imparts the power it feels so well. But what sort of experience, if any, I connected it with, I have no idea. To me it was a literary mood evoked by the sounds of words I liked, words from the grown-up world, which made poetry for me and which yet had reality too—the reality of their meaning for grown-ups, which I was content to take on trust. Songs were about such matters. It never occurred to me that there might be hard feelings when other lips and other hearts began to tell their tales of love, or that they told them in any other way than to the accompaniment of a piano in a concert-room. Least of all did I connect such manifestations with the phenomenon called spooning; I should have been horrified if I had. I sat in ecstasy as though listening to the music of the spheres, and when the lover finally asked nothing more than that his sweetheart, in the midst of her dallyings with another, or others, should remember him, tears of happiness came into my eyes.
At the conclusion of the song there was a call for the accompanist, and Marian left her stool to share the applause with Ted. Half turning, she made him a little bow. But he, instead of responding, twice jerked his head round towards her and away again, like a comedian or a clown wise-cracking with his partner. The audience laughed and I heard Lord Trimingham say: “Not very gallant, is he?” My companion was more emphatic. “What’s come over our Ted,” he whispered across me to my other neighbour, “to be so shy with the ladies? It’s because she comes from the Hall, that’s why.” Meanwhile Ted had recovered himself sufficiently to make Marian a bow. “That’s better,” my companion commented. “If it wasn’t for the difference, what a handsome pair they’d make!”