Redcar before the storm

Yorkshire’s last summer symphony, August 1939

Not long ago I came into possession of a set of pencil autographs—faded and fragile, to be sure, but still resonant with the quiet dignity of a summer’s match played on the cusp of catastrophe. They belonged to the Yorkshire Second XI, who met Durham at Redcar on August 9 and 10, 1939. It was, as history would have it, the final fixture before the rhythm of the world was shattered by war. The front pages spoke not of cricket but of Danzig, soon to be annexed—the beginning of an upheaval that would silence the sound of bat on ball for years to come.

Redcar, that coastal ground of sea breezes and stoic charm, had hosted cricket since 1905. On that August morning Yorkshire won the toss and chose to bat. George Arthur Wilson, with his sound technique and quiet resolve, opened the innings. It was to be his final match for Yorkshire, although he would play five more fixtures in wartime. His 59 was no cavalcade of strokes, but a measured, anchoring effort that softened the early blows.

And yet, by mid-morning, Yorkshire were four down for 116, and the innings hung in a delicate balance. Then entered George Cawthray—that man of substance and subtlety to whom I devoted a thousand words yesterday, and could have devoted many thousands more—and with him, his captain, John Rhodes Stanley Raper. The latter was an amateur in the finest sense of the word, having led the side with courtesy and conviction since 1936. Together they stitched a partnership of 185. Cawthray’s 72 was all quiet industry, while Raper’s unbeaten 117 bore the stamp of a man playing for more than runs. At 326 for five he declared, sensing that the match, like the summer, was slipping into history.

Durham had ninety minutes to bat before stumps, and soon found themselves in difficulties. Wicketkeeper Fiddling took two sharp catches off Cawthray’s bowling. Fiddling would serve Northamptonshire with distinction from 1947 to 1953, but here he was, a young man in 1939, doing his duty behind the stumps for Yorkshire’s seconds as the clouds of war gathered.

William Barron, muscular left-hander, had counterpunched with 41 by close of play. He, too, would join Northamptonshire after the war, and had the additional distinction of playing outside-right for Northampton Town. Cardus might have described him as “a cricketer with footballing footnotes.” His partner, Charles Lodge Adamson, a Durham stalwart since 1926, stood firm with 22 not out. The scoreboard read 99 for two.

The second day brought drama and defiance. Barron scored 161 in full flourish—a knock of such vigour that it seemed to defy the very idea of the impending war. Durham finished just 43 runs short of Yorkshire’s total, as Cawthray returned his best figures: five for 62, including two catches off his own bowling. One, the dismissal of Barron, saw a crashing straight drive intercepted with an almost balletic precision, a gesture of skill and bravery against brute force.

Then came the thunderstorm. At lunch the heavens opened, and the game paused beneath a curtain of rain. Yorkshire resumed briefly, reaching 78 for two, before a second storm brought proceedings to a close. Thomas Thornton remained unbeaten on 51—a knock that did no more than hint at his promise. He would serve in the Royal Air Force, and play cricket for it in 1946. But he never gave more than that hint.

And so the match ended—not with a roar, but with a rumble. It was a match played in the long shadow of history, where every run and wicket seemed more poignant for the knowledge that the world was about to change.