Cricket Master

(AN INCIDENT)

            My undergraduate eyes beholding,

                As I climbed your slope, Cat Hill:

            Emerald chestnut fans unfolding,

                Symbols of my hope, Cat Hill,

            What cared I for past disaster,

            Applicant for cricket master,

            Nothing much of cricket knowing,

            Conscious but of money owing?

                Somehow I would cope, Cat Hill.

“The sort of man we want must be prepared

To take our first eleven. Many boys

From last year’s team are with us. You will find

Their bowling’s pretty good and they are keen.”

“And so am I, Sir, very keen indeed.”

Oh where’s mid-on? And what is silly point?

Do six balls make an over? Help me, God!

“Of course you’ll get some first-class cricket too;

The MCC send down an A team here.”

My bluff had worked. I sought the common-room,

Of last term’s pipe-smoke faintly redolent.

It waited empty with its worn arm-chairs

For senior bums to mine, when in there came

A fierce old eagle in whose piercing eye

I saw that instant-registered dislike

Of all unhealthy aesthetes such as me.

“I’m Winters—you’re our other new recruit

And here’s another new man—Barnstaple.”

He introduced a thick Devonian.

“Let’s go and have some practice in the nets.

You’d better go in first.” With but one pad,

No gloves, and knees that knocked in utter fright,

Vainly I tried to fend the hail of balls

Hurled at my head by brutal Barnstaple

And at my shins by Winters. Nasty quiet

Followed my poor performance. When the sun

Had sunk behind the fringe of Hadley Wood

And Barnstaple and I were left alone

Among the ash-trays of the common-room,

He murmured in his soft West-country tones:

“D’you know what Winters told me, Betjeman?

He didn’t think you’d ever held a bat.”

    The trusting boys returned. “We’re jolly glad

You’re on our side, Sir, in the trial match.”

“But I’m no good at all.” “Oh yes, you are.”

When I was out first ball, they said “Bad luck!

You hadn’t got your eye in.” Still I see

Barnstaple’s smile of undisguised contempt,

Still feel the sting of Winters’ silent sneer.

Disgraced, demoted to the seventh game,

Even the boys had lost their faith in me.

God guards his aesthetes. If by chance these lines

Are read by one who in some common-room

Has had his bluff called, let him now take heart:

In every school there is a sacred place

More holy than the chapel. Ours was yours:

I mean, of course, the first-eleven pitch.

Here in the welcome break from morning work,

The heavier boys, of milk and biscuits full,

Sat on the roller while we others pushed

Its weighty cargo slowly up and down.

We searched the grass for weeds, caressed the turf,

Lay on our stomachs squinting down its length

To see that all was absolutely smooth.

    The prize-day neared. And, on the eve before,

We masters hung our college blazers out

In readiness for tomorrow. Matron made

A final survey of the boys’ best clothes—

Clean shirts. Clean collars. “Rice, your jacket’s torn.

Bring it to me this instant!” Supper done,

Barnstaple drove his round-nosed Morris out

And he and I and Vera Spencer-Clarke,

Our strong gymnasium mistress, squashed ourselves

Into the front and rattled to The Cock.

    Sweet bean-fields then were scenting Middlesex;

Narrow lanes led between the dairy-farms

To ponds reflecting weather-boarded inns.

There on the wooden bench outside The Cock

Sat Barnstaple, Miss Spencer-Clarke and I,

At last forgetful of tomorrow’s dread

And gazing into sky-blue Hertfordshire.

Three pints for Barnstaple, three halves for me,

Sherry of course for Vera Spencer-Clarke.

    Pre-prize-day nerves? Or too much bitter beer?

What had that evening done to Barnstaple?

I only know that singing we returned;

The more we sang, the faster Barnstaple

Drove his old Morris, swerving down the drive

And in and out the rhododendron clumps,

Over the very playing-field itself,

And then—oh horror!—right across the pitch

Not once, but twice or thrice. The mark of tyres

Next day was noticed at the Parents’ Match.

That settled Barnstaple and he was sacked,

While I survived him, lasting three more terms.

            Shops and villas have invaded

                Your chestnut quiet there, Cat Hill.

            Cricket field and pitch degraded,

                Nothing did they spare, Cat Hill.

            Vera Spencer-Clarke is married

            And the rest are dead and buried;

            I am thirty summers older,

            Richer, wickeder and colder,

                Fuller too of care, Cat Hill.