by Arunabha Sengupta
Summer, 1955. He had just walked into the Bull at Gerard’s Cross, Buckinghamshire, and was enjoying his drink. It was then that someone wondered whether he was not supposed to be playing South Africa at Old Trafford the following day.
Suddenly the penny dropped for him. He was also supposed to be at the nets with the team that very afternoon. Draining his glass, Denis Compton left in haste and persuaded a pal to fly him to Manchester on his personal plane. The aircraft was forced to land in Derby because of weather. He reached Manchester just in time for dinner, realising somewhere along the way that he had not carried his kit.
The following day, at 22 for 2, he grabbed the brand new bat purchased by Fred Titmus without asking and walked out to take strike against Adcock, Heine, Goddard and Tayfield. He got 158 out of a total of 284.
He was at the crease when Titmus joined him with another bat, borrowed out of compulsion. He was out for a duck.
When Compton played most of his magical innings, he did it with an air of casual nonchalance.
Jim Swanton was one of the many who watched mesmerised as Compton hit 278 at Trent Bridge against Pakistan in 1954. On television, he summarised the day’s play saying that through the innings Compton kept looking at the pavilion balcony for instructions. They were, after all, going for quick runs.
David Sheppard was the man leading England during that Test, deputising for the injured Len Hutton. He later recounted: “A television installed in the dressing room was showing the men’s singles final at Wimbledon between Jaroslav Drobný and Ken Rosewall. Denis wanted to know what was going on because he had backed Rosewall. The signals from the balcony were the set scores, nothing whatsoever to do with the Test.”
His best days were perhaps the years just after the Second World War. That was when Terry Lawless, future boxing manager, played truant from school and went to watch him bat for Middlesex against Somerset. Denis Compton hit 252 not out with 37 fours, 3 sixes. He added 424* in four hours with his terrible twin Bill Edrich.
Years later Lawless met Compton again and told him he had seen that innings. Could his hero talk him through it. “Wish I could, old boy,” answered Compton. “But I was too busy scoring runs to note how I was doing it.”
Sometimes he was too busy to know even the basic details of the match. He was sitting caught in traffic on the Thames Embankment in August, 1949, on the way to The Oval where England were playing New Zealand. A taxi driver shouted at him through the open window, “Hey Denis, aren’t you supposed to be at The Oval?” Compton had forgotten that on the last day play started half an hour earlier.
For all his endorsement of Bryclreem, Compton was notoriously careless with his money. Middlesex tried to help him safeguard his record benefit takings (£ 12,200) by investing a great lump of it in the infamous Ground Nuts scheme. A terrible venture that went bust and thousands lost money, including Compton. “One of those things,” the maestro said philosophically. “I wish I’d had the good sense to put it all on the favourite at Kempton. At least I’d have got a run for my money.”
When his knee was operated on, the whole nation winced in pain. The patella finally found its way to the MCC museum at Lord’s.
Great friend Keith Miller said, “Denis could mix comfortably with kings and queens and the working man. Everybody loved Compo.” That was true long after his playing days were over.
In early 1994, more than three and a half decades after his last bit of serious cricket, his biographer Tim Heald met him at the wake held for Brian Johnston at Westminster Abbey. Strangely Compton was without a glass in his hand. That was blasphemy, and hence Heald hastily sought to make it right.
“Can I get you a drink?” he asked.
“No thanks old boy,” replied Compton with an impish grin. “The Prime Minister is getting me one.” Sure enough, seconds later there was John Major approaching them with a glass of red wine for the batting great.
Denis Compton was born on 23 May 1918.
llustration: Maha