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“I can’t wait. I can’t wait. It’s been far too long—far too long since I last played. A child in school, I think! Those days at Eton. Ah, Hanson. There you are at last.” He rushed away. The women came round with their baskets and their smiles, collecting the monies that would go toward the fire services.
Bron allowed himself one sandwich to settle his stomach, and then scanned the sky, the unexpected cloudless blue, thinking that maybe he would find some enjoyment in watching all these men in their flattering white flannels, until Mr. Edwards pulled him from his thoughts to announce that Bron would be filling a vacancy in the home team for the Greenwood versus Village rivalry.
Fuck.How would he get out of this one?
“Me? Whatever for? I mean, why not anyone else?”
“Well, Darcy has outright refused to take part, and you’re the only one left to ask!”
“Are you sure? There’s nobody else who could do it?”
Darcy emerged from the crowd of sandwich eaters, and having overheard their conversation, was quick to add his own two cents’ worth. “My guess, Father, is that Bron would share a similar distaste for the game as I.” Which, in part, was true. Bron hated sports. Hated everything about them. But he also thought that cricket wasn’t rugby, football, or some violent showmanship of machismo, and there was a part of him, however slight, that had always wanted to play this genteel game. It was a staple of the period drama. “Isn’t that right?”
“Oh, you two! Never time for fun and games. Why must you dampen our spirits? No, I’m putting my foot down. I insist you both play.”
Darcy agreed to volunteer for the position of twelfth man for the Greenwood team, as a substitute player on the off chance someone was to be injured, which satisfied both himself and his father immensely. That left Bron to fill the gap.
“But I haven’t got a kit to wear,” Bron argued, to which Mr. Edwards walked about in search of anyone with a spare kit. Finding none, he was hopeful of his not having to partake in the game after all. Until:
“I’m sure I could find an old T-shirt and white shorts lying about somewhere, if Bron was open to it?” said Darcy.
“Yes, yes, good idea, son,” said Mr. Edwards. “Bron?”
He gave Darcy the side-eye. “Of course.”
And with no argument left to be made against it, he was made to agree.
In baggy shorts falling to just under his knee, and a clean but yellow-stained T-shirt on his person, he was ready to absolutelynotmake a fool of himself. His fate was inevitable. And with no time to read up on the rules of the game, he quickly skimmed the internet on his phone to learn that there were figures called batsmen and bowlers, and fielders too, although their role seemed to be rather less important, or less appealing anyway, to the crowd. The practicalities of how the team would work had already been determined: Greenwood was made up of Mr. Edwards and his friends, occasional staff at the house, the neighbors—faces he recalled from their coming in and out of the house. The other team would be made up of volunteers from the village council. All in white flannels, the class distinction was less seen here. It wasn’t about where people came from or the families they were born into; it was more about the game itself. Love for the game. Love for what it represented.“The way things used to be,”he heard people say a lot. As he looked around, he questioned his own thinking: Whatdidit represent? The men’s wives, dressed as though attending a game at Ascot, perched by the table to labor as spectators.
He scarfed down a tuna and cucumber sandwich while the hierarchies of the world, village versus estate, rich versus poor,commoner versus those who controlled the world, were paved over by the white clothing. Bron knew that the women had not been asked to play, and felt acutely that he was on the wrong team, himself a poor, gender-fluid commoner. Something about his testosterone levels allowed him this access. And that felt deeply unfair. To the women. To him for being in this mess.
One of the men at the table spun to him, forking the last of the deviled eggs first onto his plate and then into his mouth. “Looks like we’re going to need a refill before the game’s even begun.” This was said between bites, and in a way that completely implied his expecting Bron to refill the platter.
Ada trotted up to them and tugged at his side, to explain that she was outrageously bored and that it was very clear from the setup that no girls were going to be allowed to play.
“It’s deeply unfair,” she said.
“I was just thinking the same thing.”
She pulled him away from the buffet table and schemed to steal a bat and ball that’d been discarded on the ground. Successful in their plight (nobody was paying attention), they settled a while away from the rest of the cricketers, and she demanded he help her bat.
“Give me your best shot.”
Bron threw the ball her way. Ada’s bat barely scraped it. He tried again, and on that second time it made impact—a small one.
“It’s no use,” she said, tossing the bat to the ground. “I’m beyond rubbish.”
“No you’re not,” he said, stepping toward her and lifting the bat from the grass. She took it back from him. “Don’t give up yet. You’ve barely even tried.”
“Ihavetried,” she said.
He gripped the ball hard, ready to throw, but Ada pointed behind him, and Darcy’s voice intercepted them.
“That’s no way to hold a bat,” he said, shielding his eyes from the sun. “Your stance is all wrong.” Darcy approached her and lowered her elbows from her face to her chest, held her wristsinto position. “You need to be able to see the ball coming when he throws. Ready?”
“Yeah, ready.”
Bron released the ball, and in one big swoop she sent the ball rolling off toward the buffet table.
