AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Yes, yes! I mean no, Ada. Not the smoke particles. The fire has spread from the library out into the entire county! It seems that the gentlefolk out there really do seem to love our little place and are wanting to hold a charity fair to raise some money to help restore our dear library.”
Ada squealed. Darcy muttered something like “Oh God, Father,” and Bron remained silent.
“We’ll be offering an open house, so Ada, please ensure your room is tidy!”
Her squeal turned into a groan.
“Why do you feel the need to invite everyone into our home?” Darcy asked. “All that need out there, and this is what they want to donate to? A crumbling old manor house?”
“You are right, son. Of course you are. Absolutely right. A fair, of all things. I couldn’t possibly let that happen.” Mr. Edwards turned to the desk, plucked a newspaper from underneath his ledger, and handed the open paper to his son. “Take a look for yourself.” Mr. Edwards urged him to read it aloud.
“‘Following the fire at Greenwood Manor, and the humble decision on behalf of the conservation society and the local community to host a county fair in a bid to raise money for repairs, estate owner Mr. Edwards and family have decided to open up their private residence to the charitable public and host a cricket match between house and village, to raise money for Cambridgeshire Fire Services and their excellent company, who managed to quell the fire and deliver the rest of the house and its inhabitants from harm.’A cricket game, Father?”
Bron watched Darcy closely, his eyes displeased and taking in more of the paper before they finally glanced over to him.
“What better sport than a good ol’ game of cricket!”
What was it about sports that caused such total uproar among people?
Bron had always disregarded sports as something entirely separate from his abilities or interest. At St. Mary’s, he’d watched as the boys grew more athletic around him: the dreaded bleep test, propelling the other boys forward in a lively sort of competition, confirmed only that he’d not been created to run at great speeds or for very long; the curved rubber discus on the edge of his fingertips, weighing like the earth flattened in his palm, flew as easily as a Frisbee when the others threw it, but not for him; the length of the javelin pole, which unfurled his shoulders to a breadth more typically reserved, would never fly very far, though the others sent it hurling like a rocket ship. Through these solitary affairs he could stand at the back of the line, go unmissed, but this was not a privilege that extended to team-based games.
Typically, he’d have stood at the far end of the pitch, T-shirt mud-splattered, socks stretched as far up his leg as they could go. The PE teacher would force him into the huddle, and he would always obey, stumbling to the boys’ sides—heads between legs and close enough to smell sweat—conscious, always conscious, of where his arms and hands landed, where his eyes were looking. The boys would study him; he’d suffer for it afterward. Performing the appropriate side-step was always his focus as the boyscrashed into each other, in case they should choose to shame him for such contact later. But he remembered that one time when the ball had somehow found itself cradled in his arms. He’d leaped into a circular run, dodged one boy and then another before tossing it away into the arms of the opposing team, who ran forward and scored at the goal line. The abuse that ensued.
“For fuck’s sake!”
“You sabotaged us with that girl throw. Running like a little sissy.”
“You’re gonna lose us the game, aren’t ya, ya little bender.”
The whistle again. An order for them to regroup, and each of the boys racing back into the huddle, his being shoved at the shoulder as they ran past. He’d stumbled away, afraid of getting any closer to them. But then, the“Hey,”and the light touch at his shaking arm.“Don’t listen to them.”Harry, always the portrait of kindness, his shield and sword. Harry, covered in a mixture of mud and grass.“Come on, then,”he said, eyebrows raised and teeth white like popcorn, doing a backward jog. Harry rejoining the huddle with swaths of patting at his back, his shoulders, at his dense and sprawling Afro hair. The way Harry looked back for him, tipped his head forward as if to say, again,“Get in here.”
The boys grunted as they pushed further into one another, a giant spider body pushing along the pitch. Somehow, the ball ended up in Bron’s hands again, and he ran until the cold breath of air felt like fire in his lungs. He was tackled to the ground, his eyes stinging as they climbed off him. The game continued, and no one paid him any notice, but Harry, always Harry, was there to offer his hand.
“You gotta run faster than that, Bron. At least pretend to try. Don’t give them a reason to hate you.”
He struggled to his feet, shook the sludge off his shins, wiped the dirt from his face, and looked across the field at the opposing team, Harry’s team, who had scored again. Harry, doing a little whoop in the air with his fists.
“You wanna shift that one and thank him now do ya, Blackwater?”A shout from across the pitch.“Practically handed you the game he has.”
“What’s your problem, O’Brian?”
“He is. The little faggot.”
“Don’t call him that.”
But it was only said again. Then names were shouted in turn. The teacher, liking nothing more than the opportunity to allow his boys to let off steam, as boys were wont to do, turned the other way.
“I’ll say whatever I want to say.”
The gaggle regrouped around them. Chanted their names.
Harry threw the first punch. The chants turned to cheers. The next punch gave an audible crunch, a splatter of blood. Bron remembered how he’d screamed, how he was pushed and pulled away from them when he tried to intervene.
And though Greenwood was no school playground, it was with some disdain that the day of the cricket game approached. The match wasn’t to start before noon, but before he knew it, the clock had struck eleven, and vehicles were parking outside the gates behind the hedge, were even allowed into the driveway. The grounds populated with people. From the window, he and Ada marked out the differences between those who were here to play and those who were merely spectating: men who walked to and fro with their staple cricket jumper and its colored V-neck, geared for the game. Those who treated the weather as though it were a summer’s day: the men in their khaki shorts or chinos, the women in their summer dresses and espadrilles, the large sunglasses, the occasional straw hat, though it was barely eleven degrees centigrade.
The green had morphed into a pitch: white lines chalked into the grass, the wickets secured into the ground. Chairs and pews were laid out for people to sit, and bunting festooned along the way. A long table had been set up under the cream marquee: a buffet luncheon for the crowd who accumulated there. When Bron entered the tent, he smelled the pungency of roast beef and lamb, of buttery potatoes in their big serving dishes. There were pies and finger sandwiches and crudités, and he heard the sound of the carving knife being sharpened, and a multitude of “Good day, sir” and “Capital weather we’re having for such a day in February” spoken about the garden.
“One must feed them before one beats them.” Mr. Edwards laughed, spooning a second (third) helping of prawn cocktail into a crystal bowl. Bron felt the sense of urgency, the excitement radiating off Mr. Edwards as he picked his way further down the table, leaned forward for the curved knife and its glinting handle that stuck out from the wheel of cheese like a sword in the stone. He cut off a wedge, popped it into his mouth.
