The batsman came a step out of his crease and killed it neatly. He tapped the ball back up the net. Richardson, at Krishna’s side, growled, ‘Keep a length, now, that’s all--just keep a length.’Krishna stepped off his run. That last ball had been about three inches over length. If he had been at the crease he’d have taken an extra half step down the pitch and driven it straight. Still, it was wonderful to be playing cricket again, the smell of linseed oil heavy on the summer air ... and at the Oval, after Lord’s the most famous cricket ground in the world.He bowled again, exactly of a length. ‘That’s reet,’ Richardson muttered, and to the batsman, ‘Get tha’ head reet over t’ ball, lad!’Krishna walked back, ball in hand. Glancing up, he could see his room in the little convalescent home. From that window, as soon as he came here a month ago, at first sitting, then leaning on the sill, he had watched the daily net practice of the Surrey team. He had recognized the classic style of Jack Hobbs even though the nets were too far away for him to recognize his features: there was only one man in the world who stepped down the pitch with that flowing grace, whose bat flashed as decisively off the front foot as off the back.
