The Batsman
“And now, as the clock strikes on the eleventh hour, may I ask you for a
moment’s silence to remember those who gave their life in the two World Wars.”
When the vicar had finished speaking, the sound of the chapel bell resonated
eleven times over the misty fields of Charterhouse school. As a tide of pupils
rushed out of its doors, two masters followed them and made their way back to
their houses. Dr Benson, a portly man in his late fifties, with short, grey hair and
a permanently tired expression, noticed something peculiar about the field
opposite. “Typical,” he said. “These boys never put anything away. And it’s not
even the cricket season, either.” The other master, Mr Astley, a spritely, energetic
man in his early thirties, with his black labrador Benjy beside him, looked at the
solitary stumps standing on the dewy grass of that cold morning. He was
puzzled. He could have sworn he’d seen those same stumps up last year after the
service. He remembered thinking they looked like a particularly old set.
“That’s odd,” he remarked, “I’m sure I saw those stumps there last year.”
He felt a chill as he thought back to that night last year. Remembrance Day, it
gave him an unsettled feeling and he was always relieved when it was over. His
thoughts were interrupted by his colleague.
“Been housemaster for years now and teaching for many years more, but I
can never seem to get them to put things away.” He looked back at the stumps
and sighed. “I used to love cricket. Was one of the best batsmen in the school in
my day. Still, I was nothing compared to Thomas Anderson. He seemed to score a
century in every game he ever played. No one’s ever beaten that record. We
could do with another player like that if we’re ever going to beat Eton. Ah they
don’t make ‘em like that any more. A soldier, too.”
“Soldier? Which war?”
“The First World War. He was one of the best in his platoon. Joined when
he was only eighteen, as soon as he could. He’d never left England before the
outbreak of the war. You know we lost six hundred and something old
Carthusians in that war. Terrible business. Terrible. ”
At that moment the dog’s ears pricked up. It froze, and suddenly bolted
towards the South African cloisters, making Mr Astley lurch forward and drop
the lead. “Excuse me for one moment,” he shouted, as he sprinted off after it.
Approaching the cloisters, he heard the sound of footsteps on the hard
marble floor. Was that why his dog had bolted? As he came closer, he heard his
dog barking from inside the cloisters. He called to him. “Benjy! Benjy!”
When he reached the cloisters, he found Benjy pacing in circles sniffing
the ground. He seemed to be following a scent. It wasn’t like Benjy to be nervous.
He noticed the cloisters seemed darker than usual. On the walls of the long,
marble passage were countless names of soldiers who had given their lives for
their country in one war or another. Rays of sunlight shone at one end of the
passage. There was no one there. “They must have gone,” he thought. He looked
up, his eyes catching the list of names: Abadie, Abbott, Alston… but no sign of an
Anderson. “Very strange,” he muttered to himself as he stepped out of the
cloisters and made his way back to his house. Dr Benson was nowhere to be
seen. He quickened his pace, a sense of unease spreading over him.
The next day, intrigued by the story of Thomas Anderson, he thought he’d
stop by the school archives and see what he could find. Perhaps he could read
out the boy’s school record to some of his pupils and see if any of them could be
inspired to equal his cricketing success. Mrs Oak was a usually warm and
gregarious figure in the school and Mr Astley always enjoyed their exchanges.
But today the librarian merely shook her head, avoiding eye contact. She seemed
surprisingly evasive. “No, no one by that name is recorded here.” Bemused by
this, he decided to quiz Dr Benson. Perhaps he had misheard the name?
That quarter, he went to visit Dr Benson in his hashroom. It was much
older than most, on the top floor of the geography building, with two oak beams
jutting out of the roof directly into the middle of the room. The desks were
aligned in an old fashioned manner: three rows of desks facing the teacher. He
found him sitting in an oak armchair, marking bancos with a fountain pen.
“Dr Benson?” he inquired.
Without looking up, he replied, “Yes?”
Mr Astley hesitated. He did not want to seem rude to such a favoured
member of staff. “About the man you were telling me about yesterday. I wanted
to find out more about him, but I found no trace of him anywhere in the school
records. Also I noticed his name doesn’t appear on the war memorial. Are you
sure you did not make a mistake, perhaps a different name? I do like to talk to
the boys about OCs and with the hundredth anniversary of the war this year he
would be a good one to talk about.”
Dr Benson stopped what he was doing and sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I
didn’t tell you the whole story. Thomas Anderson was one of the greatest
batsmen Charterhouse has ever seen, that much is true. But what I didn’t tell you
was that he was no hero. He fled as soon as he jumped over the trench and saw
the machine guns waiting to meet him. That’s why you won’t find his name
anywhere. Deserters aren’t on memorials or school records. ”
“I don’t want Thomas Anderson to be forgotten because he was my grandfather.”
***
That night, Mr Astley was walking his dog around the grounds. He did this
every night, but tonight seemed different somehow. The air felt colder than
usual; the large oak trees seemed to be reaching out to him with spindly fingers
as he made his way up to main school. Tonight there was no moon, but he could
still clearly make out the dark outline of the looming chapel as he drew nearer to
it.
For one reason or another he felt drawn to the South African cloisters,
perhaps because of what had happened earlier that day. His footsteps echoed on
the marble floor, piercing the eerie silence of the night.
He did not notice it at first, but as it grew louder, he heard a peculiar
sound. The sound of something rolling along the marble. The sound grew louder
and nearer and then stopped abruptly. He looked at his feet and saw something
there – a ball, a cricket ball, made of faded red leather. What was this doing here
so late at night? He reached down to pick up the ball, and as he did so he caught a
glimpse of something in the corner of his eye. A man? At the other end of the
cloisters? It couldn’t have been. He did not hear him enter. First the cricket ball,
now this? Was he going mad? He must find out who it was, he thought.
He ran to the end of the cloisters, his heart racing. There was no one
there. On the wall, crudely etched in the stone were the words:
THOMAS ANDERSON 1896 – 1915
LEST WE FORGET