“Root’s bloody out,” the old man gasped. It had happened while he and his wife were fetching fresh cups of tea. “So who’s this batting?” she asked. He craned his head sideways so he could try to read from the big screen. “Jonny Bairstow. Then it’s Stokes, Foakes and the bowlers.” He sucked his teeth. “They ought to shut up shop or they could lose this.” She pursed her lips, clearly unsure whether or not she agreed. But he was wearing a Nottinghamshire cricket club tie and had, you guess, watched a lot of cricket here over the years. There was a crack down below. Bairstow had just thumped Trent Boult for four through the covers.
And over in the Fox Road stand a song broke out. “Oh Jonny Bairstow! You are the love of my life! Oh Jonny Bairstow, I’d let you …” The lady squinted. “What are they singing?” she asked. “I didn’t catch it.”
