Down the leafy roads on summer evenings a small band of young cricketers straggled their way to the Recreation Ground, hopping along the kerb or flinging down imaginary balls in deadly bowling feats. Lily Mars carried the bat and Joe Shufflebottom, the wickets.

The avenue children had suddenly outgrown the confines of their narrow ashfalt pitch and lamp-post for wicket where, cautious of breaking neighbours' windows, batting was condemned to neat forward prods with a straight, inhibited bat.

Now, on the wide expanse of the Recreation Ground, the bat could be swung willy-nilly with crooked abandon, to swipe a six in a cloud of dust to the cinder track.

The new bat was a providential improvement on the old one whose loose strings on the handle cut the flesh and stung the palm at every stroke. Lily Mars was the envied owner of the new bat. It had a splice and a red rubber tube gripping the handle. To ensure its preservation we learned that a decent bat must be kept well oiled. Linseed oil being rarely available we saturated it with camphorated oil or goose-grease, borrowed secretly from Fred Myerscough's medicine cabinet. It seemed logical that what was good for oiling weak chests must, therefore, be excellent for oiling bats.

Proud in its ownership, Lily Mars carried it sticky and high-smelling down Rectory Road accompanied by a cackety-clack of wickets as Joe Shufflebottom - his bony knees stamped with transfers of wild animals - rattled them against iron railings.

The Recreation Ground was a large field sloping sharply to allotments cut off by a cinder track. It was not by choice that our pitch was arid, dusty and stony. The coveted portion where a grass fringe marked the outfield was, by right of seniority, 'bagged' by Grammar School boys. We thought them swanks and impostors. We had to put up with what the Old All England slow bowler, William Clarke, decried as an "It'll do wicket":

'In pitching wickets I often hear umpires say"it'll do", when there is some little object that looks queer at the pitching place. In such case my opinion is, it'll not do. The wicket ought to be altered until it is a good one. I don't like these "It'll do wickets..." Nor did we, the Avenue team, but we had no alternative but to suffer its shortcomings.

Lacking six stumps, three were pitched at the top of the slope; at the other end a jacket slumped in the dust served as a starting point for the bowler's run. The length of the pitch was measured by stepping it out twenty two times, tip of shoe to heel. In dry weather the stumps had to be pounded with a brick if they were to stand firmly in the hard ground. Bails were con-  

sidered a frippery, the unstable stumps falling all too readily at the slightest contact with the ball.

The "It'll do" pitch had another disadvantage. On the leg-side was a high wall topped with splintered glass behind which lived old Mr Dunsay, an ogre, who retained all balls that shot over his wall into his rose garden. This often proved catastrophic as our more prolific shots were hit to leg. Our teams did not possess a bowler fast enough for a batter to cultivate the off-side technique of cuts, late or otherwise.

The onset of Fred Myerscough's run, his fiery demeanour, portended a ferocious ball disconcertingly belied by its halting arrival at the crease. 'Skiers' were in abundance and could sometimes be reached by flinging the bat heavenwards in an attempt to forestall the ball dropping on the head. We watched under Mr Dunsay's wall to drink ginger pop and draw up through sticks of liquorice a swirl of sherbet from a paper bag. Gob-stoppers, too, were fashionable. They could be secreted in the cheek during opponents innings.

Maisie Lee was a batter of rare quality - a jaunty little girl with long, thin, black-stockinged legs. She had learned her art from five cricketing brothers.

There was a memorable evening when our patch of dust on the recreation ground became the centre of dramatic activity. Even the Grammar School boys slackened their play to glance at Maisie as she drove the ball for a sweeping six after six toward the allotments. Allotment holders paused with their barrows on their way to collect vegetables; elderly gentlemen leaned over railings applauding vigorously as a twelve landed in the Council Office flowerbeds; Miss Hague, the draper, halted with her sister in a bath-chair to watch as Maisie's left leg shot up like a clock-work doll's at the end of each stroke. With her score at sixty, Len Sowerbutts sank to his knees in the dust to pray for deliverance from this demon batting.

It came with his next ball - a superb sneak. It was also the end of the game as Masie twirled round, plaits and skirts flying, to send a 'skier' over Mr Dunsay's wall. Sixty runs scored in fifteen minutes off an "it'll do wicket" was an innings never to be forgotten.

It was an overwhelming hour for the avenue team. Masie's spectacular feat brought a quick reward in the shape of an offer to ride home on the step of a Grammar School boy's bicycle. An unheard of honour, indeed. It shed reflected glory on the rest of the teams as we watched her glide away under the trees of Rectory road, the new bat - a generous loan overnight on the part of Lily Mars - lying triumphant across the handle bars.