John McPartlin writes about his friend and teammate Brian Palmer, who died last week.
They should have
written a novel about him.
Brian Palmer, who
died last week, was my cricketing team mate at Holy Cross Academicals
for over two decades and was, in so many ways, a unique character.
For those who played
against him he was instantly unforgettable – battered panama hat,
baggy Aran sweater almost to his knees, and a joyful RP accent which
would ring out delightfully in places as diverse as Myreside and
Armadale, Fauldhouse and Falkland.
When he first came
to play for Cross, his appearance – the result of long hair and
some Chinese heritage, allied to our well known eclectic recruitment
approach – led to some puzzlement: “Have you lot got an Eskimo
playing for you now?”
But – and these
are strange times to make such a reference – he was one of a breed
of slightly dishevelled, witty, and intellectually sharp, English
public schoolboys who tend to inspire affection rather than disdain,
because their style is underpinned by a basic kindness, tolerance and
empathy. He was, in the language he would have used himself, a decent
bloke, and you could not help but value his company and enjoy his
wisdom.
In one game, he was
fielding at short midwicket, when a full blooded pull shot went over
his shoulder, whistling past his ear. He never flinched – indeed
never showed any indication that he was aware of the ball’s
passage. It was only when he became slowly aware of the verbally
expressed disappointment of bowler and team mates that he stirred
himself.
“Sorry, Skip – I
was thinking about life!”
His batting betrayed
some solid coaching – probably at Cheltenham School, and as a
bowler, always with shirt sleeves remaining buttoned, he gave little
away. However, the energy required for athletic fielding was largely
beyond him.
As a captain, he was
tactically aware and a good man manager – up to a point. His
philosophical approach to the game often led to a period of
reflection and self absorption after he was out, especially if it was
a cheap dismissal, which he often referred to as “like losing the
love of a good woman”. While we may have been waiting for some
strategic advice, he would amble away to a distant spot on the
boundary where he would remain for a time, hunched over in thought,
puffs of smoke rising from the inevitable roll up, as he considered
the vagaries of fate. Our resident voluble Yorkshireman would berate
him “We wanted your instructions but you were away in Eeyore’s
Gloomy Place”. The reply to this would be a tolerant smile.
This interplay
between Yorkshire and Hampshire revealed all of Brian’s noble
patience. Often wincing at the volume and crass nature of the
remarks which issued forth, Brian would occasionally mutter a quiet
“Oh, really!” with raised eyes, but more often enjoy a quiet
chortle at the wit employed.
After our playing
days were over, half a dozen of us instituted a regular dinner date.
We originally entitled ourselves the “Old Farts”, but Brian
re-named us the “Old Bores” – typically more tasteful but just
as accurate.
Brian would organise
menu and drinks for those meals which were hugely enjoyable,
involving reminiscence, wit and friendship, all of which Brian, quiet
by nature, greatly appreciated, even though they became more raucous
as the night went on. He would sit there, eyes twinkling, quietly
enthused by the comradeship he had engendered.
And, against the
odds, often these get togethers took on a more reflective tone –
celebrating our years together, remembering those we had lost, and
sometimes developing more serious themes. Brian’s account of the VC
his father won, in the Great War at Courcellette on the Somme, held
the table in awe – his wonderment at his dad’s bravery
demonstrating his ongoing affection for the father he lost when he
was very young.
Like cricket itself,
those meals were a heady coming together of celebrations – of
friendship, memories, life choices, the profane and the emotional,
the funny and the sad. Part of Brian’s talent was that he had the
skill and humility to be a gentle enabler of such an all
encompassing mixture – of people and subjects.
Brian was a writer
as well as a university lecturer, and his writing mirrored his
character – moving, witty, articulate and insightful – all skills
which were verbally mirrored perfectly in his tour de force after
dinner speeches. We would often swap pieces we had written and his
comments would be kind, positive, accurate and inevitably helpful.
On and off the cricket field he was not a man to flatter, but his
praise carried the weight of intelligence and integrity.
But I suppose my
main reason for writing this tribute comes from my appreciation of
his kindness – and in particular one such incident that brought me
great joy.
Like most of our
generation, we were romantic about the game of cricket, its
traditions and its lore. I had often talked with him about the
game’s origins at Broadhalfpenny Down at Hambledon in Hampshire –
Brian’s home turf as it were. Having relations in the area I had
actually visited the ground once and been awed by its untamed
position on the edge of the downs, the Bat and Ball pub still
overlooking the field. “Imagine playing there in the steps of all
those early pioneers!” we used to muse through the years.
Well, with his local
connections, Brian eventually organised a tour of Hampshire and the
south west for Holy Cross, and though I could not make the entire
week, he made sure I would play at Hambledon.
It was a surreal
experience – to step out on to the rough turf where the game I
loved had been played for centuries. In the dressing room before the
game, Brian and I caught each other’s eye. “Oh God,” he said,
“I’ve never been this nervous before a game in my life.” I was
feeling exactly the same and it was a lovely moment to be treasured.
We both knew!
The Bat and Ball X1
captain seemed rather nonplussed to be playing this motley crew of
cricketers – the first Scottish team to play at Broadhalfpenny, and
with a name like Holy Cross Academicals!We were desperate not to let
our country down and, despite an acute awareness of the occasion,
gave a decent account of ourselves.
With two balls left
in our innings we lost a wicket. I was next in – I was going to bat
at Broadhalfpenny Down!
As I headed from the
pavilion, the home captain exploded: “Oh for God’s sake, there’s
only one ball left, what’s the point!”
Brian as skipper
stood up and shouted: “Oh let him have his bat!”. In other
circumstances it may have sounded patronising, in Brian’s case it
was kindness. He knew!
Having survived my
only ball at Hambledon, I was absolutely delighted to capture the
opposition captain’s wicket with my best ever caught and bowled
during the home side’s innings. I dedicated that to Brian!
In another
quintessential Palmer move, he called on his great friend, Chris
Kerr, to bowl an over or so of his leg breaks. Having a shoulder
injury, Chris would have to bowl underarm – bringing much
excitement to the local statistician who opined that it was the first
time underarm bowling had been seen at Hambledon in almost two
hundred years – another magical moment.
Others will have
many more tales of Brian from the wider elements of his highly
accomplished life – but that kindness, tolerance and understanding
has always resonated for me in the limited areas in which our lives
overlapped.
At Broadhalfpenny,
the clouds gathered and evening rain swept in across the downs,
ensuring an honour satisfying drawn game. Leaving the field, I paused
to take in the moment – a life highlight made possible by Brian’s
kindness.
Far below as the
Hampshire Downs swept away from us, in the gathering gloaming, there
were the lights of many tractors as they hurried to try and save the
hay before the rain ruined their chances.
It was positively
Hardy-esque, a goosebumps moment.
And it occurs to me,
if that novel about Brian had ever been written, Thomas Hardy would
have been the man to do it, featuring this unique man rooted in a
solid landscape to which he remained honest and true – his father’s
son, his own man, but a friend to so many.
I am so glad I knew
this most decent of blokes – and, with affection, I will miss his
wisdom, wit, and kindness.
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