Late Call and other Stories

Late Call

It's turned cool now after a day of rain and I can sense those eyes still upon me. I go to close the last window, just slightly, and a whole cascade of rain falls from the tilting glass. In one deft movement I put the rest of the papers in my briefcase, click it shut as quietly as I can and mumble an inaudible goodbye.

I am out of the room before he can see me, gliding down a newly Ajaxed corridor. In the car park, Morris Minor - sounding like a pupil - is waiting obediently for me. I glance in the mirror but he has not followed me. The ignition's squawking like a rattled hen and I am lurching tentatively down the drive.

Back home, something's gone off in the fridge and, as usual, there is a choice of suspects. As I gaze inside, the shelves appear lonely after a day's work. I decide it's the speckled cheese - the one I never really liked - so I toss it into the pedal bin. After a few minutes, I change my mind and escort the stinking cheese downstairs in a carrier and banish it to the dustbin.

It rains all over the weekend. Rain. No prizes for guessing that Monday'll be fine. A breeze is blowing gently. My prediction was right; it's a glorious day and I'm standing out in the fresh air to a smell of damp grass.

Everything's well organised. There's even a white coat to make me look the part. The pitch, however, is on a slope and by the far line of trees, there's a muddy stream. I anticipate several journeys made in that direction, foraging hopelessly through beds of nettles. To the spectator, and some drift in, it must look a pleasing sight. A squad of pale-clad figures ambling over a sea of green. There's a haze, too, beyond the willows, so maybe the ball will swing today.

It's 58 for 5 and slow progress when he comes out to bat. He's asking me a question - the first time I've had to notice him today - a direct one, a technical one.

"Middle and leg?” he asks. I don't even have to reply with words. The outstretched fingers, which were holding the pebbles previously, wave him back and he steps a little to the left. But when he waits for me after class, the questions are more involved and it's difficult to run. I wonder whether I'm appearing off-hand. Have the others seen? No, they're probably not even noticing.

He quickly strokes the ball around - a skilful gladiator - and with the last boundary he's all smiles. They should have sent him in earlier, but then perhaps it's wiser to keep your best things in the cupboard till last. He looks a natural with the bat; the sun shining off his golden hair. But as I glance up there's a scream in my ear and the ball is thudding off his pads. The field goes up. The appeal is confident. I hesitate. I know you're supposed to give the benefit, but I'm anxious that… I'm not making sense, I know. The next thing that happens is that my finger's raised. The team is celebrating. Ben stands for a second in disbelief and slowly walks off. As he passes me at the set of stumps, his eyes flicker for a second. Is there a semblance of a scowl? A sneer, maybe?