Junior leaders
Roy Hattersley T should not have been surprised to discover that The Spectator has a profound influence on village life — a happy state of affairs which was illustrated last Friday evening immediately before the start of our junior fell races. As the young contestants were lining up, I was handed a box and a sealed envelope. The box contained a revolver and inside the envelope there was a note about how the weapon should be employed. George V once suggested that a similar gift be made to officers of the household division, whose pleasures he regarded as deviant. Happily, the letter which was addressed to me did not suggest that I go into the garden and blow my brains out. Instead, it asked me to accept the donation of a starting pistol and use it in place of the clay-pigeon launcher with which — as reported in this column a month ago — I have imperilled my fingers at the beginning of the last seven fell races.
The benefactors were Baker, Shepherd and Gillespie 'ecological consultants', who, in their own words, were the 'offenders' responsible for the 'pyrotechnic display' which, as described in the same issue of the paper, provoked angry correspondence in our parish magazine. They were making amends, and gratitude for their act of contrition prevents me from even mentioning the inconsistency of 'celebrating ten years of successful ecological consultancy' by polluting the atmosphere with fireworks. I simply admit that, after the lady who started the junior races had fired the pistol without doing herself an injury, I carried it around the playing field with the aggressive swagger of Jesse James.
The senior fell race was, as always, efficiently organised and swiftly run. The junior events — earlier in the evening — were run in about the same time, though over shorter distances, and completed in equally good order. Admittedly, the prize for the first girl home in the under-16s' race was not awarded fort disappointing, reason that no girl took part. Indeed, there were only three boys on the starting line. But the under-12s more than made up for the regrettable absence of adolescent support. The youngest contestants possessed a quality with which neither the adult, nor the adolescent, event could compete. The wiry men and women in the livery of famous harriers' clubs and the freelance runners — one of whom wore the briefest briefs, apparently made from a union flag — lacked the charm of Charlie, a girl of about six who ran in what looked like a deerstalker, and seven-year-old Fay, who wore a pink cardigan. Fay, I was assured, was an accomplished and experienced runner. If so, her coach encourages what can only be described as the classical style. Participants in the major race prepared for the off by half crouching and leaning slightly forward. Fay, concentrating on a quick getaway, stood erect with her left arm thrust out before her as if she was pointing the way to the distant finishing tape. I think that a Greek athlete in the Elgin Marbles assumes the same dramatic posture.
The most junior of the junior races was a family affair in as much as the participants had to be accompanied by what lawyers call a parent or guardian. And many siblings competed against each other. William, aged eight, and Alex, six, loyally evaded divisive questions about which of the brothers had done best. They preferred to talk about the hazards of the course, which included bullocks, cow-dung and nettles. But not all the runners regarded taking part as more important than winning a medal. Sevenyear-old Grace wore her bronze medal throughout the longueurs which always divide the completion of the senior race from the announcement of the various winners. Asked if she could recall the time it had taken her to complete the course, she tapped her forehead theatrically and, after a moment of counterfeit concentration, said, 'Twenty-one minutes and nought-point-six seconds.' The precision of her answer illustrated one of the reasons why the very junior race had had such a whimsical attraction. It combined a family outing with some of the trappings of the Olympic Games. Each participant's time was checked on a digital stopwatch and all the contestants wore a number which in some cases covered their entire shirts.
I would quote the numbers worn by Charlie, Fay, William, Alex and Grace, but I fear getting them wrong. Having caused great offence by writing, a couple of weeks ago, that our art show was run by the parish council, when in truth it was organised by the village institute, I am anxious not to err again. The reproof which I received for my mistake was one of only two blemishes on an otherwise perfect English summer evening. The other followed my injunctions to the senior runners: 'On your marks. Get set.' When I pulled the trigger of the new starting pistol, nothing happened.
Roy Hattersley, 2007
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