It was raining. Raining hard.
It had been raining all day – or so it seemed - although, when you thought about it, the early morning had been a fine summer’s day with a translucent china-blue sky and barely visible, wispy, white clouds. Then, out of nowhere, the wind had got up, dragging behind it from the far horizon gun-grey storm clouds that shaded to an ominous black. Once that oppressive blanket had obliterated the sky, the wind had dropped, and it was only a matter of time before the rain arrived. As if on cue, the downpour started at 10:15. Heavy raindrops cannoned into the windows and onto the perfect grass outside and there seemed no prospect of the clouds moving on as the contrary wind, apparently having achieved its aim, had vanished again.
Hours went by. Yet, much to his surprise, nobody in the stadium packed up and went home. Instead, they squashed together under cover close to the various bars and restaurants that catered for faithful spectators, whilst the hardiest amongst them sat in raincoats and shower capes, huddled under brightly striped umbrellas in the open stands, stoically drinking hot beverages from thermos flasks and eating an apparently limitless supply of sandwiches from picnic baskets. He considered it an intriguing insight into the psyche of the true devotee.
It had been nice of General Metcalfe to give him his ticket so that he could go with Paul. R & R wasn’t much fun when you were by yourself and he was bored spending days alone, even in the comfort of the Metcalfes’ lovely home. Mrs Metcalfe was charming, but he had never liked being coddled and, although she was less hands-on than his own mother, she was still, in his eyes, over-solicitous. So, the idea of being with Paul, who must’ve worked miracles with the colonel to get six days off, and staying at a hotel, was appealing – even if it meant ostensibly going to a cricket match.
He counted himself lucky to have been granted access to the inner sanctum, known to all and sundry as ‘The Pavilion’, where he could sit, warmish and dry, waiting for something to happen and listening to the murmur of the conversation, interspersed with raucous laughter, that was going on around him. He understood very little of what they were talking about, but the anticipation of the conversationalists was tangible.
Occasionally, he turned a page in the book on his lap and tried to convince himself he was enjoying the chance to read in peace. He wasn’t having much success though as the book was only marginally more interesting than his surroundings. He felt very sleepy…
“It’s lunch. Come on.”
Paul’s voice at his shoulder made him jump.
“What?”
“They’re taking an early lunch. Makes sense. Come on.”
“I’m not really hungry. It isn’t that long ago that you brought me coffee and that huge slab of carrot cake.”
“Look, Adam, we can’t eat once play starts.”
“Oh, do they stop serving?”
Paul sighed and, as if explaining to a rather dim child, said, “We’ll be watching the match. So, come on…”
He closed his book and laid it on the armrest of the deep and very comfortable armchair he’d been sitting in. “Are we going back to the hotel afterwards?” he asked, as he leant heavily on Paul’s outstretched arm and hauled himself to his feet.
“No. The forecast says this rain should stop in an hour or so. We might get play by 3:30.”
“Three-thirty? We’ve been here since before 10.”
Paul turned his head to look at him, with an exasperated expression on his face. “What has that got to do with it?”
“Well…eh, I…” He sighed. “Let’s just hope the rain stops, eh?”
“Hmm. Now come on.”
The food was excellent and plentiful. Most of the others who had gathered in The Pavilion for the match ate and drank very well. Several of them who had been talking to Paul, came across to speak to him too. They all seemed anxious to confirm that he was enjoying the whole experience, so he amiably reassured them that he found the whole event ‘fascinating’ and was rewarded by their all-too-obvious expressions of justified gratification. “I just can’t wait for something to actually happen,” he added, but to himself, as he was unwilling to spoil their sense of relief.
Paul had come over every so often to check that he was ‘okay’ and this time he asked if he needed help to move back to his armchair.
“I’m fine. I’ve eaten and drunk too much to want to move, that’s all.”
“Well, you’ll have to move now; the rain’s stopped and they’re talking about removing the covers.” Paul sounded so upbeat it was touching.
“Progress?” he asked, getting gingerly to his feet and accepting Paul’s arm to steady himself.
“Yeah. They’ve turned the floodlights on too, so we could get play until 7 tonight.”
“Really? Great,” he added quickly as Paul turned a sceptical eye on him.
Having seated him back in his armchair, made sure he had all he wanted or could possibly need, Paul drifted away to re-join the group he’d been talking to, and he returned to his book. He must’ve dozed off, because he suddenly realised Paul was shaking his shoulder.
“The umpires are out. We’re going to get some play.”
Paul perched next to him, and they watched as two teams of men in immaculate white kit walked out and lined up on the grass. National anthems blared out of the speakers, but Paul laid a hand on his shoulder and shook his head as he tried to get to his feet to stand alongside his friend.
“S’okay. You’re excused.”
Immediately afterwards, the stirring tune of Hubert Parry’s ‘Jerusalem’ played, with everyone in The Pavilion belting out the patriotic words. The heartfelt pride on Paul’s face as he sang along made him feel a little homesick for the Good Old U S of A.
One team then left the field and the remaining men spread out, preparing to start the game. Paul had spent considerable time last night explaining what was involved and trying to point out the subtleties of the game, but in his mind it all boiled down to ‘try and hit the ball and run like hell, because the others will be trying to stop you’.
Paul took a seat beside him and they watched as two more men, also in white but armoured with pads and helmets, walked to the centre of the pitch.
“Play,” Paul breathed out on a sigh of satisfaction.
He glanced at his watch: 3:28. “Ah well, they were pretty accurate about the timing,” he thought.
The bowler raced in. The batsman blocked the ball. Spectators cheered. Four, five, six times.
“Isn’t he supposed to hit it and run?” he asked.
“Maiden over,” Paul replied, as if that explained everything. “Bloody good bowling. You have to play yourself in against a class act like that.”
“Uh-huh.”
Everyone changed places so that a different bowler could run in from the opposite end to the other batsman. He couldn’t help thinking it would have been quicker for the batsmen to swap ends and everyone else stay where they were – but who was he to go against centuries of tradition?
The bat hit the ball, which shot upward towards the opposing side. One man made an athletic dive sideways and caught it.
A groan went around the stadium. Beside him, Paul actually flinched.
“Sloppy,” he muttered, shaking his head.
“Is he out?”
“Yes.”
The monosyllabic reply dripped with irritation, so he said nothing more as the dejected batsman walked back to the changing room and a new batsman came out to try his luck.
He could sense the tension in the room: even Paul had unconsciously moved to the edge of his seat. If his fervour could’ve gone out there instead of the batsmen, the other team wouldn’t have stood a chance. The bowler ran in again. The new batsman blocked. Four, five, six… The tension ebbed away with every delivery the batsman survived.
Then everyone changed ends again. But as they took their places, from nowhere the sky went as dark as night and large drops of rain hammered down, heralding yet another downpour. The teams came off at a run and the groundsmen rushed to drag the covers over the grass.
It was the most energetic thing he’d seen all day.
After another ninety minutes of solid rain, play was called off for the day. Paul turned and gave a rueful grin. “That’s cricket for you. Let’s get you back to the hotel; you’re looking spent.”
“I’m okay, although it does feel like it’s been a long day.”
Paul hesitated as a new idea struck him and he looked at his friend with concern. “You have enjoyed yourself, haven’t you, Adam? I mean I know it was a slow day, but you can’t help these things given the English weather. I wouldn’t forgive myself in a hurry if I’ve tired you out and you’ve had a rotten time.”
“Not at all. It’s been… fascinating. I can’t find another word for it, Paul. You know, somehow, I feel that I understand you and the colonel much better now than I ever did before…”
“You Damn Yankee,” Paul said amiably, knowing full well when he was being teased. By way of an apology he continued, “Hopefully, we’ll get a full day’s play tomorrow and then you’ll see some fireworks.”
Adam hesitated and then said thoughtfully, “I think I might be too busy to come tomorrow.”
“Too busy doing what?” his friend demanded.
“Watching paint dry,” Adam replied wryly, before snorting with laughter at the outraged expression on Paul’s face.
Author’s note:
My thanks go to Hazel Kohler for beta-reading this silly little story with her usual care and diligence. Any mistakes are mine and I apologise for them, and also to any cricket devotees who happen to read this. I grew up watching cricket with my dad, but that was a long time ago and I’ve forgotten most of what I knew. Nevertheless, whenever I get the chance, I can still be found listening to the BBC’s ‘Test Match Special’ broadcast, which is almost more fun when it does rain…
Marion Woods
08 June 2022