Free Poverty Castle by John Robin Jenkins Page B

it.
    â€˜Who told you girls can’t bowl?’ said Effie, aggressively.
    Nigel sneered. ‘They can only bowl underhand.’
    â€˜What’s underhand?’
    He demonstrated.
    â€˜What’s wrong with that? Is it against the rules?’
    â€˜Of course it is.’
    â€˜No, it isn’t,’ said Edwin. ‘It’s not often done but it’s not against the rules.’
    â€˜I suppose it’s all right for girls,’ said Nigel.
    â€˜Diana’s a jolly good bowler,’ said Effie.
    Nigel laughed. It wasn’t an improvement on his sneering.
    â€˜Let her bowl if she wants, Edwin.’
    Mumbling apologies, Edwin handed the ball to Diana. Briskly she placed her field. Effie kept wicket, wearing gloves much too big. Edwin fielded on the off-side, Jeanie on the on-side. Rowena and Rebecca were stationed where the ball was not likely to reach them.
    Diana bowled, overhand, slowly but straight. The ball trundled along the grass. Nigel rushed forward, swiped, and missed. The ball hit the stumps. A bail fell off.
    â€˜Out!’ screamed Effie. ‘You’re out. Bowled.’
    â€˜Well done, Diana,’ cried Edwin.
    Rowena and Rebecca clapped their hands.
    In a rage Nigel stamped the ground with his feet. ‘I’m not out,’ he yelled.
    The girls were fascinated. To show that you were a bad sportsman by sulking, say, was bad enough, though forgivable; to do it in this extravagant way was awful.
    â€˜It was a no-ball,’ shrieked Nigel. ‘You can’t be out from a no-ball. Father, can you be out from a no-ball?’
    â€˜God knows,’ said his father.
    â€˜I don’t think you can,’ called his mother.
    â€˜It wasn’t a no-ball,’ said Edwin.
    â€˜Yes, it was. She stepped over the line. I saw her. You stepped over the line, didn’t you?’
    â€˜I did not,’ said Diana.
    She remembered they were guests.
    â€˜Perhaps I did,’ she said. ‘All right, Nigel. We’ll call it a no-ball.’
    â€˜You shouldn’t humour him, Diana,’ cried Effie. ‘It’ll just make him worse.’
    Lady Campton heard and scowled. Nigel again took guard. Diana bowled, intending to give him an easy one so that he could score a run. He managed to hit the ball but Jeanie running forward took an easy catch.
    â€˜You’re out this time,’ cried Effie. ‘Out for nothing.’
    Nigel swithered whether or not to stage another tantrum. Deciding against, he took off the pads and ran up the pitch.
    â€˜Give me the ball. I’ll bowl. Edwin, you bat.’
    â€˜What about us?’ cried Effie. ‘We’re in the game too, you know.’
    Edwin hesitated. He was afraid that if one of the girls batted, Nigel, seeking revenge, would try to hit her with the ball. Sighing, he put on the pads and prepared to bat. He loved cricket but knew he was a duffer. Never before had he wanted so much to bat brilliantly.
    Nigel bowled. It was really a throw and was yards wide.
    â€˜You threw it,’ cried Effie.
    â€˜And you ran over the line,’ cried Jeanie.
    â€˜If you don’t all shut up,’ he screamed, ‘I’ll get my mother to send you home.’ Liking the idea, he rushed over to his mother and shouted that the Sempill girls were cheats and he wanted them to be sent home.
    Scorning the puerile accusation that they were cheats, the girls waited to see if his mother would cuff his ear and order him not to be a spoiled brat or would do what he wanted and send them home.
    â€˜Sorry about this,’ muttered Edwin.
    He looked miserable, and, as Effie was to say afterwards, no one in the world was better at looking miserable than poor Edwin, with his big, skinned nose.
    Whatever his mother whispered to him, probably she promised him some treat, Nigel consented to come back. He did not however join in the game, but stood aside with his arms folded, as if, said Effie, he had just scored