This Was A Man (43 page)

‘Aren’t they magnificent?’ the young man said as he admired the seven drawings that had been awarded the Founder’s Prize.

‘Do you think so?’ replied the young woman.

‘Oh yes! And such a clever idea to take the seven ages of woman as her theme.’

‘Oh, I missed that,’ she said, looking at him more closely. The young man’s clothes rather suggested he hadn’t looked in a mirror before leaving for work that morning.
Nothing matched. A smart Harris Tweed jacket paired with a blue shirt, green tie, grey trousers and brown shoes. But he displayed a warmth and enthusiasm for the artist’s work that was quite
infectious.

‘As you can see,’ he said, warming to the task, ‘the artist has taken as her subject a woman running a marathon, and has depicted the seven stages of the race. The first
drawing is on the starting line, when she’s warming up, apprehensive but alert. In the next,’ he said, pointing to the second drawing, ‘she’s reached the five-mile mark, and
is still full of confidence. But by the time she’s reached ten miles,’ he said, moving on to the third drawing, ‘she’s clearly beginning to feel the pain.’

‘And the fourth?’ she asked, looking more carefully at the drawing, which the artist had described as ‘the wall’.

‘Just look at the expression on the runner’s face, which leaves you in no doubt that she’s beginning to wonder if she’ll be able to finish the course.’ She nodded.
‘And the fifth shows her just clinging on as she passes what I assume must be her family cheering. She’s raised an arm to acknowledge them, but even in the raising of that arm, with a
single delicate line the artist leaves you in no doubt what a supreme effort it must have been.’ Pointing to the sixth drawing, he continued effusively, ‘Here we see her crossing the
finishing line, arms raised in triumph. And then moments later, in the final drawing, she collapses on the ground exhausted, having given everything, and is rewarded with a medal hung around her
neck. Notice that the artist has added the yellow and green of the ribbon, the only hint of colour in all seven drawings. Quite brilliant.’

‘You must be an artist yourself.’

‘I wish,’ he said, giving her a warm smile. ‘The nearest I ever got was when I won an art prize at school and decided to apply for a place at the Slade, but they turned me
down.’

‘There are other art colleges.’

‘Yes, and I applied to most of them – Goldsmiths, Chelsea, Manchester. I even went up to Glasgow for an interview, but always with the same result.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘No need to be, because I finally asked a member of one of the interviewing panels why they kept rejecting me.’

‘And what did they say?’

‘Your A-level results were impressive enough,’ the young man said, holding the lapels of his jacket and sounding twenty years older, ‘and you are clearly passionate about the
subject and have buckets of energy and enthusiasm, but sadly something is missing. “What’s that?” I asked. “Talent,” he replied.’

‘Oh, how cruel!’

‘No, not really. Just realistic. He went on to ask if I’d considered teaching, which only added salt to the wound, because it reminded me of George Bernard Shaw’s words,
those who can, do, those who can’t, teach
. But then I went away and thought about it, and realized he was right.’

‘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 towards 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.’

‘I
F 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 on to 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.

‘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 on to 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 on to 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 on to 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 innings 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 in to
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 pencilled 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 on to 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 cow-hand 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 cow-hand 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.