"Ye damned Goth!" he spluttered, fishing the fragments out of his whiskers. "Ye don't care who ye maim or murder; I micht ha'e been killed! Have ye nae work tae go tae?" And he whined on about ill-conditioned loafers who squandered their time and his money in selfish pleasure, while I nuzzled Elspeth good morning over her coffee service, marvelling as I regarded her golden-haired radiance and peach-soft skin that I had wasted strength on that suety frau the evening before, when this had been waiting between the covers at home.
"A fine family ye married intae," says her charming sire. "The son stramashin' aboot destroyin' property while the feyther's lyin' abovestairs stupefied wi' drink. Is there nae mair toast?"
"Well, it's our property and our drink," says I, helping myself to kidneys. "Our toast, too, if it comes to that."
"Aye, is't, though, my buckie?" says he, looking more like a spiteful goblin than ever. "And who peys for't? No' you an' yer wastrel parent. Aye, an' ye can keep yer sullen sniffs to yersel', my lassie," he went on to Elspeth. "We'll hae things aboveboard, plump an' plain. It's John Morrison foots the bills, wi' good Scots siller, hard-earned, for this fine husband o' yours an' the upkeep o' his hoose an' family; jist mind that." He crumpled up his paper, which was sodden with spilled coffee. "Tach! There my breakfast sp'iled for me. `Our property' an' 'our drink', ye say? Grand airs and patched breeks!" And out he strode, to return in a moment, snarling. "And since you're meant tae be managin' this establishment, my girl, yell see tae it that we hae marmalade after this, and no' this damned French jam! Con-fee - toor! Huh! Sticky rubbish!" And he slammed the door behind him.
"Oh, dear," sighs Elspeth. "Papa is in his black mood. What a shame you broke the window, dearest."
"Papa is a confounded blot," says I, wolfing kidneys. "But now that we're rid of him, give us a kiss."
You'll understand that we were an unusual menage. I had married Elspeth perforce, two years before when I had the ill-fortune to be stationed in Scotland, and had been detected tupping her in the bushes - it had been the altar or pistols for two with her fire-eating uncle. Then, when my drunken guv'nor had gone smash over railway shares, old Morrison had found himself saddled with the upkeep of the Flashman establishment, which he'd had to assume for his daughter's sake.
A pretty state, you'll allow, for the little miser wouldn't give me or the guv'nor a penny direct, but doled it out to Elspeth, on whom I had to rely for spending money. Not that she wasn't generous, for in addition to being a stunning beauty she was also as brainless as a feather mop, and doted on me - or at least, she seemed to, but I was beginning to have my doubts. She had a hearty appetite for the two-backed game, and the suspicion was growing on me that in my absence she'd been rolling the linen with any chap who'd come handy, and was still spreading her favours now that I was home. As I say, I couldn't be sure - for that matter, I'm still not, sixty years later. The trouble was and is, I dearly loved her in my way, and not only lustfully - although she was all you could wish as a nightcap - and however much I might stallion about the town and elsewhere, there was never another woman that I cared for besides her. Not even Lola Montez, or Lakshmibai, or Lily Langtry, or Ko Dali's daughter, or Duchess Irma, or Takes-Away-Clouds-Woman, or Valentina, or … or, oh, take your choice, there wasn't one to come up to Elspeth.
For one thing, she was the happiest creature in the world, and pitifully easy to please; she revelled in the London life, which was a rare change from the cemetery she'd been brought up in - Paisley, they call it - and with her looks, my new-won laurels, and (best of all) her father's shekels, we were well-received everywhere, her "trade" origins being conveniently forgotten. (There's no such thing as an unfashionable hero or an unsuitable heiress.) This was just nuts to Elspeth, for she was an unconscionable little snob, and when I told her I was to play at Lord's, before the smartest of the sporting set, she went into raptures - here was a fresh excuse for new hats and dresses, and preening herself before the society rabble, she thought. Being Scotch, and knowing nothing, she supposed cricket was a gentleman's game, you see; sure enough, a certain level of the polite world followed it, but they weren't precisely the high cream, in those days - country barons, racing knights, well-to-do gentry, maybe a mad bishop or two, but pretty rustic. It wasn't quite as respectable as it is now.
One reason for this was that it was still a betting game, and the stakes could run pretty high - I've known £50,000 riding on a single innings, with wild side-bets of anything from a guinea to a thou on how many wickets Marsden would take, or how many catches would fall to the slips, or whether Pilch would reach fifty (which he probably would). With so much cash about, you may believe that some of the underhand work that went on would have made a Hays City stud school look like old maid's loo - matches were sold and thrown, players were bribed and threatened, wickets were doctored (I've known the whole eleven of a respected county side to sneak out en masse and p--s on the wicket in the dark, so that their twisters could get a grip next morning; I caught a nasty cold myself). Of course, corruption wasn't general, or even common, but it happened in those good old sporting days - and whatever the purists may say, there was a life and stingo about cricket then that you don't get now.
It looked so different, even; if I close my eyes I can see Lord's as it was then, and I know that when the memories of bed and battle have lost their colours and faded to misty grey, that at least will be as bright as ever. The coaches and carriages packed in the road outside the gate, the fashionable crowd streaming in by Jimmy Dark's house under the trees, the girls like so many gaudy butterflies in their summer dresses and hats, shaded by parasols, and the men guiding 'em to chairs, some in tall hats and coats, others in striped weskits and caps, the gentry uncomfortably buttoned up and the roughs and townies in shirt-sleeves and billycocks with their watch-chains and cutties; the bookies with their stands outside the pavilion, calling the odds, the flash chaps in their mighty whiskers and ornamented vests, the touts and runners and swell mobsmen slipping through the press like ferrets, the pot-boys from the Lord's pub thrusting along with trays loaded with beer and lemonade, crying "Way, order, gents! Way, order!"; old John Gully, the retired pug, standing like a great oak tree, feet planted wide, smiling his gentle smile as he talked to Alfred Mynn, whose scarlet waist-scarf and straw boater were a magnet for the eyes of the hero-worshipping youngsters, jostling at a respectful distance from these giants of the sporting world; the grooms pushing a way for some doddering old Duke, passing through nodding and tipping his tile, with his poule-of-the-moment arm-in-arm, she painted and bold-eyed and defiant as the ladies turned the other way with a rustle of skirts; the bowling green and archery range going full swing, with the thunk of the shafts mingling with the distant pomping of the artillery band, the chatter and yelling of the vendors, the grind of coach-wheels and the warm hum of summer ebbing across the great green field where Stevie Slatter's boys were herding away the sheep and warning off the bob-a-game players; the crowds ten-deep at the nets to see Pilch at batting practice, or Felix, agile as his animal namesake, bowling those slow lobs that seemed to hang forever in the air.
Or I see it in the late evening sun, the players in their white top-hats trooping in from the field, with the ripple of applause running round the ropes, and the urchins streaming across to worship, while the old buffers outside the pavilion clap and cry "Played, well played!" and raise their tankards, and the Captain tosses the ball to some round-eyed small boy who'll guard it as a relic for life, and the scorer climbs stiffly down from his eyrie and the shadows lengthen across the idyllic scene, the very picture of merry, sporting old England, with the umpires bundling up the stumps, the birds calling in the tall trees, the gentle evenfall stealing over the ground and the pavilion, and the empty benches, and the willow wood-pile behind the sheep pen where Flashy is plunging away on top of the landlord's daughter in the long grass. Aye, cricket was cricket then.