Читать книгу The Cricket Match - Hugh De Sélincourt - Страница 7

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Mr John McLeod, Secretary and Treasurer of the Tillingfold Cricket Club, lifted his round bald head with extreme care not to waken the old lady who lay motionless by his side, and turned it slowly in her direction. Through the curtains filtered dim light, by which he saw that her eyes were closed; but as he began to screw his legs out of bed the eyes opened, twinkling.

He lay back laughing. ‘Done again, by the Lord, done again! Oh, you, Maria!’

She laughed, too, a pleasant chuckle.

‘Don’t I know you’re like a boy with his stocking on a Christmas morning any day of a cricket match? Just you lay still now, please.’

There they lay—round, stoutish, smiling, rubicund; two tumps, two ducks.

‘Ah! I must give up cricket, Maria.’

‘Nonsense, John. And you enjoying it so!’

‘Ah, yes! Maria, before it gives up me. Give the young ’uns a chance, too. I’m slow between the wickets now, Maria.’

‘Don’t talk so silly, John, please.’

‘Bless the woman, if she’s not lighted the spirit-lamp and the kettle’s on the boil, and me thinkin’ I’d surprise her with a nice hot cup of tea as soon as her blessed eyes opened.’

‘Got took in this time, didn’t you, John?’ said Maria, quietly wetting the tea in the pot.

‘Not the first time either, by the Lord! Not the first time either!’ he cried, enjoying the joke hugely. Maria was pulling up the blind. ‘I knew it! A perfect day.’ His thoughts ran on. ‘And the trouble there is sometimes to get a team together. By the Lord, you’d think you was wantin’ ’em to go to the dentist. It’s that war’s upset us all. And no wonder. Grumble, grumble, grouse, grouse! If it’s not one thing, it’s another. What a delicious cup of tea, Maria! Dee-licious! Ah! things won’t never be the same again. Still, what’s it matter? We have glorious, nice games, and if they must grouse, let ’em. Dee-licious cup o’ tea, Maria. I’ll have another!’

It was poured out for him.

‘My goodness! If only Mr Gauvinier had a little tact! He’s a good captain, a first-rate captain. He knows the game in his bones and nothing’s too much trouble. But he’s ’asty. He can’t help himself, he’s ’asty. “Always try a catch, Mr Skinney!” he sings out.’ The memory tickled him. He repeated the words with a singular relish: ‘ “Always try a catch, Mr Skinney!” Well, Walter Skinney thought it wiser to take a step back. Don’t blame him, the ball was travelling, and him nicely in the deep, a stinger, cruel; and Wally he swears it wasn’t no catch, and won’t be shouted at before everybody, not he, at his time of life, as though he were a bloomin’ nipper who didn’t know the difference between a long hop and a catch. And of course, catch or no catch, there wasn’t no use in shoutin’. And there’s plenty say he’s conceited. Well, he may be. Anyhow, he knows his own mind, and the deuce of it is he’s so often right. But out it always comes; plump and square. No tact, I say, no tact. Still, there it is. I like the beggar. Lord, Maria, I’d do anything for that feller!’

‘The club wouldn’t be much without you, John. That’s all I know.’

‘Oh, I help, yes, I help. Bless my soul! I’ve always had the luck, Maria. Here we are. Nice little house in a beautiful village. Comfortable; son doing well; daughter married. Just the job I love, arranging the matches, smoothing things down, name on card; oh, capital; gives you a little niche in the life of the place. And at the bottom they’re as good-hearted a lot of chaps as you could find. All of them; or nearly all of them. And they haven’t all of ’em had our luck, Maria.’

‘You’ve deserved your luck, John,’ said his wife earnestly.

At that he became very grave.

‘You can’t say that, Maria. You can’t say that, my dear. There’s a many I’ve met in life as have deserved far more than I have, and met nothing but trouble, trouble, trouble; one trouble after another. Terrible. And they’ve stuck it and carried on, when I’d ‘ave been smashed up and broken, Maria; stuck it, too, and carried on without a one like you always there to help. Oh! there are good men in this world; good, brave men.’

‘Yes and some mean, bad ones, too, John.’

‘Ah! well, that’s true; and I sometimes wonder there ain’t more. That’s a fact, I do. But bless my soul, Maria, I wish they’d get together a bit more. We could make that ground the prettiest little ground in England. It’s getting better, of course. But what can you do, when the football starts in September, playing over the square; when any turf needs a good dressing and a rest? It is fair heart-breaking!

‘Oo-ah! that’s a nasty twinge. I’ll have to get you to give me back a rub, Maria, my dear. This’ll have to be my last season, I fear. Give the young ’uns a chance! Of course I’m all right at point—no running to do, and if a smartish one comes I can get to it pretty quick, and I don’t say it’s not as likely to stick in my hand as not: but a sudden stoop! That’s where the bother of it is; a sudden stoop! Well, I can’t, and I’m not as fast as I was between the wickets, Maria, though being a judge of a run and backing up properly I’m not so slow as some. But that sudden stoop, Maria. Ah, well, can’t be done, and there’s an end of it, can’t—be—done! Just look at it! What a perfect day! Just look at it, now, I ask you.’

‘Yes, but a nasty cold breeze comes creeping up so often; and I do hope you’ll be sensible and wear your nice, warm undervest, John. It holds closer to the skin; and if you wear a nice bow tie on your cricket shirt, the collar’ll not flap open and no one won’t see as you’re wearing a undervest.’

‘I’m not vain, Maria, as you know, my dear. But I do hate to appear ridic’lous; and I heard one of the toffs say of someone else: “My God! Look, he’s wearin’ an underfug.” That was the word he used. “Underfug”. There’s etiquette, you know, Maria, and there’s a deal more than comfort to be thought of in clothes.’

‘I never heard such nonsense, John. Toff or no toff, I think it a most vulgar expression.’

‘One’s very sensitive about these little things, Maria. I don’t know why one should be. Always at the beginning, you know, when one walks on to the field first; you don’t know how shy I always feel. I believe other fellows do, too, somehow; but one can’t mention it. Of course it passes off as soon as the game begins. I don’t believe wild horses, now, could drag me on to the field in one of them little blazer things, you know—it would seem so unsuitable.’

‘Well, I never, John, and men talk of women being vain.’

‘Ah, it’s not quite vain. It’s sensitive, Maria; sensitive to the eyes of others.’

Meanwhile, Mrs McLeod was dressed, and helping John into an old woolly jacket. She set a large board on his knee and a book; for John had been a sign-writer, and his hobby other than secretarial duties of the Tillingfold Cricket Club was the making of manuscript books. Many who were not interested in cricket would stop to admire the calligraphy of the club notices, the list of teams, and so forth, exhibited in the Post Office window.

‘The height of luxury! Did anyone see the like of this, now?’ John McLeod commented as these arrangements were being made. ‘Waited on like a lord. Breakfast in bed! Well, I never. No man ever had such a wife!’

‘Ah!’ she laughed. ‘I know you well enough by this time, my boy. If I didn’t keep you safe in bed, you’d be running round all over the place wearin’ yourself out, and by the time the day was done, what with you and your cricket, I should be having a sick man on my hands.’

She left him happily at work, the two pillows behind his back, the bolster on end, the board of his own making leaning on his doubled-up knees. He hummed while he worked—tunes of a melancholy grandeur, which was in odd contrast with his rubicund, cheery face; a blended tune which for the most part opened with ‘Sun of my Soul, thou Saviour dear’, and somehow got lost in the heaving sorrow of ‘the long, long way to go’. Perhaps the melancholy drone was useful in damping his good spirits down to the accurate precision required in the performance of his work. It was years since he had made a blot.

Breakfast was at length brought in. Coffee, toast (in rounds), two boiled eggs, some hot rashers of bacon: the board was removed, a large napkin tied round his neck, in case of any little accidents, dear, as she said, and he had nothing to do but tuck in, as he said.

‘Oh, Maria, Maria! You spoil me, my dear. No wonder I’ve got a girth when you bring up such a breakfast, knowing well as I can never resist a good breakfast, never. But would you say now, as how, generally speaking, I did eat particular ’earty? Yet here I am, round as a barrel, and getting rounder, whereas old Silas Ragg, he’s thin as a lath, and tough as wire, and he won’t never see six-and-fifty again, and can bowl all afternoon easy as an old machine and never turn a hair. It ’ud kill me to bowl three overs.’

‘You must have plenty of nourishing food in you, fat or no fat, when you’re going to take all that exercise. Wringing wet with perspiration you gets: and your system must be kep’ up somehow. But this little parcel come from the stores.’

She produced a large envelope stuffed with something soft, which John pinched thoughtfully: ‘No, it can’t be them!’ he ruminated.

‘Never knew Mr Boyle before his word. “This week ain’t possible, Mr McLeod,” he said, “not if I stretches a point ever so.” By the Lord, it is them, though!’ he cried, eagerly pulling out a dozen sky-blue cricket caps.

‘Now, please,’ said his wife, ‘finish your breakfast while the coffee’s hot.’

‘Here we are, seven and three-quarters,’ said John, after some fumbling among the caps, too engrossed to hear any plea for delay. ‘Just hold that mirror up, my love,’ he went on, fitting the cap on his bald head. ‘How’s that now? Something like, eh? How’s it suit me? A bit more over the forehead, don’t you think? So. They’re cunning little chaps and no mistake; work out at three bob a-piece, too, with the monogram.’

‘Fine!’ said Mrs McLeod. ‘I’m sure it’s a mere boy you look in that little hat. But you must finish your breakfast now, or I shall get vexed with you.’

She had been trying her best not to laugh; the sight of her husband’s gleeful old countenance under the little cricket cap as he sat up in bed proved too much for her, and she shook with laughter as she leaned forward to pat his face so that his feelings, always a little touchy on the score of appearance, might not be hurt.

John laughed, too, but not quite so whole-heartedly.

‘You was always one to laugh,’ he said. ‘Bless you! But, Maria, my dear, I don’t look ridic’lous now, do I?’ he added, on such a note of anxiety that she forced control for a moment to answer:

‘Ridic’lous—not you!’

But his earnest look promptly overcame her.

‘Perhaps I had better keep to my old cloth cap.’ He spoke regretfully. ‘I’m used to it. And so are the others.’

She moved her hands in strenuous denial and shook her head from side to side. At length she managed to say:

‘Oh, I’m not laughing at you, like: no indeed; I wouldn’t do such a thing, but, oh! you are such an old dear.’

‘Magnificent idea! These little caps, you know.’ Mrs McLeod was carefully wiping her eyes with her pocket handkerchief, relapsing into good-humoured laughter from time to time. ‘Ted Bannister’s idea. Makes all the difference to the look of a team.’

‘Oh, dear!’ crooned Mrs McLeod. ‘Will Mr Bannister be wearing one, too, then?’

‘Of course he will, my dear,’ said John, becoming a little severe.

‘What time will the match begin?’

‘The usual time. Wickets pitched at 2.30,’ he quoted the official list which hung in the Post Office window, as though to assert his dignity. But he could not withstand the infection of his wife’s merriment as she faltered: ‘Oh! I’ll be there—with Mrs Bannister.’

So John began to chuckle:

‘Ah! There won’t half be some leg-pulling, I lay a sovereign. You should have heard ’em on at each other at the meeting. Old Teddie White, he swore as he’d never wear one. Obstinate devil, and I don’t believe he will. Won’t make himself a figure of fun. Old-fashioned, that’s what they are. Sticks to their ’abits like their skins, and a sight closer some on ’em. Old Henry, he’s always sore about the gentry havin’ more chances and all that humbug. If we all wears ’em, Lord bless my soul, it’ll fair put the wind up those Raveley chaps. We’ll have ’em beat before the coin’s tossed.’

‘Oh, dear!’ said Maria feebly, ‘it’ll be good as a play to see you all.’

‘Yes,’ said John meditatively. ‘I think I’ll just stroll round and give ’em out this morning like. More chance to get the chaps to wear ’em p’raps.’

‘Oh, no, you don’t!’ said Maria, with an amazing access of resolution. ‘Not you, my boy! You don’t stir from that bed now, please, till eleven o’clock. They may want warning’ (here laughter took her) ‘to be prepared, but you really mustn’t move, John, and get tiring yourself out.’

He was turning the cap on his fist, studying the cut and the monogram.

‘Try it on once more, dear,’ she begged.

He obeyed. She was enchanted.

‘I mustn’t forget to pull him well down over the forehead,’ he said with great gravity.

‘No,’ she agreed. ‘Not on any account.’

‘You won’t get laughing too much on the cricket field now, will you?’ he said, rather shyly.

‘Oh, no!’ she answered very demurely. ‘I hope I know by this time what’s proper.’

She removed the breakfast things and left him with his board upon his knees. But no tune of even the most melancholy grandeur could keep his thoughts from wandering on towards all the incomprehensibly unnecessary unhappiness which he knew existed in the beautiful village: the crossness, the unkindness, the gossip. ‘Ah, they’ve not all had your luck, my boy,’ he said to himself to appease his anger. ‘Suppose you had to shovel rubble all day like Sid Smith, where’d your temper be of an evening; or to do any work you couldn’t fancy, with another chap bossing you all the time. Who’s really happy now in this village? Oh dear! Oh dear! Oh dear! If it’s not one thing, it’s another!’

He leaned back gazing forlornly at his board, to which he suddenly gave a severe blow.

‘Driftin’ into the miserables,’ he said to himself. ‘Driftin’ into the miserables! What use is there in that now—on a perfect morning, with a glorious game of cricket waiting for me this afternoon. By the Lord Harry! It’s best not to think of some things.’

‘Maria!’ he called very loud. ‘Maria!’

She was on the landing and opened the door almost immediately.

‘Yes, John, what’s the matter?’

‘Ah well, now you mustn’t be cross, my dear; but I can’t lie on here. Really I can’t. What with the match and the caps coming and all, I’m too excited. I can’t keep quiet and do me writing. My thoughts go rushing about all over the place to where they’ve no business at all, no business at all.’

‘You’re a wilful man, John’, she said, smiling. ‘Most wilful. But you must promise me to wear your undervest, now, won’t you?’

‘All right, my dear,’ he agreed a little ruefully. ‘I promise if it’ll make your mind easier.’

‘Oh, far easier, John, far easier,’ she answered him.