This Was A Man (44 page)

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 non-striking 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 towards 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 wicket-keeper’s gloves. A sigh of relief came from those seated in the deckchairs, while groans erupted from the Village supporters.

‘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.

‘Butter fingers,’ 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 towards 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 game 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
innings. 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.’

‘D
ID 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 centre 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.

‘And what’s more, they can’t see us,’ said Seb.

‘They? Is he having dinner with Ruth?’

‘Not unless she’s lost a couple of inches around her waist and put them on her chest.’

‘Behave yourself, Seb. She’s probably a client.’

‘No, I think you’ll find he’s the client.’

‘You’ve inherited your father’s vivid imagination. It’s probably quite innocent.’

‘You’re the only person in the room who’d believe that.’

‘Now you have got me intrigued,’ said Sam. She turned round once again, but still couldn’t see Victor. ‘I repeat, you’re a peeping Tom.’

‘And if I’m right,’ said Seb, ignoring his wife’s remonstration, ‘we have a problem.’

‘Surely Victor’s got the problem, not you.’

‘Possibly. But I’d still like to get out of here without being seen,’ he said, taking out his wallet.

‘How do you plan to do that?’

‘Timing.’

‘Are you going to cause some kind of diversion?’ she teased.

‘Nothing as dramatic as that. We’ll stay put until one of them goes to the loo. If it’s Victor, we can slip out unnoticed. If it’s the woman, we’ll leave
discreetly, not giving him any reason to believe we’ve spotted them.’

‘But if he does acknowledge us, you’ll know it’s quite innocent,’ said Sam.

‘That would be a relief on more than one level.’

‘You’re rather good at this,’ said Sam. ‘Experience possibly?’

‘Not exactly. But you’ll find a similar plot in one of Dad’s novels, when William Warwick realizes the witness to a murder must have been lying, and has to get out of a
restaurant unnoticed if he’s going to prove it.’

‘What if neither of them goes to the loo?’

‘We could be stuck here for a very long time. I’ll get the bill,’ said Seb, raising a hand, ‘just in case we have to make a dash for it. And I’m sorry, Sam, but did
you ask me something just before I became distracted?’

‘Yes, I wondered if you knew Jessica’s got a new boyfriend.’

‘What gives you that idea?’ said Seb, as he checked the bill before handing over his credit card.

‘She never used to care how she looked.’

‘Isn’t that par for the course for an art student? She always looks to me as if she’s been dressed by Oxfam, and I can’t say I’ve noticed any change.’

‘That’s because you don’t see her in the evening, when she stops being an art student and becomes a young woman, and doesn’t look half bad.’

‘The daughter of her mother,’ said Seb, taking his wife’s hand. ‘Let’s just hope the new guy is an improvement on the Brazilian playboy, because I can’t see
the Slade being quite so understanding a second time,’ he said as he signed the credit slip.

‘I don’t think that will be a problem this time. When he came to pick her up, he was driving a Polo, not a Ferrari.’

‘And you have the nerve to call me a peeping Tom? So when do I get the chance to meet him?’

‘That might not be for some time because so far she hasn’t even admitted she has a boyfriend. However, I’m planning—’

‘Action stations. She’s heading towards us.’

Seb and Sam went on chatting as a tall, elegant young woman passed their table.

‘Well, I like her style,’ said Sam.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Men are all the same. They just look at a woman’s legs, figure and face, as if they’re in a meat market.’

‘And what does a woman look for?’ asked Seb defensively.

‘The first thing I noticed was her dress, which was simple and elegant, and definitely not off the peg. Her bag was stylish without screaming a designer label, and her shoes completed a
perfect ensemble. So I hate to disabuse you, Seb, but as we say in the States, that’s one classy dame.’

‘Then what’s she doing with Victor?’

‘I have no idea. But like most men, if you see a friend with a beautiful woman, you immediately assume the worst.’

‘I still think it would be best if we slip out unnoticed.’

‘I’d much rather go over and say hello to Victor, but if you—’

‘There’s something I haven’t told you. Victor and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms at the moment. I’ll explain why once we’re back in the car.’

Seb stood up and navigated a circuitous route around the restaurant, avoiding Victor’s table. When the maître d’ opened the front door for Samantha, Seb slipped him a
five-pound note.

‘So what is it I ought to know about?’ asked Sam, once she’d climbed into the car and taken the seat next to him.

‘Victor’s angry because I didn’t make him chief executive.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Sam, ‘but I can understand how he felt. Who did you appoint as CEO?’

‘John Ashley,’ said Seb, as he turned into Piccadilly and joined the late-night traffic.

‘Why?’

‘Because he’s the right man for the job.’

‘But Victor’s always been a good and loyal friend, especially when you were down.’

‘I know, but that’s not a good enough reason to appoint someone as the CEO of a major bank. I invited him to be my deputy chairman, but he took umbrage and resigned.’

‘I can understand that too,’ said Sam. ‘So what are you doing to keep him on the board?’

‘Hakim flew over from Copenhagen to try and get him to change his mind.’

‘Did he succeed?’ asked Sam as Seb halted at a red light.