grave. However, nothing was said that she shouldn’t await judgement day sleeping with the fishes.’
ONLY ONE CAREFUL OWNER
‘Good wood, Albert,’ cried someone as Mr Whiteburgh’s bowl gently kissed the side of the jack on its way past, thereby making the ultimate victory of the Binscombe team seem all the more certain.
Less demonstrative, but just as enthusiastic, Mr Disvan joined with the round of appreciative applause.
‘They’ll not catch us now,’ he confided to me.
The home Goldenford side appeared to share this view and started to relax the frightening degree of concentration they always brought to this local derby. A few of them went so far as to strike up easygoing conversations with their opponents, probably about the drinking which normally followed the game, and the events of the year since the last one.
Although I would not have admitted it in present company, I was relatively indifferent to the match’s outcome. My motives for attending had more to do with the idyllic setting and attendant jollities than any burning desire to witness victory. Someone who was observing me rather than the game would have noticed that, for the most part, my attention was devoted to the river which flowed beside the bowling green and to the boggy Lammas lands beyond. For all my years of residence, I had yet to find in myself the professed and fervid Binscombe patriotism of my circle of friends.
The church clock struck seven. The sun was just setting over its Norman tower and casting a friendly if waning light over the raised ground of the graveyard. Mr Disvan had told me that the vast yews which stood within it had, in their comparative youth, probably provided longbows for the battles of the Hundred Years War. I’d read elsewhere, however, that the best bow staves had been generally imported from Spain. Even so, it was a pleasing notion and so I had kept my sceptical modern theories to myself.
It seemed to me that the setting could be part of a ‘This England’ calendar scene, and I one of the anonymous archetypal Englishmen within it.
As very often happened, no sooner had any halfway agreeable idea entered my head than the world somehow instantly intruded to blow the concept asunder. In this particular instance, the world’s emissary was the screech of car brakes and the repeated sounding of a horn.
Everyone looked up to see that a yellow Ford Fiesta had come to a halt, quite illegally it should be said, on the road that ran parallel to the river and the associated recreation grounds. The highway was some way off and so the owner of the offending vehicle could not be made out.
‘Anyone recognise it?’ said the Goldenford Captain, a burly red-faced man with arms like giant hams. Nobody did and so the game continued.
Obviously frustrated by our lack of response to his signals, the motorist left his car and set off towards us on foot. Another figure, a female one, similarly alighted and followed on at a lesser pace. It seemed their intentions were friendly, for the young man in the lead was waving at us.
‘I know who it is,’ said Mr Disvan, squinting at the approaching visitors. ‘It’s Trevor Jones and his young lady.’
‘Who are they?’ I inquired.
‘Don’t you know them? They’re both Binscombe people. Their families have been around here for a long, long time.’
‘I don’t recall the name.’
‘Possibly not; they’ve both been away at university so you may have missed meeting them.’
‘I see.’
‘We’re very proud of them. As far as I know, they’re the first Binscombe youngsters to go to university, apart from the Tamlyn boy who went to theological college, which isn’t quite the same thing. Also, they started courting before they went away, so they’ve done well to stay together all that time, given the temptations and distractions.’
‘I suppose they have.’
By this time the young couple were almost upon us. Close to, I now recognised them as people
ONLY ONE CAREFUL OWNER
‘Good wood, Albert,’ cried someone as Mr Whiteburgh’s bowl gently kissed the side of the jack on its way past, thereby making the ultimate victory of the Binscombe team seem all the more certain.
Less demonstrative, but just as enthusiastic, Mr Disvan joined with the round of appreciative applause.
‘They’ll not catch us now,’ he confided to me.
The home Goldenford side appeared to share this view and started to relax the frightening degree of concentration they always brought to this local derby. A few of them went so far as to strike up easygoing conversations with their opponents, probably about the drinking which normally followed the game, and the events of the year since the last one.
Although I would not have admitted it in present company, I was relatively indifferent to the match’s outcome. My motives for attending had more to do with the idyllic setting and attendant jollities than any burning desire to witness victory. Someone who was observing me rather than the game would have noticed that, for the most part, my attention was devoted to the river which flowed beside the bowling green and to the boggy Lammas lands beyond. For all my years of residence, I had yet to find in myself the professed and fervid Binscombe patriotism of my circle of friends.
The church clock struck seven. The sun was just setting over its Norman tower and casting a friendly if waning light over the raised ground of the graveyard. Mr Disvan had told me that the vast yews which stood within it had, in their comparative youth, probably provided longbows for the battles of the Hundred Years War. I’d read elsewhere, however, that the best bow staves had been generally imported from Spain. Even so, it was a pleasing notion and so I had kept my sceptical modern theories to myself.
It seemed to me that the setting could be part of a ‘This England’ calendar scene, and I one of the anonymous archetypal Englishmen within it.
As very often happened, no sooner had any halfway agreeable idea entered my head than the world somehow instantly intruded to blow the concept asunder. In this particular instance, the world’s emissary was the screech of car brakes and the repeated sounding of a horn.
Everyone looked up to see that a yellow Ford Fiesta had come to a halt, quite illegally it should be said, on the road that ran parallel to the river and the associated recreation grounds. The highway was some way off and so the owner of the offending vehicle could not be made out.
‘Anyone recognise it?’ said the Goldenford Captain, a burly red-faced man with arms like giant hams. Nobody did and so the game continued.
Obviously frustrated by our lack of response to his signals, the motorist left his car and set off towards us on foot. Another figure, a female one, similarly alighted and followed on at a lesser pace. It seemed their intentions were friendly, for the young man in the lead was waving at us.
‘I know who it is,’ said Mr Disvan, squinting at the approaching visitors. ‘It’s Trevor Jones and his young lady.’
‘Who are they?’ I inquired.
‘Don’t you know them? They’re both Binscombe people. Their families have been around here for a long, long time.’
‘I don’t recall the name.’
‘Possibly not; they’ve both been away at university so you may have missed meeting them.’
‘I see.’
‘We’re very proud of them. As far as I know, they’re the first Binscombe youngsters to go to university, apart from the Tamlyn boy who went to theological college, which isn’t quite the same thing. Also, they started courting before they went away, so they’ve done well to stay together all that time, given the temptations and distractions.’
‘I suppose they have.’
By this time the young couple were almost upon us. Close to, I now recognised them as people
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