Oneir practiced all day, and Fenning, who was no good really, was persuaded to run after the balls. In between they talked cricket, and at night Christopher had normal ordinary dreams, all about cricket.
It seemed quite an interruption on the first Thursday, when he had to give up dreams of cricket and meet Tacroy in Series Five.
“I saw you in London,” Christopher said to him. “Your garret’s near Covent Garden, isn’t it?”
“Covent Garden?” Tacroy said blankly. “It’s nowhere near there. You must have seen someone else.” And he stuck to that, even when Christopher described in great detail which street it was and what Tacroy had looked like. “No,” he said. “You must have been running after a complete stranger.”
Christopher knew it had been Tacroy. He was puzzled. But there seemed no point in going on arguing. He began loading the carriage with fishy-smelling bundles and went back to thinking about cricket. Naturally, not thinking what he was doing, he let go of a bundle in the wrong place. It fell half through Tacroy and slapped to the ground, where it lay leaking an even fishier smell than before. “Pooh!” said Christopher. “What is this stuff?”
“No idea,” said Tacroy. “I’m only your uncle’s errand boy. What’s the matter? Is your mind somewhere else tonight?”
“Sorry,” Christopher said, collecting the bundle. “I was thinking of cricket.”
Tacroy’s face lit up. “Are you bowler or batsman?”
“Batsman,” said Christopher. “I want to be a professional.”
“I’m a bowler myself,” said Tacroy. “Slow leg-spin, and though I say it myself, I’m not half bad. I play quite a lot for—well, it’s a village team really, but we usually win. I usually end up taking seven wickets—and I can bat a bit too. What are you, an opener?”
“No, I fancy myself as a stroke player,” Christopher said.
They talked cricket all the time Christopher was loading the carriage. After that they walked on the beach with the blue surf crashing beside them and went on talking cricket. Tacroy several times tried to demonstrate his skill by picking up a pebble, but he could not get firm enough to hold it. So Christopher found a piece of driftwood to act as a bat and Tacroy gave him advice on how to hit.
After that, Tacroy gave Christopher a coaching session in whatever Anywhere they happened to be, and both of them talked cricket nonstop. Tacroy was a good coach. Christopher learned far more from him than he did from the Sports master at school. He had more and more splendid ambitions of playing professionally for Surrey or somewhere, cracking the ball firmly to the boundary all around the ground. In fact, Tacroy taught him so well, that he began to have quite real, everyday ambitions of getting into the school team.
They were reading Oneir’s cricket books aloud in the dormitory now. Matron had discovered The Arabian Nights and taken it away, but nobody minded. Every boy in the dormitory, even Fenning, was cricket mad. And Christopher was most obsessed of all.
Then disaster struck. It began with Tacroy saying, “By the way, there’s a change of plan. Can you meet me in Series Ten next Thursday? Someone seems to be trying to spoil your uncle’s experiments, so we have to change the routine.”
Christopher was distracted from cricket by slight guilt at that. He knew he ought to make a further payment for Throgmorten, and he was afraid that the Goddess might have supernatural means of knowing he had been to Series Ten without bringing her any more books. He went rather warily to the valley.
Tacroy was not there. It took Christopher a good hour of climbing and scrambling to locate him at the mouth of quite a different valley. By this time Tacroy had become distinctly misty and unfirm.
“Dunderhead,” Tacroy said while Christopher hastily firmed him up. “I was going to lose this trance any second. You know there’s more than one place in a series. What got into
It seemed quite an interruption on the first Thursday, when he had to give up dreams of cricket and meet Tacroy in Series Five.
“I saw you in London,” Christopher said to him. “Your garret’s near Covent Garden, isn’t it?”
“Covent Garden?” Tacroy said blankly. “It’s nowhere near there. You must have seen someone else.” And he stuck to that, even when Christopher described in great detail which street it was and what Tacroy had looked like. “No,” he said. “You must have been running after a complete stranger.”
Christopher knew it had been Tacroy. He was puzzled. But there seemed no point in going on arguing. He began loading the carriage with fishy-smelling bundles and went back to thinking about cricket. Naturally, not thinking what he was doing, he let go of a bundle in the wrong place. It fell half through Tacroy and slapped to the ground, where it lay leaking an even fishier smell than before. “Pooh!” said Christopher. “What is this stuff?”
“No idea,” said Tacroy. “I’m only your uncle’s errand boy. What’s the matter? Is your mind somewhere else tonight?”
“Sorry,” Christopher said, collecting the bundle. “I was thinking of cricket.”
Tacroy’s face lit up. “Are you bowler or batsman?”
“Batsman,” said Christopher. “I want to be a professional.”
“I’m a bowler myself,” said Tacroy. “Slow leg-spin, and though I say it myself, I’m not half bad. I play quite a lot for—well, it’s a village team really, but we usually win. I usually end up taking seven wickets—and I can bat a bit too. What are you, an opener?”
“No, I fancy myself as a stroke player,” Christopher said.
They talked cricket all the time Christopher was loading the carriage. After that they walked on the beach with the blue surf crashing beside them and went on talking cricket. Tacroy several times tried to demonstrate his skill by picking up a pebble, but he could not get firm enough to hold it. So Christopher found a piece of driftwood to act as a bat and Tacroy gave him advice on how to hit.
After that, Tacroy gave Christopher a coaching session in whatever Anywhere they happened to be, and both of them talked cricket nonstop. Tacroy was a good coach. Christopher learned far more from him than he did from the Sports master at school. He had more and more splendid ambitions of playing professionally for Surrey or somewhere, cracking the ball firmly to the boundary all around the ground. In fact, Tacroy taught him so well, that he began to have quite real, everyday ambitions of getting into the school team.
They were reading Oneir’s cricket books aloud in the dormitory now. Matron had discovered The Arabian Nights and taken it away, but nobody minded. Every boy in the dormitory, even Fenning, was cricket mad. And Christopher was most obsessed of all.
Then disaster struck. It began with Tacroy saying, “By the way, there’s a change of plan. Can you meet me in Series Ten next Thursday? Someone seems to be trying to spoil your uncle’s experiments, so we have to change the routine.”
Christopher was distracted from cricket by slight guilt at that. He knew he ought to make a further payment for Throgmorten, and he was afraid that the Goddess might have supernatural means of knowing he had been to Series Ten without bringing her any more books. He went rather warily to the valley.
Tacroy was not there. It took Christopher a good hour of climbing and scrambling to locate him at the mouth of quite a different valley. By this time Tacroy had become distinctly misty and unfirm.
“Dunderhead,” Tacroy said while Christopher hastily firmed him up. “I was going to lose this trance any second. You know there’s more than one place in a series. What got into
Similar Books
