“Your call, Mr. Munro,” he said before spinning a pound coin high into the air.
“Heads,” declared Munro, and they both bent down to study the coin as it landed on the ground.
“Your choice, sir,” said Giles, staring at the Queen.
“We’ll bat,” said Munro without hesitation, and quickly returned to the pavilion to brief his team. A few minutes later a bell rang and two umpires in long white coats emerged from the pavilion and made their way slowly onto the field. Archie Fenwick and the Rev. Sandy McDonald were there to guarantee fair play.
A few moments later, Giles led his unfamiliar band of warriors out onto the pitch. He set an attacking field, with sotto voce advice from Freddie, then tossed the ball to Hector Brice, the Castle’s second footman, who was already scratching out his mark some twenty yards behind the stumps.
The Village’s opening batsmen strolled out onto the pitch, rotating their arms, and running on the spot, affecting a nonchalant air. The local postman asked for middle and leg, and once he’d made his mark, the vicar declared, “Play!”
The Village openers made a brisk start, scoring 32 before the first wicket fell to Ben Atkins, the farm manager—a sharp catch in the slips. Hector then followed up with two quick wickets and it was 64 for 3 after fifteen overs had been bowled. A fourth inning partnership was beginning to take hold between the publican Finn Reedie and Hamish Munro, when Freddie suggested that Giles should turn his arm over. A call to arms the captain hadn’t seriously considered. Even in his youth, Giles had rarely been asked to bowl.
His first over went for eleven, which included two wides, and he was going to take himself off but Freddie wouldn’t hear of it. Giles’s second over went for seven, but at least there were no wides and, to his surprise, in his third, he captured the important wicket of the publican. An LBW appeal to which the tenth Earl of Fenwick pronounced “Out!” Giles thought he’d been a little fortunate, and so did Reedie.
“Leg before pavilion more like,” muttered the publican as he passed the earl.
One hundred and sixteen for 4. The first footman continued with his slow leg cutters from one end, accompanied by Giles’s attempt at military medium from the other. The Village went into tea at 4:30 p.m., having scored 237 for 8, which Hamish Munro clearly felt was enough to win the match, because he declared.
Tea was held in a large tent. Egg and cress sandwiches, sausage rolls, jam tarts, and scones topped with clotted cream were scoffed by all, accompanied by cups of hot tea and glasses of cold lime cordial. Freddie ate nothing,
as he penciled the Castle team’s batting order into the scorebook. Giles looked over his shoulder and was horrified to see his name at the top of the list.
“Are you sure you want me to open?”
“Yes, of course, sir. After all, you opened for Oxford and the MCC.”
As Giles padded up he wished he hadn’t eaten quite so many scones. A few moments later, he and Ben Atkins made their way out onto the pitch. Giles took guard, leg stump, then looked around the field, displaying an air of confidence that belied his true feelings. He settled down and waited for the first delivery from Ross Walker, the local butcher. The ball fizzed through the air and hit Giles firmly on the pad, plum in front of the middle stump.
“Howzat!” screamed the butcher confidently, as he leapt in the air.
Humiliation, thought Giles, as he prepared to return to the pavilion with a golden duck.
“Not out,” responded the tenth Earl of Fenwick, saving his blushes.
The bowler didn’t hide his disbelief and began to shine the ball furiously on his trousers before preparing to deliver the next ball. He charged up and hurled the missile at Giles a second time. Giles played forward, and the ball nicked the outside edge of his bat, missing the stump by inches before running between first and second slip to the boundary. Giles was off the mark with a scratchy four, and the butcher looked even angrier. His next ball was well wide of the stumps, and somehow Giles survived the rest of the over.
The farm manager turned out to be a competent if somewhat slow-scoring batsman, and the two of them had mustered 28 runs before Mr. Atkins was caught behind the wicket off the butcher’s slower ball. Giles was then joined by a cowhand who, although he had a range of shots worthy of his calling, still managed to notch up 30 in a very short time before being caught on the boundary. Seventy-nine for 2. The cowhand was followed by the head gardener, who clearly only played once a year. Seventy-nine for 3.
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 nonstriking 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 toward 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 wicketkeeper’s gloves. A sigh of relief came from those seated in the deckchairs, while groans erupted from the Village supporters.