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It was the satisfying ‘thwack’ sound that I loved. The whooshing of the ball through the air, the bat meeting the ball. The deep red against the green of the grass. Then afterwards Raffles in his cricket whites, smoking a sullivan as he recounted his best moments, the most relaxed I saw him. It was ordered but easy, a formulaic game. Far simpler than anything else between Raffles and I.
He offered me a cigarette, lit it against the tip of his. We were around the back of the pavilion, him leaning against the wall. It was quiet and cool, shaded against the hot sun. The height of summer.
“I am thinking of packing this in, Rabbit,” his voice was casual, like he wasn’t pulling the grass out from under my feet, leaving only the summer dust. “I’m getting too old for running around in the sun like this.”
“Raffles!” I couldn’t believe what he was saying, this had to be another of his tricks.
“And the game’s been overtaken by the professionals. There’s joy in it no longer, not for an amateur.” He took a long drag from his cigarette, looking somewhat amused at my horrorstruck expression. “I have never been the greatest fan of the game, I think it has served its purpose.”
For as long as I had been back in contact with Raffles, during this period of our lives, he had spoken disparagingly of cricket. The game itself was fine, he said, but the rest of it! The rise of the professionals, being invited everywhere just because for his cricket. ‘For once I would like to be invited as the greatest of the amateur cracksman!’ he would proclaim when in such a mood. I would remind him of how people treated cracksman.
The Prince of Professors
.
But he played cricket to be seen.
“But what will you do, Raffles?”
“Oh, play casually. A true amateur. An
amateur
amateur. Summer games in little villages where nobody will recognise me.” The idea that Raffles would not be recognised seemed absurd to me then. “Maybe I shall move out of London for good, my dear Rabbit. I feel with have drained it of any worth, don’t you agree?”
I did not. I did not want Raffles to leave London, to leave me.
He was not in such a mood again for some time. There was no further mention of him quitting the game, he played a few good games. I was there, clapping him on. Back to that same routine we had held around his games since we were at school. Until one day at his chambers in the Albany, as he read the cricket scores of other games.
“Really, Bunny, my boy,” he had a string of pearls in one hand, running each pearl through his fingers individually, taking his time. We had taken them last night, still to recent to fence. “There is so little left here for us.” he had dropped the paper into his lap. I didn’t say anything, there was nothing I knew to say.
I was polishing his cricket bats, hoping that it would realight some old enthusiasm for the game. If he left London, I would almost never see him. The idea was unbearable. Less crime was not enough for less Raffles.
“The suburbs, maybe. Nothing too provincial.” He was smiling. “People don’t talk so much in the suburbs. We can keep to ourselves. Maybe some light crime, light cricket. The true amateur life.” He handed me the paper. He had not been looking at the cricket scores. Property ads, cottages to rent, Ham Common.
He was still smiling. A part of me smiled back. Maybe not outwardly, but maybe that would be enough. The suburbs, not until Raffles got bored would we return.