Читать книгу The Game of the Season - Hugh De Sélincourt - Страница 5

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Lord! Who would get up a side? Surely no sane man. Yet here for the eighth successive season the good Gauvinier found himself let in for it again: mainly through the masterly inactivity of others. The truth was he was not sane about cricket. Mad about it, in fact, quite mad about it. He tried to find noble reasons: cricket brought all classes together; cricket was so good for the village; cricket was such fine training for youngsters. All very sound, of course, and all very true; but futile and strengthless without his own personal madness on the game, and on the game, moreover, as played on Saturday afternoons with the Tillingfold team. Such games! it was good enough.

The Selection Committee met in the billiard-room of the Black Rabbit. Gauvinier the Captain, Johnston the Vice-Captain, and the Secretary, who on this occasion was absent.

Johnston kept drawing lines with a pencil under a name: ‘He’ll be mighty sick.’

‘Can’t be helped: so’ll seven others at least. Everyone wants to play in the General’s match.’

‘That’s so: still ... bit important, you know, that bloke.’

‘Thinks he is!’

‘That’s so!’

The name underlined was Bill Wishfort, the manager of the Black Rabbit.

‘I don’t think we can do better,’ said Gauvinier.

Johnston gave a deep sigh. ‘All right, that goes, then.’ And he slowly pushed the numbered list to Gauvinier who was to see to its proper posting. They left the billiard-room. In the hall outside Bill Wishfort called brightly from the Private Bar: ‘Just a moment!’

Johnston said hurriedly: ‘Well, so long. I must be gettin’ along,’ and Gauvinier stepped down into the small room, where a few worthies were sitting chatting and looking through the evening papers.

‘Tate’s made another century, I see,’ said an old cricketer in the corner.

‘A lad, that!’ laughed Gauvinier.

‘His father, y’know, was a very fine cricketer. I played agin’ him ... now what year were it ... Sam Oxenham was a nipper, then ...’

Bill Wishfort came in smiling.

‘Got a good team, skipper? I hear the General’s got a real hot side.’

‘Not bad, you know.’

‘Might I have a look?’

‘Certainly,’ said Gauvinier, handing the half-sheet.

Wishfort’s smile turned to a scowl as he stared at the paper. Suddenly he slammed it down on the table with a vicious bang.

‘Not playin’ then.’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘That’s the second time. I take it as a personal insult. Who’s done more for the club than me? Tell me that. You name any man who’s done more than me. Left out. Left out in the one game that matters.’

Gauvinier tried to soothe him.

‘Well, the difficulty is, you see, you can’t play in away matches and it’s hardly fair to run you in for this game at home. But if anyone falls out I’ll let you know straightaway.’

‘It’s no good talking like that. I know you’ve a personal down on me. The whole way the team’s run and the sides picked ’s a bloody scandal.’

‘We do our best.’ Gauvinier was too old a bird to be snared into temper.

Bill Wishfort left the room on a noisy snort.

‘Properly upset, he is. No mistake,’ chuckled the old cricketer from his corner. ‘Someone’s got to stand down after all’s said and done.’

‘That’s the side,’ said Gauvinier.

The old fellow took the paper; scanned it carefully and returned it, saying:

‘And not a bad one either. And you’ll be needin’ a good ’un, I hear. The General’s got a wunnerful fast bowler coming. So they say. Some relation of Mrs. Lewis. Sid and John were speakin’ of him: fair got the wind up already. Person’ly I used to fancy a fast bowler, myself. Tire theirselves out, y’know. You don’t have to hit ’em so hard either. Do half yer work for yer in a manner of speaking. A snick here and a touch there. Runs don’t half begin to mount up!’

‘Yes; but a fast bowler on the spot ... two or three deadly ones early on and a side looks silly.’

Gauvinier saw one or two of the team on the way home: each man had heard of the coming of the fast bowler, and many stories of his feats and pace. Astonishing how rumours spread and gather force. Scott-Lewis was already looming over the game like a monstrous spectre: himself, of course, totally unaware of the feelings his name was stirring in every man in the village who took an interest in cricket.

Next day, Friday, the College were playing the Old Boys on the Village Ground, so Gauvinier went down, in the evening, to have a look at the end of the game, and give the final touches with the groundsman to the pitch for the great match on the morrow.

Mine host of the Black Rabbit was watching. A fixed glare came over his face, his whole bearing stiffened, to show quite clearly that a worm like Gauvinier might crawl by unnoticed and ungreeted. However, Gauvinier ventured to walk past: and as he passed he noticed that a man fielding for the Old Boys was limping, as he changed over, so badly that he could hardly put one foot to the ground: and that man, Somner, was down on the list for the village side.

He stopped by Wishfort, saying: ‘Somner can’t possibly play to-morrow. Here’s our chance.’

Wishfort grew perceptibly stiffer, in surprise, no doubt, that a creature so lowly as a worm should have a voice at all. The thing apparently did not even notice that his company was not wanted: behaved as if nothing had happened, as if no fury at the vile way the Club was run existed—just as cheerful and pleased with himself ... Mine Host’s face grew slowly an ever fierier red in sheer disgust that such a Thing breathed at all, let alone stood near him—him, who had done more for the club than any man, and who was not on the list to play to-morrow.

But Gauvinier was waiting the moment when ‘over’ would be called. Better still, however—a wicket fell. He ran out at once to Somner.

‘Sorry to see you limping like this,’ he said.

‘Dashed if I can put my foot to the ground,’ said Somner. ‘Gave me knee the very hell of a twist.’

‘You ought to be careful. A knee’s a tricky thing.’

‘Yes. I’ll give it a good rest after to-morrow.’

‘I don’t think you ought to play to-morrow, my dear chap.’

‘Oh, rather! Hobble through all right. Wouldn’t miss that game for anything, don’t you know! You can shove me point and let me have a man to run for me.’

‘Not good enough. Too risky for you: and there’s the side to think of.’

‘The side,’ Somner laughed. ‘It’s not a county game!’

‘It would be misery trying to play with a leg like that: no good to yourself or to us.’

‘Look here! if you’re trying to heave me out of the side, say so.’

The charm of his manner, almost Etonian in quality, disappeared. He spoke like an angry boy, jolting back his head.

‘My dear man, we’ve got to play whole men. It’s obvious you’re not, with a knee like that. It’s not fair on the side, and every man-jack’s aching to play to-morrow.’

‘Oh, chuck me out, if you want to; chuck me out.’

Gauvinier shrugged his shoulders. A college boy was making his way to the wicket.

‘Am I playing or not? Because if I am not playing I shall go straight up North to-night: straight up North to-night.’

He spoke as one uttering a furious threat. Gauvinier checked himself from saying ‘You can go to hell if you like,’ and merely remarked:

‘No; you are not fit to play.’ And walked quickly back to Wishfort, thinking, as he was an optimist, that at any rate he would now make one man glad.

‘Somner’s knee’s too badly twisted: can’t play to-morrow, so there’ll be a place for you all right.’

Bill Wishfort stared in front of him, preserved an icy silence, scarlet in face in his effort to make the silence more cutting. His companion on the seat seemed to be much amused. He gave him a gentle nudge with his elbow, and said gently, sitting back on the bench to swing his legs to and fro:

‘Gent’s speaking to you, Bill.’

Gauvinier repeated his remark.

‘I shan’t play!’ He spoke with difficulty, as though choked with contempt for the man to whom he was speaking.

‘My dear good chap!’ Gauvinier expostulated. ‘You told me it was the one game in the season you most wanted to play in. Of course you’ll play.’

Gauvinier had long given up minding the vagaries of personal dignity: he supposed if men were young enough to play cricket, they must also remain young enough to behave as naughty little boys would like to behave, if they were allowed to.

Wishfort sat staring in front of him: his companion sitting right back, grasping the wooden bench with his hands, became almost gymnastic in appreciation of the scene.

‘Shouldn’t dream of playing again. I’m finished with it.’

‘Go on, Bill, never give up ’ope.’

‘Come on, man. It’s no good cutting off your nose to spite your face. You’ll be sick as mud to-morrow if you miss the game.’

‘You’re wasting your breath. I’m not playing. What I say, I mean.’

‘Ah, don’t be sore. You’ll be feeling better to-morrow. The sun’ll be blazing. We’re sure of a piping-hot day. Whatever’ll you feel like about three—when we’re all in the field—the game beginning—the ground full of people watching—to think you’ve chucked the chance of playing. Besides, you’re much too good a sportsman to bear a grudge, knowing how devilish awkward it is to pick teams.’

‘Same thing last year. Left out.’

‘All the more reason you should jump at the chance of playing this year.’

There was a silence, ominous but relentless. Gauvinier broke it by saying cheerfully: ‘That’s settled then. You’ll be turning out. A jolly good job too.’

Came a reluctant growl. ‘Oh, very well then. I’ll play.’

‘Good man. Capital!’

And there a wise man would have left it, even if he had (which is doubtful) gone so far. But there was an imp of mischief in Gauvinier, whose liveliness Bill’s companion quickened by his relish of the little scene, and the imp of mischief forced him to say:

‘Don’t look so cross, Bill. What about a nice smile, and saying, Thank you, dear Skipper, for taking all this trouble to get me the game on which my little heart was set.’

Bill’s companion nearly fell off the seat backwards, rocking with joy at this new turn of the talk. Bill’s lip tightened. He didn’t like it. He’d never been spoken to like this before. He didn’t know what to say. But something was tickling him—probably the infection of his friend’s gymnastic amusement. He suddenly burst out laughing.

‘Gor! if you’re not the blinkin’ limit. Well, thanks very much.’

His companion beat him on the back. ‘Hooray for old Bill!’ he called out: and Gauvinier left them struggling, as Wishfort was easing his feelings by forcing his friend backwards off the seat. Gauvinier excused himself, as he walked away, by thinking, ‘Oh well, I must have some fun out of it,’ for he knew very well that the more grotesquely a man’s personal dignity exhibits itself, the more unwise it is to upset it.

Lord! who’d run a side! was the refrain in his mind, as it frequently was towards the end of any week during the summer. Strictly speaking, someone else ought to do this part of the job. Get all the ha’pence, he laughed to himself, and none of the kicks.

He entered another world with Peter Bliss, the groundsman, for whom that patch of turf known as The Square was very dear.

‘Of course, some of these gentlemen who are playing to-morrow are accustomed to County Grounds, but the wicket here won’t be too bad, sir, not too bad. I don’t think they’ll mind. Very good of them to turn out against the village. Still, they enjoy it: it’s a bit of fun.’

He always spoke to one of the gentry about the gentry as one speaks of a race apart whose very presence on the Village Ground or elsewhere might be supposed to confer a blessing. Many of those addressed, who behaved as though they shared his opinion, thought him a very intelligent well-spoken fellow, a good cut above his station. Gauvinier wisely concentrated on his genuine enthusiasm for his job and put up with all the rest. Men like Peter Bliss help to foster the notion that rudeness and crossness and unpleasantness imply honesty—blunt rugged British honesty. So Gauvinier smiled to think and to remember Sam Bird’s favourite comment on matters terrestrial, ‘It’s an imperfect world, my dear sir, a most imperfect world.’

As they moved slowly along with the water-weighted roller, it appeared that Peter, too, had heard of the famous fast bowler.

‘I’ve told the boys not to mind what they hear. So foolish, sir, isn’t it, to become nervous before you’ve even seen the man. In a reg’lar stink, if I may say so. What the team wants is two steady opening batsmen. We’ve some good bats, mind you, some very pretty bats, but they’ve no patience to wait: to play themselves in. Too anxious to start scoring ... Hasty.’ (He shook his head and repeated) ‘Hasty.’

Various members sauntered on to the ground for practice: among them came the General’s butler, bright, small and out of breath—looking this way and that. He caught sight of Gauvinier and hurried up to him.

‘Evening, sir. Capital finding you here. Thought I possibly might. The General—he’s got twelve men—of course he could stand down himself; but I told him that would never do and I was sure you’d be glad to play twelve a-side. So many anxious to play in this game.’

‘Of course. That’s excellent. Twelve a-side then.’

‘I’ll tell him. You’ll excuse my running away at once. There’s the dinner, you know.’

He lowered his voice to speak of it as a high priest might of a sacrificial ceremony.

A wag among the players curled an imaginary moustache and speaking in haughty tones announced: ‘Excuse me, my men, I must be strolling back home to dress for my late dinnah! ... A chunk of bread and a lump of cheese and ’alf a pint with luck.’

There was a roar of good-natured laughter.

Gauvinier caught sight of Jimmie Marlow—a keen lad he wanted to give a game to—coming on to the ground.

He got hold of Johnston, who was among the laughers, and said: ‘We’ll play Jimmie, don’t you think!’

‘Rather! He’s mad to play, I know. A real good young chap, that.’

‘Yes, he is,’ said Gauvinier, delighted to hear recognition of one of his spot boys. ‘Make a cricketer, one of these days.’

And he called out to Jimmie, who, hoping against hope, came up, blushing. He had just left school and was learning to be a gardener, under Bert Tomkins, who had been a keen cricketer in his day.

‘Want you to play to-morrow, Jimmie.’

‘ ’Fraid I can’t, sir. My turn on the greenhouses.’

Gauvinier swore.

‘P’raps Mr. Tomkins might ...’

The boy couldn’t finish the sentence. There was a silence.

‘He’s comin’ on to the ground now. If you were to ...’

Again the boy stopped.

‘Of course! What an ass I am! I’ll ask him.’

Gauvinier strode across to Bert, whom he had known for many years. They liked each other. Bert was never tired of pulling Gauvinier’s leg: one joke in particular, Elizabethan in tang, concerning a hurt Gauvinier had received playing Soccer, remained perennially fresh to the good Bert.

‘Evening, Bert. Looks like a fine day for the match to-morrow.’

‘Wireless predicts rain in places,’ answered Bert huskily.

‘Old Liar.’

‘And serve you jolly well right if there was a good soak here. Do a lot more good, too, than you chaps are likely to do. Ah! it would that. And General’s got a real fast bowler comin’! Cooh! I’ll be watchin’! Shan’t half laugh to meself to see your stumps flyin’! Ought to lay in a double lot, case he breaks ’em.’

‘Yes, but ragging apart. We’re playing twelve a-side. I want you to let young Jimmie off.’

‘Ah! I don’t see how I can, properly speakin’. The chaps take turn and turn about of a Saturday. It’s a bit awkward-like.’

‘Yes, I know, but he’s mad to play.’

‘And all these boys are a lot too saucy nowadays, you know.’

‘You never were one to stand for a bit of fun, were you?’

‘There’s fun and fun,’ said Bert, shaking his head very seriously. ‘Still, he ain’t a bad lad. I will say that much for ’im. But I don’t rightly see how I can manage it.’

He ran through names. ‘What with one thing and what with another, they has their Saturdays pretty full, and don’t like changing round at the last minute like.’ He became silent, pondering deeply.

‘Of course, if it comes to that, there’s nothing to prevent me slipping down meself before I has me tea.’

‘It ’ud be devilish good of you, if you would, Bert. I’ll run and tell him.’

Which Gauvinier proceeded to do, making one boy, Jimmie Marlow, tingle with happiness for many hours to come at the prospect of playing in the Great Match.

‘Well, that’s about all! Thank goodness!’ thought Gauvinier and went home, eager as Jimmie himself for the game next day. The difficult part of the business was successfully over; there remained the jam: and a level deep red sky, glowing, promised a perfect day for the jam’s savouring.

The promise was fulfilled. The morning dawned fair and still. But all was not ready yet. The ’phone bell rang. The General’s butler, suavely apologetic, yet aware that a message, even through his unworthy mouth, from such a being must, however subtly, confer an honour. Most upsetting for the General; but the General’s best bat, a physician, sir, was called away, on an important case, so there would be no need to trouble Mr. Gauvinier to play twelve a-side.

No trouble at all, Gauvinier explained. On the contrary, he had got his twelfth man, who would be bitterly disappointed if he was robbed of his game at the last minute. Couldn’t the General raise another man! No, sir, he wouldn’t like even to ask him, after all the trouble he had taken, and now left without his best batsman.

‘It’s young Jimmie Marlow,’ Gauvinier could merely moan. ‘Absolutely set his heart on the game.’

‘Yes, sir, I quite understand. A very pleasant lad. I’m sure he’ll see how the General’s placed.’

‘I’ll have to tell him, I suppose.’

‘That would be best, sir. I’m afraid it’s putting you to a lot of trouble. Then I’ll tell the General you’ll be playing eleven a-side as usual.’

‘All right. All right.’

‘Thank you, sir. Good morning.’

Lord! Who’d run a side! It was bad to scratch round to fill the place of someone who’d dropped out. It was worse to disappoint a keen kid of his game. Cat-and-mouse sort of job. Dangling delight in front of him; then snatching it away. Black gloom took him, blackened by the fair still morning. He had no philosophy to help him grapple with a kid’s disappointment. He cursed himself for not insisting on playing twelve a-side. Oh, well, it was done now. The sooner he went and told Jimmie, the sooner it would be over. Damn it! This was the sort of dirty work he simply funked. When old Bert had been so decent too about doing Jimmie’s work for him!

He started his nice old car morosely and drove down into the village. He knew the back way into the vegetable garden where he would be sure to find Bert Tomkins, and took it, hoping that he would not come across the plutocratic owner of the place, who was playing for the General’s team.

He peered about through the hedge of the kitchen-garden, but he had not to peer long, before Bert emerged from a potting-shed speaking intently to his second in command. Bert was on his job. And Bert on his job was another man from Bert at large: when he lolled at leisure, so far as a man of his inches might, with an air too of wary diffidence—a shy man resolved that no one shall get the better of him. Bert on his job on his own ground was assured and courteous. Gauvinier, depressed as he was, did not fail to savour, as he had often done before, the nice change in the man who came forward to greet him. He told the bad news bluntly.

‘Jimmie’s game’s off: it’s eleven a-side now. Just ’phoned through.’

He felt the sympathy in the man’s grunt. But a level of feeling was touched in which neither language nor look were easy. So Bert stepped out of the gloomy silence by remarking:

‘That’s good. Jim’s not half been set up this morning. Take him down a peg proper. Not to mention upsettin’ all my arrangements as I’ve told ’em I’d see to the greenhouses myself. Cricket! You chaps don’t half mess things up with your cricket! Can’t never make up your minds. First one thing, then another.... Always the same old tale.’ He added in a different voice, ‘I’ll tell the boy. It so happens I’m goin’ that way.’

‘Come on, then. I’d better tell him myself.’

Bert gave Gauvinier a friendly look. They liked each other. They walked in silence to the far end of the kitchen-garden, where Jimmie was cleaning a bed. He pretended not to notice their coming.

‘Bad news,’ Gauvinier said. ‘Rotten bad news. Just heard a man’s fallen out—on the General’s side. We’re only playing eleven a-side.’

‘Shan’t be wanted then?’

The boy’s face tightened.

‘Afraid not. I’m most infernally sorry.’

‘Oh, it doesn’t matter!’

‘I’ll see you get a game next Saturday.’

‘Oh, it’s quite all right.’

‘Then you may as well do your turn here, Jim, same as usual.’

Bert spoke awfully nicely. The boy nodded. They walked away from him.

‘On such a morning, too!’

‘Yes. It’s hard lines.’

They reached the turn into the drive and stopped. After a moment’s silence Bert said: ‘Well, I must be getting along,’ and moved off.

Gauvinier went to his nice old car. That was done, anyhow. A beastly job. He tried not to think how young Jimmie must be feeling but knew all too well. ‘Old Bert’s a damned good sort!’ he announced to cheer himself up. The sun began to shine again for him as he neared home. Next Saturday anyhow he’d see that Jimmie got his game. Plucky kid. Took it well.