Free The Shadow of War by Stewart Binns Page A

registered, Tommy.’
    ‘It doesn’t matter, we’re only Burnley Thirds. Just a few o’ t’lads; casual, like.’
    ‘Well, I’m speaking in Nelson at seven thirty, and I haven’t wielded a bat in many a year …’
    ‘Tha’ll be alreet, we start at five thirty. We’ll get the Lowerhouse lads to concede t’toss and tha can open fer us. Rose
Grove Station is just up t’road. Nelson is only fifteen minutes.’
    ‘Well, Tommy, on that basis, how can I refuse?’
    The following evening, at five thirty on the dot, to the bewilderment of the twenty or so spectators and to the chagrin of the Lowerhouse Third Eleven, Henry Hyndman, founder of the British Socialist Party, opens the batting for Burnley Cricket Club’s Thirds. Over seventy years old, and several stones heavier than when in his prime, he bats with the trousers of his heavy woollen suit pushed into his socks and tucks the bottom of his beard into his waistcoat. There are many in the crowd who remark on the uncanny resemblance to the great cricketing legend, ‘The Champion’, Dr William Gilbert Grace.
    Tommy also opens, but is out for two in the second over, bringing in Vinny Sagar, Tommy’s pal and the club’s most promising youngster. When Hyndman has to retire an hour later to catch the train to Nelson, he has scored 78 off just 51 balls, including 3 sixes and 13 fours, with Vinny contributing a commendable 16. The great socialist leader leaves the field to a standing ovation and a handshake from the members of both teams.
    Tommy is the last to grasp his hand.
    ‘Thanks to thee, Henry.’
    ‘Thank you, Tommy; I hope you go on to win.’
    ‘We will. Vinny’ll get fifty, he ollus does, and we’ll make a hundred and sixty, thanks to thy seventy-eight. They’ll be lucky to get a hundred and twenty.’
    ‘It was my pleasure, Tommy. I thoroughly enjoyed myself.’
    Tommy walks over to the boundary with Hyndman and beckons to one of the spectators to escort his guest to the station.
    ‘Tell me, Henry, this socialism malarkey, every bugger bein’ equal an’ all that, will it ever ’appen?’
    ‘Undoubtedly,
Tommy. In fact, it already has – for example, during the Paris Commune, and a few other places – albeit briefly. If we can persuade men like you to believe in it, instead of old fuddy-duddies like me, it will happen for certain. And soon.’
    Tommy is lost in thought as he watches his guest leave. Then the opposing captain bellows at him. It is his turn to umpire.
    ‘Art laikin’ Tommy, or what?’
    Burnley Thirds win the game easily.
    That evening, Mick and Cath Kenny and Tommy and Mary Broxup are sitting with the team to enjoy a few post-match drinks in the Lowerhouse’s small wooden pavilion. Cath is a teetotaller and is only drinking ginger beer, but Mary is fond of Mackeson, the new milk stout that is growing in popularity.
    The men, who have played in their working clothes, have stripped off to their vests and trousers and taken off their clogs and socks. Mary and Cath are still wrapped in their long voluminous skirts and petticoats, their head and shoulders covered by heavy Lancashire shawls, the standard dress for mill workers. Only well-to-do ladies wear the latest Edwardian styles with pleated skirts, tailored jackets and feathered hats.
    Cath is concerned that young Vinny is quaffing ale as quickly as Tommy and Mick.
    ‘Our Vinny, tha doesn’t ’ave to drink them pints as quick as these two daft buggers.’
    Mary agrees.
    ‘Our Tommy were a grand cricketer an’ could laik a fair game o’ football until he started suppin’ ale by t’gallon.’
    Tommy springs to Vinny’s defence.
    ‘Stop moitherin ’, woman, t’lad’ll be alreet. Let ’im enjoy his ale.’
    Mick
thinks it’s a good idea to change the subject.
    ‘So, Tommy, tha were impressed wi’ Hyndman’s battin’, but what abaht ’is politics?’
    ‘Aye, he can bat; he’s a proper cricketer. He’s what, seventy? Not bad fer an old ’un.’
    Mary notices