The England wicket-keeper, Anthony Heaton, was a rarity in sport. A classical scholar, he believed he had the ear of the common people. In private moments, he’d listen to ‘Working Class Hero’ and smile smugly.
As part of his public bonding, he frequently rode the tube. But the Northern Line will test the very best of men. As he headed down the non-functional Oval escalator, he whispered:
‘Rudis indegestaque moles’ — ‘I’d hoped for something better.’
On the platform, he watched a nun pacing. Steeped in the mystique of Brideshead Revisited, he was fascinated by Catholicism. At college he had been described as ‘Anthony Blythe with focus’. He thought their rituals very beautiful. Now the nun made a second sweep of the platform, not glancing at the destinations board, which read:
Morden 3 min Kennington 4 min
Then he saw what she was casing, the chocolate machine. Anthony could quote: ‘Oh sweet temptation’ and ‘Thrice you shall betray me’.
Now the nun stopped and rooted in her habit, her face flushed with expectation. Coins were ‘thunked’ in and a calculated selection made. Cadbury’s Turkish Delight. A classic. The handle was pulled and the nun moved in for the kill. Anthony watched her face, ‘un-lined, unblemished’. She could be sixteen or sixty. Definitely from the Philippines, who were producing a bumper crop of nuns for the nineties.
One of Anthony’s team-mates had said recently: ‘Hell is Imelda Marcos singing “Amazing Grace”.’
No chocolate: nada, zip, tipota. The nun looked round in dismay. As the Americans say: ‘Who you gonna call?’
The train could be heard approaching and Anthony could see tears in the nun’s eyes. He moved with the grace he kept for Lords, and one, two, open-palmed he hit the machine.
The Turkish Delight popped out. With a flourish, he presented her with her prize. The nun was beaming, her face aglow, and she said: ‘God be praised.’
He nodded gravely, added: ‘Veritas.’
After Anthony Heaton’s murder, the nun would gaze at his photo in the paper and hope they’d given him the last rites. In her breviary, beside his snap, was a neatly folded chocolate wrapper, smooth as a silent prayer.
David Eddings was one of the England batsmen. He was having a bad morning. His wife had issued an ultimatum.
‘You go on tour and I’m history.’
He hadn’t handled it well, his reply being: ‘I’ll help you pack.’
The toaster had short-circuited and there was no bloody orange. Losing it, he shouted: ‘Where’s my juice?’
From upstairs the sound of slamming doors, suitcases, and: ‘That’s what the Daily Express asked too.’
Said paper had been sniping at his age. The doorbell rang and he shouted again: ‘Are you going to get that?’
‘Well I doubt it will answer itself, darling.’
A hiss underlined the endearment. A yeah, he’d definitely heard a sss… Striding to the door, muttering: ‘This flaming better be good.’
He pulled it open. A postman, not their usual. Postbag held in front of his chest, he said: ‘Batsman leaving the field.’
‘What?’
And coming out of the bag was a barrel of a gun. Now the postman intoned: ‘I am the Umpire. When a batsman has left the field or retired and is unable to return owing to illness or injury, he is to be recorded as “retired, not out”.’
And he shot David Eddings in the face.