10.24am

The weight shifts when he steps over the rope. It doesn’t disappear, but it does shift. In his legs, on his shoulders, in his heart. It lifts a little. The noise of the world, the relentless gossip of others, it all fades when he plants one foot onto the soft turf of the outfield. The world is cushioned. The air is different.

Breathe it in. Deep and slow.

The game beats his soul. 

His heart pulses to its rhythms. 

His blood flows to its pace. 

His refuge against the storm. 

His sanctuary. 

Glorious. 

There is a guard of honour. His 200^th Test match as an umpire. Fifteen thousand spectators stand to applaud as he walks through the corridor of players with his head bowed and his hand raised. His wave is in deference to the game really, he’d rather everyone just sat down, but he tugs at the brim of his white floppy hat in acknowledgement. The hat has the insignia of a wild cat on the front, which he believe represents a puma, although the significance eludes him. A montage of his career, such as it is, plays on the large screens around the ground and the two captains step forward to shake his hand. 

Congratulations, Tom, they say in unison. 

It’s Thomas. It’s always been Thomas. But never mind. 

A police siren wails outside the ground, piercing the air interminably, but parked amid the bustle of Kennington and Lambeth, The Oval basks in warm autumnal glow, the early September sun drained of its mid-summer ferocity. Yellow, not white-hot. Fuzzy, not razor-sharp. A soft-focus oasis of civilisation in a frenzied, scarred city that is still mourning, still searching for meaning and reassurance, still festooned in the flag of St George; standing tall in scruffy back gardens among the trampolines and paddling pools, thrashing violently on the aerials of speeding white vans and draped lazily across the windows of darkened pubs. And two months after the bombings, with England on the brink of beating their old rivals for the first time in nearly 20 years, it is cricket that has stumbled upon its moment, like a janitor sweeping the stage when the lights go up, to provide that reassurance, perhaps. Catharsis, certainly. A nation is watching, transfixed, daring to believe.  

Till we have built Jerusalem

In England’s green and pleasant land.

England’s unofficial anthem blasts from the loud speakers, the words appearing on the screens for those not up to speed with the work of William Blake. It’s all a little on the nose, really, but then, overt displays of patriotism always have made Thomas uncomfortable. 

He has everything he needs. Notebook. Pencil. Light meter. Fruit Pastilles. Stones. Six small, round stones, given to him by Amelie many years ago on a windswept Wellington beach. He waited for her to look away so he could drop them, just as he did to all the other detritus she’d brought his way in her six years – sticks, twigs, leaves, rocks, shells, flowers – but this time her large, startled eyes remained fixed on him as he rolled the stones around in his palm. 

There are six of them, she said.

He dropped the stones in his bag and she wrapped her arms around him as best she could as they laid back and found shapes in the wispy clouds above. Amelie picked out an elephant made of cirrus ice crystals She had to talk him through it before he could see it.

There are a few cumulus bubbling up over south London this morning. Clouds help shift the weight for Thomas too; so much better than the vast, oppressive tyranny of a pure blue sky. Although if they stack into tall congestus before midday, there could be heavy showers this afternoon. Morning mountains, afternoon fountains, so they say. 

England’s opening batsmen punch gloves and wish each other luck as they break from their chat at the centre of the wicket. Both are left-handed; one a tall, stand-and-deliver biffer who flays the ball to all parts with a flash of his heavy bat and minimal foot movement. His partner the perfect foil. A nudger and nurdler. He doesn’t hit the ball, he manoeuvres it, steers it off his bat into open space. Thomas does not know any of the players personally. He drew a line very early on. No friendships means no compromise means no accusations. Beyond reproach. Instead, he gives them nicknames. They are not immutable, can change from one day to the next depending on his mood or their appearance, but they help him maintain a right and proper distance. 

Biffer asks for his guard. 

Towards you, says Thomas. Bit more. Smidge more. That’s it, you have middle-and-leg. Right arm over to come.  

The batsman nods his thanks and scrapes his foot into the dirt to mark out his crease, scratching and prodding at the ground like a dog preparing its bed. It makes Thomas smile. Sometimes they spend more time marking out their crease than they do batting in it, like condemned men digging their own graves. Full of plans, but doomed.

Beyond him, Australia’s flinty-eyed captain fine-tunes his fielders. He waves at whoever is at fine leg to move a little wider as Thomas toys with the brand new ball. The seam is sharp and defined, stitched perfectly, and he lobs it from one hand to the other and back again, a habit of such repetitive simplicity it has become a reflex, as natural as breathing. He hands it to the opening bowler as he marches past to mark out his run-up. Thomas like him. He is not flashy, there is no great drama to his action, he just runs up and puts the ball exactly where he wants over and over and over again, grinding the batsman down, giving him nothing, waiting for him to make a mistake. Exactly as it should be.  

The ground hums with excited hubbub. When play starts, the spectators will break from conversation to applaud a boundary or a fine stop in the field, or there might be a collective gasp when ball beats bat. As the day wears on and the alcohol takes hold, they will become more boisterous, will start to sing and cheer and leer. Thomas doesn’t like that so much, but this period before the start of play, when all is set out before him, when all is unspoilt, is always his favourite. 

The pristine whites of the players. 

The sheen of the cherry-red ball. 

The green of the freshly-cut outfield.

The satisfying symmetry of the scoreboard. 

0-0.

Hey, are we playing cricket or what?

Over his shoulder, Australia’s opening bowler paws at the turf like a bull, and a glance around the field shows umpire Morley and the rest of the players are ready too, so with the pavilion clock showing 10.30am precisely, Thomas takes a deep breath, lowers his left arm and places it behind his back alongside his right, and declares

Play.

1

The murmur of the crowd dips into a nervous hush as the bowler begins his steady run-up, his legs gathering pace, arms pumping at his side, until he blasts past Thomas in a flurry of flailing limbs. It is like standing too close to the platform edge as a train speeds through the station. His chest thumps with the thrill. Time slows to a quarter speed. For the next half a second, no one else in the world matters, not even the other players. It is this bowler versus this batsman. A duel of skill, athleticism, courage, intelligence and wit. 

It is a wide.

Well, almost, but there is a long day ahead and the bowler can be a grumpy soul, so Thomas gives him the benefit of the doubt. He trudges past and back to his mark with his head down, denying Thomas the satisfaction of a knowing smile as his team-mates take time out from some vigorous gum-chewing to bawl encouragement, eager to keep him in the right frame of mind. It works. He quickly finds his line, but the batsman defends well and scampers through for a quick run from the fifth ball of the over to get England on their way. As each ball is bowled, Thomas flips a stone from his left hand to his right and into his pocket, and as Six drops in, he declares

Over. 

It is time to check out the view from square leg.

ENGLAND 1-0 

2

He turns 90 degrees to his left and walks 20 paces before turning to face the area he has just vacated. It is here, at square leg, that Thomas is afforded a few minutes to rest as his colleague, umpire Morley, takes his position behind the stumps at the other end of the square. He is soon into the action, Biffer flicking the ball off his pads for the first boundary of the match. Umpire Morley signals the four runs with an extravagant flourish, finishing with an artful waft of his right hand above his head and a huge smile. Law 2.13.1.3 states that the signal for four should be concluded with the arm across the chest, but then everything about umpire Morley – the expensive haircut, the ugly sleeve tattoos, the sunscreen daubed tribally under his eyes – begs, pleads, screams for attention, although Thomas has long-resigned himself to this being the modern way. Off the pitch, umpire Morley has a line of branded clothing, appears on giant billboards advertising aftershave and can often be found on dubious comedy panel shows on Channel Four. On the pitch, Thomas simply remains grateful to the founders of the game that the two of them shall be no closer than 22 yards for the majority of the next five days.

ENGLAND 5-0

3

The stones are all different. 

One is almost perfectly round, like a marble.

Two is like a fossil with its rough, veiny surface. 

Three is sleek, flat, shiny; perfect for skimming across a lake.

Four has raised ridges around its circumference like the cross-section of an old oak tree.

Five is as black as night with tiny jagged edges along one side that he likes to run his thumb across as he toys with it in his pocket.

Only Six remains relatively featureless. Pebble-sized. Pebble-shaped. Pebble-grey. No flash of the Jurassic across its surface. It is also his favourite, and the thought of dropping the stones on the beach that day, of not having them with him now, makes his stomach turn.

He had wanted Emily. Delphine insisted on Amelie. He called her Dimples.

When she was being cheeky, he would hold her upside down by her ankles and Delphine would speak French to her, and her giggle would melt him and he would almost drop her.

ENGLAND 7-0

4

Ellie was on the beach that day too, of course. He shouldn’t forget that. She was only two, four years younger than her sister, didn’t yet have the strength to turn her bucket over fast enough to make a good sandcastle, but she simmered with her mother’s fierce Gallic independence, an atavistic determination to do things on her own and refuse all help, and so, as Amelie counted the stones at Thomas’ feet, Ellie kept trying and trying and trying until eventually, she found a way to roll the bucket so that there was a semblance of fortification against the sea, all without a glance at her father or sister. She would move to the world, not wait for it to come to her. That much was already clear. When the tide chased them up the beach and consumed their creations, Thomas consoled Amelie with a drying hug as Ellie screamed at the sea, furious at the injustice.

He had wanted Elizabeth. Delphine insisted on Elize. He calls her Ellie. 

HOWZAAAAAAT?!

Blood-curdling pleas for lbw fill the air, but it is not his decision to make, and umpire Morley narrows his eyes for an eternity, milking every second as the world waits for his verdict. Thomas’ blood warms with irritation until finally, after an age, umpire Morley shakes his head to hand the batsman a reprieve. 

Not out.

The crowd cheers the decision and jeers the bowler, who looks down the pitch and flashes a large rueful smile. Fresh-faced, tanned, spiky blonde hair, he looks like he’s never been inside a building his entire life. 

ENGLAND 7-0

5

The photo of the bowler on his haunches, being consoled by England’s all-rounder after Australia’s dramatic defeat at Edgbaston in August, has become the summer’s defining image. In the photo, the England player is bending down next to his opponent with his hand on his shoulder, looking into his eyes with great compassion. The image captures the best of us, it is claimed, and the England player was praised for recognising the agony of defeat while his teammates celebrated the ecstatic moment of victory. When they saw the photo, everyone wanted to know what the England player had said to his beaten adversary.

Four byes, the ball missing everyone and racing to the rope, brings Thomas’ first real job of the morning. Left arm to the sky and an understated wave of the right across his chest. Textbook. Classical, even. No gimmicks, no flamboyant flick of the wrist, you should barely even know he is here. 

Mate, this is embarrassing. You’ve lost, it’s cricket, nobody cares, the trophy’s tiny. Fucking get over it. It really does not matter.

That’s what the England player said to the bowler, in his broad Lancashire accent. 

Everyone wished they hadn’t asked.

You can know too much.

ENGLAND 11-0

6

You can know too much. This morning, Thomas had been munching on his Corn Flakes at his small dining table as the man on the news said critical meant another terror attack was expected imminently. The presenter walked purposefully around the studio as he talked, the news apparently too urgent to be delivered sitting down behind a desk. Like they used to. Everyone should be aware of their surroundings and remain vigilant, said the man, who was wearing a yellow-spotted tie. Thomas was aware of a trail of milk threatening to drip from his chin at least, and he grabbed a tissue from the box in the centre of the table and wiped it clean. He folded the tissue into ever smaller squares and placed it to the side of his bowl as an animated colour chart appeared on the screen to illustrate the likelihood of him being blown up today. It reminded him of the leaflets sent by the council last week outlining which day of the week he was to start putting the bins out. He is in Strawberry Section so his day is Wednesday. If he’d been in Banana Section it would have been Thursday. He wrote back to the council, asked if they’d sent him some pre-school material by mistake.

Biffer smashes successive boundaries. Umpire Morley continues his histrionics. His call for a no ball is almost operatic.

Is he going to act the goat for the entire match? mutters Thomas to no one in particular. It just never used to be like this. So tawdry. Such a pantomime. 

ENGLAND 20-0 

7

You can know too much. Thomas pines for the days when the news was not instant, when stories from around the world took their time to reach him, allowed him to assimilate and reflect. Sometimes the disasters were all over by the time he learned of them. Those days are long gone, of course. These days, every tragedy the world over unfolds in real time, with constant live updates and new images from the scene of the disaster, so relentless that it has become almost impossible for him to maintain a human, empathetic reaction to it all. Something is being lost in all the immediacy, he thinks. There will be consequences. Things will come to a head. He is sure of that. 

His Corn Flakes finished, he dropped a Piriton tablet onto his tongue. It may not be hay fever season but Thomas wasn’t going to take any risks. He couldn’t have his eyes streaming floods out in the middle. Gone also, he realised as he washed the tablet down with water, were the days of the morning news telling him of the pollen count. Must be too trivial now, he supposed. The idea of pollen being his greatest enemy on any given day belonged to an innocent, bygone age, and so the 24-hour news channels could not waste precious seconds telling him about allergies. Bees, flowers, sneezes. Replaced by rucksacks, plastic explosives and body parts. Progress, apparently. Still, he is a good citizen, and so as he washed, dried and returned his breakfast bowl and spoon to the cupboard and drawer, he steeled himself to be vigilant, whatever that meant. He wanted to arrive early today. He would take the tube.

ENGLAND 21-0

8

From Adelaide to Galle, Barbados to Cape Town, Thomas’ life is one of hotels, generally. But encircled by the tumult of south London, The Oval is one of two Test grounds in the world, alongside Lord’s north of the river, where he can stay at home during the match. He very rarely takes the tube. There is nothing about it he enjoys. If he does manage to claim a seat, he might spend much of the journey trying to work out why the train is moving left while the stations on the Northern Line map above the seat opposite him seem to be moving right, and wasn’t he supposed to be going north anyway? No, he much prefers the bus. It may not be as efficient at delivering people to their destination, but there is life on a bus and he enjoys the view of the city and its people afforded to him by the 155’s slow crawl through Balham, Clapham and Stockwell to Kennington. He has a favourite spot too. Downstairs, in the guts of the journey, can be a turbulent affair and so he always heads upstairs, although never more than halfway back, where young people can often be found sprawled across the seats shouting obscenities at each other. Thomas assumes they are friends, but it can be difficult to tell, the way they bawl and holler. If possible, he likes to sit at the very front of the top deck, on the pavement side where he can look down on the street traders and commuters. He especially likes the dewy haze of the Common in the early morning. The half-light of the city. 

ENGLAND 29-0

9

But he could not risk any delays today, and so he forced himself to descend into the soulless Underground. The dirty, recycled air had the whiff of oil and excrement, like the old tractor sheds of his youth. On the tube, the packed carriage screeched into the black like a nightmare and Thomas did his best to quell the low-level anxiety that always surfaces when he is down there. After a few stops, he had no idea how many, a young mother with a buggy struggled to get off the carriage as wave after wave of commuters streamed on without an offer of help. Thomas stood and, moving off the train for a second, bent down to take hold of the buggy to help her off. He set it down on the platform and stood with a smile, but the woman did not even look at him as she turned to face the battle against the tide, and Thomas stared blankly in disbelief for a second before the suited man he had been holding up for that second pushed him out of the way, at which point the doors closed and he was caught up in the tidal undertow of a rush-hour crowd and washed up on the street above like an old tin can. The low, blinding sun of Stockwell confirmed he was off the train one stop too early. A policeman, armed with semi-automatic weaponry and the blessing of a spooked Home Secretary, watched him with suspicion as he loitered on the pavement to collect his thoughts. 

Nurdler announces his presence by taking eight from two balls with successive drives of simple elegance. Thomas reflects the shots with quiet, dignified signals of his own. 

ENGLAND 38-0

10

He thought of the man on the news. Getting off the train a stop too early definitely demonstrated a worrying lack of vigilance. He wondered if he had let the country down already. Was he now not to be trusted? It is times like this that he wonders why he even leaves home at all, why he must even engage with the outside world. He begins to resent the very notion of other people, the demand to exist among them, and briefly entertains the idea of disappearing into the wilderness, wonders at how blissful it would be to live without seeing another soul for weeks on end, but these fantasies are usually shelved as soon as he thinks about the practicalities of it all. Thomas’ relationship with nature is very much predicated on the understanding that it remains at arms length. He would starve within a month. Still, with all of these familiar thoughts circling his mind, and with the policeman starting to regard him with pity rather than suspicion, he allowed himself a moment to calm down, focus on his goal, on where he was trying to be, and remembered that in a couple of hours he would be out here in the middle, where he was always meant to be. 

A bus with Love London plastered across its side rumbled past, kicking fumes into his face. Preferring to avoid another battle with the subterranean throng, he had little option but to walk the rest of the way to the ground. The Oval would at least still be there, unchanged, the pavilion’s imposing red brick standing tall behind the wrought-iron gates. Reassuringly permanent in a city of impermanence. 

ENGLAND 40-0

11

Nurdler defends stoutly with a straight bat and a high elbow and a loud call for no run. His partner, Biffer, leans on his bat next to Thomas.

Sorry to hear about your Dad, mate, he says. 

It takes Thomas a second to work out what he means, and when it arrives it comes as a sort of hollow, numb acceptance. He has no idea how Biffer even knows about his father. It must have made the newspapers. Nothing is private these days. He nods in gratitude, but says nothing. He has no intention of talking about it.

He took the call from Sylvia early yesterday morning. A stroke, she said. Said he had been dead for a few hours before his neighbour discovered him.

He was all alone, Thomas.

His father and his neighbour lived next door to each other their entire lives. When Thomas was young, when they were a complete family living in a smart Wellington suburb, the Roaring 40s would whip across the Pacific and race through the Cook Strait, bending trees to breaking, and his father would sit in his armchair and stare at the rain battering the window.

I’ll have to check the fences in the morning, he’d say. Check the damned neighbour’s too, because that lazy son-of-a-bitch sure as hell won’t do it. Too busy sticking his jaw in other people’s business.

The only time Thomas heard his father swear was when he was talking about George. He couldn’t even bring himself to say his name. That he was found by George would have infuriated him, even if it did prove his point about the man’s meddling. 

ENGLAND 44-0