It may have been our last match of all upon the square smooth Brensham ground; for the field had been part of the Colonel’s farm - he had let us have it rent free - and the astute Syndicate had made a quick re-sale. An aircraft factory, recently built near Elmbury, was growing almost as fast as the mushrooms were in the muggy autumn weather; a site was needed for its ‘satellite’ which would manufacture small components. The Syndicate took a profit of two thousand pounds which perhaps they patriotically invested in aircraft shares. While we played our last game, lorries full of drainpipes were already trundling past the cricket-field along a new cinder road. It was a curious, uncomfortable match, and I had a sharp sense of unreality even when I was batting: for once it didn’t seem to matter if one hit the ball or missed it. We played four short and without our captain; for Sammy Hunt, at the age of sixty-one, had gone back to sea. Billy Butcher during the morning had got very drunk in the Horse Narrow; and at closing-time, dismally reciting Housman, he had gone off to Elmbury to ‘list for a soldier.
