Out of Bounds Read online

  O U T O F B O U N D S

  Also by Mike Seabrook from The Gay Men’s Press

  UNNATURAL RELATIONS

  CONDUCT UNBECOMING

  OUT OF BOUNDS

  Mike Seabrook

  First published 1992 by GMP Publishers Ltd,

  P O Box 247, London N6 4BW, England

  Reissued in The Gay Men’s Press Collection 1996

  World copyright © 1992 Mike Seabrook

  A CIP catalogue record for this book

  is available from the British Library

  Distributed in North America by

  Inbook/LPC Group,

  1436 West Randolph Street, Chicago, DL 60607

  Distributed in Australia by Bulldog Books,

  P O Box 300, Beaconsfield, NSW 2014

  Distributed in South Africa by Judith Wengrove Agencies,

  P O Box 1080, Northcliff 2115

  Printed and bound in the EU by The Cromwell Press,

  Melksham, Wilts, England

  Table of Contents

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  BOOK ONE

  PARTNERSHIPS

  BOOK TWO

  CLOSE OF PLAY

  BOOK THREE

  THE FOLLOW-ON

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This story is true.

  So is that statement; but it needs a little elaboration if it is not to mislead.

  Most novels contain a statement by the author that all the characters and their activities are entirely fictitious, bearing no relation whatsoever to any real person, living or dead. Yet everybody knows, if they think about it, that this conventional disclaimer is an absurdity. Certainly, every author who prefaces his book with it knows it. The truth is, as R. F. Delderfield once wrote, that no-one ever invented anyone. One suspects strongly that it’s usually a case of only the names being changed to protect the guilty (and occasionally, I suppose, the innocent — though one wonders why they should want their names changed).

  Be that as it may, all the characters in this story are fictitious in their details — names, appearance, ways of behaving and, mainly, in the dialogue I have ascribed to them; but in essence, it all happened.

  I have taken, for the usual reason of dramatic expediency, one very small liberty with current legal procedure. I mention it only for the benefit of purists.

  I am very grateful to the Koninklijke Nederlandse Cricket Bond, and in particular to its administrator, Mr Alex de la Mar, for his kindness in taking time off from much more important duties to give me valuable information about Dutch cricket. And of course, I am more indebted than this note can express to my wife, Perviz, whose contribution was, as always, great.

  The book is dedicated to the memory of my beloved friend, the late Barry Lucking, Club Captain of Sheringham CC, who loved the game as passionately as anyone I ever knew and understood it better than most. There are no words fit to be said of how I miss him; but he was a cricketer, and a man, I am glad I had the privilege of knowing. I hope they play cricket wherever he is.

  BOOK ONE

  PARTNERSHIPS

  “…la voiture franchissait un portail et Xavier reconnaissait l’amertume des vieux buis. The carriage… er… franchir… yes, turned in at a gate, and Xavier recognized the, er… the smell, I suppose, sir, is it?”

  “Carry on for the moment”, said Graham Curtis. He nodded to the boy, who frowned in concentration.

  “Xavier recognized the smell of old… old… buis… should that be bois, sir? the smell of old woods?”

  “Not bad for a guess”, said Graham, “but wrong. Buis is ‘box’

  — the wood of that name. As in Box Hill, in Surrey. There are acres of them there. It’s a kind of tree. Very tight, dense foliage. They used to be very popular as ornamental trees in country estates and suburban lawns. So, ‘Xavier recognized the amertume of old box.’ Amertumey anybody?” The form looked blankly at him. “Aroma?” suggested someone. “No, more than that”, Graham went on. “No-one know? ‘Bitterness’. Xavier recognized the bitterness — but here clearly he means ‘the bitter scent’

  — of old box. But it would be better style to say ‘ancient’, wouldn’t you agree? And I think we can do better than ‘recognized’ for reconnaissaity don’t you? Any ideas?”

  “More like ‘detected’, sir?” said a lanky, studious boy at the back. “‘Picked up’ the bitter scent?”

  “Yes, good, Silvani”, said Graham encouragingly. “But there is the ‘re’ prefix, and you must do it justice. So there’s the element of repeatedness, of ‘again’, as well as your idea of ‘picking up’. Back to you, Stubbs.”

  “Yes, sir… Xavier picked up anew the bitter scent of ancient box-trees”, translated Stubbs.

  “Not bad. But a bit archaic. I’d tackle it differently, by importing a completely new word, not needed in the French. ‘Xavier caught the familiar, bitter scent of ancient box-trees.’ Still, not bad, Stubbs, not bad at all. That’ll do from you. Go on from there, Hill.” There was silence, broken by a faint titter as the class all looked over towards the open sash window at the back of the room. “Hill”, repeated Graham, crescendo. The silence continued, and the titter spread among the boys.

  Through the window came the echoing “crack!” of a cricket ball struck in the middle of a bat, followed by a distant but clearly audible cry of “Shot, Paul”, drifting in on a swirl of summer breeze. It was followed by a discordant, jangling crash as a heavy bunch of keys landed on the desk by the window, and then by a yelp of surprise from the boy sitting there. “Wow!” Startled, the boy spun round to face Graham, and immediately went bright red as he glanced round and saw everyone looking at him and grinning.

  “Oh! I… I, er… Sorry, sir”, he stammered.

  Graham sighed gently. “I suppose it’s probably asking too much, Hill, but I wonder if we might have the pleasure of your company”, he said in exaggeratedly long-suffering tones. “Not all the time — that would be asking the impossible — but perhaps just now and again…?” Seeing that the boy had no idea of what had been going on, he went on “I was wondering if you might care to favour us with a translation of the next passage. But I don’t suppose you know where the next passage is?”

  “I, er… no, sir”, muttered Hill, the blush deepening.

  Graham sighed again under his breath, stepped down off the dais and strolled towards the back of the room. Coming to rest beside Hill’s desk, he looked sadly down at the copy of Le Mystère Frontenac where it lay unopened in front of the boy. Tut-tutting in mild exasperation, he found the page and thrust it at Hill. “Deux pavillons, construits…” he said, indicating the passage with a finger, and making a small private bet with himself. “Give us a version of this passage, if you will”, he murmured in mock courtesy.

  “Er… deux pavillons, construits par l’arrière-grand-père…” read the boy.

  Graham allowed him to read to the end of the paragraph. “All right, Master Hill”, he said gravely. “You read French very well. Let’s see how you construe it.” He folded his arms and waited, turning as he did so to glance out of the window towards the match in progress on the First XI pitch across the wide quadrangle.

  Hill translated fluently and confidently. “‘Two pavilions, built by their great-grandfather, disfigured the eighteenth century monastery that had been home to so many generations of Frontenacs…”

  “Hmmm. Yes. Very good”, commented Graham, surprised. “None the less, you’ve won my bet for me, Master Hill.” The boy looked up at him, puzzled. “I had a bet with myself”, elaborated Graham, “having seen where your attention was concentrated. I didn’t think a mind so firmly billeted with the First XI would miss a chance of mistranslating pavillons as ‘pavilions’. It’s ‘wings’, you idiot child, ‘wings’ — since when did
monasteries in Bordeaux have pavilions? Oh, good shot!” he ejaculated, and brought his palms together in a single sharp clap. The titter of the class swelled to a full-throated gust of laughter. Graham, after a momentary flicker of annoyance, a little reluctantly but sportingly joined in. A second later the bell went.

  “All right”, said Graham. “Read on for prep. I’ll expect you to be ready to translate to the end of Chapter 3 by next time. You can clear off now. Quietly!” he bellowed at the top of his voice as they began slamming desk-lids, scraping chair-legs and heading for the door in a thundering herd. He moved to the door himself. It was games afternoon, and he was keenly anticipating watching the School XI’s match to its conclusion. Waiting for the knot of boys to untangle itself in the doorway, he found Hill beside him. “Going to watch the match, Stephen?” he asked amiably.

  “Yes, sir”, said the boy, his face alight with pleasure at the prospect. “It’s the County Club and Ground side today. Should be a good match.”

  They walked together through the dusty, institutional corridors, past the chemistry laboratories and out into the sunlight. A blustery breeze was swirling the litter about in the quadrangle, and the sun was thin and without warmth. “You’ll be in the First XI yourself before long judging by your form this term, I should think, Stephen”, observed Graham as they strolled companionably towards the field.

  “Hope so, sir”, said Hill, his face lighting up at the prospect. “I’d certainly like to — there’s nothing I’d like more than to get my colours. But it’s a very strong side. They’ve got so many good batsmen it’s like waiting for dead men’s shoes, really. Still, they haven’t got a regular off-spinner, sir, so I live in hope.”

  They came to the field. “Walk round?” suggested Graham, and they began their first circuit of the boundary. As they strolled, talking cricket shop, he saw that the boy’s head never turned away from the game. “Cricket means a lot to you, doesn’t it, Stephen?”

  “Shot, Paul!”, called Stephen before there was time for reply. Then he turned a bright face briefly to the master and said “Oh, yes, sir. I’ve been keen on the game ever since I was a little boy, but I really fell in love with it when I was thirteen — when our Under Fifteens went on tour, you remember, sir?” The boy’s face clouded a little as he recalled the time.

  “Yes, I remember”, murmured Graham. “Wasn’t there a bit of trouble over that tour?”

  “There certainly was”, said Stephen, with an edge of bitterness coming instantly into his voice.

  * * *

  “…But Dad”, he had protested, “I’ve been picked for the Under-Fifteen XI. It’s a… an honour. I mean, not everybody gets selected. There’s a lot of competition for places in the side. A hell of a lot. Everybody wants to get into the side—it’s representing the school. And it doesn’t cost much. Only thirty pounds. And we get to play on some of the best school grounds in the country. Please, Dad”, he said for the tenth time since the storm had broken. His ear unerringly picked up the note of pleading, almost desperation, which he had sworn to himself that he would not allow to creep into his voice, and he spared a moment for a fleeting but savage flash of rage and self-contempt. “I’ve promised, Dad. Surely you can see that.”

  “I see that you’ve seen fit to make arrangements on your own behalf, without doing us the elementary courtesy of even mentioning that it was in your mind”, said his father in judicial tones. “Your mother and I wouldn’t mind so much if you’d had the common manners to give us some sort of warning, so we could think about it. More to the point, we would then have had a chance to let you know what we were planning for the holiday. As it is, if you will keep secrets, make your own arrangements in this…this underhand fashion, you can’t complain if you then find that we’ve made arrangements also. No, Stephen, you’ve got yourself into this mess, you’ll have to get yourself out of it. In any case, I’m not throwing good money after bad by subsidizing this scheme of yours having already laid out a considerable sum on the holiday — the very luxurious and exciting holiday, I may say — that your mother and I have arranged.”

  “But Dad”, he repeated yet again, “I wasn’t keeping secrets. I didn’t know I’d been selected until last week, and there was no point in saying anything then, because they didn’t know if I could go on tour. I wouldn’t be going now if Rutherford hadn’t got injured. There’s only room for fifteen players. Mr Page only told me officially this morning. Please, Dad, you must let me go. If it’s only the money, I’ve got thirty pounds of my own that I was saving for that new bat…” He shot a furtive glance from under his eyelashes at his father’s face, and saw immediately that it was hopeless; but he pressed on as best he could.

  “Surely”, he urged, “you’re always telling me how glad you are to see me representing the school at things, taking part and all that. You should be glad I’ve been picked like this. It’s an honour, like I said.”

  His father pursed his lips and looked gravely at him, with the expression on his face of one determined at all costs to be fair and do justice dispassionately. “I see that you think more of your cricketing chums than you do of the family that do their best to plan interesting and enjoyable holidays for you”, he said eventually, in the same maddening, more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger tone. The more heated his son grew the calmer and more judicial his tone became, the more implacable his determination to proceed with his own plans. “However, let’s see what your mother thinks”, he added. Stephen suppressed a snort, knowing perfectly well that his mother would do what she always did when faced with a conflict of interests between her husband and her son. “Judith, what are your views?”

  “I agree with you, Anthony, of course”, she said in the gentle, ever-so-slightly hurt tone she reserved for occasions when her son dared to prefer his own ideas to those prepared for him by his parents. “You must be reasonable, Stephen, dear”, she went on, turning to him and bestowing a gentle, indulgent smile. “After all, you know very well that when we plan things, it’s you we’re thinking of, first and foremost.”

  “Huh!” He was finally unable to suppress any longer the snort of contempt that he had been manfully keeping out of his voice up to then — as long as he thought there was any realistic possibility of persuading them to see his point of view. Giving that idea up, he let it out, curling his lip in an ugly sneer. He was almost in tears, born of frustration, anger, and a familiar feeling that he recognized all too well from past experience of trying to persuade his parents to see his point of view. He sought for the word that expressed this feeling, of being manipulated, of an argument permitted in the furtherance of an affected fairness, while the result was all the time a foregone conclusion. He found the word, and strove to keep his voice quiet and level. “Bullshit!” he said in a jeering tone.

  “Stephen!” ejaculated his mother, affecting shocked surprise.

  “There’s no need whatever for that kind of language, please, Stephen”, said his father. “Especially in front of your mother. And don’t you think you’re a little above trying to secure your own way by indulging in childish tantrums and the language of a spoilt little boy — a little too old for that kind of thing?”

  “If I’m too old for that kind of thing, I’m too old to be treated as if I was a little boy”, he snapped. “And it is bullshit, anyway — the whole of the way you treat me is bullshit. All this stuff about bending over backwards to be fair, and how you’re always thinking of me first when you make plans… how come I’m never consulted when you’re making them, then? I didn’t even know you’d planned this holiday until tonight, and I wouldn’t’ve known now if I hadn’t dared to have a mind of my own, would I? As for me being anything to do with it, well, if I’ve told you once I’ve told you a thousand times what I think of that prison in the Algarve. If you don’t know by now what I think of those flash holidays we have down there, you ought to. And you don’t know. You haven’t got a clue, and the reason is cos you’re far too busy taking in all the flash restaurants and swimm
ing pools and all your rich pals in that little England down there to have five minutes to even notice what I’m thinking of it all. You forget I’m there five minutes after we get off the plane.”

  “I see”, said his father quietly. “Well, perhaps you’d better enlighten us, then. What do you think of our carefully planned holidays in Portugal?”

  “They bore me stiff”, snapped Stephen; and, deciding that he had gone so far that he no longer had anything left to lose, added “They bore me bloody brainless. That’s what I think of them. Which is why I jumped at it when I got the chance of going on the cricket tour.” And as he said at last what he had been minded to say many times before, his resolve stiffened, and he decided to go for broke. “It’s why I’m going on the cricket tour”, he said, his voice rising and almost cracking as apprehension rose sharply up his gorge. He let that sink in for a few moments. Then he gave them a defiant glare, swung round and stamped out of the room.

  In morning break the next day he secured an urgent, whispered conference with the games master who was running the cricket tour. At lunchtime he slipped out of school and withdrew his entire balance of forty-seven pounds from the post office, and in the afternoon break he handed the lot to the games master, who promised to telephone his parents the same evening.

  * * *

  “And in the end I got it”, he said, concluding his account of the affair to Graham. “I don’t know what Jack — I mean, Mr Page — said to them, but they let me go. And I’ve never been on another family holiday in Portugal since. Or anywhere else for that matter. They take their flash snob-holidays in Switzerland, kidding themselves they can ski, and all over the place. I go on the school tour, and we don’t even bore each other talking about what we’ve been up to.”