Girl A(74)

‘It’s a fifty-pence donation,’ said the old man, ‘for the car park.’

‘Oh. Sure – of course.’

The end of his walking stick had been carved into the shape of a cricket ball. It even had the seams, etched into the wood. ‘I like that,’ I said, and he chuckled. I produced a ten-pound note – it was an embarrassing amount more than he had requested, but all that I had – and dropped it into the bucket. ‘I don’t need change,’ I said.

‘You should save some for yourself. It’s two for one at the clubhouse bar, provided you buy before six.’

‘Thanks. That sounds good to me.’

He was already looking for the next car, but he waved over his shoulder, and I waved back.

I walked around the pavilion and to the pitch beyond it. The town was encircled by soft green hills, and I could see walkers on the nearest ridge, minute against the sky. There were a few benches in the shade of the buildings, just below the scoreboard, but the spectators were gathered at the edge of the field, in the sunshine. I stood a few metres from the little crowd and surveyed the scoring. JP had been devoted to the game, and I understood it well enough. When he had to work at the weekends, in the summer, the sound of Test Match Special filled our flat. The warm lull of it. Father had called cricket a game for faggots.

The Cragforth team was batting. Fifty-two for three. One of the batsmen had only just come in; he was batting timidly, leaving most of the balls. I looked back at the boys waiting in the stands, unsure what I was expecting to see. One of the men in the crowd wandered along the boundary to join me. He was wearing a Cragforth Cricket Club cap.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Not a bad start.’

‘No.’

‘Are you one of the mothers?’

‘No. I’m just stopping by.’

‘It’s a nice way to spend an afternoon.’

‘Yes.’

I was already sweating. I adjusted my sunglasses and shook the hair from my face. ‘I’m going to grab a drink,’ I said.

‘Oh, yes. There are some end-of-summer deals, I think.’

‘I’m driving. It’s a shame.’

The clubhouse was cool and dark. There was a moss green carpet and a whole wall of team photographs. The man from the car park sat at the bar with a new pint in his hand.

‘You didn’t take much persuading,’ he said.

I laughed. ‘Just a Diet Coke,’ I said. The girl behind the bar nodded.

‘It’s on the house,’ said the old man, and to the girl: ‘She blew her savings on the car park.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Did you travel far?’ the girl asked, waiting for the glass to fill.

‘From London.’

‘No wonder you look so bloody miserable,’ said the old man, and I grinned, and carried my drink back out to the sunshine. My friend in the cap still stood alone, and it seemed odd not to rejoin him. The timid batsman was out and conversing sternly with his father. ‘You haven’t missed much,’ my friend said.

‘Do you come every week?’

‘I try. My son used to play for this team, you see. It was a happy time.’

‘Oh.’

He smiled. ‘It’s a nice community,’ he said. ‘People look out for each other. You don’t get that everywhere.’

‘No. I guess not.’

A new batsman was on strike. He played an effortless drive to the boundary. I finished my drink and sucked the ice. This pair were more interesting to watch: they were reckless and aggressive, and they called inaudible instructions to one another across the central strip. I felt warm and lazy. I could spend the afternoon just here, I thought, and order a gin and tonic every few overs.

‘Do you follow the game?’ my friend asked.

‘A little. I had a boyfriend who liked it. That was a while ago, now, though.’

‘At least you got something out of it.’

‘True.’

A few balls later, the original batsman fumbled his shot, and the ball looped into a fielder’s hands. My friend winced, and was the first to break into applause. The batsman shrugged. Alone, he began the long walk back to the pavilion. Pressed cream uniform against the electric green grass. As he went, he removed his helmet.

I pushed up my glasses.

Noah Gracie.

He was a head taller than me. He had our pale hair, whitened from the sun. Alone on the pitch, he seemed very young, but when he neared the clubhouse I understood that he looked no younger than the other boys waiting to bat. It had been the fact that – when we were children – we had looked old. He met two women at the boundary, set up with folding chairs and a cool box in the shade of the building. I was too far away to hear what they said. One of them handed him a banana, and he jogged to join his team.

Noah Kirby.

The boys welcomed him into the thick of them. One handed him water. Another ruffled his hair. The man next to me was still clapping. ‘He’s had a good season,’ he said. I nodded, unable to speak, and joined the applause. I was watching the women at the boundary. One had opened a beer and a paper, but her partner was folding her chair, and gesturing towards the village. By the time she reached the car park, I was following her.

The Lifehouse had a short, inglorious existence. It closed its doors around the same time the new baby was born, so the house on Moor Woods Road suddenly felt a lot fuller. There was the baby, with his cot crammed into the corner of my parents’ bedroom, and his cries rebounding from floor to floor. There was Father, muttering between the rooms, with nobody left to preach to but us. There was Mother, appeasing them both; when we heard her hushing and cooing, we were never sure who was in her arms.