THE FINAL MATCH

Even its most ardent admirers would have to admit that Woolstone cricket ground is a bit erratic. It's a pretty little ground, with trees all around the boundary, and in staggering distance of a very handy pub after matches. But the pitch itself, the bit you actually bowl on, acts like it has a demon in it. A perfectly normal delivery, such as would require a nice leisurely forward defensive, will spit as it hits the pitch and fly past the batsman's nose. A ball going at exactly the same pace, pitching on exactly the same spot, will roll tamely past his ankles, possibly even bowling him out. Those who play regularly at Woolstone develop their own style of bowling; as fast as possible, just short of a length. With a ball like that, there's no telling what will happen. Those whose batting techniques have been honed somewhere more predictable, such as on Bletchley Town's lush meadows at Manor Fields, rarely make too many runs.

It was just getting dusk on a Sunday evening early in September. A challenge match had been played between a computer software company and their biggest customers, an insurance company. Ignoring the rule that you always give the customers the best chance of winning, the software boys had thrown themselves energetically round the field, bowled like Larwood and batted like Lara. The insurers had been thoroughly humiliated, and were already seeking solace in the Cross Keys with a few of pints of Charles Wells' finest. The software company's employees had collected the assorted items of cricketing equipment, and were now themselves wandering across the road to the pub. In the half-light, the last two team members were carrying the bag containing pads, stumps, bats and so on back to the car park.

"John," began the first, "don't you think it's getting a bit dark for those blokes to be having a game?"

"What blokes, Geoff?"

John turned around to look back at the pitch. He was surprised to see a game going on in the middle, as certainly they had not seen anyone arrive, and there were no cars besides their own in the car park. The two of them watched for a while, because this was clearly not an ordinary game. Firstly, the bowler was faster than any they had ever seen. The ball, clearly visible despite the gloom, was flying down the pitch like a cannonball. In keeping with the wicket's normal behaviour, some deliveries flew at the batsman's head, some shot past his ankles. The batsman, remarkably, was dealing with every delivery with a superb technique and lightning reflexes. The really difficult balls he was content to push back down the wicket to the bowler; the ones that reared up off a length, he was smashing through point and midwicket for four. Around the two antagonists, the forms of the fielders could be seen, drifting like shadows across the pitch as they chased the ball. What made the whole scene even stranger to Geoffrey and John was that the fielders were almost invisible, even close to their side of the boundary, whereas the batsman and the bowler were as easy to see as if it had still been daylight.

They watched, spellbound, for fifteen or twenty minutes, while the gloom grew around the field. Then they put the cricket bag in the car, and drove it round to the pub.

Standing at the Village Bar in the Cross Keys, settling down with a pint each, they mentioned to the other cricketers what they had seen, and asked why two players, apparently of at least county standard, were playing on Woolstone cricket pitch .

"Geoffrey, John, are you seriously saying that there are people out there playing at this time of the night?"

"I'm telling you," replied John, "we've just been watching them."

"It must have been some kids - nobody else would be mad enough to play in this light."

A pale, thin-faced young man had been sitting quietly listening to this discussion. Now he interrupted the conversation.

"Was the bowler a very tall chap with red hair?" Geoffrey and John confirmed that he was. "And was the batsman a smallish, Asian chap?" Again, affirmation. The young man sucked in his breath, and then swallowed hard. When he spoke again, it was more softly, as if he was holding a conversation in Church, and there was a tremor in his voice.

"About five years ago, there was a game played out on Woolstone cricket green. I forget who the two sides were, but one of the sides had a great big chap with red hair as one of the bowlers, and the other side had a little Asian opening for them. The red-haired chap gave the batsman a right going-over - he must have been about the quickest bowler we've ever had in the local leagues. I was watching it. It was completely frightening. He hit the batsman on the head and on the body, four or five times. But he just kept on batting. It was the most amazing innings I have ever seen. The faster the bowler bowled, and the more the batsmat got hit, the better he was playing the shots. I remember one lovely shot - the bowler sent in a brilliant yorker - you would have sworn it would have taken the batsman's feet off. But he stepped inside it and glanced it through fine leg for four. That was the shot that got him his ton. The little chap's side won by 150 runs. The bowler swore that the next season he'd get his own back. I've never seen anyone so angry after a game of cricket. He wouldn't shake hands with the batsman, he swore at the fielders, didn't stop for a drink - he just shot off in his car."

"So what happened the next season?" asked Geoffrey.

"That was the odd thing. The next season, they couldn't get Woolstones ground so they played somewhere else - Great Linford, I think it was. Yes - it would be. You know how the Linford pitch is on a bit of a hill, and exposed. Well, as the little chap was walking out to open the bowler came over and muttered some abuse, and then it happened."

"What happened?" chorused the whole pub.

"They were struck by lightning. The little batsman died straight away, but they got the bowler to hospital and he died a day or so later. He was still swearing that he'd get his own back one day."

"So what has all this got to do with what we saw just now?" asked John, the hairs starting to stand up on his spine.

"Well, it's said that on the anniversary of that game, every year, the bowler has one more go at getting his own back on the batsman. And every year, he fails to get him out. It's been going on for three or four seasons now, so I wondered if anyone would see anything today."

"So you're saying we've seen two ghosts?"

"Well, at least two. I wouldn't like to think who the fielders are. I suppose he's on his way to another century by now."

Of course, the players in the pub did not quite believe him. On the other hand, they did not quite disbelieve what this quietly-spoken young man was telling them. After another drink or two, with very little conversation, they slipped out one by one, leaving him sitting quietly in his chair, watching the lights flashing on the fruit machine.

Geoffrey and John wandered out into the cool and dark of the car park. It was getting on for nine o'clock now and completely dark. They climbed into John's car, and John started the engine. Then they looked at each other for a moment. Without saying anything, John drove out of the car park and back round to the cricket green.

They climbed out and walked over to the boundary. Looking into the middle they could no longer see the forms of a batsman or a bowler, or any sign of any fielders. They turned to leave. As they walked back to the car park they just heard, drifting on the breeze, the sound of leather on willow, followed by something that could have been the leaves rustling, but could have been the applause for a batsman making a hundred. Obviously the bowler was going to have to try again next year.

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