Джеффри Арчер - This Was a Man

Three more wickets fell during the next half hour, but somehow Giles prospered, and with the score on 136 for 6, the Hon. Freddie came out to join him at the crease, greeted by warm applause.

‘We still need another hundred,’ said Giles, glancing at the scoreboard. ‘But we have more than enough time, so be patient, and only try to score off any loose balls. Reedie and Walker are both tiring, so bide your time, and make sure you don’t give your wicket away.’

After Freddie had taken guard, he followed his captain’s instructions to the letter. It quickly became clear to Giles that the boy had been well coached at his prep school and, fortunately, had a natural flair, known in the trade as ‘an eye’. Together they passed the 200 mark to rapturous applause from one section of the crowd, who were beginning to believe that Castle might win the local derby for the first time in years.

Giles felt equally confident as he steered a ball through the covers to the far boundary, which took him into the seventies. A couple of overs later, the butcher came back on to bowl, no longer displaying his earlier cockiness. He charged up to the wicket and released the ball with all the venom he possessed. Giles played forward, misjudged the pace and heard the unforgiving sound of falling timber behind him. This time the umpire wouldn’t be able to come to his rescue. Giles made his way back to the pavilion to rapturous applause, having scored 74. But as he explained to Karin as he sat down on the grass beside her and unbuckled his pads, they still needed 28 runs to win, with only three wickets in hand.

Freddie was joined in the middle by his lordship’s chauffeur, a man who rarely moved out of first gear. He was aware of the chauffeur’s record and did everything in his power to retain the strike and leave his partner at the non-striking end. Freddie managed to keep the scoreboard ticking over until the chauffeur took a pace back to a bouncer and trod on his stumps. He walked back to the pavilion without the umpire’s verdict needing to be called upon.

Fourteen runs were still needed for victory when the second gardener (part-time) walked out to join Freddie in the middle. He survived the butcher’s first delivery, but only because he couldn’t get bat on ball. No such luck with the last delivery of the over, which he scooped up into the hands of the Village captain at mid-off. The fielding side jumped in the air with joy, well aware they only needed one more wicket to win the match and retain the trophy.

They couldn’t have looked more pleased when Hector Brice walked out and took his guard before facing the last ball of the over. They all recalled how long he’d lasted the previous year.

‘Don’t take a single, whatever you do,’ was Freddie’s only instruction.

But the Village captain, a wily old bird, set a field to make a single tempting. His troops couldn’t wait for the footman to quickly return to the line of fire. The butcher hurled the missile at Hector, but somehow the second footman managed to get bat on ball, and he watched it trickling towards backward short leg. Hector wanted to take a single, but Freddie remained resolutely in his place.

Freddie was quite happy to face the Village spinner for the penultimate over of the match, and hit him for 4 off his first ball, 2 off the third, and 1 off the fifth. Hector only needed to survive one more ball, leaving Freddie to face the butcher for the final over. The last ball of the over was slow and straight and beat Hector all ends up, but just passed over the top of the stumps before ending up in the wicket-keeper’s gloves. A sigh of relief came from those seated in the deckchairs, while groans erupted from the Village supporters.

‘Final over,’ declared the vicar.

Giles checked the scoreboard. ‘Only seven more needed, and victory is ours,’ he said, but Karin didn’t reply because she had her head in her hands, no longer able to watch what was taking place in the middle.

The butcher shone the ragged ball on his red-stained trousers as he prepared for one final effort. He charged up and hurled the missile at Freddie, who played back and nicked it to first slip, who dropped it.

‘Butter fingers,’ were the only words the butcher muttered that were repeatable in front of the vicar.

Freddie now had only five balls from which to score the seven runs needed for victory.

‘Relax,’ said Giles under his breath. ‘There’s bound to be a loose ball you can put away. Just stay calm and concentrate.’

The second ball took a thick outside edge and shot down to third man for two. Five still required, but only four balls left. The third might have been called a wide, making the task easier, but the vicar kept his hands in his pockets.

Freddie struck the fourth ball confidently to deep mid-on, thought about a single, but decided he couldn’t risk the footman being left with the responsibility of scoring the winning runs. He tapped his bat nervously on the crease as he waited for the fifth ball, never taking his eyes off the butcher as he advanced menacingly towards his quarry. The delivery was fast but just a little short, which allowed Freddie to lean back and hook it high into the air over square leg, where it landed inches in front of the rope before crossing the boundary for four. The Castle’s supporters cheered even louder, but then fell into an expectant hush as they waited for the final delivery.

All four results were possible: a win, a loss, a tie, a draw.

Freddie didn’t need to look at the scoreboard to know they needed one for a tie and two for a win off the final ball. He looked around the field before he settled. The butcher glared at him before charging up for the last time, to release the ball with every ounce of energy he possessed. It was short again, and Freddie played confidently forward, intending to hit the ball firmly through the covers, but it was faster than he anticipated and passed his bat, rapping him on the back pad.

The whole of the Village team and half of the crowd jumped in the air and screamed, ‘Howzat!’ Freddie looked hopefully up at the vicar, who hesitated only for a moment before raising his finger in the air.

Freddie, head bowed, began the long walk back to the pavilion, applauded all the way by an appreciative crowd. Eighty-seven to his name, but Castle had lost the match.

‘What a cruel game cricket can be,’ said Karin.

‘But character-forming,’ said Giles, ‘and I have a feeling this is a match young Freddie will never forget.’

Freddie disappeared into the pavilion and slumped down on a bench in the far corner of the dressing room, head still bowed, unmoved by the cries of ‘Well played, lad’, ‘Bad luck, sir’, and ‘A fine effort, my boy’, because all he could hear were the cheers coming from the adjoining room, assisted by pints being drawn from a beer barrel supplied by the publican.

Giles joined Freddie in the home dressing room and sat down on the bench beside the desolate young man.

‘One more duty to perform,’ said Giles, when Freddie eventually looked up. ‘We must go next door and congratulate the Village captain on his victory.’

Freddie hesitated for a moment, before he stood up and followed Giles. As they entered the opposition’s changing room, the Village team fell silent. Freddie went up to the policeman and shook him warmly by the hand.

‘A magnificent victory, Mr Munro. We’ll have to try harder next year.’

Later that evening, as Giles and Hamish Munro were enjoying a pint of the local bitter in the Fenwick Arms, the Village skipper remarked, ‘Your boy played a remarkable innings. Far finer teams than ours will suffer at his hand, and I suspect in the not-too-distant future.’

‘He’s not my boy,’ said Giles. ‘I only wish he was.’