This Was a Man Read online

  “You must be an artist yourself.”

  “I wish,” he said, giving her a warm smile. “The nearest I ever got was when I won an art prize at school and decided to apply for a place at the Slade, but they turned me down.”

  “There are other art colleges.”

  “Yes, and I applied to most of them—Goldsmiths, Chelsea, Manchester. I even went up to Glasgow for an interview, but always with the same result.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “No need to be, because I finally asked a member of one of the interviewing panels why they kept rejecting me.”

  “And what did they say?”

  “‘Your A-level results were impressive enough,’ the young man said, holding the lapels of his jacket and sounding twenty years older, ‘and you are clearly passionate about the subject and have buckets of energy and enthusiasm, but sadly something is missing.’ ‘What’s that?’ I asked. ‘Talent,’ he replied.”

  “Oh, how cruel!”

  “No, not really. Just realistic. He went on to ask if I’d considered teaching, which only added salt to the wound, because it reminded me of George Bernard Shaw’s words, those who can, do, those who can’t, teach. But then I went away and thought about it, and realized he was right.”

  “So now you’re a teacher?”

  “I am. I read Art History at King’s, and I’m now teaching at a grammar school in Peckham, where at least I think I can say I’m a better artist than my pupils. Well, most of them,” he added with a grin.

  She laughed. “So what brings you back to the Slade?”

  “I go to most of the student exhibitions in the hope of spotting someone with real talent whose work I can add to my collection. Over the years I’ve picked up a Craigie Aitchison, a Mary Fedden, and even a small pencil sketch by Hockney, but I’d love to add these seven drawings to my collection.”

  “What’s stopping you?”

  “I haven’t had the courage to ask how much they are, and as she’s just won the Founder’s Prize, I’m sure I won’t be able to afford them.”

  “How much do you think they’re worth?”

  “I don’t know, but I’d give everything I have to own them.”

  “How much do you have?”

  “When I last checked my bank balance, just over three hundred pounds.”

  “Then you’re in luck, because I think you’ll find they’re priced at two hundred and fifty pounds.”

  “Let’s go and find out if you’re right, before someone else snaps them up. By the way,” he added as they turned to walk toward the sales counter, “my name’s Richard Langley, but my friends call me Rick.”

  “Hi,” she said as they shook hands. “My name’s Jessica Clifton, but my friends call me Jessie.”

  40

  “IF YOU PULL your sweater down,” said Karin, “no one will notice that you can’t do up the top button.”

  “It’s twenty years since I last played,” Giles reminded her, as he pulled in his stomach and made one final attempt to do up the top button of a pair of Archie Fenwick’s cricket trousers.

  Karin burst out laughing when the button popped off and landed at her feet. “I’m sure you’ll be fine, my darling. Just remember not to run after the ball, because it could end in disaster.” Giles was about to retaliate when there was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” he said, quickly placing a foot on the rebellious button.

  The door opened and Freddie, dressed neatly in crisp whites, entered the room. “I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but there’s been a change of plan.”

  Giles looked relieved, as he assumed he was about to be dropped.

  “The butler, our skipper, has cried off at the last minute, a pulled hamstring. As you played for Oxford against Cambridge, I thought you’d be the obvious choice to take his place.”

  “But I don’t even know the other members of the team,” protested Giles.

  “Don’t worry, sir. I’ll keep you briefed. I’d do the job myself, but I’m not sure how to set a field. Could you be available to take the toss in about ten minutes? Sorry to have disturbed you, Lady Barrington,” he said before rushing back out.

  “Do you think he’ll ever call me Karin?” she said after the door closed.

  “One step at a time,” said Giles.

  * * *

  When Giles first saw the large oval plot of land set like a jewel in the castle’s grounds, he doubted if there could be a more idyllic setting for a game of cricket. Rugged forest covered the hills which surrounded a couple of acres of flat green land that God had clearly meant to be a cricket pitch, if only for a few weeks a year.

  Freddie introduced Giles to Hamish Munro, the local bobby and the Village captain. At forty, he looked in good shape, and certainly would not have had any trouble buttoning up his trousers.

  The two captains walked out onto the pitch together just before two o’clock. Giles carried out a routine he hadn’t done for years. He sniffed the air, before looking up at the sky. A warm day by Scottish standards, a few stray clouds decorated an otherwise blue horizon, no rain, and, thankfully, no harbingers of rain. He inspected the pitch—a tinge of green on the surface, good for fast bowlers—and finally he glanced at the crowd. Much larger than he’d expected, but then it was a local derby. About a couple of hundred spectators were sprinkled around the boundary rope waiting for battle to commence.

  Giles shook hands with the opposing captain.

  “Your call, Mr. Munro,” he said before spinning a pound coin high into the air.

  “Heads,” declared Munro, and they both bent down to study the coin as it landed on the ground.

  “Your choice, sir,” said Giles, staring at the Queen.

  “We’ll bat,” said Munro without hesitation, and quickly returned to the pavilion to brief his team. A few minutes later a bell rang and two umpires in long white coats emerged from the pavilion and made their way slowly onto the field. Archie Fenwick and the Rev. Sandy McDonald were there to guarantee fair play.

  A few moments later, Giles led his unfamiliar band of warriors out onto the pitch. He set an attacking field, with sotto voce advice from Freddie, then tossed the ball to Hector Brice, the Castle’s second footman, who was already scratching out his mark some twenty yards behind the stumps.

  The Village’s opening batsmen strolled out onto the pitch, rotating their arms, and running on the spot, affecting a nonchalant air. The local postman asked for middle and leg, and once he’d made his mark, the vicar declared, “Play!”

  The Village openers made a brisk start, scoring 32 before the first wicket fell to Ben Atkins, the farm manager—a sharp catch in the slips. Hector then followed up with two quick wickets and it was 64 for 3 after fifteen overs had been bowled. A fourth inning partnership was beginning to take hold between the publican Finn Reedie and Hamish Munro, when Freddie suggested that Giles should turn his arm over. A call to arms the captain hadn’t seriously considered. Even in his youth, Giles had rarely been asked to bowl.

  His first over went for eleven, which included two wides, and he was going to take himself off but Freddie wouldn’t hear of it. Giles’s second over went for seven, but at least there were no wides and, to his surprise, in his third, he captured the important wicket of the publican. An LBW appeal to which the tenth Earl of Fenwick pronounced “Out!” Giles thought he’d been a little fortunate, and so did Reedie.

  “Leg before pavilion more like,” muttered the publican as he passed the earl.

  One hundred and sixteen for 4. The first footman continued with his slow leg cutters from one end, accompanied by Giles’s attempt at military medium from the other. The Village went into tea at 4:30 p.m., having scored 237 for 8, which Hamish Munro clearly felt was enough to win the match, because he declared.

  Tea was held in a large tent. Egg and cress sandwiches, sausage rolls, jam tarts, and scones topped with clotted cream were scoffed by all, accompanied by cups of hot tea and glasses of cold lime cordial. Freddie ate nothing,