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“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.
“Butterfingers,” 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 toward 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 ga
me 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 inning. 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.”
41
“DID YOU KNOW that Jessica has a new boyfriend?” said Samantha.
Sebastian always booked the same corner table at Le Caprice where his conversation wouldn’t be overheard and he had a good view of the other guests. It always amused him that the long glass mirrors attached to the four pillars in the center of the room allowed him to observe other diners, while they were unable to see him.
He had no interest in film stars he barely recognized, or politicians who were hoping to be recognized, or even Princess Diana, whom everyone recognized. His only interest was in keeping an eye on other bankers and businessmen to see who they were dining with. Deals that it was useful for him to know about were often closed over dinner.
“Who are you staring at?” asked Samantha, after he didn’t respond.
“Victor,” he whispered.
Sam looked around, but couldn’t spot Seb’s oldest friend. “You’re a peeping Tom,” she said after finishing her coffee.
