‘So with the Bishop at one end and the Chief Constable at the other, it should be a peaceful day.’ Lady Lucy smiled at her brother-in-law, glancing round the ground to see if either umpire had brought any reinforcements, members of the heavenly host hiding in the long grass, plain-clothes policemen lurking in the woods.
‘Let’s hope it’ll be peaceful, Lucy. Ah, I see the visitors have won the toss. The Americans are going to bat.’
Richard Martin and Sophie Williams had come to watch Richard’s friend James Clarke play for the City Eleven. They were lying in the grass as far away from the pavilion as they could get.
‘I’ve never seen a place as grand as this, Sophie,’ said Richard, thinking they had indeed arrived at a different world.
‘Neither have I, Richard,’ said Sophie, stretching out her long legs. ‘Isn’t this grand. I hope your friend James does well.’
Richard was worrying about lunch. His mother had made a picnic for two, thinking she only had to provide for Richard and James.
‘I think you’d better make some more sandwiches, Mother,’ Richard had said. ‘You get very hungry playing cricket.’
His mother had looked at him suspiciously, but, for once, she said nothing. Now they could see an incredible meal being laid out, probably full of foods they had never seen in their lives and wouldn’t know how to eat. They could hardly sit under the trees and eat their sandwiches. They would look out of place.
‘Who’s this man bowling?’ said Powerscourt to Aston Hopwood as they settled in the slips for the opening over.
‘Man by the name of Harcourt. Stockbroker. Quick but a bit erratic,’ said Hopwood, crouching to his work.
The American who opened the batting was a broad-shouldered fellow from Philadelphia. The first two balls he ignored. The third was so wide that the Bank of England had to dive dramatically to his left to stop it. The fourth and fifth balls were hit to the square leg boundary with tremendous force. The last ball was played defensively back to the bowler.
‘Bet you a pint of beer,’ said one of Rothschild’s elderly gardeners to his colleague, watching from the side of the pavilion, ‘this bloke makes fifty.’
‘You’re on,’ said his colleague, pausing to remove his pipe from his mouth. ‘Bet you he bloody doesn’t.’
William Burke had steered Lady Lucy towards a little group of spectators from Harrison’s Bank.
‘Mr Harrison,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘I hope your aunt is well.’
‘She is much better, thank you, Lady Powerscourt,’ said Charles Harrison. ‘The doctors are pleased with her. They are thinking of sending her to the Italian Lakes to recuperate.’
‘Watch out!’ said Burke suddenly. The broad-shouldered American had struck a mighty blow. The ball sailed happily over Lady Lucy’s head and came to earth in the long grass. A trio of small boys raced to recover it.
‘My goodness,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘This American seems to be a very fierce fellow. Do you play cricket, Mr Harrison?’
‘Alas, no, I do not.’ Charles Harrison smiled a self-deprecating smile, stroking his red beard.
‘You never played it at school or university, Mr Harrison?’
Charles Harrison paused to applaud another massive blow which despatched the ball right over the pavilion. It landed on one of the great rollers used to treat the pitch and bounced on again to land in the ornamental topiary at the back of the house.
‘I regret, Lady Powerscourt, I regret it very much,’ replied Charles Harrison, rubbing his hands together apologetically. Lady Lucy noticed that even the hairs on the back of his hands were red. ‘At the Friedrich Wilhelm University in Berlin, we had little time for cricket.’
Privately Charles Harrison was annoyed with himself. I didn’t have to say that, he said to himself. I could just have said I went to university in Germany. He pressed on. ‘But still, Lady Powerscourt, it isn’t too late to start.’ He began practising imaginary cricket shots.
After eight overs the Americans had made seventy-five runs without losing a wicket. Aston Hopwood, Powerscourt and the Bank of England were having a conference in the slips.
‘Only one thing for it, dammit,’ said Hopwood.
‘What’s that?’ asked the Bank of England.
‘Didn’t like to take either of these two off too quickly. I do a lot of business with them, don’t you know. But now, there’s only one thing for it. Thank you, Hudson, thank you. We’re going to change the bowling now.’
Aston Hopwood summoned Ivan the Terrible from his position in the deep. He and the Bank of England retreated further back from the wicket.
‘Bit erratic sometimes, the Terrible,’ he said to his colleagues. ‘I mean, he’s quick, but I’m not sure he knows where the damn thing is going.’
Powerscourt moved back to join his fellow fielders. Ivan had retreated to a position not far from the pavilion to begin his run-up. A look of dislike, almost of hatred for the batsmen, passed across his normally placid features. He approached the wicket at ever-increasing speed and sent his first ball down at remarkable pace, but well wide of the stumps. The American blinked, stared back at Ivan the Terrible and waited for the next ball. There was a hush around the ground, the little patches of conversation dying away as Ivan went to war.
His second ball pitched short, rose steeply and flew over the outstretched hands of the Bank of England for four byes.
‘Bloody hell!’ said Powerscourt.
‘Ranging shots. Ranging shots,’ said Hopwood, ‘let’s hope the next few are on target.’
The next ball flew at great speed towards the American’s off stump. There was a faint click. Powerscourt sensed a red blur hurtling to his left. He stuck out his hand. He found, to his amazement, that the ball had lodged in his palm, a great sting spreading up his arm.
‘How was that!’ shouted Aston Hopwood and the Bank of England in unison.
The Bishop’s finger rose. The American departed. Powerscourt found himself the subject of congratulations from all sides.
‘That’s one pint of beer you owe me now,’ said Rothschild’s gardener with the pipe to his friend. ‘Bugger only made forty-two.’
‘I tell you what,’ said his friend. ‘Double or quits. This Terrible fellow to take five wickets.’
‘I’m not taking you up on that. Bugger might bowl them all out at this speed.’
The next American showed no signs of being intimidated by Ivan the Terrible. He took a mighty swipe at his first ball and missed completely. He took a mighty swipe at the next ball and crashed it back down the pitch for four runs.
‘They don’t seem to believe in defence or playing themselves in at all,’ said the Bank of England to his colleagues.
Ivan the Terrible paused at the far end of his run up to stare at the American. The American stared back, drawing his bat back to strike another blow.
‘For what we are about to receive,’ muttered Hopwood.
The next ball was slower than its predecessors. The American misjudged his shot completely. He paused to look briefly at the ruin that had been his wicket and set off back to the pavilion, pausing to clap Ivan the Terrible on the shoulder on his way.
‘That was a pretty eventful over,’ said Burke to Lady Lucy. ‘He’s very fast, that chap.’
‘Didn’t Francis do well, William. I’m so proud of him.’ Lady Lucy gazed proprietorially at her husband, deep in conversation with his colleagues in the slips.
‘He did very well, Lucy, that was a difficult catch. I wonder when Hopwood’s going to put my young man on to bowl.’
James Clarke, however, remained in the outfield. Ivan the Terrible bowled a further three overs and sent a further three Americans back to the pavilion. Then Hopwood took him off.
‘Can’t have the bloody game finishing before tea,’ he said to Powerscourt. ‘I’ll bring him back later on if we have to. He’s pretty puffed already.’
A small wiry American had come in to bat at Number Three and hung on to his wicket like a limpet. Not for him the mighty blows of the first batsman. He proceeded with nudges and glances, a lot of quick singles and a general process of accumulation that aroused the wrath of the Bank of England behind the stumps.