Читать книгу The Cricket Match - Hugh De Sélincourt - Страница 6

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‘It’s eight o’clock, sir,’ said the neat housemaid, as she set the morning tea-tray on the bed-table by the side of Edgar Trine.

‘Oh, thanks, Kate, thanks,’ said Trine, turning sleepily over.

Kate went noiselessly on the thick carpet, pulling back one heavy curtain after another.

She emptied the water from the basin, wiped it out with a special cloth, set a bright can full of boiling water in the shining basin, and wrapped the can in a clean face-towel to keep it warm.

‘I say, pour me out a cup of tea, Kate,’ came a nice voice from the bed. ‘Sugar and milk. Yes, I do hate pouring out tea. I’d almost rather not drink it than pour it out for myself.’

Spoilt young devil! Kate should have thought, no doubt; but she didn’t. She liked to pour out young Mr Edgar’s tea. He was always the perfect gentleman.

‘Thanks, most awfully. I say, do you mind? In that dinner-jacket pocket, my cigarette case. One left, I’ll swear. Thanks. Oh, and matches. Yes; thanks most awfully.’

Kate folded up the dinner-jacket and trousers, to be taken downstairs for brushing; inspected his white shirt, which she considered clean enough to wear for dinner once more; rejected the collar, however, which she put silently into the basket.

‘First-rate cup of tea, this, Kate.’

‘I’m glad, sir.’

‘Pour me out another, there’s a dear, good girl.’

She did so.

‘You’re riding this morning, sir. Miss Emily asked me to remind you.’

‘Confound it, so I am. Yes, and playing for the village this afternoon. A heavy day, Kate. What sort of weather is it?’

‘Beautiful, sir,’ answered Kate, laying out his breeches and underclothing.

‘You might ask James to bring the two-seater round about a quarter past two, will you? And I say, do look and see if I’ve a decent pair of white trousers. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind fetching them out of the drawer and letting me have a look.’

Kate brought five pairs and laid them on the bed.

‘How all this muck accumulates, I don’t know!’ he grumbled. ‘Not a decent pair among the lot. Such foul flannel, too, since the war. Pick out the best for me, and see my cricket boots are done, do you mind? And tell that young ass to wipe the white off the edge of the soles and the heels. I say, Kate, is Sid Smith playing today?’

‘Yes, sir; I expect so.’

‘Do you know, if he’d had coaching he’d be a class bowler.’

‘He’s always been a keen cricketer, sir.’

‘Rather. He used to bowl at me, do you remember, when I was a nipper at school? Didn’t he marry your sister, Kate?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Got a jolly little family, too, hasn’t he?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Lucky beggar!’

Kate hated to cadge, and she could not bring out what was on the tip of her tongue to ask. Her sister had often told her she was a silly to keep herself back; but there! She couldn’t ask for things, though it did seem a shame they should be lying where they weren’t wanted, and young Mr Edgar would be only too pleased, if she did ask; he was always so kind and thoughtful.

‘Who’s the match against—Raveley?’

‘Yes, sir, I believe so.’ Her chance had gone.

‘Best cricket going, village cricket,’ said Edgar judicially. ‘Real keenness. Oh, I’m all for village cricket. If I were down here more, I wouldn’t mind running the show. Breakfast nine, I suppose! All right. Thanks.’

He lounged out of bed as Kate closed the door, into the bathroom, which opened out of his bedroom, and turned on the taps for a tepid bath, into which he poured verbena water.

At three minutes to nine, his toilet complete, he strolled down, fresh and clean, in his riding things to the dining-room, where a large breakfast was brought in at nine punctually. He topped up with three slices of the best ham, he told the mater, he had tasted for many a long day.

‘We may be coming to see the match, dear, this afternoon,’ his mother said as she left the dining-room. ‘I am so delighted you’re playing for the village. With all this discontent that’s about nowadays, it is so good for them all. I am sure we ought all to mix with the people far more than we do.’

‘Go on, mater,’ laughed her son. ‘You’re becoming a regular Bolshie, we all know that. I only play because I like playing for the village better than playing for the Martlets, say. It may not be such good cricket, but I swear it’s a better game.’