‘DO WE need another book on Colin Cowdrey?’ pondered Jeremy Cowdrey. ‘And why now?’ demanded Christopher Cowdrey. So this is what it must have been like, summoned to appear before the Star Chamber in mediaeval times, my destiny, my head probably, resting on the answer I gave. We were not in the Palace of Westminster but in Jeremy’s Surrey home and I had not been summoned. I had requested a meeting with the immediate Cowdrey family, represented by these two, Chris the eldest and Jeremy the next in line, in order to broach the plan I had of writing a book about their father. To proceed without their approval would be unimaginable. I took a deep breath. The next few minutes would be crucial.
‘Your father was 67 when he died,’ I answered. ‘Same age as me.’ Chris shot me an amused look. ‘Well, yes, I know I’m not dead yet,’ I babbled, ‘but there seemed to be a certain synchronicity there.’ Jeremy looked baffled, as well he might. I had no idea what I meant either. I decided on another tack. ‘Look, I’m sure you guys used to play Test matches in the garden when you were young. Same with my brother and me. He was always Peter May and I was always Colin Cowdrey.’ That was a lie, so God strike me down. It was the other way round. I was Peter May and my brother was Colin Cowdrey. And as he was – still is – younger than me, Peter May always had first knock. Strange that. If Dominic spills the beans, I inwardly vowed, I shall never declare and let him have a bat.
I am still unsure of the precise direction my petition took thereafter but at least the words flowed, gushed more accurately. Would they be enough to win the day and spare me having my head chopped off? I fled to the lavatory to allow the privy councillors to reach their verdict in camera. On my return, they were grinning. Chris always grins so that told me nothing. Jeremy was the spokesman. ‘All right. We’ve decided to give the book the green light. Carry on...and good luck.’ I jumped up on the sofa, punched the air, dashed out of the French windows, did a quick jig around the ornamental pond, kissed them both and roared off in my car down the drive.
That is another lie. I did no such thing. But I wanted to. This project was dear to my heart and any resistance from the family would have holed it beneath the water line even before it had sailed out of port. You see, Colin Cowdrey was dead and thus the prime source for material for a biography was not available to be interviewed. Thus I would have to rely on word of mouth evidence from others and none knew him better than his children.
Besides, I was a friend of Chris – we had played against each other on the county circuit – and I would not have wanted to go against his wishes. In fact, I would have found it impossible. Therefore, first and foremost in this list of acknowledgements, I wish to place on record my thanks and gratitude to the Cowdrey family, Chris, Jeremy, Graham and Carol. They have been a continued source of encouragement and information without, at any stage, seeking to interfere or influence. All I can say is that I hope I have repaid their faith in me and done their father justice.
Furthermore, I am indebted to Sir John Major for allowing me to reprint verbatim his inspirational address given at Colin’s memorial service in Westminster Abbey. When you read it, you will understand how close was their friendship, forged in a mutually deep love of the game of cricket. Perhaps I am not the only one who has had this idle thought from time to time – I wonder what success Colin would have had in the world of politics, had he chosen that path. And how good a cricketer would Sir John have been were it not for that terrible injury to his leg?
The list of people who have helped me in the writing of this book is long. It could have been longer, much longer. For every person I spoke to, there were half a dozen others suggested during our meeting. And no doubt there would have been half a dozen more from them too, with the number of contributors increasing exponentially. For sanity’s sake, I had to draw a line somewhere. Colin knew so many people. And so many people knew him and were more than willing to share their memories of him. To all of them, many of whom were unsparing with their time and assistance, I offer my sincerest thanks.
They are, in no order other than chronological:
Scyld Berry, Richard Gilliat, James Graham-Brown, Bobby Parks, John Hart, Ian MacLaurin (The Lord MacLaurin of Knebworth), David Kemp, Jeremy Eckersley, Jim Parks, Derek Underwood MBE, Charles Swallow, Howard Angus, David Makey, Alan Dowding, MJK Smith OBE, AC Smith, Mike Bushby, John Woodcock OBE, Graham Johnson, Geoff Arnold, Bob Willis MBE, Derek Ufton, Hubert Doggart OBE, Asif Iqbal, David Brown, John Inverarity, Rev Mike Vockins OBE, Hugh Carson, Ray Jepp, Roger Knight OBE.
I wish to pay special tribute to two people who have spent many a long hour poring over the manuscript, proofreading, correcting, improving, suggesting and generally fine-tuning the prose and the content.
The first is my wife, Lin. She is a marketing manager and knows what works and what doesn’t in people’s perceptions of what they read. The second is Ruth Sheppard. She is a professional editor and I call her ‘Ruthless Ruth’ for her uncanny ability to spot mistakes and uncover inadvertent solecism. The sobriquet ‘ruthless’ is entirely ironically bestowed; her surname is much more apt, for she ‘leadeth me the quiet waters by’.
Furthermore, I should like to extend my grateful thanks to Paul Camillin, Jane Camillin, Dean Rockett, Duncan Olner and all at Pitch Publishing. Their continued loyalty and support of my writing career are much valued.