Having met Lysander, he was not going to forgive Marigold for not calling him in to redecorate Magpie Cottage. ‘Talk about the reincarnation of the Paradise Lad,’ he muttered to Flora as he parked his small bottom beside hers on the bonnet of Ferdie’s Ferrari.
The wine waiter of The Heavenly Host opened the bowling. Squaring his shoulders Bob hit him for four.
‘Oh, well clouted,’ said Marigold, who got very hearty on such occasions. ‘Don’t eat all Ferdie’s Jaffa cakes, boys.’
‘Is Hermione here?’ asked Flora, who wanted to suss out the opposition.
‘No, thank God,’ shuddered Meredith. ‘She’s playing Salome in New York. When she gets to the seventh veil the entire audience rears up and yells: ‘“No, no, keep it on!”’
As Rannaldini was now well out of earshot, everyone howled with laughter.
‘Must be bliss for Bob having her away,’ said Marigold.
‘Bliss! Bobby’s got a good body, hasn’t he? Oh, well hit, that’ll be a six.’
‘Bob is nice looking actually,’ admitted Flora. ‘Pity he’s losing his hair.’
‘He’s just receding to match the recession. Bobby’s always been trendy,’ giggled Meredith. ‘Oh, good shot,’ as Bob snaked a single past first slip. ‘This is going to be a rout. Poor Paradise, more like Inferno in this weather.’
It was getting hotter. A silver haze writhed above the pitch. A sweep of mauve willow herb wilted beneath the smouldering ash-grey woods which bordered the ground. Birds, exhausted with feeding their young, were mute. Ferdie, running with sweat, wished he was thin enough to remove his shirt and get brown like all the other blokes. He couldn’t take his eyes off Natasha — he’d never seen anyone so pretty. Full of patter normally, he was suddenly so shy he could only fill her glass and ply her with cherries as dark red and shiny as her lips.
A hundred for no wicket. The village were getting tetchy. They’d hoped for a glimpse of Georgie, who’d been singularly elusive since she’d moved in. Rumours of marriage problems, spread by Mother Courage, were circulating faster than greyhounds on a track. Guy, however, was much in evidence, looking very cheerful. Batting only at number seven, rather to his irritation, he was now being sweet to the wives of the fielding Paradise players, admiring their tans and their babies, making a manly show of reluctance when asked to sign autographs, intimating that he hoped to be playing for Paradise this time next year.
By contrast, Larry, who was going in at number three, was sitting in the shade furiously shaking The Sunday Times Business section. He’d run out of people to shout at on the telephone and it didn’t look as though this stupid opening partnership would ever get out. He was livid to see Mr Brimscombe umpiring — the Judas. After the massacre of the honeysuckle round Flora’s bedroom, Mr Brimscombe had been tempted to return to his old boss, but had decided that Larry was a bad-tempered bugger. The Paradise Pearl cutting had taken in Rannaldini’s conservatory and the promise of a fat rise and an even taller mower from which he could look over the hedge at Natasha sunbathing topless by the pool had persuaded him to stay on.
The situation was getting desperate, a flustered Paradise had started dropping catches. Lysander’s supporters had moved back into the shade under the mulberry trees and, when he was sent to field on the boundary near them, barracked him because his side was doing so badly.
‘Can you ring Ladbroke’s for me?’ he shouted to Ferdie. ‘My card’s on the dashboard. Cover Point just told me Blue Chip Baby’s a cert in the 4.15. Can you put on five hundred pounds on the nose?’
In the light of his new bank balance, Lysander had considerably upped his stakes.
‘Rich as well,’ murmured Meredith excitedly.
‘Spoof you for him,’ sighed Natasha.
‘Bloody stupid putting on that kind of money,’ snapped Ferdie.
‘You got anything to eat?’ called Lysander, who’d already accepted an iced Carlsberg.
‘I’ll make you a sandwich.’ Natasha leapt down off the bonnet. ‘Would you like chicken or smoked salmon?’
Mulberries were falling on the parked cars. The crowd were melting. Bob and the horn player had put on 140.
‘If someone doesn’t get out soon,’ grumbled Marigold, ‘Larry won’t get a knock.’
‘God, she’s pretty,’ mumbled Ferdie, as Natasha sauntered on to the pitch with Lysander’s sandwich.
‘Quite,’ said Meredith, who’d hung two pairs of cherries over his ears like earrings, ‘but an awful bitch.’
Lysander, however, only had time for one bite. Things were getting so desperate that the Archangel Michael beckoned him over.
‘You bowl?’
‘A little.’
‘Can’t do worse than this lot.’ Mike lobbed the ball at him. ‘Wicket’s harder than Rannaldini’s heart. Try and keep the ball up to the bat.’
‘This should be interesting,’ said Ferdie, as he finished off Lysander’s sandwich.
‘Bowler’s name,’ shouted the scorer.
‘Hawkley,’ yelled Mike.
The crowd, particularly the women, perked up. So this was the gorgeous man who’d moved into Magpie Cottage. The London Met, bored with playing classical music, launched into ‘Hey, Goodlookin’.’
Meredith waved in time with a chicken drumstick.
‘Hi, Teddy!’ Lysander grinned at Mr Brimscombe as he paced out his run. The two had become great mates when Lysander was sorting out Marigold. Lysander had been a nice young lad, always prepared to carry logs or dustbins, even if he couldn’t mow in a straight line.
His shirt billowing out, long-legged and loose-limbed as a West Indian, Lysander loped up to the wicket. A split second later the ball had removed Bob’s middle stump. The crowd exploded in joy and relief which turned to ill-disguised mirth as Larry came in to bat. He had padding on his thighs, chest and gut and he was wearing Ian Botham gloves, Astra-turf trainers with plastic studs, a short-sleeved cricket shirt that was much too tight for him, a helmet and a face guard. His bat had never been used. Fortunately the laughter was drowned by loud applause as Bob came back with seventy-eight runs on the board.
‘What sort of a ball was it?’ asked Larry pompously.
‘I think it was a red one.’ Bob mopped his brow. ‘It’s like a furnace out there.’
‘And here’s Larry Lockton,’ said the commentator, ‘who, we’re told, had a trial for Surrey.’
As Larry made a prolonged fuss about taking guard, Lysander walked back rubbing the ball up and down his trousers.
‘Oh, to be that ball,’ sighed Meredith.
Lysander’s second ball hit Larry on the snow-white pad.
‘’Owzat?’ howled the Paradise slips.
‘Out,’ intoned Mr Brimscombe to the noisy chagrin of Marigold.
‘Bollocks,’ bellowed Larry, mouthing like a gorilla behind his face guard.
‘Out,’ confirmed Clive the doghandler, who didn’t like Larry any better.
‘Don’t think you’ll ever get your fucking job back,’ roared Larry as he stalked back to the pavilion.
‘Must have been a trial to Surrey, rather than for them,’ giggled Meredith as Marigold rushed off to give solace.
Lysander had taken a devastating five wickets for nine runs and ended his second over with London Met looking suddenly in trouble, when Guy came in. Immediately the band launched into ‘Rock Star’.
‘Mum is clever,’ admitted Flora. ‘It does sound lovely played by a proper orchestra.’
‘Mr Rock Star himself,’ crackled the loudspeaker. ‘No mean cricketer if my spies tell me right.’
With his athlete’s stride, his powerful body, his strong handsome face and arctic-blond hair glinting in the sunlight, Guy looked worthy to have pop songs dedicated to him. He wished Ju Ju was watching and where the hell was Georgie? Who could blame him being unfaithful to a woman who never gave him any support? Then, just as he was taking guard, he saw her arrive with Dinsdale, wandering round the wooded side of the pitch, past Lysander who was now fielding in the deep again. Her newly washed hair was tied back with a blue ribbon and she was wearing a duck-egg-blue shirt tied under her slender midriff and yesterday’s flowered trousers.