Ordinary People

Contents

PART 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

PART II

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Epilogue

For Paula

PART 1

Chapter 1

A Sticky Wicket

The 10 th of June was a significant day in the long and rather well documented history of the small but ancient English village of Middlewapping. Indeed of such significance was this day that many in the village agreed that never in their lifetimes had they, or would they again, witness such an important event. Old Roger, the local farmer (‘Old Codger’, or worse, to most of the estate children) announced with some enthusiasm that he had ‘navar seed the loik’. Mind you he was wont to say this, even when quite clearly he had seen the like on many previous occasions, whereas on this occasion he was in fact stating the obvious, since nobody in this quiet and tranquil backwater of England would have seen the like, or anything like the like, before.

For at some time during the early hours of the morning of the 10th of June, a meteorite landed on the village green. If this were not in itself an altogether spectacular enough occurrence, the meteorite landed in precisely the middle of the batting wicket. It dissected almost perfectly the distance between the stumps at the scoreboard end and the church end. Furthermore if one eyed along the line between the wickets (as most of the village did at some time or another) the apex of the rock lined up almost exactly between the middle stumps.

The precise timing of this extra terrestrial visitation is to this day unclear, despite considerable discussion upon the subject. What is not in dispute is that the first person to see the rock in situ, so to speak, was young Will Tucker the paperboy. Young Will Tucker was in fact 16 years old, and had kept up the paper-round beyond the age that one would normally expect, delivering papers seven days a week to the houses surrounding and within the environs of the village green, as well as to the estate. He did this not so much out of financial necessity, for he in fact earned considerably less than his contemporaries who had Saturday or evening jobs, but because he had always rather enjoyed his early-morning spin around the village on his bicycle, and was reluctant to give it up. He could claim fairly that he knew every letter box in the village. Those on the estate were of the homogenous, aluminum type typical of modern metal and glass doorways. Those of the much older houses which bordered the village green on two sides and included the pub and the village shop were a different matter. The oldest of these houses dated back to the late 1500s and the youngest only a few decades later, and their letter boxes reflected the character of the houses themselves; without exception they were not designed to accommodate the newspapers of the day, and Sundays presented him with particular problems.

Will Tucker saw his early mornings as a time for quiet reflection, and latterly his thoughts had been preoccupied with the fact that he had recently fallen in love with Emily, the butchers’ daughter, who was about his age, and these new and confusing feelings had left the poor youth in such a state of shock that he had barely uttered a word since. He was in any case by nature a quiet, thoughtful, and rather withdrawn individual, but nobody had the least idea what had caused him to clam-up so completely in such a sudden and inexplicable way, his condition generally being attributed to his being at that difficult age, and that he would soon snap out of it once his hormones had sorted themselves out.

In any event it was he, who, whilst going about his daily rounds, noticed in the half-light of dawn that a dark object had been placed or was present upon the cricket pitch and which he was quite sure had not been there last evening. Thinking that it was perhaps Percy, or Percival as he preferred (he would get quite heated on the subject after a few ales at the Dog and Bottle), who had a quite well deserved reputation as the village drunk, and who had perhaps gone off in the wrong direction and not quite made it home from the pub on this occasion. He decided, given the hour of the day and thus the small chance of being observed, to break with village rules and ride his bicycle onto the cricket field to further investigate the mysterious object, and upon doing so was surprised (he was learning on growing up that life could hold many surprises) to see not a person or indeed any living entity, but a rather large rock-like object. He alighted from his bicycle, covered the last few feet cautiously on foot, and stood, bending over with his face a few inches from the object for some minutes whilst attempting to get his young mind in order and deciding what might best be done next. In the event there seemed only one thing for it; he must touch the object in order to further ascertain its’ nature. He pressed his finger carefully against the shiny surface and withdrew it quickly. It was hard to the touch. Next he tapped it gently with his knuckles; it was definitely hard. Finally he sat down on it the better to ponder this strange turn of events, and concluded that he must get a second opinion on the matter, just to be sure that imagining oneself sitting down on a large, hitherto absent rock in the middle of the village green was not just another part of growing up which must be endured and, perhaps finally, understood.

He delivered his last few papers, returned to the village shop and drew the object to the attention of Mr Snipe, the shopkeeper, for the object was now clearly visible from a distance in the growing light. Mr Snipe, a cautious man by nature, made a couple of ‘phone calls to those in the village who he thought would already be awake at such an hour, and an impromptu meeting was arranged on the green between the chosen few, since, as Mr Snipe was wont to comment, there was safety in numbers, especially it seemed to him when it came to such matters as strange objects appearing suddenly overnight on village greens. Before long, as is the way with these things, especially in a small and tight-knit community such as Middlewapping, a fairly sizable gathering had taken place around the object. There present was Captain Caruthers, a retired commercial sea-captain who had also seen national service in the navy and had spent almost his entire life sailing the worlds’ oceans. He seldom slept for more than four or five hours a night and he would regale anyone prepared to listen with his tales of adventure upon the high seas. Also present was Ron, who ran the local garage and considered himself something of a wag, who happened to be driving to work early when he noticed the untimely congregation. Daphne Pouffe from number 6, The Green, was there also. She came from a moneyed background, her husband being recently deceased, and she was never far from the scene when it came to village matters. Young Will Tucker was there, of course, as were various other local inhabitants, including Reginald Pratt from number 12, who was awake anyway tending to his collection of cacti and succulents before he ate his breakfast.

Initially nobody knew what to say, and the assembled party stood for a few moments a safe distance away from the object, observing without comment. What was clear to everyone was that this was a rock, dark, almost black in colour with a metallic sheen from its’ smoother surfaces, but with a generally pitted and rough appearance. It lay within a hole, the outer extremities of which reached to both edges of the carefully mown batting crease. Captain Caruthers was the first to break the contemplative silence.

‘Must be a meteorite; see that?’, he said, pointing in the general direction of the hole in which the rock was situated, ‘impact crater, saw a similar thing once in India, bally thing landed on a few natives, took one chaps’ head clean off.’

There was some nodding of heads at this, and the words ‘impact’ and ‘crater’ were generally passed around the group, as if by uttering the words it would all suddenly make sense.

‘But where did it come from?’ said Daphne Pouffe.

‘Off the back of a lorry I would imagine’ said Ron, raising his eyes to the heavens.

This raised a laugh amongst the assembly, partly out of appreciation of the humour but also partly out of relief that they had not made such a silly comment, although they had all been thinking it. They had by now edged closer to the rock, and a few were within touching distance.

‘I advise everyone to be cautious’ said Mr Snipe, ‘it may be hot, or it could be radioactive.’

The word ‘radioactive’ did the rounds of the congregation.

‘Don’t be bloody silly’, said Ron, ‘if it was radioactive we’d all be dead by now. Ooh, look, I’ve gone all radioactive’ he said, in a mocking voice.

More nervous laughter followed, but the seeds of unease had been sown.

‘I think we should first touch the rock indirectly’ said Reginald Pratt ‘by means of a wooden stake or similar. If the stake feels hot to the touch afterwards, then we will know that the rock itself is still hot.’

‘I sat on it for a bit, and I’m okay’, said young Will Tucker

There followed a brief hush and a generally held sense of surprise that young Will Tucker had uttered so many words in one go, but also some envy that he had been the first to touch and indeed sit on the rock. Captain Caruthers also felt that his thunder had been stolen somewhat, since he was about to be the first to test the temperature of the object.

‘Well then’, said Ron, ‘all we have to do is feel Tucker’s backside, and if it feels hot to the touch…’ upon which he sat down on the turf to await further developments.

Although others there present did not unanimously appreciate the humour, the mood of caution had been broken, and to a man and woman each in turn laid their hands upon the rock, feeling its’ smoothness and various textures, after which, since there seemed to be nothing more to be done for the moment, the assembly broke up and went their various ways, talking amongst themselves and each secretly checking for any longer-term effects of radioactivity, although in truth nobody knew what these might be.

‘Put the word out’, said Captain Caruthers, ‘meeting in the village hall, 6pm, decide what to do about the bally thing.’

And so it was that the good folk of Middlewapping had their first encounter with a rock from outer-space, which had in all probability been moving through the void for millions of years at unimaginable speed, before finally slowing down as it burned through the earths’ atmosphere to find its’ resting place upon their village green, on this very important day in the life of a small village.

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Reactions to the new and uninvited addition to the village on that first day were predictably mixed. Although perceptions differed, it was generally agreed that the rock was something like 2-3ft ‘long’, although which dimension was ‘long’ was hard to say, since the rock was somewhat random in shape and multi-faceted. Reginald Pratt announced importantly that he would take it upon himself to survey the meteorite. Thus to this end he emerged from his front door during the course of the morning, armed with tape and clipboard and wearing a working-mans’ jacket with day-glow trim, the better to be observed from a distance. He was also sporting a hard-hat, which he had purchased some months previously for the purpose of clearing out his gutters, to protect against the possibility of loose tiles or other objects falling from the roof; and for protection in the event that he should lose his footing and fall head-first from the ladder onto an unyielding surface below.

By now it was in fact approaching lunchtime, and the spectacle of Reginald Pratt striding purposefully across the village green was observed by Percival, who happened at the time to be sitting in the beer garden of the Dog and Bottle which was the village public house overlooking the Green. He was enjoying a swift half before lunch, his perceptions of the world already becoming comfortably dulled, and his inhibitions diminishing.

‘Look at that’, he observed to nobody in particular. ‘Pratt by name, prat by nature. What the hell’s he got a hard hat on for? What does he think is going to happen; another bloody meteorite is going to land in exactly the same place? May it serve him well if it does, anyhow.’

Nigel, the landlord of the Dog and Bottle, appeared at the door and offered a cautionary word to Percival to mind his language, although he was loath to speak too harshly to the person who was in general his best customer. Percival returned to muttering into his sixth half or to more precisely his third pint, of the pre-lunch session.

Unaware of and in any event quite immune from any such derisory remarks, Reginald Pratt continued on his way to the centre of the cricket field, making notes on his clipboard as he went. He made further notes whilst standing some few paces from the rock, before finally proceeding to the main business of surveying. Quite what was contained within these notes nobody ever discovered, for, having spent a little over an hour taking measurements, he announced importantly to the small crowd which had by now gathered about the rock that along its’ longest edge the meteorite measured precisely

67 centimeters. That seemed to be the extent to which Reginald Pratt was prepared at that time to share his observations, so the small crowd once again dispersed, feeling rather that the whole surveying business was something of a disappointment, and had added little to their understanding of this most extraordinary occurrence.

The nearest that the village ever came to putting a precise time to the arrival of the meteorite was provided by Peter Shortbody, a retired accountant, who lived at number 8, The Green, and who considered himself something of an amateur naturalist. It seemed to those who knew Peter Shortbody that he was more concerned with that which was absent, rather than what was present, what was missing as opposed to what was there. On walks in the country he would comment that he had ‘Not seen any Magpies so far’, or in the town perhaps ‘Not many nuns around today.’ He had in any event been up for most of the previous night attempting to record the barn owl which had taken to roosting in the eaves of number 9 next door, and had used his time whilst waiting, recording equipment at the ready, cataloging and organizing his collection of pine needles. He woke late the next morning, and having been enlightened as to the events of the day, recalled that he may have heard a dull thud at sometime between two and three am, but had assumed that it had been Tizer, his cat, jumping onto the flat roof. Unfortunately his recording equipment had not been running at the time, so this could not be analysed or verified further, but thereafter it was generally assumed that this was indeed the time that the meteorite had landed on terra firma, or as near as anyone would ever know.

At number 9, The Green, where the barn owl currently resided, also lived Pearl and Constance Smyth (which was pronounced as in ‘Smith’ because there was no ‘e’ at the end). These now quite elderly ladies were confirmed spinsters, who filled their long days and evenings creating beautiful tapestries which they would often display in the village hall before selling them to an Italian gentleman who would visit Middlewapping twice every year to buy whatever they had made, or those completed works that had been commissioned by specific clients in continental Europe. Pearl, despite being of gentle and kindly disposition, had never to the best of anyone’s knowledge had a romantic attachment to any man. Constance had had three great loves in her life, all of them fishmongers, and all variously ending in disaster in one way or another. No prodigy ever emerged as a result of these liaisons, however, and so the two ladies settled down in the family home to live out their twilight years in mutual and comfortable companionship. Upon hearing of the events of the day, they immediately began to put the first etchings to a new work, which was to be called ‘The Meteorite’, and which they agreed that they would donate to the village, to hang forever in the village hall above the lectern.

It was of some interest to the villagers as to how the Reverent Godfrey Parchment, (or ‘The God’, as he was known to the local youths) the vicar of Middlewapping, would react to the days’ proceedings. He had not long been ensconced, and saw himself as a ‘modern’ vicar, quite open to new ideas on matters theological. Daphne Pouffe, who, since her husbands’ departure to a better place had taken rather a shine to the much younger vicar, asked whether he thought that this was a sign from God, particularly since June the 10th happened to be the vicars’ birthday. A sign of what she could or would not elaborate, but in any event he would hear none of it, stating that he saw no contradiction between meteorites whizzing about and landing in odd places, and the teachings of Jesus. Any more indeed than he saw a problem arising as regards the reconciliation of the laws of physics, evolution and so on, with the immaculate conception or, for example, the parting of the Red Sea. Nobody quite understood what on earth he was talking about, but then nobody ever quite did.

Keith and Meadow, Meadow being born of second-generation new-age travelers, took particular interest in the new visitor from the heavens. Her parents had lived in a bus which formed part of a new-age commune which had set up quite close to the local common, just outside the village. The rest of the commune had moved on, died or become architects, but Meadow had met Keith, who at the time was working as a farmhand for Old Roger, and the two of them had stayed and moved into the bus. They now had three teenage children, two girls; Tarragon and Rosemary, and a boy called Basil. Their first visit to the meteorite was in fact not until just before dawn of the following morning, whereupon they each in turn laid a flower upon it, sat in loose circle about the stone and sang songs of the earth and the moon, accompanied by Keith on the guitar.

The matter of the landing of the meteorite had been reported to the police by Mr Snipe, and a squad car had turned up from the local town to make a report on the incident. However, since no crime they had ever heard of had been committed they concluded that it was a village matter, albeit a very interesting one, and that, as far as the constabulary was concerned, was the end of the business.

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And so the day of the landing waned, and the time came for the village elders, and others to meet in the village hall and by 6.30 a good many of the good folk of Middlewapping had assembled for the extraordinary meeting. Captain Caruthers had naturally assumed the role of informal chair, also present and forming the impromptu committee were Ron and his wife, Barbara, Mr Snipe, Daphne Pouffe, Reginald Pratt, Peter Shortbody and Godfrey ‘the God’ Parchment. Even Old Roger turned up to watch, and Percival made it in on time for the beginning of the meeting looking somewhat groggy having just slept off the lunchtime session. Emily the butchers’ daughter was there, wearing hardly anything which would properly pass as clothing, and Will Tucker found that as had been the case of late his brain had turned to putty in her presence, and that he had once again lost the power of speech. Godfrey Parchment was holding discourse with some of his young parishioners on the matter of how to reconcile the Out of Africa theory of human evolution with the Garden of Eden story, he explaining that he saw no problem with the garden being situated in Africa. One of the more impudent youths was asking him therefore how come there were apples about, and the discussion was just getting going when Captain Caruthers called the congregation to order.

‘Right’, he began, ‘I’m sure we all know why we are here. This m…’

‘Excuse me, Mr Chairman’ cut in Daphne Pouffe, ‘Before we begin the meeting, I have written a short poem, (modestly nervous laugh) which with your permission I would like to read out.’

‘Erm, well very well’ said the Captain, and the whole assembly groaned inwardly.

‘Oh meteor, oh meteor, fr…’

Ron stifled a laugh rather too loudly, his wife Barbara gave him a sharp dig in the ribs and the Captain shot him a ‘let’s get this over with’ look. Undeterred, (for she was seldom deterred) Daphne commenced the recital again.

‘Oh meteor, oh meteor,

From where thou cometh no one knows.

From far beyond the open sky,

Where ne’er comes rain, and starlight glows’

‘Well, thank you Daphne, I’m sure we all app…’

‘Oh meteor from far away,

Where pain and hurt are never seen.

Your journey long, you speed your way,

And now you land upon our Green’.

There was a seven second silence (Ron was counting) to see if there was a third verse, but none seemed to be forthcoming. Old Roger found that he had tears in his eyes; he being at heart a sentimental soul, the rest of the assembly were staring at the wall, their shoes or the ceiling. The Captain felt it safe to resume.

‘Yes, well, thank you Daphne, now if we may get down to the business in hand, hmm, the thing is, since we now seem to have a meteorite on the village Green’ (‘From wherever it cometh’ said Ron under his breath, which earned him another, somewhat harder dig in the ribs) ‘We have to decide what we do with the bally thing. Seems to me, erm, that we have two choices in the matter; dig it up and move it, or leave it where it is.’

There was much mumbling at this amongst the assembly.

‘Can’t leave it where it is’, said Percival, ‘Frigging thing’s in the middle of the cricket pitch.’

This of course was the nub of the matter. The cricket season was in full swing, and at the forefront of everybody’s mind was the annual cricket match between Middlewapping and Upper Wapping, an important event in the calendar of both villages, and which was scheduled for less than two weeks hence. There was, incidentally, no longer any Lower Wapping, virtually the entire population having been wiped out by the Black Death back in the mists of time, and nobody having gone back. To cancel this match would be unthinkable, and would bring unbearable and lasting shame on the village, the match having been a tradition between the two villages since before anybody there assembled could remember.

‘I think we should proceed with caution’ said Mr Snipe, ‘not rush into any decisions we might later regret.’

‘In any case’, said Barbara ‘let’s not forget the astrological significance of a meteorite landing anywhere, it isn’t the kind of thing that happens every day, is it? People wander about in deserts and so on for days looking for them.’

‘Astronomical.’ said Ron

‘What?’ said Barbara

‘It’s astronomical.’

‘It’s not that big’ said Reginald Pratt ‘My survey has revealed th…’

‘This is all very well,’ interrupted Peter Shortbody, ‘but what about the cricket match?’

And so there it was, spoken of openly and in public for the first time. There was much muttering at this, as if nobody had thought of it before.

‘Then let us consider the options’ said Reginald Pratt. ‘To remove the stone would require a mechanical digger and would cause further and considerable damage to the pitch, not to mention the expense. I estimate that only 50%-60% of the meteorite is actually visible above ground, the total mass I calculate to b… .’

‘Never mind the mass’ said the Captain, ‘let’s try and focus on the business in hand’. He had noted that Reginald had brought his clipboard, which was never a good sign, and he had visions of the meeting dragging on for hours.

‘We’d never get the wicket back in good nick in time for the game.’ said Mr Snipe.

‘Well then let’s move the wicket’ said Peter Shortbody, who despite being rather a tall man was known to the village boys as ‘short-arse’. ‘Ten feet either way should do it.’

‘Never work’ said Percival. ‘Depending which way you moved the wicket, try to drive through mid-off or mid-on, frigging ball would hit the rock square on.’ It was a matter of some irritation to some people in the village and certain other members of the team, that despite what they considered to be his somewhat dubious use of the English language, not to mention his drinking habits, Percival was by far the best batsman in the village, and always batted at number three. There followed half an hour or so of inconclusive discussion upon the why’s and wherefores and relative merits of removing or working around the meteorite, which seemed to be leading nowhere.

‘So why not just leave everything where it is?’ said Barbara, who despite never having raised a cricket bat in her life was always, in fact, a practical person. ‘I mean, you could bowl over the top of it, and it wouldn’t be much in the way when the batters were running about.’

‘If you are referring’, said Ron in his most condescending voice ‘to the batsmen running between the wickets, then…’

‘Then she is absolutely right’ said Nigel the landlord. ‘No one hits the ball straight down the wicket, it would mean that the batsman on strike might need to make a quick detour between the stumps on his first run, but it would be the same for both teams. Middle of the wicket could be the best place for it.’

There was a contemplative hush throughout the hall, which now contained over thirty people, as everybody took time to consider this most unexpected turn in the discussion.

‘We could fill in the crater, make good around the rock, throw some seed down and there she would be.’ Said Mr Snipe.

More silence. Reginald Pratt, who had been making notes on his clipboard throughout the meeting, was the first to speak; ‘I calculate that we would need between one and two cubic metres of additional soil to carry out the repair work.’

‘Worth giving it a go anyway’ said Percival, who found that he now quite liked the rather outlandish idea of a rock in the middle of the wicket, having a well developed appreciation of the unusual, and was in any case aware that valuable drinking time was being used up.

‘Ermm, well then’, said the Captain, ‘unless anybody has anything to add, seems as though we may have the answer. Suggest we all meet up Saturday morning, get the bally work done. Meeting closed, I suppose. Roger old chap, no problem if we take some soil off Lower Field?’

Old Roger, who was still thinking about the poem, said that he had ‘navar heered the loik’, and that no way could he let them have his soil. He proclaimed that he had ‘put years o’ work into tha’ field’, and they could damned well find the soil from somewhere else. Everybody knew, of course, that he would let them have the soil, so no more was or need be said on the subject.

Ron, who was the Team Captain and opening batsman bowled medium pace over the wicket, and despite his manner adored his wife and was feeling very proud that she had come up with the solution. He suggested that the team meet on the field on Sunday morning, since there was no match scheduled for the weekend in order to put the pitch in its altered form through its paces.

‘By the way’ he said ‘reckon Middlewapping is a good name for the village now that it has a whopping great meteorite in the middle’. He at least found this statement funny even if no one else was laughing. The rest of the assembly dispersed, talking in earnest terms amongst themselves about the days’ events.

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And so it was that on the Saturday following the landing of the meteorite, several of the village men took such tools as they had in their various garden sheds and set about the task of filling in the crater around the rock, whilst Old Roger delivered soil from lower field on his tractor and trailer, with, in the end, little complaint.

The meteorite had, as one might expect, become quite the centre of local interest. Word travels fast in the countryside, the local and regional newspapers all sent reporters who took photographs and wrote articles, and even before the first weekend people from the surrounding local towns and villages had begun to arrive in large numbers. The object also attracted much interest in the astronomical fraternity, and the village received visitations from various national organisations, representatives from which would also photograph, survey and discuss this most uncommon event. To certain residents who liked the peace and tranquility of their village this fast became a nuisance. To certain other residents, however, it was a blessing, and presented an unprecedented opportunity. Mr Snipe the shopkeeper had never known business so good, and had to employ extra help to cope with the demand for his goods. Nigel, the landlord of the Dog and Bottle, reported a four-fold increase in his clientele, and seemed to be forever ‘phoning the breweries for extra barrels. He extended his normal bar snacks to include the ‘Meteorite Munch’, which was different each day depending upon which foodstuffs he had most of at the time. Some days it was jacket-potatoes, others it was a steak pie and chips, but whatever were its’ constituent parts it sold like hotcakes.

It was thus with some sense of self-importance that the village men went about the business of making good their cricket square, around which a crowd of onlookers, mostly from outside the village, quickly gathered. Reginald Pratt placed himself in charge of crowd-control.

‘Keep back please, men working.’ Of course he was sporting his day-glow jacket and hard-hat for the occasion and in the end erected a barrier with iron stakes and some rope which he had to borrow from Ron at the garage.

‘Keep clear of the barrier please, men working.’

The work was in fact quickly done, and the meteorite was soon standing up proudly from the patch of bare but level earth, upon which grass seed was sown.

‘Not a bad job, though I say so myself’ said Mr Snipe, and the work crew retired to the Dog and Bottle for a well earned pint of Old Thumper, which Nigel declared would be ‘on the house’. This in itself was a memorable event, since Nigel had something of a reputation for being, shall we say, careful, when it came to matters of money. ‘Toit as a camels’ arse in a thunderstorm’, as Old Roger was wont to say, and nobody

corrected his metaphor as they all knew what he was getting at.

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The next day most of the cricket team assembled on the Green in their cricket-whites to see what could be made of the situation, and to have a bit of a knockabout. Reginald Pratt, who made it into the team as a lower order batsman to support the tail-enders, in view of his uncanny ability to hang on to his wicket although never making very remarkable scores, was keeping a close watch on matters to make sure that nobody strayed onto the newly sown grass. The bowlers quickly got used to bowling over the top of the meteorite, and it caused the batsmen little distraction or trouble. Until, that was, at around 11.30 the sun burst through the cloud-cover, and the suns’ rays reflecting off the shiny surfaces of the dark rock nearly blinded everyone.

‘This will never do’ said Keith, who always opened the batting for the team with Ron ‘we need a blanket.’

A blanket was duly provided by Daphne Pouffe, who was always willing to lend a helping hand. Daphne was watching the proceedings from her front garden which overlooked the Green. The blanket was thrown over the rock thus dulling the effect of the suns’ rays, and the informal session of play could once more continue.

There was only one other incident of note during the morning, when Andy Stipples, who ran the local Garden Centre and was the fastest bowler on the team, forgot himself for a moment and banged one in short. The ball ricocheted off a sharp corner of the rock and caught him clean in the middle of his forehead as he was leaning forward during his follow—though. This rendered him unconscious for a few moments, and he sported a nasty bump on his head for a week afterwards, but there were otherwise no lasting effects from the impact. All in all the team agreed that the session had been a success, and that, provided the opposing team raised no strong objections, and a blanket could be procured approximating to the colour of grass in case the day of the game dawned sunny, the cricket match and other subsequent matches could and should go ahead as scheduled. This was much to the relief of everyone, not just in the team, but throughout the small village community.

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During the week before the game, despite the still greater than usual numbers of visitors to the village, life resumed its normal pattern. Pearl and Constance had already put the first stitches to their new work, Peter Shortbody went out each day in search of birds’ nests and other things of natural interest, (‘Not many wrens’ nests this year’) Percival got drunk most nights although was on sharp warning from Ron to stay sober the night, or preferably two nights, before the game. Godfrey Parchment continued to ponder the ways of science and religion, attempting to find ways in which the two could be forever reconciled and unified, a conundrum which in truth he found endlessly baffling and frustrating. The Village Shop and Public House continued to do good business, and representatives from the team from Upper Wapping, having been invited over for drinks at the Dog and Bottle, declared after a couple of pints of fine ale that they saw no reason to object to the foreign body, which now it seemed would take up its’ permanent place on the cricket pitch, and otherwise life went along in its’ time-honoured and rather more predictable way for the good folk of Middlewapping.

For everybody, that is, except young Will Tucker. He had taken to visiting the meteorite each morning after he had delivered his papers, and in fact would get up half an hour earlier in the mornings, so that he would have more time to sit on the rock in the quiet and semi darkness and contemplate the ways of the world. He thought about his family and friends. He wondered why Percival was always drunk, why Peter Shortbody collected pinecones, what made the sisters get up each morning and make embroideries which they would never see again, what made Godfrey Parchment believe in God, and why he didn’t. Why, in short, do people do what they do? He thought most especially about Emily, which invariably made his stomach turn inside out, and these thoughts would pass through his young mind with no clarity, in no order, and with no conclusion. Next Sunday, the day of the cricket match, he would be seventeen years old.

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And so finally the day of the big game arrived. Daphne, Barbara and some of the other village women rose early to begin making the sandwiches for the cricket teams’ afternoon tea, whilst the men set out the trestle tables, marked out the pitch, organized the scoreboard and so on. Since the day was overcast, it was deemed by the umpires that no blanket would be required, but that one should be kept by in case of a sudden and unexpected change in the weather. The team from Upper Wapping arrived and was given a cup of tea, and at 10.30 in the morning, the game commenced, 20 overs per team, one umpire from each village, with Captain Caruthers umpiring for Middlewapping as he had been since giving up playing the game a few seasons ago. The opponents’ captain won the toss and elected to bat first.

Upper Wapping was reckoned to have a strong team that year, and indeed had won the game between the two villages for the previous three years in succession. The pride of Middlewapping was at stake. The first few overs went quite well for Middlewapping, with Andy Stipples bowling from the scoreboard end, with Nigel bowling leg-spin from the other, and at the tea interval after ten overs Middlewapping had kept the visitors to 60 runs for 4 wickets. The final ten overs, however, were a disaster for the home team. Andy Stipples pulled a muscle in his first over and took no further part in the game, and the Captain had to bring on Mr Snipe from the scoreboard end. Young Will Tucker also took to the field as 12th man, due to a couple of the regular players having gone down with summer colds. He made himself inconspicuous at long leg. Mr Snipe was, shall we say, not a specialist bowler, and the Upper Wapping batsmen hit him all over the ground. At the end of twenty overs the visitors had moved on to 167 runs, quite a formidable total for the local derby.

There then followed the interval for tea and sandwiches. Nigel, who was quite warming to the idea of snappy slogans, suggested they advertise them as ‘Celestial Sandwiches’ or ‘Extraterrestrial Eats’, an idea upon which cold water was quickly poured by the ladies. Young Will Tucker had played some cricket for the school team, but this was a different league altogether, and he was feeling rather nervous at the prospect of batting.

‘Don’t worry, Tucker’ said Ron, ‘you’ll be batting number 11 so you may not have to bat. If you do, chances are we will have lost the game anyway.’

After the interval the visiting team took to the field, and Middlewapping sent in their opening batsmen, Keith and Ron. The innings began well enough, with these two putting on 33 runs before Ron was caught at silly mid on attempting a drive through the covers. This brought on Percival, upon who so much depended, and who started his innings in rather shaky fashion having been dropped at slip on his second ball. He warmed to his task, however, and was soon scoring steadily. The problem was that he was soon running out of batting partners, Peter Shortbody was distracted by a Peregrine Falcon and bowled middle-stump on his first delivery, and Keith eventually fell to an out-swinger having scored a disappointing 20 runs. Sam, the village butcher and father to Emily, who was ever one of the more enthusiastic members of the team, put on fifteen runs before he was caught at first slip. By the ten-over tea interval, the home team had scored 73 runs for the loss of 6 wickets.

‘Ninety five to win with four wickets in hand’ said Ron, ‘It’s not looking good, you have to stay out there Percy.’

‘Percival if you don’t mind’ he said. ‘They’ve got a strong bowling line-up, can’t see us doing it Captain.’

After tea things began badly for the batsmen, losing another wicket in the second over. Even the stalwart Reginald Pratt gave his wicket up cheaply. Percival, however, was getting hacked off with his team being so roundly defeated, and knew that he had to start playing some risky shots if they were to stand any chance. He took the bowlers on at every opportunity, and reached his 50 in the 15th over, to warm applause from the crowd. At the start of the final over, nine wickets had fallen and the scoreboard was standing at 152. Sixteen runs were needed to win off the last six balls, and Percival had strike. First ball he hit though mid-wicket for two, second ball he hit to the long-on boundary for four, but on the third delivery he miss-timed his shot and they had to settle for a quick single. This put Donald Saunders from the estate on strike with three balls to go and eight runs needed. Donald could ‘bowl a bit’, and indeed had taken three wickets that day, but he batted at number ten, batting not being his forte. He played an extraordinary hook shot over fine leg which went skyward but fortunately there was no fielder in position and the ball trickled over the boundary for another four runs. Two balls to go, just five runs needed for victory, and the home supporters in the crowd were in a state of silent anticipation. The next delivery he swung wildly at a full toss which removed his off-stump from the ground.

Percival hung his head, the home crowd groaned, the away supporters cheered wildly, and Young Will Tucker, who had been watching proceedings with even more interest than most hoping (praying even) that he would not be called upon to take the field, walked to the middle of the pitch as if to his doom. One ball remaining, four runs were needed to draw the game, only a boundary would do it. He was on strike facing their fastest and best bowler who had been kept in reserve for the last over to knock over the tail-enders, and the situation looked hopeless.

As he walked to the wicket, Will Tucker tried to reassure himself. Nothing was expected of him, nobody would blame him if he was out on his first ball, messed the whole thing up. After all, he was only there by default. He was at the crease now and just about to take guard when he saw her. Emily was standing on the boundary, somewhat away from the main crowd around the scoreboard. She was looking straight at him, her head cocked to one side in a quizzical, enquiring kind of posture, as if to say:’Well… ?’ His legs turned to jelly and his stomach was doing summersaults, he thought he might actually be sick. He paced the wicket, pretending to knock flat some divots with his bat, all the while wishing that the earth would swallow him up. His eye caught the rock, which looked so different in the light of day with so many people around; he was used to having it to himself in the cool light of the early morning. Still, it was the same rock, and he still felt the connection, somehow. It was so ‘permanent’ and strong. For all he knew it may have been around in one form or another long before the first molecules of life had begun to join together on this earth, and would be around when everything was over. Suddenly nothing really seemed so important any more. He could fold, what the hell.

He could fold, or he could stand.

It seemed to him at that moment that the last seventeen years of his life had been building up to this; that this was the moment when he could become a man. He took guard, his legs had regained their strength now, and he was strangely calm. As the bowler began his run-up, Will Tucker looked for one last time at the meteorite, and as the ball left the bowlers hand two words came into his head from nowhere. Two words which he had never thought or uttered before but which nevertheless came searing into his consciousness and reverberated around his skull:

‘For Emily’

He eyed the ball, swung his bat and closed his eyes. Every muscle, sinew, every part of his body, energy and soul were concentrated and focused into that one movement, and from some far off place he heard the crack of willow against leather.

When he opened his eyes, as it seemed to him some moments later, the crowd was looking skyward. His eyes followed, and there was the ball, following its now predetermined and inevitable trajectory, reaching the top of its arc and heading back to earth. There was a fielder running around the boundary to intercept the ball as it landed, but he arrived a second too late, and the ball thumped to earth a few inches over the boundary rope. Six runs. There was stunned silence for a few seconds in the crowd. Ron clapped his hands once, twice, and on the third time the crowd erupted into a frenzy of cheering, clapping and shouting. Will Tucker had ceased to think. He walked in a dream along the pitch and stepped onto the rock, his rock, and held his bat aloft as a salute to the crowd.

‘Hell, that was a good shot’ said Percival to himself, who was still standing and now leaning on his bat at the other wicket staring dumbfounded towards the boundary where the ball had landed. ‘Bloody good shot’. The crowd was on the pitch by now, the Middlewapping team embracing each other, Ron hugged Barbara.

‘Better look out tonight, baby’, he said. She grinned and slapped him around the face.

‘Well Jesus Christ, would you believe that’ said Godfrey Parchment, ‘Oops, sorry Lord, forgot myself for a minute there, heat of the moment, you understand. Oh dear…’

The two Captains shook hands, and then shook hands with the umpires.

‘That was bally close’, said Captain Caruthers to Ron, ‘Nearly having kittens there, young Tucker did alright in the end.’

And yes, young Tucker had done alright in the end. The teams retired to the Dog and Bottle.

‘Drinks all ‘round’ said Nigel, ‘Only one, mind.’

‘See’, said Old Roger, ‘toit as a duck’s arse in a snowstorm.’

Percival won the Man of the Match award for his undefeated eighty five runs, his personal best and in fact the highest individual not-out score recorded for the derby.

And so, the all-important cricket match was over, and life in the village could resume its comfortable normality. Peter Shortbody spent the next few days in search of the Peregrine Falcon, Pearl and Constance were making good progress with the tapestry, and everybody agreed that Daphne Pouffe was spending more time at the Vicarage than was quite proper. Mr Snipe continued to report good business, and Reginald Pratt, who had recently discovered the internet, was carrying out in-depth research into meteorites; their origins and makeup.

Will Tucker gave up his paper round soon after his seventeenth birthday, but still got up sometimes in the early morning to go and sit on the meteorite, especially if he had particular matters on his still young mind. Sometimes he would relive the first moments of his manhood, remember the crowds in the quiet of the morning, and Emily, standing on the boundary, looking at him as if to say ‘Well… ?’

Chapter 2

Bovine Business

The houses which nowadays constituted the heart of the village of Middlewapping formed an’ L’ shape around two sides of the village Green and cricket pitch. Although some of the houses dated back to the 16th century, and no house which bore the name of ‘The Green’ was younger than three hundred years old, there existed both written and archeological evidence that the village itself was much older.

Almost without exception the houses had been built in the classic style of the time, with exposed, black-painted timber beams forming the framework, within which were sections of white-painted, plastered wall, and all had slate or ceramic-tiled roofs. The houses were listed, and thus the residents were in fact not permitted to alter the external appearance of their properties in any way. Despite the uniformity of building style, however, no two houses were the same either in height, width or depth, and the overall effect was of a classic old English village, which was in fact much photographed and used for calendars, book covers and so on.

The only exception to the general style of building was the house of Daphne Pouffe, which was by some way the largest house on the Green, and which had been built of brick. Most of the houses had small front gardens with low picket-fences, the garden gates of which lead directly onto the road which served them, although in truth this was little more than a dirt track. Most were detached, there being on average no more than a few feet separating the properties, whilst numbers 7, 8 and 9 formed a short terrace, but all had originally been built to house farm workers, blacksmiths, wheelwrights and other craftsmen who served the old Manor House in its heyday. The Manor House was located in a slightly elevated position some half a mile distant. Also situated within the ‘L’ were the village shop, which had been converted from a private residence some decades earlier and now acted as both newsagent and general store, and where the proprietor, Mr Snipe, supplied basic provisions such as bread, vegetables and so on, and the Dog and Bottle public house, from whence the landlord Nigel and his wife Susan provided alcoholic and other refreshment for the good people of the village.

On the third side of the rectangular Green was the main road which served the village of Middlewapping and Upper Wapping, which were in fact some three miles apart, and other isolated villages along its’ length, the nearest town being some 5 miles distant. Beyond the nucleus of the village of Middlewapping stood a few randomly positioned houses, but in essence the land was agricultural, and from the back-facing windows of the houses the residents enjoyed views over open fields to the woods and heath beyond, and eventually onto open moorland. Across the main road and offset from the village Green was what was know in the village as the estate. This consisted of some eighty houses and a few shops and had been built in the 1970’s on land which had been sold by the Manor House to developers when an injection of cash had been urgently required by the Lord of the Manor. On the fourth side of the rectangular village Green stood the small village hall and church, which itself dated back to the late 1500’s, and the much newer Vicarage, wherein currently resided The Reverend Godfrey Parchment.

On this Saturday in late-summer, the good Reverend was indeed in residence, and also present on that morning were other members of the unofficial but generally recognized village committee, who’s responsibility it was to oversee village matters and finances, organize functions, and in general act as a forum for the airing of opinions and ideas within the small community. On this day they had assembled for the specific purpose of organising the annual harvest festival, in which garden produce was displayed and judged in the village hall, goods were sold, games and competitions were organized on the Green and so on, any proceeds from which were put into the village fund. The event was in fact shared with four other small local villages, the venue being changed each year so that every village took turns in organising, hosting and thus benefitting from the day. The core of the committee consisted of Mr Snipe, who was acting Head-of-Committee that year, Godfrey Parchment, Captain Caruthers, Daphne Pouffe, Reginald Pratt, Peter Shortbody, Ron and Barbara who ran the local garage, and Sam ‘The Cleaver’ Cleves, the village butcher who lived above the butchers’ shop on the estate.

‘So’, Mr Snipe was saying ‘Are you okay to organize the fruit and vegetable competition as usual Daphne?’ Daphne had taken on this role in with characteristic enthusiasm for the last fifteen or so years whenever it came to the turn of Middlewapping, and also acted as one of the panel of three judges.

‘Well yes of course’ said Daphne, ‘I was thinking this year that we could actually judge the entries not just on size, but also on taste.’

‘How would that work with potatoes?’ said the Captain ‘Have to cook ’em before you tasted them.’

‘Well of course there would have to be exceptions.’ said Daphne, rather tersely.

‘Didn’t see any radishes being judged last year.’ put in Peter Shortbody.

‘I also think that we should go over to the metric system for weighing’ began Reginald, ‘I would be happy to provide conversion tables if that wou…’

Just then there came a loud knocking at the vicarage door, Godfrey said ‘Excuse me a moment.’ and a few minutes later Old Roger, who farmed the land around the village as a tenant farmer, entered the room in a state of some agitation.

‘It appears’ began the Reverend ‘tha…’

‘There be ‘ole in Jacobs Field what shou’n be thar, an she ‘as a cow in ‘er.’

Old Roger spoke with a heavily rural accent, and it was at times necessary for somebody present to translate for the benefit of those others assembled.

‘Now settle down, old chap’ said the Captain. ‘Are you saying that there is a hole in your field with, errrm, a cow in it?’

‘She wern’ thar yesserday.’ said Roger.

‘What wasn’t there yesterday?’ said Peter Shortbody, who was taking a particular interest in the way the conversation was going ‘The cow or the hole?’

‘The ‘oooole’ said Old Roger, becoming ever more agitated.

‘Let me get this straight, just so that we all understand’ said Reginald Pratt, who was a stickler for detail and accuracy. ‘Yesterday there was a cow, but no hole, and today there is also a hole. The cow is still there, but it is now in the hole which was not, until today, that is.’

‘Darn near fell in ‘er missen.’ said Old Roger

‘How big’s the hole?’ said Sam Cleaves

‘About the size of a cow, I would think.’ said Ron.

‘It be bigger ‘n cow’ said Old Roger ‘Otherwise ‘er would’n a’ fallen in.’

‘About horse-sized, then?’ said Ron.

‘Their bain’ no ‘orse in ‘er. I bain’ got no ‘orse anyways.’

He had as always failed to grasp the subtle humour of Ron, who was ever ready with what he regarded as a witty riposte.

‘Well, I don’t think we are going to get much further with this until we take a look at the blighter’ said the Captain. ‘Better get over there; reconvene tomorrow, what do you say, Snipe?’

‘4 pm tomorrow then?’ said Mr Snipe ‘before Evensong. Is that okay with you Vicar?’

And with that, the assembled party donned coats and hats and took their places as comfortably as possible on the back of Old Rogers’ trailer which he had parked in the lane outside the vicarage. They did a circuit of the village green to pick up Wellington boots from their respective houses, as there had been an uncommon amount of rainfall over the past week, and conditions were soggy underfoot, and were thence transported the half-mile or so to Jacobs Field, where Old Roger kept his small herd of milking cows.

The tractor and trailer pulled up at the field gate, and the party entered through the kissing-gate, as this happened to be on the route of the public footpath. Nothing was obviously amiss on first glance, save that the herd of twenty or so Frisians was assembled in a tight group in one corner of the field.

‘She be over thar.’ said Old Roger

The party made their way slowly across the wet, muddy field, and Old Roger pushed a way through the cattle, Peter Shortbody hanging back a little as he was not naturally a country dweller, and despite having a keen interest in all things natural had an irrational fear of large domestic animals.

What the bovine gathering had been observing, and what was now seen by the human congregation, was a roughly rectangular hole, some 15 feet by 5 feet in dimension, in which stood a cow, with its head some two or three feet below ground.

‘Well I’ll be damned’, said the Captain. ‘How did the blighter get down there.’

‘More to the point’ said Mr Snipe, ‘how did ‘there’ get to be eight feet below the ground? How does a hole appear overnight, which, as Roger has enlightened us, was not there yesterday?’

And of course to this they had no immediate answer. The bottom of the hole consisted of the grass which had formerly taken up its’ rightful place on a level with the rest of the field, with what appeared to be some timber and broken concrete mixed therewith. What constituted the sides of the hole was not immediately obvious, since there was a deal of earth banked up against it. The cow itself was standing on all four legs, with no blood or other apparent sign of injury, in fact looking quite calm about it’s newly acquired subterranean circumstance, merely lowing occasionally between chewing such grass as was available to it.

‘Well here’s a thing’ said the Captain. ‘Never mind for now how the hole got there, how do we get the bally animal out?’

‘We could try putting some rope under her.’ said Sam Cleves.

‘And then what?’ said Nigel ‘how would we pull her out?’

‘I pull from one side and you pull from the udder.’ said Ron, and dissolved in laughter at his own joke. The cow lowed its’ appreciation, but otherwise the party were unmoved.

‘The front bucket of the tractor wouldn’t do it either’ continued Nigel ‘end up with the tractor in there as well.’

‘However we do it we’ll need to knock her out first’ said Sam Cleves. ‘Get Mags over to give her a shot of tranquilizer.’ Mags was the local vet who attended to the herd whenever the need arose.

‘A dead-weight cow would be even worse.’ said Nigel.

There was silence for a few moments while everybody pondered this conundrum.

‘How about if we make her a runway?’ said Barbara

‘What in hells’ blazes are you talking about?’ said Ron, although he knew what she was getting at, and was fairly certain that it would be she out of all of them who would come up with the solution

‘You know a kind of a ramp thing.’ She said.

‘Got it’ said Reginald Pratt. ‘Dig a sloping trench from ground level to the level