Page 41 of A Fresh Start at Bramble Cottage
Vicky smiled. “I don’t know much about cricket, but that did look like a good catch.”
“One of the best players we’ve got, is Tom.”
“You’ve played yourself?”
“Oh, ah.” He nodded slowly. “More’n sixty years, from when I were just a lad, up till me knees wouldn’t let me run no more.”
She glanced across at him. She’d guess he was almost as old as Aunt Molly. His face was all creases, his pale eyes overhung by bushy white eyebrows, which seemed to have won a competition with the sparse white hair over his freckled skull.
“O’ course I had a couple of years out for me National Service.” He chuckled. “Just copped right for that, I did. Off to Korea, to fight for the king. Though why I could never work out — thousands of miles away it is and none too happy aboutus being there. But I says to meself, Arthur Crocombe, it’s not for you to question what the king wants. So I did me bit, and managed not to get meself shot.”
Vicky listened with interest as he reminisced about times long past. He was rambling a bit, as elderly people often would, his memories disjointed and skipping from one thread to another. But she was fascinated — any period of history fascinated her, even as recent as the Korean War.
He seemed to enjoy chatting to her. There didn’t seem to be anyone with him. He was probably lonely — as Aunt Molly had probably been. She still felt guilty that she had let her aunt down — maybe she could make up for that a little by sitting with Arthur.
If the old man had seemed absorbed in memories of his younger days, he was still alert to what was happening on the pitch. “Ah — that’s forty overs.” He rubbed his hands with glee. “Time for lunch.”
“Would you like me to fetch you something?”
“Oh, no, my luvver — I want to see what they’ve got. But you can help me up out of this damned deckchair. Stupid things — who designed them? You get your thumbs caught when you try to put them up, then when you want to get out of them you can’t.”
Vicky laughed as she helped him carefully to his feet and offered her arm as they walked up to the pavilion.
The trestle table had been laid out with more selections for lunch. Plates of traditional sandwiches, sausage rolls, bacon baps, pizzas and paninis. Several other people had come to help serve — including Tom’s wife.
She greeted Arthur with a warm smile. “Hello, Arthur. What can I get you?”
“Those sausage rolls — are they proper home-made?” he demanded.
“Of course.”
“Then I’ll have a couple.”
“You want ketchup on them?”
He chuckled. “What do you think? And give ’em plenty — don’t stint it.” He turned to Vicky. “What about you, my dear?”
“Oh, but . . .”
“You’re my date,” he insisted. “The gentleman always pays for dinner.”
As Vicky was about to protest again, Tom’s wife shook her head discreetly. “Let him,” she mouthed, smiling.
Vicky couldn’t help smiling back. “Okay — thank you. I’ll have a panini, please.”
“We’ve got chicken, pulled beef, or mozzarella with tomato.”
“I’ll have the mozzarella.”
“And two teas,” Arthur added.
“Coming right up.”
As she bustled away, Vicky felt a hand on the small of her back, and a voice murmured close to her ear, “So you’re a cricket fan then?”
She glanced up sharply. Tom was smiling down at her — and he was standing much too close. Fortunately, his wife was at the far end of the table, slathering Arthur’s sausage rolls with generous dollops of ketchup.
She flashed him an icy glare and turned her shoulder on him, and stepped away from his hand. She sensed his flicker of surprise — apparently he was accustomed to women welcoming his attention.
