Rain stops play

 Well, it's been a minute since I posted here. Currently I'm collating all my work over on Reedsy.com so I can try and publish next year, but I wanted to share my most recent piece as it feels the most complete thing I've written. 

Prompt from Reedsy.com “Set your story before, during or after a storm.”

Arthur Whitmore stepped out onto the cricket field, as he had for the last sixty-two summers. He’d had broken fingers, pulled muscles, torn ligaments and even once played with a dislocated shoulder because Frank Wesley told him he wouldn’t last 10 overs.

The crowd applauded as Arthur stepped out and up to bowl. He’d recently turned 72 and, although he hadn’t told anyone yet, this was going to be his final match.

The annual “Ashford Cup” cricket match between Upper and Lower Ashford was legendary. Every summer since 1923, except for that nasty business in the early 1940s, they’d not missed a game, and even then Arthur’s dad was convinced it should have still gone ahead. World war indeed, there was cricket to play.

Arthur had been captain of Upper Ashford for the last fifty years, which was impressive considering he’d only been asked to fill in for one year when the previous captain, Peter Moore, cried off the match due to some nonsense about “being on his honeymoon.” Nobody had really forgiven Peter for choosing his wedding over the Ashford Cup. The marriage had lasted twenty-two years, and Arthur was still captain.

The teams were ready. The hot water canteen, donated by Arthur’s late mother in 1996, was coughing and spluttering, but the water was hot and Mrs Dover had made the sandwiches, as she had done for the last sixteen years. Nobody really knew exactly what was in Mrs Dover’s sandwiches and, in the last sixteen years, nobody had been brave enough to ask. Sally Smithe had gotten close one year, asking if they were vegetarian. Mrs Dover had replied with a firm “mostly”, which had been enough information for everyone.

The pitch had been prepared. The wickets had been checked. The boundary rope had been laid out by Arthur himself, who had spent twenty minutes explaining to a rather bored-looking teenager why “almost straight” was not an acceptable standard for cricket.

The teams stood ready. Upper Ashford in their traditional whites, looking confident and slightly cocky, Lower Ashford looking slightly more reserved and more experienced. Arthur adjusted his cap and looked out across the field. Fifty years as captain. Fifty years of arguments, victories and defeats. Today was his last match and nothing was going to spoil it.

A single drop of rain landed on Arthur’s sleeve. He looked down on it, and then up at the sky. “No,” he said quietly. The weather, however, seemed largely disinterested in Arthur’s opinion, and one by one more drops of rain began falling.

In less than ten minutes, the sky had changed from blue to dark grey and the spots of rain were now a deluge. Much to his chagrin, Arthur was forced to admit that the pitch was now beginning to more closely resembled a swimming pool than a cricket pitch and maybe it was prudent to call off the game just this once.

Arthur stepped inside the clubhouse and looked around. The clubhouse had been built in 1962, when the height of comfort was four chairs and a kettle and had a transformational, and in some members’ opinion unnecessary, makeover in 2001 to include things such as an indoor toilet and wheelchair ramp. To this day Frank still called the wheelchair “That slope.”

Arthur walked over to Frank, who was smoking by the bar. “Frank, you know you can’t smoke in here,” he said sternly. “Try and stop me,” Frank said as he exhaled and coughed on his cigarette. Arthur had known Frank Wesley for fifty-six years and in that time the only thing they’d ever agreed on was that they’d never really agreed on anything. Arthur considered Frank one of his closest friends, not that he’d ever tell him.

Behind the bar, Ben Rowlands sidled over. Ben had lived in Lower Ashford his whole life. Arthur had known him since he was very small. He remembered when his father left suddenly without word, and when his mother got sick.

Ben was good looking, in his early thirties and tended the Rose Inn in town. He had the rather fortunate skill for a bartender of remembering every drink order of everyone he met. He knew Arthur liked cider and salty nuts, he knew Frank wanted bitter and someone to complain to about pretty much anything and he knew Sophie Miller liked white wine with lemonade.

He’d known Sophie since they were in primary school, and fancied her ever since. He’d never had the guts to tell her. “The usual, Arthur?” he asked, already pouring the drink.

Arthur nodded, reaching into his wallet for coins, and slid £2.75 onto the bar. Ben put the pint and nuts down and laughed. “£2.75? What year do you think it is, Arthur? It’s £4.90.” Arthur grumbled and pulled out the additional coins.

Arthur took his wares and found a seat in the corner of the club away from the gathering crowd. The club was meant to seat 40 people. There were currently 62 crowded in. It was going to be a tight squeeze.

Ava was six years old and really, really bored. Her mum had promised she could run around outside and play, and help out by collecting the red balls, but now she was stuck inside with all the grown-ups because it was raining, who were standing around being boring and not paying attention to her, and worst of all her tablet wasn’t working so she couldn’t watch any Peppa Pig. This was her worst day ever.

Ava was the granddaughter of Terry and Marie Fowler. Marie Fowler had handled snacks and refreshments until the great Victoria sponge debacle of ‘94. Victoria sponge cakes were still banned in the clubhouse to this day.

“I’m telling you,” said Frank, who was now sitting with Arthur, “the first match we played in 1976, Lower Ashford won by 3 overs.” Arthur scoffed. “Nonsense. 76 was my first game as captain. Upper Ashford won by 3 overs because Charlie Mac was disqualified for a LBW in the final run.”

Ava had no idea what they were talking about, and lost interest quite quickly. She walked away looking for someone who might take notice of her. She walked over to where Sophie Miller was sat looking at her phone. Sophie was recently back in town after the end of a bad relationship and had moved back in with her parents as she “took some time to rethink her priorities.”

Although one of those priorities was not sitting in the cricket clubhouse on a rainy Sunday afternoon, unfortunately for Sophie, it was for her mother, who insisted she come along and see the people and town she’d been actively trying to get away from since the day she passed her driving test.

Ben saw that Sophie was sat on her own and decided to take his chance. He put down his cleaning rag, poured himself a pint and made his way over to where she was sat. “Mind if I sit?” he said, gesturing to the empty seat. “It’s a free country.” Ben smiled nervously and sat down. “So, last I heard you were teaching dance near London.” “I was.” “So… what brings you back?” Sophie stared into her drink. “Life.” Ben suddenly realised he’d asked the wrong question.

Ava carried on walking through the clubhouse, trying to find something fun to do. She walked past the bar and into one of the storage rooms and started looking into boxes. One of the boxes had lots of little pictures. Ava emptied them onto the floor and started looking at them.

Frank was still wittering on about the ‘76 game, but Arthur had long since stopped engaging and let his mind wander. It felt like it had been a long time since so many people had been together in each other’s company and Arthur smiled as he looked around. He had meant to save his speech for the end of the game, but looking at the state of the weather there wasn’t going to be a game today.

He stood up and took the folded piece of paper out of his pocket and walked over to what could generously be called the “dance floor” of the clubhouse. He turned on the PA system and tapped the microphone. “Can I have everyone’s attention please?”

The din slowly subsided as people took notice of him. “I was hoping to make this announcement after Upper Ashford thoroughly trashed Lower this afternoon.” A few laughs and a few boos punctuated the pause. “But, given the state of the weather, I thought it best to get it over with now.”

“I’ve been part of this club for sixty-two years, since I was ten years old, and I’ve been captain of Upper Ashford for the last fifty, and in that time I’ve seen a lot of change. I’ve seen friends come and go, I’ve seen babies born and grow up and their own babies grow up. We’ve laughed together, we’ve cried together and it’s been the privilege of my life to serve this community. However, I’m not as young as I once was and that’s why……”

“Ava? Has anyone seen Ava?” A cry from the crowd interrupted him mid-sentence. Marie Fowler hurried up to where Arthur was stood. “Has anyone seen Ava?” she repeated frantically. Everyone looked around, some people muttering that they’d seen her wandering around, but didn’t know where she’d gone. “Probably under the table eating my sandwiches,” Mrs Dover piped up.

People started moving around, calling out Ava’s name and searching for her. Arthur sighed and folded the paper back into his pocket.

A few moments later Sophie came from the back room carrying Ava and the box of photo slides she’d been rummaging through. “Look who I found,” she said, “and look what she found.” She put Ava down. “Go and show Arthur.” Ava ran over to Arthur, pleased that the attention was finally on her for a change, and handed him the box of slides. “Well, well,” he said. “I’ve not seen these for a very long time.”

“Ben, do we still have the projector in th e store room?”Ben disappeared into the store room and came back with a dusty slide projector. Everyone took their seats as Arthur set up the projector and began the slide show. As the show began, it was like taking a step through time.

The 1926 team, with Arthur’s dad smiling proudly.1952, Mrs Dover’s mother and father, with baby Doreen in arms.1964, a young Arthur stood proudly at the edge of the field wearing a knitted cricket shirt three times too big for him. “Your grandmother made that for you,” Mrs Dover interjected. “Said you’d grow into it.” Arthur grinned. “I did, when I was 26.”

The scoreboard for the 1976 match, showing Upper Ashford up by 3 overs.

“Well,” said Frank. “I was wrong.”

Arthur turned to him with a smile.

“We’ve known each other 56 years,” he said. “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say that.”

“57,” Frank said.

1984, Arthur in his captain’s outfit and his late wife Sarah in a deck chair soaking up the sun. No one said anything. Most people remembered Sarah. Arthur didn’t say anything; he simply looked at the photograph a little longer than the others.

1996, Arthur’s mother standing proudly next to the shiny new hot water canteen.

“That thing was £100 brand new,” Arthur said. “I remember her complaining about it for weeks.”

2002, pre-teen Ben and Sophie helping serve the lemonade. “If I recall,” Frank said, “Ben only volunteered so he could spend time with Sophie.” A laugh rippled around the room. Ben went bright red.

2018, teenage Sarah and Ben sat at a table, Ben with a pint and Sarah with a glass of wine with a “Happy 18th Birthday” banner in the background. “Our first drink together,” Ben said. “We should go for another,” Sophie said smiling.

2023, the club’s 100th anniversary. Everyone was there, stood around three cakes, a cricket bat shaped 1 and two ball-shaped 0’s.

The slide show ended and the lights came back up.

“We should take another photo,” Ben said. “It’s Arthur’s 50th game.”

“And his last,” came Frank’s voice. The crowd went quiet. “He never did get to say it, but that’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it Arthur?” Arthur stood up.

“He’s right. I’ve done this for 50 years and it’s been an honour, but it’s time for me to hand it over to someone with a little more youth.” He looked over at Ben.

“How about it, kid?” he said, picking up a ball from the table and throwing it his way.Ben caught the ball and stood up. “It’d be my honour, Arthur. I won’t let you down, but first,” he said, throwing the ball back to Arthur and looking outside as the rain was subsiding, “I do believe you never technically bowled your last ball. How about it?”

Arthur looked outside and back at the crowd.n“I think,” he said, “I’d rather stay here a little longer. Cricket can wait.”