“Too daring for the grey-beards?”: The Mental Health of Harold Gimblett

Harold Gimblett in 1936 (Image: Wikipedia)

The incredible first-class debut of Harold Gimblett, the 20-year-old son of a farmer, for Somerset in 1935 catapulted him to fame from the very start of his career. His 63-minute century against Essex was one of the most spectacular debuts by any player and suggested that a promising career was beginning. When Gimblett was forced to retire 19 years later owing to a severe mental health condition which required his admission to hospital, he had largely fulfilled that promise. Over those years, he was to prove more than useful. He became — and remains, almost seventy years after his retirement — Somerset’s leading run-scorer in first-class cricket. He was an entertainer much loved by the county’s supporters and played many great innings. And yet underneath the success, there was tension and bitterness, to which there were two contributing factors. The first was the nature of cricket in the years around the Second World War: a Somerset Committee which handled all professionals with a brutal lack of sympathy, empathy or understanding, and a sport riven by deliberate class distinction in which the amateurs were on top, and professionals were treated as menial hired hands (a distinction which was often harsher at counties like Somerset which had a greater proportion of amateurs in the team). But the second factor was Gimblett’s own lifelong struggle with mental health.

Most of what we know about this comes from Gimblett’s own account, provided in a series of tape recordings intended for the ears of David Foot, with whom he planned to collaborate on an autobiography. The project never got off the ground before Gimblett’s suicide in 1978, but Foot turned the searingly, painfully honest recordings into a 1982 biography Harold Gimblett: Tormented Genius of Cricket. There had never quite been anything like it before, owing to the fact that Gimblett did not intend his words to be published when he spoke them (but he gave permission, as did his widow after his death, for Foot to use them) and so they did not have the usual filter applied by sporting stars in writing their autobiographies. There is no parallel account of the life of a cricketer in the period around the Second World War. And yet his words find an echo in the experiences of modern players whose mental health suffers under the unrelenting pressure of professional and international sport. This can be seen most clearly in his memories of his Test debut for England in the first match of a series against India in 1936, in which he dreaded having to play. But an unbeaten, match-winning 67 in the second innings (the highest score of the game) provided him with another fairly-tale debut and meant that he retained his place. This proved something of a turning point for him.

At the time, the England selectors were looking around for new players to refresh the team and replace some veterans after a string of poor results. For the second Test, Gimblett’s opening partner was the debutant Arthur Fagg, who like him was only 21 years old. In a high-scoring game, Gimblett made just nine runs out of England’s 571 for eight declared. He also missed a catch when India batted and was dropped from the team for the third Test. While somewhat relieved to escape from the pressure, he was affected for the rest of the summer by what he perceived as his failure, which continued to weigh on his mind and impacted on his form. After his Somerset debut the previous summer, he had similarly struggled for consistency in the aftermath, but never questioned his own methods. Nor had he particularly clashed with the Somerset authorities. But something seemed to change (if we can believe his own account) now that he was an international cricketer. The Somerset Committee attempted to force him to temper his aggression, but he was not willing to compromise, even when he form had fallen away. For the rest of the season, he struggled with the hook shot, which he had always played successfully, and sought out Herbert Sutcliffe, an acknowledged expert at the shot, for technical advice. An unsympathetic Somerset Committee simply told him to stop playing the shot, which he refused to do. He also clashed with his captain after one game in which he hit a full toss for six in the last over of a day’s play; he was told that he would be dropped if he ever took such a risk again.

The result of all this was another loss of form. In his first five matches of the season, Gimblett had scored 623 runs with three centuries, at an average of 103.83. By the time of his selection for England, he had scored 1,041 runs in 12 matches at 57.83. In the remainder of the season, he managed just 605 runs at 18.91. His final record for 1936 was 1,608 first-class runs at an average of 32.81; respectable but far short of what seemed possible at the start. His temperament in big matches and his slip fielding were also questioned by Wisden, which, as it had done after his debut, counselled a more careful approach. But how much had the scrutiny of the opening weeks of the season, and the pressure — and what would probably today be termed as anxiety — before his England debut affected him? The effects lasted into the following two seasons, when Gimblett struggled to live up to the potential identified in the press. Others overtook him in the race for England places, and he seemed unsure of the best way to bat. He was heavily criticised in 1937 for his overly aggressive batting and was briefly dropped down the order. Yet he was outwardly unconcerned and stubbornly maintained his approach; sometimes he seemed overconfident and played in deliberately unorthodox fashion. Again, this is perhaps less an indication of arrogance and more a sign that all was not well. He still managed 1,500 runs that summer, at an average just over thirty, but fell away in 1938, and his average dropped to 27. Moreover, he was often unfit, battling “aches and pains”.

Gimblett at his wedding to Ria Burgess in 1938 (Image: Harold Gimblett: Tormented Genius of Cricket (1982) by David Foot)

Gimblett finally began to recover his batting skill in 1939, and made a distinct advance. Perhaps this was early a result of his previous experiences, or perhaps it arose from a change in his personal life. In December 1938, he had married Marguerita (Rita) Burgess, whom he had known for some years. They eventually had a son, Lawrence. Whatever the cause, Gimblett made an excellent start to the 1939, similar to that of 1936, and scored 905 runs in his first seven games. Such form resulted in a recall to the England team for the first Test against the West Indies team that toured during the season. Perhaps unfortunately, it was once more played at Lord’s, a ground that often made him uncomfortable owing to what he perceived as extreme snobbery and social prejudice. In the first innings, he was bowled by John Cameron for 22 when he lost sight of a flighted delivery; in the second, he hit his first two deliveries, bowled by Leslie Hylton, for four and six, as England chased a target against the clock. But in looking to score quickly, he was bowled by Manny Martindale. Unlike during his previous Test appearances, his fielding was singled out for praise in Wisden; he took one spectacular catch to dismiss Ken Weekes, for which he was congratulated by the new batter, Learie Constantine. But he had not done quite enough and was dropped for the final time, having played only three Tests for England. Although it is hard to be certain, some of his team-mates suspected in later years that, whenever there was a chance that he might come back into England selection, such as before a touring team was chosen, he deliberately batted poorly so that he would not be picked. Nevertheless, in 1939 he managed to maintain his form and finished the season with 1,922 runs at 40.89.

The outbreak of war in 1939 brought a pause in Gimblett’s career, and he found the next few years difficult. He volunteered for the Air Force, but for reasons that are not quite clear was instead allocated to the Fire Service where his duties involved dealing with the aftermath of bombing raids. Foot notes that some of Gimblett’s team-mates thought that guilt from not seeing active service affected him after the war. But he was equally affected by his experiences as a fireman, especially when some of his colleagues were killed in an air raid, and he possibly suffered depression from having to deal with the destruction. Foot had received information that “his dormitory locker was full of pills.”

When county cricket resumed, Gimblett did better than ever. Somerset were surprisingly good in 1946 and finished fourth in the County Championship; Gimblett was a key player, averaging almost fifty. More circumspect than he had been, he still was capable of powerful shots but was less reckless. He scored his first double-century when he hit 231 against Middlesex in 320 minutes (32 fours, 1 six). If there was a slightly drop-off in 1947, the team leaned almost entirely on his runs in 1948. Against Sussex that summer, he scored 310 (465 minutes, 37 fours, 2 sixes), the highest innings by a Somerset player, surpassing the 52-year-old record set by the amateur Lionel Palairet, who scored 292 in 1896. However, the Somerset Committee refused to recognise the achievement. Gimblett said: “Arthur Wellard went to see the secretary, Brigadier Lancaster. ‘Harold’s just made 300. Will you allow a collection around the ground for him?’ The answer was prompt: “He’s paid to score 300. There will be no collection.’ I think that was when I first decided my career with Somerset was going to end. I was deeply hurt.” He and his team-mates suspected that the Somerset hierarchy were displeased that a professional had beaten the record of a famous and revered amateur from the past. But that was not his only spectacular achievement in 1948: against Glamorgan, he scored 70 which included six sixes in 13 balls from Len Muncer.

Somerset in 1946, illustrated on a benefit leaflet for F. S. Lee (Image: Harold Gimblett: Tormented Genius of Cricket (1982) by David Foot)

This immediate post-war period was perhaps Gimblett’s peak as a cricketer. He was adored by the Somerset crowds and enjoyed their adulation. But this brought its own internal pressures. While he struggled with the scrutiny and expectations of playing for England, and although he did not like journalists or the press in general, he enjoyed hogging the headlines for Somerset and was sometimes jealous of team-mates who usurped the attention. He hated to fail, and team-mates described how he would throw his bat around the dressing room if he was dismissed cheaply; they knew to keep away. Nor did they criticise him, because he did not respond well; in fairness, he did not especially enjoy praise either. Yet it left him with a reputation as something of a prima donna, not least because his reactions could be unpredictable. Foot tells several stories: how he once refused a drink from a Somerset member after he scored a large century, and had to be persuaded to accept; how he angrily shouted at Lancashire members who were critical of an umpiring decision that went against their team: “Why don’t you go back to the bloody mills and do an honest day’s work”; how when he was dismissed early in an innings played at Lord’s, and an MCC member complained “I’m sorry you are out, Gimblett; I’ve come a long way to watch you bat”, he stopped and replied: “You ought to have bloody well stayed at home.”

Nor was he a particularly good team-mate. Although he got on well with the other professionals, he was not especially interested in their success. He did not usually watch them bat, and only rarely offered technical advice despite being knowledgable about such matters. And he did not always consider the interests of his team while he was batting; he sometimes played how he wanted to play rather than as the situation demanded and sometimes was prone to play deliberately poorly if he knew selectors were watching. One amateur team-mate, according to Foot, suggested that if he was hit by a short ball (although he was generally very skilled against bouncers and fast bowling), he sometimes surrendered his wicket shortly after. Nevertheless, when the mood took him, he was a good team man, getting his head down and seeing off the new ball, or battling through difficult situations when Somerset were in trouble. Yet he never wanted responsibility and captaincy held no appeal for him.

Perhaps more importantly, Gimblett rarely got along with the amateurs in the team and could be difficult for the captain to deal with, particularly at a time when Somerset had a succession of short-lived captains who struggled to establish themselves. In fact, he had a problem with authority, refusing the demands of the Somerset Committee to drop the hook shot; he lacked deference even towards figures as distinguished as Pelham Warner. As the writer (and former Somerset player) R. C. Robertson-Glasgow put it: “Someone remarked that perhaps he is too daring for the grey-beards. My own view is that he is also too daring for the majority of the black-beards, brown beards and the all-beards, who sit in judgement on batsmen; in short, too daring for those who have never known what it is to dare in cricket.” The editor of a local newspaper who went to school with Gimblett called him an “infuriating enigma”. John Daniell, a hugely influential figure at Somerset for much of Gimblett’s time there, was baffled by the opener. He was often heard muttering: “That bloody Gimblett”. The latter in turn never forgave Daniell for rejecting him as a Somerset player before he made his famous debut (when he was chosen, just as an unsuccessful two-week trial was coming to an end, largely because no-one else was available).

Off the field, Gimblett had a reputation as a hypochondriac; he complained of aches and pains and suffered from migraines. He frequently visited doctors and was known, particularly after his mental health struggles became serious, for always having bottles of painkillers in his kit. He often kept to himself and was very introverted. Yet his rebelliousness was admired by his fellow professionals, who often conformed to get ahead.

Gimblett set another record in 1949, when he reached 2,000 first-class runs in the season for the first time; his 2,063 runs was the highest in a season for Somerset (beating Frank Lee’s 2,019 runs in 1938). During another solid season in 1950, Gimblett made runs for Somerset against the touring West Indies team. As a result, when Len Hutton withdrew from the England Test side, Gimblett was chosen to replace him. However, Gimblett developed a painful carbuncle on his neck and therefore was unable (or perhaps unwilling) to play; there were suggestions that the carbuncle might have arisen through the stress of his selection.

During the 1950–51 season, a “Commonwealth XI” toured India and what was then known as Ceylon; this took place at the same time that an England team toured Australia. Gimblett was chosen in the Commonwealth team and did reasonably well on the field. But he did not enjoy the tour: “It was a bad time for me — I had no energy, no spark, no conversation. I became very withdrawn. At first I wondered whether I’d picked up a bug. But it was purely mental.” He also struggled with Indian food and climate; he lost weight and came home looking very thin. Foot concluded that “Gimblett was temperamentally unsuited to touring”. But even this might be harsh; the experience he describes sounds very similar to the accounts of more recent England players, like Jonathan Trott and Marcus Trescothick, who hated the life of a touring cricketer, which exacerbated their symptoms of anxiety.

Gimblett batting at Bristol against Gloucestershire in 1953 (Image: Harold Gimblett: Tormented Genius of Cricket (1982) by David Foot)

The after-effects of the tour lingered into the 1951 season and Gimblett took a complete break in July, after doctors told him that he was “run down”. When he returned in August, he scored three centuries. The instability of the Somerset team cannot have helped; both the captain and Gimblett’s opening partner changed with bewildering frequency in this period. During his benefit season of 1952, he scored 2,000 runs again. At the end of the season, he took his family on a six-month trip to Rhodesia after being invited there in order to coach and play a little cricket. He was tempted to stay but chose to honour his Somerset contract and, according to Foot, “the pending political mood [in Rhodesia] bothered him.” Although he scored heavily again in 1953, there were suggestions that he had stopped enjoying the game and rumours of his imminent retirement, or his need for psychiatric treatment, circulated. Although he continued to bat well, Foot suggested that he was “inclined to look an old man” even though he was only 38. Gimblett himself said: “I couldn’t take much more. I was taking sleeping pills to make me sleep and others to wake me up. By the end of 1953, the world was closing in on me. I couldn’t offer any reason why and I don’t think the medical profession knew, either. There were months of the past season that I couldn’t remember at all.”

After struggling over Christmas 1953, Gimblett was admitted to the mental hospital Tone Vale (near Taunton) and had electro-convulsant therapy twice a week. He was a patient for sixteen weeks before rejoining Somerset for the 1954 season. He struggled through pre-season and played the first game although he wanted to come off mid-innings. When he was out for 29, he returned to the dressing room and had what Foot called “a bitter little monologue”, while Gimblett said that “I wanted to get it all out of the system in one go.” There were suggestions that he was reported to the Secretary; in the next game, he scored a duck against Yorkshire and when he returned to the dressing room, said that he couldn’t take any more. He left the ground mid-game; he batted in the second innings but was told by the captain to take some time off. He never played for Somerset again; he was soon a patient at Tone Vale once more. When he returned to the county ground later in the season to sit in the scorers’ box, he was ordered to leave.

The rejection, and lack of sympathy from Somerset throughout his career, left Gimblett bitter. Although he served on the Somerset Committee in the 1960s, and was heavily involved in fund-raising, he never quite forgave the county. These feelings were doubtless exacerbated by his mental health struggles, which continued for the rest of his life. He never knew the cause because he never received a diagnosis. But his problems were by no means limited to his cricketing experiences.

At the time of his enforced retirement, Gimblett had amassed an excellent record. He had scored 23,007 first-class runs at 36.17 (and took 41 wickets at 51.80); of those, 21,142 were for Somerset and even today, almost seventy years after his retirement, he remains Somerset’s leading run-scorer in first-class cricket, just ahead of Marcus Trescothick. In among those runs, he scored fifty first-class centuries; all but one came for Somerset, but he is second to Trescothick in the list of leading century scorers for the county. His innings of 310 remains the fifth highest score for Somerset; it was surpassed by Viv Richards in 1985 (and the record-holder is currently Justin Langer with 341). In his three Test matches, he scored 129 runs at 32.25.

After leaving Somerset, Gimblett briefly played professionally for Ebbw Vale Cricket Club, having struggled to find other employment. He also began to work at a steel works in South Wales as a safety inspector. He struggled with his mental health and the job in the steel works — and the unions — and at one point drove back to Somerset alone for a day, not returning home until the night. In his second season at Ebbw Vale, he left the steel works and took a job working on a farm but his schedule left him too tired to play for the club mid-week and his contract was terminated by mutual agreement. He later took a job at R. J. O. Meyer’s Millfield School as the head coach, with half an eye on returning to play for Somerset. Meyer was supportive but the Committee did not want Gimblett to return. In any case, he worked for twenty years at Millfield, performing various roles (including running the sports shop) and playing plenty of informal cricket. When Meyer retired, Gimblett’s relationship with the school became fractious and he began to hate his job. At one point, recognising that he was struggling, he applied to another school before changing his mind. He once more was treated in a mental hospital with electro-convulsant therapy. He retired on medical advice, not least as he was struggling with various physical ailments (some of which required surgery in later years).

In his final years became more and more reclusive, and by the end of his life actively disliked cricket. Even his wife, to whom he remained close, told Foot that she never entirely understood him. In his turn, Gimblett felt that he had been unkind to her early in their relationship, and regretted it. In March 1978, Gimblett took an overdose and was discovered next morning by his wife. Foot summarised this unhappy ending: “The tragedy is that he was able to share too little of the joy and sheer pleasure he brought to the game of cricket.” But this seems too simple of a conclusion for a complicated man who clearly had endured serious mental health problems which would have been beyond the comprehension of his contemporaries, little understood by the medical establishment of the time and even when Foot was writing in 1982 remained a source of shame and stigmatisation. Perhaps in the modern world — and even in modern cricket — Gimblett might have received better treatment (in both the medical and professional sense).

We cannot do justice to such a complex issue — nor, in fairness, to a complex life — here. But perhaps we can consider his standing as a cricketer. A sympathetic obituary in Wisden, although it did not mention his cause of death, summarised his career very effectively: “People sometimes talk as if after [his debut] he was a disappointment. In fact his one set-back, apart from being overlooked by the selectors, was when in 1938, probably listening to the advice of grave critics, he attempted more cautious methods and his average dropped to 27. But can one call disappointing a man who between 1936 and his retirement in 1953 never failed to get his 1,000 runs, who in his career scored over 23,000, more than any other Somerset player, and fifty centuries, the highest 310 against Sussex at Eastbourne in 1948, and whose average for his career was over 36?”

Unrequited Love: English Cricket and the British Monarchy

The future King Edward VII, the middle of the three seated men, playing cricket for the Bullingdon Club, Oxford, in 1859 (Image: Cricket, 12 May 1910)

Depending on your view of British royalty, the forthcoming coronation of Charles III of Britain might evoke very different feelings. However it does provide a chance to look at some of the times that the British royal family have had an impact — usually inadvertently — on cricket. Because however much the MCC might have wished it otherwise, cricketing royals have been few and far between. Perhaps the most notable was Queen Victoria’s grandson Prince Christian Victor (1867–1900), the only royal to play first-class cricket (one game for I Zingari in 1887). Prince Phillip, the Duke of Edinburgh (1921–2021), was also a keen cricketer, serving as the MCC President and playing in charity matches when he was younger. The only monarch to have shown any interest was George VI (1895–1952), who had a Wisden obituary which claimed that he had a life-long love of the sport: “When Prince Albert, he performed the hat-trick on the private ground on the slopes below Windsor Castle, where the sons and grandsons of Edward VII used to play regularly. A left-handed batsman and bowler, the King bowled King Edward VII, King George V and the present Duke of Windsor in three consecutive balls, thus proving himself the best Royal cricketer since Frederick, Prince of Wales, in 1751, took a keen interest in the game. The ball is now mounted in the mess-room of the Royal Naval College, Dartmouth.” This slight desperation on the part of Wisden to demonstrate cricket’s relevance to royalty perfectly demonstrates how the English game has historically tried to prove its loyalty in the face of royal indifference.

Such desperate reverence on cricket’s part was not always in evidence. When Queen Victoria died in January 1901, there was only one publication which was purely dedicated to the sport, Cricket: A Weekly Record of the Game. During the off-season, this was published monthly and in its issue of 31 January, it carried a brief and understated tribute to the late queen, albeit somewhat jarringly in its “Pavilion Gossip” section. It said:

“Cricketers were always among the most loyal of Queen Victoria’s subjects, as they will be among the most loyal subjects of King Edward VII. Many of them, living in far distant lands, cannot yet have heard of the great Queen’s death, but we are certain that they will all, without exception, receive the sad news with a sorrow as deep and sincere as that which was felt by the vast body of cricketers living within reach of the telegraph.

It was never to be expected, even by the most enthusiastic, that Her Majesty should take a deep interest in the game of cricket but the fact that on several occasions she witnessed matches in which his sons participated may be taken as proving that she viewed the game favourably …”

Despite the final wistful pang of hope that Victoria had been a secret cricket fan, there is quite a contrast between the matter-of-fact nature of that article and the Wisden obituary from 1953. However, even Cricket wanted to show that the connection between their sport and the royal family was deep and historical. It claimed that George II (1683–1760) “was the first Royal lover of cricket, and every British sovereign since that time has taken a delight in the past time. Frederick Louis, Prince of Wales, was the greatest patron with which the Royal Family has yet furnished us. To him, cricket seemed little less than life and breath, and the manner in which he received his death-blow whilst joining in the game, is it not written in the chronicles of cricket? His present Majesty [Edward VII], as is well-known, takes an interest in the game, and has at various times paid several visits to Lord’s, the Oval, and Prince’s. He has, too, occasionally participated in the game.”

The same issue also featured, rather incongruously, the scorecard of a match between the Royal Household at Osborne and the Officers and Men of the Royal Yacht played in 1866, which was watched by the Queen and the royal family. As a tribute to the late monarch, it was a strange choice. Incidentally, when Victoria died, cricket clubs passed on their condolences. For example, Heaton Cricket Club in Bradford passed a vote offering sympathy to the Royal Family and postponed their annual ball. The Yorkshire Committee passed a similar vote of condolence, as doubtless did many other Committees. Their modern counterparts, when Elizabeth II died last year, took to Twitter rather than the committee room to pass on sympathies.

Funeral procession of Queen Victoria (Image via Wikipedia)

The period around Victoria’s death, and the coronation of her son as Edward VII, proved of great interest to cricketers; similar to today, they were perhaps struck by the historical nature of events given the length of her reign. But unlike their modern counterparts, they made quite an effort to see things for themselves given that there was no other way to watch. Ranjitsinhji, who told everyone that he was a prince (but he wasn’t), attended the funeral procession of Queen Victoria on 2 February 1901, accompanied by his long-time “fiancé” Edith Borissow — almost certainly the mother of his illegitimate son — and her sister. Ranjitsinhji’s biographer Roland Wild wrote in 1934, probably based on Edith’s recollections, that they were unable to find a respectable hotel because so many people came for the funeral, and “until 3am they toured London in a hansom cab”. Eventually they found a “third-rate hotel, the mere aspect of which horrified his guests”. As it was the last resort, Ranji persuaded the sisters to spend the night in the only available room but they would not sleep as they were “frightened at the unfamiliar experience”. Wild finished the tale: “When, early in the morning, [the sisters] opened their door, they tripped over a recumbent and disheveled figure — the faithful though ill-tempered idol of English cricket. Ranji, one of the most fastidious men in England, had kept all-night vigil stretched on the floor in the corridor.”

The coronation of Edward VII (1841–1910) in 1902 took place in the middle of a tour of England by the Australian cricket team. It was originally scheduled for 24 June, but was postponed owing to Edward’s ill-health: what transpired to be appendicitis. As the Australians had planned to attend the coronation, a match was arranged in Bradford to fill the unexpected gap, against an “England XI” — which in practice meant a team comprising anyone whom Bradford Cricket Club could convince the play. However, the club struggled to raise a team (perhaps understandably); there were rumours that the old Lancashire and England bowler Arthur Mold would play, but he didn’t. Furthermore, one of the players who was chosen, the Leicestershire all-rounder J. H. King, was unavailable for the first day’s play and a substitute fielded in his place. Consequently, three local club players made up the numbers in the team and found themselves facing some of the most famous cricketers in the world.

Herbert John Knutton (Image: Yorkshire Evening Post, 8 June 1912)

One of these club cricketers, plucked from obscurity, was Herbert John Knutton. Born in Coventry in 1867, Knutton grew up in Banbury, where his father was from. An all-round sportsman in his youth, he originally played cricket largely as a batter but gradually established himself as a good fast bowler too. He first played as a professional in Appleby, Westmoreland; in one game, his team had been dismissed for 52 and their opponents, Settle, had reached 52 for two but Knutton took the last eight wickets without conceding a run to secure a tie. He moved to the Little Lever Cricket Club in Bradford and did well enough to impress county scouts. He was given a trial with Warwickshire, playing one first-class match in 1894 without taking a wicket. In 1897, he signed for Bradford Cricket Club, taking over a hundred wickets and batting well in his first season, the start of a long and successful career; by 1907 he had taken over 1,000 wickets for the club. He settled in Bradford and established a cricketing outfitters’ shop there.

Even as late as 1912, when he was 45, Knutton was still taking enormous numbers of wickets, concentrating on bowling directly at the stumps. But wider recognition eluded him; he played four Lancashire League games between 1892 and 1903 but never signed for a club. Part of the problem might have been suspicions over his bowling action (at a time when such matters were particularly sensitive). A letter to the Yorkshire Evening Post in 1937 by someone who was supposedly a former team-mate of Knutton’s, said that W. G. Grace had cast doubt on his action when Knutton bowled him for a duck in a match between Bradford and London County. The letter suggested that Knutton was no-balled, which upset him greatly, and he later bowled with a splint in his sleeve to prevent his elbow from bending (which is a very tired old story used amongst others by C. B. Fry).

In any case, Knutton was available to play the Australians, and as it transpired was the only full-time bowler in the “England XI”. In his second over, he bowled Monty Noble, Joe Darling and Clem Hill, three of the best batters in the world, reducing the Australians to 11 for three. They recovered to score 402 in 86.2 overs; Victor Trumper scored 113 and Reggie Duff made 182. But Knutton kept on bowling for most of the day, with few other options available. His final figures were nine for 100 in 35.2 overs; he did little more than bowl steadily. The press commented on his questionable action, particularly what seems to have been a flick of the wrist (something which at the time was viewed with suspicion) as he delivered the ball. Neither the Australians nor the umpires questioned his delivery though (understandably in the circumstances). An article in the Leeds Mercury concluded that his fastest delivery was dubious; the writer added that Knutton had turned down offers to return to play for Warwickshire or to join a Lancashire League club.

The Australians eventually won the hastily arranged game by seven wickets; Knutton added another wicket in the second innings to finish with ten for 117 in the match; he never played another first-class game and these were his only wickets at that level. He died in 1946 at the age of 79; perhaps he always thanked the particular royal circumstances which allowed him his moment of fame. After King Edward recovered, the Australians were able to see his rescheduled coronation in August; their match against Hampshire was curtailed by a day as a result.

A painting of the coronation of Edward VII by Edwin Austin Abbey (Image via Wikipedia)

Edward VII seems to have had more interest in cricket than many royals. Following his coronation, Cricket published an article on his association with the game: his patronage of Lord’s and the Oval (which Cricket noted was rented to Surrey by the Duchy of Cornwall, and which would have been worth a lot had it been developed); his laying of a pitch at Sandringham for members of the estate; his playing of cricket at Oxford and for I Zingari. In fact, Edward played twice for I Zingari: in the first game, opening the batting against the Gentlemen of Norfolk in 1866, he was bowled first ball by a straight one from C. Wright. In the same year, he was dismissed for 3 playing against a XXII of the Sandringham Household. He was again bowled. And when he died in 1910, Cricket gave him far more coverage than they had granted his mother: a front page photograph (dating from when he was the Prince of Wales) in his full cricket gear, taken while he was playing for the Bullingdon Club of Oxford in 1859; full scorecards of his two games for I Zingari were also printed, alongside a rather strange poem, unconnected to cricket, by “H. P-T”.

Also in Cricket, R. S. Holmes suggested that the MCC should have played the annual Gentlemen v Player’s match (between the leading amateurs and leading professionals) on the day of George V’s coronation as a special “Coronation Match”. Something similar had taken place when George IV was crowned in 1821, when a “Coronation Match” was arranged to be played four days later between the Gentlemen and Players at Lord’s; the Gentlemen “gave up” on the second day when they were bowled out for 60 in reply to the Players’ 278 for six.

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England’s most potent weapon in 1930: George V meets the teams during a break in play at the Lord’s Test. Australia lost a wicket immediately afterwards

George V (1865–1936) was not particularly interested in cricket. His most famous cricketing intervention was probably during the Lord’s Test of 1930 when he met the teams in the middle of a session when Australia’s opening batters, Bill Woodfull and Bill Ponsford, had posted an unbroken stand of 162 runs in reply to England’s 425. When play resumed after the King left the field, Ponsford was out for 82, without addition to the total, but this brought in Don Bradman who scored 254. Australia reached a total of 729 for six on the third day, and Neville Cardus noted that as the score piled up that morning, “a voice in the press box was heard to ask if the King was coming this morning.” Australia eventually won the game by seven wickets.

By the time of George V’s death, the cricket establishment was firmly in the hands of Pelham Warner. The Cricketer, which he edited, was firmly established by then, and after the king died in January 1936, the Spring Annual of that magazine featured an almost full page photograph of him meeting the South African team at the Lord’s Test match in 1935 above a brief tribute. Warner also included — and probably wrote himself — a passage of toe-curlingly purple prose:

“The nation has sulfered a grievous loss in the death of His Majesty King George the Fifth. His Majesty’s visits to Lord’s to welcome teams from the cricketing countries of the Empire will remain an abiding memory. Picture the scene. A lovely June morning, Lord’s packed to its utmost limits with an eager and enthusiastic throng, and the Royal Standard fluttering in the breeze at the Southern end of the pavilion. The King, accompanied by the President of the M.C.C., walks down the pavilion steps with the huge crowd rising as one man. The two teams are drawn up in line facing each other. The presentations of the captains of the two teams and the other players follow, and then the King returns through the pavilion gate cheered to the echo. So dignified. So impressive. It gave one a thrill and one felt proud indeed to be an Englishman. Men who have known Lord’s for half a century and more will bear witness to the peculiar atmosphere of the oldest and most famous of grounds on a big day-an atmosphere which no other ground has ever quite succeeded in capturing and never was that atmosphere more tense, more compelling, and more keenly sensed than on the occasion of a visit by King George. One felt instinctively that something far greater than a game of cricket was being played. It was as if the unity of the Empire was being forged anew in those moments and that our love for, and our loyalty to, our beloved King was being given a further and a deeper expression.”

W. G. Grace and the future Edward VIII, photographed in 1911 (Image: The Cricketer Spring Annual 1936)

The same issue featured a smaller photograph of the man who had become Edward VIII standing with W. G. Grace in 1911. It was all very different to the subdued reactions to the deaths of Victoria and Edward VII. However, The Cricketer was somewhat quieter in the equivalent annual twelve months later, after the controversy surrounding Edward VIII’s abdication. But Warner was able to show his loyalty early in 1937: in the issue which covered the period of the coronation of George VI, a patriotic photograph appeared on the first page and publication of the following issue was delayed for a few days.

When George VI died in 1952, the Spring Annual of The Cricketer had a photograph on the first page of the late king meeting the players at the Surrey v Old England match at the Oval in 1946. And the issue covering the 1953 Coronation had a picture of Queen Elizabeth meeting Len Hutton, then the England captain, and a feature on royalty in cricket by Gerald Brodribb. But the lack of suitable photographs other than the occasional royal visit to games might be the clearest proof that, no matter what men like Warner might have hoped, or the fervour of Cricket’s claim that cricketers were the “most loyal of Queen Victoria’s subjects”, royalty and cricket have very rarely mixed well. Perhaps the increasingly one-sided nature of the relationship reflects English cricket’s loss of confidence since the reign of Queen Victoria, so that by the time her great-great-granddaughter was crowned in 1953, the establishment was far more desperate to associate itself with the prestige of royalty. The changes experienced by both institutions in the time between that last coronation and the one about to take place, and their relative standing in the world, are issues beyond the scope of a website on cricket history!

And in the end, the most interesting connections between the two are quirks like Alec Stewart scoring a century, in his hundredth Test match, on the hundredth birthday of the Queen Mother in 2000. Or maybe, on a lesser stage, H. J. Knutton’s brief appearance in the news because of the ailing king in 1902.

“An Unchallengeable Authority”: Frank Chester, Cricket’s Greatest Umpire?

Frank Chester (Image: Barclay’s World of Cricket (1986) edited by E. W. Swanton, George Plumptre and John Woodcock)

Frank Chester had been a talented teenage cricketer who looked likely to play eventually for England. But the loss of his right arm in the First World War ended Chester’s playing career and left him in despair. A combination of the need to earn a living to support his family and a desire to remain in cricket meant that he turned to umpiring. Joining the first-class list of umpires in 1922, he found county cricket an unpleasant and uncomfortable world for umpires, and received little support from colleagues whose standards left a lot to be desired. But — according to his recollection — the authorities were impressed enough by his ability as an umpire that they persuaded him to continue in the role. Over the following seasons, he gradually built on his reputation so that by the time of the Second World War, he was generally regarded as the best umpire in the world. Perhaps more importantly, he seems to have been at the forefront — even if it was simply by setting an example — of a drive to improve umpiring. After the Second World War, it was a different story; Chester’s decline, caused partly by ill health, drew a backlash from other cricketing nations against the idea that English umpires were the best in the world.

As is the case for most umpires, Chester’s career in the white coat was largely one of stamina and concentration rather than anything dramatic. He stood in around 30 first-class games each season but, unlike for the players, there are few indications of which were his best or worst matches. His 1956 autobiography — How’s That! — goes into some detail about his first seasons as an umpire, and what life was like, but after that it becomes a conventional review of players, personalities and events from his career: the best batters, the best games, and so on. However, there is an undeniably bitter tone behind Chester’s words, whether from his lost career as a player or the circumstances surrounding his final seasons.

But it is clear that Chester must have been exceptionally good. If he was not particularly happy with his new role, Chester impressed the people who mattered. After just two seasons as an umpire, Chester was asked to officiate in Test matches. His first was England against South Africa at Lord’s in 1924 (featuring Jack Hobbs and Frank Woolley for the home team); he also stood in the fifth Test. He was 29 years old; only two other English umpires had been younger, but they stood in matches in South Africa in the 19th century which were only retrospectively identified as Tests, and even now no younger umpire has officiated a Test in England. His autobiography does not really discuss his feelings about becoming a Test umpire, which was a considerable honour, perhaps owing to the lowly status of the opposition (England dominated the series; only weather prevented England winning all five Tests, and they won the series 3–0). He wrote more about his Ashes debut in the first Test of 1926 — recalling that the two captains could not agree whether conditions were fit for play and asked the umpires to adjudicate — even though it was almost entirely rained off. The Ashes was certainly more prestigious than any other series. Chester described the immense pressure for umpires of Ashes Tests, writing how Arthur Dolphin struggled with the “jitters” during his first Ashes Test in 1934, and found the tension difficult to deal with. While he did not ascribe such worries to himself, it is likely that he was similarly nervous when first standing in Tests. He spent most time in his autobiography remembering a decision he did not need to make: in the final, decisive Test of that 1926 series, Jack Hobbs would have been lbw early in England’s second innings, but the Australians did not appeal; Hobbs went on to a series-winning century and shared a famous partnership with Herbert Sutcliffe.

Between 1924 and 1955, Chester umpired 48 Tests. When he umpired the first Test of the 1948 Ashes, Chester broke the 16-year-old record of Bob Crockett for standing in most Tests, and his 48 Tests were a record which stood until 1993 when H. D. Bird stood in his 49th. Chester stood in at least one Test every season between 1924 and 1955, and often two. For the most important series from the mid-1930s, he sometimes umpired three, for example the Ashes series of 1934, 1938 and 1948 or the South Africa series of 1935.

Chester’s longevity also allowed him to set one record which will almost certainly never be equalled. Between his 1922 debut and his retirement in 1955, he stood in 774 first-class matches. The next highest number is the 701 of Tom Spencer; his old colleague William West is in equal-fourth place on the list, with 657. Incidentally, Chester did not umpire a Gentlemen v Players match at Lord’s until 1937 (and only three other times after that); such matches were usually officiated by MCC umpires who were part of the Lord’s groundstaff.

An indication of how long his career lasted is the identity of the players who bookended it. The first game in which he stood was Essex v Somerset; the players included J. W. H. T. Douglas, “Jack” Russell, Jack MacBryan and Jack White. When his career ended 33 years later, his final match was at Hastings between an England XI and a Commonwealth XI; the players included Colin Cowdrey, Jim Laker, Brian Statham, Frank Worrell and Sonny Ramadhin. His Test debut featured Jack Hobbs, Herbert Sutcliffe and Frank Woolley, and in 1926 he umpired Wilfred Rhodes; his final Test was with Peter May and Doug Insole.

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Chester watching F. S. Trueman bowling in the fourth Test against India in 1952

For Chester to have such a lengthy career at the top is the clearest indication of his ability. Part of Chester’s good reputation might have arisen from the early age at which he began. Most first-class umpires turned to the role after their playing days were over, when their eyesight, hearing and concentration were perhaps less than that of a younger man. Chester had no such worries.

Neville Cardus wrote in The Guardian: “Chester soon established himself as almost an unchallengeable authority not only on the field but off it. Even if players disagreed with a Chester decision they seldom had a reason to back it up with a grievance. Every umpire’s voice is final on the field of play whatever may be thought of it as soon as he gets home; none but the bravest hearts openly argued with Chester.” Cardus believed that “his secret was natural cricket sense which could anticipate a swift sequence of happenings, then an equally quick mind confirmed or rejected impressions arrived at almost instinctively.”

E. W. Swanton, in his obituary of Chester (reproduced in his 1999 book Cricketers of My Time), wrote: “[Chester] described the three chief requisites of an umpire as ‘hearing, eyesight and knowledge of the laws. But that leaves out of account concentration and strength of character, both of which Chester commanded in full measure, and also something intangible which Ronny Aird [the MCC Secretary] perhaps expressed when, on hearing the news [of Chester’s death] yesterday, he said: ‘He was an inspiration to other umpires. He seems to have a flair for the job, and did the right thing by instinct.”

His Times obituary stated: “Chester made very few mistakes, gifted as he was with an unusual keenness of sight at the length of the wicket. Moreover, he gave some correct decisions that have passed into cricket history. Autocratic though he may have been in bearing and speech, his fearless impartiality and scrupulous approach to all problems justly earned him the reputation of perhaps the greatest of all umpires.” And that newspaper’s cricket correspondent related how Donald Bradman had said that he dared to play leg glances to balls on leg stump (but which he believed would have missed the stumps had he not connected) when Chester was at the other end that he would not have dared with lesser umpires. The correspondent added: “There was a time when Chester became recognised as well nigh infallible. It is told, for example, how once at Lord’s he rejected, to everyone’s astonishment, an appeal for a catch at the wicket. The batsman later said that he had not touched the ball and Chester, to put minds at rest, indicated that it had grazed the off stump without dislodging a bail.”

This latter incident involved Gubby Allen, who discussed it in a BBC interview in 1956. Allen recalled Chester gave Herbert Sutcliffe not out despite an audible click and a visible deviation of the ball. When Allen was evidently extremely unhappy, Chester took him down to the stumps where they found a red mark left by the ball when it clipped the off stump. Allen said: “Now that was an amazing decision, because the ball clearly changed its course, and yet he had the eyesight to see that it had missed the bat and he had the confidence to abide by his opinion. It was a very great decision that could only have been given by perhaps the greatest umpire of all time.” Allen mis-remembered the game, suggesting it was Roy Kilner’s 1925 benefit match, when Chester was not an umpire. Swanton, in his 1985 biography of Allen, corrected this to the 1926 Lord’s match.

Bradman wrote in Farewell to Cricket (1950): “Without hesitation I rank Frank Chester as the greatest umpire under whom I played. In my four seasons’ cricket in England he stood for the large percentage of the games and seldom made a mistake. On the other hand, he gave some really wonderful decisions. Not only was his judgement sound, but Chester exercised a measure of control over the game which I think was desirable.” And he described what he thought was the best decision ever made that involved him when Chester gave him out to Reg Sinfield in a 1938 Test: “The ball turned from the off, very faintly touched the inside edge of the bat, then hit my pad, went over the stumps and was caught by [the wicket-keeper] Ames. Whilst all this was happening amidst a jumble of feet, pads and bat, I slightly overbalanced and Ames whipped the bails off for a possible stumping. There was an instant appeal to the square-leg umpire, who gave me not out, whereupon Ames appealed to Chester at the bowler’s end, and very calmly, as though it was obvious to all, Chester simply said, ‘Out, caught,’ and turned his back on the scene.” Bradman also told the BBC in 1956 of another decision by Chester when he gave an Australian batter not out, which the beneficiary later told Bradman was an excellent decision as the ball had brushed his pad but not his bat.

One off decisions like this might just give a flavour of how good an umpire Chester was, but his reputation was based on more than the spectacular decision. He was widely respected for his impartiality and calmness. Bill Woodfull was the captain of Australia during the early 1930s; after the controversial “Bodyline” series of 1932–33 and the fractious 1934 Ashes, he suggested that Chester could travel to Australia for the next English tour. Chester was eager but nothing came of it. He did, however, tour Argentina as the umpire to an English team in 1937–38.

There is a definite sense that from the time Chester began umpiring — and it may not be unconnected — that standards improved. For example, when Jack Hobbs wrote a piece for Wisden on his retirement, he said that over the course of his career, “umpiring has improved all-round, and I should say the two best umpires I have known are Bob Crockett of Australia, and Frank Chester. Umpires nowadays are younger than most of those who officiated when I started, and naturally their eyesight and hearing are better.”

Although it is hard to be certain, Chester’s example seems to have been vital. For example, Frank Keating wrote an article for The Guardian in 1971 (mainly about David Constant) which began: “Modern standards of first-class umpiring were set by Frank Chester, who, between the wars, as Robertson-Glasgow put it, changed umpiring from an occupation to an art.” He insisted that every batter should receive the same fairness from the umpire, no matter their ability or reputation. Chester recalled in his autobiography how some umpires “in my early days” were too eager to give tail-enders out; Chester thought every batter “is entitled to equality of treatment from the umpire no matter what his position in the order.” And again the hint at problems with his fellow umpires: “My protests to offending umpires were not appreciated but I stood firm and eventually such conduct was eliminated.”

Nor was Chester afraid to stand up to amateurs; on several occasions, he refused to allow leg-byes taken by batters who had attempted no shot at the ball — something for which there was at the time no provision in the laws — on the grounds of it being unfair, despite the opposition of Lord Harris (who, according to Chester, said: “You are wrong, Chester, but I admire your courage”). More importantly, the MCC backed Chester, and the law was later changed to reflect his interpretation. Chester summarised his approach: “I gave every match every ounce of my ability, and honesty was my watchword.”

But there was another side to Chester’s umpiring. He cultivated an almost theatrical personality. For example, an article in the Gloucestershire Echo in 1926 said: “Half the crowd watched [Chester] nearly as closely as they watched the game itself, for the young man … is one of the big personalities of any cricket field in which takes his stand as an umpire. His movements, his mannerisms — his ‘antics’ if you like —riveted attention. He twisted this way and that way, he hopped here and there, he even got a laugh now and then by reason of his unusual actions in a capacity which generally attracts very little notice from the crowd.” And Chester began another trend — which has since faded away but outlived his career — for umpires to crouch over the stumps as the ball was delivered. Realistically this would have made no practical difference to the umpire’s view, but it gave an impression of great concentration. Such a show was very much in keeping with Chester’s umpiring.

Cardus wrote: “He became a personality as unmistakable as any in the game. The crouching stance, the gloved right hand, the lean, rather cadaverous and intelligent face, the forward bend of his upper body as he walked — the crowd recognised him at sight. His gestures, as he dispensed the law, were sometimes as expressive as words. To an obviously absurd demand for a leg-before-wicket he would turn his back on the bowler, rendering the perspiring appellant superfluous and momentarily contemptible. Sometimes he would give a batsmen out lbw with, as I thought, unnecessary if diverting vehemence: he would point his finger down the wicket straight at the pads of the apprehensive obstructor, as still detecting him in an offence unspeakably heinous. By rhythmic sweep of the arm he would indicate his delight in a beautiful stroke as he signalled the four.”

Chester watching Verity bowl (Image: Daily Mirror, 7 November 1932)

Most umpires at the time — and with a few exceptions, this has been the case throughout the history of the game — were understated. Chester seems to have thrived on attention and imposing his will on the game. At times, his attitude seems to have bordered on contempt; and not only in his later years when his ill-health made him more impatient. Bradman remembered Chester rebuking Hedley Verity before the Second World War for an lbw appeal against an Australian batter: “Not out Hedley, and that was a very bad appeal.” Not every player thought this was a helpful attitude from an umpire. The contrast to Bob Thoms could not have been more pronounced: the fondly remembered umpire from the late nineteenth century often complimented bowlers and always explained his not-out decisions, particularly when it was a close call. Chester did not subscribe to this view; his primary aim seems to have been to demonstrate his authority.

Even Cardus noted Chester’s “firmness and recurrent suggestions of dictatorship”, although he believed him in reality to be “a man quiet and modest, with an air of loneliness about him”. Vivian Jenkins wrote in Wisden in 1954: “Intensity is the keynote of all he does. It communicates itself even to those outside the boundary — how much more so, then, to the players.”

But this attitude of Chester did not always meet with appreciation, and by the time that Bradman wrote his glowing tribute in 1950, many Australians had begun to hint at dissatisfaction with Chester. At this time, as he admitted himself, Chester’s health was not the best — he was increasingly troubled by stomach ulcers — but he wrote in his own autobiography how the Australians irked him: “The 1948 Australians went too far in their appealing, which often they accompanied by excited leaping and gesticulating. Apart from being distasteful to the home players, as well the cricket-loving public, this sort of behaviour made umpiring a somewhat nerve-racking business at times. More determined than any other international side, the Australians have always imbued their cricket with intensity, but this admirable fighting spirit can be disciplined. It was a sheer joy to stand in the England-Australia Tests before the war.”

Chester suggested that “an exaggerated chorus of appeals can spoil the game, as well as bring upon an umpire the hostility of the crowd which is so out of keeping with the true spirit of cricket.” He criticised the habit of appealing from, for example, cover, who could not have had a clear view. “For as long as I can remember in English cricket, any such appeal from anyone but the bowler or wicket-keeper has been frowned upon.” He publicly condemned Australian appealing in a 1950 speech; even if some thought this was justified, it was not a good look for an umpire to be expressing such opinions aloud. It added to the impression of a man who had not kept up with changes in the game.

In these final years, the unhappiness with Chester among touring teams mounted. The captain of the 1947 South African team wrote to the MCC to clarify the laws after Chester told him that the light was bad when he wanted to bring his fast bowler back on during a Test match; he thought Chester was telling him he could not use a fast bowler or play would be suspended. Chester countered in his autobiography that he had not forbidden the use of pace, and he would not have acted alone without involving the other umpire. This was not the only complaint. Everton Weekes recalled what he believed was an “abysmal” lbw decision against him at Old Trafford in 1950. Keith Miller was so unhappy with Chester’s not-out verdict for a run out during the 1953 Headingley Test that he threw down the ball. Matters became so bad in the latter season that the Australian captain Lindsay Hassett complained to the MCC about Chester’s umpiring in the Headingley Test: for his decisions favouring two English batters and his refusal to take any action when Trevor Bailey shut down the game on the last day by bowling unchecked wide down the leg-side to frustrate the Australian run-chase. Chester was withdrawn from the decisive final Test at the Oval, officially for ill-health. For the same reason, he withdrew from the remaining matches of the 1953 season.

Simon Wilde, in his 2018 England: The Biography, suggests that this was a “significant rebuke for English umpiring, which had to this point been regarded, at least in England, as the best in the world.” But Chester was increasingly at odds with the English authorities as much as with Australian cricketers. One incident emerged after his death. Norman Preston, writing in the 1959 Wisden referred to the growing number of Test bowlers with “questionable bowling actions.” He suggested that the problem had been worsened by the refusal of the authorities to back umpires who were prepared to take action. Preston related how Chester had clearly suspected that C. N. McCarthy, a South African bowler, was throwing during the first Test of the 1951 series between England and South Africa at Trent Bridge. When McCarthy bowled for the first time before lunch on the third day, “Chester, who was at square-leg when McCarthy was operating, watched the bowler intently. It was quite obvious that he was studying his action. After the lunch interval, Chester rarely looked that way again.”

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Frank Chester signalling leg-byes in 1948

Preston went on:

“Some time later I asked [Chester] the reason and he told me that he had gone without his lunch in order to find out whether he would receive official support if he no-balled McCarthy for throwing. He spoke to two leading members of the MCC Committe and could get no satisfaction. They were not prepared to say that MCC would uphold the umpires. In other words Chester was given the impression that, if he adopted the attitude which he knew was right according to the Laws, there was no guarantee that he would remain on the panel of Test match umpires. Naturally, Chester was not prepared to make a financial sacrifice in the interests of cricket and McCarthy continued unchecked in Test matches. And, of course, the corollary came when anyone commented on McCarthy’s action, for the South Africans replied: ‘He satisfied Chester. What else do you want?'”

Reading between the lines of his autobiography, Chester may also have been involved in complaints from umpires about their pay: “Between the wars umpires averaged twenty matches during a season and our fees amounted to about £200, out of which we had to pay rail fairs and hotel expenses. Having to travel all over the country and live away from home for weeks at a time made it impossible to save a penny. At one stage the first-class umpires seriously considered approaching the counties in a body.” The umpires wanted a guaranteed income annually but were hampered by the system that three “adverse reports” from captains could potentially result in their removal from the list.

Money was certainly an issue. Chester admitted that he often struggled to make ends meet during winter months. He had a similar problem during the war when he could not take part in Civil Defence work owing to his disability. To help tide him and his wife over, he earned money from working as a gardener and selling vegetables, as well as umpiring some charity games for a £1 fee. A fund opened between 1948 and 1949 as a testimonial for Chester raised over £3,000, and a further sum came from the MCC on his retirement: £25 for each of his seasons as an umpire. But behind the scenes, the umpires continued to press for better pay. Chester reported how in 1950, the rate was increased so that most umpires would earn around £300 per season, while in 1952 umpires were guaranteed £5 per week, plus rail fares and other expenses. Chester implies that he was very involved in negotiations from the umpires’ side and he continually refers to the umpires as “we”: “we should urge”; “after years of campaigning we made real headway in 1950”.

Stories of Chester’s fallibility increased in the 1950s, yet he continued to insist on imposing his own authority and interpretation of the laws. The result could be that his decisions were at best unorthodox and at worst simply wrong. For example, in a Test against the West Indies in 1950, Doug Insole was bowled by Sonny Ramadhin, but the ball had struck Insole’s pad first. Chester insisted that he should be recorded lbw as he had been given out on appeal before the ball struck the stumps. He stubbornly would not change his decision; the law was changed soon afterwards to prevent such a decision being made again. Also that season he would not rule a batter run out despite being short of his ground as a fielder had obstructed him. Perhaps he was compensating for his fading powers and failing health by becoming more dictatorial, and refusing to consider alternative views. But as a result, his reputation suffered and his own bitterness increased. Always a man of strong opinions, he comes across as arrogant in his autobiography. And in a series of newspaper articles which appeared after his retirement in The People during 1956, the byline rather immodestly named him “Frank Chester … Cricket’s Greatest Umpire”. Yet maybe underneath the bravado, he was simply a disappointed man, twice deprived prematurely of a career in a sport he must have loved.

At the end of the 1955 season, Chester retired, conveniently before the arrival of the 1956 Australian team. Yet he insisted in his autobiography that there had been no behind-the-scenes pressure: “Ulcer trouble and the approach of my sixtieth year were enough to convince me that my competence might be impaired. My best or nothing at all was always my motto … I want to make it clear once and for all that there was nothing diplomatic about my retirement. The only determining factor was my health. If I had not proved that umpiring was a fitter and younger man’s business, who had?” This was backed up by his wife, who said at the time his retirement was announced that he had frequently been in pain while umpiring. Chester added that he had no problem with his critics, and was aware that he must have made mistakes but “the certainty is that they were never wilful nor the result of lost interest.”

Any lapses by Chester in his final years were later excused by the English establishment. Vivian Jenkins stated in the 1954 Wisden: “Recently there have been one or two dissentients among international cricketers of slightly less imposing stature, but Bradman’s opinion is the one likely to last. If there is one small chink in Chester’s armour — and recent duodenal trouble has not improved it — it is his disinclination to suffer fools, and more particularly knaves, gladly.” Swanton wrote in the obituary: “Latterly, before he gave in to persistent ill-health, Chester now and then fell into mortal error, and he neither appreciated, nor was appreciated, by the 1953 Australians, who were irked by his apparently dictatorial manner. But he often umpired when he should have been in bed. Until the last few years he was as nearly infallible as a man could be in his profession, and by his conscientiousness and zeal served as an example to all.”

Chester died suddenly at home on 8 April 1957. He was survived by his wife and son, both of whom lived until 1995 (his wife was 98 when she died). Tributes poured in for Chester from around the world, and any problems at the end of his career were politely brushed over. Everyone focussed on how he was simply the greatest of all umpires. For a historian, it is impossible to rank umpires from the past. All we have to go on is the opinion of their contemporaries, and this was practically unanimous in Chester’s case. Yet his love of the dramatic gesture, his “performance” and the fame that sprung from this does raise questions. How much of his desire to be clearly in control, and to be noticed, arose from his despair at the premature end of his own playing career? The best umpires before him — Bob Thoms, C. K. Pullin, Valentine Titchmarsh, or Bob Crockett — were rarely the centre of the story; and even Jim Phillips, his spiritual prototype as an authoritative umpire who enjoyed the limelight, was far less theatrical. That Chester wanted to noticed, albeit while performing to a very high standard, might say as much about him as his umpiring skills. Yet he also stood up for what he believed in, whether it was treating every cricketer the same way whatever their status or batting position, or demanding better pay for umpires.

The last word should go to E. W. Swanton: “His personality, which communicated itself unfailingly to the crowds, and the story of cricketing promise cut short which led to his becoming an umpire, combined to make the man a sporting institution.”