Rain was forecast for Patron’s Day, but John had hopes it might not materialize. Since Burton had taken pains to ensure the ranks of Old Boys included the able-bodied, John also had hopes that the match would for once not prove embarrassing. Ever since the War, masters had been drafted to fill out the Old Boy side, but this year Burton assured the SCR that their services would not be required, with the exception of John, whom the Old Boys expected as their captain. John was disturbed to read amongst the replies the odious names of Bradley, Fletcher, and Frick major. Frick had come every year, as his brother Colin was still at the school, but this would be Bradley’s first appearance. Until today, John had allowed himself to imagine that Bradley had disintegrated like a bad dream. He was not looking forward to playing cricket with the creature.
The First XI were beginning to look respectable, particularly the House Captains (Andrewes, Radcliffe, and Barlow—though Ward continued to disappoint). They hadn’t yet won any matches against other schools, but they’d easily defeat the Old Boys. It wasn’t unreasonable to hope that, buoyed by that success, the XI would acquit themselves well against St. Peter’s the following week and perhaps even win that match.
Burton, predictably, was in a flap about the day. In addition to parents and a hefty turnout of Old Boys (some of whom, John suspected, had returned to see for themselves what had become of the Academy in its tragedies), several of the Board were expected. For a time, it was rumored that S-K himself might come, but Burton informed the SCR on the morning that the Headmaster had sent his regrets, or rather, someone had sent regrets for him. Burton affected disappointment, but John could see he was relieved. S-K’s presence would have been impossibly confusing. It was going to be hard enough for Burton to convince everyone—Old Boys, Board, the school itself—that his government was at last under control and moving the Academy in a profitable direction, that the Second Age was under way. What’s more, Burton surely realized that Patron’s Day would be his final audition for the post of Headmaster. This would be the Board’s first visit since the distasteful swooping of its accountants at the start of term. Apparently, the visiting Board members would stay the night and spend the following day closeted with the Headmaster (pro tem) to review the conclusions of the auditors and presumably the future of the school. It was no wonder Burton’s nerves were frayed, but (as John would have informed him if asked) his snappiness was making it difficult for his staff to be congenial.
—They’re here! Burton announced at the door of the SCR. Chop-chop!
John drained his coffee and went down to greet the first cab.
* * *
It was going to be a historic Patron’s Day. Hermes willing, Eros willing, his carefully laid plans would at last come to fruition. The Headmaster pro tem had announced that he would continue S-K’s tradition of a nature walk in the evening, and he had asked REN to join them and provide scientific commentary. Morgan resented the Flea for every one of his novel intrusions into their time, but Morgan’s curses ceased at this revelation. From seven o’clock until quarter to ten, the school would be occupied on a loosely patrolled nature walk, or back at the Academy under the eyes of somnolent prefects. Meantime, Polly had connived to have the evening free by fabricating an invitation to the home of a willing friend in Thixendale. She had not protested Morgan’s suggestion of l’amour complet; in fact, she’d agreed more quickly than Morgan had dared hope. Her conditions had been simply that the event must take place off premises of the Keys and at a time of her choosing.
The only remaining obstacle had been the location.
Having watched Morgan concoct and reject any number of ideas, Droit finally revealed the obvious solution. Morgan had protested vehemently at first. Under no circumstances did he, Morgan Wilberforce, intend to return to McKay’s barn. For one, it was hazardous and possibly collapsed by now. For two, Polly had once expressed disapproval of the business there. And for three, it was … what could he call it? A graveyard?
Droit appeared to think Morgan feeble.
Morgan was anything but feeble, but he was not prepared to complete his conquest of Polly on the selfsame ground where—did he really have to spell it out in words?
Droit was the last who required things spelled out in words, images, or insinuations, but that did not change the fact that Morgan’s fears were the only thing standing between him and l’amour complet.
They’d exchanged testy words on the topic before Morgan had agreed to return to the godforsaken barn during a half holiday just to prove to Droit that he wasn’t afraid.
During the reconnoiter, his stomach and limbs may have imitated those of a silly girl, but Morgan insisted that it was impossible by the laws of natural science for the past and the present to occupy the same place. Having glimpsed the fallen rafter inside the otherwise enduring structure, he determined not to dwell on the unpleasant.
And as it happened, the barn had a second enclosure, one accessible by a smaller door he’d never noticed before. It would be possible to tidy the smaller area, to make it hospitable, to lay it with rugs, to enter it with Polly (to enter Polly within it, ho-ho—yes, thank you!), and to enjoy her company there all without glimpsing or trespassing upon the other side of the barn.
As much as Droit objected to words like trespassing—superstitious and subservient—he nevertheless praised Morgan’s plan for its practicality. And anyhow, Droit reasoned, wouldn’t it be the ultimate triumph to achieve l’amour complet on that site, transforming defeat into victory and expunging the unpleasantness for all time?
Morgan could not argue with Droit’s logic even though he knew what the other one would think. That boy never needed to speak. He worked on Morgan’s nerves with glances and every sinister trick there was. Even bloody Grieves had never troweled on the sadness and regret that boy perpetrated regularly. Morgan had informed the twerp that his conjurer’s trick of inducing irrational emotion had quite lost its power. He had outstayed his welcome, and if he wanted to look at Morgan and suggest that having Polly in the barn would never be an act of redemption for—Morgan refused to entertain such thoughts. The whole affair was getting baroque, and the only answer was to do as Grieves commanded them and concentrate on facts.
Patron’s Day had arrived. Cabs were crunching across the gravel, and soon the glorious day would begin. Excellent food would be accompanied by diverting cricket. His father was unable to come this year—Morgan was too relieved to ask why—which left him delightfully free of responsibility. After a lavish luncheon and an excellent tea, he would rendezvous with Polly in their nutting bower. There, on the longest evening of the year, he and Polly would abandon themselves to every pleasurable thing, l’amour complet would be achieved, and life would change its course for good. Those, in short, were the facts.
Downstairs, the morning post had arrived in the pigeonholes, bringing him an envelope addressed in unfamiliar hand. Its thickness encouraged him to open it immediately.
And already the day was superlative! For here was his grandmother writing him from the wilds of Dartmoor on a day that wasn’t his birthday. Here she was extolling his frankness (his failure of imagination) in asking simply for money when he needed it. Here she was replying warmly, confidentially, and materially with a banknote worth more than the pocket money he would receive for the rest of term. The fact that his wagering service was doing nicely did nothing to lessen her unmerited generosity. He was flush! He could now afford to give Polly something special that evening. He would be able to keep Nathan in pints for the rest of the term. Things were turning to good in every sphere. He could even afford to place a second wager in the book Colin had made on the Old Boys match. Nathan had voiced dire warnings about betting within the gates, but Morgan had explained that (a) Patron’s Day was an exception, (b) the risk was mainly Colin’s, and (c) if they didn’t have anything riding on the match, they’d die of boredom watching it. At least half the school agreed, so Morgan had leaned on Nathan to analyze Colin’s line. Morgan had originally put a crown on the First XI despite heavy odds on, but now that he had cash to spare, he decided to place a long bet on the Old Boys. He caught Nathan coming down from the dorm and suggested as much. Rather than balk, Nathan lowered his voice:
—You heard Barlow, then?
—What about him?
—Shooting cats half the night, and it didn’t sound like nerves.
—Hell’s Piss?
Colin’s reserve brew was indeed the likely culprit, in Nathan’s expert opinion. Morgan grimaced at the memory of the one time he had indulged; punishment had followed crime more swiftly than any JCR justice.
—At any rate, Nathan concluded, Barlow’s stuck in the Tower for the next twenty-four hours, so there goes the best bat on the First XI.
Despite his contempt for Barlow’s House captaincy, Morgan couldn’t deny that without him, the First XI would be compromised, which made a bet on the opposition rather less long.
—It’s a bit much for Colin to fix a match he’s booking himself, Morgan said.
—He didn’t.
—Are you trying to tell me Barlow half killed himself with Hell’s Piss and Colin didn’t give it to him?
—Correct.
Nathan terminated the conversation by stalking off down the corridor. Morgan could only conclude that Alex was responsible—for this and any other dog tricks at the Academy—in a way he’d grown tired of contemplating. This meant Alex had real money on the Old Boys, and this, combined with Barlow’s affliction, meant that the Old Boys had an actual chance of winning.
Morgan caught up with Nathan:
—Let’s put ten bob on the Old Boys before Colin moves the line.
—Leave me out of it, Nathan said. And anyway, you’re skint.
Morgan handed over the morning’s missive, whose contents cheered Nathan considerably.
—Your grandmother is the most brilliant old pet! What’s this?
Nathan extracted a second page from the envelope, which Morgan had forgotten in his excitement over the money and the wager. On one side was his grandmother’s hand: I found this in the drawer with the photograph album. I believe your father wrote it when you started school? In any case, it belongs with you.
Morgan had no memory of his father’s having written him anything when he started prep school. Clearly his grandmother was confused. Or his father had never sent it.
Boyo, you asked me to write down the rules of cricket “in a good way and leaving nothing out.” I’m sure your masters will teach you the bylaws, but here are a few things you won’t find in books.
Always play for your side and not for yourself.
Never dispute an umpire’s decision. When the umpire raises his finger, you are out.
Never risk your wicket with a flashy stroke. Remember that running four or six singles is just as valuable as hitting a boundary.
Never blame bad luck. Be a man and admit it was a bad stroke.
He tried to put it away, but Nathan protested:
—My father never wrote me anything like this.
—Count yourself lucky.
Morgan buried the letter in his pocket, tracked down Colin, and, in a flush of enthusiasm, put a guinea on the Old Boys.
* * *
John felt like a whirligig and it wasn’t even nine o’clock. He’d already greeted a score of Old Boys and could remember none of their names, unless he’d taught them. Amongst those, he’d seen Frick major, Fletcher, and Bradley, all as unsavory as ever, though they professed themselves ready and willing to play for the Old Boys. By the end of breakfast, John had confirmed twenty-seven for the OB side. Tradition dictated that all Old Boys who could physically hold a bat or catch a ball would alternate. The tradition of filling out the side with masters had not come about because of insufficient numbers but because it was bad for morale when the Old Boys lost catastrophically. John had hoped he might avoid actually playing, but the absence of a strong bowler meant he would likely have to lend an arm at some point. He prayed that the day might pass quickly.
On the way into chapel, he was accosted by Andrewes, Burton’s Captain of Games and Captain of the First XI.
—Sir, a word. Urgently?
John surrendered:
—What is it, Andrewes?
—It’s Barlow, sir. He’s retching up his guts in the Tower.
John’s heart gladdened at the prospect of a diminished First XI.
—Here to concede the match? he asked with what he hoped was joviality.
—I’ve got to send someone in for him, Andrewes said, but I don’t know who. It should be from Hazlehurst’s, but …
—Yes? John prompted.
—Barlow’s good, sir. We need the best possible substitute.
—And you want my opinion?
—The Head said I was to ask you and choose whomever you recommend, sir.
John realized that he was feeling what would commonly be called a conflict of interest, though evidently Burton did not see it that way. Evidently, Burton thought him capable of recommending a substitution even if it meant his own side would suffer. John cursed the Headmaster (pro tem) for his insight and reviewed the roster of Hazlehurst’s Upper School.
—There’s Wilberforce.
—He’s in the Fifth, sir. We need someone special.
—Wilberforce is special.
—I’ve never noticed him.
—You will after today. Everyone will.
—How, sir? If you don’t mind my asking.
—Can’t explain, John replied. Must run. You asked my advice, and there it is. Otherwise, good luck to you and may the better side win.
He dashed off for chapel, leaving Andrewes looking as though he’d swallowed something he had expected to taste much sweeter.
* * *
Morgan didn’t believe it was true until he saw it with his own eyes: Silk Bradley, alive in the quad.
He was dressed fashionably, but he seemed less elegant than before. His hair was longer, his face wider. He was shorter. Morgan recoiled into the House.
—No, you don’t, Laurie said. Don’t give him the satisfaction.
His elbow imprisoned by Laurie, Morgan was marched across the quad to where Bradley stood smoking.
Ghosts might walk, but they could not reach inside his chest and interfere with his heart. His heart belonged to him, and although it might stutter, it would not stop pumping his blood. It had no choice. Its nature was to seize and release until the end. Silk Bradley had not stopped it before, and this avatar could not stop it now.
The avatar noticed him at once.
—You still here? it said.
Morgan’s tongue lay heavy in his mouth. Laurie brazenly produced two cigarettes, lit them in broad daylight, and passed one to Morgan. A grin broke across Bradley’s jaw.
—I heard they turfed you out, Dicky.
That name, on that lip, burned sharper than the first draw of Laurie’s roll-your-own, almost as sharp as that first time. You’ve never smoked before, have you? Was it possible to burn to death in the courtyard of an English school?
Bradley stared at him. Don’t suck too deep.
Simply not possible for anything to continue.
But Bradley continued to stare. Morgan continued to smoke. Take it easy. Do you want to be sick? The impossible continued.
—You three playing this afternoon? Laurie asked.
Abruptly Morgan became aware of Bradley’s companions, whom he recognized as Frick major and Fletcher. Fletcher sneered in the old way:
—Seeing as you boys put bets on the XI, we’ve no choice but to take your money.
—Think you can lead the Old Boys to their first victory? Laurie taunted.
Fletcher consulted Frick major:
—Who did you say was on the XI? Andrewes minor, Radcliffe minor, Barking Barlow, who else?
Colin’s brother waved his cigarette dismissively:
—Some other little boys.
—Are you playing? Laurie asked Bradley.
Bradley stubbed out his cigarette but didn’t answer.
—Wilberforce put a guinea on the OBs, Laurie told them.
The grin returned to Bradley’s face and brightened his eyes like—
—If you thrash the XI, Laurie said, he’ll be a rich man.
Bradley caught his gaze and held it as he used to. Under his skin, blood.
—Wilberforce!
A call from across the quad. Laurie snatched the cigarette from Morgan’s hand and trampled it underfoot with his own. Fletcher and Frick major pulled Bradley away.
—Behave yourselves, boys, Fletcher sneered.
Morgan instructed his lungs to pump, stabs or no, heat or no.
—Wilberforce! the voice called again.
—It’s Andrewes, Laurie hissed.
Breathless, dumb, Morgan floated through the crowd, propelled by Laurie to the threshold of the cloisters.
* * *
Chapel having convened, John stopped writing down the names of Old Boys who’d greeted him and announced their intention to play for the side. Belatedly he realized it didn’t matter. Those who wished to play would turn up at the pavilion, and he would arrange them as he could. Patron’s Day always produced an atmosphere of chaos, but he reminded himself that captaining the Old Boys offered a certain protection from it. While his colleagues had to greet parents, charm patrons, organize tours, and give chats on sundry topics, he was freed to the simple demands of cricket. His only tasks were to develop a camaraderie with the men on his side, to choose a position for each man that did not tax his abilities, to flatter their play, and to bowl as savagely as possible to limit the damage the First XI would inflict on age and wisdom. He knew he’d get the best play from his side in the hour and a half before luncheon. The wine carafe would diminish the OBs just as the meal would revive the First XI. After lunch, he knew, his right arm would be the only thing standing between the Old Boys and humiliation.
Why did this match always come down to him? And why had Burton found it necessary to corner him on the way into chapel and tell him in ponderous tones that it was essential everything proceed smoothly today and that “everything” hung in the balance?
The chapel was fuller than John remembered seeing it. Some boys had been sent upstairs to the gallery. John wondered how Burton had drawn such a crowd. Had he sent personal invitations? Or had parents and Old Boys merely flocked to Yorkshire to see what had become of the school S-K had abandoned, the institution so floridly savaged in the Mail that Easter, a place now led by a man who until late April had spent his career teaching Latin and Greek? John’s eyes couldn’t penetrate the crowds, and his head couldn’t stand the strain. He tried to think of soothing things.
* * *
Morgan’s stomach hurt after chapel. The pang that had seized him in the quad had grown, not lessened, at Andrewes’s lunatic command.
Nathan’s parents had already arrived, and Laurie’s grandmother was due momentarily, so Morgan trudged down to the changing room alone. In minutes, the day had turned sinister. Not only had a specter appeared without warning inside the very fabric of the present, but it had looked at him, spoken to him, and shown that it knew him as it used to.
He didn’t care what Bradley thought of him. Bradley hadn’t set eyes on him in three years and hadn’t spoken since the last night of his reign.
That night, Bradley had offered him a drink. Morgan had refused. They sat opposite one another in that study, a room so charged that Morgan had wondered whether he’d be able to keep breathing. Silk had looked at him in a way Morgan had not understood and still didn’t understand. He had been preparing a curse when Silk produced a book, red leather, worn.
—Here, Silk said.
—I don’t want anything from you.
—Do what you like with it, then.
Silk had dropped the book on the table and gone to gaze out the window into the humid night. Without even checking to see if Morgan was listening, Silk had begun telling him the story of the poacher’s tunnel: how in the first generation of the school, there had been a boy called Hermes, who had pioneered every prank there was; how one great night, Hermes had penetrated the heart of Grindalythe Woods and there found its keeper, a creature who put Goliath to shame; how Hermes had won from him the secret of the poacher’s tunnel and secured perpetual safe conduct through the woods for himself and his heirs; how Hermes had passed the secret to his fag, inaugurating generation after generation of custodians for the tunnel, each inducted by his fagmaster, each sworn to silence and sworn to exact an oath of secrecy from any he brought through the tunnel, each bound to pass the secret on to his own fag when he left the school. No exceptions had ever been made, Silk told him. No one had ever passed the duty to a friend. Silk was the seventh guardian, and Morgan would shortly become the eighth.
Silk had sliced his own palm with a penknife and then passed the blade to Morgan with blood still on it. In that moment, they became equals; whatever permissions Morgan had or hadn’t given for the many acts of that brutally long year, in that moment his compliance became assent. He took Silk’s knife and cut himself, releasing his own blood and touching his palm to Silk’s, absorbing Silk’s responsibility into himself. Silk’s blood had not been shed for the whole world or even for any good purpose, but it flowed freely. There had been no vow, no cant or repetition. Silk had only held their wet hands together, as if with pressure he could change blood with Morgan. He’d looked into Morgan’s eyes, and Morgan had not looked away.
When Morgan recollected the scene, he imagined any number of things he might have said or done. But the living truth had included none of them. In the real study on the real night, Morgan had accepted Silk’s knife and touched it to the fleshy mound of his palm. He flinched even now to remember the slash, deeper than necessary. Later, Silk had wrapped Morgan’s hand with a handkerchief tight enough to hurt. This accomplished, Silk had cast a final look across the study. Silk did not touch him again; he merely sighed with the sorrow of seven guardians and said:
—Goodbye, Dicky. Goodbye and …
Morgan had stared out the window. Silk opened the door. Floorboards creaked, the door closed. He never finished his sentence. He’d left Morgan alone in the study, hand bleeding and the mantle of Hermes uneasy upon him.
* * *
The changing room was empty—except for the other one, who straddled the bench in front of Morgan’s pegs, dressed untidily for play. Droit did not deign to appear. Droit was surely disgusted by Morgan’s failure to refuse Andrewes, failure of nerve, will, wherewithal.
—I suppose you think it’s a beastly honor, Morgan told the boy, but I stand to make a significant sum—significant!—if the Old Boys win.
His companion passed him Barlow’s blazer. Morgan began to undress:
—And now, through no fault of my own, I’ve been press-ganged to play against them. It’s rank.
—The only thing rank is your garbling, Droit said.
He stood in the doorway and struck a match against his heel.
—My objections are entirely monetary, Morgan told him.
—I’ll bet.
Droit lit a cigarette. Morgan bent to untie his shoes.
—Don’t get worked up, Droit said. It’s easy enough to avoid the old adder.
—I don’t need—
—Just prove yourself incapable of fielding, and Andrewes will put you so far down the order that you’ll never have to bat.
Morgan stepped out of his trousers:
—If I do that, the XI will tear me limb from limb—
—Mm, yes, please.
—The Flea will have me on the rack before the day is through—
—Better and better.
—And then they’ll turf me out for good.
—Ha ha.
Droit took one of Barlow’s shoes for an ashtray:
—If you don’t want to dodge out of it, just say so, and all the better. That bastard Bradley needs staring down. Thinks he can swan in here, get his buggy eyes round you, rattle you—
Morgan pulled his cricket shirt over his head, muffling the sound for a moment.
—Only reason he’s here, Droit continued, is for the consummate thrill of it, the old poof.
—He isn’t.
Morgan did up his flannels and put his tie around his waist. The other one fetched him Barlow’s cap. Droit looked from one to the other.
—I’ve had it with this milksop attitude, Droit spat. When it comes to the wall, you always defend him.
—I don’t!
—Like that time over the basins, when he came down on you three days in a row. He knew it wasn’t your fault, but still it was touch your toes, three the first day—
—I know—
—Three the next—
—I know—
—And then—
—I remember!
The other one stood by the partition, looking as Morgan had felt after the last harrowing eight, shaking, hardly breathing, then Bradley’s hand on the back of his neck, fingers reaching into his hairline, consoling and forgiving him, almost—if it happens again, expect the same—goading him to sort out whoever had sabotaged the basins he was supposed to have—
—Don’t be daft, Droit implored. He knew Fletcher was behind it—
—He didn’t—
—He knew, but he fancied making you suffer, and now he’s here to do it again.
Morgan felt queasy.
—You can’t give in, Droit insisted. There’s only one response, and that is to stand under his nose and show you don’t care.
He offered a hip flask:
—Or you could tell the lot of them to morris off, and go elope with Polly.
The other one offered him a comb. Morgan kicked the bench out of his way:
—Just shut up, both of you.
* * *
The sun was darting in and out of the clouds. The Old Boys had been at bat nearly two hours, but Hermes willing, they’d be dismissed shortly. Morgan had spent the time in distant fielding positions, reminding himself about Polly. This evening, this very evening, in a few short hours, love would conquer all. Nothing, not Andrewes, not apparitions, nothing would interfere. He would not funk it.
He’d caught out one Old Boy, a codger who’d scored three runs through charity. Andrewes had done the lion’s share of bowling and had managed an elegant game, allowing the OBs enough runs to keep their morale up, but not so many that the XI would have to work very hard after lunch. As it happened, Morgan had no chance to prove himself one way or another. He might have dropped the catch, but that would scarcely have made a difference since at that point the man was spent; for all Morgan knew, he’d saved him from a heart attack. As for batting, Andrewes had revealed the order, and Morgan would bat at number nine. The best batsmen, going in first, would score the bulk of the runs while the OBs were recovering from lunch. By the time they got to the middle of the order, the match would be decided.
Now the last OB was coming in, and Andrewes was moving them to a defensive field, with Morgan at long off. Nothing would disturb him there at the edge of the south ditch, not even the last two batsmen, viz, Fletcher and the one who didn’t deserve thinking about. Not that Morgan was afraid to think about him. In fact, it was a pleasure to think of Bradley and to recall that he had been a mediocre batsman in his day.
—Do those stretches while you’ve got the time.
Morgan stirred but no one was there. He concluded that it had been a trick of sound, like the whispering gallery in St. Paul’s, making some faraway utterance sound as though it had come from the ditch at his back. He glanced around, but the ditch was empty.
Except now someone was climbing out of it—the other one, again at a pointless moment, his hands and shoes muddy, his flannels hopelessly grass stained.
—Talking now, are we? Morgan said tartly.
The boy did not reply. Morgan decided to ignore the intruder and concentrate on the pitch, where Bradley was scoring. Bradley—he was still not afraid to name him—had in his day been wicketkeeper for Hazlehurst’s XI. He’d been adept at catching balls, but his prowess as batsman had waxed and waned with the moon. Today it looked as though the moon was … whatever it had to be for Bradley to bat well.
The Old Boys had ninety-one. The XI would easily do better than that. There was simply no way he would have to bat, so it was no use—
—Grievesy’s got a stinging right arm, the other one said.
Morgan turned on him:
—You’d love to see that, wouldn’t you?
Grieves bowling fast, Bradley keeping wicket, Morgan trapped between them.
The boy nodded at a ball headed their way. Morgan moved for it, but it sailed over his head and beyond the ditch, a boundary. Smatters of distant applause reached him. He scrambled down the ditch to fetch the ball, but once he’d thrown it back and negotiated the ditch again, his shoes and flannels were a disaster. He would have to change before lunch.
Morgan’s companion took hold of his left arm and helped him stretch it behind his back:
—Grievesy’s hounded you all term about your form. He made you do those exercises—
—He didn’t make me do anything.
—He found you the rubber tubing so you could do them properly. And he was terrifically withering about your badminton.
—As I said, he loathes me.
—But after he frumped off your badminton, you and Pearl went back to playing Tower Fives, and look what that’s done for your stroke.
Morgan pulled away, but the other one refused to let go, tugging his arm until the joint felt it would crack—
—What’s the idea—
And did.
—Ow!
—Better, said the brat.
Morgan rubbed his shoulder but found that it rotated freely. The boy smiled. Morgan tightened his jaw, and his fists:
—I am this close to going off you.
A cascade of applause drew his attention back to the pitch. Andrewes stood jubilant, his arms in the air; Bradley was walking away, his wicket demolished.