In the Umpires Pocket Away

Rewritten with an added edge.

In the Umpires Pocket Away

As Peter stepped onto the cricket field, the scent of freshly cut grass, sharp and clean, hung in the air, a deceptive balm for the knotted tension between him and Arthur. As their eyes met briefly, Peter felt a ripple of unease tighten in his chest, as though the cumulative weight of all their past matches had settled on this single, crystalline afternoon.

The charity match between Neston and Box always carried a significance that defied the casual flick of the bat. It was more than a game not just a stage to test alliances, but awakening old grievances and for Peter and Arthur, it had long been a private battlefield disguised as sport. It was a place where loyalty and rivalry merged in the heat of play.

This year, the stakes felt higher, with unspoken intent. Peter scanned the crowd seeing the Retired naval officer, the carpenter still with sawdust on his shoes, and the vicar reclining on a chair by the pavilion, hat tipped against the glare.

There was no prize or trophy to hold aloft, only bragging rights for the winners, sufficient to fuel arguments and laughter in the pub for weeks to come. Peter allowed himself a small smile because it was so absurd how this day mattered so much. But maybe that was its charm?

This year, Arthur, who was usually responsible for umpiring duties, had been called into the Neston team. There had been a late injury to one of their players.

Peter and Arthur had been friends since when their only concern was whether their cricket whites would survive a slide into the stumps. Both now found themselves on opposite sides. Peter, now enlisted for Box had recently moved, home which was on the boundary between the two villages, while Arthur, never one to miss an opportunity to wind up his friend, a Neston player through and through. He’d kissed the badge.

When the morning of the match dawned, there was a bustle of activity that only comes from a village where everyone knows everyone else’s business. Arthur had spotted Agnes and Hilda on the boundary, their flasks glinting as they shared a conspiratorial laugh. Agnes welcomed the company, having a pressing need to unburden herself. She recounted an earlier argument with Peter, her voice steady but tinged with the lingering frustration of unresolved conflict. ‘He’s in a filthy mood today; I don’t think his mind is on the match…’

Hilda interrupted sharply, ‘Perhaps, Arthur’s been insufferably arrogant lately,  telling anyone who’d listen, ‘Neston will beat Box again this year.’ I know Peter is playing for Box today, but I really don't know what's gotten into him lately; he seems to have it in for your husband.’

Agnes sighed. ‘That may be true, but I think Peter has always been a bit jealous of Arthur.’

‘Jealous!’ Hilda exclaimed in surprise, her voice raising an octave.

‘Yes,’ Agnes continued, ‘He never got over Arthur getting a cricket blue ahead of him at Oxford.’

Hilda shook her head, saying with a pun. ‘Really, Agnes, you could have bowled me over.’

‘Mind, it might be because I told him Arthur looks so fetching in his whites, quite handsome really,’ Agnes added with a flourish and then a giggle as she realised she had said a little too much.

Despite joining in the laughter, Hilda, catching the remark, was a bit taken aback by Agnes’s candidness.

When they had finished, the table was covered with cakes, scones, and sandwiches. It was a feast fit for a king, or a rivalry. Yet sweet enough to mask any bitter undercurrents of the day.

In the meantime, at the Box cricket ground, the players were busily limbering up under a sky that seemed to have been borrowed from the Aegean and postcard perfect in its azure expanse, promising a flawless day for cricket.

As the first ball was bowled, Arthur, as the umpire for Neston, leaned forward and focused. He could be a stickler for the rules, but he wasn’t above bending them when the reputation of Neston Cricket team was at stake. They had dominantly won for the past seven years, so it was important to maintain their superiority. Especially now Peter had transferred his loyalties.

The first ball sailed down the leg side and sped past the keeper. It went for a rare four byes.

The second thudded into the keeper's stomach, halting play for a brief moment.

Box’s innings crawled forward, 63 for 4. When the fifth wicket fell, Peter stood and made his way down to the pavilion steps ready for his innings.

Arthur squinted as the sun flashed off Peter’s face, his grin slipping before he recovered. The sight of Peter, steady and determined, brought a flicker of something Arthur hadn’t expected: an ache for the years that had slipped by.

Peter pushed open the gate and stepped onto the field of play, and Arthur’s jaw tightened. Without thinking, he shouted across; his voice carrying in the heat of the day, ‘I hope you’ve been practicing.’

Agnes watched Peter walk across the pitch. ‘He’s taking this match too seriously,’ she whispered to Hilda, who replied with a knowing smile. ‘He always does when Arthur’s involved.’

Watching Peter walk confidently toward the crease stirred up an old, buried feeling in Arthur, a mix of pride, envy, and something close to regret. Peter had always been the one who seemed to brush rivalry off so easily; he was a naturally gifted cricketer but missed out on success when they were younger. Arthur wondered when their friendship had started to feel this complicated.

The sledging and banter were all part of the game, a game they’d been playing since their school days. Peter had outwardly chuckled, knowing full well it was just Arthur trying to get under his skin, but inwardly, he was fuming.

Josh Fagan, Neston’s most talented bowler, with an arm like a cannon, wasn’t about to let the opportunity pass either. ‘If you turn the bat over, Peter, you’ll find the instructions.’ His voice booming and then giving a hearty laugh, setting off the outfielders, it sent a ripple of laughter through the pavilion.

Adjusting his grip on the bat, his stance calm despite the barbs Arthur looked his way. Taking his guard, Peter’s eyes narrowed, and he focused on the ball. The first delivery was dispatched for two runs.

The second… well, Peter, wanting to rub the Neston team’s face in it, swung out with all his strength, missing by a country mile.

‘It’s red, its round, and you’re supposed to hit it!’ Josh jeered, his grin wicked.

Peter heard laughter ripple through the crowd, the kind of hearty approval that made a man smirk or squirm, depending on the side he was on.

The next delivery came flying in, and with a resounding crack, the ball soared over the boundary ropes for six, which lit up Peter's face like a torch as his teammates erupted in cheers from the pavilion.

Peter called out to the bowler in triumph and glee, ‘Well, you seem to know what it looks like now, Josh, so go and find it!’

The crowd roared, and Peter basked in the applause, his grin glinting under the sun.

But when Arthur’s finger rose, sharp and unwavering, after the next ball. Peter froze at the crease, his bat slipped, and the ball caught his pad just in line with the off stump. But to Peter’s eyes the ball was wide.

‘Out, LBW.’ Arthur’s voice was authoritative and carrying in the warm still air of the afternoon.

Peter angrily turned; his jaw clenched. ‘Blind as ever,’ he muttered in a stinging rebuke but low enough not to confront.

As he strode back to the pavilion, the cheers felt like static, hollow and still smarting from having his innings cut short. Arthur had drawn blood, but why did it feel like both of them were bleeding? Arthur glanced at Peter, then down at the dry, cracked pitch. Something between them felt fragile, ready to break. The afternoon wore on, and Neston’s chances of victory began slipping away like sand through a child’s fingers at the beach. As another Neston wicket fell, Arthur realised he was up to bat in a wicket’s time, and as he fastened his pads, he felt a pang of old memories of a younger Arthur, eager to best Peter at every turn. Now, he wondered when their rivalry had begun to carry a sharper edge, an ache that clung like the dust on his whites.’ But with unusual optimism, he was still busy donning his pads when a loud cheer erupted from the field.

Tom Murray, Box’s bowler, local blacksmith, and ringer, had just taken two wickets in two balls. Arthur’s heart sank as he realised he was facing a hat-trick ball.

 

As Arthur finally emerged and made his way to the crease, he looked to the stand, and seeing Agnes waving discreetly and looking excited, he squared his bat. He was greeted by Peter, now filling in for umpiring, with a grin that suggested he had no intention of letting bygones be bygones.

‘Look who’s next: Neston’s finest duck collector with more misses than Henry the Eighth!’ Tom jeered, earning a roar of laughter. Arthur smiled tightly, gripping his bat. ‘Just make sure the ball doesn’t land in the pub garden again,’ he shot back, his voice a shade too sharp.

Arthur, with a stern look and posing at the crease like Ian Botham, took his guard; he knew instinctively the odds were now stacked against him.

Tom wiped his hand on his trousers, his grip tightening around the ball. The crowd had gone still, the kind of silence that only comes when the stakes are unbearably high. Arthur adjusted his stance, his bat hovering over the crease, his knuckles pale against the wood. He met Peter’s gaze, and for the briefest moment, something unspoken passed between them, a challenge wrapped in years of rivalry.

Tom surged forward, his strides fluid and deliberate, the ball a flash of motion in his grip. It cut through the air and skidded low off the dry pitch, glancing off Arthur’s pad well outside the line. The fielders stayed locked in place, as if caught in a photograph, the moment too strange to process.

 

‘Out! LBW!’ Peter’s voice broke the stillness, loud and decisive, his finger raised.

 

Arthur was frozen to the spot; his bat fell slack in his hand. Time stuttered while the murmurs of the crowd swelled and ebbed. Slowly, he turned to face Peter; his expression was taut, and his anger barely held in check. ‘You're not serious.’

 

Peter was unyielding in his verdict, ‘plumb in front.’ His grin was downturned but still he maintained eye contact.

 

The crowd, not understanding what was happening, erupted into chaotic cheers and protests, a cacophony of mixed emotions.

 

Tom, oblivious to the unfolding drama, threw his arms skyward, basking in the glory of his hat trick. Arthur was still lingering at the crease, his breathing tight and shallow, turned slowly and started his ‘walk of shame’ to the pavilion, each step felt heavier, weighted down by his friends decision, his first ‘duck’.  Peter’s voice was still running through his head, sharp and inescapable. His fingers clenched around the bat, the wood biting into his palm, but the ache inside gnawed deeper.

 

Stood behind the stumps, Peter watched Arthur retreat. His grin faltering as the noise of the crowd began to abate. He glanced at the ball lying aimlessly on the pitch, scuffed and battered, as a creeping unease washed over him, the ball looking for ‘all the world,’ like their friendship.

Arthur was sitting in the pavilion, his gaze fixed on the field as the game slipped further from Neston’s grasp. The scoreboard told a story he didn’t need to read twice, the numbers stark and final, like a verdict handed down by time. Peter, still umpiring, glanced at the boundary where Agnes stood with her head thrown back in laughter at something Arthur had said. He felt a sharp pang twist in his chest but couldn’t quite place why.

 

As Arthur watched the ball bounce idly on the field while the light faded, for the first time in years, he felt the weight of it, like a symbol of everything he and Peter had lost in their endless game. The ball kept spinning out of control like time. No matter how hard they tried to keep it in play.

 

Box had won, scoring 139 to Neston’s 129. It was a narrow win, but a win, nonetheless.

 

Box’s first victory in seven years was celebrated and fuelled with a potent mix of relief, pride, and, inevitably, too many pints from the pavilion bar. By the time the players and spectators gathered for tea, the sting of defeat and the heat of rivalry started to melt away.

 

The late afternoon sun slanted low, streaking the cricket ground in amber hues, and the two men stood as if suspended, caught in its glow. Peter grasped Arthur by the shoulder in a gesture of friendship. Arthur felt it both heavy and hollow and his arm lingering a little too long. It could have been forgiveness or something simpler or had he realised something?

 

‘Time for Tea’ Peter suggested.

 

The stillness was broken as Peter watched Arthur swatting at a persistent fly with the back of his hand. ‘Not the first time today you’ve missed your mark,’ he said, his tone airy, though his eyes stayed steady on Arthur’s face.

 

Arthur paused, his expression unreadable, and then let out a laugh. ‘And you’ve always been a terrible batsman,’ he replied, the words came easy, but his tone weighted with something unsaid.

 

For a moment, neither moved; the silence thick with the debris of years gone by. Rivalries once sharp as broken glass now seemed dulled, their edges softened by time yet still capable of cutting to the quick.

 

Arthur’s grin finally flickered into life. ‘Your deliveries remind me of my mail you know, always late!’

 

The words broke the tension, and laughter spilled out between them, unbidden and uncontrollable. They became breathless with it, and their ribs ached, and it eased the tension between them momentarily, but underneath the easy laughter, the casual banter, the tension remained hidden, flickering, subtle, and brief, but undeniable.

 

Shadows stretched long and jaggedly across the playing field as the sun sank behind the Bath hills. The villagers drifted off as the hum of their chatter, though lively, gradually faded. The cricket pitch fell into a tranquil silence after the covers had been replaced. Only the faintest of footprints on the soft grass remained in the late afternoon fading heat. They were reminders of what had been and what still might be.

 

Arthur's boyish grin crossed his face as he suggested a couple of pints at the Queen's Head. It was a chance to end the day with a bitter, not bitterness. While Peter listened to Arthur’s voice, he thought he noticed an edge, sharp enough to make him glance at him.

 

The laughter of the day still echoed in his ears, but something about the quiet between them felt different; he thought he knew what it was, but it was a guess. He just couldn’t put his finger on it.

 

Arthur hummed, ‘When an Old Cricketer Leaves the Crease,’ while they walked together up the incline to the Queen's Head; then his phone beeped, and he glanced at it.

 

Moments later he remarked, ‘Just Hilda, checking up on me,’ but immediately deleted the message.

 

The Box cricketers were still revelling in their long-overdue victory, their voices rising in boisterous laughter over clinking pints of Moles Bitter. The pub hummed with life, but at the small corner table where Peter and Arthur sat, the mood was quieter, the air thicker. Arthur swirled his pint absently, watching the foam dissipate along the rim.

 

He glanced at Peter, who seemed lighter somehow, a man unburdened by the day’s rivalry.

The sight twisted something deep in Arthur’s chest. ‘Funny game, cricket,’ Arthur said, his voice soft, almost wistful.

 

Peter looked at him, his grin fading into something more subdued. ‘Not as funny as life,’ he replied, his tone steady but his eyes searching.

 

Arthur held his gaze for a little too long; the words sat heavy between them.

 

He tapped his glass against Peter’s with a hollow chuckle. ‘Here’s to another year of you getting away with murder,’ he said, the teasing edge unable to mask the weight beneath.

 

Peter leaned back, the chair creaking under him. ‘And here’s to finding a way to forgive you before then,’ he shot back, his smile faint but pointed.

 

For a moment neither spoke, letting the laughter and the clamour of the pub wash over them, but like falling on a bruise, Arthur felt a familiar ache, their unspoken truths, sharp and ever familiar.

 

Tracing the rim of his glass, as the cool condensation pooled under his fingers. ‘I suppose that’s why we keep coming back here, isn’t it?’ Arthur said finally.

 

His voice was thick: ‘Playing the same bloody game over and over.’

 

Peter’s smile returned, softer this time, the edges worn down. ‘Maybe we’re hoping for a different ending.’

 

Arthur nodded, his lips pressing into a line. He raised his pint for a toast, his hand steady despite the tremor in his chest as glass cast a shadow across his face. ‘To endings, then,’ he said.

 

‘To new beginnings,’ Peter countered as they ‘chinked’ their glasses.

 

Arthur took a sip of ale; its sharpness cut through the hazy memories of better times. As if the beer was a potion, the pub shrank and became smaller, quieter, almost holding its breath. They finally rose to leave with the promise of a rematch lingering between them, a shared understanding left unsaid.

 

Outside, the night was cool and still, the cricket field barely visible in the distance. Arthur glanced back at the pub door as it swung shut, the muffled laughter inside a reminder of what they’d both won and lost.

 

‘Next year?’ Peter said his voice cutting through the night. Arthur smiled faintly, the ache in his chest momentarily easing.

 

‘Next year.’ And with that, they walked their separate ways, the silence between them a fragile truce under the night sky.