That must have been exciting.’ Cheeseman licked his lips.
‘You could say that.’
Cheeseman frowned. ‘My father was in a tank regiment. He was wounded in Sicily.’
‘Wasn’t he rather old?’ said Geoffrey, who could not remember Cheeseman’s father in particular.
‘Just scraped in, I think,’ said Cheddar. ‘He was very keen. And quite short. They just dropped him in the gun turret. So he used to say.’
There was another pause and Geoffrey struggled to find anything to say. He didn’t want to embarrass Cheeseman by talking about his own health, or about his war experiences.
Eventually, he had a thought. ‘What work do you do? Do you have a good job?’
Cheeseman grimaced. ‘Not really. I work for a law firm in the City. It’s pretty dull, to be honest. Quite well paid, though.’
They heard a trolley clanking down the corridor towards the ward. It was Cheeseman’s turn to be struck by an idea.
‘Do you have a television here, sir? I mean, can you watch the Test match?’
‘No,’ said Geoffrey. ‘There’s a wireless in the day room, but the others don’t like cricket. They like pop music.’
‘Bad luck, sir. We’re doing quite well. I was listening in the car. What do you think of Colin Cowdrey?’
‘Plays very straight, they say. Very well coached. Wonderful slip fielder, I believe. I’m afraid I’ve never seen him play.’
‘I’ll take you to Lord’s one day when you’re better. There’s a chap in my firm can usually get tickets. It’s about the only consolation for working there! Who was the best bat you ever saw?’
‘Frank Woolley,’ said Geoffrey without hesitation. ‘He was imperious. He once scored a double hundred in each innings. No one else has ever done that.’
‘Left-hander, wasn’t he?’
A nurse came in to take away the empty teacups. The air seemed heavy when she had gone and Geoffrey felt his inspiration had run dry. Cheeseman licked his lips again and cast his eyes round frantically, through the window and out to the garden where two or three patients were walking slowly over the grass.
The silence hung thickly in the corners of the room until at last the lunch bell rang and Cheeseman said, ‘I suppose I’d better be going now, sir. It was very nice to see you. I do hope they’ll let you out of here soon.’
Geoffrey took Cheeseman to the main door of the building and shook his proffered hand.
‘Thank you for coming, Ched. Very decent of you.’
Then he watched him drive off in a blue Ford Zephyr, sounding the horn once as he left the car park but keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
Geoffrey did not go into lunch that day. He sat in the day room and cried. All afternoon, his tears fell on to the linoleum floor, making such a pool that the nurse eventually had to clean it up. ‘Come on, Geoffrey,’ she said, banging the head of a mop against the leg of his chair, ‘pull yourself together.’
A week later there was a parcel for Geoffrey from London. Buried deep in layers of protective packaging was a small portable television with a built-in aerial and a pair of earphones.
Three months later, Geoffrey was out, discharged; and three months after that, he found himself a job in Hampshire. He had persuaded ‘Big’ Little to write a reference for a post he had seen advertised, and Little did so, adding the postscript: ‘If there is anything further at all you would like to know about this candidate, please do not hesitate to ask me.’ He had underlined the words ‘anything further at all’, which was a code headmasters used as a warning signal – usually that the man in question was too fond of boys. It also meant that the new employer could offer a reduced salary.
Geoffrey still had £200 of his inheritance left, and used some of it to buy an old car. His new school was near the area where he had been brought up, though not so close as to provoke mawkish thoughts. It was a notch or two below Crampton Abbey and sent most of its
‘You could say that.’
Cheeseman frowned. ‘My father was in a tank regiment. He was wounded in Sicily.’
‘Wasn’t he rather old?’ said Geoffrey, who could not remember Cheeseman’s father in particular.
‘Just scraped in, I think,’ said Cheddar. ‘He was very keen. And quite short. They just dropped him in the gun turret. So he used to say.’
There was another pause and Geoffrey struggled to find anything to say. He didn’t want to embarrass Cheeseman by talking about his own health, or about his war experiences.
Eventually, he had a thought. ‘What work do you do? Do you have a good job?’
Cheeseman grimaced. ‘Not really. I work for a law firm in the City. It’s pretty dull, to be honest. Quite well paid, though.’
They heard a trolley clanking down the corridor towards the ward. It was Cheeseman’s turn to be struck by an idea.
‘Do you have a television here, sir? I mean, can you watch the Test match?’
‘No,’ said Geoffrey. ‘There’s a wireless in the day room, but the others don’t like cricket. They like pop music.’
‘Bad luck, sir. We’re doing quite well. I was listening in the car. What do you think of Colin Cowdrey?’
‘Plays very straight, they say. Very well coached. Wonderful slip fielder, I believe. I’m afraid I’ve never seen him play.’
‘I’ll take you to Lord’s one day when you’re better. There’s a chap in my firm can usually get tickets. It’s about the only consolation for working there! Who was the best bat you ever saw?’
‘Frank Woolley,’ said Geoffrey without hesitation. ‘He was imperious. He once scored a double hundred in each innings. No one else has ever done that.’
‘Left-hander, wasn’t he?’
A nurse came in to take away the empty teacups. The air seemed heavy when she had gone and Geoffrey felt his inspiration had run dry. Cheeseman licked his lips again and cast his eyes round frantically, through the window and out to the garden where two or three patients were walking slowly over the grass.
The silence hung thickly in the corners of the room until at last the lunch bell rang and Cheeseman said, ‘I suppose I’d better be going now, sir. It was very nice to see you. I do hope they’ll let you out of here soon.’
Geoffrey took Cheeseman to the main door of the building and shook his proffered hand.
‘Thank you for coming, Ched. Very decent of you.’
Then he watched him drive off in a blue Ford Zephyr, sounding the horn once as he left the car park but keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
Geoffrey did not go into lunch that day. He sat in the day room and cried. All afternoon, his tears fell on to the linoleum floor, making such a pool that the nurse eventually had to clean it up. ‘Come on, Geoffrey,’ she said, banging the head of a mop against the leg of his chair, ‘pull yourself together.’
A week later there was a parcel for Geoffrey from London. Buried deep in layers of protective packaging was a small portable television with a built-in aerial and a pair of earphones.
Three months later, Geoffrey was out, discharged; and three months after that, he found himself a job in Hampshire. He had persuaded ‘Big’ Little to write a reference for a post he had seen advertised, and Little did so, adding the postscript: ‘If there is anything further at all you would like to know about this candidate, please do not hesitate to ask me.’ He had underlined the words ‘anything further at all’, which was a code headmasters used as a warning signal – usually that the man in question was too fond of boys. It also meant that the new employer could offer a reduced salary.
Geoffrey still had £200 of his inheritance left, and used some of it to buy an old car. His new school was near the area where he had been brought up, though not so close as to provoke mawkish thoughts. It was a notch or two below Crampton Abbey and sent most of its
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