Paddy's Traditional Pair
Today is my father's 112th birthday.
As many of you know, I've posted some of his writing or portraits in previous years.
This short story was published in the November 1925 edition of the Oxford Outlook. It's about cricket, and set five years in Paddy's future; when 1930 actually came round, it was Bradman's first tour of England; the Fourth Test was indeed at Old Trafford, and both opening pairs shared century partnerships, Woodfull and Ponsford for Australia, then Hobbs and Sutcliffe for England. It was a draw.
It seemed a suitable story to post now, as not only did I attend my first day's live cricket in 2015 yesterday, but I also went to the Cardus lunch on Friday. "Stumper" of the "Northern Herald" is clearly Neville Cardus, who wrote for the "Manchester Guardian" during this period as "Cricketer" - only pseudonyms and initials were permitted in bylines at the time.
The Traditional Pair
It was tea-time, and the score stood at a hundred and seventy-three for no wicket. The sweltering Australians stumbled disconsolate pavilionwards; their active despair of the hour after luncheon had subsided into mellow resignation in the face of superhuman powers. The captain studied a weary professional grin for the photographers. He had thought of spicing it with a shade of bitterness; here in a foreign land, surrounded by and only too consciously the cause of hostile jubilation, he felt like being bitter. He could have flaunted international discourtesy, just for the fun of the thing, to see what the papers would say - the papers, to which he owed all his distresses; the papers which, by an unexpected but virulent agitation, had at last induced the Selection Committee to the unheard-of experiment of opening the innings with two men from the north. It was a piece of policy on which he had not counted. He didn't blame himself. No one could have foreseen it. No one expected things like that from an English Selection Committee. Nor from the newspapers: good, London, newspapers, on whose perfervid admiration and lavish bedizenment of Christian names rested the reputations of half the crack batsmen of the Home Counties. And all because that chap "Stumper" in the "Northern Herald" had taken to writing about cricket instead of reporting it; real literary stuff, half a dozen county captains would tell you - fancy reading a man's stuff just because you liked the way he wrote. A mean English trick, that's what it was. He lifted his downcast eyes, watched the English pair passing through the wicket-gate below the pavilion and heaved a prodigious sigh. Two matches drawn, and one in hand, if they had only made sure of this. The Englishmen were stumbling up the steps, and Old Trafford had laid down its paper bags and buns to cheer them in. Montague was short and stocky, and kept taking off his cap again and again without its ever getting properly settled onto his head. Vane was tall and angular; he never wore a cap, but practised a disarming motion of the hand towards the forelock. Everybody was shouting - you could hear it miles away. The captain caught up with his fast bowler, and lifted an interrogative eyebrow; but he only pulled a wry face, and said nothing encouraging.
Now about Montague and Vane there are two things to be known. One is, that they had gone in first together for their county for the last eight years; and the other, that they hated one another like poison. It was not a hate that had sprung up out of closer acquaintance; it was not founded on jealousy. Their mutual dislike was instantaneous. They first met, quite accidentally, in the tram that conveyed them to the practice ground for their first trial; and there Montague had annoyed Vane by taking the only available seat, though Vane was anxious to be at his best, and feared that standing in the tram might spoil his footwork; and Vane had retaliated by treading on Montague's toe whenever the tram started or stopped with a jerk. And then, at the trial match, Montague accused Vane of not backing him up when he tried for stolen runs; and Vane complained that Montague had run him out. Still, both of them had made a decent showing; and in the course of time both of them found a place, at first precarious, then secure, and finally honourable, in the county eleven. And when the old opening pair, Hepworth and R. A. Pell, gave up the game, the two younger men inherited their position and something of their legend. Montague caught the eye first, and Vane felt that he did it on purpose. He was a dainty cricketer, and could have played in a top hat. His late cut smacked rather of Westminster than of Westhoughton. "All very well for a lady's maid," Vane used to say. Vane had no use for trifling elegance. He bestrode his charge, a haggard sentinel. He did not make recognisable strokes; you always felt that a really good ball would beat him. But so nimble were his feet, and so smoothly co-ordinated his eye and his wrist, that to bowl a good ball to him was a feat rarely enough performed. Not that he was a dull batsman. Sure of himself, reliant upon his technical dexterity, he allowed his audacity free rein. Skipping to and fro, he had as much say as the poor bowler in the length and the direction of the ball. Montague used to look on disdainfully from the other end. "All very well for a whipper-in," he said. Neither of them could understand how the other came off. The crowd loved them both - or, to be more accurate it loved them as a pair. Their contrasted methods seemed exquisitely calculated; each art the supplement of the other. One thought of them together always. An astute captain, noting a certain individualism in their play, offered a special increment of talent-money for any occasion when they should put up a century together for the first wicket. Their understanding improved after this; centuries grew more frequent; cover-points were warned that there were no better judges of a run than Montague and Vane. They were photographed together, written up together, in an original London daily written down together. And when they put up two hundred and forty together against Middlesex, the same daily sported one huge headline, "PALS," with a photograph of the northern stalwarts arm in arm, and a short autobiography of each, specially written by the junior sporting editor. They disliked each other more than ever. They didn't say so, because the captain was a hale old sport who liked to think of the eleven as a happy family - so they went on being photographed and wincing.
Summers passed, and their averages rose at a respectable rate. They began to be considered, if not played, for representative matches. "Stumper," of the "Northern Herald," welcomed them as a new motif. Reporting county cricket was rather like going to "Charley's Aunt" for the seventieth time, and there was much good copy to be found in this fresh theme. He set to work with a will, and of course he was a considerable writer. (They say that old Harrop, the slow bowler, was once found studying "Stumper's" comments, and explained deprecatingly: "They're a bit above me, but I suppose they do me good.") "The David and Jonathan of modern cricket" did a good deal for them; and, indeed, was so successful that he took to referring to them as David and as Jonathan respectively, though no one could ever quite remember which was which. To this point, their fame outside their own county had been spasmodic only. Now they began to loom over England; presently they acquired news value in the "Scotsman." Small boys, the opening pairs of preparatory schools, were taken considerable distances to see and to be encouraged by so prosperous an example. Old professional coaches at the public schools remarked to their eager wards, "Ah! If you'd the unnerstandin' of them two, there'd be no beatin' you." Their names began to impinge even upon the pavilion at Lord's. They took as little notice of it as they could; sometimes they read "Stumper's" lyrics incredulously, and, feeling rather nettled by the imposition of the legend, hated one another better than ever.
In the year of Our Lord nineteen hundred and thirty, test matches came round. The giants of the South had come badly enough out of the previous series, and Vane was picked to play. He made seven and seventeen. Next match, the Selection Committee, anxious to postpone for as long as possible what everybody knew to be inevitable, dropped Vane and played Montague. Rain shortened the match; in his one innings he made three. And then began that press campaign which still titillates the envy of sporting circles. You may remember how "Stumper" led off with "They were lovely and pleasant in their county, and for their country shall they be divided?" and how the Entire London Press (as the theatrical entrepreneurs put it) took up the more vernacular "Give a man a pal." The committee let pass one match (which was lost) to show that they were not to be intimidated by popular clamour. Then they picked the traditional pair, amid almost universal applause; almost - there were only two dissentients, either of whom would have felt far more comfortable without the other.
The fourth test match of nineteen thirty in modern history. There is no need to describe it in detail. At lunch time the score was eighty two; at tea, it was a hundred and seventy three. As they walked back to the pavilion, they were conscious of enthusiasm. Cameras loomed before them. Cheers, plaudits, echoed round them. Vane turned to Montague and said, "Much they know." Montague mumbled, "Silly mutts." They breasted the cameras. "Arm in arm, please," commanded the photographer. Montague felt a sudden unfamiliar impulse; as he linked elbows he turned his head towards Vane and winked.
They passed into the pavilion and unbuckled their pads, glad of even the shortest respite for their uncomfortably heated legs. Vane said, "You had a nice cut off Buckingham." Montague said, "Oh, I don't know." Then, after a pause, "You knocked spots off Higgs." They wandered away in search of refreshment, and met the Australian captain, who pulled himself together and congratulated them heartily and loudly enough to be properly audible to the reporters. "United you stand," he cried. "Nothing like a pair of pals." He passed on. "What fools men are," said Vane, as he stood Montague a drink for the first time in his life.
Also posted on Dreamwidth, with
comments.
As many of you know, I've posted some of his writing or portraits in previous years.
This short story was published in the November 1925 edition of the Oxford Outlook. It's about cricket, and set five years in Paddy's future; when 1930 actually came round, it was Bradman's first tour of England; the Fourth Test was indeed at Old Trafford, and both opening pairs shared century partnerships, Woodfull and Ponsford for Australia, then Hobbs and Sutcliffe for England. It was a draw.
It seemed a suitable story to post now, as not only did I attend my first day's live cricket in 2015 yesterday, but I also went to the Cardus lunch on Friday. "Stumper" of the "Northern Herald" is clearly Neville Cardus, who wrote for the "Manchester Guardian" during this period as "Cricketer" - only pseudonyms and initials were permitted in bylines at the time.
The Traditional Pair
It was tea-time, and the score stood at a hundred and seventy-three for no wicket. The sweltering Australians stumbled disconsolate pavilionwards; their active despair of the hour after luncheon had subsided into mellow resignation in the face of superhuman powers. The captain studied a weary professional grin for the photographers. He had thought of spicing it with a shade of bitterness; here in a foreign land, surrounded by and only too consciously the cause of hostile jubilation, he felt like being bitter. He could have flaunted international discourtesy, just for the fun of the thing, to see what the papers would say - the papers, to which he owed all his distresses; the papers which, by an unexpected but virulent agitation, had at last induced the Selection Committee to the unheard-of experiment of opening the innings with two men from the north. It was a piece of policy on which he had not counted. He didn't blame himself. No one could have foreseen it. No one expected things like that from an English Selection Committee. Nor from the newspapers: good, London, newspapers, on whose perfervid admiration and lavish bedizenment of Christian names rested the reputations of half the crack batsmen of the Home Counties. And all because that chap "Stumper" in the "Northern Herald" had taken to writing about cricket instead of reporting it; real literary stuff, half a dozen county captains would tell you - fancy reading a man's stuff just because you liked the way he wrote. A mean English trick, that's what it was. He lifted his downcast eyes, watched the English pair passing through the wicket-gate below the pavilion and heaved a prodigious sigh. Two matches drawn, and one in hand, if they had only made sure of this. The Englishmen were stumbling up the steps, and Old Trafford had laid down its paper bags and buns to cheer them in. Montague was short and stocky, and kept taking off his cap again and again without its ever getting properly settled onto his head. Vane was tall and angular; he never wore a cap, but practised a disarming motion of the hand towards the forelock. Everybody was shouting - you could hear it miles away. The captain caught up with his fast bowler, and lifted an interrogative eyebrow; but he only pulled a wry face, and said nothing encouraging.
Now about Montague and Vane there are two things to be known. One is, that they had gone in first together for their county for the last eight years; and the other, that they hated one another like poison. It was not a hate that had sprung up out of closer acquaintance; it was not founded on jealousy. Their mutual dislike was instantaneous. They first met, quite accidentally, in the tram that conveyed them to the practice ground for their first trial; and there Montague had annoyed Vane by taking the only available seat, though Vane was anxious to be at his best, and feared that standing in the tram might spoil his footwork; and Vane had retaliated by treading on Montague's toe whenever the tram started or stopped with a jerk. And then, at the trial match, Montague accused Vane of not backing him up when he tried for stolen runs; and Vane complained that Montague had run him out. Still, both of them had made a decent showing; and in the course of time both of them found a place, at first precarious, then secure, and finally honourable, in the county eleven. And when the old opening pair, Hepworth and R. A. Pell, gave up the game, the two younger men inherited their position and something of their legend. Montague caught the eye first, and Vane felt that he did it on purpose. He was a dainty cricketer, and could have played in a top hat. His late cut smacked rather of Westminster than of Westhoughton. "All very well for a lady's maid," Vane used to say. Vane had no use for trifling elegance. He bestrode his charge, a haggard sentinel. He did not make recognisable strokes; you always felt that a really good ball would beat him. But so nimble were his feet, and so smoothly co-ordinated his eye and his wrist, that to bowl a good ball to him was a feat rarely enough performed. Not that he was a dull batsman. Sure of himself, reliant upon his technical dexterity, he allowed his audacity free rein. Skipping to and fro, he had as much say as the poor bowler in the length and the direction of the ball. Montague used to look on disdainfully from the other end. "All very well for a whipper-in," he said. Neither of them could understand how the other came off. The crowd loved them both - or, to be more accurate it loved them as a pair. Their contrasted methods seemed exquisitely calculated; each art the supplement of the other. One thought of them together always. An astute captain, noting a certain individualism in their play, offered a special increment of talent-money for any occasion when they should put up a century together for the first wicket. Their understanding improved after this; centuries grew more frequent; cover-points were warned that there were no better judges of a run than Montague and Vane. They were photographed together, written up together, in an original London daily written down together. And when they put up two hundred and forty together against Middlesex, the same daily sported one huge headline, "PALS," with a photograph of the northern stalwarts arm in arm, and a short autobiography of each, specially written by the junior sporting editor. They disliked each other more than ever. They didn't say so, because the captain was a hale old sport who liked to think of the eleven as a happy family - so they went on being photographed and wincing.
Summers passed, and their averages rose at a respectable rate. They began to be considered, if not played, for representative matches. "Stumper," of the "Northern Herald," welcomed them as a new motif. Reporting county cricket was rather like going to "Charley's Aunt" for the seventieth time, and there was much good copy to be found in this fresh theme. He set to work with a will, and of course he was a considerable writer. (They say that old Harrop, the slow bowler, was once found studying "Stumper's" comments, and explained deprecatingly: "They're a bit above me, but I suppose they do me good.") "The David and Jonathan of modern cricket" did a good deal for them; and, indeed, was so successful that he took to referring to them as David and as Jonathan respectively, though no one could ever quite remember which was which. To this point, their fame outside their own county had been spasmodic only. Now they began to loom over England; presently they acquired news value in the "Scotsman." Small boys, the opening pairs of preparatory schools, were taken considerable distances to see and to be encouraged by so prosperous an example. Old professional coaches at the public schools remarked to their eager wards, "Ah! If you'd the unnerstandin' of them two, there'd be no beatin' you." Their names began to impinge even upon the pavilion at Lord's. They took as little notice of it as they could; sometimes they read "Stumper's" lyrics incredulously, and, feeling rather nettled by the imposition of the legend, hated one another better than ever.
In the year of Our Lord nineteen hundred and thirty, test matches came round. The giants of the South had come badly enough out of the previous series, and Vane was picked to play. He made seven and seventeen. Next match, the Selection Committee, anxious to postpone for as long as possible what everybody knew to be inevitable, dropped Vane and played Montague. Rain shortened the match; in his one innings he made three. And then began that press campaign which still titillates the envy of sporting circles. You may remember how "Stumper" led off with "They were lovely and pleasant in their county, and for their country shall they be divided?" and how the Entire London Press (as the theatrical entrepreneurs put it) took up the more vernacular "Give a man a pal." The committee let pass one match (which was lost) to show that they were not to be intimidated by popular clamour. Then they picked the traditional pair, amid almost universal applause; almost - there were only two dissentients, either of whom would have felt far more comfortable without the other.
The fourth test match of nineteen thirty in modern history. There is no need to describe it in detail. At lunch time the score was eighty two; at tea, it was a hundred and seventy three. As they walked back to the pavilion, they were conscious of enthusiasm. Cameras loomed before them. Cheers, plaudits, echoed round them. Vane turned to Montague and said, "Much they know." Montague mumbled, "Silly mutts." They breasted the cameras. "Arm in arm, please," commanded the photographer. Montague felt a sudden unfamiliar impulse; as he linked elbows he turned his head towards Vane and winked.
They passed into the pavilion and unbuckled their pads, glad of even the shortest respite for their uncomfortably heated legs. Vane said, "You had a nice cut off Buckingham." Montague said, "Oh, I don't know." Then, after a pause, "You knocked spots off Higgs." They wandered away in search of refreshment, and met the Australian captain, who pulled himself together and congratulated them heartily and loudly enough to be properly audible to the reporters. "United you stand," he cried. "Nothing like a pair of pals." He passed on. "What fools men are," said Vane, as he stood Montague a drink for the first time in his life.
Also posted on Dreamwidth, with
comments.