Death and the Jubilee

22

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen. Could I have your attention, please.’

A portly man with a huge handlebar moustache had climbed on to a bench in the home side’s dressing room. The creases on his cricket flannels were razor sharp, his white sweater was immaculate.

‘Hopwood’s the name, Aston Hopwood. I’m your captain for the day.’

He surveyed his companions, some still lacing up their boots, others rehearsing imaginary strokes with great concentration.

‘I’ve got to do the batting order before the toss,’ Hopwood said. ‘Someone here called Powerscourt? Opening batsman?’

Lord Francis Powerscourt raised a nervous hand in acknowledgement. Nearly a fortnight had passed since his ordeal in Ireland and his aches had almost gone. He had passed on all he knew about the German rifles lying in Irish graves to Dominic Knox of the Irish Office. Knox had been effusive in his thanks.

‘Welcome to the team, Powerscourt.’ Hopwood boomed. ‘Smythe? You happy to be the other opening man?’

An elderly gentleman who looked as though his cricketing days should have been over long ago nodded his consent.

‘Where’s the Bank of England?’ Hopwood demanded of the changing room. The Bank was nowhere to be seen.

‘Bloody Bank,’ said Hopwood bitterly. ‘He’s always late. Anyway, I’ll put him in at Number Three.’

Gradually Hopwood worked his way down the batting order. Powerscourt noticed that James Clarke, William Burke’s bright young man, was down to bat at Number Nine. Clarke’s whites had not received as much attention as those of his colleagues. The trousers were too short and his sweater too small.

‘What do you know about the opposition, Hopwood?’ asked a slim young man who was a fast bowler. Powerscourt was to learn later that he was known as Ivan the Terrible because of the speed and ferocity of his deliveries.

‘They’re a party of Americans come to tour here this summer called the Philadelphians. Bloody Americans.’ Hopwood shook his head, remembering a recent coup where an American firm from New York had removed a valuable contract from right under his nose. ‘I don’t know much about them as cricketers. Expect they’ll run about a lot and make a great deal of noise. I don’t know what they all do for a living. There’s a couple of money people, an academic from somewhere called Princeton, maybe a preacher or two.’

Aston Hopwood departed to the cricket square for the toss. The pavilion was new, built in the mock Tudor style, and it nestled among the tall trees that surrounded the little ground. Rows of chairs had been placed on either side of it and further chairs or benches were dotted about the outfield. To one side was a huge marquee with rows of servants hurrying to and from the great house bearing trays of food and consignments of glasses.

Powerscourt felt acutely nervous. He hadn’t expected such a large crowd to witness his humiliation. Lady Lucy was talking to William Burke, taking a tour of the little ground.

‘It’s so pretty, this cricket ground, isn’t it,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘Look, here are the umpires coming out with the two captains. Do you know who the umpires are, William?’

Burke inspected the two men in the white coats. ‘The one on the left is a Bishop, Lady Lucy, Bishop of Oxford, I believe. They say he’s a coming man. And the other one is a policeman, Chief Constable of Oxfordshire, name of Bampfylde.’

‘Mr de Rothschild isn’t expecting any trouble, is he? I mean, they seem very grand personages to be the umpires, William.’

‘There was a terrible fight here some years ago, Lucy.’ William Burke laughed. ‘A man from one of the tea importers had a very good lunch. He’d not been drinking his own produce at lunchtime, he had rather a lot of Rothschild’s vicious punch. The stuff tastes perfectly innocuous but it’s lethal, Lucy, absolutely lethal. In the third or fourth over after lunch, there’s a huge appeal and the umpire says the tea importer has been caught behind. Finger goes up, normal sort of business. Not Out! shouts the tea man. Yes you are, says the umpire. No I’m bloody not, says the tea man. Then the tea man advances down the wicket and knocks the umpire out cold. There was a general scrimmage all round. The match had to be called off. Ever since then old Rothschild has tried for very important men as his umpires. He even got the Governor of the Bank of England to do it one year. Only trouble was, he was half blind and had to be replaced after lunch. The poor man could hardly see a thing.’

‘So with the Bishop at one end and the Chief Constable at the other, it should be a peaceful day.’ Lady Lucy smiled at her brother-in-law, glancing round the ground to see if either umpire had brought any reinforcements, members of the heavenly host hiding in the long grass, plain-clothes policemen lurking in the woods.

‘Let’s hope it’ll be peaceful, Lucy. Ah, I see the visitors have won the toss. The Americans are going to bat.’

Richard Martin and Sophie Williams had come to watch Richard’s friend James Clarke play for the City Eleven. They were lying in the grass as far away from the pavilion as they could get.

‘I’ve never seen a place as grand as this, Sophie,’ said Richard, thinking they had indeed arrived at a different world.

‘Neither have I, Richard,’ said Sophie, stretching out her long legs. ‘Isn’t this grand. I hope your friend James does well.’

Richard was worrying about lunch. His mother had made a picnic for two, thinking she only had to provide for Richard and James.

‘I think you’d better make some more sandwiches, Mother,’ Richard had said. ‘You get very hungry playing cricket.’

His mother had looked at him suspiciously, but, for once, she said nothing. Now they could see an incredible meal being laid out, probably full of foods they had never seen in their lives and wouldn’t know how to eat. They could hardly sit under the trees and eat their sandwiches. They would look out of place.

‘Who’s this man bowling?’ said Powerscourt to Aston Hopwood as they settled in the slips for the opening over.

‘Man by the name of Harcourt. Stockbroker. Quick but a bit erratic,’ said Hopwood, crouching to his work.

The American who opened the batting was a broad-shouldered fellow from Philadelphia. The first two balls he ignored. The third was so wide that the Bank of England had to dive dramatically to his left to stop it. The fourth and fifth balls were hit to the square leg boundary with tremendous force. The last ball was played defensively back to the bowler.

‘Bet you a pint of beer,’ said one of Rothschild’s elderly gardeners to his colleague, watching from the side of the pavilion, ‘this bloke makes fifty.’

‘You’re on,’ said his colleague, pausing to remove his pipe from his mouth. ‘Bet you he bloody doesn’t.’

William Burke had steered Lady Lucy towards a little group of spectators from Harrison’s Bank.

‘Mr Harrison,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘I hope your aunt is well.’

‘She is much better, thank you, Lady Powerscourt,’ said Charles Harrison. ‘The doctors are pleased with her. They are thinking of sending her to the Italian Lakes to recuperate.’

‘Watch out!’ said Burke suddenly. The broad-shouldered American had struck a mighty blow. The ball sailed happily over Lady Lucy’s head and came to earth in the long grass. A trio of small boys raced to recover it.

‘My goodness,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘This American seems to be a very fierce fellow. Do you play cricket, Mr Harrison?’

‘Alas, no, I do not.’ Charles Harrison smiled a self-deprecating smile, stroking his red beard.

‘You never played it at school or university, Mr Harrison?’

Charles Harrison paused to applaud another massive blow which despatched the ball right over the pavilion. It landed on one of the great rollers used to treat the pitch and bounced on again to land in the ornamental topiary at the back of the house.

‘I regret, Lady Powerscourt, I regret it very much,’ replied Charles Harrison, rubbing his hands together apologetically. Lady Lucy noticed that even the hairs on the back of his hands were red. ‘At the Friedrich Wilhelm University in Berlin, we had little time for cricket.’

Privately Charles Harrison was annoyed with himself. I didn’t have to say that, he said to himself. I could just have said I went to university in Germany. He pressed on. ‘But still, Lady Powerscourt, it isn’t too late to start.’ He began practising imaginary cricket shots.

After eight overs the Americans had made seventy-five runs without losing a wicket. Aston Hopwood, Powerscourt and the Bank of England were having a conference in the slips.

‘Only one thing for it, dammit,’ said Hopwood.

‘What’s that?’ asked the Bank of England.

‘Didn’t like to take either of these two off too quickly. I do a lot of business with them, don’t you know. But now, there’s only one thing for it. Thank you, Hudson, thank you. We’re going to change the bowling now.’

Aston Hopwood summoned Ivan the Terrible from his position in the deep. He and the Bank of England retreated further back from the wicket.

‘Bit erratic sometimes, the Terrible,’ he said to his colleagues. ‘I mean, he’s quick, but I’m not sure he knows where the damn thing is going.’

Powerscourt moved back to join his fellow fielders. Ivan had retreated to a position not far from the pavilion to begin his run-up. A look of dislike, almost of hatred for the batsmen, passed across his normally placid features. He approached the wicket at ever-increasing speed and sent his first ball down at remarkable pace, but well wide of the stumps. The American blinked, stared back at Ivan the Terrible and waited for the next ball. There was a hush around the ground, the little patches of conversation dying away as Ivan went to war.

His second ball pitched short, rose steeply and flew over the outstretched hands of the Bank of England for four byes.

‘Bloody hell!’ said Powerscourt.

‘Ranging shots. Ranging shots,’ said Hopwood, ‘let’s hope the next few are on target.’

The next ball flew at great speed towards the American’s off stump. There was a faint click. Powerscourt sensed a red blur hurtling to his left. He stuck out his hand. He found, to his amazement, that the ball had lodged in his palm, a great sting spreading up his arm.

‘How was that!’ shouted Aston Hopwood and the Bank of England in unison.

The Bishop’s finger rose. The American departed. Powerscourt found himself the subject of congratulations from all sides.

‘That’s one pint of beer you owe me now,’ said Rothschild’s gardener with the pipe to his friend. ‘Bugger only made forty-two.’

‘I tell you what,’ said his friend. ‘Double or quits. This Terrible fellow to take five wickets.’

‘I’m not taking you up on that. Bugger might bowl them all out at this speed.’

The next American showed no signs of being intimidated by Ivan the Terrible. He took a mighty swipe at his first ball and missed completely. He took a mighty swipe at the next ball and crashed it back down the pitch for four runs.

‘They don’t seem to believe in defence or playing themselves in at all,’ said the Bank of England to his colleagues.

Ivan the Terrible paused at the far end of his run up to stare at the American. The American stared back, drawing his bat back to strike another blow.

‘For what we are about to receive,’ muttered Hopwood.

The next ball was slower than its predecessors. The American misjudged his shot completely. He paused to look briefly at the ruin that had been his wicket and set off back to the pavilion, pausing to clap Ivan the Terrible on the shoulder on his way.

‘That was a pretty eventful over,’ said Burke to Lady Lucy. ‘He’s very fast, that chap.’

‘Didn’t Francis do well, William. I’m so proud of him.’ Lady Lucy gazed proprietorially at her husband, deep in conversation with his colleagues in the slips.

‘He did very well, Lucy, that was a difficult catch. I wonder when Hopwood’s going to put my young man on to bowl.’

James Clarke, however, remained in the outfield. Ivan the Terrible bowled a further three overs and sent a further three Americans back to the pavilion. Then Hopwood took him off.

‘Can’t have the bloody game finishing before tea,’ he said to Powerscourt. ‘I’ll bring him back later on if we have to. He’s pretty puffed already.’

A small wiry American had come in to bat at Number Three and hung on to his wicket like a limpet. Not for him the mighty blows of the first batsman. He proceeded with nudges and glances, a lot of quick singles and a general process of accumulation that aroused the wrath of the Bank of England behind the stumps.

‘Why don’t you hit the bloody thing?’ he asked the batsman sarcastically after a well-placed prod had brought him another two runs.

‘Temper, temper,’ said the American. ‘Every run counts.’

By lunch the Americans had advanced to one hundred and twenty-five for four, a respectable total but considerably less than might have been expected from their lightning start.

‘Mind the punch,’ said Hopwood to his team as they returned to the pavilion. He too had been involved in the fracas several years before. ‘That stuff’s bloody lethal.’

James Clarke had raced off the field to find his friends.

‘Richard, Miss Williams,’ he said, ‘come and meet my governor. He’s just over there.’

William Burke was happy to escort the young people to lunch and to guide them through the culinary delights on offer. Somebody needs to look after such a pretty girl as this Miss Williams, he said to himself. Some of these wolves from the City wouldn’t do her any good at all.

‘Ham, Mr Martin? Miss Williams? Some lobster? Some ptarmigan pie?’

Lunch was taken at tables in the marquee or sitting on the grass. Powerscourt sat with Lady Lucy under a large tree. William Burke had taken Richard Martin and Sophie Williams and James Clarke on a tour of the gardens. Out of the corner of his eye Powerscourt saw Charles Harrison watch them go, a look of extreme disquiet on his face. The Bank of England had given very definite instructions to one of the waiters. Some of the Americans were receiving regular refills of the Rothschild punch. The two old retired gardeners had fallen asleep under their oak, snores drifting out across the cricket field.

‘I don’t think the wiry one will last much longer,’ the Bank of England said happily to Powerscourt and Hopwood as play resumed.

‘Why not?’ said Hopwood. ‘He looked pretty well set to me before lunch.’

‘That was before he met the punch.’ The Bank of England grinned.

Initially the wiry American showed no signs of having been affected by the punch or anything else. He attacked the bowling with great vigour for a couple of overs. Then he went into a slow decline. His running between the wickets became erratic. He missed perfectly simple balls. Eventually he fell over on to his own wicket when confronted by James Clarke’s off spinners.

‘Bad luck. What rotten luck!’ The Bank of England waved him happily off the field.

‘That were that punch, that were,’ said the retired gardener with the pipe. ‘He was quite all right before lunch, that thin bloke.’

‘Hit wicket bowled punch,’ cackled his friend. ‘Do you think there’s any of the stuff left?’

Shortly before three o’clock the American innings closed with the score at one hundred and seventy-six.

‘Respectable score,’ said Hopwood to Powerscourt as he buckled on his pads, ‘but we should be able to knock that off fairly easily.’

Powerscourt felt his knees go weak as he walked to the wicket. True, he had put in some practice with his local team in Northamptonshire in the weeks leading up to the match. But here he was in front of this large crowd against bowlers he had never seen before.

A tall thin American with a black moustache was preparing to open the bowling. He advanced off a run up of only a few paces and sent down a ball that was quite fast but well wide of the off stump. Steady, Powerscourt said to himself, steady. The next two balls he played defensively. The fourth he tucked away on the on side for a single. He was off the mark. He breathed again.

William Burke seemed to have taken Richard Martin and Sophie Williams under his wing. They were chatting happily with James Clarke under a tree just behind the bowler’s arm. Lady Lucy was sitting by Bertrand de Rothschild who kept up a running commentary on the proceedings. Oliver Smythe, the other opener, was now facing the bowling.

‘Well played there, Smythe, splendid cover drive. Don’t think much of the American bowling, my dear, well hit, sir, well hit, oh dear, that fielder is going to catch it, he’s running for it very fast, he’s not going to get there before it drops, he is, he dives, he’s got it! Eighteen for one!’

The next over proved a disaster for the City. Three of them were out to a slow American spinner who seemed to turn the ball to a diabolical degree. Hopwood was the last to go with the score at twenty-two for four.

‘Hang in there, Powerscourt. For God’s sake hang in there. One or two of these fellows coming up can hit a ball but they won’t last long. We need an anchor at the other end.’

Powerscourt dug himself in. Whatever happens at the other end, I’ve got to stay here, he said to himself. Captain’s orders. He remembered an innings he had played once for his college at Cambridge where he had batted right through against the superior forces of St John’s until the last over of the day, only to run out of partners with three balls left.

Lady Lucy was watching him anxiously, staring out at the pitch beneath her parasol. Powerscourt nudged away a couple of singles. A short ball on the leg side he pulled imperiously to the square leg boundary for four. The Bank of England was with him now.

‘You close off your end, Powerscourt. Don’t believe in pussyfooting around myself. Smite the Philistines, that’s what I say. Smite them.’

His superiors at the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street would not have been happy with the rashness of his play. He charged down the wicket. He aimed to hit every ball, good or bad. For a while he smote the Philistines most effectively and the City score advanced to the more comfortable total of sixty. Then the Philistines laid a trap for him. Two fielders were sent to the boundary in the part of the field where he most often hit the ball. A slow innocuous delivery was hit for six. The next ball was slightly faster. The Bank of England mishit his shot. The ball rose high in the air into the welcome arms of an American. Sixty-six for five and the City were running out of batsmen.

A broker friend of Hopwood’s and a discount man followed him rapidly back to the pavilion. With half an hour to go before tea the youthful figure of James Clarke strode to the wicket, the score board showing seventy-four for seven.

‘Good luck, James! Good luck!’ Sophie Williams thought she must be more nervous than her new friend.

‘Fifty at least!’ said Richard.

Powerscourt could see after just one over that James Clarke was a very fine cricketer indeed. He faced the bowlers with great assurance and drove them effortlessly round the field. The score advanced rapidly. Powerscourt saw that his own total had reached twenty-five and that if James continued to score at the same rate he would soon be overtaken.

‘Just hang in there, sir. We’ll beat the bastards yet,’ Clarke advised him on one of their midwicket conferences as the score rose towards one hundred.

‘Bet you that pint of beer,’ said the old gardener with his pipe, ‘bet you this left-handed one, Powerscourt do they call him, bet you he won’t get out at all. He’ll carry his bat.’

‘Bet you he won’t,’ said his friend, ‘they get worn out, those people. He’ll try some fancy shot and get himself out. You mark my words.’

With one over left before tea Powerscourt received the ball he had been waiting for all day. It was short. It was outside the off stump. It was perfect for a late cut. He caressed it to the boundary.

‘Capital! Capital!’ croaked Bertrand de Rothschild, seizing Lady Lucy by the arm. ‘That’s his late cut! He’s played it at last! And what a fine stroke it was!’

Lady Lucy wondered if there were early cuts as well but felt she should not inquire. A prolonged burst of applause ran around the crowd. The City had passed one hundred. Perhaps they could win it after all.

‘Do you think we can do it, Mr Burke? Do you think we can win?’ Richard Martin was growing rather fond of his new friend.

‘Let us hope so, Richard. If these two can take us to a hundred and fifty or so, we should have a good chance.’

Aston Hopwood held a council of war with his batsmen behind the pavilion at the tea interval. ‘Well played, both of you, well played. You’ve got to stick at it. Thing is,’ he said a little defensively, ‘I got odds of eight to one against us winning when the score was twenty-two for four. Eight to one. So I put twenty pounds on. The odds looked too good to miss.’

James Clarke grinned at the stockbroker. ‘Do we get a bonus if we win it for you, sir?’ he asked.

‘Cheeky young monkey! That’s what you are!’ Aston Hopwood roared with laughter. ‘Now then,’ he went on, ‘I’ve got the last two batsmen practising non-stop until they go in. Supervising them myself, getting them ready for the fray. Wish I’d done the same for some of the others.’

Powerscourt managed a quick word with Lady Lucy.

‘Are you all right, Francis? You look quite done in to me,’ she smiled.

‘Nonsense, Lucy, I’m just getting warmed up. I do hope we can pull it off, that’s all.’

Bertrand de Rothschild came up, munching happily on an enormous slice of fruit cake.

‘Exquisite late cut, sir, exquisite. Are we going to see any more?’

‘I hope so,’ said Powerscourt, smiling.

James Clarke was pulling at his sweater. The two umpires, God and Law and Order, were marching steadily towards the wicket. Some of the Americans were doing physical jerks, one of them performing a dramatic series of cartwheels to the amazement of a group of children.

James Clarke carried on after tea just as he had before. Powerscourt continued to collect his ones and twos as the score mounted steadily towards one hundred and fifty. Clarke saw that in with a massive six straight down the ground. Then he made his only mistake. With twenty runs more needed for victory he mistimed his stroke. The ball went straight up into the air.

‘Mine!’ shouted the wicketkeeper as three fielders converged on the ball. And it was. The Americans clapped him off the field. The crowd rose to their feet. The City were one hundred and fifty-seven for eight.

Aston Hopwood put his arm round James Clarke as he walked back up the pavilion steps to take his pads off.

‘Sorry, sir,’ said Clarke. ‘And I’m sorry about the bet.’

Aston Hopwood roared with laughter.

‘Don’t worry about the bet. I managed to place another one, you see. I don’t think I’ll be out of pocket today!’

‘What was your other bet, sir?’

‘Bet some fool from Burke’s Bank that you’d make fifty. The fellow said if you were any good why were you batting so low down the order. I didn’t tell him I’d seen you play before so I got odds of ten to one off him. And you made fifty-eight!’

Hopwood clapped him on the shoulder.

‘How much did you put on, sir?’

‘How much? Twenty pounds. Hardly worth putting on any less, was it!’

Clarke hurried off to join his friends and William Burke. Ivan the Terrible had reached the crease. He hit his first two balls for four. Thirteen to go. The last ball of the over was despatched for two more. One hundred and sixty-seven, ten runs away from victory.

Powerscourt was now facing the bowling. The first ball was just where he liked it, short and outside the off stump. He leaned back into his stroke. Another late cut would leave the City six runs short of victory. But the ball bounced higher than he expected. It must have hit a bump in the pitch. He heard the snick as the ball clipped the top of his bat. He heard the smack as it disappeared into the wicketkeeper’s gloves. He heard the appeal, shouted in triumph by the Americans.

He saw the Bishop’s finger. After batting all through the innings, with victory a couple of blows away, he had thrown it all away.

‘Hard luck, oh hard luck!’

The Americans applauded him off the field. Sixty-two runs he had made, he saw from the scoreboard.

‘That late cut!’ Bertrand de Rothschild croaked to Lady Lucy. ‘I warned him about it, you know. I told him what a dangerous shot it was. What a time to play it! What a time!’

‘If my husband hadn’t played so well, sir, the match would have been over long ago.’ Lady Lucy rose in search of her husband. Powerscourt didn’t return to the pavilion. He went to share the last moments with Burke and his little party, above all with James Clarke. They had nearly won the match together. Now they could watch until the end. As he flopped down on the grass he saw Charles Harrison lurking behind William Burke. He was partly hidden in the trees. Did he mean to be hidden from view? He was straining forward as if trying to hear what was being said.

‘Well done, Francis! Well done!’

‘Jolly well played, sir. What rotten luck!’

The last man made his way slowly to the crease. Aston Hopwood had followed him so far on his way that the Oxfordshire Police umpire had to order him back. He stopped for a brief conference with Ivan the Terrible.

‘Man from accounts,’ Aston Hopwood was telling anybody who would listen in the pavilion. ‘One of the big insurance companies. Spends his whole bloody life working with figures. Hope to God he’s grasped the significance of these.’ Hopwood nodded vehemently at the scoreboard. One hundred and sixty-seven for nine. The scorers were leaning forward out of their window to catch the last overs of the match. The small boys had given up their own games in the long grass and were watching intently. A couple of cows from the Rothschild farm had ambled up to the fence at the edge, chewing ruminatively. Sophie Williams was clutching Richard’s arm in her excitement.

Accounts faced his first ball. It was well wide of the wicket. He missed the next one altogether. The last two balls of the over he blocked defiantly, wiping at his glasses after each one.

‘Anyone take ten pounds on a tie?’

Aston Hopwood found no takers.

Ivan the Terrible was now facing the American spinner. His balls were slow but liable to turn quite alarmingly. The first ball Ivan left alone. The second he smote for six into the field with the cows.

‘Well done, Ivan, well done!’

The cows moved slowly off back to more peaceful pastures.

‘One four would do it,’ James Clarke whispered to Powerscourt. He crossed his fingers. The next ball was well wide. Perhaps the Americans are as nervous as we are, thought Powerscourt.

‘Come on, Philadelphians!’ A huge shout rose from the rest of the American party. The bowler took heart. His next ball seemed to land well outside the stumps. Ivan the Terrible gathered himself for one last match-winning blow. But he missed. The ball turned. It removed Ivan the Terrible’s middle stump. The match was over. The Americans had won.

William Burke rose to return to the pavilion. ‘Remember, Richard, remember,’ he shouted back to the little group as he departed. ‘Come and see me in my office on Monday. We have a lot to talk about.’ He waved cheerfully.

Powerscourt stared at the trees. Was Charles Harrison still there? Would he have overheard?

‘Come on, Lord Powerscourt. I think we should get a glass of beer now!’ James Clarke looked at his batting partner. He had turned white.

Hurrying away to the other side of the ground, his face as black as thunder, was Charles Harrison. Powerscourt felt sure he had heard Burke’s parting words. If only he had said something, if only he had warned his brother-in-law, this could have been avoided.

A huge shout now came across the pitch. Somebody was hurrying across to join them.

‘Francis!’ said the voice, ‘I hear there’s been a bloody miracle. I hear you actually made some runs today!’

Powerscourt felt that there had indeed been a miracle at this cricket ground. For there, advancing towards them with an enormous grin, was a face he had not seen for some time, a face he had missed more than he cared to admit. He might have come too late for the match, but Johnny Fitzgerald was in time for the beer.