The Bedsers

The next four years will be Bedser’s testing time. Meanwhile, England may be thankful that she has him. He will serve her faithfully.

JOHN ARLOTT

‘What a lot of nonsense,’ thought Florence Bedser in later years, as she dusted the silverware on the mantlepiece. ‘All for bowling a cricket ball.’ She was always intent on keeping the feet of her sons firmly on the ground. The good times were beginning for Alec Bedser: a remarkable Test début in 1946 would be followed by other accomplishments to strike a chord of pride. Amid all his triumphs, the ‘wonderful mother’ would quietly acknowledge the congratulations. Then, with a smile to signal her pleasure, she would add: ‘Well, of course, that’s his job!’

The reticence was there to defuse excessive praise; discretion was the keynote of an undemonstrative family. As if in accord with this reserve, the headlines were muted during Alec’s summer of success in 1946. Austerity held the nation in its grasp. Newsprint was not excluded from the strict post-war rationing. Four daily pages was the allotment for news items, good and bad. Spectacular sporting feats were tucked away in the margins. Alec was deprived of column inches which, in other times, would have carried the message of his exploits in glowing terms.

The Indian tourists were in spirited mood when they came to The Oval in May 1946 at the start of a summer of slate skies and peevish rains. Surrey were forced to follow on after the visitors had gained unexpected prosperity with a record-breaking last-wicket stand. Merchant and Gul Mahomed had shared a century partnership for the third wicket.

This preceded a major collapse: the Indians lost 9 men for 209 runs before their recovery. Surrey could not make the final thrust. Their bowling resources were depleted by the absence of the veteran, Alf Gover, who had strained a tendon in his heel and bowled only seven overs in the match. Another factor was the fumble of the erring Mobey, who missed a stumping off Parker at the outset of the Indian rally. The reprieved batsman, Sarwate, along with his partner, Banerjee, stood firm for over three hours. Their stand started at 4.03 on the Saturday and did not end until 12.27 on the Monday. There was no trace of last-wicket anxiety. Both scored centuries, the first time this had been achieved by No. 10 and No. 11 batsmen. Their partnership of 249 runs was the highest ever recorded for the last wicket in England. In world cricket it has only been superseded by two Australians, Kippax and Hooker, who scored 307 for New South Wales against Victoria at Melbourne in 1928–29.

Alec Bedser, while acknowledging the assured strokeplay of Sarwate and Banerjee at The Oval, does point out that neither were duffers as batsmen. They had both opened for their states, respectively Holkar and Bihar, in India. Sarwate, in particular, was a genuine all-rounder. His leg-spin gave him a yield of nearly 500 wickets; he also scored 7,430 runs in first-class cricket. Earlier in 1946, while representing Holkar against Mysore at Indore in the semi-final of the Ranji Trophy tournament, he had scored a century. Holkar declared at 912 for 8 and Sarwate then took 9 wickets for 61 runs, his best-ever bowling analysis.

The extravagant spin of Nayudu, who claimed a hat-trick, confounded all but Fishlock in Surrey’s first innings at The Oval. A century stand between Gregory and Fishlock summoned greater resistance in the second innings. Sarwate, who did not bowl in the first innings, took five wickets, and India were able to coast to a victory by nine wickets. Sarwate was promoted to open the Indian innings with Merchant. Alec Bedser, having bowled 47 overs for his 5 wickets in India’s first innings, gained some recompense for his earlier punishment when he dismissed Sarwate for one.

Reverses can have a beneficial effect and this springtime mishap only briefly checked the progress of Bedser. He was awarded his county cap on 12 June and was then selected to play in his first Test after only 11 first-class matches and with only 46 wickets behind him. Destiny might ultimately have brought Alec his England colours; but he gave it a mighty heave when he ignored a painful thigh injury to play for The Rest against an England XI in the Test trial at Lord’s in early June.

He stoically maintained a strict silence. ‘I didn’t tell anyone,’ he says. Away from the dressing-room he found a quiet, unattended corner where he could heavily bandage his thigh. It was another instance of an awareness of the practicalities of cricket, first learnt as an apprentice at The Oval: ‘If you didn’t play, you didn’t get paid.’ At Lord’s, Alec spurned the handicap to earn Test recognition. ‘Had I cried off there, I might never have played for England.’

Jack Martin, of Kent, was the first of Alec’s representative match bowling partners in the Test trial. There were two prized and eminent names, Len Hutton and Wally Hammond, to insert in Alec’s wicket-taking collection at Lord’s. Along with Joe Hardstaff and Jack Ikin in the opposing ranks, Bedser won the commendation of Crawford White in the News Chronicle:

Alec Bedser was impressive until he tired late in the day. On an easy pitch he had Hutton and Hammond tied down for six successive maiden overs and finally got both their wickets, with the aid of catches by Martin and Edrich. Six feet three and 15 stone, Bedser puts plenty of body in his bowling. He makes the ball move both ways and gets remarkable pace off the pitch.

Ten days later, Alec mingled with the spectators carrying their picnic hampers down St John’s Wood Road. His own burden was a big leather bag containing flannels and shirts, all devotedly washed by his mother in the kitchen copper back home at Woking. Alec laconically describes his journey into cricket fame. On the day of his Test début against India he had caught the train to Waterloo, then strap-hanged on the underground train to Baker Street. ‘I took the bus up to St. John’s Wood church, walked along to Lord’s and went in to play.’ It was the same routine, to and from home, for each day of the match. For his travelling and cricket labours he received third-class rail fares and a match fee of £45.

The enigmatic Wally Hammond resumed his England captaincy in the three-match series against India. Alec remembers the perfunctory greeting he received on entering the dressing-room at Lord’s. ‘Hammond was never a man to enthuse; he hardly ever spoke to you. All he said to me was, “Welcome. Hope you have a good game” – and that was it.’

Bill Bowes, the first of Alec’s Test partners, was at the other end to scrutinise the England débutant. The wise old campaigner looked on eagerly, offering welcome advice. His eyes were refreshed by the promise of the Surrey recruit. Bowes, the bowling broadsword of Yorkshire’s great years in the 1930s, must have known that he was eavesdropping on the blossoming challenge of a contender equal to himself.

Beyond the boundary there were cautious words of praise from the Manchester Guardian correspondent. His compliments were not rash and none the worse for that. The judgement was accorded to a raw and relatively unknown newcomer: ‘Bedser is not a heaven-sent opening bowler, but like the British private soldier he gives of his best and will bowl with Tom Richardson spirit until his heart bursts.’

The blueprint for magnificence was, though, first drawn up in a spectacular entry at Lord’s. Alec Bedser, immediately brought into the fray, took 7 wickets for 49 runs in 29.1 overs in India’s first innings. They included seasoned opponents in Hazare, Amarnath and the Indian captain, the Nawab of Pataudi. (The only cricketer to play for both England and India, Pataudi had earlier emulated his fellow Indian princes, Ranjitsinhji and Duleepsinhji in scoring a century in his first Test against Australia on the 1932–33 tour.)

The first of Alec’s wickets was that of Vijay Merchant, caught on the leg side by Paul Gibb who was attentively standing up in the manner to be followed by other wicket-keeping allies. Alec remembers: ‘Luckily for me, I was in the thick of the action right away. I was able to bowl from the Nursery End, my favourite end at Lord’s, as I could make the ball go away with the slope and also swing in against it to the batsmen.’

The eclipse of Merchant gave an added buoyancy to Bedser’s stride. It was a major conquest. Dudley Carew, the Times correspondent, watching Merchant in this first post-war season, thought of him as a batsman equipped to play in a representative world XI. John Arlott was another to pay tribute to the smooth, never-violent technique of the Indian: ‘An innings by Merchant sprouts no exotic blooms but its construction is perfect to the last detail.’ Arlott likened Merchant to Herbert Sutcliffe: ‘No brutishness of the wicket, no pace or spin or swing can disconcert him.’ Merchant was the first Indian to score 2,000 runs on a tour, averaging 74.53 in all first-class matches and 49 in five Test innings. He hit seven hundreds, with a highest score of 242, and exceeded 50 in 20 out of his 41 innings. His 128 in the third Test at The Oval was the highest ever played for his country against England. A signal indication of Merchant’s mastery is that his first-class career average of 71.22 is second only to that of Don Bradman.

At Lord’s, commented one writer, Alec Bedser revealed to the selectors what they most wanted to know – that he had the heart as well as the action of a great bowler. A packed assembly of nearly 30,000 people watched the resumption of Test cricket in June 1946 and they were heartened by an exceptional début, one to arouse high expectations. The verdict of Wisden underlined the threat of the débutant: ‘Bedser maintained an admirable length at fast-medium pace, with swerve or spin, which often turned the ball appreciably on the sodden turf.’

Out in the country at Guildford, there was another deeply interested partisan. Eric Bedser, playing for Surrey against Oxford University, spent every available moment listening to a radio broadcast of the match in the house of the groundsman, Jack Patterson. There must have been at least a ripple of elation at the news of the events at Lord’s.

Brother Alec followed his seven wickets in India’s first innings with four more in the second innings. His match figures of 11 wickets for 145 runs on a début are not without parallels. Fred (‘Nutty’) Martin, the Kent left-arm fast-medium bowler, holds the English record of 12 for 102. This was achieved, as deputy for Bobby Peel, in his only Test against Australia at The Oval in 1890. Another Kent man, leg-spinner C.S. Marriott, took 11 wickets (for 96) against the West Indies at The Oval in 1933; and Clarrie Grimmett also displayed his spinning arts to take 11 for 85 against England at Sydney in the 1924–25 series.

In more recent times there have been more telling analyses of 16 wickets by Massie (Australia) and Hirwani (India) on their first appearances. None of these bowlers, however, was able to match the sustained excellence of Alec Bedser against India. He followed his feat at Lord’s by taking another 11 wickets in the second drawn match at Manchester. Such was his accuracy that his 22 wickets in two Tests cost him less than 11 runs apiece. Alec headed the England bowling averages against India with 24 wickets at 12.41 runs each.

England completed a ten-wicket victory over India at Lord’s by 1.30 on the third day. As he enjoyed a relaxed lunch, Bedser knew that the spotlight thrown upon him heightened his responsibilities. At 28, he was accounted the best young pace bowler in the country. His apprenticeship had been suspended, but there was the gain in mature strength. Mentally, too, he was philosophically attuned as a cricketer. Along with other returning professionals after six years of war, he had been subjected to far worse pressures than would ever assail him in cricket.

Discerning critics, while acknowledging Bedser as a welcome discovery, insisted that his cricket career was still in the making. ‘The next four years,’ wrote John Arlott, ‘will be his testing time. Meanwhile, England may be thankful that she has him. He will serve her faithfully.’

Alec, at Lord’s, also demonstrated a batting ability which was to serve England well on other occasions. It might have been more freely expressed but for the burden he carried as a bowler. England lost four wickets – those of Hutton; Compton, bowled first ball by Amarnath; Washbrook; and Hammond – for 70 runs. Then Hardstaff and Gibb were associated in a match-winning stand of 182 runs for the fifth wicket. Smailes and Bedser also flourished in Hardstaff’s company.

The artistry of Hardstaff’s unbeaten double-century was unfurled in a stay of five and a quarter hours. The design of the innings matched his immaculate bearing. Before the Second World War he had teetered on the brink of greatness. Trevor Bailey presents an impressive claim for an England quartet of that time. He has ranked Hardstaff, Hutton, Compton and Edrich as the best professional batsmen to grace the stage in this brief pre-war interlude.

There was another glimpse of Hardstaff’s grandeur at Lord’s. As his – and England’s – total soared, so did dejection shroud the Indians. Unruffled and bareheaded, as usual, he kept a watchful vigil and Crawford White, in the News Chronicle, commented:

On Saturday, when England were faltering against the attack of Amarnath, it was Hardstaff who stopped the rot. While wickets fell at the other end, Hardstaff seldom seemed troubled. He made square-cuts, cover drives, and forcing shots off his legs with equal ease. By comparison, valuable though they were, the efforts of his colleagues bordered on the rural.

Alec Bedser, as one of these batting courtiers, remembers his modest 30 in a partnership of 70 runs with Hardstaff: ‘He scored 205 with such elegance that I was grateful not to have been bowling against him.’ Alec’s bowling feat at Lord’s elicited the fulfilled prophecy from Hardstaff that he had booked his passage to Australia for the following winter. The kindly words preceded another splendid gesture. One of Alec’s most treasured souvenirs of his opening Test is the England cap he received from his Nottinghamshire-based senior. ‘Take this home,’ said Joe, ‘and give it to your mother.’

At 43, Wally Hammond was the oldest cricketer to captain England when the MCC side toured Australia in the winter of 1946–47. Although in retrospect it was shown to be a sad mistake, his appointment was a formality. In the previous English summer he had topped the first-class averages with 1,783 runs at an average of 84.90. The tally of hundreds, seven in all, included two double-centuries. Hammond had shown, reported Wisden, ‘the batting form that made him almost the terror of bowlers’.

Charles Barnett has testified to Hammond’s dominance in his heyday between the two world wars. ‘It was an education to bat with him,’ recalled the former Gloucestershire opening batsman. ‘But you were lucky to get two balls in an over if he was in the mood to plunder the bowling. With the lightest of strides, he could make a good-length ball into an overpitched one.’

Hammond, recalled Barnett, had a demoralising effect on bowlers. One esteemed opponent, Tommy Mitchell (the Derbyshire and England leg-spinner) always took fright at the appearance of Hammond. ‘Poor Tommy couldn’t stay on the field. He would make some excuse and retire to the pavilion until Hammond was out.’ Barnett confirmed the view of Hammond as a great athlete and considered that his strength lay in his eyesight. As a supreme first slip, Hammond would observe bowlers: ‘Wally had the talent to use his assessment of them to advantage as a batsman.’

Alec Bedser was still an enthusiastic and tireless learner under the leadership of Hammond in England and Australia. Hammond had been his – and Eric’s – idol during their boyhood. They had once cycled to Chobham, a neighbouring Surrey village, to watch and admire the great man in action. The Bedsers looked on with envy as Hammond strolled around the ground in his England blazer. The hero-worship receded, though, when Alec himself achieved England status. ‘I found him to be below my ideal as a captain. I was still inexperienced and would have appreciated some words of advice and encouragement.’

The feud between Charles Barnett and Hammond is well known in cricket circles. Barnett lived in the same Gloucestershire valley as Hammond. Their association, in cricket terms, was substantial: ‘Ours was a “convenience friendship” – we had our understandings and disagreements,’ quietly observed Barnett. They travelled many miles together on cricket journeys. ‘Sometimes Wally wouldn’t utter a word; at other times he could be charming and we would chat amicably together.’

Barnett, as an astute and congenial West Countryman, usually forbore malice, but he did endorse Bedser’s opinion of Hammond as a captain. His explanation puts the flaws of an exalted champion under a searching microscope: ‘Wally had spent 14 years of his life as an army sergeant’s son. It was a difficult upbringing. He had to do as he was told. So when he became a cricketer he expected people to carry out his orders without question.’

Barnett conveyed the image of a charmless captain lacking tactical acumen. He had first noted the deficiencies when Hammond turned amateur to succeed to the England captaincy in 1938. ‘Wally wasn’t an influence for good; he hadn’t got a kind streak. Gloucestershire’s young bowlers suffered. They were too frightened of making mistakes which could have been avoided if he had been more approachable.’

The arrogance was, in Barnett’s judgement, indefensible. ‘All successes in life can be achieved with the word “please”. It is such an easy thing to say. Cricket can be tough, but still a gentleman’s game. If it isn’t, it’s hardly worth playing.’ Hammond’s chameleon character and unpredictable moods rendered him a lonely man on his majestic plateau. ‘He had many acquaintances, but very few friends’ – that was Barnett’s sad view of his old batting partner.

There were premature expressions of optimism about the challenge facing the MCC party on the hastily arranged tour of Australia in 1946–47. Jim Swanton sagely warned of waiting perils. ‘Cricketers of talent and strong fibre seem to fall from trees in this country,’ he said.

Australia’s cricketers, as Alec Bedser points out, were younger and in practice. They had emerged relatively unscathed, in sporting terms, from the war. By contrast, England were reliant on an old guard whose best years were behind them. Hammond, Voce, Hardstaff and Fishlock were the only players previously to have toured Australia. Only four of the party were under 30, with Godfrey Evans, one of the finds of the tour, at 26 the youngest member. The intervention of war had disturbed the momentum of other tourists who had been approaching their prime time. Among them were Len Hutton (whose prowess, however, was happily not to be dimmed by a severe wartime injury), Denis Compton, Bill Edrich and Doug Wright.

The conditions of austerity in Britain were not entirely forgotten aboard the RMS Stirling Castle, which set sail for Australia in August 1946. The ship carried wartime brides and fiancées of Australian servicemen as well as the England cricketers. Only Hammond was allocated really congenial surroundings and players recalled invitations to his cabin suite for drinks. Gerald Howat observed: ‘What was not the least reminiscent of wartime was the food. Menus which gourmets on desert islands dreamed of were set before those used to spam, snoek and reconstituted egg.’ There was, understandably, little resistance offered to the temptations by those who had long existed on meagre rations. Waistlines expanded alarmingly. Remedial deck games had scant impact and agility, naturally on the ebb among so many veterans, further declined with the mounting weight.

Alec Bedser, the raw newcomer in the 1946–47 series, now enjoys the status of an ‘honorary Australian’. The affection with which he and Eric are greeted in that hospitable country is a continuing source of happiness and it was sealed by a dinner commemorating their 80th birthdays at Parliament House, Sydney, in 1998.

The old colonial Anglo-Australian relationship persisted on the first post-war tour (as it still does, on the evidence of recent polls). Jim Swanton remembered one instance of the rapport between the two peoples on his own first tour of Australia as a journalist. The driver of a taxicab in Perth regaled him with vivid descriptions of the manifold attractions and delights of Australia. He ended his recital with bluff words of welcome: ‘Yeah, it’s a great country. Remember, it’s yours as well as ours – and if you don’t enjoy yourself here, it’ll be your own ruddy fault.’

Alec and Eric Bedser were also enthralled by the atmosphere of good fellowship. Having grown up in a rigid social climate – and cricket under the imperious rule of amateurs – prevailing in pre-war England, the impact was staggering. They were able to cast aside the deferential attitudes of their youth. The release from the stress on privilege was a refreshing bonus. ‘From the beginning,’ says Alec, ‘I thought Australia was a great place. I liked the people, so friendly and approachable. They accept you for what you are.’ Entertainment, generous and unstinting, rewards those who gain the respect of Australian hosts. ‘They always make a fuss of you, which is nice.’

Friendships, established in 1946, are still maintained today on the Bedsers’ regular winter holidays in Australia. While other players preferred to stay in cities, Alec and Eric enjoyed relaxing interludes on sheep farms in New South Wales and Victoria. In the immediate post-war touring days, with less frenetic schedules, there was time to build up an accord with people in country districts.

Many of these associations were forged on voyages carrying Australian graziers and their families on the same ships as those bearing the Bedsers to cricket duties in Australia. These were times when vast fortunes were being made in wool: ‘Prices were so good that the traders could afford to come to England on holiday. This was how we met most of them. They would be returning to Australia at the same time as us.’ An agreeable instance of the Bedsers’ social links with Australia is that they now stay with the grandchildren of friends they first met in 1946.

Good fortune of another kind aided the Bedsers at the outset of the first Australian tour. A separation loomed until, quite ‘out of the blue’, the pools promoter Alfie Cope offered to pay Eric’s expenses to join his twin abroad. This gesture did have a publicity motive, but the gift of £500 was a substantial sum. Eric travelled to Australia via Cape Town on a cargo ship. He was reunited with Alec during the match against Victoria at Melbourne in October.

Wally Hammond revealed the better side of his nature in recognising the importance of Eric as a rallying companion on Alec’s first tour. ‘My brother introduced me to Hammond and he said, “Just feel yourself one of the party.”’ As the Bedsers explain, this was a rare concession in days when pavilion privacy was strictly maintained. Eric was able to express his gratitude by assisting Bill Ferguson, the MCC baggage-master, with his duties. It is also instructive to recall that the only other official accompanying the tour party was Major Rupert Howard, the manager. An Australian masseur was recruited at Perth to complete the back-up team.

The pattern of the series was shaped by the calamities of the first Test at Brisbane in December. The course of the match was put irretrievably beyond England’s grasp by the denial of Bradman’s wicket. The great Australian was struggling to regain his pre-war powers. He survived a much debated and controversial decision while his innings was still in its infancy. He had scored only 28 when a catch was disallowed.

The escape is less certainly verified by the Bedsers. They both consider that there was room for doubt. ‘Bill Voce bowled a full half-volley and the ball flew, pretty fast and straight, to Jack Ikin at second slip. It was one of those incidents for which they would ask for the camera today. Don was convinced that he had pinched the ball into the ground.’

Most observers, including Hammond, thought it was an unjust reprieve. Norman Yardley, fielding in the gully, commented: ‘Bradman attempted one of his favourite strokes, a drive just wide of cover point. The ball went from the top edge of the bat towards Ikin, who caught it beautifully’. Bradman himself said the point at issue was whether the ball finished its downward course before making contact with the bat. In his opinion, the ball had touched the bottom of his bat just before hitting the ground and therefore was not a catch.

Scott Borwick, the umpire, was so far unconvinced that he did not consult his colleague at square leg. ‘Had he done so, the result would have been the same,’ said Bradman. Borwick, in an article written after the series, confirmed his verdict: ‘It was a bump ball. It hit the ground a few inches from Bradman’s bat.’

The aborted dismissal was, in the event, a pyschological reverse of severe dimensions for England. Bradman went on to score 187 before being bowled by Edrich. He shared a third-wicket record stand of 276 with Hassett. The plunder was reinforced by Test débutants Keith Miller and Colin McCool, who capitalised on the advantage with further century partnerships. Australia went on to score 645, their highest total at home, before a tropical storm engulfed the Wooloongabba ground.

The violence of that storm, which twice waterlogged the arena within 24 hours, was unparalleled in Brisbane’s history. It signalled the unforgiving terrors of a bowler’s pitch. The winds reached a velocity of 79 mph. In half an hour, ‘250 points of rain fell,’ according to the Sydney Morning Herald; transport services were disrupted and power lines torn down; city buildings and roads were flooded; and a barrage of hailstones left a trail of wreckage (surfers at a nearby seaside resort, wounded by the jagged pieces of ice, had to be treated for head injuries). Don Bradman also recalled the ferocity of the downpour:

In half an hour one could have sailed a boat across the oval. The stumps, which had been left in the middle, floated away. One sightscreen had been blown over the fence by the cyclonic wind, and the hailstones on the roof sounded like machine-gun fire. We were marooned in the dressing-room.

The ensuing treachery of the wicket duplicated the conditions in which England had overwhelmed the hapless Australians ten years earlier. Australia, this time, were the avengers. Neville Cardus, in his vivid imagery, said a description of the perils would have taxed the language of the Old Testament and Joseph Conrad: ‘The atmosphere was greedy for the Englishmen’s ruin; the fieldsmen stood on tiptoe, and in the feverish vision of the batsmen they would surely have appeared each to have many hungry arms to stretch, seize and throw up into the air without pity.’

England could point to the injustice and futility of being asked to offer any sort of a counter in such conditions. The events at Brisbane proved to be a catalyst for the introduction of covered wickets throughout the world. Gallantry of the highest order was displayed by Hammond and Edrich before the inevitable innings defeat at Brisbane.

Wally Hammond did provide one last glimpse of his batting majesty in an unequal struggle. ‘If I had never seen Hammond play some of the liveliest innings of all creation, I would remember him for the classical innings he played on the Brisbane gluepot,’ wrote Jack Fingleton. ‘In such circumstances, the scoresheet is a fraud and a humbug.’

Another Australian, Bill O’Reilly, considered that Hammond had no peer as an all-weather player. ‘He is second to none in playing the “dead bat” at the lifting ball. He played it so well that one might have been excused for thinking that his right arm was either broken or made of jelly, so little pressure did he place on the bat.’

Cardus reported that Hammond was given a royal welcome in England’s first innings as he slowly walked out to the hazardous field: ‘He used his bat like a Roman centurion’s shield, a spectacle of dignity in the surrounding turbulence.’ Hammond had a plucky partner in Bill Edrich; but it was the captain’s near-miraculous 32 which won undivided attention. It vied with his noble poise on another malicious pitch at Melbourne in 1936. The evidence of his skill was shown afterwards to the admiration of players in the England dressing-room. ‘Hammond didn’t have a mark on him, while Bill was black and blue and covered in bruises,’ recalls Alec Bedser.

A heroic cameo did, thankfully, enable Hammond to salvage some pride in his last Test series. His decline saddened those with memories of his great years. There were mitigating factors. His domestic affairs were in tatters and the news of his divorce was made public before the tour began. He scored only 168 runs in 8 innings before he finally acknowledged the crippling pain of fibrositis. Yardley took over as captain in the final Test at Sydney.

Hammond’s captaincy, never his strong suit, also wavered in Australia. It came under intense scrutiny. One Australian writer, generally sympathetic to Hammond, thought it lacked ‘intelligence, thought and inspiration’. The remoteness of the introspective man was also intensified amid England’s reverses. Jack Fingleton observed: ‘He sailed like a schooner from slip to slip anchorage with hardly a consultation.’

The demons which bedevilled Hammond apparently produced a state of insecurity. When his batting command deteriorated, as it did in Australia, he was unsure of himself. Joe Hardstaff looked on sympathetically: ‘There was a worried look on his face when he failed. I thought it was a big mistake to make him captain: it was more than he could take.’

Australia’s triumphs, two by an innings at Brisbane and Sydney, were a salutary reminder of the buoyancy of youth over age. It was also a demonstration of their all-round strengths, which would lift them to a plateau of eminence in the 1940s. Three of their leading bowlers, Miller, Lindwall and McCool, scored centuries.

England, for their part, were consoled by the burgeoning talents of Godfrey Evans, Alec Bedser and Cyril Washbrook, who had made his début for England against New Zealand at The Oval in 1937. They did achieve commendable draws at Melbourne and Adelaide. Denis Compton, in a welcome purple patch, led the recovery with two centuries at Adelaide. In the final Test at Sydney, where Australia won by five wickets, Hutton was stricken by tonsillitis after scoring a century and did not bat in the second innings.

Wally Hammond paid generous tribute to the Australian victors after a tour which, however reluctantly undertaken so soon after the war, did give an enormous fillip to the game of cricket in both countries. Vast crowds, totalling 850,000, watched the series. At Melbourne, for the third Test in January, the official aggregate attendance was 343, 675 and the receipts of £44,063 were a world record for a cricket match. ‘I revelled in the sight of Australia’s dauntless, picturesque, and happy youth, giving to the game we love something we older players could no longer offer it,’ wrote Hammond.

For Alec Bedser, then at the learning stage, the tour of Australia marked an important step in his cricket education. His prodigious burden then, as in the future, would have been immeasurably lightened by another bowler of similar heart and strength at the other end. It meant that he emerged from the series having bowled in the Tests 246 (eight-ball) overs – more than twice the amount of bowling done by each of the Australian opening pair, Lindwall and Miller.

Alec proudly reflects on his stamina which enabled him to go through an onerous tour, lasting eight months, without once breaking down. Lesser men would surely have quailed amid the stifling heat which prevailed during the fourth Test at Adelaide. Matters there were made worse by the high humidity in a city where dry heat was the norm. Mount Lofty on the skyline shimmered in temperatures, which, on four out of the six days of the match, exceeded 100 degrees. Bedser remembers the unrelenting conditions: ‘The temperature on the field was 134 and it only subsided to 90 after dark. There was no air-conditioning, so I sweated all day and sweated all night.’

In the circumstances, it was not surprising that Alec succumbed to sickness at one stage during the match. That day, he bowled 22 eight-ball overs. The drain on energy was further increased by the attire of heavy woollen flannels, which became as heavy as lead when drenched with perspiration. Alec recalls: ‘I retired to the dressing-room and was as sick as a dog under the shower.’ His team-mates looked on in consternation when he re-emerged to continue bowling. They said he was as ‘white as a sheet’.

Bill Edrich, Alec’s bowling partner, was also afflicted by the heat. It was so hot that he was unable to breathe properly as he ran in to the wicket. Drinks intervals were restricted to three in the playing sessions throughout the day. Alec was so dehydrated that he had lost six pounds by the close of play. It was said that Eric, occupied less strenuously bowling in the nets at Adelaide, was so concerned by his brother’s misfortune that his own weight fell by the equivalent amount by the end of what was a horrendous day.

Billy Griffith would, in due course, reflect on an unnerving delivery first discovered by chance by Alec Bedser in Australia. It was described, less than accurately, as a leg-cutter. The former MCC secretary, in an article in The Cricketer, wrote:

Bedser cuts the ball from leg using his long fingers to impart spin exactly as the face of the racket is used in tennis. When he bowls it – and herein lies the immense skill – he pitches on a length and invariably makes the batsman play.

The ball’s value as a wicket-taker is multiplied since it is wonderfully effective, particularly when the more orthodox spinner can turn it yards but too slowly to be of much use . . . No one in my time has achieved, to anything like the same degree, such a combination of pace, accuracy, and length as has Bedser with this particular ball.

It was an attacking ploy which would produce woe and despair. But for those who sought to emulate the method, as Griffith and Alec himself says, the leg-cutter didn’t just happen. It was only fully mastered after two years of diligent application. The delivery was first unveiled in the second Test at Sydney in December 1946. Bedser was bowling to Sid Barnes, the Australian opener, on a perfect batting wicket. ‘Barnes was very powerful off his legs, so I didn’t want to swing the ball in that area,’ says Bedser. ‘Alan Peach, my old Surrey coach, had told me, “If you want to stop the ball swinging, hold it across the seam like a leg-spinner.”’

Experimentally, as Peach had advised, Alec held the ball’s seam horizontally: ‘I ran up and bowled and the ball went across the wicket like a leg-spinner, so I’d obviously spun it.’ Peter Smith, fielding at mid-on, gasped in disbelief: ‘You can’t bowl with a new ball like that.’ Alec was undeterred by the rebuke and replied, ‘I’ve just seen something happen and I want to do it again.’ Barnes, hitherto at ease, would have preferred the tactic to be abandoned. ‘What the hell’s going on here?’ he grumbled.

A great deed would follow this intriguing episode. A few weeks later, at Adelaide, Don Bradman came in to bat, ten minutes before the end of play, on a February evening. Jim Swanton described this as a red-letter day. He had received an invitation to dinner at Bradman’s home. Along with Jessie Bradman and her son, John, he elected to escape the rush by leaving an over before the close. They were beneath the stand when there was a tremendous uproar from above. ‘That’ll be Dad,’ said John happily. And he was right. Bedser had bowled his father for nought.

Bradman would later announce that the ball which defeated him was the finest ever to take his wicket: ‘It must have come three-quarters of the way straight on my off stump, then suddenly dipped to pitch on the leg-stump, only to turn off the pitch and hit the middle and off stumps.’

The delivery which overthrew Bradman at Adelaide was ‘spun at speed’. The effect was a genuine leg-break and Bedser later said that it was the turning-point in his career. In the years to come he was to bring that magnificent ball under almost sure command.