The Cricket Match

Hugh De Selincourt

Description

The Cricket Match is the best-known and best-loved cricket story ever written. Hugh de Selincourt brilliantly captures the atmosphere of Tillingfold - the model English village with its friendly peacefulness and rustic good humour - on the day of the now celebrated match against the neighbouring village of Raveley.

Sujets

• Fiction
• Sports

Informations

• Publié par: Rare Treasure Editions
• Date de parution: 11 novembre 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781774644584
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Cricket Match
by Hugh de Selincourt

First published in 1924
This edition published by Rare Treasures
Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany
[e-mail]
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

THE CRICKET MATCH

by
HUGH DE SELINCOURT

Illustrated by Ian Armour-Chelu

to
FRANK W CARTER

in memory of many good games
watched and played together,
you in your small corner,
I in mine
1 INTRODUCES THE VILLAGE OF TILLINGFOLD

Tillingfold lies in a hollow under the Downs, andclimbs up the sides of the hill, like a pool risen tooverflow its banks. The main street branches off infingers up the sudden dip from the flat stretch thatseemed, as you approached, to reach the foot of theDowns.
This unexpected stretch of rising country, on eitherside of the village, had been covered by miles of tallfir trees; but a keen business man bought the estate atthe right moment during the war, and with the help ofGerman prisoners had levelled all the fir trees, whichwere sawn into pit-props; soon afterwards, having resoldthe estate, he tactfully withdrew.
Look down on the still village as the morning sun,peering over the hills, sends rays to penetrate the gentleencircling haze. The mill-pond, beginning to gleam inthe sun, stands among big trees in a rich meadowsloping towards picturesque cottages. From the cottagesrises the smoke of the earliest kindled fires; the smokecurls at first, then rises to a straight blue line slow todisperse in the still air. The village is awakening tothe day.
In the distance you can hear the noise of the train soclearly that it is difficult to believe the line is five milesaway. The sound lends remoteness to the village, andseems to increase the stillness, which is also enhanced,not broken, by the sudden clamour of cocks and themonotonous plaint of a calf parted from its mother.There is an atmosphere of friendly peacefulness inwhich unkindness and discontent would seem impossible;even as the sweet air, touched by the savour of the sea onthe far side of the Downs, would seem by its sheer sweetnessto put all mischievous gossip to shame. Here is theplace for a man to live a fruitful, quiet life. No wonderbungalows are springing up on all sides.
Stroll through the village down into the main streetto the Square where the motor ‘buses stop; round bythe Post Office and the vicarage, with its gnarled yewhedge, by the schoolhouse, up to the Monastery—lookat the numbers of little houses away on the gorse common—downby the Village Room, where pictures areshown on Friday evenings, past the newly-built Comrades’Hut and into the village square again.
The village is prosperous. There are two generalstores and one London emporium, three butchers, fourbakers, three cobblers, a barber, three builders; a bank,a dissenting chapel, two cycle shops, three tea shops, agarage, and seven public-houses.
Yes, and in their near neighbourhood there are manyresidences of wealthy people with town houses, and theytake a great interest in the welfare of the village, subscribingto the Flower Show, glad to be vice-presidentsof the Village Room and the Cricket and FootballClubs, members even of the Parish Council. Why, oneman and his wife are said to have spent eighty thousandpounds in making a large house suitable for theiroccupation. Fine thing for the village.
Up there? Are they not picturesque, those dear littlecottages looking out over the mill-pond? On the doorstepslittle children will soon be playing. Yes, onelatrine conspicuously outside, for men, women andchildren—the bucket is emptied once a week. Thingsare much better than they used to be.
Come away, come away—up this quiet street. Earlywork-men are starting out now, walking with a long,rolling stride, as though not to disturb the comfortabledrowsiness in which their faces are still wrapped. Inthat yard stands a gay chap whistling loud as he harnessesa white cob; his cheerful, cried-out greetings donot rouse his friends to more than a murmured wordand a slow, sagacious nod. ‘Takes all sorts to make aworld!’ is a favourite proverb here.
Walk up this quiet street and leave all aching disparitieswith a prayer for the spread of human kindlinessand the growth of human imagination; come away andlook at that nice poster hanging in the Post Officewindow for all who pass to read:
A MATCH
Will be played on SATURDAY ,
Against Raveley
Wickets will be pitched at 2.30 1 Mr Gauvinier (Capt) 7 Mr Bannock 2 Mr Hunter 8 Mr White 3 Mr Fanshawe 9 Mr Furze 4 Mr Bannister 10 Mr Waite 5 Mr S Smith 11 Mr Mcleod 6 Mr Trine John McLeod (Hon Sec) Scorer: Mr Allen Umpire: Mr Bird
2 SOME PLAYERS AWAKEN

I
On Saturday morning, 4th August 1921, at a quarterpast five, Horace Cairie woke up and heard therustle of wind in the trees outside his bedroom window.Or was it a gentle, steady rain pattering on the leaves?Oh, no, it couldn’t be! That would be too rotten. Redsky at night shepherd’s delight. And the sky last nighthad been red as a great rose and redder, simply crimson.‘Now mind, if you over-excite yourself and don’t getproper sleep, you won’t be able to enjoy the matchor anything!’ his mother had said, and Horace knewthat what she said was true. Still, what was a fellow todo? Turn over and go to sleep? If it rained, it rained,and there was an end of it: his getting up to see whetherthe pattery, rustly sound was the wind or rain wouldnot alter the weather. For a chap of fifteen and a fewmonths he feared that he was an awful kid.
He got out of bed deliberately as any man and walkedto the window. He leaned out as far as he could leanand surveyed the morning sky with the solemnity of anexpert.
Not a cloud was to be seen anywhere; only a breathof wind sufficient to rustle a few dried ivy leaves againstthe window-sill. A delicate haze spread over the countryto the hills.
What a day it would be to watch a cricket match, andsuppose Joe Furze couldn’t turn out and he were askedto play! And, suppose, when he went in to bat fiveruns were wanted and he got a full toss to leg and hit itplumb right for a four and then with a little luck . . . orsupposing Tillingfold had batted first and the otherswanted six runs and he had a great high catch and heldit or a real fast one and jumped out and it stuck in hisfingers. Oh goodness, what a clinking game cricket was!Splendid even to watch. And old Francis always lethim mark off the tens and put the figures up on thescoring board.
Meanwhile it was still three good hours to breakfast,and if he curled up in bed and went to sleep the timewould pass more quickly, and if he were wanted toplay he would be in better form than if he moochedabout the garden on an empty stomach.
What a morning! What a morning! What luck!
‘Now then, darling, you’ll be late for breakfast.’
Horace leaped out of bed at his mother’s voice.
‘Is old Francis here yet?’
‘Been here an hour or more.’
‘Has he brought any message?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Oh, curse! Of course I shan’t be wanted to play.’
‘A very good thing, too, dear. I don’t like your playingwith men.’
‘Oh, rot, mum! What complete piffle! I’m not akid.’
He kissed her first on one cheek then on the other.
‘You will never understand about cricket, will you?’
He began to wash himself with more speed than care,and, after a hurried wipe with a towel, climbed intoshirt and shorts, slapped his head with two hair brusheswhile he trod into laceless sand shoes, stooped to tugeach over the refractory heel, and fell downstairs,struggling into an ancient blazer.
‘Half a sec!’ he shouted in at the open dining-roomdoor and rushed out into the garden to find old Francis.He ran hard towards the potting shed, but seeingFrancis sweeping the leaves up on the drive he stoppedhis swift run and, carefully adjusting his coat collar,strolled up towards him. Old Francis had watched himcome tearing out of the house, watched him slow up,knew what he was mad to know: so he went on sweepingwith the briefest possible edition of greeting, of which‘orn’ was alone audible. After a little he said drily:
‘Looks like rain, don’t it?’
‘Oh, I dunno! No, do you think so?’
‘Ah! Uncommon like rain. Smell it everywhere.’
He leaned on his broom and sniffed the air up dubiously.Then he went on sweeping.
‘I say!’ said the boy. ‘Would it be all right if you letme mark off the ones again, do you think? And shoveup the numbers.’
‘Shouldn’t wonder. But there won’t be no cricket;not this afternoon.’
‘Why not? The rotters haven’t scratched, have they?’
‘Scratched, not that I knows on. Much sensibler if we ’ad , seeing the team as we’ve had to rake up. Begetting they old chaps from the Union before we’redone. Ah! And some on ’em wouldn’t be half bad, Ilay; not too slippy on their feet.’
He referred thereby to a never-to-be-forgotten occasion(by others, it seemed, at any rate) when Horacein his eagerness to dash in and save one had fallen atfull length and the batsman had secured two runs: ablackish day for Horace and a blackish day for hisflannels, for the ground was not dry and he had chosena bare patch on which to lie extended. He let thereference pass with a blush and persisted:
‘Why, you don’t mean Dick Fanshawe isn’t playing?’
‘Oh, no, he’s all right.’
‘Or Teddie White or Sid Smith?’
Old Francis grudgingly asserted that they were certainto turn out.
‘Tom Hunter, can’