Shadows On the Grass Read online

  ‘Tell you what,’ said my Commandant, ‘pre-emptive bid. You know, three heart call.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning you’ve got a long string of hearts and an outside ace.’

  ‘Meaning here and now?’

  ‘Announce an imaginary bomb on Shrewsbury – there’s your outside ace.

  Then say survivors are to be ferried to a new Reception Area in Wales – and there’s your long string of hearts. By the time you get them there it will be time to stop the exercise: so the whole controversial bit, who’s to sleep where and live off what, and what’s to be done if the proles turn Bolshy – you can put all that off till next time and announce a successful exercise in emergency rerouting of survivors. Adaptability and all that balls. Neither the Churches nor the Unions can get at you over that.’

  ‘And when the next time comes? We’re going to have this sort of exercise every six months, you know.’

  ‘Six months in the Army is an eternity,’ my Commandant said.

  The new Reception Area wasn’t quite as far away as Wales (that, said the General, would have been overdoing it); it was on Ludlow Racecourse, the drive to which would almost exhaust the time that remained for the exercise and yet not seriously inconvenience anyone of importance.

  As for myself, however, the choice of venue made me exceedingly uneasy. Sitting in the bare bar with the Commandant and listening while the CDF quarrelled with the Unions about the allotment of official accommodation (there was just time for that before the exercise ceased) I reflected on the last occasion, some two weeks ago, when I had been here for the actual Races. I recalled broad scowls from the credit bookmakers as I falsely assured them their cheques were ‘in the post’; and I shuddered as I thought of the humiliating dash to the Tote to make a cash bet with a flyer I had scrounged off one of my subalterns, hoping to save something from the horrible wreck…

  For Ludlow was only one of the many attractive Racecourses which clustered round Shrewsbury and on which I had steadily been ruining myself for the last year, ever since I had come to the Regimental Depot to command the Training Company. The ready availability of Courses was compounded by the old-fashioned notions and sheer good nature of the Commandant. As he saw it, one’s duty as an Officer at the Depot was to be seen around the County doing ‘the right sort of things’ and thus boosting the repute of the Regiment: so provided one was prepared to play cricket three times a week, either for the Depot itself or ‘the right sort’ of local club, then one was welcome to go racing for the other three, for to be seen racing, though not as commendable as to be seen at the wicket, was pretty well what was expected of Regular Officers of a decent County Regiment on Home Service in their own County. (As for the Training, the NCOs and the National Service Officers could look after that.) Mutatis mutandis, much the same system obtained in the winter: provided one went shooting or hunting three days a week, then one could go racing for the rest with the Commandant’s blessing – this being the warmer in winter as National Hunt Racing was somehow more ‘the right sort of thing’ than the Flat.

  The sum of the matter was, then, that since I cheerfully did my stint at cricket and rough shooting, I was allowed, almost encouraged, to attend all the major Race Meetings and many of the minor ones from Aintree south to Chepstow and from Hereford east to Woore…a licence to beggar oneself if ever there was. Mind you, I had my moments; one November day in 1956 I won a massive Yankee (four horses cross-doubled, cross-trebled and accumulated) which got me out of a bad spot of bother and put me two thousand pounds (in those days a huge sum of money) in the clear. But instead of quitting I got greedy (do it again, boy, at higher stakes): away went the two thousand which I had and three thousand which I hadn’t; the bookmakers were at first patient, then restive, and by now overtly disagreeable; and there I was on that dreary non-racing afternoon at Ludlow, faced with absolute and irremediable social and military disgrace.

  As we left at the end of the exercise the Commandant looked out over the crepuscular Course and remarked,

  ‘Nice place this. I’ll join you next time they race here.’

  At once a vision came to me of walking with this amiable gentleman between rows of jeering bookies; the sweat began to trickle in my crutch, and there and then I made my confession. The Commandant was uncensorious but mildly taken aback. Although he knew I was a betting man, he hadn’t, apparently, conceived of me as a plunger. Such trouble as this he had not at all expected; and of course from his point of view (i.e. the Regiment’s) it was the worst sort of trouble in the book. Not the ‘sort of thing’ which would go down well in the County. However, as I say, he did not recriminate or complain, he merely remarked that in his young days there had been a saying, ‘If you can’t pay the bill, look for the fire escape,’ after which he promised to give me his considered view of the matter on the following morning.

  When this came the Commandant was still calm and undismayed.

  ‘It seems from what you’ve told me,’ he said in a light and casual voice, ‘that very soon now we’re going to have a pack of bookmakers baying for you at the Barrack Gate. In which case we’d have to have you Court-Martialed. Not paying your bookies is conduct unbecoming to the character of an Officer and a Gentleman – in case you didn’t know.’

  ‘I knew,’ I said.

  ‘Well then. I can’t stop the bookmakers pursuing you, but I can help you to keep out of their way until you’re a civilian. Until you’ve resigned. You’ll still be in bad trouble with the Jockey Club or whatever, but at least there’ll be no Court Martial – a very great relief to me and to you too, I should imagine.’

  I nodded and quickly wiped away a tear. For this was handsome behaviour by any measure.

  ‘No time to waste,’ said the Commandant briskly. ‘Lose yourself. As from this second you are on leave: no leave address, because you’re touring the Balkans or some bloody place. If no one can find you, no one can Court Martial you. So lose yourself utterly until your resignation is safely in the London Gazette.’

  ‘But I can’t go to the Balkans. I can just about get to London.’

  ‘A very good place to hide. You just lie low, dear boy, and leave me to tell the tale if I have to.’

  ‘How long will it take – to get my resignation through?’

  ‘Two months – with a little luck. It used to be immediate – as soon as you sent your papers in – but that was when you paid your own fees at Sandhurst. Now the Army pays, so the boxwallahs at the War House reckon they’re entitled to be awkward – for at least nine months very often.’

  ‘But this will only take two, you say?’

  ‘I’ve got a friend,’ said the Commandant carelessly, ‘who’s got another. So there it is, dear boy. I’m sorry it’s all worked out like this, but at least there won’t be a bloodbath – provided you vanish like the proverbial lady. I want you out of this Depot by lunchtime.’

  As the train slunk out of Shrewsbury Station bearing me away to my ‘tour of the Balkans’, I walked through to the Dining Car for lunch. In those days important trains to and from the West Midlands produced a four course meal, which I now enlivened by calling for a whole bottle of Nuits St Georges: for it is to be taken for granted, as Trollope somewhere remarks, that ruined men always have enough ready money about them to eat and drink very handsomely. As I ate and drank, I reflected. There had been great days and jolly days with the King’s Shropshire Light Infantry, but really I was not cut out for a soldier and it was not at all a bad thing that my career in the Regular Army (which had only ever begun because of a fit of necessitous pique at the end of my time at Cambridge, when no one else would employ me) had come to a definitive conclusion. It was high time for the next thing, while I was still young enough (twenty-nine) to put myself about a bit. While I was still an undergraduate, I had been introduced to several Literary Editors (Joe Ackerley of The Listener paramount among them) who had given me odd jobs of reviewing: now I would go and knock on their doors and request some thing
more substantial and permanent.

  In short, I decided to commence ‘Man of Letters’. But meanwhile, as the train carried me to my new life, a tear or two might be shed, a smile or two indulged, as I briefly recalled the traumas and fiascos of the old.

  One day in the Kenya autumn of 1955 the KSLI had fielded an XI against the Nairobi Club for a whole day match on the latter’s ground which adjoined the commodious Clubhouse. Our own team consisted almost entirely of Officers who had been brought down into Nairobi from their distant and isolated Companies in the Aberdare Mountains especially for the occasion. The logistic extravagance entailed was entirely justified, it appeared, by the importance of the match, which was in fact a ponderous exercise in public relations between the Regiment and the Colonial Service, the Nairobi Club side being largely made up of District Officers or Commissioners, with a sprinkling of Kenya Policemen. There were, in consequence, many spectators of high rank or sycophantic inclination, among them Major General Frothbury.

  As there were no official umpires for the match, competent volunteers from the audience stood shifts of an hour or so, and eventually, late in the afternoon, Frothbury expressed a genial wish to take a turn. It was assumed by all, and asserted by his demeanour, that he had at least an adequate knowledge of the Laws of Cricket, and after five Staff Officers had struggled for the honour of helping him into a white coat he duly took post at the ‘Club end’ of the wicket.

  The state of the game was delicate. The Nairobi Club had declared at 3.30 for 232 runs for 7 wickets, leaving the KSLI until 7 p.m. (three hours, if we allow for the break between the innings and a brief tea interval) to beat this total. Although the fast outfield was in our favour, we had none of us had much practice at playing on matting wickets and the Nairobi Club bowling was reputed to be very tight. By 5.30, when Frothbury strutted on to the ground to umpire, we had made 121 for 5, which put us well up with the clock but otherwise in bad case, as the two batsmen now at the wicket were our last two batsmen of substance, and once they were out the enemy would be right into our tail. One of them was a young National Service Subaltern called Kenyon, a correct and neat player without, however, very much power behind his strokes; the other was the only non-commissioned man on our side, a certain Sergeant Jellico, whose brisk natural talent was marred by an unorthodox grip (left hand right at the top of the handle and right hand rammed down on to the shoulders of the bat).

  General Frothbury proceeded to take against both of them. As Kenyon told me afterwards, when they were at the bowling end together Frothbury would make remarks like ‘Get on with it, will you, and stop finicking about’ – regardless of Kenyon’s clear tactical duty as anchor man, which was not ‘to get on with it’ but to stay put, and also regardless of the regulation which forbids the umpire to advise or rebuke the players save only in respect of the Laws.

  Sergeant Jellico received more conspicuous treatment: the General took his bat from him and demonstrated the orthodox grip. When the Sergeant, unrepentant, continued to use his own, the General put on an affronted scowl which deepened and darkened when Jellico drove two balls in succession through the covers for four and slammed the last of the over past deep midwicket for three.

  This meant that Jellico must now face the first ball of the next over, which would be bowled from Frothbury’s end. The first ball the Sergeant received, a real sod as Kenyon said later, narrowly missed his off stump.

  ‘Well, I told him about his grip,’ said Frothbury to Kenyon, ‘if he gets himself out he’s no one to blame but himself.’

  ‘I think he’s had it too long to change, sir,’ said Kenyon.

  ‘Nonsense. Too swollen-headed to take advice. What’s his name?’

  Kenyon told him.

  ‘Sergeant Jellico,’ said the General, storing it away. ‘Nothing I hate more than a conceited NCO.’

  The second ball of the over was far less savage and was propelled in a huge arc over the bowler’s head for six. The third was swept away off the leg stump, dangerously but effectively for four. Frothbury’s face worked in discontent. The fourth was slashed hissing towards cover but must, as it seemed, pass wide of his left hand.

  ‘Come on, sir,’ Jellico called.

  Both batsmen started for the run; but before they had taken two strides cover had miraculously gathered the ball with his left hand.

  ‘BACK,’ shouted Jellico. He stopped dead and dived back towards his crease.

  But for Kenyon it was much harder to stop. He had been backing up properly as the ball was bowled and was therefore going at much greater momentum than Jellico. However, he juddered to a halt and turned…too late, as cover-point had flipped the ball straight back to the bowler, who crisply broke the wicket.

  ‘How’s that?’ the bowler said.

  ‘Out,’ said the General.

  Kenyon began to walk.

  ‘Not you,’ said Frothbury. ‘The other man. Sergeant Jellico.’

  ‘But sir,’ said Kenyon, ‘the wicket was broken at my end.’

  ‘The end to which he was running.’

  ‘We hadn’t crossed, sir,’ said Kenyon, and continued on his way.

  ‘You come back here,’ yapped the General, ‘and you,’ he bawled down the wicket, ‘you, Sergeant Jellico, out you go.’

  Jellico gaped at the General, while Kenyon, a decent but feeble young man, started to dither.

  The Captain of the Nairobi Club XI now walked up to Frothbury and said, very pleasantly, ‘Slight misunderstanding, General. Often tricky, this kind of thing. But the non-striker’s wicket was broken, and since the batsmen hadn’t crossed –’

  ‘– It’s me,’ said Kenyon, trying to be firm, ‘that’s out.’

  He turned and marched away.

  ‘YOU COME BACK,’ squealed the General like an electric saw. And then, to the Nairobi Club Captain, ‘Just teaching that Sergeant a lesson. He called the run, then he funked it. He should have kept straight on and let young Kenyon get to his end. Anyway, he needs pulling down a peg.’

  The Nairobi Club Captain smiled a ghastly smile and took a deep breath.

  ‘I’m afraid that has nothing to do with it, sir. The Laws of Cricket state –’

  ‘– That the umpire’s decision is final,’ snapped Frothbury, who was not a General for nothing. ‘You come back here, Kenyon. Sergeant Jellico is out.’

  The Nairobi Club Captain beckoned wearily to the other umpire…a GSO II in Frothbury’s Headquarters, who cravenly deposed that his attention had been distracted by a mosquito and that he had missed the incident altogether.

  It was at this stage that somebody at last behaved rather well. Sergeant Jellico, realising that unless the General had his will there would be no more cricket that day, strode from the wicket looking neither to right nor to left but (so the loungers under the fans of the pavilion bar subsequently asserted) blinking very slightly with disappointment, for after all he had been batting with zest and valour and might well have won us the match.

  It was funny, I reflected, as the train pelted South and the wine did its work, how often important cricket matches played by the KSLI contrived to be undignified or unedifying, if not in the play itself, then in their social effect or their aftermath. Some time before the Kenyan affair, there had been a notable occasion in Berlin on which a two innings match versus the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry had to be converted into a three and then into a four innings match (so incompetent or ‘tired’ were the batsmen on either side) in order to provide some sort of spectacle for the visitors invited to meals or drinks on the ground during the two days allotted. And some time before that there had been a piece of pure Maupassant at Brunswick…

  The match against the Lancers at Brunswick lasted exactly two overs, during which nothing much happened except that my friend Andrew Wootton, a non-cricketer who had volunteered, in a lean season, to take the field for the shadoWs on the grass sake of the outing, was observed by all to be wearing black socks and grey gym shoes with his off-white flannels. At
the end of the second over it had begun to rain, and after we had hung around for three and a half hours it was agreed that the match should be abandoned. One of our hosts then volunteered to show us round Brunswick. After a quick circuit in the KSLI bus, our guide suggested that the bus should be parked centrally and the KSLI cricketers released to find what amusement they might and then to rendezvous later.

  ‘If you like,’ he said to myself and Andrew, ‘I can show you the brothel quarter. It’s still there, walls and all. There’s a very pretty Gothic Gate.’

  ‘Oh yes, please,’ squawked a round-faced Ensign called Jack Ogle, who was good at overhearing things; and so off we went in the rain, Andrew Wootton loping along indifferent to wet in the front, while our guide, tubby Jack and myself jostled for places under our only umbrella.

  ‘At the bottom end they display themselves in the windows,’ said our guide. ‘The top end is more tasteful. It’s madly out of bounds, of course. If the MPs catch us we’re for it.’

  ‘How can they catch us in civilian clothes? We might be any old tourists.’

  ‘They’re trained to sniff out Army personnel. Not hard in our case – we’re all wearing Regimental ties or blazers. They’d recognise them a mile off, then ask to see our Identity Cards. Luckily it’s pretty early – they generally come out at night. But even so,’ said our Mentor, ‘we don’t want to hang about.’

  Nor did we. Everyone was speedily accommodated in a ‘more tasteful’ house at the smarter end of the street, and very shortly we were reunited outside the front door. All of us, that was, except Jack Ogle.

  After ten minutes, ‘He must be playing extra time,’ said Andrew, who was looking exceedingly glum. ‘Failure to score, do you think? Or is he having a second innings?’

  ‘All I know,’ I droned dismally, ‘is that I’m tired of standing here in this bloody rain shitting myself lest the Red Caps arrive. Let’s leave him to find his own way back to the bus.’

  ‘Not quite the thing,’ said our host, ‘to leave one’s chum behind in a cat house. Not in our crowd, at any rate.’