‘Why don’t you hit the bloody thing?’ he asked the batsman sarcastically after a well-placed prod had brought him another two runs.
‘Temper, temper,’ said the American. ‘Every run counts.’
By lunch the Americans had advanced to one hundred and twenty-five for four, a respectable total but considerably less than might have been expected from their lightning start.
‘Mind the punch,’ said Hopwood to his team as they returned to the pavilion. He too had been involved in the fracas several years before. ‘That stuff’s bloody lethal.’
James Clarke had raced off the field to find his friends.
‘Richard, Miss Williams,’ he said, ‘come and meet my governor. He’s just over there.’
William Burke was happy to escort the young people to lunch and to guide them through the culinary delights on offer. Somebody needs to look after such a pretty girl as this Miss Williams, he said to himself. Some of these wolves from the City wouldn’t do her any good at all.
‘Ham, Mr Martin? Miss Williams? Some lobster? Some ptarmigan pie?’
Lunch was taken at tables in the marquee or sitting on the grass. Powerscourt sat with Lady Lucy under a large tree. William Burke had taken Richard Martin and Sophie Williams and James Clarke on a tour of the gardens. Out of the corner of his eye Powerscourt saw Charles Harrison watch them go, a look of extreme disquiet on his face. The Bank of England had given very definite instructions to one of the waiters. Some of the Americans were receiving regular refills of the Rothschild punch. The two old retired gardeners had fallen asleep under their oak, snores drifting out across the cricket field.
‘I don’t think the wiry one will last much longer,’ the Bank of England said happily to Powerscourt and Hopwood as play resumed.
‘Why not?’ said Hopwood. ‘He looked pretty well set to me before lunch.’
‘That was before he met the punch.’ The Bank of England grinned.
Initially the wiry American showed no signs of having been affected by the punch or anything else. He attacked the bowling with great vigour for a couple of overs. Then he went into a slow decline. His running between the wickets became erratic. He missed perfectly simple balls. Eventually he fell over on to his own wicket when confronted by James Clarke’s off spinners.
‘Bad luck. What rotten luck!’ The Bank of England waved him happily off the field.
‘That were that punch, that were,’ said the retired gardener with the pipe. ‘He was quite all right before lunch, that thin bloke.’
‘Hit wicket bowled punch,’ cackled his friend. ‘Do you think there’s any of the stuff left?’
Shortly before three o’clock the American innings closed with the score at one hundred and seventy-six.
‘Respectable score,’ said Hopwood to Powerscourt as he buckled on his pads, ‘but we should be able to knock that off fairly easily.’
Powerscourt felt his knees go weak as he walked to the wicket. True, he had put in some practice with his local team in Northamptonshire in the weeks leading up to the match. But here he was in front of this large crowd against bowlers he had never seen before.
A tall thin American with a black moustache was preparing to open the bowling. He advanced off a run up of only a few paces and sent down a ball that was quite fast but well wide of the off stump. Steady, Powerscourt said to himself, steady. The next two balls he played defensively. The fourth he tucked away on the on side for a single. He was off the mark. He breathed again.
William Burke seemed to have taken Richard Martin and Sophie Williams under his wing. They were chatting happily with James Clarke under a tree just behind the bowler’s arm. Lady Lucy was sitting by Bertrand de Rothschild who kept up a running commentary on the proceedings. Oliver Smythe, the other opener, was now facing the bowling.
‘Well played there, Smythe, splendid cover drive. Don’t think much of the American bowling, my dear, well hit, sir, well hit, oh dear, that fielder is going to catch it, he’s running for it very fast, he’s not going to get there before it drops, he is, he dives, he’s got it! Eighteen for one!’
The next over proved a disaster for the City. Three of them were out to a slow American spinner who seemed to turn the ball to a diabolical degree. Hopwood was the last to go with the score at twenty-two for four.
‘Hang in there, Powerscourt. For God’s sake hang in there. One or two of these fellows coming up can hit a ball but they won’t last long. We need an anchor at the other end.’
Powerscourt dug himself in. Whatever happens at the other end, I’ve got to stay here, he said to himself. Captain’s orders. He remembered an innings he had played once for his college at Cambridge where he had batted right through against the superior forces of St John’s until the last over of the day, only to run out of partners with three balls left.
Lady Lucy was watching him anxiously, staring out at the pitch beneath her parasol. Powerscourt nudged away a couple of singles. A short ball on the leg side he pulled imperiously to the square leg boundary for four. The Bank of England was with him now.
‘You close off your end, Powerscourt. Don’t believe in pussyfooting around myself. Smite the Philistines, that’s what I say. Smite them.’
His superiors at the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street would not have been happy with the rashness of his play. He charged down the wicket. He aimed to hit every ball, good or bad. For a while he smote the Philistines most effectively and the City score advanced to the more comfortable total of sixty. Then the Philistines laid a trap for him. Two fielders were sent to the boundary in the part of the field where he most often hit the ball. A slow innocuous delivery was hit for six. The next ball was slightly faster. The Bank of England mishit his shot. The ball rose high in the air into the welcome arms of an American. Sixty-six for five and the City were running out of batsmen.
A broker friend of Hopwood’s and a discount man followed him rapidly back to the pavilion. With half an hour to go before tea the youthful figure of James Clarke strode to the wicket, the score board showing seventy-four for seven.
‘Good luck, James! Good luck!’ Sophie Williams thought she must be more nervous than her new friend.
‘Fifty at least!’ said Richard.
Powerscourt could see after just one over that James Clarke was a very fine cricketer indeed. He faced the bowlers with great assurance and drove them effortlessly round the field. The score advanced rapidly. Powerscourt saw that his own total had reached twenty-five and that if James continued to score at the same rate he would soon be overtaken.
‘Just hang in there, sir. We’ll beat the bastards yet,’ Clarke advised him on one of their midwicket conferences as the score rose towards one hundred.
‘Bet you that pint of beer,’ said the old gardener with his pipe, ‘bet you this left-handed one, Powerscourt do they call him, bet you he won’t get out at all. He’ll carry his bat.’
‘Bet you he won’t,’ said his friend, ‘they get worn out, those people. He’ll try some fancy shot and get himself out. You mark my words.’
With one over left before tea Powerscourt received the ball he had been waiting for all day. It was short. It was outside the off stump. It was perfect for a late cut. He caressed it to the boundary.
‘Capital! Capital!’ croaked Bertrand de Rothschild, seizing Lady Lucy by the arm. ‘That’s his late cut! He’s played it at last! And what a fine stroke it was!’
Lady Lucy wondered if there were early cuts as well but felt she should not inquire. A prolonged burst of applause ran around the crowd. The City had passed one hundred. Perhaps they could win it after all.
‘Do you think we can do it, Mr Burke? Do you think we can win?’ Richard Martin was growing rather fond of his new friend.