And the Rest Is History(44)

At the end of most afternoons, the Security Section – who would stop work at the drop of a hat if there was a ball involved somewhere – would call on him for a kick-about around the back of Hawking Hangar – into which he was not allowed under any circumstances – then back for tea and a much-needed hose-down before bed.

We kept him busy and, I hoped, happily occupied, while he learned to cope with this strange new world in which he found himself.

He and I were outside one day, hidden away in the little sheltered area behind Hawking. The Security Section had kicked football into touch today – pun intended – and were having a game of cricket instead. Someone had made Matthew a small cricket bat, which he was wielding with an expression of immense concentration but very little success.

I was leaning against the wall with my mug of tea and rather enjoying this happy and peaceful scene, when Dr Bairstow walked around the corner.

He stopped dead. Everything stopped dead. The Security Section shuffled its feet. Evans paused in mid-run up. Matthew looked around to see why.

They’d met, of course. Dr Bairstow had formally shaken his hand and welcomed him to the unit. They’d stared at each other in mutual incomprehension and then Dr Bairstow had moved on, heroically refraining from wiping his hand as he did so.

Anyway, here we all were, deserting our duties. And not for the first time, either.

On the other hand, Dr Bairstow likes cricket. I have no idea why. If asked, I would have said nothing could be more boring than football, but I was wrong. In what other game, I had once demanded, could two teams play for five days – five long days! – and not have a result at the end of it? Incidentally, there is no satisfactory answer to that question.

Once, long ago, during a particularly tedious assignment to Sogdiana, before Kalinda began her reign of terror at Thirsk, she and I had sat down and re-jigged the game a little. To make it a little more spectator friendly, we said. To rid it of its coma-inducing qualities. We’d called it Cage Cricket.

Picture the scene, if you will. One of those gladiator-style wire cages, bathed in a harsh light. A thick layer of sand on the floor to mop up the blood and guts. Flashing lights. Heavy-metal music blasting from speakers each the size of a bungalow. The huge crowd, unseen in the darkness, laying bets and baying for blood. The booming announcement, ‘One batsman. One bowler. To … the … death.’

Enter the players – although we’d decided combatants would be a better word. There would be a bowler, a young man in his mid-twenties, we thought, with good musculature development, wearing rather a lot of baby oil and a small loincloth.

Peterson, listening in horror, had been moved to protest at this point, but we’d overruled him.

Anyway, the bowler hurls his ball with maximum force at the batsman – who would be similarly dressed. Or undressed, depending from which direction you were approaching.

What about his box? had demanded Peterson, and been told to stop making difficulties. The batsman’s job would be to whack the ball straight back at the bowler. Between the eyes if possible. They carry on like that, bowling and batting around the cage, scoring a four for a body hit and a six if they manage to render their opponent unconscious – at which point the body is dragged away, Coliseum-style, fresh sand put down, and replaced by another player – sorry, combatant – until both teams are dead, exhausted, hospitalised, or any combination thereof. Meanwhile, outside the cage, the music blares, the lights strobe, and the invisible frenzied mob screams for blood in the darkness.

It’ll be great, we’d said to a speechless Peterson. Two contestants, stalking each other across the bloody sand. The crack of ball on willow. Or bone, possibly. Two men enter – only one will leave. And then at 3.30 everyone breaks for tea and fairy cakes.

Peterson, regaining the power of speech, had vetoed the whole thing as ridiculous, not least because, apparently, the MCC has a very strict dress code that, inexplicably, does not include either baby oil or loincloths. We replied that he might have put his finger on the very reason for cricket’s lack of popularity with the thinking gender, and he had sulked for the rest of the assignment.

Anyway, here we were, and here was the Boss, limping unexpectedly around the building and catching his entire Security Section doing something they shouldn’t. And, as I’ve already said – not for the first time.

He watched in silence, leaning on his stick. Evans, apparently emboldened by the lack of thunderbolts raining down from above, resumed his run up, arms windmilling, and delivered a neat little ball. Matthew swung wildly and missed.

No one spoke. I stepped into the breach. ‘Good afternoon, sir. Matthew, you remember Dr Bairstow, who is in charge of us all.’

They regarded each other in silence and then Matthew made a quaint little bow from the waist. I’d never seen him do that before and I don’t think it did him any harm at all. I think it’s safe to say no one had ever bowed to Dr Bairstow before. I hoped it didn’t catch on.

Markham beamed encouragingly at Matthew and said, ‘Come on, mate, have another go. I think you’ve nearly got it.’

Matthew stumped his bat on the ground, squared his shoulders, and waited for the next ball.

Dr Bairstow spoke. ‘Chin down, young man and watch the ball.’

He hit the next one straight through the toilet window. The tinkle of falling glass gradually died away. No one caught anyone’s eye. I think Markham was already envisaging the latest Deduction from Wages to Pay for Damages Incurred form, neatly stapled to his next pay slip.