Shifting History
Another section from The Great Weight of Ordeals, a work in progress about a cricket umpire set over five days of a Test match. Here, he takes the first over of the match…
I didn’t kill her. Ellie, I mean. I didn’t kill her, I’m sure of that, but people blame me at least — so it more or less amounts to the same thing. I don’t remember the exact sequence of events leading up to her disappearing over the edge of the cliff, but my guilt has passed into family lore — if not English law — and the knowledge, what I do know and have not told, has sat upon my shoulders for 50 years, neither fading nor getting lighter, but rather accumulating mass, sucking everything in so that all that I do or say, or don’t do or don’t say, is informed by that knowledge and burdened by that weight. That weight doesn’t shift. Not really.
The night after her funeral, my brain began formatting much of the previous few days so that it all began to resemble nothing more than static. Memories would flicker into view like a poorly-tuned television set, only to disappear into white noise before I could make any sense of them. Still-frames occasionally flicker into view even now; memory snapshots that are sometimes so vague it is impossible to know if anyone else was there, and they remain for only a few seconds before vanishing again.
But then, it’s difficult to know if the life I remember represents reality or is merely genuine memories mixed in with fantasies, old films, scraps of novels and early-morning dreams. What is the truth? Does it even matter? Would it make any difference to you if my recollections were merely a montage of half-truths and wishful thinking? It would still be my story, my version. We all construct history and then reconstruct it to suit our needs, mould our past to corroborate the present-day version of ourselves, to justify who we have become. No one can argue with that.
‘Hey, are we playing cricket today or what?’
The voice, tinted with nasal Australian whine, startles me. Eyes open, thousands of expectant faces stare back at me. Behind me, the bowler is set. I offer a little cough and make an unnecessary glance around the field to ensure the players are ready. They continue to stare back. They have been ready for some time, it would seem. I adjust my hat — pushing the brim out of my eyes — and take another breath before glancing across at umpire Morley, who is standing at square leg, chatting to the fielder next to him, hands in pockets, shades on.
Morley is nearly 30 years my junior and everything about him, from his expensive haircut to the white sunscreen daubed tribally under his eyes, begs for attention, but I have long-resigned myself to that being the modern way. I imagine Morley to be good with people, good at a party, comfortable being the centre of attention. Tall, athletic, his face falls naturally into a smirk that suggests he is permanently in on the joke, whatever that joke is. Jet black hair is swept back from dark eyes and cheekbones chiselled from whatever rock is native to his New Zealand. A former player forced into early retirement through injury, he is a media darling, a rare breed who transcends the sport. He appears on television panel shows, has a tabloid newspaper column and has his own ‘umpire chic’ line of clothing that is especially popular in areas of trendy east London. I can only console myself with a little prayer of thanks to the Marylebone Cricket Club and its esteemed founders for at least setting out the laws of the game as such that the two of us should be no closer than 22 yards for the majority of the match. Morley will not spoil it for me.
I wait a beat for him to look my way. Nothing. However, the pavilion clock shows the time to be 10.30am precisely; he can be a distraction no longer, so I lower my left arm, place it behind my back alongside my right and, somewhat grandly, declare:
‘Play.’
The murmur of the crowd dips into a nervous hush as the bowler begins his steady run-up. His footsteps grow louder behind me as he approaches before he blasts past in a flurry of flailing limbs. He’s approaching the twilight of his career so does not possess the pace he once had in his prime, but as it leaves his hand, the ball is travelling at 80 miles per hour towards the batsman at the other end. Time seems to slow to a quarter-speed, as though everything I have ever worked for was merely a prelude to this moment. My legs feel weak with the thrill. This is it. The climax to one of the greatest Test series in history. Let battle commence. Bowler versus batsman; a test of skill, athleticism, courage, intelligence and wit.
It is a wide.
Well, almost, and ordinarily I would signal as such, but there is a long day ahead so I give the bowler the benefit of the doubt. He can be a grumpy soul. He trudges past and back to his mark with his head down, denying me the satisfaction of a knowing smile as various fielders take time out from some vigorous gum-chewing to bawl encouragement at their talismanic paceman, eager to keep him in the right frame of mind.
It works. He quickly finds his line, but the batsman defends well and steals a single from the fifth ball of the over to get England on their way. As each ball is bowled, I flip a stone from my left hand to my right and into my pocket and as Six drops in, I declare:
‘Over.’
It is the end of the bowler’s opening gambit. The batsman has survived and with the first nervous moments out of the way, it is time to check out the view from square-leg.
