Six And Out

People envied old Phil his job as groundsman at the county cricket
ground, but, in the midst of a sleet-lashed January, he wondered
whether there were better things he should be doing. Not that he was
totally idle during the six months of the closed season - there had
been general painting and ground repair work in the better days of the
late autumn, and a flurry of festive occasions when he had had to act
as caretaker to ensure that the office parties using the banqueting
suite didn't spill over into other areas, and to patch up the damaged
furniture after the rowdiest ones. But January was quiet - too early to
start rolling the playing squares, too cold to paint - so his work
consisted largely of scarifying the outfield and inspecting the grass
for any sign of damage or disease. Most days he felt justified in
taking a long lunch break, fortified with sandwiches, flask of tea and
a cricket magazine, especially on one particular day when a thin
covering of snow meant that he could do even less productive work than
usual, so it was well past three o'clock when he glanced out of the
pavilion window and saw a figure standing, casting a long dark shadow
in the middle of the pitch.

"Bloody hell!" he exclaimed, and threw down the magazine; if this kind
of thing became prevalent the committee might reduce his hours - and
wages - in order to employ an external security company. He marched
grumpily down the steps and on to the ground to confront the
intruder.

"Excuse me ? miss," he said, as the person turned towards him. She was
a woman in her mid-thirties dressed in a long red coat, with matching
scarf and hat and high brown boots but her most striking feature was a
cascade of auburn hair which flowed over her shoulders, and Phil
realised with a pang that he considered her quite young.

"Yes, I know, I'm trespassing," she replied, "but I thought you might
need some company."

She had put her finger on the ache in Phil's life; he had always
considered himself to be a self-contained man, and had never married,
but at this season the solitude of his work echoed his empty home, and
he was lonely. Oh, hell, she looked harmless - why not for once?

"We can talk about anything; politics, religion ? cricket, even," and
she smiled, "but most of all I'd like to talk about you."

"There's nothing much to say about me," he said bluntly, "and if anyone
catches you in here ?"

"Well, I'm either already on CCTV or not, and, if not, there's no one
to see me now, except maybe the police helicopter," she reasoned, "so
let's go into the pavilion and chat for a while." And she led the way
back into the warmth.

Phil might, at this point, have paused to wonder how she had got in,
whether he had left an external door unlocked or whether the woman was
gifted with unusual agility to have climbed the forbidding gates. But
he didn't, he began to talk about his family, his education, how he got
the job as groundsman and who were his favourite cricketers, although
many of the latter were long since dead.

"Did you ever play?" she asked.

"I had a trial here, like a lot of other lads," he conceded, "but I
didn't make it, so for a while I played club cricket when I could, but
this is a seven-day-a-week job in the summer, and I'm too old
now."

The woman picked a shiny, new red cricket ball from a sports bag and
weighed it lovingly as though it were the apple of temptation. She
casually tossed it from one hand to another.

"I bet you were quite good really; I reckon you could still give it a
shot," she said, "so are you up for it?"

And before he could remonstrate he found himself holding a pristine bat
in his rough work-ravaged hands; the smell of new rubber and virgin
willow almost brought tears to his eyes. A new pair of batting gloves
appeared, dazzlingly green and white like a field full of daisies in
faraway May.

"But remember the old rules - six and out!" she warned.

Phil could well remember those rules, formulated for kids' street
cricket when a massive hit would indeed score six runs, but could
entail the ball landing in the canal or the allotments and herald the
end of the batter's innings and, if the ball could not be found, the
whole game.

"What about pads, and a box?" he asked.

"You're facing a woman, not the Australian first eleven," she chuckled,
"you won't need them!"

He nodded, and emerged from the clubroom and down the steps to the
pitch wielding not his scarifier or an old paintbrush but, like untold
numbers of ghostly white-clad warriors before him, a cricket bat. The
woman applauded politely from the front of the members' stand, then
followed him to the middle as the low sun sparkled on the snow. She
rammed a set of stumps into the hard ground, then strode to the other
end of the square as Phil took guard. She took off her hat, scarf and
red coat and, as there was no umpire present, laid them in a neat pile
at the bowler's end, and Phil was not surprised to find that she was
wearing a long-sleeved dress in a particularly eye-catching shade of
scarlet. She took a few shadowed strides away from him, then turned to
bowl.

If Phil had been wondering how the ball would behave when it struck the
hard, snowy pitch he need not have worried, for the ball flew from her
hand in a long, graceful loop. Despite the poor light, which would have
caused the abandonment of a county match, Phil found that he could see
the ball perfectly well; it hung in the air like a football, like the
huge weak setting sun which glittered on the gold lettering indented in
the leather; all he had to do was keep his eyes on the ball ? he closed
his eyes and gave a mighty heave ?

Phil awoke to intense heat and screaming, but the heat was from the
brilliance of a tropical sun, and the screaming was from terns diving
into the nearby lagoon. A breeze brought the scent of spiced fish being
barbecued, and a shadow fell across the hammock in which he was lying.
It was the woman bearing two tall glasses of cold juice, and she was
now wearing only a bright red bikini.

"Am I dead?" he asked.

She chuckled again.

"Why, do you want to be?" she said.

"Six and out," he reminded her. "I took the risk, can't say you didn't
warn me." His wintry smile broke into a radiant grin. "But it was a
good shot, wasn't it?"

"Your best shot, your very best," she agreed, and as she took his
gnarled hand in hers he felt the deep chill in his bones begin to
disappear for ever.