Fiction at Frome

West Country schoolboys came to recite the facts and circumstances of Gimblett’s magnificent and impudent century of 18th May 1935 with a local vigour never remotely matched in the ritual of the twice-times table. It almost became part of the required curriculum.

The century belonged to fiction. The plot was altogether too thrillingly fashioned: a confectioned scenario that mocked credulity. It came from the genre of sporting stories of excessive heroism on the field, written by Victorian and Edwardian clergy, warmed by their imagination as they sat in draughty rectories. Young readers enjoyed but did not need to believe. It was all part of the romance of cricket.

Yet it did happen, at Frome. A village lad from the Quantocks, turned down by his county, was suddenly asked to play because no one else could be found to make up the eleven. For once, not even an extra from Somerset’s intermittent band of strolling players, amateurs who appeared from abroad or the pages of Debrett for a jolly game or two between country house parties, could be spirited up at such short notice. So there was John Daniell saying, without too much conviction: ‘Do you know where Frome is, young Gimblett? Can you get there on your own?’

Harold was not too sure that he could. He stammered that perhaps he could catch one very early bus to Bridgwater, and then another to Frome. The secretary pondered the geographical complications. ‘You’ll never arrive on time that way. Get to Bridgwater by nine o’clock and I’ll ask Luckes to pick you up in his car.’

Few centuries have been documented with more detail and loving labour. There have been embellishments at a few thousand cricket dinners since then. The commas and the colour of Harold’s pocket handkerchief may have varied slightly, but never the joyful spirit of the day’s theatre.

It was a dynamic piece of fledgeling cricket by a player so unknown that the scorecard could give no initials for him. Yet his reputation was to be established forever, by what happened on that bitterly cold May afternoon at Frome, where the tents billowed noisily as they do at an early Spring point-to-point. White railings encircled the small playing area, adding to the hint of a rural racing scene.

Frome was proud of its one county match a season. The town had a small population but a lively and loyal support for Somerset cricket. Facilities on the ground were modest, with plenty of functional corrugated iron, and wooden benches transported in for the occasion. There was no room on the scoreboard for individual innings. The voices around the boundary were pure, throaty Somerset: but different from Taunton, Weston or Yeovil. And different from Bicknoller.

On his cassettes, Gimblett talked ramblingly of many things. He chose to give only a brief, factual account of his century at Frome. It occupied just a minute of reminiscence. The dismissive attitude was part of him and we shall return to it. Mrs. Gimblett told me: ‘I kept the cuttings. Harold would have destroyed them.’

It would be quite wrong for me also to dismiss his maiden innings for Somerset, although in the ways of folklore, everyone will know that he was up well before six a.m. on that Saturday morning and narrowly missed the bus to Bridgwater. The next bus was in two hours’ time.

He had a little all-purpose bag within which – you would never have guessed – was his own bruised and discoloured bat and a few sandwiches considerately dropped in by his mother. Maternal kindness had also ensured freshly creased flannels and a clean shirt. He stood, a forlorn figure, on the narrow country road and wondered what he should do now. He started walking, vaguely in the direction of Bridgwater, and then heard a lorry from behind. Harold thumbed it down, something he had never done before. The dialogue that followed had an endearing quality to it.

‘Sorry, I’ve just missed the bus.’

‘OK, jump in. Where are you going?’

‘To Frome.’

‘Why?’

‘To play cricket.’

‘Who for?’

‘Somerset.’

‘Oh, ah!’

The lorry driver did not believe Gimblett. How could he have? On his own admission, Harold looked like a wide-eyed innocent, in trouble because he was late for work.

Wally Luckes was waiting for him at Bridgwater, and they reached the ground in good time. Some supporters were already in their places. They recognised the little wicket-keeper and offered a cheery greeting. No one recognised Gimblett.

Then I met the Essex players. Jack O’Connor … Laurie Eastman … Morris Nichols … Ray and Peter Smith … Tommy Wade, Tom Pearce … I realised I was scared stiff. Wally Luckes gave me the only bit of advice. ‘Peter Smith will always bowl you a googly so be ready for it.’ I didn’t even know what a googly was – I’d never seen one. Wally patiently explained that it looked like a leg-spinner but went the other way.

Reggie Ingle was the Somerset captain and he put Gimblett at number eight. He won the toss and was soon regretting it. Nichols was using all his natural speed, as well as a biting wind that was sweeping across the ground. Jack Lee, Ingle and White were all caught at slip and Somerset were 35 for three. You could hear the groans around the boundary. By lunch, Frank Lee and C.C.C. (Box) Case were also out and the score was 105 for five.

The Bath amateur, H.D. Burrough quickly followed. At 2.20pm 20-year-old Harold Gimblett, head down and already pessimistic about what he imagined was a token appearance in county cricket, meandered to the wicket to join Wellard. Someone in the crowd shouted: ‘Leave it to Arthur, son.’

During the lunch interval, Wellard had put a friendly hand on Gimblett’s shoulder. ‘Don’t think much of your bat, cock. Why don’t you borrow my spare one?’ And so he did.

Peter Smith sniffed a novice. His third ball to Gimblett was a googly. The young batsman had not spotted it but he pushed it away to mid-wicket and was off the mark. In his second over from Smith, Gimblett straight-drove to the boundary. That felt good. The Frome supporters rather approved of the way he did that. Who was this lad? Gimb-Gimblett or something? Wasn’t he the lad who was always whacking sixes in village matches?

The likeable Peter Smith chuckled silently to himself. He summoned up additional wiles. But so much for cunning. His fourth over after lunch cost 15 runs, all of them to Gimblett. When the leg break was fractionally over-pitched, the young batsman put his left foot down and heaved the spinning ball over mid-off for six. It landed on the top of the beer tent, a marquee temporarily deserted as the rubicund drinkers moved outside to savour this jaunty newcomer.

Gimblett suddenly realised he was enjoying himself. Nichols was by far the fastest bowler he had ever met, but the young batsman had the clear eyes and nimble feet to keep him out of trouble. In nine overs, Somerset added 69 runs; 48 of them came from Gimblett. He was actually outscoring Wellard, and not many managed that. The ever-bronzed Arthur, jangling the loose change in his flannel trousers, ready for the next poker school, only smiled.

The half-century came with a six. It had taken 28 minutes, and he had received 33 balls. By now the spectators had shed their reserve: they were cheering every shot. The beer was left undrunk.

Wellard miscalculated an off-break from Vic Evans and was stumped. But then came his look-alike and inseparable mate, Andrews. In between, Luckes had been bowled by Nichols, back with the new ball.

New ball? You couldn’t afford such niceties around the village greens of West Somerset. Gimblett threshed his way on, swinging and sweeping and driving whenever he could. There was hardly a false shot. Essex fielders rued the short boundary; they were generous enough to applaud some of the sixes.

Nichols dug one in short and the Somerset number eight, with ludicrous time to spare, hooked it for four. Then, oblivious to pace, Gimblett took two more runs through the covers.

He had no idea how many he had scored; the scoreboard gave the minimum of information. But the spectators soon told him. The cover drive had brought him his century. It had been scored out of 130 and had taken 63 minutes. As the fastest hundred of the season it earned him the Lawrence Trophy.

It was, I suppose, one of those days you dream of. I can’t work it out. I took all the praise but Bill Andrews, who got 71, was even faster in his scoring. I savoured the moment – but loathed the publicity that followed.

Gimblett gave a simple return catch when he had scored 123 in 79 minutes. Nichols still returned a splendid six for 87 in 23 overs. Peter Smith finished with one for 89 in 13 overs and must have been particularly wary when bowling to low-order newcomers after that. Essex never recovered from such an unceremonious mauling. They were bowled out for 141 and 147. The late Jack Lee took four wickets in their first innings and five in their second.

Fleet Street was engaged at that time in a circulation battle of ruthless proportions. Pop journalism carried with it gimmicks and ballyhoo in the bid for new readers. Gimblett’s triumph had immense human interest. The photographers and the feature writers turned up at the farm. He posed reluctantly and hated the whole thing.

In a newspaper article, Jack Hobbs congratulated Harold but tempered his compliments by saying it left the young Somerset batsman with a reputation he might have difficulty sustaining. Gimblett knew that only too well.

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