Lord Dismiss Us (16 page)

‘Eric!’

‘What?’

‘We’ve been talking to you for the past ten minutes.’

There were two tall Temborough chaps – one of them the Captain – to meet them at the station. They had posh white blazers with red edges and they seemed a bit snooty. Perhaps they were shy. There was no reason why they should feel superior to fellows from Weatherhill. Maybe it was because Jimmy Rich went on talking to them in his Irish way, without realising how he must sound. ‘Well, I hope you lads are going to give us a game. . . .’ and all that. Carleton could see that they didn’t think it amusing, and they obviously didn’t like being called ‘lads’. He seemed pretty crude, all of a sudden. And that coat of his! Carleton imagined that they had some horribly distinguished Oxford Blue or something, as their Games Master.

The School was some distance away, and they had come with three big hired cars with drivers; which was jolly decent. (Could they have conjured them up at Weatherhill?) Carleton watched Allen get into one, and this time he did join the grown-ups in another car. He sat facing them on the pull-down seat; and he was greatly taken aback when Nancy, in the middle, said: ‘Hallo, handsome’. He didn’t know where to look, and unfortunately caught a mocking expression on Ashley’s face. Gazing out of the window at the old Temborough houses, he thought – Am I?

It was a pretty good thing to be told, and well worth the embarrassment.

He went into lunch feeling handsome, and wondering if Somebody thought he was handsome.

But then it became confusing. They were shown to a table with their opponents – all in white too – but there were hundreds of other boys standing there waiting, and the little Weatherhill group went through a sharp scrutiny, and he thought he heard some rude comments. A lot of them, of course, probably never played cricket, and considered their arrival silly. It seemed that they had kept them waiting: some Master said Grace immediately.

There was the same uproar. The Hall was similar, but much bigger. There were Prefects up at the High Table. (No Head’s wife. No butler). Yet it was disturbingly different. A huge alien community. They probably had all kinds of different traditions, and rules, and slang and everything.

Somehow, one always assumed that Weatherhill life was the only life. He felt an affection for their own place. Probably he had felt this before on Away Matches, but he couldn’t remember. He felt it very keenly now; partly because he was wondering if this was how he would feel when he left. Was it this that made one write an Old Boy’s Letter? Had the good fortune to bump into the Rev. S. J. Sinnott,
196
–. We had quite a chinwag about old times at. . . . Weatherhill was his own smaller, friendly place. He looked along the table – they had been seated alternately – and liked them all; yes, even Sexy Sinnott. His own crowd. How dreadful of him to have felt ashamed of Jimmy Rich!

‘We call this hog’s swill,’ said the strange boy beside him; and he began spooning it up.

He couldn’t remember exactly, but he was sure that none of
them
had ever called soup anything so obvious; and certainly no one of the age of this fellow, who was obviously a Senior. Anyhow, though he wasn’t a bit hungry, the soup was quite nice.

As he looked down the table he saw that everyone else seemed to be getting on awfully well with conversation. How on earth did the others manage to get chattering with complete strangers like this? With adults it would have been different – and how easy with Ma Crab! But he couldn’t think of anything. Pryde, across the way, was going on and on, with both his neighbours, about a forthcoming Test Match. But he wasn’t alone: Allen was staring at the table, like himself. This was a change, and one that made him feel close and protective. Allen usually appeared animated; though it had always been at a distance. It occurred to him now that he had never yet heard what Allen was saying. He might be stupid. No, he couldn’t be.

Were all the others untouched by the thought of the Match? Never mind the difficulty of talking . . . when the roast lamb was presented, he couldn’t eat either. He felt slightly sick. But his neighbours were eating with amazing zest. He tried to force it down; it might look as though he thought their own roast lamb superior. The terrible possibility of being bowled out in the first over of the game! It must be even worse for Allen – his first Match.

Lunch seemed to go on for ever. But at last the two teams were
on their way out; passing along dark, oak-panelled corridors, which
Carleton had to admit were quite impressive, with the studs of their white boots making the devil of a clatter. Strange boys in gowns stood aside and examined the Weatherhill group as if they were convicts on parole. They were being led by the Games Master, a little red-faced man with a ginger moustache, who looked as if he had been through hard times. Jimmy Rich, walking beside him, seemed positively distinguished. ‘We call him Foxy Fred,’ a boy murmured to Carleton. ‘How frightfully feeble,’ he thought. The line of huge portraits of men in gowns was pretty imposing, but, all in all, Weatherhill was far more homely. He wouldn’t have liked it here.

The field, so green in the bright sunshine, was overlooked by the rear of these ancient red-brick buildings; which were curious when one was used to the old Weatherhill grey. Boys were sitting under the great trees on the far side; and the low grass bank on the near side was becoming quickly occupied by more of them lying on rugs. Carleton was surprised, and a little alarmed, to find that, contrary to what he had assumed, the Match was evidently the event of the day. However, the wind had not abated, and boys dashing in pursuit of flying Comics and other reading-matter, gave evidence that the Game would not be claiming their entire attention.

Not far from the Pavilion, to which they were proceeding, there was a most peculiar circular building, set on high, up stone steps, with a pink dome. He saw Ashley wandering in and out of its white columns, in a state of abstraction. It was crazy of him to have come.

A table and two chairs were brought out for Hamilton Minor, and the boy who was scoring for Temborough. Pryde tossed up with the rival Captain; and won, and elected to field – thank goodness. It was too sudden and upsetting when one had to go in and bat, in completely strange surroundings, immediately after lunch.

They went out on to the field, and there was some polite clapping from the distant observers. Jimmy Rich and Foxy Fred came out with them, in long white umpire’s coats. Jimmy stood near Carleton at square leg, as they chucked the new shiny red ball about, and he spoke in a lowered voice, as if aware of his position as an impartial umpire: ‘Now then, Carleton, boy, keep off those heels, on your toes, leaning forward, ready to run in, I’m watching you, boy.’

‘And I’m watching her too,’ he added, grinning.

He was looking towards the Pavilion, where two Temborough boys were setting up a deck-chair for Nancy – who was laughing – with elaborate comic display.

There was loud clapping all round the field as the two batsmen walked out.

Ashley came wandering among the deck-chairs, which were being taken by Masters and the Temborough team, and several unexplained ladies.

‘Eric!’

Nancy patted the chair beside her.

‘Now for a good snooze, eh?’

‘Is that quite the right attitude?’

‘Oh, why not. How was your folly?’

‘Charming.’

‘Hey, what’s the matter with you? You look funny. I couldn’t get a word out of you at lunch.’

‘Nothing. Have your snooze.’

‘I think I’ll have to prescribe a tonic for you,’ she said, lying back and closing her eyes against the sun.

It was hours later, after the tea interval, with Temborough all out for
178
, that this day began to be an unforgettable one for Carleton. He had taken the last two wickets, Pryde having put him on to bowl near the end. (One of them was an amazing catch by Allen in the slips). But batting was the real joy, when it went well.

The score was not enormous, but it was pretty high by Weatherhill standards. Jimmy Rich didn’t seem worried, but then he never did. Carleton and Southwell went in first together, trying to look confident, and parted towards either end, with a ‘good luck’ from Southwell that sounded like doom. They had tossed up, and Carleton was facing the first ball. Jimmy Rich gave him his guard. Behind Jimmy, a tall fellow with high frizzy hair who had not distinguished himself in the batting – always a dangerous sign – was preparing an alarmingly long run. Oh Lord, the responsibility. One had to start well, for the sake of the side. If the others saw you demolished easily they could all lose their nerve. The fielders were in close: it was going to be fast. Yes, the enemy – probably quite a decent chap really – was coming up in a most ungainly manner, but quickly and determined; and he hurled the ball from a height, and it looked to be a good length, and Carleton had, instantly, to move forward or back. He made a rapid decision and chose the safer course, stepping out to it, and the ball seemed to disappear. But no, he had come down on it just right – in the centre of the bat by the feel and sound of it – gently returning it along the pitch.

There was the first faint hope of confidence.

And perhaps the reverse for the bowler; because the second one went wide, and was snapped up by the wicket-keeper. Carleton had begun to lunge out, but luckily stopped in time. Even so, he sensed that Jimmy Rich must have been on the point of exclaiming out loud.

The third was very fast and high, and both Carleton and the wicket-keeper missed it. ‘Yes,’ shouted Southwell, and they took two runs as the fielder just caught up with the ball before the boundary.

The fourth was a half-volley on the off – his favourite – and he went for it. Oh yes! Exactly right. The thrilling full-blooded contact, the marvellously right sound; the ball racing away from him not an inch above the ground, straight between two fielders and off to the boundary where the boys sat under the trees.

There was loud clapping from his colleagues over by the Pavilion. The Temborough Captain moved two of his fielders further out; possibly a hasty move, giving Carleton the definite sense that confidence was possible.

He played a leg glide to the next one, with the delightful feeling that he had lots of time – which he hadn’t – and they took two runs.

The sixth ball was as good as the first, and he stopped it in the same way.

One of the best beginnings he could remember. Keep your head. Don’t count on it. Slowly improve. Jimmy said there was plenty of time. Till seven. What time is it now? Don’t look at your watch, it will only put you off. What’s this other devil like?

He looked small, dark and devious, and was obviously going to be slow and spinning. Southwell made ready to face him with apparent nonchalance. He was a silent fellow, and almost too careful a batsman.

Southwell was darn nearly out first ball! A fierce leg break just over the top of the wicket. The wicket-keeper whipped off the bails, and there were roars of ‘How’s that?’ But Foxy Fred shook his head impassively. Southwell looked about him in disdain.

Surprisingly, for Southwell, he took a run off the next – a neat little cut. And it was Carleton’s turn. It was not his intention to steal the bowling, but it seemed to be working out that way; and he knew it didn’t worry Southwell.

And it was somewhere in the next four balls that the marvel happened. Impossible to say when, or which. He had himself very rarely experienced it. The ball became huge. It floated up, giving one all the time in the world to belt it where one pleased. There was no need for thought: the bat itself dealt with the large round object. Two first-class leg-breaks went hard to the boundary – one of them darn nearly a six over square leg’s head.

Would it be different with the fast bowler? No. He didn’t seem to be fast at all. Mysteriously – and none of Carleton’s doing – the game was, suddenly, supremely easy. The fellow was lobbing up this great object for him to belt about the place. It was absolutely impossible to miss it.

It was happiness. And pride. He was trying not to look cocky about treating them so ruthlessly (including two new bowlers), but one couldn’t help feeling a little superior.

Especially – well, what on earth was wrong with everyone else? Southwell was caught; Pryde was stumped; and Bewick and Steele were bowled. It was so easy. He watched them go with shocked surprise. And all the while they were cheering. A current – a communion – was created between himself and his own schoolmates away at the Pavilion: a true expression of the team spirit. He was usually a small scorer, and they knew that this thing had happened, and shared the excitement. And to cap it all, Steele – Steele, of all people! – who was hitting wildly, when they were
130
, of which Carleton had made
90
, said, as they passed on one of their runs: ‘Great stuff, Terry!’

In his whole time at Weatherhill, no one had ever called him that!

How did Steele even know it?

There was an unknown warmth in people.

And now it came up. Yes, his hundred. They were shouting and clapping at the Pavilion – and even all the way round the field!

He tried to raise a hand. He was now shy about the whole thing.

But all the same they were over thirty runs behind, and yes, now Steele was gone – a skyer, an easy catch. And soon afterwards, Merryman, the idiot; a crazy stroke.

Stupidly, he had forgotten to look at the batting-order, and he never knew who was coming next.

But it was Allen.

How terrible – he had forgotten him. So small and dark and alone. Come on. You can do it. Do it like you did it at the nets.

And it’s the first bowler, back on again. Be calm. You can do it. He’s easy!

Oh gosh, here it comes.

Oh my beautiful! You impetuous, raving madman, how could you do it? The very first ball, struck full belt. And we’re running past each other, and I want to shout – ‘marvellous, but for heaven’s sake be careful’. Yes, it’s a four, but don’t do it again. Wait, wait. He stops it calmly. Yes, yes. We can do it together. Twenty-three to go.

Whew! Just missed the off stump.

He’s blushing. I can see it from here. Calm down, calm down. It’s Sinnott and the dear knows who next – we wouldn’t have a hope.

Glorious! A late cut. Right through them.

This will be three. Yes. Now it’s me. It’s still a huge balloon. I’m going to wallop this one!

I have.

There’s a fielder after it. But it’s another three. Your turn. This is the last ball of the over. Do you
know
that? Don’t try anything. Leave it to me. We can do this together. No, I can’t expect you to have worked that out. It’s pitched right up – he’ll be tempted. He just stops it. Oh you marvel!