2006
Sophie was sitting on a picnic rug with three other Crommelin WAGS, watching their respective husbands and sons play in their annual family rounders match. This hard-fought contest happened every year as one of the highlights of the group holiday, when the whole clan gathered in a large rented house in Devon. Both events were mandatory, although second-to-youngest brother Oliver and his wife, Liz, had got out of it some years before by moving to Singapore.
‘Well played!’ yelled Bella, wife of Thomas, when her fifteen-year-old son Hugo hit a long ball.
It sailed over the head of one of the younger cousins, who had been put way out as a distant fielder and now went to look for it with little method or enthusiasm.
‘Well done, Leaf,’ called out his mother, the wife of the youngest Crommelin, Conrad. ‘Very graceful.’
Sophie mentally rolled her eyes. Freya did it in real time.
Leaf’s mother, Willow, had tried to get the rounders match scrapped, because, she said, she and Conrad ‘didn’t believe in competitive sport’, but it had turned out that her husband’s Crommelin genes trumped her beliefs. He couldn’t resist an opportunity to triumph over his big brothers now that his younger age was an advantage rather than the handicap it had been through his childhood.
But none of them could stay infuriated with her for long. She was pregnant with her fourth baby, which was a big deal for all of them.
‘So, Willow,’ said Freya, ‘are you going to put us all out of our misery and find out the sex of this baby you’re carrying? Sebastian and I are longing to go to the mini-Glastonbury that Bella and Thomas have promised to throw if it’s a girl. I’m sure Thomas will be able to get Taylor Swift to headline, with the Rolling Stones and probably Elvis... They’re all on his payroll, aren’t they, Bella?’
Sophie couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for Bella, who was never quite sure whether Freya was complimenting or openly deriding her – and it was a fine balance, fuelled by an equal mix of affectionate teasing and retaliation for the constant boasting.
‘Well, he did meet Chris Martin at an event recently,’ said Bella, ‘so perhaps he could get Coldplay, but anyway, we’ll have the great DJs and party bands who do all our big dos, so come on, Willow, do tell us. It would be so wonderful for us all to have a little girl in the family.’
So far, their branch of Crommelins was on their third boys-only generation. Matt’s father had been one of seven brothers, his generation were five, and to date they had all had sons, so there were now twelve boy cousins, eleven of them old enough to play in this game, although two were let off by living on the other side of the world.
Sophie turned her attention back to the game, to see that after two more young ones had been summarily bowled out, Beau, who had just turned eight, was up for batting against the fifteen-year-old. It was an unfortunate pairing. Hugo was a bit of a bully, making no allowances for younger boys up against bowling skills honed on the cricket pitches of his elite school.
‘Come on, Hugo,’ Bella called out, to Sophie’s irritation. The older boy hardly needed encouragement when facing a child nearly half his age who, Sophie knew, hated this rounders match more than anything else in his life.
Jack loved games, but Beau really didn’t. He wasn’t very co-ordinated and – probably more importantly – he just didn’t care. He hadn’t inherited the Crommelin win-or-die spirit, but had no choice but to go through this each year.
Sophie wanted to run over and bat for him, but she could see by the expression on her son’s face that he was determined to do his best. Jack had already scored some rounders and Beau didn’t want to be the one to let his dad down.
‘Loser,’ said Hugo, when Beau failed to make any contact with the first throw, but it was a Crommelin rule that batters under the age of ten got the best of three balls.
Hugo bowled again, a terrifying spin that Beau jumped out of the way of.
‘What a wimp!’ said Hugo.
The little shit. Sophie had to restrain herself. She glanced over at Bella to see if she’d noticed that her teenage son was terrorising a much younger boy, but her sister-in-law was beaming with delight, no doubt congratulating herself that the school fees were worth every penny.
Thomas had a little more compassion.
‘No fast bowling, Hugo,’ he shouted across the field. ‘This is a friendly match, not Eton/Harrow. Save your best spins for that. Just make sure you’re in the First bloody Eleven next year.’
He’d got a little boast in, Sophie noted, but she was touched he’d intervened.
Beau’s face was tight with concentration as Hugo prepared to send out the third and final bowl and Sophie was delighted – and somewhat amazed – to see the bat connect perfectly with the ball, which flew high into the air and sailed across the field.
The problem was that no one was more surprised than Beau, who just stood there watching it soar away.
‘Run, you little hero,’ yelled Sebastian, captain of Beau’s team, and in his confusion, Beau started running the wrong way round the posts as the rest of his team screamed at him and the other side roared with laughter. Hugo was actually clutching his sides.
Ha bloody ha, thought Sophie.
Then out of nowhere came Matt, scooping his son up under one arm like a stolen piglet and running round the posts, not once but twice, before one of his nephews on the opposing team fielded the ball back to a now furious Hugo at the stumps.
‘That’s bloody cheating,’ he was saying. ‘That’s not a rounder! Your team should lose points for that, it’s pathetic. Beau can’t even run. It’s a miracle he ever hit it. He’s pathetic.’
Thomas approached his oldest son with a stern expression on his face. ‘That was a champion bit of sportsmanship from the Blue Team,’ he said. ‘A great hit by Beau and true teamwork so, as the head of the family, I declare them the winners, on creativity as well as points. And you, my boy, need to learn to think more laterally. You won’t get anywhere in life thinking in a box. It’s not the Crommelin way.’
That was the ultimate reproof and, looking suitably admonished, Hugo went over to sit with his mother, who immediately raided the picnic basket for him.
Beau came rushing over to Sophie.
‘Did you see, Mummy?’ he said. ‘I whacked it.’
‘You certainly did,’ said Sophie, hugging him. ‘And you scored two rounders.’
‘With Dad’s help,’ said Beau, looking a bit uncertain.
‘You did it the Crommelin way,’ said Sophie. ‘You heard what Uncle Thomas said.’
Beau looked happy again and scampered off to join his cousins. Sophie stood up and went over to Matt, who was emptying a bottle of water down his throat. She put her arms round him from behind and laid her cheek on his back. His t-shirt was quite wet with sweat. She liked it.
He turned round and hugged her back, lifting her chin up and kissing her on the lips.
‘You,’ said Sophie, looking up at him, so handsome with his cheeks all pink from running, ‘are the best dad in the world.’