Long Lankin (21 page)

“Where’s Dad’s cap?” I yelled after him, but he didn’t even look back.

It was lying in the dirt. Rubbing spit in made it even grubbier.

Mum came out. “I’ll see to that,” she said. “You put the stuff in the pram, and don’t squash it all.”

We loaded up the pram with tins and bags and plates of sandwiches covered in tinfoil, then off we went, Pete and Dennis reluctantly pushing it between them, Mum carrying Pamela, and Dad swinging his cricket bag.

The way to the field was up a grass track alongside Mrs. Aylott’s shop. It was just wide enough for a car, and we had to stand on one side while the Treasures passed us in their shiny black Rover. Mr. Treasure was driving in his straw hat and his big white coat because he was always the umpire. A few other cars came up, but mostly they were bringing the other team, Clevedon Mortimer. I told Cora that she wasn’t to cheer or clap for anyone wearing a blue cap with a red badge, but only for the men with the purple caps and gold badges, because they were the Bryers Guerdon and North Fairing team. She said she’d just do what I did.

The ladies set everything up in the Scout Hut. They covered the long trestle tables with starched white tablecloths and laid them out with big plates of sandwiches, cakes, and sausage rolls. We helped put out small plates with a serviette on each one, glasses, and jugs of lemon barley water and orange squash. It looked so tempting, but we didn’t dare pinch any of the food because the ladies had eyes everywhere.

I could see one or two of them looking at Cora and Mimi and whispering behind their hands.

While the men were getting into their whites in the changing room, Cora, Pete, and me went outside to make sure the scoreboard was all ready. We checked that all the black metal plates with the numbers on were in the right order. Mr. Bannister from the Elms, farther down Ottery Lane, was going to keep the score on his special pad and make sure we put the right numbers up.

“Clevedon Mortimer’s won the toss,” he told us. “They’ve decided to bowl first.”

We saw Bob Slattery going into the hut, late. I bet Pete sixpence, the next time I ever had one, that Bob Slattery would be out for a duck. His glasses were so thick his eyes looked like big marbles.

“Look,” I said to Cora, “over there — it’s the Treasures. That’s Maisie’s pimply brother, Tobias. He never plays cricket for us, thinks he’s too posh probably. And that’s Father Mansell and Mrs. Mansell, and that’s our doctor who lives at North End down the road. He’s Doctor Meldrum, and that’s his wife, Mrs. Meldrum, and that’s their daughter, Caroline, who’s a bit older than Maisie Treasure but I think they go to the same school.”

They were sitting in the shade around a table spread with an embroidered cloth. It was set with china teacups and saucers and dainty sandwiches, crusts off, on lace doilies. The Treasures, the Meldrums, and the Mansells were all wearing hats, the men in panamas, and the ladies, including Maisie and Caroline, in jaunty little things with a bit of netting. Their wide flowery skirts cascaded down to the grass, completely hiding the small folding chairs they sat on.

Mrs. Campbell came out of the Scout Hut with a tray. I’m surprised she didn’t curtsey as she placed a milk jug and sugar bowl with silver tongs on their table. Then she lifted off a huge teapot, covered with a knitted cosy like an enormous Christmas pudding, and nudged it in amongst the little teacups.

Just as she was going back into the hut, the teams came out, so she waited with her tray to let them go by. We all clapped as they came down and took up their positions.

I hardly had a clue what was going on. Mr. Bannister called out the number of runs, and Pete gave the numbers to Roger, and he changed them on the scoreboard. At one point, a man called Dick Lorimer hit the ball with such a mighty crack it landed over a fence way across the other side of the field, and everybody whooped and shouted, “Six!”

Roger started to change the numbers, but I said what was he doing, because the chap hadn’t even bothered running, but Roger said don’t be stupid, it was a six, and I said how was I supposed to know what a six was? Then Mr. Bannister said to Pete to go and fetch the ball from Councillor Henderson’s garden, and Pete shot off right across the field to climb over the fence and get it. He threw it back to the bowler, who rubbed it on the front of his trousers and made a red mark. I thought it looked a bit rude, actually.

Not long after that, Mr. Granville hit the ball really hard. As it sailed through the air, I started to cheer. A very tall man in a blue cap leaped into the air and caught it. Instead of everybody else cheering like me, they groaned. Roger put a number 1 on the hook where it said
WICKETS
. Then his dad went in to bat, but I lost track of how many runs he got.

I looked over at Father Mansell and his wife, who sat quietly in the shade, drinking their tea, the same sort of pepper-and-salt hair peeping out from underneath their hats, half brown and half grey.

I wondered if Father Mansell would know when Gussie’s Father Hillyard had been rector.

“Roger, Roger,” I hissed.

“Not now, Cora, hang on — Yes! Whoopee! A four! Well done, Dad!”

My mind wandered. I saw myself back in the room over the porch in Guerdon Hall, looking at the words I had found on Old Peter’s picture —
PETRUS HILLIARDUS
.

I needed a piece of paper and a pencil. Pete found the stubby end in his pocket and gave it to me.

“Out!” shouted Mr. Bannister. One of the men standing around the field had caught the ball off Mr. Jotman’s bat. Pete put his head in his hands, but Roger ran up as Mr. Jotman came off and said, “Never mind, Dad.”

Mr. Jotman smiled and ruffled Roger’s hair, then went into the Scout Hut, and Graham Crawford went in to bat.

As Graham walked up to the stumps, I cheekily asked Mr. Bannister if I could possibly have a page off his score pad. He smiled and tore out a clean sheet.

I scribbled out
Petrus Hilliardus — Hillyard
.

“Roger, look! Look at this!”

“Crikey!” Roger laughed. “Look what Bob Slattery’s done, Pete.”

Bob Slattery had bonked his own nose with the bat. There was so much blood it looked like a hospital job, and they called his wife, Gladys, out of the Scout Hut. She ran up quickly and wiped his white pullover down with her apron. He sat out behind us for a while with his head back. Gladys fetched a spoon and stuck it between his teeth to stop him swallowing. He looked like he’d been attacked by a lion.

They stopped at four o’clock. Bryers Guerdon had scored sixty-eight runs, and Clevedon Mortimer had got six men out, including Dick Lorimer at the end. Roger said that sixty-eight runs wasn’t all that brilliant, but it was still anybody’s match. I wouldn’t have known.

People started to move towards the Scout Hut for tea. I checked up on Mimi, who’d spent most of the first half throwing balls under the trees with Dennis and Terry. I made sure she had a sandwich, a slab of cake, and some cream soda, and was just about to grab some sandwiches for myself when Mrs. Jotman came up and asked me if I’d like to sell some raffle tickets while people were eating. She tied an old woman’s pinny, with pockets in front for the money, around my waist, saying I wasn’t to forget to sell tickets to the players, but I had to summon up some courage before I could approach them in the middle of their sausage rolls. One or two of them made fun of the way I spoke. I pretended I didn’t mind.

I thought Father Mansell was never going to come into the hut, but then I saw him edging his way through the crowd to the gents. I waited for him by the door, then, when he emerged, waved my book of tickets under his nose.

“Would you like to buy some, Father Mansell?” I said. “A penny a strip.”

He smiled, dug around in his pocket for some change, and came up with sixpence. “A London girl, I hear,” he said as I made heavy weather of tearing off the strips of tickets so I would have more time.

“Yeah, I’m stopping at Mrs. Eastfield’s,” I said. “Do you know her?”

“Oh, yes, I know Mrs. Eastfield,” he replied. “Do you like that old house?”

“Well, not really,” I said. “Oh, I shouldn’t have said that, after she’s taken us in an’ all, but the thing is, I like my home in Limehouse better — not so big.”

He laughed.

“I’ve seen your house,” I added. “It’s big like Auntie’s.”

“Oh, yes, yes, but like you, Mrs. Mansell and I would much prefer something smaller. It’s too large for us. When my predecessor — sorry, the rector before me, Reverend Scaplehorn — was living there, it was converted into two. The Treasures live in the front half. Mr. Treasure is the headmaster of Lokswood School. He’s the umpire today.”

“Yes, I’ve seen him.”

“He has a charming daughter, Maisie — very bright, you know. She’s a little older than you, but if you like, I could introduce you. It would be pleasant for you to make a friend here during your stay. She’s at the match today.”

“I’ve met her already.”

“Excellent, excellent. Well, I won’t keep you, my dear. Nice to talk to you.”

One of the Clevedon Mortimer team pushed past us to get to the toilet. The rector was pinned against the wall for a moment.

“Er, is that a ruined castle in your garden — in the woods, a bit farther down the hill?” I asked quickly.

“Castle? Ruined castle? Ah, I know what you’re thinking of. Yes, you must be able to see it from the lane — just a pile of blackened stones now. It’s the old rectory, my dear. I can see the remains from my bedroom window. I have a lovely view over the marshes. In the winter especially, when the trees are bare, I can see the spire of All Hallows and the chimneys of Guerdon Hall as well. They’re very fine chimneys, aren’t they?”

“What happened to that old rectory?”

“Well, it burned down — end of the sixteenth century, I believe, a dreadful fire by all accounts. I think the Guerdons began to build it, and the church, when they first came to the land at Bryers just after the Norman Conquest. I think Guerdon Hall was originally built in stone, and it’s been sinking into the marshes ever since. The existing manor was rebuilt and altered over the centuries by successive Guerdon knights. There are probably extensive cellars, dating back to the original building, although frightfully grim and damp, I should think. You should ask your aunt about it. I’m not much of a historian, I’m afraid. Reverend Scaplehorn was, though. He knew a lot about it all — far too much if you ask me.”

He laughed, and then stopped himself suddenly. Then he said, “It must be odd to be always surrounded by the ebb and flow of the tides.”

“Auntie never stops looking out the windows to see if they’re in or out. It’s like a habit.” I was desperate to keep Father Mansell talking. “Erm, I ain’t seen nobody go down the church.”

“Oh, yes, very quiet. People prefer to go to Saint Mary’s, up at North Fairing. It’s a shame because All Hallows is a much prettier church. You know, I haven’t done one baptism or wedding down at All Hallows since I’ve been here, although we do have funerals.”

“Why don’t people like it, do you think?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s a long way from the village, of course, and there are some stories, but I don’t pay much attention to them. I’m an old sceptic myself. Still, I’ll be retiring soon.”

“So why did this Mr. Scaplehorn go, then? Did he retire an’ all?”

“Goodness, look at the time! You’re going to have to get those tickets folded. They’ll be calling the raffle soon.”

“Erm, how can you find out who were the rectors at Bryers Guerdon from way back?”

“Goodness me, child, you
are
curious.”

“Just can’t stop meself asking things,” I said.

“Well, of course, there are always the parish records, but most of the really old documents were destroyed in the fire. Look, let me help you fold up those tickets. Time’s moving on. We can put them in here.”

Father Mansell took off his panama and put it by his feet. We tore up the strips, folded each ticket, and dropped them into the hat.

“Come to think of it,” he said suddenly, “I’d almost forgotten. You can look inside the church. There’s a list of all the rectors of the parish almost from the earliest incumbents right up to Reverend Scaple —”

“Cora!” yelled Pete, dodging through the crowd. “Where on earth have you been? Oh, hello, Father Mansell. Cora, they’re waiting to do the raffle. Where are your tickets?”

“Oh, lummy!” I said. “They’re here in Father Mansell’s hat.”

Father Mansell smiled. “Don’t you worry,” he said. “I’ll take them. I’ll say I kept you talking — which indeed I did.”

I folded up the last ticket and threw it in. Father Mansell said good-bye, and very nice to make my acquaintance, and took his hat over to the tombola and emptied it into the drum.

A large woman called Mrs. Teale whirled the tombola around by the handle, opened up the front, and asked Father Mansell to choose a ticket, as he was standing there. Everybody laughed and clapped their hands when he won himself a bottle of Sanatogen Tonic Wine. The ladies thought it was hilarious and refused to take it back.

The best thing was that Pete won a prize — shame it was a tea towel and not the box of Roses chocolates from Auntie Ida. He came up to me with the tea towel draped over his head and said, “I can be the Red Shadow in this.”