Out of Bounds Read online

  He was introduced to Elderton Park by Graham and Don Parker, who remembered him from their impromptu meeting at the school, and coming with their recommendation he was rapidly accepted into the social life of the club. He quickly got to know a group of half a dozen of the younger players, and being a friendly, naturally attractive yet unassuming boy he found no difficulty in making himself popular, in a quiet, unobtrusive way. He spent more time with Graham, however, than anyone else. They walked endless circuits of the boundary when neither of them was at the wicket, and their friendship deepened quickly.

  He had felt very shy that Saturday morning when he had walked into the big, spacious bar and social room of the pavilion. There had only been half a dozen early arrivals there, sitting about on the edges of tables gloomily looking out at the light but persistent rain falling on the pitch.

  Leading him up to the only one of the members present who was wearing a jacket and tie, Graham said “Ray, I’d like you to meet Stephen Hill, from the school. Good batsman and off-spinner. He’s interested in playing for us. Stephen, this is Ray Fellows, our Hon Sec. Can you fix him up with an application form, Ray, please?”

  “Sure can”, said Fellows, shifting his large behind along the table he was sitting on. He squinted at Stephen through small, piggy eyes concealed in rolls of fat and magnified by thick glasses. “Glad to meetcha”, he said, offering him a friendly grin. “You Steve or Stephen? Not that it matters, they’ll call you Steve whatever your preference. I used to hate being called Ray, but it never did me any good complaining about it. Don’t mind now — it’s better than some of the things they call me.” He chuckled, causing his double chin to ripple up and down over his collar. “Hang about”, he went on, squirming his backside off the table. “I’ll get you a form. You’ll be proposing?” Graham nodded.

  While the Hon Sec was waddling off through a door marked PRIVATE — COMMITTEE ONLY, Graham took him rapidly round introducing him to the others. Coming from a school where formal rules of conduct were the norm, and from a strict, rather narrow family, where “manners” and “standards” were the most frequently used words in the house, he didn’t know quite what to expect, and so was rather surprised by the easy informality of the cricketers. Though they ranged in age from fourteen to seventy they all nodded or stuck out a hand, gave him a friendly grin, and went back to their chatting or staring out of the enormous picture windows that ran the length of the pitch side of the pavilion.

  As he was being introduced a grey-haired, middle-aged man in a club blazer hurried in, waving his arms about in a preoccupied way, and hastened across to intercept Ray Fellows as he emerged from the committee room. “Ray”, he yelled urgently. “Seen the availability book?”

  “Nope”, said Ray shortly. “Was there on that table five minutes ago. Why?”

  “I’m one short”, said the red-faced man in a bad-tempered voice. “That bloody Ashokh Patel hasn’t turned up. It’s not good enough. This is the umpteenth time this season already that somebody’s been late or not turned up at all. But why the hell does it always have to be my bloody lot that do it?”

  “Oh, yeah”, said Ray in a contrite tone which did not correspond to the airy manner of delivery. “I’ve had a phone call. He’s had to go to the quack with his asthma, so we shan’t be seeing anything of him today. I meant to ring you earlier this morning, but something cropped up and I got sidetracked. Sorry, mate.”

  The newcomer snorted ferociously. “Gorr. It’s all very well for you to say ‘sorry, mate’, but what am I supposed to do? We’ve got to leave in twenty-five minutes”, he snapped. “I was scraping the bottom as it was. Come on, Ray, help me find the bloody book, will you. I’ll have to ring round some of the colts.”

  The Secretary turned to go back into the room from which he had brought Stephen’s membership form, but immediately turned back again. “Haven’t got your kit with you, by any chance, I suppose?” he said, coming towards Stephen and Graham. They exchanged glances.

  “No, I haven’t”, said Stephen, with a hopeful look dawning on his face. “But I could…I think I could…” He looked at Graham, who nodded. “I’ll run you there, no problem… Pat”, he said to the distracted newcomer, “this is Stephen Hill. We hope he’ll be playing for us. He’s a good bat and off-spinner—plays for the school. Want him? Better speak now or forever hold your peace — he’ll be in the Twos next week.” He turned to Stephen. “Stephen Hill, Pat Hayward, third XI skipper.”

  “How d’you do?” said Stephen. “Hi Steve”, said Hayward, sticking out a hand and giving him a rapid scrutiny. “Welcome aboard. Would you like a game? You’d be helping me out no end, as you’ve just heard.”

  Stephen grinned joyously. “I’d love to play”, he said, then added in a more sober tone, “but I wouldn’t want to keep anybody else out of the…”

  “Don’t you worry yourself about that”, he said briskly. “Very glad to have you. We’ve got a lot of people away this weekend for one reason or another. If you want to play, you’re in.”

  “I’m in”, said Stephen, delightedly. “Graham, would you mind…?”

  “Come on”, said Graham, fishing his car keys from his pocket as he headed for the door. “Just got to whizz him round to get his gear”, he said over his shoulder as they went through the doors. “I’ll have him back here in ten minutes, Pat. Okay?”

  “Yeah, fine”, called Hayward after them. “Thanks very much, Graham.”

  * * *

  “How’d you get on?” asked Graham with interest when the third eleven came crowding into the pavilion at ten o’clock that night.

  “All right!” crowed Hayward, shouldering through the pack at the bar and shouting for jugs. “Stuffed ’em by eight wickets.”

  “How did Stephen do?”

  “Your boy?” Hayward shouted over several heads. “He was great! Christ, practically won it for us on his own. Got forty when we were in trouble, and took three for bugger all. And took a blinder in the gulley. He’s a good boy, Graham. Where’ve you been hiding him all this time?” he went on, extricating himself from the mob round the bar and appearing beside Graham with a huge jug of beer in each hand. “Have a top up, Graham”, he said in his normal voice, pouring lager into the glass that Graham obligingly emptied for him. “He’s a damn good little cricketer, you know”, he went on enthusiastically.

  “I know”, said Graham, feeling very proud of his protégé. “What have you done with him?” he added, looking round and craning his neck over the milling crowd.

  “Oh, he went straight home”, said Hayward. “I tried to get him to come and have a drink—told him new signings had to buy a jug if they got runs…”

  “You bugger!” ejaculated Graham. “Impressionable kid like him, he probably believed you and hadn’t got enough cash…”

  “Don’t be a silly arse”, laughed Hayward. “He knew I was pulling his plonker. No”, he said, suddenly looking thoughtful, “I got the feeling he’d got trouble coming. He muttered something about his parents not being too keen on his playing. I hope he hasn’t got trouble coming from there. You know anything about that?” he asked, looking speculatively at Graham.

  “Yes, I’m afraid all’s not well there”, said Graham thoughtfully. “His parents are rather strict, I believe. I know they’re religious, and he’s told me in the past that they’re a bit stuffy about him having any sort of social life of his own. Still, he swore he’d square things with them.”

  “Poor little sod”, said Hayward. “He’s — what? How old is he? Eighteen?”

  “Seventeen, I should think, maybe coming up for eighteen.”

  “Well he’s old enough to make up his own mind, isn’t he?” said Hayward brusquely.

  “Well don’t look at me”, said Graham mildly. “I’m not keeping him in at nights. I only have the doubtful privilege of teaching him French. Trying to”, he amended.

  “It’s ridiculous”, said Hayward forcefully. “Kid of that age. Christ, we’ve got kids of twelve
round here till bloody near midnight every week. If I was him I’d — why, here he is! Hey, Steve, over here. Get yourself a glass”, he said, throwing a heavy arm round Stephen’s slim shoulders as the boy slipped through a break in the mob and came up to the two of them.

  “Pat’s just been telling me you had to go straight home”, said Graham, looking closely at Stephen. He thought the boy’s face had a slightly flushed appearance. “Tell you afterwards”, Stephen mouthed at him as Hayward came thrusting his way through with a pint glass. “Here y’are, get your laughing gear round this”, he said, sloshing a pint of lager into the glass and shoving it into Stephen’s hand. “Glad you could make it, son”, he went on gravely. “This lager jug’s almost empty…”

  “I…” was as far as Stephen got. Graham, laughing, seized the jug from Hayward’s hand, and Hayward winked at Stephen. “Only jokin, kid”, he grinned. “Only way of gettin that tight bugger to shell out for a jug.”

  Hayward stayed chatting for a few minutes more, then set off with the two jugs, now refilled, to top up his team’s glasses. Graham and Stephen gravitated to a corner of the room where it was a little quieter and the drifting blue haze of smoke was a little thinner. “Something happened at home?” Graham said. It was more a statement than a question.

  Stephen nodded, and a grim frown flitted briefly across his face. “They were up waiting for me. It was roughly what you might have expected: ‘we graciously allowed you to go and play cricket — as if they’d licensed me to go on a guided tour of the bloody red light district — and now you abuse our great trust by rolling in at ten o’clock at night. Ten o’clock, Graham! As if I’d come in with the milk in the morning and a dose of the clap!” Graham raised his eyebrows in surprise at the vehemence, and rather more at the choice of language. He also registered that it was the first time that Stephen had used his Christian name naturally and without awkwardness. For no reason that he could have defined, he suffered a momentary, fleeting feeling of lightheadedness.

  “So what happened, then? How come you’re back here?”

  “I did something I should have bloody well done years ago”, declared Stephen. Graham suppressed a chuckle. “I laid down the law a bit. I said I was nearly eighteen, and old enough to decide for myself what time I got home and went to bed. Ordering me around like a little bloody child! I said I’d agreed to meet you after the match and have a drink with you.” He stopped abruptly and stared at Graham as the implications of what he had said struck him for the first time. “I say, I hope I haven’t…”

  “Don’t worry about it, Stephen”, Graham said, releasing the chuckle now. “You’re quite right, you’re quite old enough to stay out if you want to. I’m afraid your parents are a bit old-fashioned. Still, I imagine the concern underneath is genuine enough. They’re just being a little over-protective. Don’t upset them for the sake of upsetting them, Stephen: they’re on your side, really, I’m sure. Try to understand their point of view — even if it sometimes seems a little restricted. Don’t set out to antagonize them…”

  He broke off, and then impulsively reached up and ruffled Stephen’s hair. “All the same”, he said, “I’m glad you could make it back for a drink. I gather from Pat that congratulations are in order.”

  Stephen blushed, but looked very pleased with himself, and Graham had no trouble in coaxing an account of his game out of him.

  “You’ve made a very good start with the club, then, Stephen”, he said when the ball-by-ball replay was complete. “Let me get you a drink.” He waved Stephen’s protests down and went to the bar. “One for the road”, he said when he came back with fresh pints. “Cheers. How did you get here just now?” he added as a thought struck him.

  “Walked”, said Stephen. “Well, jogged, actually. Only takes fifteen minutes.”

  “I’ll give you a lift home when we’ve drunk these, if you like.”

  “Really? Oh, well, thanks. If it’s really no trouble…”

  “None whatsoever.”

  They drank their beer, talking mostly of school affairs and gossip, and set off for the door. As they made their way through the still crowded room towards the door several members of the Third XI called goodnights to Stephen, and Hayward and Fellows, the Hon Sec, converged on them from opposite directions. “Don’t forget to sign the book”, said Hayward, thrusting a battered ledger book into Stephen’s hands. Seeing Stephen’s blank look he elaborated, “availability book. So the selection committee know who’s available for next weekend’s matches. Teams are picked for tomorrow, but we’ll see you next week, I hope?”

  Stephen flushed with pleasure at the man’s obvious sincerity, borrowed a pen from Graham and marked himself as available for both days of the following weekend. “Both days?” Graham, looking over his shoulder, murmured very softly in his ear. Stephen glanced briefly over his shoulder at him and flashed him a grin. “Not half’, he said. “I’ve never enjoyed myself like this in my life.” The poignancy with which he said it touched Graham, and he left it at that.

  “My turn now”, said Fellows when Stephen handed the fat book back to Hayward. “Your application for membership. Still got it with you?” Stephen took the folded form from his back pocket and handed it to him. “Be approved at the next committee meeting”, said Fellows. “Won’t be any problem. Consider yourself elected. Nets every Tuesday and Thursday, six-thirty. See you there, I hope?” Stephen nodded. “Try and keep me away”, he said happily.

  The Hon Sec bustled away. As they started once more for the door Graham put a hand on Stephen’s arm to steer him through the gap in the crowd. Stephen could not place exactly what he had seen, or in whose face he had seen it, but he experienced a very brief sensation of something unpleasant and curdling; a split second later the feeling was gone, but he was aware of its having existed and of its passing.

  When Graham drew up outside Stephen’s house it was in darkness. “You can feel the atmosphere even out here in your car”, observed Stephen. He shivered suddenly. “Christ, the place even looks like an accusation, doesn’t it? I wish I had somewhere else to go”, he added feelingly, and it was Graham’s turn to shiver. He ruthlessly shut off the thoughts that had begun to sparkle in his mind like a cascade of bright fireworks and turned the conversation to neutral topics. They sat in the darkened car, talking of all manner of things, for almost an hour before Stephen reluctantly got out. Graham sat silently, watching while Stephen walked to his front door and let himself in. Then he drove quietly into the night.

  * * *

  “All right, Graham”, said Doctor Reginald Westwood. “What’s the trouble?”

  “I’m afraid I’ve upset Andrew Tyldesley”, murmured Graham.

  Westwood stared at him. “Are you sitting there, drinking my whisky at two o’clock in the morning, and telling me that you’ve kept me up to announce that you’ve upset that air-headed ninny?” he asked. His tone sounded acid, but it did not fool Graham, who knew that Westwood was very fond of him indeed.

  “No, Reggie, of course I’m not”, he said, laughing. “Upsetting him was an effect, not a cause. I was dreadful company, he informed me earlier this evening, because I stood propping the bar up in his ghastly pub not saying a word to anyone…”

  “I should have thought that would have positively endeared you to Tyldesley”, rumbled Westwood grumpily. “I had the impression he liked his conversation partners in the passive voice, rather than the active.”

  “Quite”, agreed Graham. “That’s what upset him. I wasn’t listening to anything anyone said, either. Especially him. As a matter of fact, he came in rather useful, for once in a way. His voice and that frightful cacophony they insist on perforating your eardrums with in that pub made it quite easy simply to lie back and think. Which is what I was doing, Reggie.”

  “Thinking about something you now want a second opinion on, eh, Graham?” said the old man, and the forbidding expression he had been wearing since Graham had mentioned Andrew Tyldesley softened. His eyes were very bright
in the subdued lighting of his vast St John’s Wood flat.

  “Yes, please, Reggie”, said Graham, looking at him across the space between the two huge club armchairs with great affection. Westwood had been his first lover, when Graham had been a nineteen-year-old virgin, confused, racked by guilt, disgust and fear of the opinion of other people and, most of all, utterly terrified of what he had divined about himself. As Graham had gained in experience and wisdom himself he had gradually realized how immensely fortunate he had been to fall in the way of a gentle man who regarded the exchange of kindness as the highest refinement of sexual accomplishment.

  Though they had not been lovers for many years they were still very close friends, and when he was troubled Graham sought counsel and comfort from the old man in much the same way as the boys came to Graham himself. The wisdom he received was sometimes not at all what he wanted to hear; but the stern objectivity of the old man’s judgment was bearable because of the unconditional love that both inspired and accompanied it.

  Westwood was seventy-one now, and occasionally accompanied Graham on tours of London gay pubs and clubs, “partly because I’ve got an enquiring mind, my dear”, he had said the first time he had asked Graham to give him the conducted tour, “and partly because the finest way of confirming how civilized one’s own way of life is is seeing how thoroughly beastly other people’s are.” He had met Andrew Tyldesley, with whom Graham had been dallying at the time, once, and dismissed him in fifteen seconds when Graham saw him home. “Saw through him like a small square of flyblown transparent plastic, my dear. I’ve seen thousands of his type in my time. Vain, flashy, and treacherous. Avoid him, Graham, or you’ll end up paying him like you pay a blackmailer — which, emotionally, is what he is. Have nothing to do with him.”