Rough Music by Robin Blake

Author:Robin Blake [Robin Blake]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Severn House Publishers
Published: 2018-11-05T16:00:00+00:00

SEVENTEEN

In the early morning iron-grey cloud bulged under the heavens, delivering bursts of drenching rain from time to time and thunderous rumblings. The storm, however, was passing by breakfast time, when there was again weak sunshine on the gleaming soaked ground.

I was passing through the hall as there came a knock on the door, and I opened. Jasper Johnson and Frederick Oldroyd stood there expectantly.

‘Well, Mr Cragg?’ said Oldroyd. ‘Ready for the fray are you?’

I had not expected them so early.

‘Come in, gentlemen, and sit yourselves down. Give me five minutes and I’ll be ready.’

In that time I changed into an old pair of breeches and riding boots, and so went out with them.

We found a crowd of people around the bridge, and at the heart of them, closest to the bridge itself, were a mob of young men in shirtsleeves and strong nailed boots. I noticed that these men had some sort of scarf tied around their forehead or upper arms, coloured either red or blue. The red scarves were predominant on the Old Accrington side and the blue on the New side.

We pushed through the crowd until we reached a triangular podium fenced by shepherd’s hurdles and placed exactly on the shallow summit of the bridge. This we mounted as the players and their supporters milled around, laughing, pushing each other, eating a last slice of pie or draining a mug of ale, then bending and stretching in readiness for the fray. Johnson put his fingers to his mouth and emitted a piercing whistle.

Only now did the teams’ supporters withdraw to the edges of the mob, and the men that would play lined up in ranks with their arms around each other’s shoulders, waiting for the off. There must have been thirty or forty men on each side. Then Oldroyd handed me the ball, a rough globe about a foot across, consisting of an air-filled bladder in a casing of roughly tanned but firmly sewn patches of cowhide.

‘What do I do?’ I asked.

‘You say a few words,’ said Johnson, ‘then wait while the two sides mingle together to give them equal chances at the throw-up. Then simply do it – throw the ball up as high as you can and set the game afoot.’

Again Johnson whistled and the restive crowd fell silent. I looked around, seeing a number of faces that I recognized, including the Stirk brothers, who were wearing the red of Old Accrington. I cleared my throat and spoke to them as loudly as I could.

‘I have been told there are two rules,’ I said. ‘Nobody must attempt murder, and the game is won by the team whose man puts the ball into Lady May’s Hole.’

There were a few ribald cries and cackles of laughter. I went on.

‘I suppose this game has been played since time began, so the lady must be quite used to the indignity by now.’

This drew a raucous cheer from the players. I signalled to Oldroyd, who whistled a third time, and

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