Lawry and Red Faces
By KENNETH GREGORY `-n NGLAND can score 900,' boomed the Daily .UExpress on the first morning of the Lord's Test. If cricketers were allowed as many innings as baseball players it would not have been far out; in the event it miscalculated by a mere 492 runs. The Times forecast that England would get all the runs they wanted; the Observer rejoiced in the lustre of our batting; uncle Jim Swanton in the Telegraph gazed into his crystal and beheld an England victory. Unfortunately none of the prophets had applied a spirit level to the pitch; if South Africa's Adcock or West Indies' Hall had been attacking, the casualty department of University College Hospital would have had to cancel all leave.
Within a few overs of the start it was apparent that Davidson, Australia's malade imaginaire, could make the good-length ball lift chest-high. Had an old man called Lindwall, who the previ- ous day had demonstrated his exquisite control of late swing in the Authors' annual match against the National Book League, been in opera- tion at the other end England would have been hard pressed to score 100. As it was. Misson and McKenzie revealed their unawareness of WG's advice to their tribe—'Bowl straight'—and Eng- land jogged comfortably along until Dexter obliged with a perfect little chip to short leg. A lunch score of 87 for 3 looked bad and might, had not Australia missed three catches, have been worse. Now the sun came out and The Queen arrived, a Test match at Lord's was duly acco- laded and I marvelled at the batting strength of the press box which went something like: Hut- ton, Fingleton, Worrell, Compton, Hassett, Miller. Their literary styles, it turned out, ranged between the Financial Times and James Hadley Chase.
Outside the pavilion the wearer of an OE tie closed Nicolson on Diplomacy and sought refuge in Peter Simple; Mr. Jimmy Hill wore a red car- nation and looked as though he might be contem- plating action on behalf of those spectators who were banned from listening to their radios. This new MCC edict was apparently in deference to the wishes of members who wished to sleep with- out being wakened by Mr. Arlott's commentary. After Her Majesty had shaken hands with the players—if she met the great W. H. Ponsford in the Long Room I trust he was tactful enough not to remind her of how her grandfather once arrived at a crucial moment, broke his concentra- tion and occasioned the irreverent scorebook entry: Ponsford, c Hammond b George V 81 —the game continued. England's batsmen con- tinued to get out as the Royal Standard hung lazily over their dressing room, and it said much for The Queen's devotion to duty that she re- mained for two hours before leaving to entertain Dr. Billy Graham to tea. If a Royal diary is kept : `We would never dream of allowing our dear horses to race on a ploughed field. . .
Friday, 'June. 23, will for ever linger in the memories of those 32,000 who packed Lord's. The sun shone—the temperature at 12 GMT ex- ceeded that in Calcutta—Statham bowled mag- nificently and Australia lost four wickets for 88. But a tall, pale-faced cove from Melbourne, Lawry, played one of the greatest of all Test in- nings. Hobbs or Trumper might have been more commanding, Hammond or Bradman more ruth- less and Kippax more stylish, but these qualities go for little on a pitch where a fast bowler can make the ball move about as a Bedser might on the sands at Margate. Lawry watched Harvey and O'Neill go, and knew that he alone stood between Australia and disaster. If he was en- dowed with luck—as if Dame Margot were called upon to dance on a loose-fitting carpet—he did what only the most illustrious of fighters do in adversity, he forgot the ball which had just beaten him and concentrated on the next. As the day wore on he seemed as eternal as Mrs. Christie's Mousetrap advertised on the back of the score- card; he even caused one patriot with a bottle marked 'Haig' to take his refreshment undiluted. When he finally succumbed after a vigil of more than six hours the ground rose to him. 'The Australian is ever a great fighter, wrote Cardus, `whether in battle for England or at cricket against her.'
Saturday began as comedy and developed into a most sordid domestic drama. Australia pros- pered until nearly one o'clock, with Mackay giving the strike to the number eleven Misson. As Misson has opened for New South Wales his immaculate defence should not perhaps have sur- prised me. Indeed, I suspected that Misson might well have gone on to score a century had not Mackay miscued and loped off with the air of one who has been betrayed by some stage hand opening a trapdoor beneath him.
England's second innings spread depression over NW8, and concentrated it around a door marked 'Gentlemen' where, at 3.25 p.m., 127 males were queuing. Cowdrey played the worst stroke of his career, a real collector's piece; Pullar flashed as one who is racing the clock; Dexter tried a hook only to see the ball bounce off his person on to the stumps. Even so, it was a Perambulators' stroke and not one which the greatest of all number threes would have risked with his side still 70 in arrears and with two and a half days left for play. As the crowd dispersed, a military type took comfort from a notice which read that on July 10 Royal Artillery are playing Royal Engineers. 'Good chaps, those Engineera.' Pause, and then, `So are the Artillery.'
But consider Monday when Statham and Trueman, the artillery of England, struck back. My notes read incoherently: McKenzie leads Australians in, five for thirty-seven. Miller in embryo; Grout's eighth catch of game, prehen- sile as Talton; enemy jubilant, only sixty-nine to win. Brimstone atmosphere, take aspirin, Statham and Trueman rampant. McDonald wonderfully caught by lllingworth, fifteen for one; Lawry out, fifteen for two; O'Neill's off stump disappears (see Barrie: 'One in his first innings, not so successful in his second'), Harvey touches outswinger, nineteen for four. Lock's fantastic effort to catch Burge; shrieks; lunch, appetite ruined. Game resumed, silence as True- man runs up. West Country voice: 'Wait till Aussies get to Taunton, Somerset'll fox 'em,' Simpson out at fifty-eight. Burge faces Statham, prodigious hook; next ball rears up at face, pulled to boundary (think of Marciano counter- ing uppercut with right hook), Australia home by five wickets.
Ground clears, MCC send out team of Emett- like men with theodolites. Verdict: not only is there a ridge at the nursery end, but also at the pavilion end. RIP.
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