Sarah went into the pavilion, bustling with people who — like her — had little or no interest in the epic match taking place outside.
Daniel had arrived, and was keeping watch and would alert her when Jack and the rest of the Todwell team came in from the field.
She walked over to the kitchen area, made herself a cup of tea, and put some money in the little pot as instructed.
And as she took the first soothing sip, she looked around.
And there — over by a long table filled with cakes, pastries and towering trays of sandwiches — she saw the mistress of Todwell herself.
Behind the table as if to greet the commoners.
Who certainly didn’t normally get an extravagant tea like this on an average match day.
But now, she was turned left, and engaged in what looked like an intense conversation with her sister, Karin.
Those two — she thought — did they fit together at all?
She thought of what she and Jack knew about Tim. Harry might be the one to ask about Tim Simpson, about his “forgetting” about Simpson …
But Amanda was here. Now.
And if she was a tad upset about something, all the better.
So taking another fortifying sip of tea, Sarah walked over to the table, where the massive floral centrepiece of roses and lilies stood above it all.
***
“Amanda,” Sarah said quietly.
The use of the first name — sounding a bit forward. She was — after all — the wife of an MP. But then, she was also the match-day host and — apparently — symbolic server here.
Now Amanda and Karin stopped their chat — their faces inches away from each other. The lines of those faces, hard, drawn.
Definitely something upsetting going on.
And as Amanda turned, the tight lines of her face softened, a smile surfacing like a life jacket bobbing up after a shipwreck.
When she emerged she was fully the elegant, unflappable hostess by the time she faced Sarah.
“Oh, hello? Enjoying it all?”
Karin’s face meanwhile had not softened at all.
“Lovely. You’ve outdone yourself here. I’m not sure future events will be able to match.”
“Harry and I just love doing this. Anything for Cherringham Carnival, hmm? So many good causes in the village get supported.”
Sarah nodded. Karin still had her face screwed up as if she could not wait for Sarah to move away, and they could get back to whatever piece of meat the two of them were tussling over.
Whatever could that be?
“Jack and I … we found out something. Just wanted to run it by you, check again.”
Amanda made a large, “O” with her lips. Then: “Um, really? Concerning …?”
“Tim Simpson. You know, he was on the committee. He just suddenly — disappeared.”
Cracks began to appear in the steely smile of the hostess.
“A holiday, I thought? No? I’m not sure we can help you there, Sarah. And I see—”
Amanda looked around the tables as if some urgent chore would provide the handy excuse to dash away from this conversation.
But Karin seemed to finally feel the need to interject.
“My sister and I were having a private conversation.”
Oh yes, Sarah thought. Karin — cut from a different cloth entirely.
Or — she thought — maybe not?
“Sorry, it’s just that, well, your husband said he didn’t know Mr Simpson.”
“Why, yes that’s right. I can’t see any reason why he would. That’s—”
“But you see, we found out that he did in fact work for you. Worked for Todwell Estate. When he came back from university. Before he left the village and went to live in Bourton.”
A new expression bloomed on Amanda’s face.
Then: “I’m afraid, I really have no recollection of that. I mean — that must have been years ago! It’s impossible to remember all the staff who have worked for us. Let alone the casuals! And anyway, the affairs of the house, they were always left in Harry’s hands.”
Not what he said, thought Sarah.
“Perhaps we should ask him again?”
The last bit of Amanda’s smile evaporated.
“My husband, Ms Edwards—”
There we are, formalities returning.
“—is a very busy man. A lot of responsibilities, not to mention the pressures of being an MP. I must insist—”
Interesting phrasing …
“—that you not bother him with any more questions about this ridiculous insurance salesman.”
And with that line delivered, Amanda stood there, frozen, and suddenly she and her hairdresser sister didn’t look so different at all.
Sarah nodded.
“Okay. Shame. My friend Jack really does want to find out what’s happened to Tim Simpson.”
And when Amanda again said nothing, she wondered: is this woman protecting her husband? Has Harry’s lie now become her lie? Do they stand together?
And the really big question …
Why?
But at that moment she heard a familiar voice, cutting through quiet conversations of non-cricket fanciers enjoying Huffington’s pastries with their steamy tea. Daniel …
“Mum! They’re coming in.”
Then he was at her elbow.
“I said to Jack that I’d grab him some tea, then give him a knock up in the nets. That okay?”
“Course it is, love,” said Sarah smiling at her son as he headed over to the cakes and started loading a couple of plates.
“They’ve put him quite high up the order,” said Daniel (with a look that said poor Jack), “so I think he’s sure to bat.”
Sarah — for her part — turned and gave Amanda a smile. “Must dash,” she said, the strangeness of the chat she just had fading as she went out to the match.
***
And there was Jack standing in the practise nets. Looking like a cricket player in his whites. But holding the bat at an angle behind him — like a baseball player for sure.
She watched Daniel throw down a ball so it bounced nice and slow in front of Jack.
Jack didn’t even make a swing — just watched it go past him into the wicket.
Daniel scratched his head. Then he walked down to Jack and tried to arrange the New Yorker’s stance.
Side on to the bowler. Bat vertical. Head up.
As long as Jack stands still and doesn’t move, thought Sarah, he’s quite convincing.
But then Daniel bowled again — and the illusion fell apart …
In the next net, Sarah could see the Cherringham bowlers practising. The ball flying down the nets, smashing into the wicket with a loud clang.
This should be interesting, she thought.
***
Jack looked down the length of the pitch at Billy Leeper who wore a big grin.
Billy had the ball in both hands and was casually tossing it in the air and catching it, while he pointed and ordered the fielders into place.
Jack felt a trickle of sweat run down the side of his face. This damned helmet was uncomfortable. And the bat in his hands felt so weird.
Flat, the handle thin — not at all like a good old Louisville slugger.
And heavy too. In fact, all the gear felt heavy — the massive pads which came up nearly to his hips and seemed designed to stop you going faster than walking pace.
Odd in a game that was measured in runs.
He stood upright and looked around the field. Although a few fielders dotted the boundary, most of them stood a lot closer in.
He’d seen enough of the game so far to know what that positioning meant: they all expected Jack to pat the ball into someone’s hands.
Maybe they’re right, he thought. But how hard can it be just to stop the damned thing hitting the wicket?
And Billy — though he was big — seemed pretty casual about the way he was about to chuck that ball down to him.
So maybe he could surprise them all. And anyway — he couldn’t do worse than Harry, the Todwell opening batsman — who’d been “out” with his first ball, taking an angry swipe and missing completely.
Back in the pavilion, Jack had watched him come in and throw his bat down, before storming off to the changing rooms.
Same as in baseball after a ninth-inning strike out!
The next batsmen had done little better — which was why Jack had found himself so quickly in the firing line, joining Brian Larwood the other ex-cop “at the crease” as they called it.
He watched Larwood tip back his helmet too and walk casually down the pitch.
“Remember, Jack — you have to protect the wicket.”
Jack grinned. “I do know that. Just — I think that task might be beyond me.”
Larwood laughed and headed back up to the other wicket. Jack had chatted briefly with the guy while they were fielding, and he liked him. Two old cops. What they had done — what they had seen — no one but the two of them here would be able to understand that.
Now Jack waited, until finally Billy gave a nod to the umpire, who nodded back.
For a second, Jack was back in Little League, waiting while the pitcher goes through the motions, winds up, time slowing down.
Not quite as athletic here.
He watched as Billy took a single step forward, wound up his arm in some weird almost slow-motion action — and lobbed the ball down the pitch.
It looped high in the air and landed on the ground just a couple of yards in front of Jack — definitely something that would never happen at a Yankees game!
Then the hard, red ball took a strange bounce and spun away just as Jack attempted to swing at it.
But he wasn’t even close. Whatever Billy did to that ball, it jumped in a crazy way after hitting the ground.
Jack nodded. He saw people smiling, nodding, probably enjoying the American playing this game, and obviously completely at sea.
Voices from all around: “Go on Billy! Nice one! Lovely ball, Billy keep ’em coming!”
Reverend Hewitt — wearing the big floppy hat that indicated he was the umpire — looked over, and gave Jack a sympathetic shrug.
Billy bowled another, and — no different this time — it seemed impossible for Jack to get anywhere near it with his useless bat.
The ball’s movement totally baffling.
Jack pushed his helmet up from his face and wiped the sweat away.
He saw his fellow batsman give him a wave then stroll casually down the wicket and tip his helmet back too.
“Jack, bit of advice, mate. Keep the bat vertical to the ground. That way even if you do nothing, there’s still a good chance your wicket won’t get hit. Remember — it’s not baseball.”
Jack laughed. His coach as old as he was.
“And your swing. Has to be smooth and level. Not shooting for the sky.”
“But how do I hit the darn thing?”
At which question Larwood had a magic answer.
“Try and watch his hand when he lets go. And watch what the ball does after it hits the ground. Billy’s a leg spinner. Good one too. So keep your eyes on that spin, Jack.”
And Jack nodded. Made sense.
With these quick tips, maybe — Jack thought — he had a shot.
And he waited while another ball came flying to him.
***
This time he kept his eyes on the spot where the ball hit the ground, shifting his legs and his hold on the bat.
The ball popped up, seemingly violating the laws of physics.
But Jack was ready for the spin, his bat adjusted, as per Larwood’s advice, and he started his swing.
Not a massive, to-the–moon blast. But more level, steady.
And then …
Contact. A definite, satisfying “ping”.
The ball flying out through a gap in the fielders. The Cherringham team scrambling.
And Jack ran.
That part — not so different than baseball! Until he crossed with Larwood and stood safely at the other wicket, a run scored!
“Nicely done, Jack!” Larwood said from the other end.
“Over,” said the umpire.
Jack watched the fielding team shuffle their positions and realised that now — he was once again going to have to face the bowling.
But this time with a different bowler.
He looked around the field to see who was stepping up.
And saw it was Bruno.
And for some reason, it seemed the pitcher was not happy with Jack.
And how unhappy — he was about to find out.