Ted Wainwright - Shrewsbury and Cardus

Shrewsbury and Cardus

Following his retirement, he went to work as a professional at Shrewsbury School, where he was to replace William Attewell as a young Neville Cardus' colleague. As Cardus recalled in his Autobiography,

"When I went back to Shrewsbury in 1913, I suffered a loss. I entered the house of Mrs. Rodenhurst and at once asked whether Attewell had arrived yet. 'No,' said Mrs. Rodenhurst; 'No, Mr. Attewell wasn't coming again to Shrewsbury; another gentleman had come instead, a Mr. Wainwright from Sheffield; he was to be the cricket instructor now, with, of course, you, Mr. Neville.' She'd heard that the School had told Mr. Attewell that they were engaging somebody else.

...Wainwright, of Yorkshire and All-England, was of the modern school. 'Pla-ay back; get thi legs reight.' He was at the extreme to Attewell; he belonged to a period that marked a transition in the development of the social life of the English professional cricketer; he was a bridge from the simple and dignified forelock-touching William to the Hammonds and the Sutcliffes, who burnish their hair and go to Savile Row for their clothes.

When Mrs. Rodenhurst told me of the advent to Shrewsbury of Wainwright, I asked her if he was in his room, or where. 'No,' she said, 'he went out about an hour ago. I think you'll find him in the King's Arms.' I went to the King's Arms and made my very first appearance in the bar-parlour of a public-house. The room was empty save for one man, dressed in blue serge, with a shrewd lean face. I recognised him. I had seen him playing for Yorkshire at Old Trafford. I introduced myself. 'I'm the assistant pro.,' I explained. 'Art thou?' he replied, 'well, then 'ave a drink wi' me.' I told him I didn't drink — only ginger ale. 'Christ,' he said, 'tha'rt a reight bloody cricketer.' He was a tall man, who walked as though he didn't care a damn for anybody. There was something sinister about him. Every night he got drunk as a matter of course, quietly and masterfully. One day he backed a winner at a glorious price, and towards eleven o'clock that night he and the drill-sergeant of the school arrived arm-in-arm (supporting one another) in the sitting-room of our lodgings. Very gravely Ted introduced me to the drill-sergeant, whom of course I knew very well. The drill-sergeant as gravely introduced Ted to me, then taking my arm, he whispered rather noisily in my ear, 'I'm 'fraid 'e's a l'il drunk, so I've jus' bror him h-home.' Whereupon Ted dissolved into helpless laughter and said, 'My dear sersergeant, don't be 'diculous. . . . Bror me home? Why, you ole fool, it's me that's bror you 'ome.' Then (aside), 'E's jus' a l'il drunk, so I've bror him home.' The sergeant hooted with glee. 'Bless m' soul,' he said, 'Ted; jus' lis'en t'me. If you'd bror me home, this would be my lodgin's, see? I would be 'ome, not you. See? But this is your lodgin's—so I mus' 'ave bror you 'ome. See?'

The syllogism was too much for Ted. He collapsed and fell on his umbrella which, though the night was hot, he had carried with him for hours neatly rolled up, and he broke it into two equal halves. We then, the sergeant and I, put him to bed, the sergeant all the time solicitously muttering, 'I bror 'im home. Jus' a l'il drunk, tha's all, pore f'ler.' Next morning Ted came down to breakfast fresh as a daisy and saw the broken halves of his umbrella which Mrs. Rodenhurst had carefully laid on the sofa. 'What the 'ell,' said Ted blankly. I told him what had occurred the night before. Ted reflected; 'Ah remember as far as commin' out of t' King's Arms wi' t' sergeant and gettin' as far as t' Royal Oak, An' Ah remembers nowt else.'"