Published: Oct 18, 2011, 11:47 AM (IST)
Edited: Aug 22, 2014, 05:46 AM (IST)
Much of the epic romance of cricket was peerlessly documented for over half a century by the lyrical pen of the immortal Sir Neville Cardus. Seldom available on the shelves of modern day book shops, the half-recalled memory of the bewitching accounts enticed Arunabha Sengupta enough to embark upon a journey to find the elusive volumes of epic cricket reportage.
This August, during the recent Indian cricket tour of England, he scoured the length and breadth of the old country, hunting down the books by the greatest cricket writer of all time. Here is an account of his travels and treasure hunt.
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Beside the Nash House of Stratsford on Avon, we take a break from Shakespeare and go into a quaint little second hand book shop. There is the hint of buried treasure. Back in a rear room lie its collection of old cricket books.
One of the most incredible leg-spinners of all time, Arthur Mailey, had been described by Cardus as “an artist in every part of his nature”. At the height of his cricketing glory as an Australian cricketer, he was also a popular cartoonist. He also painted landscape canvases, with trees and skies recognisably green, brown and blue. In London he had a private exhibition of his paintings. Queen Mary did him the honour of inspecting these landscapes. She was graciously approving on the whole; but she paused in from one canvas, saying: “I don’t think. Mr. Mailey, you have painted the sun quite convincingly in this picture.”
“Perhaps not, Your Majesty,” replied Arthur. “You see, Your Majesty, in this country I have to paint the sun from memory.”
In the 1930s, W.C. Sellar and R.J.Yeatman had authored a tongue-in-cheek version of English history, covering the times from the Norman invasion of 1066 to the first World War. They called it 1066 and all that.
Apart from his 99 wickets in 21 Tests for Australia, Mailey had once bowled out all the batsmen of Gloucestershire for a paltry 66 runs. He named his autobiography 10 for 66 and all that.
This fascinating volume, with its collection of cartoons peppered through the witty narrative, lies snuggled up in the cricket collection. I grab at it like a youthful Jonty Rhodes. There are loads and loads of other books, as inviting as a flighted Mailey delivery, but I fight off temptation like a man possessed. There are weight restrictions on luggage that leaves Heathrow, and I keep sufficient space for the anticipated booty of Cardus. I don’t find him on the shelves, though.
*
The taxi driver who takes us to the station tells me that London is under control, but other parts are still troubled. I inform him that I will be going to the fourth day of the Test match in Birmingham. He thinks it will be all right. “I hope they play better,” he says. “And I hope Sachin scores his hundred.”
Blackwells at Oxford is mindboggling. The Norrington Room stuns me into a state of stupefaction. In the world of books, it is a multi-layered alehouse for the dipsomaniac. The Dreaming Spires of Oxford wait outside as I spend an hour browsing. But Cardus eludes me, yet again. As a matter of honouring the store, I buy a classic read in younger days – Beyond a Boundary by CLR James. Another book, like the Cardus volumes, that underlines cricket as so much more than a game.
*
My family departs for Switzerland as India collapse on day one in Birmingham. I check into a hotel in Russel Square. After David Cameron’s return, 16,000 policemen have been stationed in London. It is the safest place on the planet. I put up a Facebook status, “London seems to be safe.”
One of my friends responds, “But Edgbaston is in ruins.”
*
After a morning at the home-turned museum of the most famous sleuth in the world, I follow the signs leading from Baker Street to the Lord’s Cricket Ground.
Northamptonshire is playing Middlesex as I walk in. There is a familiar figure on the field and a look at the scoreboard tells me that my eyes have not deceived me. Chaminda Vaas has the ball. I test the Nikon S1900 I have procured for occasions such as this. The spectators are silent during the overs, but for a clap of cheer for something extraordinary in the game. One can hear the ball pitch and make contact with the bat. Forgotten pleasures in the subcontinent.
The Lord’s shop has helpful signs on the two doors – OUT and NOT OUT. There are some quaint gift items amongst the unusually commercial merchandise. A paperweight containing the Lord’s turf is innovative. But it carries no work by authors older than Jonathan Agnew. Well, there are Richie Benaud and Dicky Bird on the shelves, but you know what I mean. However, I do buy a DVD – something Suvro and I had discussed at length. Fire in Babylon.
Chris, the Lord’s guide, tells us stories, takes us into the museum. All that is reserved for other articles. At the Nursery End, we stand beside the sightscreen and he asks, “Do you know when the first cricket Test match was televised?” The guesses range from 1964 to 1972. I know it is 1938 and say so. I have read Farewell to Cricket when I was ten. He’s taken slightly aback. I ask him about Cardus. He says he is sure there is nothing in the ground, but promises to take me to the library to see if I can get some help.
Chris and I walk towards the library, past the Tavern, past the Edrich and the Mound stands.
I tell him I have got hold of a few Arlotts, but can’t seem to find any Cardus.
“Ah, Arlott,” he muses. “He had his home in the Channel Islands and kept one of the country’s best wine cellars. And every now and then, Ian Botham invited himself there.”
The librarian is away, but we meet the gentleman who runs the Lord’s shop. I am bad with names. He says that there is nothing in the ground, and advises me to look up Abebooks.com. I don’t like the idea. I know of several compilations, but would like to pick and choose the ones that rekindle the fancies sparked off a quarter of a century earlier. He promises to be there at the shop in half an hour and give me the names of some suppliers. But, I would have to mail them for catalogues and books. I lunch at the Lord’s tavern, watch Alistair Cook pile up runs against a listless Indian – well, attack, in want of a better word. I wander around the stadium, take a look at Corey Colleymore bowling at the Northamptonshire openers, and make my way to the Lord’s shop yet again. I wait an hour, but the gentleman does not turn up as promised.
*
After Lord’s, I walk down Charing Cross Road and try to find Sportspages, a bookshop listed in a Cricinfo article on cricket books. I don’t find it. A shop attendant in a nearby outlet of Blackwells informs me that it has closed down. I potter about Quintos, Henry Pordes and Any Amount of Books. Cardus does not materialise, but I do find an autobiography by Swanton and cannot resist it. I clutch it as I board the train to Southampton.
*
From Southampton, my childhood friend, Partha, and I start for Birmingham. The match is all but over, but as the train makes its way north, men with picnic baskets and sun hats make their way into the carriages. Football may be the craze in England, but cricket has retained its passion and has been blessed with the separation of the grain of dedicated followers from the chaff of fans. Mainly through the filtering of private schools. Without exception, everyone wants Sachin Tendulkar to score his 100th hundred.
Tendulkar bats beautifully as wickets tumble one after another at the other end. He has century written all over his innings. As Dhoni walks out to bat, an English fan behind me says, “It will be over before tea.”
Partha and I turn around, “Tea? I wonder if it will go on till lunch.”
“Well, the master is still there,” the gentleman responds.
After a gem of a 40, Tendulkar departs in heartbreaking manner. Dhoni’s straight drive is deflected onto the wicket by Graeme Swann, with the maestro just short of his ground.
In his first important club fixture, Mailey had been pitted against the then magical idol of the cricketing world, Victor Trumper. After a few enchanting boundaries, the great man’s delightful innings was brought to an end when young Mailey bowled him with a googly. Mailey later admitted, “I was ashamed; it was as though I had killed a dove.” Will Swann, in the current day when winning is everything, voice the same?
Cardus once wrote, Hobbs out for 3 – good for Kent, but bad for the art of the most artistic of all games. I often wonder what he would have written about Tendulkar.
As he walks back, the stadium rises to its feet to applaud. “You deserved your hundred today, mate,” says an Englishman near me. Criticism of the master? Like the man himself, it is a curiosity that is unique to India.
Lunch is the time I snoop around to explore Edgbaston. Jonathan Trott speaks in an interview, flanked by stunning NPower girls, Bollywood music plays in stalls, people in fancy dress – from Asterix to a Giant Banana – line up in the food stalls. This is not the right place to hunt for Cardus.
*
Back in Partha’s Southampton home, I post one of the pictures I have captured of Tendulkar playing a defensive push off James Anderson – titling it Treasure Salvaged from the Ruins. Suvro emails me saying that to see that one forward defensive push by Tendulkar, he could forego a double hundred by Alastair Cook and a hundred by Ian Bell. Partisan? I would say connoisseur.
I spend the evening with Partha, watching Fire in Babylon. Vivian Richards hooks a ball over the fence after being struck on the face by the previous delivery, the four-pronged pace attack makes opponents bleed, bruise, bustle for cover, Bob Marley sings, “Get up, stand up. Stand up for your rights.” All that is connected. Cricket, as ever, is much more than a game.
*
The early end of the match leaves one day free in Southampton. I spend the Sunday afternoon in Emsworth, the quaint Hampshire village bordering West Essex, made famous by P.G. Wodehouse. I visit the Emsworth Museum and get hold of the map for a Wodehouse walk around the village. But, before I start, I notice a second hand book shop. There is a lady at the counter. I ask her about Cardus. She redirects me to Abebooks. I am pained.
However, I do like to make these second hand bookshops count. I walk away with the autobiography of Neil Harvey. It is because of cricketers of the thoroughbred order of Harvey that I have spent half a lifetime writing about the game, sometimes mixing it up with the higher art which has given Mozart t o the world, and Schubert.
(Arunabha Sengupta is trained from Indian Statistical Institute as a Statistician. He works as a Process Consultant, but cleanses the soul through writing and cricket, often mixing the two. His author site is at http://www.senantix.com and his cricket blogs at http:/senantixtwentytwoyards.blogspot.com)
Part three of “Chasing Cardus – The saga of a treasure hunt across England” will be published tomorrow, October 19, 2011
