If revenge is a dish best served chilled, then surely self-righteousness is a dish best not served at all.
Most went deep into Mrs. Digby’s vegetable patch. Some became stuck on the roof of the Forelock Arms. And some again ended up in the greenhouse of a nearby cottage.
“And I’m not giving it you back!” shouted Mr. Gibbs as he picked the cricket ball up underneath the broken window.
“It’s not his fault,” said Stephen the glazier, who had come to put the putty in the following day. “Finn Brownlee just loves his batting.”
“I am sorry, but I couldn’t care less. Nobody said anything about the cricket club when we bought the bloody house. All these cricket balls are really beginning to nark me off.”
“How many do you actually have?”
“Fifteen so far.”
“Seriously? – Why haven’t you thrown them away?”
“If I’m honest, I hate waste.”
“Will you let me have a look?”
In a corner of the greenhouse was a grotty, old chest of drawers, much soiled and cobwebbed.
Mr. Gibbs tugged at the bottom drawer.
“Wow!” said Stephen, picking out one of the used balls. “That one there is the charcoal special.”
“The charcoal what?”
“They are quite a rarity.”
“How do you know about them?”
“Followed the game for years. Though, I don’t play myself.”
“I don’t understand how you could watch it! As far as I’m concerned, it’s a total waste of a Sunday.”
“Thought you Saffers were almost obsessed with the cricket as you were with rugger.”
“Don’t get me started on the rugby. It’s never been the same since they introduced quotas.”
“Tell you what,” said Stephen, brightening. “I can recycle these balls for you if you want.”
“As long as they go to a good home. Like I said, I hate waste.”
Stephen finished puttying in the window and handed Mr. Gibbs the bill.
He glanced at it and said:
“Rest assured, I’ll be sending this on to the Brownlees. By rights, they are the one who should be paying it.”
Stephen was in the Forelock Arms that night where Mr. Good was drinking at the bar with John Brownlee and Colin.
“Stephen,” he said, “haven’t seen you for a while. Fancy turning out for us on Sunday?”
“Thanks, Gerald. It’s not for me, as you know.”
He sipped his beer.
“Can I interest you in a supply of slightly used cricket balls?”
“That would be good,” said the captain of the Forlan Team, turning to his drinking companion. “Don’t you agree, John? We always need more net balls.”
“Finn will be over the moon I am sure,” said John Brownlee.
Mr. Gibbs was relaxing with a Gilroy’s Serious in his conservatory when the ball crashed through the window.
“I don’t bloody believe it.”
As he picked up the ball, a sense of familiarity came over him.
“You complete utter bastard. This time it’s going on the braai[1].”
[1]South African for barbecue. Much like their test team when they tour. – Lance.
Haha, mate! The English team can limbo under anything. – Beef.