Mr Chorlton, who can’t or won’t run at all, keeps wicket; and another elderly member of the team, a retired engineer called Hope-Kingley, alternates between mid-on and square-leg. But Briggs the blacksmith, who has huge horny hands with which he sometimes bends a six-inch nail for fun, must stand at forward short-leg or in the deep, and take what’s coming to him; the village policeman goes in the slips, because, says Sammy, that’s a suitable place for a bobby - ‘they catch you out when you’re not looking.’ Billy Butcher, who is the village ne’er-do-weel and drunkard, is sent to long-leg in the hope that a bit of running about will do him good; and the ‘boys’, a collective term for any youths whom the Secretary has roped in at the last moment to make up the team, are distributed round the boundary where with luck some high hits will harden up their palms. As for Sammy himself, he will be anywhere and everywhere, wherever the catches come low and hard, wherever the new red ball races towards the boundary there will by Sammy’s bald head bobbing after it; for he is like a good general who turns up unexpectedly wherever the fight is hottest.

Our Secretary, a small, wiry market-gardener called Alfie, takes the ball for the first over. Joe Trentfield, our umpire and the landlord of the Horse Narrow, counts his six pennies and drops them one by one into the pocket of his smock. Dai Roberts the postman opens his score book at the pavilion window and licks the point of his pencil.

‘Play!’ says Joe: and the season begins.

The Captain

Sailors hardly ever take to cricket; they don’t get the chance to practise, for one thing, and for another, I think cricket is a game for people who have roots, it is a territorial game, in which men really do bowl and bat with greater satisfaction when they do so for the place they belong to. It is an expression of parochialism; and even the County sides, which play for the money, would scorn to buy and sell their players as footballers do, dealing in men as stockbrokers deal in shares. Thus if you should meet, say, the Lancashire side and the Gloucestershire side together in a pub you could easily differentiate them by their accents; and when Somerset and Yorkshire go on tour they take the speech of Somerset and Yorkshire with them. This territorial aspect of the game is even more evident in village cricket; and people were sometimes quite shocked that I should be allowed to play for Brensham, although I lived only four miles away. Peripatetic cricketers, who hawk their batsmanship or their fast bowling round all the teams in the district and change sides as often as Warwick the King-Maker are rare and generally disapproved of: certainly Brensham would have nothing to do with them. For cricket, as I have said, is somehow mixed up with our vigorous parochialism; and when Brensham goes out to field on Saturday afternoon, it is Brensham going to war.

Therefore it was curious that Sammy Hunt should be our captain; for he was one of the rootless, hearthless ones, a sailor, and hadn’t had the opportunity, during his wandering life, to learn that absurd loyalty to a piece of well-kept turf. It was curious of course, that he should have settled down at Brensham at all, to ‘muck about with little boats’, as he put it, ‘on a piddling little river’. I suppose all sailors carry with them about the world, in addition to that small green kit-bag of their personal possessions, a dream of green fields; and for most of them the dream fades or the salt water tarnishes it; but somehow or other Sammy managed to keep his fresh and bright so that when the time came for him to retire he knew exactly what kind of a cottage he wanted, knew all about the green-sprouting osiers and the slow winding river, bent like a bow as it runs round the hill, and the water-meadows where in June the wind-waves trouble the mowing-grass as if it were the sea.

However, Sammy never forgot that he was a sailor; and he often enlivened the cricket-matches with great sea-oaths or astonished the opposing team by shouting to his bowler: ‘Pitch the beggar one on the starboard side!’ or commanding a fieldman to ‘move round a couple of points to port’. In the pub afterwards he would sooner or later launch himself into one of his long salty tales, about how he ran out of coal during a storm in the Bay of Biscay, or how he dealt with a mutiny at Tiensin, or how he nearly married a geisha girl in Japan; but although we knew these tales so well, and loved to hear Sammy telling them, we never learned what happened in the end: closing-time always came too soon, leaving Sammy’s tramp-steamer drifting helplessly towards Vigo, Sammy driving the mutineers into the fo’c’sle with his bare fists, or Sammy and his geisha girl locked in a timeless embrace on the seafront of Yokohama.

The Secretary

On the cricket-field Sammy’s word was law; but between matches it was Alfie Perks, the Secretary, who held the team together, who saw to the buying of the bats, balls, pads, gloves, stumps and score-books we needed, and who organized the dreadful rummage sale which was supposed to wipe out the usual autumnal deficit and the whist drive and dance which actually did so when the rummage sale had failed. It was he who wrote, painfully, slowly, and rather illiterately, those long complicated letters to other Secretaries, and made sense of their complicated and illiterate replies, so that by mid-February, when the pitch generally lay two feet under water and cricket seemed further off than the Millennium, he was able to send to the printer our list of fixtures for the next season. When the season came round, it was Alfie who had the job of notifying the players - eleven postcards scratched out in agonized copper-plate! - of arranging the transport - Who had a car? Who had a motor-bike? Who had room for a fat man with a cricket bag? - and of drawing the pub at midday on Saturday for those very uncertain quantities, ‘the boys’, who were always likely to let us down because they were haymaking or harvesting, or wanted to go fishing or to dig in their gardens or to fiddle with their motor-bikes or to take their wenches to the pictures.

All this would have been extremely burdensome if Alfie had allowed it to worry him; but being a market-gardener and fruit-grower, owning twelve acres of plum orchard and five of apple, his fortune hanging yearly on the chancy weather between April and June, he had long ago given up worrying about anything. He knew that a soft spring might make him prosperous, a late frost might ruin him. There was nothing he could do about it, except grin and bear it; so Alfie grinned. His grin was characteristic, typical, and familiar. With it he greeted impartially the sight of overladen boughs in good seasons or blackened buds after frost. Fruit-growing, he said, was like horse-racing; but there were more certainties on the racecourse. If he lost all his fruit, or if Mr Chorlton dropped three catches running off his bowling, Alfie grinned and shrugged his shoulders; and his comment on the large disaster was the same as his summary of the little one: That’s the way it is.

Alfie bowled leg-breaks: three paces to the wicket, longish fair hair falling over his forehead, a hop, skip and a jump, and an innocent-looking good-length, ball delivered with a sort of tousled grin. He was one of those small persistent men who inevitably remind one of terriers; and as it happened he owned a small tousled terrier, which also grinned. It was called Rexy and it followed Alfie everywhere and somehow resembled him; for both had bushy eyebrows, an air of perky truculence, and a hamorous acceptance of fate. For a week or two in late winter the resemblance was even closer. Alfie’s face, at that reason, went brick-ted and peeled as if he’d been in the sun, although there had been no strong sun for months. His eyebrows and eyelashes became curiously sandy, like those of desert soldiers. Rexy’s eyebrows, nose and whiskers went sandy too, and when we saw him running about the village like that we knew that Alfie had been spraying.

For the spray dripped off the trees into the grass and stained Rexy’s paws as he followed his master. Whenever there was a wind the liquid blew back like fine rain into Alfie’s face and burned it, peeled his nose and bleached his eyebrows, and made his eyes as red as a ferret’s. Both master and dog looked as if they had just come back from crossing the Sahara.

This tedious uncomfortable business of spraying was probably the biggest single operation in Alfie’s busy year. It took a long time, and it was also very expensive; so that less conscientious growers were apt to ‘give it a miss’ in seasons when their bank balances were in red or when they wanted to buy a new motor-car.