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.
Matthew stared, first at the window, and then, discarding the rest of us as unimportant and irrelevant, at Dr Bairstow. He had gone very pale, his eyes huge with fear. He was ready to drop the bat and run. Anywhere. Away from whatever punishment he thought was coming his way. None of us moved. In just one second, all our good work had been completely undone.
I was about to go to him – for all the good that would do – when Dr Bairstow said calmly, ‘A good shot, Matthew, but you should watch those elbows. Try again.’
Another ball was produced. Evans bowled him an easy one and he hit it straight into Markham’s waiting hands. Markham fumbled artistically, dropped it, and then fell over for good measure.
There was a torrent of good-natured abuse.
Dr Bairstow shook his head and moved on. No Deductions form was ever received.
In the evenings, we would watch a little TV. In my role as bad cop, I wouldn’t let him watch much because I didn’t want to overload him. He did like doing jigsaw puzzles, though. We would all sit together at the table while he frowned over the pieces. He never smiled much, but I suspected he hadn’t had much to smile about. He liked books and stories as well, and every night Leon would disappear for a tactful hour while I read to him in bed. I kept the stories simple, because his knowledge of our world wasn’t great, and we would look at the pictures together.
We introduced women into his life very slowly.
First up was Mrs Mack. She let him help make jam tarts for us to eat in the evening as we read together. He never greeted her with wild enthusiasm, but he tolerated her – I think he’d worked out that she was the source of all food. He politely avoided Mrs Enderby because of her tendency to cuddle, but the real breakthrough was Miss Lingoss.
He took one look at her blue-tipped hair and was her devoted slave. He trotted after her whenever she would allow him to. She was very good-natured about it all, promising faithfully not to engage in anything too hazardous when he was around. I was always catching glimpses of the pair of them disappearing around a corner somewhere, laden with dubious-looking equipment that could, in the wrong hands – i.e. Miss Lingoss’s – lay waste to most of the surrounding countryside for miles around, cause near-earth satellites to drop from the sky, and possibly start a small pandemic as well. As a caring and concerned mother, I should probably investigate their activities. As a short and harassed historian, I would pretend I’d seen nothing.
With everyone else cherry-picking the good stuff, I seemed to be stuck with hair-washing, ear-cleaning and badgering him to eat broccoli. The three things he disliked most in the world. A mother’s lot is not a happy one.
He didn’t talk much but he wasn’t unfriendly. Not even distrustful. He was just watchful.
I forced myself be patient and tried not to think about the little baby holding out his arms for me to save him. It was slow, but we were making progress and it was possible, said Dr Stone, that given a little time and patience, everything might be all right after all. And how about that eye test while I was here?
‘I’m very busy,’ I said, backing away. ‘Some other time, perhaps.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I quite understand. You’ve a lot on at the moment. Tell you what – how about a quick preliminary, and if you get through that then there’s no need for the full test. It’ll only take a few minutes and we could get it out of the way now.’
I indicated that this might be acceptable. It was beginning to dawn on me that this eye test thing wasn’t going to go away.
‘Won’t take long,’ he said cheerfully, sitting me at a table. Not a lightbox in sight. This might go well.
He handed me a sheet of paper and a pencil. ‘Let’s see how well you do at this easy test, shall we. Draw me a house.’
I drew a tiny house.
‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘No problems there. Now, draw me a garden.’
I did a few scrappy flowers and a lollipop tree in front of the house.
‘Yes, that seems OK. Last one – draw me a snake.’
I rather went to town on the snake. I drew a giant python, all curled around the outside of the picture, rather like a reptilian picture frame. I drew a dramatic diamond pattern on his body and coloured it in. I gave him a flickering, forked tongue, big eyes with huge curling eyelashes and a wicked expression, and a giant rattle on his tale. When I was satisfied, I handed the paper back.
He looked at it for some time.
I got up to go.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Well, I’ve passed, haven’t I? Look at the detail on that snake. Nothing wrong with my eyes.’