Just Not Cricket by Carol Allison

Major Brownlow wanted to win his beloved ball back – but Patricia knew something he didn’t!

HANDS clasped behind his back, Major Brownlow inspected his line of troops. Skipper, his faithful Labrador, limped obediently behind, struggling to keep pace.

“It’s the final push,” the major boomed. “There’s a great deal at stake, not least the reputation of the division, but also the return of the trophy to its rightful home.”

He stopped dead in his tracks, spotting a slight crumple in an otherwise pristine white shirt.

Skipper bumped into his legs, his reaction time reflecting his advancing years.

“Get to the mess, young man, and have Mrs B run an iron over that.”

The boy rolled his eyes before sauntering wearily in the direction of the wooden shed.

The major, undeterred, continued.

“The trophy’s been out of the cricket club’s possession for ten years. You’ve trained for this – it should, and will, be returned to Maisley Bridge Cricket Club.”

“Captain Brownlow, what’s so special about an old cricket ball anyway?” a tall eleven-year-old asked.

“I may be your team captain, but my rank is Major. You should address me as such,” he chastised.

“The trophy, or old ball, as you describe it, was once played here, on this very ground, by W.G. Grace, who was the godfather of cricket . . .”

His lecture was interrupted by the deep hum of a coach engine.

“Take your places. The Newley Babes are here.”

The game commenced and the major’s wife, Patricia, settled herself into a striped deckchair next to her friend.

“Ralph’s worked wonders with those boys,” Brenda, the umpire’s wife, commented, barely looking up from her knitting needles.

“The boys’ antics have certainly given him a focus for his authority outside of my kitchen,” Patricia agreed.

“I do wonder, though, how much of his enthusiasm is philanthropy and how much can be attributed to getting his darn ball back.”

“I didn’t know it was so important to him!” Brenda exclaimed, pausing to switch the jumper into the opposite hand.

“He donated it to the club ten years ago when he became captain of the under-sixteens. It’s not seen the club cabinet since he had it ordained as the league trophy.”

“I remember they lost it to the Newley Babes that year, too,” Brenda said.

“Don’t I know it.” Patricia sighed.

The ladies’ conversation was interrupted by a fracas on the field.

“That was a six, not a four; it was clearly beyond the boundary!” the major shouted to the umpire as the boys looked on.

“I would remind you that the umpire’s judgement is final and any further interruption will result in a fine.”

Patricia glanced up to the now clear blue sky.

“No chance of rain.” She laughed.

After a rather lacklustre innings, the umpire called cricket tea, and for the first time since the game began the boys broke into a run.

Patricia and Brenda, now safely installed behind the security of a trestle table, served lunch to the ravenous bunch.

“Form an orderly queue,” the major commanded, but his barked instruction was drowned out by the boys’ enthusiastic chatter.

“Lovely cake, Mrs B,” one boy commented, helping himself to a third slice.

“Great butties,” another said as he balanced a fifth sandwich on his precarious tower of bread.

“Use a napkin,” the major demanded, but his request was useless.

The lads, plates piled high with sausage rolls and sandwiches, jostled for seats next to their teammates whilst swilling down fruit juice with gusto.

Skipper, now decidedly more sprightly than his double-digit years, ran from table to table devouring any titbits he could find.

“Don’t feed the dog!” the major shouted.

It was too late. Skipper had already enjoyed two salmon sandwiches, half a bag of cheese and onion crisps and a fig roll.

“At least the food has been a success.” Brenda laughed, staring at the remnants of salad on the otherwise empty platters.

As the ladies began to wash up, the crack of leather on willow signified that play was once again underway.

“How’s Ralph adjusting to retirement?” Brenda asked, hands deep in soapy water.

“Old habits die hard,” Patricia replied. “The house is run with military precision, the cat has a curfew, and the cut flowers are standing to attention.”

“Must be nice having him home, though?” Brenda asked with sincerity. “It’s a learning curve.” The ladies sat down for lunch, whiling away the afternoon with news of their grandchildren and plans for family getaways.

Suddenly they heard a roar from the field and returned to the ground to witness the flying caps of the Maisley Bridge team.

“We did it, Mrs B!” one excited boy shouted. “We beat them!”

Major Ralph Brownlow was grinning with pride.

“I knew you could do it!” he shouted across the field as the losing team wandered over to the coach.

From across the field, a short man with greying hair walked in his direction.

“Major Brownlow,” he began, extending his hand. “Bill Clark, ‘Maisley Bridge Courier’.

“We thought it might be nice to do a little piece for the next issue.

“‘The Courier’ loves a good news story, especially

when an underdog triumphs.”

He nodded in the direction of the boys.

“Absolutely,” Major Brownlow agreed. “Let me round up the troops and get the trophy.”

The boys, exhausted from their afternoon of activity, gathered round the major for their photo opportunity.

Taking centre stage, the major, his trusty dog at his feet, lifted the small glass box housing the prized cricket ball above his head in celebration.

“Stand up straight, lads,” he instructed, puffing out his chest in pride as the camera flashed.

Looking on, Brenda was smiling warmly.

“Isn’t that a super end to the day? And it’s nice that Ralph got his ball back.”

Patricia paused before responding.

“He’s got a ball back, anyway.”

“What do you mean?” Brenda asked.

“I haven’t had the heart to break it to him. It was handed down from his grandad, you know . . .”

Brenda moved closer to hear her friend spill the beans.

“I was meant to take it into town to have it put on a plinth and encased in glass.

“Ralph was away on duty and I was distracted with the grandchildren and I forgot all about it.

“Skipper was only a pup, very excitable and not very disciplined, and by the time I’d prised it out of his mouth there wasn’t much left of it.

“I took one of Ralph’s balls from his bag, rolled it in some cold tea to make it look aged and had that encased in glass instead.”

“And he’s never noticed?” Brenda asked, her eyes wide with anticipation. “No,” Patricia replied. The women fell silent, their gaze settling on the major, who was grinning like a Cheshire cat, peering into the trophy casing.

From across the field they noticed his smile begin to fade as he stared ever closer at the ball inside.

“Patricia!” he bellowed. ■