Tony Turner
A County Game at the Oval
He, fifty years a Surrey member, wore the special tie;
his friend, flashing his MCC town tie, always followed Kent.
They met to see their teams do battle
and enjoy their members’ privilege: a window table,
the pavilion restaurant, giving a great view
of the game.
But first, the appetiser of the morning session:
initial sparring, runs carefully accumulated, a wicket or two,
inconclusive.
And so to lunch. Roast beef, almost certainly:
thinly sliced, decorated with lonely vegetables,
bathed in a delicious sauce, spiced
with horseradish or Dijon mustard
accompanied by fathomless Merlot.
The glasses clink, are refilled and suddenly
conversation sparkles, expands, flows out
into unexpected rivulets, deepening gullies,
exploring, wonderfully meaningful.
And yes, they’re playing again and perhaps
a wicket’s fallen and some runs contrived
but now, a rich selection of stilton, brie,
mature cheddar, Saint Agur, double Gloucester–
the flighty fascination of dessert rejected–
graces a variety of biscuit shapes, sizes, tastes,
complements the wine exactly, as glasses refill
themselves. They’re twenty
thirty, fifty years ago now and yes,
Butcher has made his half-century.
But they’re not there.
The bottle’s empty. Washed down with the most
expensive mineral water in Surrey,
memories dilute and fade. The bill must be paid.
Reluctantly they tread the rose-strewn path
to outdoor seats to find
Surrey 253 for 4 and grinding on
for two hours more, at least.
his friend, flashing his MCC town tie, always followed Kent.
They met to see their teams do battle
and enjoy their members’ privilege: a window table,
the pavilion restaurant, giving a great view
of the game.
But first, the appetiser of the morning session:
initial sparring, runs carefully accumulated, a wicket or two,
inconclusive.
And so to lunch. Roast beef, almost certainly:
thinly sliced, decorated with lonely vegetables,
bathed in a delicious sauce, spiced
with horseradish or Dijon mustard
accompanied by fathomless Merlot.
The glasses clink, are refilled and suddenly
conversation sparkles, expands, flows out
into unexpected rivulets, deepening gullies,
exploring, wonderfully meaningful.
And yes, they’re playing again and perhaps
a wicket’s fallen and some runs contrived
but now, a rich selection of stilton, brie,
mature cheddar, Saint Agur, double Gloucester–
the flighty fascination of dessert rejected–
graces a variety of biscuit shapes, sizes, tastes,
complements the wine exactly, as glasses refill
themselves. They’re twenty
thirty, fifty years ago now and yes,
Butcher has made his half-century.
But they’re not there.
The bottle’s empty. Washed down with the most
expensive mineral water in Surrey,
memories dilute and fade. The bill must be paid.
Reluctantly they tread the rose-strewn path
to outdoor seats to find
Surrey 253 for 4 and grinding on
for two hours more, at least.
Page(s) 40
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