T. Middleton (Captain) .... b. D. Evans .... 0

A yorker! A bloody yorker! Of all the balls to receive first up - a bloody yorker.

A bouncer, yes. He had been set for a bouncer. That was the logical ball. Dai Evans usually opened his vast repertoire of fast bowling with a bouncer. Everyone knew that. Everyone. No-one more so than Tim Middleton who had spent seven seasons mentally digesting facts about the bowling actions, ploys and dangers of the Pwllgwaelod attack. It was a fluke ball. Yes, Tim consoled himself once more, it had been a fluke ball and the embarrassment of being out first ball was put down to the fact that the bowler had not consciously planned such a delivery. Tim had been unlucky.

He had to bury that image. He had to forget it. That awful moment when he had lost sight of the ball as it flew under his bat and then the awful sight of the middle stump landing behind the keeper's head. Blown away like a matchstick in the wind. He was frozen to the spot. Lawler had smirked from the other side. Cocky bastard. He was probably over the moon. But how would he have coped with such a ball?

Thinking of Lawler's supercilious grin had reminded Tim about the phone. Why hadn't Lawler returned his call? He looked anxiously at the clock. 4:57. How he hated digital clocks. He had phoned the message through nearly an hour ago and he knew that Lawler always returned home early on a Friday. But, then again, being an architect, Lawler could do what the hell he liked. Tim jealously contemplated the actual usefulness of architects and immediately drew the conclusion that they were all bastards. What do they actually do anyway? Ponce about drawing plans and dreaming up grandiose schemes involving the spending of other people's money. 'Bunch of crooks', that's how his cousin Alan put it. Poor old sod. Cousin Alan had tried for years, without success, to sue an architect who had been used in the redesign of his kitchen and dining room. The architect, who had a particularly stupid name that Tim failed to recollect at this moment, had been blamed by Alan for contracting a local building firm to do the work. The building firm went into voluntary liquidation soon after, leaving cousin Alan with an overdraft, two holes in his ceiling and a pile of drying cement outside his back door.

Tim glanced, once again, at the phone, willing it to ring. It did not. Where the hell was he?

If only Lawler would phone, Tim would be free to go. Perhaps he'll phone Bill Nicholson later and see if he's heard. Yes. With the Festival Match tomorrow, it would be prudent to ring the vice-captain in any case.

Tim put his jacket on and had a final stare at the phone. His eyes shifted furtively to the clock. 5:11. He sighed. Resigned to the fact that Lawler was not going to call. He saw that smug, greedy grin in his mind once more just after his middle stump had landed.

A yorker ... of all the balls to receive first up ... A bloody yorker!

The water fell down his shoulders like a warm cloak. His body ached and his temples throbbed. The warmth of the shower began to calm him slowly. He reached out for the soap and began to rub it vigorously across his chest.

He suddenly felt a sharp sense of anger filling his mind. Discovering that statement under the car's front seat had come as quite a shock. How on earth could any woman spend so much in one day! Bitch. Julia not only held a second class degree in history, she also held a first class one in shopping. He would have to tell her. He would have to make it plain that, even on two salaries, Julia's ambition to buy every single outfit in 'Marks & Spencer' before Christmas could be neither tolerated nor afforded. This time she would have to listen.

Although Julia showed little in the way of self-restraint when it came to controlling a bank balance, she was still, he considered, a remarkably capable woman. A perfect partner in many ways - for him at least.

As he turned the shower off and stepped slowly out of the cubicle, he heard his wife shout something from downstairs. He reached for the towel and held it against his dripping skin. He listened again.

"Are you out yet?"

What a ridiculous question. What a pointless question. "Yes" he answered, annoyed by his own meekness.

"Don't forget to ring your cricket man up" she barked as he opened the door of the bathroom, "Angus and Jane will be here soon."

Christopher Lawler padded across the landing floor and into the bedroom. He heard his wife step lightly up the staircase. He draped a shirt across his shoulders and started the dreaded procedure of dressing for dinner.

"Are you going to ring him?" Julia inquired, facing her husband for the first time that day, "he's rather insistent, isn't he?"

"Who?"

"Your cricket pal."

Lawler hated that phrase. Why didn't she shut up? "Oh he can wait," he said as he selected a tie, "it'll be about the Festival Match."

"Oh God, I suppose that means another day away. Why don't you play golf, I'd see more of you."

"Because I don't like golf."

"Angus plays golf. He enjoys it."

"Angus also enjoys amateur dramatics, but I don't intend joining him and dressing up as Widow Twanky every Christmas just to suit you."

Julia sniffed and thought it politic to ignore the comment. As she considered her appearance once more in the full-length mirror, her eyes fell upon Christopher's cricket bat, which was propped up neatly against the terracotta wall like some holy relic.

"Chris, don't leave that thing there."

"It's not a thing - it's a bat. A wooden bat."

"Put it in the shed then. We don't want it here."

Chris, who was now fully dressed, picked up the bat and without a word, he sauntered downstairs. He wondered for a moment if David Gower had ever experienced such problems. Whether he had had to put up with women telling him where to put his bat or suggesting where he should shove his jockstrap. He doubted it. He could've probably put them where he liked. A pad on the fridge perhaps, a sun- hat on the stair, even a box on the mantelpiece, if it suited him.

While considering such weighty matters at the foot of his staircase, Chris practised an imaginary cut shot through the covers and imagined that he too could cut like the England ex-captain. He tried another one. This time, however, the fantasy was spoiled as the reproduction Van Gogh on the wall received a thick edge and fell to the floor.

"Chris! What the hell was that?"

"Don't worry - no damage."

He had a half century in his mind for tomorrow. He was certainly in form this season: 25, 55, 27, 40 and a decent 33 on that dreadful wicket last week.

As he picked up and put back the painting he had always hated and begged Julia not to buy in the first place, he suddenly remembered the statement. He would have to tell her. She must be told. This time she would have to listen.

"Apparently it's the same team as last week. Old Giffo wants one last game and there's no-one to replace him yet anyway ... From what Middleton said Bracewell seems to be the twelfth man ... Yes I know ... yes ... Alright then, David ... Yes. Bye."

Bill Nicholson replaced the receiver firmly and pushed away the leather bound account book that was lying open in front of him. How was he expected to do his weekly accounts with David Watson et al phoning him every minute asking daft, unimportant questions about tomorrow's match? Why couldn't they leave him be? After all, he was just the vice-captain and it was Middleton's job to advise, dictate and inform.

As he pulled out a cigarette from the packet that had somehow fallen between the chair and its cushion, Bill suddenly realised that he had always hated the Festival Match. It had become a somewhat predictable grudge match between north and south and, because this was Pembrokeshire, between Welsh speaker and non-Welsh speaker. That in itself wouldn't be so bad, if only Middleton wouldn't see the annual match as some kind of holy war against the infidel. Given the choice he would quite happily withdraw his services, but the plain fact of the matter was that there was no-one to take his place. Besides, as vice-captain, he had to be there, if only to counteract the Churchillian tones of Tim Middleton.

He enjoyed most games as a rule. Initially, he had only joined Hodgeston Cricket Club because Mike Turner had persuaded him to on account that Bill had represented his College for two years. College - that seemed a lifetime ago.

After College, Bill had become a buyer for 'Liberty Bell' books for twelve years, before he set up on his own, establishing a book shop in Tenby. He had joined Hodgeston Cricket Club in his early thirties, some fifteen years ago. Then, he reflected, the team boasted a very good side. With Masterton and young Thomas bursting in like imitations of Snow and Willis, and with Jack Levit knocking the ball all over the field. Bill had relished the game every week. Things were certainly different now. While his shop had grown in stature, the team had declined rapidly. This year they had only twice experienced the sweet taste of victory.

The team needed younger players like Bracewell, Wallace and Tucker, who all too often were sidelined by a captain who put his faith in an unchanged side week after week. One day, Bill considered, Middleton would have to accept change or offer his resignation. As he leaned back in his chair, he knew that Middleton was unlikely to do either.

All in all, it had been a dreadful season for David Watson. It was a fact, which was being brought home to him as he took a cursory look at the recent bookings listed in the guests' register of the Harry Tudor Hotel. There had been no-one since that German couple had stayed a couple of nights last week. He didn't feel he could include the guest who didn't pay for either the bed or the breakfast this Thursday. He had, he remembered with some shame, been rather hard on poor Lucy, who he knew was at fault. Imagine not suspecting such an obviously made-up name! He blamed the girl's lack of education for failing to recognise that Barnaby Rudge was a novel by Charles Dickens and not the likely name for a Liverpool salesman on his way to a conference in Cork.

Still, at least there was Hugh Jones' stag party next Friday and that should keep the 'good ship' Harry Tudor afloat for a while yet. He would have to give him a ring later to confirm numbers and final details.

It had all been different this time last year. Then he was Councillor David Watson and his hotel was doing a roaring trade. He was a man of standing and a man of influence. He was giving advice on building projects, investment schemes and on how to influence other local politicians. Nowadays, no-one would ask his advice on which television programme they should watch. All the respect had gone and all the friends had evaporated like a puddle in the sunshine. If only Donald hadn't booked those strippers. If only Donald hadn't felt a need to express his rampant libido. If only he hadn't been so stupid, so carefree. If only ...

He took a momentary look at the photograph of himself as a younger man shaking hands with Geoff Boycott. The picture, taken at a charity match in 1978, had always been treated by Watson with deserved reverence and there it hung, pride of place, in the main lobby. The photograph reminded him that at least there was the Festival Match tomorrow. Life had some meaning, after all. He was determined to make an impression there by scoring some well-needed runs. His scores this season had been dire, with only one half century. He would have to do better tomorrow.

"Goodbye, Mr Watson." The voice belonged to June, the part-time receptionist.

"Oh, bye, June."

"I forgot to say that a Mr Jones phoned earlier."

"Yes?"

"The stag do's off. Bride had cold feet, or something."

Watson could only just contain his anger. "Bloody marvellous. Thanks, June," he said, in a voice that expressed no sign of gratitude.

She waltzed out through the lobby door and a look of hatred followed her out. If things didn't change soon, he would be forced to make one or two of his staff redundant and that dozy cow would be the first to go, he thought. Sighing heavily, he closed the book in front of him.

All in all, it had not been a good season for David Watson.

Tony Gates licked his lips as he opened the bottle of cheap white wine. He had bought the bottle, which had an appealing picture of an idyllic French farm slapped across its label, at the local supermarket in readiness for tonight. He was quite certain that the dry French wine would perfectly compliment the hake and chips that they had just devoured. After offering little resistance, the cork was prised out and he poured the urine-like liquid into two rather dusty wine glasses. He hoped too, that Julie would offer a similar lack of resistance later on. One of the glasses had a chip on the side but they represented the sum total of Tony's glassware collection.

Grabbing both glasses firmly, Tony left the tatty kitchen and entered the even tattier lounge. Julie sat there, perched on the sofa like a crow with haemorrhoids. She had been thinking about the colour of the carpet - was it really meant to be off-white or was it was just plain dirty? Tony stood in front of her and held out the drinks in a triumphant manner: "It's only plonk I'm afraid. Nothing special."

"Oh, it looks good," she uttered, with a little more enthusiasm than she actually felt.

With a sudden move towards chivalry, Tony offered his companion the glass without the chipped lip.

"Get your laughing gear round that," he said, moving the greasy chip-paper wrappers from table to floor, to allow him sufficient room for his glass.

"Thanks." She gently tugged at the hem of her skirt nervously as she leaned back slightly into the uncomfortable sofa. He sat next to her and smiled.

"Did you enjoy the food?"

"Oh, yes," she gurgled.

"Fair play, you always get a good meal from 'The Hippy Chippy'. He's quite cheap too."

He's right there, she thought. A right cheapskate, I've ended up with here. He wasn't exactly flash with the cash. They didn't even get a cab. Still, she quite liked his bouncy manner and polite charm. She might even want to see him again.

Tony put his long fingers on her rather chubby right thigh and began to caress it. Although Tony imagined that he was making a move Valentino would have been proud of, it had, in fact, all the sexual appeal of a baker kneading his dough. He sensed her frigidity and quickly put it down to a lack of alcohol. "Drink up, I've got a whole bottle," he said, in the manner of a man who had a cellar full.

She sipped from her glass and was suddenly aware of the stench of vinegar that pervaded the room. His head came closer to hers as he attempted a kiss to her cheek. She, in turn, quickly spied an awful landscape picture that was hanging lopsided on the wall. She used this to alter the direction of the proceedings.

"That's a nice painting," she said with all the enthusiasm she could muster.

Tony glanced at the dreadful picture and said flatly, "Yeah, I painted that."

"You didn't. You're joking."

"Yes, I am joking actually. It came with the flat. I hate it!"

"Yes. I suppose it is horrible."

Tony made another move as she uttered the last syllable. He brushed against her lips and as he did so, put his right arm across her left shoulder. With his left arm tucked neatly around her back, he pressed against her. Unfortunately, his ardour was not reciprocated and this was clearly demonstrated when Julie pushed against his shoulders. She did it gently at first and then when this failed, made her effort more forceful. She won the struggle when, using a push equivalent to that of a Russian shot-putter, she forced him off the sofa in one fluent action. He fell awkwardly onto the table, his arm crashing against the top. There was a sickening crack, followed by a heart-wrenching groan from Tony and a repressed yelp from Julie.

Tony writhed in pain, as he tried to nurse his right arm with his left. Tears filled his eyes as the pain shot through his whole body.

"Tony, are you alright?" She asked, idiotically.

His teeth ground together as he struggled to speak. He was close to passing out. "I think," he said at last, "I think I've broken my arm."

The Festival Match tomorrow would be the fortieth such match in fifty-two years. It was something of a minor miracle that only twelve had ever been cancelled and this was largely due to the mild maritime Pembrokeshire weather. The only exception had been the 1955 match which was promptly abandoned after a pitch invasion by a herd of cows destroyed the square and deposited enough manure to re-fertilise a small African nation.

The annual fixture between Hodgeston and Pwllgwaelod Cricket Clubs had been started by Sir John Williams (a passionate cricket supporter who owned great chunks of Pembrokeshire, which included the diverse parishes of Pwllgwaelod and Hodgeston) as part of the local Festival of Britain celebrations following the Second World War. Sir John acted as chief benefactor, sponsor and on occasions, match umpire.

The great traditions of the Festival Match fascinated Arthur Milns, who was re-reading its history through the scorecard books of past games in his study. He felt strongly that Sir John's vision was being kept alive by his own personal interest in the chronicle of the match. He diligently noted the fluctuating fortunes of both teams: highest and lowest scores, batting and bowling averages and the names of all the personnel involved throughout the last fifty-two years. He even had pie-charts and graphs drawn up and displayed in his study to show the changing fortunes of the event. He considered himself the model of a local historian, whereas others merely perceived him to be the most boring man west of Carmarthen.

He also enjoyed the unique moments that the match had thrown up from time to time. He giggled to himself as he remembered that wonderful incident ten years ago when the angry and frustrated wife of Pwllgwaelod's opening batsman had driven her car onto the pitch in a fit of rage. She parked it just short of where the unfortunate man was standing, waiting to receive the first ball. She flew out of the car and demanded that he choose between cricket and her. Thankfully, he chose cricket and the game continued.

Unfortunately, Arthur Milns' great tome on the history of the Festival Match, which had the uninspiring title of 'The Festival Match', did not mention such trivia. Instead it pointed out its background and its singular set of rules.

He shivered slightly as he thought about the importance of tomorrow's game. If Hodgeston should lose, it would be the third time on the trot. Therefore, as specified in Sir John's rule book, the Landsker Cup would be retained by Pwllgwaelod, where it would be permanently housed in their clubhouse. Never before had this happened and, what was worse, the cost of purchasing a new silver cup would have to be met from Hodgeston's funds.

More importantly, perhaps, Hodgeston's pride would sink to an all-time low. Lower in fact, than after last year's debacle. That had indeed been a disaster from start to finish. Scoring only 84 runs had been unforgivable and, modesty aside, if it wasn't for the fact that Milns himself had not struck a decent score, the total would have been a damned sight lower still. Losing by nine wickets had been one of the worst moments Hodgeston Cricket Club had suffered in recent years.

He closed his books quietly and placed them back on the shelf. The thought of tomorrow had depressed him slightly and he was no longer in the mood to review better days. Arthur Milns knew that losing tomorrow would be a catastrophe and, perhaps, the final nail in the coffin of the club he had loved for so long.

Suddenly, the door swung open behind him. "Arthur! It's mother!" His wife cried out. "Mother's gone again!"

Old Giffo walked into his garden and promptly broke wind. He grimaced as he plodded down the back path in the direction of his beloved raspberry patch. The bushes that backed onto the garden were heavily netted and the few remaining berries stood out like red stars against a sea of green and brown.

He slowly opened the gate, bending slightly to reach the low rope latch. He grimaced again. His back, which had always been his Achilles' heel, seized slightly and the pain quivered sharply down his spine. Bending down behind the stumps all season had taken its toll, and in many ways he was relieved that tomorrow's match would be his last.

Giffo, or Edward Griffiths (to give him his correct but rarely used title) had been the guardian of the stumps since 1970 when he took over from 'Lucky' Larry Parsons. Parsons was given his ironic nickname after several incidents, which helped speed an end to an otherwise distinguished cricket career. In 1965, for example, he lost six teeth after being hit by a bat and the very next match his nose was broken by an erratically thrown ball in a run out situation. Two years later, he was hospitalised after a particularly vicious Doberman Pincher ran onto the field and attacked the unfortunate man. Being too slow to follow the example of the rest of the team, who had darted to the pavilion for safety, Parsons ended up requiring fifteen stitches in his right buttock and three tetanus injections in his left.

Giffo smiled at these recollections as he bent down to pick a purple berry that had been hiding behind a dying leaf. He farted again and quickly put it down to the Hungarian Ragout that his wife had cooked for his lunch. Irene's greatest mistake was to have discovered the joys of continental cooking so late in life. The cookery classes she attended, under the watchful eye of Elma Spragg (Mrs) had transformed the mild-mannered wicket-keeper's wife. Gone were the days of pie and mash and apple tart. Now it was Italian starters, Moroccan main dishes and East European desserts. The daily assaults on his digestive system were beginning to get him down. How he hated this change. How he hated foreign food. How he hated Elma Spragg (Mrs).

Much as he liked to blame the domineering cookery teacher, he was convinced that it was his wife who was at fault. She had always been a great believer in the adage - 'more is always best'. This doctrine led her to increase the amounts of certain ingredients that were specified in each recipe. Therefore, she would use a teaspoon more ginger, a little more tabasco and double the amount of curry powder. Giffo's only line of defence against the spicy concoctions was to belch, burp or purge.

Why couldn't she have taken up some other interest, like embroidery, or pottery, or line-dancing ...

He shivered slightly as a protest against a cold breeze, which blew across the raspberries, causing the bushes to rustle. His last game ... It seemed sad for a moment; sad and poignant. Sad in the sense that he had not performed well of late. He was certainly not going out on the high he would have wished for. His tired back had not given him the agility required for the job and it was clear for all to see that he was no Jack Russell. His batting, too, had been nothing short of abysmal this season. Arthur Milns, rather irritatingly, had pointed out that his average with the bat this season was the team's worst at 3.50. Perhaps he could show them a thing or two tomorrow ...

"Giffo! Tea's ready!"

His wife's screech which bit through the air made Giffo wince. He began the slow walk back to the house, with all the joy of a condemned man mounting the gallows.

"Don't let it get cold! It's Lamb Madras!"

"Oh, God!" Moaned Giffo, as he let rip yet another fart.

"It's the next turning on the left."

"Righto, boy!"

The taxi slowed appreciably as it prepared itself to take the turning off the main road. In the dusk they had just passed Jameston. Mike Brandon had spent the whole journey using the scenery to prompt recollections of his young life.

Lamphey Church had reminded him of a Harvest service he had witnessed when he was a toddler. His great-aunt Joan had been keen to show off her infant relative to the members of the congregation. He did not recall much about the service, but he did remember that great-uncle Jack had been to the pub earlier and his breath smelled of stale beer. When they passed the turning for Manorbier, he remembered the first visit to the castle and throwing stones into the sea, imagining that they were boulders being propelled from a giant catapult. Happy, innocent days when Mike's family was complete and protected from the rest of the world.

But, whilst he would miss the physical beauty of Pembrokeshire, he wouldn't miss the realities of high unemployment. It was time to move on. Soon he would be at Bristol University and he doubted he would ever return here, save the odd visit to the family farm.

After completing his 'A' levels two years ago, he had taken time-out in order to resit one exam and get some much needed money behind him. In the winter, the only employment opportunity was to help his dad on the farm, but in the summer he worked at Elmtree Leisure Park. This year at Elmtree, he had been promoted from being a mere rides' assistant to being a performer in the Elmtree Pixie Show. True, dressing up as Eric the Elf had its drawbacks, but he enjoyed the company and he needed all the money he could earn to help him through university. Although, Mr Dymcock, the Entertainment's Manager, had offered him the tempting role of Percy the Pixie King in next year's production, Mike hoped that alternative employment might be obtained in Bristol during the summer holidays.

The Elmtree employees and his father aside, Mike would only really miss his cricket pals. But, then again, he had to qualify that by saying that he would only miss Thommo from that particular group. He had just spent the evening in a Pembroke pub watching that wayward friend getting progressively drunker. Poor old Thommo. He hadn't been the same since his wife left him at the start of the season.

"Just tell me where," warned the driver, conscious that his fare was not paying any attention to where they were going.

Mike quickly pulled himself together. "Oh, another 500 yards or so. We're nearly there."

The driver negotiated a sharp double bend with some timidity and then spotted the sign for Upperbrook Farm.

"This it?"

"Yes, just drop me here, thanks."

He cranked up the handbrake and Mike gave him a ten pound note, which represented the nine pounds required and a one pound tip. After a thank you and a cry of "Goodnight!" the taxi sped away back to Pembroke.

Mike began the long walk down the farm track to the house, pausing only momentarily when in the darkness his trouser leg snared on a blackberry bush; reflecting that the berries were beginning to ripen. He wondered whether his father would still be up. The question was soon answered in the affirmative when he spied light from the kitchen spilling out into the yard. Although an early riser on account of his profession, it had long been his father's habit to stay up late with a warm drink or the occasional whiskey. He would sit in the kitchen quietly thinking about nothing in particular, missing the woman who had been the family's heart and soul. It seemed appropriate that he should spend so many long hours of peaceful contemplation in the room most closely associated with her.

Mike opened the door and smiled gently at his father. The farmer's rugged brow relaxed as he returned the greeting. "You're back early. I was just about to go up."

"I was tired. I didn't fancy a late night, not tonight anyway."

"I was thinking about that fence in the lower field. It needs fixing. Fancy giving me a hand with it tomorrow? It's a two-man job, really."

"Dad, I can't tomorrow. It's the Festival Match."

"Oh, yes. Sorry, I'd forgotten."

"I could help Sunday."

"No, don't worry. Bob'll give me a hand."

"Sorry, dad."

"Don't be daft. It's my fault, I'd clean forgotten about the match."

Mike paused at the door, wondering whether to apologise yet again or to make a move upstairs. "I'll go up, then. See you tomorrow."

"Yeah, 'night son."

"'night, dad."

Mike climbed the stairs, conjecturing as to why his father always made him feel guilty and selfish. He didn't mean to of course, it was just ...

In bed, Mike could not settle. For some inexplicable reason, he could not stop thinking about his mother. He missed her.

If Annie were still here the pile of washing-up that Graham Thomas was staring at would not be there. The scene that met his eyes was made up of various sauce stained plates, two saucepans (one containing the remnants of over-cooked potatoes) a grease-ridden frying pan and a profusion of soiled cutlery. Although the sight did not appeal in any sense to Graham, he knew that Annie would be horrified.

He averted his eyes from the abhorrent sight of the sink and panned round to the work units that were littered with take-away boxes, tabloid newspapers and a collection of used tea bags that were mounted like a small hillock on a cracked saucer. Sugar had been spilt next to the sauce smeared electric kettle and two chicken bones, the only remains from a 'Mister Chicken' bargain meal, lay abandoned by the microwave. If Annie were here, all the surfaces would have been clean and all the litter thrown out. This sight would never be tolerated. It had been her routine to wipe the surfaces after each and every tea making operation and a cloth would hardly ever leave her yellow-gloved hands. As it was, Graham had not wiped those once-pristine work surfaces since last week and, as for the washing-up ... No, he didn't want to think about it. He wanted a beer. He wanted another beer.

He walked to the fridge and opened its door with a drunken flourish. A solitary can of lager stood alongside a small block of cheddar cheese, the only other item residing there. Was it really only last week that Graham had been pleasantly surprised by the quantity of goodies that were within? Now the fridge looked barren. He noted the cheese, with its rock-like and bright yellow shell, wasn't looking too fresh. Even he would shy away from using it. Perhaps it would be kinder to give it its last rites tomorrow.

If Annie were here, that salad drawer would be awash with crisp lettuce, rosy tomatoes and a cucumber or two. The remaining shelves would be straining under the great weight of yoghurts (both fruit and natural) milk (both semi-skimmed and full cream) white wine, cheeses (always a wide selection) clotted cream, salad dips, houmous, margarine and mayonnaise. Sadly none of these items were on display.

At least there was the lager. He reached forward and greedily snapped the ring-pull, opening the can with a satisfying crack. He took a sip and then placed the can on the overcrowded work units. His bladder, full with the six pints he sank at 'The Sailor's Rest', told him that a visit to the toilet was imperative. His consumption of alcohol, which had never been modest, had increased since his wife walked out on him after Easter. She had been fed up with his drinking, his moods and his desire to seek out drinking mates, cricket pals or anyone, in fact, in preference to her. He didn't blame her. He couldn't. There was no defence.

As he pushed open the toilet door and tugged aggressively at his flies, Graham noticed, for the first time, that a stench of urine hung menacingly in the air. If Annie were here, that toilet seat would have been so clean, so immaculately hygienic that you could have eaten a sandwich of your choice off it. In addition, there would have been the sweet, sickly smell of an inexpensive air-freshener and blocks of blue loo- freshener metamorphosing the water into a kind of Caribbean lagoon.

His urine poured into the water like an enraged and wayward waterfall, splashing the sides of the bowl and, on occasion, the wall behind the bowl. Upon completion of his task, he pushed down the flush and pulled up his flies. In doing so, he momentarily caught his foreskin between the malicious teeth of the zip. Although the liberal amounts of alcohol in his body anaesthetised the pain to some extent, he still cursed himself for his own incompetence. He gave a short, deep cough and meandered back into the kitchen.

Hodgeston's premier fast bowler was distraught. He felt quite alone. Surveying the mess around him, he felt a deep sense of self-pity burn through his body. Not for the first time today, tears began to well up in his tired, red-rimmed eyes.

If only Annie were here. If only Annie were here now.

John Marsden lay back on his soft pillows and thought of Joyce. Only two hours ago she had lain here with him; wonderful, voluptuous, sexy Joyce. As refined as a high-born lady and as randy as a butcher's dog on heat. She gave him a real sense of being wanted, of being needed. She desired him and he desired her. It was a deep feeling of self-satisfaction.

For no particular reason, John cast his mind back to recall the first time. He had only gone round to collect a book and, with her husband being out, she spent a long time trying in vain to locate the item for him. John had said that it really didn't matter and then she insisted on giving him a drink and a tour of their Lydstep home. After looking at the new patio, the herb garden and the interesting pine shelving in the lounge, she showed him upstairs. It was there that she had pounced. It was there that she had said she was feeling hot and wanted a glass of water. The water was duly brought by an unsuspecting John, who discovered her lying half-naked in the guest bedroom. For a moment he froze but, after gentle encouragement and assurances that her husband was in Haverfordwest and not expected back until early evening, he was soon in an equal state of undress. They made love rather quickly, as John recalled, and he was home in time to see the news.

From there it went on with meetings arranged regularly at John's flat in Freshwater East. Joyce used various excuses to explain her whereabouts to her unsuspecting spouse - bridge evenings, hen nights and, more often than not, the Young Wives Group.

In truth, their meetings had become less exciting and rather mundane of late. That wasn't to say that he didn't enjoy tonight. It was certainly better than a round of golf or a game of scrabble. He smiled broadly and then let his face drop as he considered the situation in greater depth.

Instinctively, he knew that he would have to end things at some time. Soon, the relationship had to end. He would have to explain that, as a teacher, he could not afford to be linked with any scandal. Yes, he would have to finish it and it was imperative to tell her as soon as possible. But when? Usually, John was a great believer in procrastination, but not in this instance. Things were getting out of control. But, when could he tell her? Tomorrow? Yes, tomorrow. No time like the present. Strike while the iron's hot. But, should he tell her before the game or after? It was all a terrible worry.

John slumped further into the warmth of his pillows and pondered his immediate future. What if Peter found out? Would Joyce tell him in a heated moment? She might, it was possible ... After all, who could tell what she might do in an unguarded moment? John didn't know; that much was sure. They met in secret and made love - that was it. They certainly didn't discuss their relationship or the relationships of others. It was just sex.

At length, John decided to think about it again in the morning. Perhaps then, with his head a little clearer, he could consider the whole predicament a little more logically and a little more dispassionately.

He turned over and, with a mental picture of Joyce in his head, he quickly fell asleep.

The cricket ball spun out of his fingers, bounced once and then hit the cat who had been curled up snugly on the bright red duvet.

"Sorry, puss," said Peter Stillman, as the cat fled the bedroom leaving him alone once more.

Where was Joyce? She had been much later than he had expected. She should be home soon. He couldn't understand why exactly, but he found that he often missed his wife when she was out.

Not that he needed Joyce to be his constant companion. He naturally, had his own interests, his own desires that kept him occupied. There was his cricket for a start and then there was his reading. It seemed quite irrelevant that most of that reading seemed to revolve around cricket; its history and its players. But at least he did not sink to the levels of reading the kind of trashy literature that his wife favoured. He turned to check the title of Joyce's latest bedtime read. Its title, 'The Cocktail Waiter', spoke volumes. The first syllable of the word, cocktail, had been written in bold capitals so that anyone particularly short-sighted might presume that the book was a little more racier than it probably was. In any case, its very presence appalled the school teacher.

Cricket aside, Stillman was always very busy with his marking, his assessments and his planning. Teaching, he had decided some time ago, had changed dramatically since he entered the profession in 1977. It was not the Brave New World much promised by vote-hungry politicians, but a territory populated by overworked, stressed-out and highly sceptical people. Many of his old friends, who had anticipated that major changes would not necessarily solve old problems, had left the profession to seek out other opportunities elsewhere. Others clung onto the hope that they might spot the oasis of early retirement appearing on the horizon. The vacuum that remained was filled by a new breed of teacher that was seeping into the profession like a subtle irreversible metamorphosis.

His own headteacher, a man driven by market forces, setting targets and conjuring up grandiose ideas, represented this new breed. Whilst Stillman admired some of the drive and the openness to change, he detested the pressure, the paperwork and the pigeon-holing of children. The philosophy of pushing the many and ignoring the few just to satisfy government statistics, had never really been his cup of tea.

A key turned in the front door lock signalled the return of his wife. Stillman sat bolt upright in bed. He carefully put down the leather cricket ball that he had been spinning from hand to hand, on the bedside table and picked up a biography on Sir Garfield Sobers called 'Go, Gary, Go!'

"Hello!" He called, suddenly remembering that he had finished reading 'Go, Gary, Go!' some two weeks ago. He put it down with a sigh and, glancing across to the bedroom bookcase, his eyes fixed on the car keys he had left there earlier.

He heard the relatively heavy footsteps of his wife mounting the staircase. He could hear her sigh as she clumped across the landing. His heart skipped a beat, knowing, as he did, that she didn't know what he knew. He felt a tingle of excitement like a child who had discovered a wonderful Christmas present in November. He could barely contain himself.

"Oh, what a terrible journey home. The Ridgeway was full of tractors. Terrible," she muttered as she entered the room.

"Oh, dear," he simpered, offering a fragment of undeserved sympathy.

"Terrible," she said once again, as she pulled off her shoes with yet another sigh.

"Did you see Mrs Minton?"

"Who?"

Good. He had her now. "Mrs Minton. I heard she's this year's treasurer."

"Oh ... Mrs Minton!" She said, unable to demonstrate the much needed acting talents that were demanded for such a situation. "No, I'm not really in with that crowd," she sniffed, with an air of faint disgust, "they're all so obvious."

"I heard that she's very nice," he said, without the flicker of a pause.

"Oh?" Inwardly, she was astonished. Did he know something? Had someone said something to him? Was he testing her in some way? All these questions remained unanswered as she decided to bluff it out by changing the conversation. "Have you eaten?" She offered.

"Yes, there were two cold sausages in the fridge. I had those."

"Anyone phone?"

"No, only Middleton."

"Oh, of course, you're playing bat and ball tomorrow."

"Cricket, yes. I'm playing cricket."

"Is it the last match?"

"Yes."

She pulled off her thick tights and stood up slowly. "I might see you play tomorrow. I'd like to."

"Would you?" He answered incredulously, "You haven't been all year!"

"All the more reason to go, then. I might come, I just might," she expressed softly, as the blouse fell away from her shoulders.

Stillman said nothing. He sniffed the air, which had become somewhat polluted by Joyce's obtrusive perfume. As Joyce removed her bra, she noticed the abandoned car keys for the first time.

"Did you go out tonight?"

"No," he lied as he sunk his body back into the bed.

"You left your car keys here on the bookcase."

"Did I?" He said without an element of surprise.

"Yes," she replied simply, as her nightie was pulled over her head. She turned the lights off.

He knew. He definitely knew and, what was more, he knew that she knew as well.

It had just turned midnight as Arthur Milns rolled his car down towards the beach at Manorbier. His headlights bounced off the castle, illuminating its grey stone like a spotlight striking an impressive backdrop.

As the car weaved its way to the beach, specks of light reflected from the sea glinted and winked an understated welcome. The road, like the car park to his left, was deserted and Arthur wondered whether his hunch was wrong after all.

Milns parked his car on the side of the road and glanced at Audrey who sat motionless in the passenger seat. He nodded slightly, removed the seat belt and sprang out of the vehicle. His wife followed in silence. Milns pulled out a pocket torch from his wax jacket and marched over the sand and pebbles, panning a beam of light across the beach.

"There!" Hissed his wife as she pointed to a silhouetted figure in the distance. Milns sprinted at once towards the dark statue. He was right! His hunch was right!

His mother stood looking out across the expanse of sea. Waves of water were gushing over and between her slippered feet. Her brown stockings were soaked below her bulbous calf muscles and her lower lip was trembling.

"Mum! Mum, we've been looking for you," said Arthur placing a gentle hand around her elbow. "You're getting wet. Come on, love."

"I'm waiting for Nancy. She should be back by now," mumbled the old lady, her eyes fixed on the water.

"Nancy?"

"She should be back by now. I said I'd wait."

"Come on, mum. Nancy's not out there. Come on," coaxed Arthur as he carefully tugged his mother's arm, causing her body to shuffle back out of the water.

"I said I'd wait," she protested, looking at her son for the first time. Her tired eyes, moistened by the cold sea air, shone out like pale oysters against her red and aged face.

"Nancy's not here, mum. She's not here," soothed Arthur turning her so that her crooked back was now against the sea and she was now facing the castle walls.

Arthur's mother blinked and pulled a surprised expression. It was as if she had been startled out of a deep, hypnotic sleep. "Where are we? ... Where are we, Arthur?" She asked pathetically as her limp, gnarled hands clutched at her son's jacket.

"We're at the beach, mum. Manorbier."

Audrey, who until now had remained silent, suddenly spoke. "It's alright, mum," she cooed, "we're taking you home now."

"Come on, mum," murmured Arthur, slowly guiding his mother across the beach. The absurd sound from her sodden feet was heard above the chuckling of the freshwater stream and the lapping of the waves as they smoothly rolled pebbles in their wake.

"You were right then, Manorbier beach," noted a much relieved Audrey.

"I should have come here straight away. Her favourite beach. Always has been. That's where she and Auntie Nancy used to play as kids."

"Thank God, she's safe - that's the main thing."

"Yes."

"Her feet are soaking, Arthur."

"I know. Let's get her back to the car."

"I'll open the door," volunteered Audrey as she hurried ahead of the couple.

After his mother was carefully placed in the front seat, Arthur started the engine. Audrey opted to sit in the back, even though her husband had provisionally offered to. When the car pulled its way out of Manorbier back onto the A4139, the elderly mother closed her eyes and fell into a deep sleep.

"I wonder how she got there?" Pondered Arthur. "She couldn't have walked there, surely? It's three miles."

"She might have done. She's tougher than she looks ... maybe a car picked her up?" Offered Audrey.

"Maybe. Perhaps we ought to think again about some sort of home. Perhaps that would be best," muttered Arthur without any great conviction.

"No. I wouldn't allow it, Arthur. I couldn't," protested Audrey. She was horrified that her husband could once again raise the issue that had dominated their lives over the past year.

Gratified that his wife's feelings in the matter perfectly matched his own, Arthur smiled. "Good. Neither would I."

"I'll change her and put her down tonight, if you like."

"There's no need, I can ..."

"No, I'll do it. You've got your match tomorrow. I'd better give her a hot water bottle as well."

"Well, if you're sure, thanks." At moments like these, Arthur realised the importance and value of having a true partner. The situation of having a mother, gripped by the curse of senile dementia, was made only bearable by the love and support Audrey willingly gave. He knew that, without her, his mother may well have ended up in a nursing home and, in consequence, the rate of her mental decline could well have been accelerated. His single achievement in his relatively dull and uneventful life had been Audrey. She had always been marvellous.

As he parked the car on the driveway of their Hodgeston home, Arthur Milns suddenly turned his mind to the Landsker Cup. He had been so wrapped up in admiration for his beloved wife that he had forgotten all about it. Tonight's events had put things in perspective somewhat. Maybe a cricket match wasn't so important after all ...

In the opinion of Bill Nicholson, the violent drone that pervaded from an overworked vacuum cleaner was without doubt the most obscene sound on God's planet. Why didn't she stop? Surely that kitchen's clean enough now! Why was he paying £20 a week for this! Noise, noise, noise!

When at last the noise abated, Bill, who had long since barricaded himself in the toilet, pulled the flush and opened the door.

"You got a funny tummy, Mr Nicholson?"

"No."

"There's a lot of it about, y'know," said Mrs Fielding knowledgeably.

"I was merely performing my usual morning function, Mrs Fielding. Nothing more. My stomach, like the rest of my anatomy, is in perfect working order thank you."

His exit to the bathroom would have been a great deal more comfortable if Mrs Fielding hadn't marched into the toilet after him and proceeded to pour a liberal dose of bleach into the pan. No decorum that one, thought Bill as he closed the bathroom door behind him.

After washing his hands with care, he grabbed a copy of Friday's Guardian and set about solving that devil of a clue. He sat in his favourite chair in the lounge and began to apply his mind to the matter in hand. All he needed to do was to concentrate. 'Four across - Henry's gain that he wanted to lose (6)'. Blank - R - Blank, Blank - O - Blank.

"Reading again, are you? Always reading, aren't you?" Boomed Mrs Fielding as she barged into the lounge clutching a toilet brush. "We need a new one of these," she continued as she waved the implement from side to side.

"Well get one. Take the money out of the tin."

"I'll get it this afternoon. I'm going to that cheap shop in the Dock anyway." Rooted to the spot, Mrs Fielding could not resist the excuse for furthering the conversation. "Doing a quiz, are you? Perhaps I could help."

"It's a crossword, Mrs Fielding."

She turned her nose up immediately. "Ooh, waste of time them. You wouldn't catch me doing one." No - no hope of that, thought Bill. "What's the point that's what I say!"

She moved to leave, then stopped abruptly. "Oh, did you get the telephone message? I scribbled it down for you yesterday."

"Yes. Thank you. Although I must say, it took me half an hour to decipher it. Oh, and for future reference, Lamphey isn't spelt with a F!"

"I had to write it down in a hurry," she protested weakly. There was a slight pause as Mrs Fielding struggled to control her unnatural curiosity. "She a lady friend, is she?"

"Who?"

"That Patricia ... what's-her-face .... the woman from Lamphey."

"She writes poetry and I've never seen her before. She wants me to sell her book, that's all."

The disappointment in the cleaner's face was obvious: "Oh, I thought you might be courting again."

"No." The reply was firm and clear.

"I thought that Diane was nice. What happened to her?"

What indeed? Bill frowned as he remembered their final argument about commitment, about being honest, about the future ... Diane!

"I really couldn't say," he replied quietly.

"I thought she was the right one for you. Even Mr Fielding thought ..."

Oh, this was hopeless! He suddenly put down his newspaper and stood beside his well-meaning but irritating employee. "I've given all that up. It finished months ago. Finished. When a man's been married twice, he doesn't want to go for a third!"

"Could be third time lucky."

"Look, Mrs Fielding, I know you mean well but ... I've been burnt twice and I don't intend putting my hand into the fire again."

"Who said anything about fires? I didn't say anything about fires!"

"Look, Mrs Fielding ..."

The cleaner gently laid a hand on Bill's cuff and looked at him directly. "But she was nice, wasn't she?"

"Yes. She was nice." There was no denying that particular point. Diane was essentially nice. If only he had met her earlier. A woman more intelligent than Fran, more attractive than Jill and she wiped the floor with them both in the honesty department.

"Why don't you finish up now," said Bill as sweetly as he could. "I've got to go soon, anyway. Take the money out of the tin as you go."

"Well, if you're sure ..."

"I'm sure."

"I haven't dusted that spare bedroom yet."

"That can wait. Do it next Friday."

"Well, if you're sure ..."

"I'm sure."

"See you Friday, then."

"Yes."

She handed him the redundant toilet brush and hurriedly grabbed her coat from the hat stand. Bill Nicholson nearly let out a cheer as he heard the back door slam. Another wife! God! That's all he needed! He stared in disbelief at the toilet brush he was holding in his hand. It was dripping slightly and its bent, off-white plastic spikes filled him with repulsion. He headed for the flip-top bin in the kitchen and readily inserted the revolting object into its cavity.

Wife! That's it! It's a wife! He rushed back to the crossword and filled in the remaining letters. A, R, A, G, O, N. Catherine of Aragon, Henry VIII's first wife. That marriage and its breakup had done more to change the course of the state established Church than any other.

A shiver went down his spine as he lit his first cigarette of the day. No, he was adamant now. A third marriage was out of the question.

"So she threw the script on the floor and started shouting, 'I can't do this! I can't do this!' It was extraordinary! All the actors turned to look at her. Her mascara was running down her face and then she just fell to the ground in a heap. We all thought that she was having some kind of breakdown. It was so embarrassing! And after that, all hell broke loose. Well, you can imagine, can't you? And then ... And then ... then, something marvellous happened. Roger MacPherson walked across to her, dried her tears with his handkerchief (silk, I think) and said: 'My darling, you were made for this role.'

"Oh, he's wonderful! So refreshing to have a real professional director for a change. With one simple phrase, the whole situation was straightened out. After that, Emily played the part better than she had ever done. A wonderful confidence he seemed to have bestowed on her. We really are lucky that he agreed to do it. Well, of course, that's all down to Angus. Who would have thought that he could have organised 'A Midsummer's Night Dream' at Carew Castle and then get Roger MacPherson to direct it. It's a real coup. It'll be a great day for the Penally Players! A real red letter day! Roger's done all the biggies, you know - the RSC, the National ... Oh, and he's so caring, so enigmatic ..."

Chris Lawler could bear no more. "Well, if he's that good, why don't you sleep with him. Roger, Roger, Roger - I'm sick of it!"

"I'm not his type," Julia replied neatly.

"What is his type, I wonder? A blond chorus-boy, perhaps?"

"How typically stereotypical! Don't for one minute suggest that all theatrical men are homosexual. No, I can assure you that Roger is certainly all man!"

"Oh, good!" Replied Lawler dryly. Why couldn't he be left alone! Why couldn't he finish his toast in peace! And if she has to stay, why couldn't she talk about something else?

"Oh, it's so exciting! First rehearsal in the castle today. Although we are having particular problems with Puck at the moment. Fancy giving that part to Sally Freeman in the first place! She can't act and she's certainly got no presence on stage. We're all agreed that she's an illiterate slut anyway. She goes on and on about her wonderful drama background and Sheila tells me that she went to an obscure private school in Cardiff and left after failing her 'O' levels." She glanced at the kitchen clock. "Hell! It's past nine. I've got to get changed. I have to be at the castle at ten."

"Well, I'm not stopping you," her husband snapped.

"So, I can take the BMW, can I?" This particular question was offered rhetorically.

"Yes." He slurped his coffee greedily, trying his best to avoid any eye contact. Just go, he thought. Go and get dressed woman, before one of my ear-drums explodes in protest!

"Good of what's-his-name to offer to pick you up."

"Thommo."

"Thommo ... oh, yes, that's the beery lout isn't it? The one who likes being thrown out of pubs. You really do have some wonderfully sophisticated friends, Christopher, don't you. Prince Charles is probably green with envy."

Lawler chose to ignore the comment and have a dig of his own. "So when is this great event supposed to take place?"

"Next Saturday. You know perfectly well that it's next Saturday. You've known for weeks."

"And I have to come, do I?"

"Well, if you enjoy having two testicles, yes."

"So, that's a yes, is it?"

"You've recorded over my video tape!"

"Sorry?"

"You've recorded over my tape! I wanted that!"

Joyce Stillman wearing her blush pink silk dressing gown marched into the lounge. "I can hear you shouting, but I can't understand a word you are saying." She was looking tired and her hair was positively Gorgon-like.

"I said - you've recorded over my programme."

"Did I? You didn't tell me it was important."

"Well it was."

"When I pressed 'play' it just showed a man with a moustache droning on and on."

"That was Graham Gooch! He was talking to Parkinson. I wanted to see that."

"You didn't tell me, Peter, I'm not psychic."

Throughout the discussion Stillman, remote control in hand had tried to ascertain what had been recorded in its place. To his mind it looked terribly sordid. "What is this anyway?"

"It's a French film. Very artistic," Joyce murmured, lazily pulling her hands through her unwashed hair.

Her husband pressed 'play' again and another brief excerpt of film filled the screen. "Oh, yes, I can see it's art," spat Stillman trying to control his anger, "that's the third pair of breasts I've seen so far!"

"It's about doomed relationships. You should see it, you might learn something," she said turning her back on him.

Resigning himself to the fact that Graham Gooch would not suddenly appear half-way through the continental soft porn movie, Peter Stillman put down the remote control and ejected the tape. "Shouldn't you be getting dressed?"

"I was about to, when ..."

"Are you coming, then?"

"Where?"

"To The Festival Match. I thought that last night ..."

"Oh, I haven't made my mind up."

"Well, I'm going in half an hour. I've got to pick John up."

"Who?"

"John Marsden."

"Oh, I don't think I know him," she said as she continued to play with her unkempt hair. "If I do go, I'll go in the Renault."

"Well, have it your own way. I'm going to have a shave."

Momentarily, amid the background screams of tiny children, Bill Nicholson wondered if he had arrived at the right house. He rang the door bell again and through the frosted glass he made out the burly figure of Giffo shuffling towards him.

The door was opened and Giffo stepped back in genuine surprise: "Bill! I wasn't expecting you!"

"Hello, Giffo. I just thought I'd deliver this book your wife ordered. She forgot to pick it up yesterday."

"Come in, come in," gurgled the wicket-keeper leading Bill across the threshold and into the hall. A toddler's piercing scream followed by the sound of a china plate crashing onto a stone floor echoed around the house. In response to this, a baby cried out lustily. If there was a hell, Bill pondered, then this could well be it.

"Excuse the noise. We've got the grandchildren with us until lunch. Barbara and Joe are shopping in Carmarthen."

Giffo led his vice-captain into the kitchen where the children in question were being supervised by the wicket-keeper's cheery wife. Bill was surprised to see that there were only three of them, as the noise generated had suggested a great deal more.

The eldest was about four. He was using a tray of picture dominoes as missiles and seemed intent on throwing each one in turn at the family dog who was trying to remain anonymous in his basket. The middle child was strapped into a high chair and by the thick crust of Weetabix that surrounded his mouth had just completed an early lunch or a very late breakfast, Bill guessed that this one was about eighteen months. The youngest child was crawling around the floor like an inexperienced drunk. He was busy depositing a trail of dribble between the Aga cooker and the pine kitchen table. It was, to Bill's eyes at least, a scene of bedlam.

"Hello, Bill," beamed Irene taking her well-trained eyes away from the crawling child.

"Hello. Just delivering your book. Save you popping in," he chirped noticing the crawling child reaching up to grab the book. Thankfully Irene had noticed it too and scooped the baby up with her expert arms. Bill put the book down on the Welsh dresser that occupied one side of the spacious kitchen. "Oh, you shouldn't have bothered, Bill. Thanks."

Giffo turned to move out through the door. "I better get ready. Tim Middleton'll be here soon."

"You don't need a lift then?" Asked Bill.

"No thanks, Bill ... Oh! Is that why you're here?"

"No, no. Like I said, I was passing and I thought I'd pop the book in for Irene." He turned to face Giffo's wife and nodded towards the book. "Thai cooking? That's a bit exotic, isn't it?"

"We're doing Thai cooking next week in class. We're going to make Thai cabbage curry."

"Oh God," mumbled Giffo as he slowly hobbled out of the room.

"Edward's not one for foreign food. He says the curry I gave him last night has given him awful wind."

"Oh dear." Bill pointed to the child in Irene's arms. "Shouldn't that one be walking by now?" He asked, immediately displaying his distinct ignorance of paediatric matters.

"Shame you didn't have children, Bill," she purred as she cuddled the infant against her sagging bosom, "they would have made you less cynical."

"Less independent, you mean."

"Full independence isn't all it's cracked up to be though, is it? Life can be terribly boring without responsibility."

"I've got all the responsibility I need thank you, Irene. Why, the shop alone ..."

"I'm not talking about the shop, Bill! I'm talking about people."

"Oh, them," mumbled Bill as he noticed another picture domino fly off the edge of the dog's basket.

Irene worked a wet dishcloth around the seated child's mouth so that the cheeks were pink once more and gently placed the child she was holding back onto the floor.

"Where's your cat?" Asked Bill scanning the kitchen. "The dog's not eaten it, has he?"

"The cat's dead. Didn't Edward tell you?" Bill shook his head. "We had to take him to the vets on Monday because she started doing her business indoors. Well, she was getting on ... I had to clean that study carpet four times."

"So the vet put her down, did he?"

"No. He said the cat was suffering from stress."

"Stress! That cat of yours spent all day sleeping, over there!" Exclaimed Bill pointing to a red cushion on the rocking chair.

"That's what we said. Well, anyway we paid our twenty pounds and left. Twenty pounds, if you please! Just to be told that your cat is doolally and needs more quality time! No tablets. Nothing!"

"You're joking!"

"I wish I was. Well, then we left the surgery with the cat under Edward's arm. As Edward closed the door behind him, the cat sprang away and jumped into the path of a Mini Metro. She was killed instantly."

"Good Lord!"

"At least it was quick. We took her home and buried her by the raspberry patch."

Bill Nicholson nodded sagely and, as he watched another picture domino bounce off the dog's nose, he suddenly realised the likely source of the late cat's psychological disorder. "I'd better be off. I've got a writer to see before I drive to the match."

"Not Diane, by any chance?"

"No. Besides, I don't think she's doing much writing now. Too busy selling computers."

"Shame. I like Diane. So different from Jill and Fran."

"Well, that's one point in her favour, I suppose."

"I saw Jill in town last week. She asked after you. She likes Diane as well."

"That definitely doesn't work in her favour!"

"Bill! I'm only saying that everyone thinks that you and Diane are well suited."

"Oh, don't you start! I've just had all this with Mrs Fielding."

"She's a lovely girl, Bill."

"Who? Mrs Fielding!"

"Fool! You know what I mean."

"I know what you mean, all right. Marriage. Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, Irene, just as I was sorry to disappoint dear old Mrs Fielding, but I am not getting hooked again. Not now. Not ever!"

"We'll see ..." said Irene. Bill leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "Bye," he whispered as he left the make-shift kindergarten. He paused at the door and shouted upstairs. "Bye Giffo! See you at the pub!"

"Bye Bill!" Shouted Giffo in return.

As Bill closed the door behind him, he took a look at his watch. Ten past ten. Plenty of time. See Trevor Donovan at Milton, pick the books up and drive on to the pub.

He tutted as he wiped a speck of Weetabix off his cuff. Kids! He was eternally grateful that both Jill and Fran had opposed any move to procreate. No children and now no wife. Bliss! The single life suited him, even though it may have helped him develop his selfish tendencies. He was, he admitted, a selfish man, but at least he was a happy selfish man.

"You're joking! What, both of them? I can't believe it ... No, I had no idea ... Sorry? ... Oh, today? Well, Bracewell will be twelfth man ... yes ... Yes, I know his father's anxious, but that really can't be helped, Colonel. Well, after his performance against the Stackpole Thirds, I thought we'd be better off with Brandon ... Yes, and a better batsman ... Fine. Well, thank you for letting me know ... yes ... Bye, now!"

Tim Middleton replaced the receiver slowly. "Interfering old goat!" He fumed as he tried to assess the full implications of the facts that Colonel Packman, the club chairman, had just relayed to him. So, Pete Tucker and Dave Wallace had left the team for St Petrox. In truth, he wasn't altogether surprised. He had always felt that both men would follow where Julian Scott led and, now that Scotty was St Petrox's new captain, it was easy to see why. Both had no doubt been offered the chance to play every Saturday and not just on the occasions when Giffo's back had played up or when Thommo had failed to show.

Middleton pondered the matter as he picked up his cricket bag and sauntered through the lounge into the corridor. Was the loss really so great? True, Tucker had played one or two innings of worth and it hadn't gone unnoticed that Wallace could swing the ball at a lively pace. But they were expendable. We are not, Middleton considered, discussing the likes of Allan Lamb and Dominic Cork but just a couple of useful club players - nothing more, nothing less.

The more immediate problem was that the whole squad now consisted of only twelve players and, with Giffo going, something would have to be done before next season.

As Middleton closed the door on his Llanreath home, his mind turned again to his club chairman. How dare he interfere with team selection! What a cheek! Stupid, over-weight prat! It was just Middleton's luck to have the chairman's great-nephew up for possible selection. That, in itself, did not make Bracewell a natural candidate for the team every week. Quite the reverse in fact. His decidedly crappy bowling against Stackpole last week had confirmed the serious doubts Middleton had about him ever making the eleven again.

He climbed into his car and started to make his way to Tenby. He forgot about cricket and turned his mind to Megan instead. Sweet Megan. Where were they going today? Was it to fit her dress or the bridesmaids' dresses? He couldn't remember although he knew his wife had told him before they left. It was a shame that the young man she was going to marry didn't play cricket. Doesn't even watch it. Apparently, rugby was his game. He shuddered as he traversed the mini-roundabout and headed into Tenby town centre. He couldn't abide rugby.

xxxxx

David Watson's face filled with horror as he repeated his question: "Left?"

"Yes, buggered off to St Petrox to join Scotty. The Colonel told me this morning."

"God! It's like a mass exodus!"

"Not quite that bad," assured Middleton. "Have you heard from Nicholson yet?"

"I phoned him yesterday."

"He didn't phone me."

David Watson masked his true reaction to this by pulling a face of mock surprise. "Really? That's odd."

"Odd, yes. That's Bill alright. Bloody odd. Why I gave him the vice-captaincy, God only knows."

"So we're not playing Bracewell, then?"

"No. Twelfth man. Not that he'll be too happy about it, but ..."

"No choice," Watson nodded.

"Actually, we've tried out a few new ones in the nets this season. One or two of them might do for next year."

"Anyone I know?"

Middleton wanted to tell him, but he found that he couldn't. How could he? "No, I don't think so." His lie felt convincing. "Mainly kids."

Unaware of the act of deception, Watson uttered a simple, "oh."

The two friends strolled leisurely out of the Harry Tudor Hotel and headed for Middleton's car. "Are we picking up Giffo and Bill?" Asked Watson.

"Giffo, yes. Nicholson's making his own arrangements, as usual," answered Middleton tartly.

"Hell!" Boomed Thommo as he tried the ignition once again. With no immediate hope of the engine starting, Thommo leapt out of the car and proceeded to exercise a cursory look under the Ford Fiesta's rusty bonnet. He pulled out a lead or two and rubbed a hanky over the points. It was an operation he was well used to.

As he closed the bonnet, he let out an enormous cough and returned to his seat. Once again he turned the key and the engine spluttered to reach its normal state. With the engine now running, Thommo wasted no time in releasing the handbrake and driving the car into the road.

"You're a bloody genius, Thommo," he said out loud to himself. He stifled a yawn. It was all a bit early for Thommo. He might have been awake at seven, but it had taken a long bath, two aspirins and numerous cups of coffee to complete the waking up process. He glanced at his watch as he approached the main roundabout in Pembroke Dock. Nine-thirty. Fine. For once in his life he was going to be early. He turned the car onto the A477 and headed east.

That letter had been a surprise. Not an unpleasant surprise either. No, a letter from Annie in amongst the bills and the junk-mail had been a welcome sight. He tried, unsuccessfully at first, to recall certain phrases that she had used within the missive. "A new start for us both" - "I'm not promising anything" - "You'll have to change" ... Thereafter, there was a brief report on her father's allotment and some mention of her mother's struggles with her bunions. Apart from that, that was all he could remember and, although the letter contained nothing earth-shattering, Thommo had realised its importance. There was light at the end of the tunnel. There was hope.

A woman driving a white Porsche just in front of Thommo indicated left to turn into Cosheston. As she turned the wheel to negotiate the turn, he flashed a glance at her. Very nice. Wouldn't kick that out of bed, he thought lustily as he slowed the car in order to gain a better look. A blast from a horn quickly woke him out of his fantasy and Thommo noticed an angry van driver behind him. He pulled away and assumed a more appropriate level of speed.

The mystery woman had reminded Thommo of Scotty's wife. Very tasty, she was. Lucky old Scotty! He always was, though. Shame he left the club last year. A right laugh and no mistake.

The Ford Fiesta rumbled on past Milton Manor and the Milton Brewery pub. Milton Brewery! Images of a famous drunken session filled his head. That was the night when Scotty drank lager out of his jockstrap and then proceeded to urinate into the pockets of the pool table. Or was that another night, in another pub? Yes, that was in that Fishguard pub. He couldn't remember its name. The locals had complained bitterly to the landlord that the pool balls got wet every time one was sunk and all the chalk for the cue tips went soggy. A right laugh, Scotty was. There was no-one to match him.

Thommo turned right at Sageston and then right again in order to get onto the St Florence road. Although he knew that it would have been much quicker to turn right at Milton, he preferred this way. He had often thought that St Florence was one of Pembrokeshire's prettiest villages and he was always loath to pass it by.

He had to concentrate now. He didn't want to miss that concealed turning for the Brandon farm. Ah! There she is! The lack of suspension in Thommo's car had some difficulty here on the uneven surface. But by slowing the vehicle down and keeping a sharp look out for pot-holes, the driver made the journey as comfortable as he could.

Within minutes, he was at the farm entrance. Thommo gave a huge welcoming grin when he caught sight of Mike Brandon clutching a rather battered looking cricket bag.

"Taxi!"

"Bloody hell, Thommo! You're early!"

"Aren't I always?"

"I had to wait an hour the other week ... The game against Penally Seconds?"

"Rubbish, I was only fifty-five minutes late."

Mike pushed his bag into the boot and jumped into the passenger seat. Thommo lit up his tenth cigarette of the morning, let out another earnest cough and then performed the most irregular three-point turn that Mike had ever witnessed.

"Onward! Onward!" Shouted Thommo as he crunched into second gear. "Let's pick up the third musketeer, shall we?"

xxxxx

"You're early!"

"Don't you start."

Chris Lawler threw his cricket bag into the boot and Mike got out to adopt a new position in the back. Both he and Thommo were well versed in Lawler's objections to sitting in the back of cars.

"Your car doesn't get any cleaner, does it Thommo?" Observed Lawler, rubbing off dollops of oil from his hand with a piece of tissue paper. "Come on," he said as he lowered himself into the leopard skin covered seat. "Let's get out of here, before someone sees me."

Thommo, amused by Lawler's snobbery, deliberately took his time and when the engine woke into life once more, he purposely revved it in neutral so that the noise might irritate him further. Mike, mindful of his friend's antics, suppressed a giggle and looked over his shoulder. Through the back window he noticed the cloud of thick, black exhaust fumes that threatened to pollute the whole of Penally village. This particular sight was also noticed by a horrified Lawler. "For God's sake, Thommo! Would you please drive away. I can't afford to be sued for the effects of lead pollution in the neighbourhood."

A smiling Thommo slowly pulled the car out of Penally village, pausing only to flick the remnants of his cigarette out of the window.

Tim Middleton sat at the largest wooden table in 'The Sir John Perrot Arms' like a chairman of a very important company addressing his management board. He needed a solution to his problem and he needed it now.

"So, what exactly did his mother say?" Piped up Arthur Milns at last. He, for one, had failed to grasp the seriousness of the situation.

"She said it was probably shingles and that the doctor was calling later," confirmed Bill Nicholson yet again.

Middleton now looked across at the faces of his senior players in the hope of receiving any useful suggestions concerning possible replacements.

"Shingles, eh?" Said David Watson, his mind clearly on other things.

"My brother had shingles. Very painful, apparently," voiced Milns, realising that no-one was in the least bit interested in the ailments of his immediate family.

Bill Nicholson chose this moment to rub his chin and pick up and start reading his copy of 'The Guardian', as an act of protest against boredom.

"The point is," said Tim, desperately trying to drag his colleagues back to the central issue, "we have no twelfth man. Now that Wallace and Tucker have run off to play for St Petrox, there's no-one left."

"Of course, it was different in the old days, when we used to have a second eleven. Plenty of talent to choose from then. But that doesn't really help us ... does it?" Mumbled Arthur Milns, who immediately regretted making this point that offered no solution. He could have kicked himself.

Bill Nicholson nearly obliged, but offered a simple, "no, it doesn't" instead.

"Any ideas?" Pleaded the captain.

"No," said Dave Watson.

"No," repeated Arthur.

Bill Nicholson calmly peeled down a corner of his newspaper and said, "What about Phil Manning?"

"Who?"

"Phil Manning."

David Watson suddenly sprang into life. "What! That bloody journo! You must be joking! He's not even in the team."

"He is. Tim signed him up in June."

"What?"

"It's true, I'm afraid," admitted Tim. He had dreaded this moment. "He's a very good batsman in the nets and he hits the ball really hard," he gushed, in an attempt to justify his appointment.

"I can't believe this."

"Neither could Thommo, when he bowled to him first time. Six balls flew out of the nets behind his head," Milns said with a smile, not appreciating that any element of humour was redundant just now.

"Why didn't I know? Why didn't someone tell me?"

"Well, because we knew you wouldn't like it," began the captain, unsure of what to say exactly. "I suppose we could throw in one of the youngsters. One or two of them might be up to it. Denning's quite good."

Milns shook his head. "Denning works in his father's shop on Saturdays."

"Fraser Byrne, then. Useful fielder."

"No, he works at Elmtree Leisure Park."

"Well, it'll have to be Manning then," said Bill Nicholson continuing to plead the case for the defence. "Well, to my mind at least, there are only four possible candidates and, as both Wallace and Tucker have decided to peddle their wares elsewhere and Bracewell is in the tender arms of his loving mother, that only leaves Manning."

Watson had no alternative but to play a wild card. "What about old Geppo?" He suggested.

"Geppo!" The others shouted back at Watson, united in their disbelief and horror.

"Geppo is sixty-nine," stated Milns, forever the statistician.

"Well, of course, old Geppo would be fine," waded in Nicholson sarcastically, "if it wasn't for the fact that he can no longer bat, bowl or field. Who are you going to suggest next? My old mother? Or perhaps we could line up a couple of corpses from the county morgue."

David Watson, clutching at straws, decided to ignore Nicholson and employ a change of tact instead. "Do we actually need a twelfth man? Is there anything in the rule book that states that we have to have one?"

This was Arthur Milns department and all eyes fell on him.

"Well, no, not technically at least," spoke the great oracle of the rule book, "it is certainly not compulsory to have a substitute fielder in the Festival Match. However, I should point out that it is not advisable ..."

"Of course, it's not advisable," chipped in Bill, "we can't possibly take the risk. Old Giffo's back might give up again and Thommo's certainly not as nimble as he used to be. Besides, with Dai Evans charging in like an angry bull, anyone of us might break a finger .. or worse! No, it would be madness to play without a sub."

Tim Middleton, mindful of his position as captain and knowing that the ultimate decision lay in his hands alone, quickly considered all the facts that lay before him. The senior players waited with baited breath. "Bill's right," he said at last, "it would be madness. We have to play Manning."

Watson exploded. "But that man practically ruined my life! I insist. I urge you not to play that man, Tim."

"I'm sorry, David, there's no ..."

"Well, I can't play with him. I couldn't," Watson went on, frustration rising with every word. "He's an absolute bastard. I'm sorry, but there's just no polite word for him. I'd sooner kill him, than play with him. Have you lot no principles?"

Bill Nicholson, for one, could take no more of this hypocrisy. "With respect," he said calmly, "it was hardly his fault that you were caught with your trousers down in a hotel bedroom. As I remember the story, and you'll correct me if I'm wrong, the door was wide open."

"You utter shit! Raking up my past so ... so, publicly. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Bill Nicholson. One indiscretion. One tiny indiscretion, and I'm to be made a permanent laughing-stock of the team, am I?"

David Watson flew up out of his seat and, as he stood, the team members noticed that he was shaking slightly.

"No-one's laughing, David," said his captain, trying to pacify his old friend, "come on, sit down."

There was a long, agonising pause as they waited to see what action, if any, Watson would take. There was complete silence. Bill slowly picked up his paper once more and considered four-across of the crossword, while Arthur Milns took a sudden interest in a painting of Saundersfoot Harbour that was hanging to the side of him.

The stillness was finally broken by Watson himself, as he hissed, "I'm going to get a drink."

Middleton rolled his eyes skyward and, reluctantly, followed him to the bar. Bill and Arthur faced each other once more and Bill allowed a cruel smile to flash across his face. His companion, however, seemed sheepishly ashamed by the whole incident. "We should have told him before," he mused.

"Don't be absurd."

"Well, it's not really fair, is it? Having your private life exposed like that. He'll never forgive us. Quite frankly, I don't blame him."

This was too much for Nicholson. He pulled his paper down with a flourish and thrust his upper body across the table so that his face was only millimetres away from Milns' own.

"Private! My dear man, since the whole sordid story splashed itself onto the front page of the Pembroke Examiner and since that story concerned a county councillor, who had repeatedly attacked loose morals in today's society, I consider that the whole business was outside the perimeters of privacy. Oh, no, Milnsey, don't make the mistake of feeling too sorry for old Watson. He just cocked-up. Literally, in fact."

Milns suddenly felt the need to discuss the scandal more candidly. "Was it true that there were four of them in the same bed?"

"No. But they were in the same room - a couple on each bed. Watson was found panting on top of one stripper, while that ridiculous political agent of his, Donald Hemmings, was found riding another."

"Strippers!"

"Yes, strippers. It was all part of the entertainment Watson had laid on for his party faithful. Trouble was, the randy little devil wanted the entertainment to be extended somewhat upstairs. It was just a pity that in his excitement, he forgot to lock the door. Manning had gone down to the hotel to interview Watson that night. It had been arranged by them both, beforehand. The Pembroke Examiner had wanted the great man's comments on the latest local unemployment figures. However, Watson, the silly sod, had forgotten all about the appointment. He had other things on his mind and the local dole queue was not one of them. Some daft barman, who has since been sacked, told the journalist the room in which Watson had recently ordered smoked salmon and enough champagne to sink an ocean liner. And that was that - a local paper gets the scoop of the year, Watson resigns and the unemployed of Milford Haven are neglected once more."

"Oh," was all Milns could summon up.

"Still, I suppose we all do something unwise at some time. We all, I'm sure, go that little bit further than perhaps we should. How about you, Milnsey? What have you done, that may be considered to be reckless?"

Milns considered the point at some length, before saying: "Nothing."

Bill, not altogether that surprised by the response, picked up his paper again and broke into a broad, yet, thanks to the paper, very private smile.

Tim Middleton had caught up with his prey at the bar and offered him a drink. Hoping to notice a change in Watson's demeanour so soon after the admission that Manning was in the team was rather too optimistic and Tim realised at once that he had a job on his hands. Watson grudgingly accepted the offer of a drink.

"Come on. We'll have a drink and forget about it," reasoned Tim.

"You should have told me."

"How could I? Be honest now, David; how could I? Besides, you seem to be forgetting - he won't be playing. He's only the twelfth man, for God's sake. You won't even have to talk to him. You won't even see him."

"He ruined me."

"Nonsense. You still have the hotel. You still have your friends."

"Oh, yes; fine friends!"

"Oh, come on, now ... (he caught the barman's eye at last) Two pints, please. A twelfth man is a twelfth man; nothing more, nothing less. He'll simply watch the game, field if absolutely necessary and then be gone. And what is more; if you really don't want him in the team in the future, I won't play him. Now, I can't be fairer than that, can I? Can I?"

Watson relented and muttered some words of gratitude as the door of the bar was gently pushed open. Watson and Middleton, feeling the draught that had followed the action, spun round together to face the culprit. There, all sloppy grin and a right arm in plaster, stood Tony Gates.

"Sorry, chaps. I won't be able to play today. I've broken my arm."

The Preseli Mountains lay before them as Peter Stillman and John Marsden made their way along the A40 to Fishguard. Neither had spoken since Haverfordwest when John had noted the rise in petrol prices advertised outside one of the new supermarkets. The sun broke through the mushroom clouds as the car weaved its way through Wolf's Castle.

Although John had been glad to miss the traditional pre-match pint at 'The Sir John Perrot Arms', he felt most awkward, sitting next to the man whose wife he was making love to on a regular basis. Ordinarily, he would have gone with Thommo, but he could not bring himself to hurt the feelings of Stillman, who had offered him a lift well in advance of the game. Without his own presence now, Marsden knew that Stillman would have travelled alone, as he usually did. Only Arthur Milns scored higher on the Boredom Scale.

At last, just prior to reaching Letterston, Stillman broke the silence. "Your left-arm seam bowling should come in handy today."

"Let's hope so."

"I must say, I'm looking forward to today's match."

"Good."

"I've got a strange feeling that I'm going to take a few wickets today."

"Good."

"My spinning finger's ready for a bit of action."

Although Marsden was tempted to say 'good' again, he thought better of it. He offered the driver a weak smile instead. If only Stillman wasn't so terribly dull, Marsden thought. He's so mind-numbingly dull. No wonder Joyce leaves him alone most nights. He'll mention the bloody weather next.

"Oh, look, the sun's shining."

He knew it, he was right. Why didn't the daft sod shut up?

"Joyce was very odd last night."

Now this was surprising. In all the time he had known Stillman, he had hardly ever heard him mention his wife. But what did he mean by odd? "Was she?"

"Yes. She said she was coming up to see the game today."

"But she never comes. I mean ... I thought, you told me that she never comes to see you play." Marsden was fumbling now. He was surprised and he was worried.

"Well that's what I thought. But it's interesting actually, because she did see me play once in the Festival Match in 1990."

"Oh."

"I didn't recall it at first, but when I remembered, I laughed. She got a little bit tiddly actually and started touching up the umpire during the interval."

"Really?" Marsden was astonished, not by the incident itself, which he could well believe, but by Stillman's admission of the fact. Why was he offering this insight into a woman that he was supposed to hardly know?

"Yes. Although it was only a flirtation. There was no harm intended. I don't want you getting the idea that my wife is some kind of loose woman."

Marsden had wanted to say that she wasn't exactly a virgin either. He didn't however. "So do you think she'll really show up?" He hoped with all his heart that she wouldn't. How he prayed that she wouldn't.

"I don't know. But one thing's for sure," Stillman said as they pulled into the picturesque harbour of Lower Fishguard, "I'll have to warn the umpires."

Marsden wanted to add, "and the left-arm seam bowler," but he obviously kept that thought to himself.

Bill Nicholson approached the worried faces of his team-mates at the bar. "It's okay," he announced, "Manning's on his way. Said he'd drive to the ground independently."

"Well, thank God for that," sighed a much relieved Middleton.

Arthur Milns, oblivious to the news that Manning was joining the fold, was taking an interest in Tony's arm. "Does it hurt," he said, "I mean, does it still hurt, even though it's wrapped in plaster?"

"No," replied Tony, finishing the last dregs of bitter that remained in his glass. "Nasty accident mind. And what a time to happen! I was in there, with that one. Nice girl. Very large thighs."

"They can be very nasty, those broken arms," continued Milns knowledgeably. "My brother broke his arm once. They had to reset it three times. He was in agony."

Tony turned to Bill Nicholson. "My sister gave me a lift here, Bill. Any chance of a lift to the ground. I was planning on driving myself, but the arm ..."

"Sure. I'll drive you home after as well, if you like."

"Thanks."

Tim Middleton looked across the bar and said, to no-one in particular: "Where the hell are David and Giffo? We should have left by now."

"They're powdering their noses," said Nicholson, nodding towards the toilet doors.

Middleton glanced at the clock on the wall. It told him what he already knew: he was running late. He hated running late. He was about to leave the comfort of his barstool when he saw Watson pushing open the toilet door.

"Where the hell have you been? Where's Giffo?"

"There's a slight problem."

"What problem? Where is he?"

"He's still in the cubicle ..."

Middleton looked worried now. "Oh, it's not his back again, is it?"

"No. He's got bad stomach pains ... you know ..." Watson lowered not only his voice, but his eye level as well. "He's got the runs," he whispered.

Middleton couldn't hear him. "He's got what?"

Watson looked suitably embarrassed as he repeated the medical complaint with a little more volume, "The runs. He's got the runs."

"Well, it would be the first time this bloody season."

"He's in agony."

"Oh, that's just marvellous. That's wonderful. I've got a twelfth man with shingles, a batsman with a broken arm and a wicket-keeper with an irritable bowel."

"My mother had an irritable bowel. Very nasty."

"Shut up, Milnsey!"

Raucous laughter suddenly flooded the pub and Middleton darted a look at the perpetrator, Bill Nicholson. "Oh, I'm so glad that you find it all terribly amusing, Bill."

"Sorry, Tim," he said, "it's just ... I've only just realised an even bigger problem for you. Old Giffo's travelling in your car!"

"Try her again," shouted Graham Thomas from behind the open bonnet of his Ford Fiesta.

Chris Lawler reluctantly obeyed the instruction and slowly turned the key in the ignition barrel. If Thommo had expected to hear the gentle purr of a well-tuned engine, he was to be sorely disappointed. The car spat slightly and quickly died.

"Well, I don't think it's the plugs," said Thommo wiping his grease laden hands with an equally filthy cloth.

Lawler, bored by the fast bowler's meagre mechanical knowledge and angry at his reluctance to face reality, could stand no more. He flew out of the driver's seat, banging Mike Brandon's knees in the process. "I think the answer, my dear Thommo, lies with the car as a whole. This ... this crapmobile, that you try to pass off as a credible vehicle for the highway, is finished; it's completely knackered: it's dead."

Thommo thought that this was a bit harsh on a car that had served him so faithfully over the years. "Oh, I wouldn't say that," he moaned, "it's done me very well, this car has."

"Well, I'm relieved to hear you use the past tense, at least." Lawler turned to face the heat of the September sun. A blue van rushed past and its driver, annoyed by having to swerve slightly into the middle of the road, gave Lawler a rude gesture with his middle finger as he completed the manoeuvre. Pointing at the rusty carcass of Thommo's car, Lawler said simply, "we'll have to move this off the road a bit."

"Okay. Come on, Mike, out you get," shouted Thommo, banging heavily on the roof of the car. Mike Brandon slowly got out from the back seat and the three of them gently pushed the car onto the safe refuge of the roadside grass. When the elementary task was completed, Mike drew himself next to Lawler and asked him, "Where are we, exactly?"

"Just past Withybush, I think."

"There's a pub, the Corner Piece, just up the road. Perhaps we could phone a mechanic from there?" Put in Thommo, crashing down the bonnet.

"It's not a garage service this heap requires, Thommo. A funeral service would be more appropriate."

"Ha-bloody-ha."

"Perhaps we should walk to this pub, in any case. How far is it, exactly?"

"Half a mile. One at the most. The exercise might do us good and we can have a pint at the end of it."

"Well, there's not much alternative, is there? We'll walk and get a cab from there."

"A cab!"

"Well, I'm not walking all the way to Pwllgwaelod."

"It could cost twenty pounds or more. You may be rolling in it, Mr Architect, but I'm certainly not."

"Well, what do you suggest?"

"Well, luckily, I know a bloke who might be able to help. Name's Terry. Lives round here. He owes me a favour as it happens and I could phone him from the pub. I'm sure he'll give us a lift and it won't cost us a penny."

"Sounds good to me," chipped in Mike, grateful that someone had discovered a cheaper option.

"Well, okay, but if your mate can't help us, we get a taxi, right?"

"Right."

All three turned and, after taking their separate kit bags from the car's boot, they began to trek to the pub. Lawler strode ahead, conscious of the time factor. He was determined to set an appropriately urgent pace. Thommo and Mike lagged behind; their own pace being a little more casual. Both enjoyed each other's company and their differences of age and temperament had always seemed irrelevant. Mike's gentle maturity counterbalanced and complemented Thommo's exuberant immaturity.

"I got a letter this morning," piped up Thommo after they had walked fifty yards in silence, "from Annie."

"Oh."

"She said that she might come back before Christmas."

"Oh, that's good then," suggested the younger man, not actually certain whether it was or not.

"Yes. Trouble is, she said that I've got to sort myself out first y'know with all the drinking and stuff."

"Ah." There, thought Mike, was the rub.

There was a slight poignant pause while Mike allowed his friend time to decide whether to talk further on the matter or change to a completely different subject. Thommo favoured the former.

"She's right of course. Annie always is. I know I need to sort myself out ... I mean, I really do know, but ..."

"You miss her a lot, don't you?"

"Yeah, I do; I miss her more than anything."

"Well, there you are then."

"What?"

"If she is that important to you, you'll have to sort yourself out. I think ... I've always thought that your Annie was lovely. I've only had one girlfriend in my life and she left me for a trainee chef who lived in Hakin. I thought she was lovely, but she wasn't. She couldn't give a monkey's. Your Annie though, does care. Always smiling: always caring. Someone really special, in fact." Mike's heartfelt honesty in describing Annie touched his friend deeply and reminded him, yet again, of what he had lost. She was special: she is special. Therefore, why, in God's name, didn't he feel overjoyed by the promise of her return.

"Does she want you to pack up the cricket?"

"No. To be honest, cricket was never the problem. The problem came afterwards in the pubs and the bars; the celebrations and the drowning of sorrows. That's what she couldn't stand."

"Well ..." he stuttered and then looked away.

"Well, what?" Thommo gently ordered.

"Well ... Why don't you do as she wants. It'd make a change."

Thommo thought for a moment and then looked at his friend's open face. "Perhaps you're right," he said simply, "it would make a change."

"Yes. It would, that."

"I do miss her, you know."

Mike knew alright and he also knew what it was to miss someone close. At least Thommo could have that person back. He, on the other hand, did not have that luxury. Mike's loss was total and irreversible.

The conversation soon turned to other matters and, when those topics dried up, the two men continued their walk in silence, trying, as they did so, to match the increased pace of Lawler.

Each of them was deep in thought as they strolled up the road. Chris Lawler was thinking about the time, Mike was thinking about his mother and Thommo was thinking about that lovely pint of bitter that he would soon consume at the Corner Piece public house.

Phil Manning had always considered himself of being one of life's lucky bastards. Only two months after leaving Sheffield University with a poor third class honours degree in English Literature, he had landed the job of trainee reporter on the Pembroke Examiner. From there, helped by one early retirement and poor Charlie Burrow's mental breakdown, he had chiselled his way to being a fully fledged reporter within six months. Although he then had to endure years of covering summer fêtes, barn dances, dog shows and the occasional angry-mother-who-wants-a-road-closed-down, the waiting had been well worth it. Last year another dose of luck found its way into Manning's life, when his editor had put him in charge of covering the county council elections. His editor had wanted a day-to-day look at the campaign issues, but instead, Manning had supplied him with Pembrokeshire's belated version of the Profumo Scandal.

How fortunate he had been that day! Catching that ridiculous Watson probing the area of uncertainty outside some tart's off stump. The randy little sod deserved all he got after that. He deserved to be publicly shamed, no matter what some had thought subsequently. Even his editor had been less than keen to publish the sordid scoop - not through reasons of ethics, but because Watson was a member of the same golf club. However, in the end, Manning's story was given deserved exposure. The story itself, which had subsequently been sold to two major tabloids, had set him up to be the chief journalist, and, in effect, the local paper's deputy editor. Yes, he had been lucky alright.

As he turned his car into the single track road leading to Pwllgwaelod, Manning thought back to his phone conversation with Bill Nicholson. Manning had always loved cricket and now, with the chance to play in his first game for six years, he felt strangely excited. Two minutes after he put down the receiver, Manning had quickly contacted his editor and the paper's photographer, Eddie Jones. The motto 'a journalist never sleeps' prayed heavily on his mind. If he was playing in the Pembrokeshire Festival Match, he may as well write about playing. Besides, he knew that the lean look of the sports' pages could do with a bit of padding out.

He glanced at his watch, while his tyres negotiated yet another pot-hole. Twelve o'clock. Good, he was early. Ample time to chat informally with the players before getting changed. Not that he wanted to talk to Dave Watson. It was unfortunate enough that they had to play together, but that was unavoidable. When Bill had invited him into nets that day in June, he had no idea that Watson was connected in any way to Hodgeston Cricket Club. Still, that was Watson's problem; it certainly wasn't his.

For some reason, he thought about Charlie Burrows. He couldn't think why, but a picture of the chubby ex-journo suddenly filled his mind. He remembered the breakdown well. The poor sod had suffered much. Malicious gossip is always painful, but in this case ... well, it certainly broke him. Seeing him take off his shirt in the office was bad enough, but the real madness began when he bawled his eyes out, whilst sitting on the editor's table. The sight of this semi-naked middle-aged man sobbing like a baby and then being calmly bundled out was witnessed by many. He never came back ...

Manning suddenly swerved to avoid two magpies who were standing in the middle of the road. They flew away in a panic and the car missed them by a whisker. 'Two for joy', thought Manning, as yet more good fortune was heaped before him. His car turned into a field, where a handmade sign had been erected to point out the site of the Pwllgwaelod ground. It all looked lovely; the pavilion, the boundary ropes and the sweep of green. This was the life! All he wanted now was a good game and a well deserved pint afterwards.

Yes, thought Manning, as he parked his car next to a mustard yellow VW Golf, he was a very lucky bastard.

Tim Middleton and David Watson sat in the front seats of the captain's Rover car that was parked opposite the public conveniences in Dinas Cross. Without the distraction of Giffo's wailing and moaning, they were, at last, able to discuss game tactics.

"I've decided that, because we can't afford to lose," Tim began, "we'll have to bat first."

"But, what if we lose the toss?"

"They'll put us in first, anyway. Ernie Edwards may be a wily old bugger, but he's also terribly predictable. He knows that his main chance lies in Evans, and, by playing him early, means that he'll be really fired up and ready for action. A fresh Dai Evans is always going to be his best option."

"So, you're relying on us to pile on the runs."

"Not necessarily, no. If we can score freely, then great. But remember, we don't have to win. We only have to make sure that we don't lose. We can bat for as long as we like, making it virtually impossible for them to press home for a win later on."

"But what if we collapse? It has happened before, you know."

"Well, there's always that risk, of course," Tim conceded, "but with a certain amount of determination and an awful lot of blocking, we should see it through until tea, at least. And you never know, with Manning now strengthening the middle order, we might be able to declare after six o'clock."

"So, we're counting on Manning to bail us out, are we?"

"No, but he will help. You haven't seen him play, David. He's really very good."

"You'll be taking him out for dinner next."

Middleton laughed, then mumbled, "No chance of that. He's an arrogant little prig."

"Well, why are we playing him, then?"

"We have no choice, it's as simple as that." He paused. He didn't want to talk about Manning and he was acutely aware that the subject intensely annoyed his companion. He took out a notebook and pencil and began to scratch down a couple of notes. "Now, what about fielding positions?" This was a purely rhetorical question driven home by the fact that Middleton was so deep in thought that he completely ignored Watson.

But Watson was considering the fielding positions and, as he brought a mental picture of possible placements in his head, a sudden release of euphoria brought out a glow in his cheeks. This elation had not been noticed by Middleton, who continued to write down names against a list of fielding positions.

Watson could barely contain the excitement in his voice as he uttered, almost inaudibly, "why don't we put Manning at silly-mid-off?"

Middleton raised his head. "What, for the spinners?"

"No. First couple of overs. See what happens." Watson had modified his voice somewhat in an effort to suppress any suspicion of devilment. He sounded remarkably calm in the circumstances.

"What? Against Stapleford? That would be madness."

"It would apply a certain amount of pressure," Watson reasoned, "and that will be important when it's their turn to bat."

"Yes, but Stapleford?" Middleton was stupefied. "His favourite shot is through the covers on the off side."

"I know."

"He's an excellent timer of the ball, that one. And if it's an overpitched ball bowled outside off stump, he hits it bloody hard."

"I know."

"Well? Why in hell's name should we play Manning at silly-mid-off? It would be extremely dangerous for him, even with ..." The penny dropped at last and Middleton stared, open-mouthed at his friend. To his mind, the mild-mannered hotelier with a slight weakness for a pretty girl, had suddenly turned into Tenby's answer to Dr Crippen. "You want him to get injured, don't you?"

"Nonsense," said the unconvincing Watson, "it'll apply the right kind of pressure, that's all. Manning's the obvious candidate. He'd make a perfect close-in fielder. You keep praising his agility and his wonderful reflexes."

"I don't deny that, but I wouldn't like to test his reflexes against a cricket ball travelling at 100 mph towards his head. It's a hell of a way to test someone's reactions."

"It would apply pressure, though. You can't deny that."

"Yes, but at what cost? No, forget it David."

Watson nodded slightly to himself. It was time to use his trump card. "Yes, maybe you're right, we should forget it. Perhaps I should forget other things as well - like our arrangement."

"What arrangement?"

"Your only daughter's wedding reception - my hotel - 25% off. I think that was the arrangement, but, then again, I could forget it."

"You wouldn't." He didn't mean it surely.

"Try me." He did.

Middleton leaned back as he considered the dilemma. It was a straight choice between his pocket and one man's physical well being. Was three hundred pounds worth condemning a man to probable bruising, a serious injury or worse ...

"Well," he finally said, "perhaps Manning should play at silly-mid-off. Only for just a few overs, mind."

Watson smiled. He always suspected that there was a little of the fabled Cardigan blood in the skipper.

At that moment, the pathetic figure of Giffo finally re-emerged from the toilet. Clutching his stomach and groaning slightly, he shuffled slowly across to the waiting car. The occupants remained silent as Giffo clambered into the back. Both men noticed that he was sweating slightly, but no acknowledgement was given to the invalid. Instead, Middleton started the car up and said, just prior to releasing the handbrake, "and before you ask Giffo, there are no more toilets this side of Pwllgwaelod. You'll have to hold it in."

Mike Brandon took a tentative sip from his pint of bitter and smiled appreciatively. "It's a good pint, this."

"Well, it's brown and it's got alcohol in it, that's all I care about," said Thommo, a little too honestly. "Mind you, they do keep a good pint here, I'll give them that. There's a fair few good pubs in the area: 'The Harp' in Letterston and then, in Haverfordwest you've got the ..."

Chris Lawler abruptly broke in across Thommo's discussion. "I'm sorry to interrupt your extract from 'The Pembrokeshire Good Pub Guide', Thommo, but can I just ask: where's your mate?"

"He won't be long now."

"Thommo, it's ten past twelve. The match starts in less than an hour." As he pointed to his watch with his index finger, he spilled some of his orange juice on the table.

"Don't panic, Chris. Trouble with you is, you want to relax more. Mellow out."

"I don't want to mellow out: I want to be in Pwllgwaelod."

"We'll get there. He's a good lad, Terry. He'll be here now, you'll see."

"Did he mind offering us a lift? I mean, it's a bit of a cheek, isn't it?" Asked Mike, taking a longer sup from his glass.

"No, I told you - he owes me a favour. Good as gold Terry is. Besides, as luck would have it, he's got to pick up three dozen cluckers from Cardigan in his van."

Lawler's attention was immediately aroused. "Cluckers?"

"What?"

"You said: cluckers!"

"Turkeys. Oh, didn't I tell you that Terry deals in turkeys?"

"No, I would have remembered that," Lawler said dryly.

"Oh ... well, he does. He's got his own turkey farm a few miles from here."

Lawler could barely contain his anger. "So, are you trying to tell me that the three of us are going to travel in a turkey truck?"

"Well ..." Thommo mumbled, as he carefully placed his pint glass on the table in an effort to buy a little more time. "Listen, it'll be alright and besides, we won't have to pay a bean."

"Perhaps we should drink up and meet your friend in the car park," suggested Mike, anticipating the argument that would ensue. Whilst he was good in the role of arbitrator between these two, he was growing tired of their constant niggling.

"Good idea," agreed Thommo, downing the remains of his drink, "come on, he might be out there now."

When the three men emerged from the pub into the car park, it was immediately apparent that Thommo was wrong: there was no turkey van to be seen. They stared out along the A40, realising that unless it turned up soon they would miss the match. Middleton would be justifiably livid.

Just as Lawler was considering possible actions the captain might take in such a crisis, the throaty sound of a diesel engine filled the air. An off-white van could be seen, first approaching and then, indicating right, towards the waiting cricketers.

"He's here," shouted Thommo, picking up his bag.

Lawler studied the mud-splattered vehicle in some depth. The van, which had the legend 'Terry's Turkeys' blazoned across both sides, had all the hallmarks of belonging to a 'mate of Thommo'. Its tyres were dirty and under-inflated, the rotting roof-rack looked in danger of falling off and the exhaust pipe was kept at a 45 degree angle from the ground thanks to a piece of wire that had been looped around it and the bumper.

Terry got out. He had a slightly weather-beaten face and the kind of cheeky grin that Lawler hated. "Morning lads. Climb aboard. Lucky Thommo phoned me when he did. Lovely day. Gorgeous." His pleasant, cheery manner, Lawler could well have done without. He, like Mike, picked up his bag in a slow, tired manner. Thommo leapt like a cat into the front seat, while Terry opened up the back doors.

"So, it's you in the front seat, is it, Thommo?" Said a less-than-pleased Lawler.

"Too right it is. He's my mate."

Mike and Lawler wandered around to the back and stared into the space that was to be theirs for the next half an hour. There was one heavy blanket, enough turkey feathers to fill several pillows and two upturned milk crates, which appeared to be the only form of seating. Lawler couldn't speak.

Terry gave another one of his cheeky grins. "Come on, lads. Up you get."

"I can't possibly travel in this," Lawler whispered.

"Oh, come on," encouraged Mike, as he clambered into the van, "it's not for long." He gently dragged Lawler in with him, the latter being too stunned to resist.

The cold air seemed even colder when Terry the Turkey Man crashed the doors shut and both occupants sat down awkwardly on the crates.

"I can't travel like this."

"Course you can, it's not far."

As the engine was brought to life, both were suddenly aware of a sickly stench that pervaded the fridge-like space. Lawler felt a little sick and quickly covered his face with a handkerchief.

As the van pulled back onto the main road, Terry yelled back, "there's a thick cover in the back if you get too cold, lads! You might need it!"

Although both were suffering in the arctic conditions, neither thought it wise to wrap themselves in a blanket that was peppered in old turkey blood stains.

xxxxx

Tim Middleton stood by his car and waited for Milns and Nicholson, who were walking up to meet him. Giffo bolted out of the car and ran as fast as he could across the field towards the pavilion.

"Everyone here?" Asked Middleton.

"Well ... We're still waiting for Thommo. Stillman and the rest are getting changed."

"Who's with Thommo?"

"Mike and Chris. They'll be here now, I'm sure," said Milns, who wasn't in the least bit sure.

"Giffo still bad, is he?" Said Bill.

"Yes ..." Middleton stopped as he noticed the burly figure of Ernie Edwards, the Pwllgwaelod captain, approaching the group.

"Afternoon, Tim. I thought you weren't turning up for a minute."

"No. We wouldn't miss this."

"The umpires are eager to do the toss. Do you want to do it now, or do you want to get changed first?"

"No, we'll do it now." Middleton waited until Edwards was out of ear-shot and then turned to Watson, "stay here and keep a look out for Thommo."

"Will do."

Middleton followed Edwards to the middle of the pitch where the toss was to be made. David Watson made a move in the direction of the pavilion. "We ought to get changed," he murmured.

The ot