Deadly Cricket

A short dark story, set in Thailand

I FELT GREAT after the cricket match in Bangkok. My housemaster, who is also head of games at my fancy school, stood in the door of the pavilion and bellowed, ‘Well done, Bell, that was first class. If you do that against Chiang Mai next week, I’ll give you your colours.’

‘Thank you very much, sir.’

‘And Bell,’ he took his hands off the top of the pavilion door, and came over to me, filling up all the space he was so tall, ‘we might still get you into the first team if you go on playing like that.’ He stared straight at me with his blue eyes and slapped me hard on the back.

‘Wow, great sir, certainly easier than this school’s exams.’

‘Don’t get too cocky, boy.’

I was trying to make the first team next term, and you had to be a real star to get in. But as I was just thirteen, I could always try again. One of my friends who had been watching the cricket, Potts, came over to me and said, ‘That was great, Daeng, 39, excellent runs, well done.’ He thumped me on the back, too.

‘Even our delectable Matron cheered at one of your fours,’ Beard, the vice-captain, said.

After showers, I was combing my hair in the mirror and Miss Gifford, the Matron, said, ‘You’d better get your hair cut, or you’ll look like a rock star or better still a film star like your mum, won’t you?’ I laughed and went red because she looked at me like a pin-up model. My dark brown hair goes fairer in the hot season, and last holiday, Billy’s sister said it looked sexy.

We always had a special snack after cricket with the other team in the school hall, looking out at the cricket pitch, the tak-raw court and the female teacher’s garden. I enjoyed the look of the wicket in summer; everything was pristine every season. Khun Job, one of the gardeners, went past and put his thumbs up and wai’d at me. That made me feel special. He loved cricket and knew everything about the wood in bats. I never wanted to go to this snooty school, but few schools in Thailand played cricket. I just wanted to stay here, play cricket, and dream about touching Miss Noi everywhere, even when she had no clothes on. I get excited whenever I think about her shapely body.

It was now the weekend, so I left school and took the bus home. I was pleased except that my mother didn’t come to watch me play and drive us home. She normally does it on a Saturday because we don’t live too far away, and she likes shopping in Bangkok. Everyone here likes her, and my Thai teacher’s ears always turned red when he talked about her. The headmaster comes out of his room when he sees her and says, ‘Excuse me, how is that racy sports car flying, Mrs Bell?’ And when she looked at him and smiled, you could tell it made him feel fine because his nose started wiggling.

I bought a chocolate bar at the Bangkok bus station and looked for some girls to watch. As the bus passed Petchaburi, I wondered why my mother hadn’t come. I wanted her to watch me play. I knew she was watching everything I did, and even my fielding got quicker when she was there. From the bus window, I watched a golfer hit a golf ball on the Hua Hin golf course. I hated golf. A stupid little ball could go anywhere with a big hit. In cricket, everything is a skill, especially when you’re a medium-pace bowler like me. But I don’t always bowl because I’m even better as a wicketkeeper.

My mother used to be an actress. She was so good that she could have gone to England’s Pinewood, everyone said. My father, who is much older and very ill, served as the advisor to Bhandit Rittakol’s film company. He met my mother when she was acting in one of Mr Rittakol’s films.

My father had been married before in England, and his wife had drowned somewhere. I don’t know what happened; I’m not allowed to mention it.

When I grow up, I’m going to make films because I love looking at the starlets. And cine-films. I was in the photography club at school, and my Thai uncle was going to buy me a really good camera at Christmas. Mother stopped acting when she had me. We live in a big house outside Hua Hin. My father doesn’t work anymore, but I think we’re rich. My mother once said to me, ‘My dearest son, you’re always rich as long as there’s enough money for a Sang Som in the cocktail bar at The Dusit.’ My father heard her and told her off.

My mother got ill when she drank a lot and shouted at me. When she was like this, she never looked at me. Last weekend, she was staring into the garden, ‘The grass needs cutting, that bloody gardener.’ But it had only been cut the day before and it looked beautiful. Sometimes I feel alone with the person who is my mother, but not my mother. I wondered why she didn’t come to watch me today.

I looked out the bus window at Market Road. I knew Ni wouldn’t be there because it was a Saturday. Ni went to the Catholic school, and I used to talk to her on the bus going home. She teased me because she was a bit older and knew all about kissing and touching. One day, the bus was quiet, and she just said, ‘Do you want to kiss me?’

‘Okay, I suppose so.’

The first time our teeth knocked. We did it a few times over the next few weeks, and it got better. Then she wasn’t on the bus anymore. One of her friends said that her mother had started to pick her up in the car.

It was getting dark and cloudy. But I wasn’t that sad not to see Ni again. I’d gained a lot of experience, and my friends at school were impressed. It was different with Sin. She was the sister of a boy at school. We used to write to other boys’ sisters. She was now at boarding school in England. Then I met her during the holidays. Sin’s brother was one of my good friends, and I stayed with him and his family at their cottage in London.

Sin and I liked each other straight away. She had short, dark hair and lovely eyelashes and looked brilliant in her tennis dress – and she could play nearly as well as a boy.

Her brother lost his temper with me. We couldn’t help it when we looked at each other, wow. I don’t mean sex. I mean, I looked at her, and all the world went still. It just stopped spinning. And you felt more fantastic than you ever did. Everything was perfect and still, like a game of cricket, no more, but you weren’t afraid of anything when you looked at someone like that, and they looked at you too. We did kiss and went further than ever, but it was the look that was great.

Their father worked for an oil company. ‘My father has to go to the Philippines to blow something up.’ And they took Ni with them and sent her to an embassy school. That was three months ago. And she hasn’t written. And her brother won’t give me her address. I can’t stand him anymore. I’m not usually like that with friends.

When I got off the bus at Hua Hin, I looked for my mother.

Sometimes she just arrived. She’d guess which bus I was on. All the drivers were very polite and friendly to her. But she wasn’t here today. It was a long walk home. I was always allowed to take a taxi from the bus station. My father was good like that. We discussed things properly and worked out what was right and how much pocket money I should have.

‘You see, old chap, you have to make a good argument to me, and then we’ll see.’ He didn’t do that much now because he was so ill.

I walked because I felt a bit travel sick and funny. Too much match Coke, I guess. I stopped before the house. The long hedge, I think it is called a Christina bush, had been cut by our gardener, Khun Phop. He always came on his motorbike with plants at the back. I called out ‘Phop, Khun Phop,’ but no one was around. Our house was a large teak house with four huge windows at the front, letting in acres of light. My mother wanted to live at Palm Hill, where she had lived before she got married to my father. ‘We’re not living in Hollywood by the Lake,’ my father told her.

‘I’m home.’ There wasn’t any sound. Even Punter, my dog, didn’t come out to bark hi. My feet made no noise over the little tiles. They were mosaics or something. My mother had them put in. My stomach felt bad now. It was always dark in the hallway, like being a prisoner in a huge dungeon. There was no one in the dining room or sitting room. I went through the long hallway to the kitchen.

‘Darling, hello.’ My mother’s hand slipped from a tumbler of whisky, and she puffed up her silk nightdress round the shoulders.

‘What are you drinking? You look terrible.’

‘Oh, do sit down, old chap.’ My father spoke very slowly, and the words came out all muddled. His white hair needed combing, and he’d spilt food down his silk pyjama shirt.

‘Your nose is all red.’ I stared at him and wanted to kick his walking frame over. He was drinking whisky too. ‘You look like a couple of alcoholics.’

‘Oh, the correct plod is home again,’ my mother sneered. She tried to put a cigarette in her mouth, first on one side of her lips and then the other. Her lips were all cracked.

‘I had a great game of cricket today, you know.’

‘Oh God, can’t you think of anything but your sport?’ She stared but didn’t see me at all. Lots of little veins throbbed in her cheeks.

‘Why can’t you tell her to stop drinking, Dad? Why not?’

‘Oh, what a little drama queen.’ My mother put her fists up at me.

‘Shush, shush,’ my father said. His eyes were hazy like they had a lace curtain over them. And he had a circle of white around his irises, which I’d never seen before.

‘Shut up, both of you.’ She flung her arms in the air and looked like Dracula had kissed her. ‘I’m going out.’ She slammed the door and threw a glass in the hall. The sound spread all over the mosaic floor. ‘I hate that little bastard.’

I was afraid. I phoned the doctor. It rang for ages, but no one answered. The house felt empty. I was lonely, and my father looked as if he were about to be sent off to Madame Tussaud’s. I don’t think the lace curtains over his eyes were ever going to come down anymore.

Then I saw her rush across the lawn. She had shoes on now and a shawl, but I could tell she was still wearing her nightdress. Where was she going? Why? My mouth was dry. I might never see her again. I followed her. It was nice being outside. It was still a bit sunny, and the light wind felt friendly. ‘Meh, Khun Meh, why don’t you come back, have a cup of coffee and a chat with both of us, oh come on.’

She walked fast. ‘Go away,’ she flicked her hand at me. ‘Go back to your cricket, you spoilt brat, I’m going for a long walk. Leave me alone.’ She shouted the last words so loud that anyone could have heard. It was horrible. I couldn’t think of films anymore. She went towards the little local village. Luckily, no one saw her, and then she turned down a footpath. It got windier. I couldn’t think any more about the nice day I’d had or my friends or girls or anything. I was only wearing my sports shirt, and I was boiling.

‘Please slow down a bit,’ I pleaded. She turned around and threw stones at me. I stopped dead. ‘Oh, stop being so silly, will you?’

She lifted her head slowly and tossed it back. Bits of hair escaped from her bow like corkscrews on either side of her face. ‘Do you think it’s “silly,” you stupid little boy,’ she bent down and dug up a patch of weedy earth, ‘to be yourself, to have to escape from all you bastards just to be yourself.’

She flung the earth at me and nearly tottered over. I cried now, not with all my face, but with loads of tears coming straight out of my eyes. I couldn’t help it. She stared at me like I wasn’t her son at all. ‘You pathetic little boy.’ I couldn’t say anything. She held her fist straight out in front of her and turned it round and round. Then she rushed off the footpath and into the wasteland. She fell over and got up. I could see she’d cut her knee. I couldn’t move. I watched everything.

It was about seven now, and wispy clouds had covered up the sun.

My mother ran through the sandy ground, fell over again and got up. She turned round. Straggly plants were moving all around her. Yellow weeds and straggling ugly things were shushing about in the wind. Behind the footpath, on Cha Am Road, all kinds of trees were dodging in the wind. My mum’s grey hair flew around. Everything was just moving. It was horrible. My mum shouted at me, but I couldn’t hear what she said. Nothing was ever going to stop doing all these separate things. I knew now that my mum was doing what she had to do, like pulling weeds and dealing with stinging insects. I knew we were all weeds. Houses and schools and cricket and love were all pretend. You could never stop everything going on the way it had to. Not even in films. I felt sick.

I saw her rush into the railway station and jump on a train. She never looked around for me. I stood outside the station in the quiet by a tree. I was calmer, but when I looked, everything was different. I wish Ni had been here. I could have looked into her eyes. Then I was sad because it was probably all pretend.

“Monkeyface,” the name we gave to one of the railway guys, came over to me. I’d never really liked him as much as the others. ‘You look worried, son.’ He looked into my eyes. His teeth were yellow and cracked. But he went on looking at me like he cared. ‘Was that your mum? Don’t worry, she’s an actress, she’ll be alright.’ I looked back at him. I might have smiled or blushed. ‘Do you want a cup of coffee?’ He put one leg behind the other. ‘I’m off now, I’ll make you a nice cup of brew, shall I?’ He nodded his big head up and down. ‘You know I’ve got a famous train set, don’t you?’

‘Okay,’ I smiled. I thought of my dad. I hoped he was dead when I got home. I didn’t ever want to go home. Monkeyface looked at me like he cared. The world felt slow again. I wasn’t so sick inside anymore.

When I got home, my father had a plastic bag over his head. Later, my mother got arrested.

I read the scores in the Australia v England test match. Dreaming of what could be.

The END

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