Sample

1. MEMORIES

    “Mr Chisum, Mr Chisum.” The youngster tugged at the sleeve of the venerable looking gent in the fancy striped tie.    “The game’s stopped for tea, and dad says if you don’t hurry up there’ll be nothing left to eat.”
    He turned to his pal. “Silly old fart’s dozed off again,” he said, looking out across the closely cropped grass to the cricket pitch in the centre of the field.
    “You’d think he’d want to see the match, wouldn’t you? ’Specially with Bower and Gotham set to come in to bat. I bet he wishes he could have played like them.”
    As the boys walked away for their tea and cake, the second lad looked back at the old chap still in his chair.
    “I bet when he was young cricket was just a boring game played by a bunch of useless old duffers,” he laughed.
    The old gent smiled slowly to himself as he raised himself from the deck-chair. Even at his advanced age, it was clear that he must have been a commanding figure in his prime. In spite of a slight stooping of the shoulders, he still stood over six feet tall, with a great barrel of a chest and hands like tentacled dinner plates. His most conspicuous feature, however, was his eyes, which were the most striking blue and always twinkled as if laughing at some secret joke. He laughed quietly to himself now, as he walked briskly towards the tea-tent.

    “Old fart, eh?” His mind rolled back the years. “Old Jarden would have taught them a thing or two.” With the recollection his shoulders straightened.
    “Yup. The Major would have sorted out this little lot. Old fart maybe, but there’s many a fine tune played on an old fart!”
    Chisum, for this was indeed that reviled protagonist from the most infamous match in the history of cricket, laughed out loud at his feeble joke, and marched off for his tea.

2. JARDEN

 Dougal Jarden sat in the study of the manor house, re-reading the letter from the local Blacksmith, Jimmy Fay. Jarden had recently taken possession of the manor following the death of his father, the Colonel. It was rumoured the patriarch’s death had been hastened through the shame of having sired ‘the most evil, conniving, lascivious little shit in the history of the regiment’, in the words of General Addiscombe following Dougal’s Court-Martial. This comment had deeply hurt young Jarden. As he’d remarked at the time:
    “I wish the old dear would get his facts straight; I’m five feet eleven inches tall, with a pleasure-wand a good two inches better than his - his wife will vouch for that! So how on earth can he call me little?”
    Jarden indeed felt the whole matter of his dismissal to be most unfair. After all, he’d got away with cheating on his mess bill, and frigging the General’s daughter - and on one infamous occasion his wife and son as well, so the little incident with his housemaid should hardly have mattered at all.
   “What the old queen was really upset about,” Jarden had proclaimed, “was the fact that I wouldn’t let him roger my bottie!” This remark followed a snippet he’d gleaned from ‘Biggsie’, the Colonel’s housemaid.
    “That there General fella ain’t no danger to my virginity; all he wants to do is willy my bum - says it reminds him of his batman,” she’d confided. 

    As Jimmy Fay entered the study, Jarden sat behind his desk still studying the blacksmith’s letter. He looked up to greet his visitor, and was amazed to see that he was the complete antithesis of every pre-conceived idea he had of that craft. Fay stood around six feet three inches tall and was one of the thinnest people Jarden had ever seen. His elongated, emaciated-looking frame was topped by a pimple of a head with huge jug-handle ears and a long pointed nose.
    “Well then, Fay, what’s all this about a blasted game of cricket?” Jarden enquired haughtily.
    “Well, sir, it’s like this,” Fay replied. “Every year for the past fifty years or so, we here in Little Anglo have played a cricket match, over Whitsun Bank Holiday, against them folk down in Upper Ausso. Up till three year ago we would win some and they would win some, and it all seemed about fair to all of us. But now they’ve got this new batsman, Dan Badman, and the bugger’s too bloody good for us to get him out, and we’re all getting mighty fed up with it.”
Jarden looked bemused. “Yes, I can see that must be somewhat galling for you, old chap, but what on earth has this got to do with me?” he queried.
    “Ah, well, sir,” Fay responded, “I thought you knew all about it: you’re the official captain of the Little Anglo team!”
    “Captain of your cricket team?” Jarden spluttered, “I’ve never even heard of them. I haven’t played since my university days, and certainly have no intention of starting again now!”
    Fay was flabbergasted. “But, sir, what about the tradition? The Lord of the Manor has always been the team captain, and, following your poor father’s death, you’re the Lord of the Manor and captain of the cricket team!”
    Jarden thumped the table. “Now look, Fay, get this into your common little brain. I do not intend to play cricket now or ever, so you’ll have to find someone else to lead your little band of no-hopers in their pathetic endeavours.”
    Fay's bony shoulders slumped with dejection. He’d heard that Jarden had been a very useful batsman whilst at Oxbridge, and had harboured high hopes that at long last they may have found the man to outwit Badman and his team. Jimmy Fay hadn’t survived as the county’s least likely looking blacksmith without reason, however, and he was renowned for his bulldog spirit and never-say-die attitude. He decided to make one final effort.
    “Well, Mr Jarden, sir, if that’s how you feel, I confess I’m most disappointed. It was one of your father’s last wishes that we should win the cricket this year and he must be turning in his grave to know that his only son won’t take his rightful place as skipper of the team.”
    Jarden laughed. “I’m sorry, Fay, but if you think that appealing to my better nature or my loyalty to my father is going to do you any good, you’re wasting your time. I don’t have a better nature, and the only thing I’m grateful to my father for is the fact that the senile old misogynist did the right thing at last and buggered off from this mortal coil, so I can get on with spending his bloody money!”
    Fay was now totally spent. He’d tried everything he knew, all to no avail.
    “Oh, well,” he said, “I suppose the Aussos will just have to keep The Cinders for yet another year.”
    Jarden was puzzled. “The Cinders? What on earth are you talking about, man?” he quizzed.
    “Ah, well, sir,” Fay explained, “that’s the name of the trophy that we play for. What happened was, originally the people of Little Anglo were always the best cricketers and didn’t play against anyone else. Then the Upper Ausso people started playing and, back in 1882, they actually won a match against Little Anglo. Well, your ancestor - that’s his picture behind you there (next to the portrait of our Blessed, (Bearded), Lady, Saint Grace) - was so angry that he set fire to the umpire, swept up the cinders, put them in a small black urn, and gave them to the Upper Ausso captain. There you are, he said, that’s the bastard who won the game for you. Now take him home and stick him on your fucking mantelpiece! Begging your pardon, Mr Jarden, sir, but they did use some awful language in those days.”
    Jarden nodded sagely whilst inwardly suppressing a smile at Jimmy’s innocence. This man really is a very unusual blacksmith, he thought.
    “So you see, sir,” Fay continued, “ever since then that trophy, The Cinders, has been held by the winning side. Now I suppose old Addiscombe will be hanging on to it for yet another year, seeing as they’re bound to beat us again.”
    Jarden looked up. “Addiscombe? Do you mean General Addiscombe?” he asked.“That’s right, sir. I believe you and he were in the same regiment, weren’t you?” asked Fay, sensing from the gleam which suddenly flashed in Jarden’s eyes that all may not yet be lost. Jarden was suddenly interested.“Yes, yes,” he said. “But what’s that old fool got to do with your stupid cricket match?”
    Fay hurried on, not wanting to lose this unexpected opportunity. “Ah, well, you see, sir, the general’s too old to play now,” he explained, “but he was the Upper Ausso captain for many years and it’s his family’s money which goes to support their cricketers.”
    Jarden sat back, lost in thought.
    “I see,” he said finally. “So, the cunning old bastard has been paying these people to play in his cricket team, to make sure they win.”
    “Exactly, sir,” said Fay. “And, of course, by doing this he’s brought in players from all over the place to build up his team, so what with Badman and all these other blokes, we’re no match for ’em now!”
    Jarden’s features were transformed. He reached out and shook the blacksmith firmly by the hand.
    “Well, young Fay,” he said, “you’ve got yourself a new captain. It’s about time somebody taught bloody Addiscombe a lesson, and this is an opportunity too good to miss!”
    Fay was bemused; he knew somehow he’d achieved his objective, but couldn’t for the life of him understand what had changed Jarden’s mind. Jarden, for his part, seemed almost jovial, and was obviously relishing the challenge ahead.
    “Now then, Fay,” he said, “this is going to take a lot of careful planning and hard work. When are you due for your next session in the nets?”
    Fay carefully studied the paper in front of him, then looked up.
   “We’re due to start practice next Friday, sir,” he responded.
    Jarden stood up with a purposeful look on his face.
   “Right,” he said. “You take yourself off and get the men organised for the practice, and I’ll start working out how we can beat these Aussos.”

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