Complete Stories of Eveyln, Page 58

  Such is the history of my only athletic achievement. On hearing of it my brother said, “Well, you’d better play today. Anderson has just fallen through. I’m taking a side down to a village in Hertfordshire—I’ve forgotten the name.”

  And I thought of how much I had heard of the glories of village cricket and of that life into which I had never entered and so most adventurously, I accepted.

  “Our train leaves King’s Cross at nine-twenty. The taxi will be here in five minutes. You’d better get your things.”

  At quarter past nine we were at the station and some time before eleven the last of our team arrived. We learned that the village we were to play was called Torbridge. At half past twelve, we were assembled with many bags on the Torbridge platform. Outside two Fords were for hire and I and the man who had turned up latest succeeded in discovering the drivers in the “Horse and Cart”; they were very largely sober; it seemed that now everything would be going well. My brother said,

  “Drive us to the cricket ground.”

  “There isn’t no cricket ground,” brutishly, “is there, Bill?”

  “I have heard that they do play cricket on Beesley’s paddock.”

  “Noa, that’s football they plays there.”

  “Ah;” very craftily, “but that’s in the winter. Mebbe they plays cricket there in the summer.”

  “I have heard that he’s got that field for hay this year.”

  “Why, so ’e ’ave.”

  “No, there ain’t no cricket ground, mister.” And then I noticed a sign post. On one limb was written “Lower Torbridge, Great Torbridge, Torbridge St. Swithin,” and on the other “Torbridge Heath, South Torbridge, Torbridge Village,” and on the third just “Torbridge Station,” this pointing towards me.

  We tossed up and, contrary to the lot, decided to try Torbridge Village. We stopped at the public house and made enquiries. No, he had not heard of no match here. They did say there was some sort of festification at Torbridge St. Swithin, but maybe that was the flower show. We continued the pilgrimage and at each public house we each had half a pint. At last after three-quarters of an hour, we found at the “Pig and Hammer” Torbridge Heath, eleven disconsolate men. They were expecting a team to play them—“the Reverend Mr. Bundles.” Would they play against us instead? Another pint all round and the thing was arranged. It was past one; we decided to lunch at once. At quarter to three, very sleepily the opposing side straddled out into the field. At quarter past four, when we paused for tea, the score was thirty-one for seven, of these my brother had made twenty in two overs and had then been caught; I had made one and that ingloriously. I had hit the ball with great force on to my toe from which it had bounced into the middle of the pitch. “Yes, one,” cried the tall man at the other end; he wanted the bowling; with great difficulty I limped across; I was glad that the next ball bowled him. One man did all the work for the other side—a short man with very brown forearms and a bristling moustache.

  At quarter to five we went out to field and at seven, when very wearily we went back to the pavilion, only one wicket had fallen for 120. The brown-armed man was still in. Even on the occasion of my triumph I had not fielded; this afternoon, still with a crushed toe, I did not do myself credit. After a time it became the habit of the bowler whenever a ball was hit near me, immediately to move me away and put someone else there; and for this I was grateful.

  In the shed at the end of the field there was no way of washing. We all had to change in one little room each with his heap of clothes; we all lost socks, studs and even waistcoats; it was all very like school. And finally when we were changed and feeling thoroughly sticky and weary, we learned from the cheery captain with the brown arms that there were no taxis in Torbridge Heath and no telephone to summon one with. It was three miles to Torbridge Station and the last train left at half past eight. There would be no time for any dinner; we had heavy bags to carry.

  One last sorrow came upon us when it would have seemed that all was finished, and just as we were coming into King’s Cross I found that somewhere in that turmoil of changing I had lost my return ticket. My poor brother had to pay, I having no money. When he had paid he discovered that he would have no money left for a taxi. We must go back by tube and walk. To travel by tube with a heavy bag is an uneasy business. And when I returned home, I reasoned thus with myself; today I have wearied myself utterly; I have seen nothing and no one of any interest; I have suffered discomfort of every sense and in every limb; I have suffered acute pain in my great toe; I have walked several miles; I have stood about for several hours; I have drunken several pints of indifferently good beer; I have spent nearly two pounds; I might have spent that sum in dining very well and going to a theatre; I might have made that sum by spending the morning, pleasantly, in writing or drawing.

  But my brother maintained that it had been a great day. Village cricket, he said, was always like that.