This Was a Man (The Clifton Chronicles 7)

“So now you’re a teacher?”

“I am. I read Art History at King’s, and I’m now teaching at a grammar school in Peckham, where at least I think I can say I’m a better artist than my pupils. Well, most of them,” he added with a grin.

She laughed. “So what brings you back to the Slade?”

“I go to most of the student exhibitions in the hope of spotting someone with real talent whose work I can add to my collection. Over the years I’ve picked up a Craigie Aitchison, a Mary Fedden, and even a small pencil sketch by Hockney, but I’d love to add these seven drawings to my collection.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“I haven’t had the courage to ask how much they are, and as she’s just won the Founder’s Prize, I’m sure I won’t be able to afford them.”

“How much do you think they’re worth?”

“I don’t know, but I’d give everything I have to own them.”

“How much do you have?”

“When I last checked my bank balance, just over three hundred pounds.”

“Then you’re in luck, because I think you’ll find they’re priced at two hundred and fifty pounds.”

“Let’s go and find out if you’re right, before someone else snaps them up. By the way,” he added as they turned to walk toward the sales counter, “my name’s Richard Langley, but my friends call me Rick.”

“Hi,” she said as they shook hands. “My name’s Jessica Clifton, but my friends call me Jessie.”

40

“IF YOU PULL your sweater down,” said Karin, “no one will notice that you can’t do up the top button.”

“It’s twenty years since I last played,” Giles reminded her, as he pulled in his stomach and made one final attempt to do up the top button of a pair of Archie Fenwick’s cricket trousers.

Karin burst out laughing when the button popped off and landed at her feet. “I’m sure you’ll be fine, my darling. Just remember not to run after the ball, because it could end in disaster.” Giles was about to retaliate when there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” he said, quickly placing a foot on the rebellious button.

The door opened and Freddie, dressed neatly in crisp whites, entered the room. “I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but there’s been a change of plan.”

Giles looked relieved, as he assumed he was about to be dropped.

“The butler, our skipper, has cried off at the last minute, a pulled hamstring. As you played for Oxford against Cambridge, I thought you’d be the obvious choice to take his place.”

“But I don’t even know the other members of the team,” protested Giles.

“Don’t worry, sir. I’ll keep you briefed. I’d do the job myself, but I’m not sure how to set a field. Could you be available to take the toss in about ten minutes? Sorry to have disturbed you, Lady Barrington,” he said before rushing back out.

“Do you think he’ll ever call me Karin?” she said after the door closed.

“One step at a time,” said Giles.

* * *

When Giles first saw the large oval plot of land set like a jewel in the castle’s grounds, he doubted if there could be a more idyllic setting for a game of cricket. Rugged forest covered the hills which surrounded a couple of acres of flat green land that God had clearly meant to be a cricket pitch, if only for a few weeks a year.

Freddie introduced Giles to Hamish Munro, the local bobby and the Village captain. At forty, he looked in good shape, and certainly would not have had any trouble buttoning up his trousers.

The two captains walked out onto the pitch together just before two o’clock. Giles carried out a routine he hadn’t done for years. He sniffed the air, before looking up at the sky. A warm day by Scottish standards, a few stray clouds decorated an otherwise blue horizon, no rain, and, thankfully, no harbingers of rain. He inspected the pitch—a tinge of green on the surface, good for fast bowlers—and finally he glanced at the crowd. Much larger than he’d expected, but then it was a local derby. About a couple of hundred spectators were sprinkled around the boundary rope waiting for battle to commence.

Giles shook hands with the opposing captain.