Death and the Jubilee lfp-2 Page 23

  ‘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 t
oo 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 Roths
child 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.