Denis Compton E-Book

Tim Heald

• Herausgeber: Dean Street Press
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

Description Denis Compton was one of England's -indeed cricket's -greatest batsmen. In the summer of 1947 alone he scored 18 hundreds. A flashing strokeplayer who could take any bowling attack apart, he also played football at the highest level, winning an FA Cup-winners medal with Arsenal. The original 'Brylcreem Boy', perhaps British sport's first true media personality, Compton cut a dashing figure, and when he died was mourned as the kind of cricketer whose like we shall never see again. 'Never have I been so deeply touched on a cricket ground as I was in this heavenly summer when I went to Lord's to see a pale-faced crowd existing on rations, the rocket bomb still in the ears of most folk -see this worn, dowdy crowd watching Compton. The strain of long years of anxiety and affliction passed from all hearts at the sight of Compton in full sail... There were no rations in an innings by Compton' Neville Cardus 'Compton was not the last of the double internationals, but he was the greatest' Michael Parkinson

Leseprobe

Tim HealdDenis ComptonTHE AUTHORIZED BIOGRAPHY

Denis Compton was one of England’s – indeed cricket’s – greatest batsmen. In the summer of 1947 alone he scored 18 hundreds. A flashing strokeplayer who could take any bowling attack apart, he also played football at the highest level, winning an FA Cup-winners medal with Arsenal. The original ‘Brylcreem Boy’, perhaps British sport’s first true media personality, Compton cut a dashing figure, and when he died was mourned as the kind of cricketer whose like we shall never see again.

Author's Note

I am writing this more than eight years after Denis Compton’s death, and a dozen since he helped me write my biography of him which was published in 1994. In 1994 Compton’s life was still a ‘work in progress’, and one had to suspend many judgements. Now it is possible not only to write about the whole life but also to attempt a complete evaluation – to say where he stands in the pantheon of sporting heroes and to what extent he was a creature of his time. Towards the end of his life English cricket seemed to be in a possibly permanent decline. Now, in the aftermath of his death, a new generation of charismatic English cricketers have not only regained the Ashes but restored the English game to something approaching the heights of Compton’s pomp. And, surprisingly, as his achievements become a part of history, they look even more impressive than they did at the time.

In the intervening years the Compton legend has taken on a well-defined permanence. Readers of my earlier book will therefore find much in these pages that is familiar. The accounts of Denis’s glory years remain, properly, much the same, and my perception of him as a sporting genius and a boon companion remains essentially unchanged. Many of those who talked to me back in the 1990s are now dead, so I have not been able – even if I thought it appropriate – to add to what people such as Colin (Lord) Cowdrey, Keith Miller or David (Lord) Sheppard told me then. Nor, of course, can I ask Denis himself for more information or comment.

But after the earlier book’s publication a number of people wrote in with observations and recollections, all of which I have considered and some of which I am happy to include, with gratitude. I am particularly grateful to Denis’s widow, Christine, and his sons Brian and Patrick, for sharing their memories with me. There are now a number of permanent memorials to Denis, and I have written about these as well as including new material and evaluations of the Compton life. Whereas the original book was a portrait of a living legend, this new book is the story of a whole life, which is now, alas, a part of history.

Tim Heald

February 2006

Chapter One

Denis Compton always pulled in the crowds during his cricketing career so it was no surprise that he filled Westminster Abbey for his memorial service on 1 July 1997. In fact there was a waiting list.

He always, I think, had a keen eye for the absurdity of his fame. I remembered, that morning at his own Westminster Abbey Memorial, how at the wake for the broadcaster Brian Johnston, commemorated not long before in another Abbey ceremony, I had found Denis, uncharacteristically, without a glass in his own hand.

I asked if I could bring him a drink. ‘No thanks old boy,’ he said, with an impish grin. ‘The Prime Minister’s getting me one.’ And sure enough, seconds later, John Major hove in view with a glass of red wine for the maestro.

That July morning in 1997 Denis’s old friend and cricketing colleague, the one-time Middlesex and England fast bowler J.J. Warr, told the story, which was obviously destined to enter Compton folklore. He got it slightly wrong, which was what always seemed to happened to stories about Denis. They were rolling stones and they gathered lots of moss. Denis was one of those men who attracted anecdotes and many had a germ of truth in them at first, but were gradually embellished until they acquired, almost, the character of fairy stories. ‘No truth in it at all, old boy,’ he used to say when confronted with yet another tale of youthful naughtiness or absent-mindedness. And as the years passed everyone became less and less certain and – to a certain extent – who cared?

‘Service of Thanksgiving for the Life of Denis Compton, CBE 1918-1997,’ said the inscription on the service sheet, sandwiched between the crest of the Abbey itself and the emblematic old field gun of his Arsenal Football Club and the three sabres of his beloved Middlesex County Cricket Club.

Before play actually started there was organ music by Bach and Mendelssohn, neither of whom one would have immediately associated with Denis during his lifetime, although he did once claim that during Canterbury week when the bands played he always tried to bat in time to the music. There were four suitably rambunctious hymns, culminating, appropriately for this most English Englishman, in ‘Jerusalem’, and we finally filed out to Elgar’s ‘Pomp and Circumstance’ as the Abbey bells tolled above. Denis would have enjoyed that.

He died, as J.J. Warr reminded us, on St George’s Day, 23 April, as eleven years previously had his great friend and partner Bill Edrich. He would have enjoyed that too.

The great and good were well represented at the Abbey: Lord Runcie, the former Archbishop of Canterbury, said three prayers including words of Cardinal Newman and Sir Francis Drake; Peter Hill-Wood, Chairman of the Arsenal, read the famous ‘Let us now praise famous men’ passage from Ecclesiasticus; ‘Jim’ Swan ton who had partnered Denis in his first game for Middlesex Seconds and gone on to be the doyen of cricket writers and broadcasters read an evocative passage of Neville Cardus about Lord’s Cricket Ground, ‘The Mecca of Cricket’; Denis’s son Richard came from South Africa to deliver the Corinthians lesson about the greatness of love. The Bidding was delivered by the Very Reverend Wesley Carr, newly arrived as the Dean of Westminster. ‘All of us,’ he said, ‘whatever our age and wherever we have come from, players and spectators alike, acknowledge the skills that he was given and which he so flamboyantly employed.’

John Warr, who gave the address, was at one time, in the estimation of another member of the congregation, Denis Silk, cricketer and schoolmaster, ‘the finest after-dinner speaker in London’. This time, in Silk’s estimation, Warr, who was a medium-fast bowler with Middlesex in the Fifties, was slightly below par. If so, this might have been something to do with his own emotions for Silk later remembered that as ‘J-J.’ concluded his tribute there was definitely a tear running down one cheek. The final thought, which may have prompted the tear, was that ‘In the last few weeks of his life a comet appeared in the sky over Britain. It is said to appear every four thousand years. Well, Compo was a comet in his own right, and we must all pray that it isn’t another four thousand years before we see another like him.’

There were many famous cricketers in that congregation and you could have picked a world-beating First XI from their number. Imagine a team composed of John Edrich, Raman Subba Row, Ted Dexter, Colin Cowdrey, Tom Graveney, Keith Miller, Godfrey Evans, Alan Davidson, Fred Titmus, Brian Statham, Alec Bedser. They were all there and that team would take some beating. You could have plucked second and third teams from the Abbey pews and they would have been almost as good. One unexpected visitor was the Labour MP Denis Skinner, aka The Beast of Bolsover. He just happened to be passing, saw the crowds, asked what was happening, expressed enthusiasm and was somehow smuggled in. Among the mainstream mandarins were a former Governor of the Bank of England, Robin Leigh Pemberton, a prime minister, John Major, the Lords Maclaurin and Griffiths, Tim Brooke-Taylor and countless others all united in their love of cricket and of Denis.

A couple of months earlier Warr had also given the address at Denis’s funeral at St James’s Church, Fulmer, the Buckinghamshire village where Denis lived for many years. Like the great Abbey celebration this more modest service also included ‘Jerusalem’ and the Corinthians passage about love. Afterwards there was a wake at the Bull Hotel in Gerrards Cross near the ground where Denis played much of his post-first-class cricket.

Denis’s body was cremated so that, bizarrely, the only part of him that still remains is the rogue kneecap which caused him so much trouble during his playing career. After being surgically removed it is now preserved in a biscuit tin at the Museum in Lord’s Cricket Ground. His ashes were scattered at Lord’s, on the turf in front of the pavilion.

There then followed a bizarre quirk of fate which provided an apt final footnote to a life which was sometimes as chaotic as it was cavalier. The Marylebone Cricket Club decided that the playing surface of the old ground needed to be replaced so the sacred turf was cut up and sold off in sods before being replaced with newly sown grass. A largish section was purchased by Denis’s beloved Denham Golf Club and laid there as a Compton memorial lawn. It would be comforting to think that the Compton ashes are there too but the reality, alas, is that they could be almost anywhere.

There are other memorials, of course. For instance there is a trust and a medal named after him and his old Australian mate and rival Keith Miller. It goes to the player nominated by the chairmen of both countries’ selectors as the outstanding success of the Ashes series. At the Nursery End of his home ground in St John’s Wood there is a Compton stand, next door to another dedicated, aptly, to Bill Edrich.

Memorials such as these ensure a permanent place in the game he graced. And still, almost half a century after he retired, there are plenty who remember that inimitable sportsman and the extraordinary effect he once had on the whole nation and much of a world beyond. Gradually those memories are fading and those who share them die. But what is extraordinary, in the aftermath of the great Ashes summer of 2005, is the way in which, when comparisons are made, it is so often the name of Denis that is invoked. It was Denis who hit the winning runs against Australia in the year of the Queen’s Coronation. Over fifty years later when the heroic deeds of men such as Warne and Flintoff are celebrated it is Compton who is most called up in comparison.

He would have loved the 2005 Ashes series. Those endless fluctuations would have excited him as much as they did the rest of us. He would have been awed by the Australian triumph in the first Test at Lord’s and enthralled by the way England bounced back at Edgbaston, and captivated right up to that last moment in mid-September when the umpires, with consummate theatricality, lifted the bails to signal that the last match had been drawn and the series therefore won by England. He would have been as thrilled as the rest of us at the heroics of players such as the Australians Warne, Lee, McGrath and Ponting and yet more by those of the victorious home team and the deeds of Flintoff, Trescothick, Strauss, Vaughan, Hoggard and Harmison. He would have had a special smile for England’s South African prodigy Kevin Pietersen. Above all he would have echoed the words of P.J. Kavanagh, writing in the Spectator, and applauded ‘a team that liked each other, played for each other, delighted in each other’s success; that happy team spirit was one of the delights of the summer’.

Shades of times past.

Chapter Two

Denis Charles Scott Compton was born in Hendon, Middlesex, on 23 May 1918, soon after what should have been the start of the cricket season, though the first-class game was in abeyance that last summer of the First World War. No Hobbs, no Hendren, no Hirst, no Rhodes. These four played on when cricket resumed the following year, but the first war stole some of the best years of their sporting life just as the second was to deprive Denis of some of the best of his.

His brother Leslie, and his sister Hilda had been born in Essex, where most of the Compton clan remained, but his father Harry, a self-employed painter and decorator, had moved to Hendon in the hope of finding more work. He formed a partnership with a man called Hayward. Compton and Hayward. Not, alas, as rich and famous as Compton and Edrich were to be in later years.

Times were hard, and business was seldom good. Years later I met a man who said that he had been born and brought up in Hendon and he remembered Denis’s father coming round one day to mend the garden fence. He brought his two sons with him and my informant remembered vaguely that he thought Leslie the nicer of the two. He couldn’t remember why but he seemed to think Denis had been a bit bumptious.

In the end the painting, decorating and fence-mending firm foundered and Harry Compton signed on as a lorry driver for a man named Jabis Barker. He often drove through the night and would arrive home exhausted. Mrs Compton, Jessie, had been in service before the war, and sounds like a woman of optimism and ingenuity. If anyone ever had to go short it was not the children. There was always, even at the worst time, a proper cooked breakfast and a hot evening meal for them.

Denis was born at their modest suburban home, a terraced house in Alexandra Road, No. 47. Talking about his early days he sounded, seven decades on, both fond and wistful. ‘I would say,’ he reflected, sitting over a glass of what in later years became his preferred tipple – chilled Sancerre – ‘that I had a very happy childhood.’ The words sound simple, but they were delivered very carefully after serious thought and contemplation. The point he was making and deliberating was that it had not, at least in a material sense, been at all an easy childhood. ‘Poorish’ is the typically understated word he used to describe it.

Pleasures were simple. ‘Every Christmas we used to go to Derby Road, Epping Forest, Woodford, Essex.’ This was the headquarters of the Compton family. There were so many Compton cousins and uncles and aunts at Christmas that the children slept five or six to a bed, waking early for Father Christmas. There was a lucky dip in a barrel.

Looking back on those days he once mused: ‘They were very much more family-oriented in those days.’ Pleasures were necessarily simple and homespun. In the summer the big treat was also in Essex, rabbiting in the fields with a favourite uncle.

His father was a keen cricketer; so was Leslie; so were the neighbourhood children; so was everybody worth talking to. When I persuaded Denis to cast his mind back to those early days he was in his seventies and his memory, never brilliant, had grown even foggier with the years. Inevitably, I suppose, it was cricket that loomed largest. His was a precocious talent and it was this, along with other ball-playing skills, that marked him out and made him different. Small wonder if cricket seemed to play an overwhelmingly important part in his life even in retrospect.

Shortly before I spoke to him about his childhood, Denis had been to the funeral of his old Middlesex colleague Jack Young at Finchley Crematorium. Afterwards, with an hour or so to kill, he drove down to Alexandra Road to look at his birthplace. It was all much as he remembered though, as so often, reduced in size, everything smaller than it had seemed as a boy. But the pavement and the lamp-posts were just as they had been, and these were his first pitches and wickets. You chalked three white stump marks up the side of the lamp-posts and then, at weekends and after school, you bowled and batted and fielded with a tennis ball and the most appropriate piece of wood you could find. He remembered half a dozen such roadside nets going on all the time in Alexandra Road alone. ‘The street used to be jam-packed. And every game had its own rules. If you hit the ball into someone’s garden it was six. Even though it was only a tennis ball windows sometimes got broken if you gave it a real whack.’

His father did everything he could to support and encourage his son’s precocious talent at both cricket and soccer, and school – Bell Lane Elementary, just round the corner – was not only a keen sporting institution but also intensely competitive. ‘There were evening games against Wessex Gardens and the Hyde,’ recalled Denis, ‘and hundreds of parents would come along to watch.’

Bell Lane was only an ordinary elementary school, but the staff all seemed to love games and many of them were more than competent coaches. Denis’s two principal mentors were a master called James Bond who played football at close to professional standard, and Mr Mitchell, the cricket master, who Denis remembered being extremely strict.

These two were much more important than anyone concerned with academic life. ‘On the intellectual side they very quickly gave me up as a bad job because I was always playing games,’ he told me. ‘But I got by and I passed my exams with a great deal of effort.’

Bell Lane was his only school, and he was there between the ages of five and fourteen. Granted he had a formidable natural sporting talent, it is still difficult to imagine such a school as Bell Lane honing it as effectively in later years. Much has always been made of Denis’s natural genius and colleagues such as the Cambridge-educated J.J. Warr often dined out on stories of how if Denis had ever consulted a coaching manual he must have read it upside down. There is some truth in this but Denis himself always gave credit to Mr Bond and Mr Mitchell. They were obviously quick to grasp that their pupil was a potential star sportsman and even if they had the nous not to try to make him conform or to drill him into playing the way everyone else played they plainly encouraged and nurtured their boy. In a typical state school after a period around the 1960s Denis would have been much more likely to have slipped through the net. He might never have played cricket at all and he almost certainly wouldn’t have honed his skills in those rough and ready pick-up contests in the street. Nor would hundreds of parents have come along to watch him perform.

There is a photograph of him at the age of fourteen exhibiting not only what even E.W. Swanton conceded was ‘nearly a model stance’ but also immaculate whites, gloves and pads as well as the slick neatly parted hair which was later to become a famous trademark. It is a picture which speaks volumes about changes in our national school system over the past sixty years. By the time I talked Denis into reminiscence no one in Britain played street cricket. That sort of spontaneous children’s game had become largely confined to the Caribbean and the Indian subcontinent, a sociological fact which said much, Denis believed, about what had happened to the game at Test match level too. He never lived to see the resurgence of English cricket and was glum about the game’s prospects though wary of seeming to look back through rose-tinted spectacles. He often seemed nostalgic for the past but was savvy enough to realise that to be too obviously so was bad for the image.

E.W. Swanton, who watched Compton practically all his life, wrote a perceptive little monograph about him, called simply Denis Compton and published by Sporting Handbooks in 1948 when Compton was at the pinnacle of his achievement. ‘Jim’ as he was commonly called (his Christian names were actually Ernest William) was for years the Daily Telegraph cricket correspondent and a mellifluous BBC radio pundit, and the subject of a recent biography by David Rayvern Allen. He was, in his day, very highly regarded even if he was often considered snobbish and self-important. He was certainly a lifelong admirer of Compton and a genuine expert on the subject.

Rayvern Allen commented that in his account of this first sighting of the young Compton ‘Jim’s memory was slightly awry’. The Swanton version was that Swanton joined him when the score was ‘round about a dozen’. Actually, said Rayvern Allen, the fourth wicket fell at 54. And so on. The only absolutely undeniable fact was that Swanton and Compton were both playing in the same match. The discrepancy poses an interesting question. Does the fact that Swanton remembered the statistics incorrectly invalidate the impression? Does the mistake regarding numbers mean that other verdicts are unreliable?

Swanton said that there was another crucial coincidence which helped the young Compton to ‘catch the flavour and the spell of cricket’. This was that the Number 13 bus route began and ended in Hendon, and the Number 13 bus was the one that took spectators to and from Lord’s Cricket Ground in St John’s Wood. In the event it turned out that this too was ‘wrong’ though infinitessimally so. It was actually the 113 bus which ran from Edgware, through Hendon and on to St John’s Wood. This was the route that Denis Compton took and Swanton must have meant. The 13 ran from Golders Green. It’s a tiny point but a genuine error. Denis misremembered it and Swanton perpetuated it. These points not only suggest that memories, especially Compton’s, are fallible, but that whereas for some cricketers statistics and figures are all-important, for others they are almost irrelevant.

It wasn’t that much further from Lord’s to the Kennington Oval, so little Denis could watch Surrey and one of his two particular heroes, Jack Hobbs. The other was Patsy Hendren of Middlesex, with whom he later played. Sadly he never saw Hobbs, ‘the Master’, put together a big score. ‘My father used to take me quite often to the Surrey v. Notts match on August Bank Holiday,’ he said. ‘It’s still played on the August Bank Holiday. One year we went and Surrey won the toss – and I knew they were going to bat because it was the most beautiful day. They did. Hobbs and Sandham. Funny he was bowled for about 16 by a big man called Barratt who stood about six foot six. Nearly broke my heart. Then I saw the most wonderful innings by Andrew Sandham who made around 170. But I didn’t see very many first-class matches as a boy.’ Sandham, Hobbs’s junior partner in both age and ability, nevertheless played for Surrey for a quarter of a century and made over 30,000 runs with an average of more than forty.

There were innumerable breakthroughs in that early career, notably the moment in 1930 when as a twelve-year-old he was first allowed to play for his father’s team. At first the other side protested because he was so small, but the protests didn’t last long. The adult bowlers, bowling as fast and as guilefully as they knew how, were hit for a fluent 40. A little later he began to be picked for an adult wandering team called Stamford Hill, who played some of the top London clubs such as Finchley and Honor Oak. His father Harry was their regular first-choice umpire.

‘The captain was a Jewish bloke called Ted Miller. He had no idea how to play the game but he absolutely adored it and he was so kind to me. He encouraged me and he looked after me. When everyone else was drinking beer he’d make sure I had a lemonade and say, “You’ll soon become a beer drinker like the rest of us. But not now. Not yet.”’

In 1930, aged twelve, and already captain of the school team, he made 88 for north London schools against south London schools. This was his first appearance at Lord’s.

But the moment which really sealed his fate came on 13 September 1932, when he played for the Elementary Schools against a side of public schoolboys raised by Mr C.F. Tufnell. This was a sort of adolescent Gentlemen v. Players. Denis captained the Elementary Schools and opened the batting with a south London boy called Macintyre, later to become the distinguished Surrey wicketkeeper. Together they put on a hundred for the first wicket. Then Denis ran him out. This was one of the first such incidents which have passed into legend. Denis struck the ball firmly in the direction of cover, shouted ‘yes’, set off, stopped, shouted ‘no!’ and left the other batsman stranded; Denis then went on to make 114 before being stumped. He declared at 204 for 8 and, putting himself on as fourth change, got two wickets for 5 with his flighted spin. Mr Tufnell’s boys were all out for 56.

Denis was presented with a bat by the Star newspaper. He also got his scorecard signed by the Bell Lane cricket master, who certainly wasn’t going to get carried away with heady praise. He simply wrote, ‘Best wishes, M. Mitchell’, which seems less than gracious.

Mr Mitchell also gave an interview to the Star which sounds more enthusiastic than the laconic autograph on the cricket bat. ‘Young Compton,’ he was quoted as saying, ‘has a natural talent on the sports field, whether it is with a cricket bat in his hand or a ball at his feet. Of all the hundreds of boys who have passed through this school, I have never known one so clearly destined to become a professional sportsman. His reward of a Jack Hobbs bat from your newspaper could not have gone to a more deserving case.’

There was a caveat about academic studies but a nice piece of prescience. ‘Frankly,’ said Mr Mitchell, ‘his schoolwork suffers because he puts so much into sport. But this is one case when I think it is justified. I am sure he is going to be a great credit to our school and I will be surprised if he is not an established professional at both football and cricket before this decade is out.’

The legendary Sir Pelham Warner, former Captain of England and Chairman of the Selectors during the ‘Bodyline’ tour of Australia, was clearly more impressed. The former England and Middlesex captain watched the match and subsequently invited the young prodigy to join the Lord’s ground staff. Denis’s mother, who knew nothing whatever about cricket, was unimpressed.

‘Yes sir,’ said my mother, ‘but that means he’ll only be working for four months of the year. What is the boy going to do for the other eight?’

This was a perfectly fair question, but Denis was about to experience a second stroke of luck. At least that is the way he used to tell it. In retrospect the Compton sporting career assumed a charmed inevitability, an apparently effortless glide from one triumph to another. At the time, and to him, it didn’t seem like that at all.

As luck would have it, I was picked to play for England schoolboys against Wales at soccer. And there happened to be an Arsenal scout there, which I didn’t know about. Well, he must have gone back with a good report to Herbert Chapman, who was then the Arsenal manager, because he approached my father and mother and said, ‘We’d very much like this boy when he’s finished school, to come and join the ground staff at Highbury.’ And my mother said, ‘Well, how long’s that for?’ And he told her eight months, so she said, ‘Well that’ll keep him occupied all year.’

Those who saw him play rate his soccer as highly as his cricket. The writer Benny Green once wrote that Compton on the wing in the war years was ‘one of the supreme sights of English life’. At Bell Lane school he played centre-half and was, in his own recollection, a chronically one-footed player. ‘I kicked the ball with my left foot and just used the other one for standing on.’ A typical piece of Compton self-deprecation. ‘On the ground staff at Arsenal they used to have shooting boxes. Don’t think they do now. You hit the ball into the base part of the box and it came back at different angles. And I learnt to improve anyway hitting the ball with my right foot. They put a slipper on my left foot and a boot on my right. And there was a game we used to play there, which gave you the most wonderful ability to control the ball with your head and your feet. Again they don’t play it now. It was called head tennis.’ The essence of it was that the ball was not allowed to touch the ground, but had somehow to be juggled between feet and head. ‘By God,’ said Denis, ‘it was competitive.’ Oddly enough, though he should by geographical rights have supported a north London side his preferred team was West Ham. He loved them. Then as now they had a cavalier spirit to which he warmed. ‘Even today,’ he said in the 1990s, ‘I look at their results before the Arsenal’s.’ He was, in truth, the sort of character one would have expected to find playing for a side like West Ham or Fulham who always seemed to care more about panache and flair than actually winning.

The ground staff pay was not lavish. At Lord’s, where he started in the summer of 1933, he got ten shillings a week. However, the ground staff were responsible for selling the tuppenny matchcards. The crowds were enormous and each boy set out his stall on Saturday with a hundred dozen cards. If he disposed of them his commission was three times his weekly wage. ‘On Saturday nights,’ said Denis, ‘I’d go home to Hendon on the Number 13 bus feeling like a millionaire.’ (Well, actually, it would have been the 113 as I’ve pointed out. The version according to Denis is often not entirely accurate!)

There were thirty or forty boys on the Lord’s ground staff. He particularly remembered Len Muncer, who went on to play for Middlesex and Glamorgan, and Laurie D’Arcy, later a brilliant coach. They reported for work on the dot at 8 a.m. – ‘You had to be sharp.’ During the day they mowed and rolled under the supervision of Harry White the groundsman (‘marvellous old boy’). The heavy roller needed a dozen boys to pull it, and they rolled and rolled for hours on end.

Archie Fowler was his greatest coaching inspiration. Fowler never curbed his natural game and told him not to pay too much attention to those who tried to.

He also said, ‘You’ll never ever be any good until you really learn to play off the back foot.’ That’s so different to today. Not against slow bowlers, but against medium-pace or exceptionally fast bowlers you must get on your back foot. And by God he was right. I see these players today playing forward to the fast stuff and no wonder they get hit so often. I was often on the back foot before the ball was bowled. That was one of the advantages of having learned in the street with a tennis ball. The bounce was very high so you learnt to let the ball come on to the bat, and when it did the ball went down. It became an automatic shot.

As a bowler, of course, he was limited by tennis ball street cricket. You couldn’t spin it, but at least he learned to bowl a length. When he did graduate to a proper leather-seamed ball he began by bowling orthodox off-spin, but quite soon became bored with it. Orthodoxy never had that much appeal for Denis in any shape or form. It was Jack Walsh, the Leicester spinner, who introduced him to fun and games at bowling. Walsh was in the nets at Lord’s one day when Denis was bowling. He would have been about sixteen at the time. Walsh watched a while, then came over and had a word. ‘“Why do you bowl this orthodox stuff?” he asked, “because I know you love and get a lot of fun out of cricket. Seen you bat and all that. Why don’t you have even more fun? I know you could bowl this if you wanted to.”’ Denis replied that he’d never tried, so Walsh took him aside and gave him a first lesson in leg-spin. ‘So,’ says Denis, ‘I started to learn and I got quite useful at it. It was a lot more fun. Jack said you’ll get a lot more stick but you’ll get a lot more wickets and you’ll never have a dull moment! And he was right.’

Every day the boys had an hour or so of nets at 4 p.m. before the members came for their late afternoon/early evening practice. The boys were required to bowl at MCC members, who came up from their workplaces in the City in absolute droves.

Compton quickly became something of a pet of the great C. Aubrey Smith, otherwise known as ‘Round the Corner’ Smith. He had briefly captained Sussex and was also an actor of note who starred in The House of Rothschild and The Prisoner of Zenda as well as being a key figure at the Hollywood Cricket Club. However he was really best known, as R.C. Robertson-Glasgow once wrote, as ‘the world ambassador for the English gentleman’. Smith spent his summers in England and came up to Lord’s two or three times a week. Like others of the more generous MCC members, Smith would place coins on the stumps instead of bails. If the bowler knocked them off he got the coins.

Encouraged by Fowler, young Compton developed his individual style of play and particularly the sweep shot for which he became famous. The received wisdom now is that he only got away with this inherently dangerous shot because of his unusual gifts of timing and perception. He used to take a contrary view:

I can honestly say that nobody taught me the sweep. It seemed to be something that was an instant reaction to a ball that pitched middle and leg or middle stump. But I swept quite differently from the way they sweep today. Take Mike Gatting for instance. Gatting sweeps with his bat directly across the line and that makes him very vulnerable. If he doesn’t get it quite right then he gets a top edge as he so often does. My sweep was different. I never hit it to square leg. I used to let it come on a long way and help it on its way.

People often say that the stroke must have got me out often during my career, but it only happened twice. In the first innings in 1938 against the Australians at Lord’s, lbw, bowled O’Reilly for 6, sweeping. I missed him. Dai Davies was the umpire. I was told, tsk, tsk, you must never play that shot again. Anyway I continued to play it and I reaped terrific rewards from it. The other time I was out to it was 1957, Newlands, Cape Town, in the last Test match which we won when Wardle bowled them out. I was caught for 57. Caught Maclean bowled Tayfield. Very unusual because that time I did get a top edge and he had me caught at fine leg. But twice – that’s not bad in a whole career.

Denis flourished in the somewhat Dickensian atmosphere at Lord’s. The boys sound like Fagin’s pickpockets: lots of cheeky chappies like Denis’s friend Harry Sharp who went on to play for Middlesex and become the county scorer until finally retiring in 1993. Denis described him as ‘the original cockney’. The head groundsman and therefore their immediate boss when it came to rolling wickets was Harry White, who had a cottage behind the Mound Stand with a vegetable garden and Rhode Island Reds. The Secretary was Billy Findlay who had kept wicket for Oxford and Lancashire. Findlay was friendly but patrician. ‘Very correct,’ said Denis. It all sounded splendidly old-fashioned and feudal. There was even a special Lord’s drink called ‘Hatfield’ which was a sort of Pimm’s. It has long since disappeared and was, as far as I can gather, unique to Lord’s.[NOTE]

By 1934 his precocious talent was really beginning to flower. Arthur Wellard, the Somerset and England spinner and six-hitter, bowled at him in a practice match on the Nursery and was apparently impressed. That year he also played four times for MCC, scoring 222 at an average of 44.40. Against Suffolk he left his gear behind and made nought in kit borrowed from George Brown, the old Lancashire pro. It was much too big for him. But in the second innings he had his own stuff and made 118. He also made 52 against Bishops Stortford and took ten wickets in a two-innings match against East Grinstead.

In 1935 he played 16 matches and made 690 runs at an average of 46. Bill Edrich made fewer runs but averaged 57.

The first time they played for MCC together was against Beaumont, the Jesuit school at Old Windsor. The MCC captain was Alec Waugh, brother of Evelyn and a fanatical cricketer (the model for Bobby Southcott in A.G. Macdonell’s England, Their England). He put them in at 10 and 11 after being told that they were primarily bowlers. The scores are preserved at Lord’s. Compton made 45 not out (top score), Edrich was out for 17 and Waugh for 3. When Beaumont batted, Compton got two wickets, Edrich one and Waugh four.

Club beat school by 139 runs. Denis also got a fifty against Surbiton and a century going in first against the Midland Bank. He also went on the club’s annual tour of the Channel Islands, where he made 51 out of 114 against Guernsey! In the whole of his life he never went back to the Channel Islands, a fact he contemplated with some incredulity.

Just before Whitsun in 1936 he was chosen to play for Middlesex Second XI against Kent at Folkestone. On the first morning Middlesex opened and lost four wickets to a ‘strong chesty fellow’ called Cole. The Middlesex opening batsman who survived this onslaught was none other than E.W. Swanton, already something of a veteran cricketer at almost thirty years of age.

His account of what happened next, to which I’ve already alluded and whose precise accuracy was so harshly criticised by his biographer, is worth reprinting even if he may have gilded the lily a little. Actually if I read his autobiography correctly it seems to me that Jim first played with Compton (and Edrich) in 1934 as a triallist for MCC against the Indian Gymkhana. Never mind, here is Swanton, on first recognising a genius:

At this point there entered a juvenile figure with an oddly relaxed way of walking, somewhat loose round the knees and with a swaying of the shoulders, inclined to let his bat trail after him rather than use it as a stick in the usual fashion. As he had to pass me I thought a word of encouragement would not be out of place, and murmured something about playing up and down the line of the ball and there being nothing to worry about. My new companion thanked me politely and very soon started pushing the ball round the field with every appearance of ease, and running up and down the pitch rather more quickly than his ponderous partner found comfortable. To within a run or two a hundred were put on for the fifth wicket, each of us just missing his fifty. Such was my introduction to Compton (D.).

On his return to Lord’s Swanton told the Middlesex captain, R.W.V. Robins, that he had just been playing with the best young cricketer he had ever seen.

Meanwhile there was soccer. The Arsenal ground staff was much smaller than the one at Lord’s. There were only ten boys at Highbury. All through the winter months he left home at seven and walked to Hendon station to catch the Underground in order to arrive at eight.

‘A ground staff nipper of fourteen, sweeping the shilling terracing’ was how he described himself. Whenever the players took the ball onto the pitch and practised shooting at Frank Moss, the goalkeeper, young Denis would contrive to find himself sweeping the terrace immediately behind the goal. Whenever a player kicked the ball over the bar or round the post Denis would fling down his broom and would retrieve the ball. Then, in the evening, he would boast about it to his mates.

‘In my imagination,’ he said, ‘I was nearly a fully fledged Arsenal footballer.’

Chapter Three

Looking at the young Denis walking out to bat alongside his gnarled old partner, Patsy Hendren, you see someone who looks like an athlete and also a hero. One of the things that still strikes me is that Hendren looks like an old pro whereas Compton looks like a fancy-hat amateur. He wasn’t, of course, but that’s how he looked: Raffles, Peter Wimsey, a member of I Zingari, the aristocratic wandering cricket club founded by a trio of Old Harrovians in the nineteenth century, but definitely not a working-class lad from the wrong side of the tracks.

The most striking point about Compton’s appearance compared with the batsmen of a later era is that he is recognisable as a human being and an athlete. You can see his face and figure and they’re both matinee-idol quality. That single picture explains at least an element of the Compton story. He was, in a way that endeared him to females everywhere, and strangely, antagonised very few males, ‘drop-dead gorgeous’.

Hendren, by contrast, looks like an ageing prizefighter, thick-set and with a potato face which suggests his Irish ancestry and the nickname ‘Patsy’. He had joined the Middlesex ground staff in 1905 and was a Middlesex and England legend as well as being a childhood hero of Denis. His final first-class average was over fifty and he approached that figure in Tests as well as being a consummate fielder who took 725 catches. When he and Denis went out to bat together he was already Mister Middlesex. It assisted Denis in his hero worship that ‘Patsy’ was a good enough footballer to have played for several top clubs including Brentford, Queen’s Park Rangers and Manchester City.

‘From the first time I clapped eyes on Denis,’ Hendren told the Evening News years later, ‘I knew the boy was going to be one of the game’s greats. The fact that it was one of the bats that carried my name helped me warm to him! I autographed it for him and he continued to play with it for quite a few seasons. I was coming to the end of my career when he was just starting out on his, and what I liked about him was his willingness to listen to the old pros and learn from our experiences.’

It is sometimes suggested that Compton was lackadaisical in his approach to the game but the picture Hendren painted of the young tyro was one of huge enthusiasm, a love for the atmosphere of cricket as well as the actual play, and perhaps most surprisingly, a keenness to sit at the feet of his elders and learn from what they said. ‘Here was a natural player,’ said Hendren, ‘who did not need coaching as much as just a few tweaks here and there.’ Hendren made no suggestion of arrogance. Just a young man in a hurry.

It is said, perhaps apocryphally, that the only reason Denis was not selected for the 1936 tour of Australia was that he was too young and good-looking. His county captain, Walter Robins, admitted that in the mid-thirties everyone knew that the era of Hobbs and Hendren was past and that the future belonged to young men like Hutton, Compton, Edrich and Washbrook. In 1936, however, there was a view that bedding in one young player – Hutton – represented enough of a challenge. Compton was a risk too far.

G.O.B. ‘Gubby’ Allen was the captain of England on that tour and years later, too old and sick to appear on Denis’s This Is Your Life programme, he recorded a handsome public apology. He told Norman Giller, the programme’s chief researcher:

I had the casting vote. It was my view that he was too inexperienced, and I was concerned that a bad tour could wreck his confidence and spoil one of the greatest prospects we had ever produced. In subsequent years as I watched Denis develop and got to know him as a good friend I realised that I had been wrong in my assessment. He had the sort of approach that meant he would have flourished Down Under. The bigger the occasion the better he played. Denis represented England seventy-eight times in his distinguished career. I am very sorry that it was not eighty– three Tests, and I want to offer my profound apologies to Denis.

In the 1970s the fifty-something-year-old Denis, rather portly and creaky by now, was in the Northampton dressing room and the county’s opening batsman, Wayne Larkins, asked if he had ever tried on a protective helmet. He hadn’t. Denis seldom even wore a cap. He wore his England one at first because he was so proud to have been awarded it, but usually played bare-headed, equally proud, no doubt, of that thick sleek black hair, Brylcreemed or not. Once at Whitsun in bright sun he dropped a skier in front of a packed crowd at Lord’s. Robins, the captain, summoned him.

‘Compton, you dropped that catch because you were unsighted by the sun. Where’s your cap?’

‘In the dressing room, sir.’

‘Well go and get it and put it on.’

And in front of twenty thousand or so spectators a chastened Compton ran off the field and returned wearing his cap, the long peak doing the job for which it was designed – keeping the sun out of his eyes. On another occasion he was in the dressing room playing shove-halfpenny when a wicket fell unexpectedly and he was next in. Picking up his bat he charged off only to return seconds later, looking rueful. He had forgotten his box.

Naturally a man with such an indifference to protective clothing had never tried on a helmet, but he was curious all those years after his retirement and accepted Larkins’s offer. He was astounded to find it such an encumbrance and could hardly move his head. Thinking this rather a good game, the Northants players persuaded Denis to try on the rest of the gear. When he was finally kitted out he felt as if he was a bomb disposal expert in Ulster, so trussed with pads and shields that he could hardly walk. The final straw was the bat. It was unbelievably heavy. ‘We were always told,’ he recalled, ‘that we should treat the bat as if it were a wand. Well you couldn’t treat that thing like a wand. It was more like a sledgehammer.’

Even in his seventies he was an immaculate dresser, in a conservative tradition, and in his playing days appearance was even more important. There were silk shirts from Simpsons in Piccadilly, two pairs of flannels, both beautifully creased, one for batting and one for fielding. Some players didn’t bother too much with their batting trousers. Denis did. And the boots. At Lord’s there were boot-boys to blanco them snowy white and, naturally, the Lord’s staff were good at their job. Best of all, however, was Trent Bridge. There in those far-off days the staff used not only to whiten the uppers of the boots, they had little paintbrushes and would carefully paint the soles in black. Denis enjoyed that sort of detail and that sort of style. He was never a trainers and tracksuit figure.

Denis’s debut came at the Middlesex v. Sussex match at Lord’s during the Whit holiday weekend. Sussex batted first and made 185. Compton had a hand in two wickets, both of which happened to belong to the Parks brothers. He caught J.H. off the bowling of Smith and always maintained, characteristically, that it was a perfectly ordinary catch. Gubby Allen, England fast bowler and later almost part of the furniture at Lord’s cricket ground, always used to say that it was an absolute blinder, a skier which he took running backwards from his position at mid-off. It was Allen himself who helped him take his first wicket as a bowler by catching H.W. Next day The Times, no less, remarked that Compton D. was ‘a likely looking left-handed recruit’.

Middlesex went in to bat that evening and came up against an apparently rejuvenated Maurice Tate. Tate was coming to the end of a distinguished career as a medium-paced seamer but was still an intimidating prospect. Four wickets went down cheaply and next morning Middlesex struggled. When Denis went in at 1.15 p.m. they were still 24 runs behind and Allen had a dislocated finger. He had originally been pencilled in higher up the order but was demoted further and further through the morning, ending up, perhaps in deference to his youth and inexperience, as last man in.

From the very first he brought a deceptive insouciance to the game and it was fitting that his debut for the Middlesex First XI was marked by the sort of improbable, against-the-odds last-wicket stand for which he was later to become renowned. The difference was that, as a newcomer, he was placed at No. 11 in the order. Despite Swanton’s evidence about his batsmanship, Robins was apparently taking no more risks than Alec Waugh had done at Beaumont.