People were streaming down both sides of the pavement from the Oval to the trains at Vauxhall, spilling on to the road so cars were slowing down to go past. Everyone was pouring out of a cricket match which meant we couldn’t get along the pavement because more and more of them were coming. They tried to step out the way, but then there wasn’t room, and some blokes stopped and looked into the screen of the telly, shaking their heads and saying, ‘Nah, can’t see it, mate,’ in Australian, ‘it’s all over,’ before they went round us. We moved off the pavement on to the road but we were still blocking the way and a car beeped us as it went past because we were blocking there, too. We crossed over in a gap in the traffic and tried walking in the road on that side where we could see the cars coming, but the people were taking over everywhere and we were going the wrong way. It was crowds of cricket people with white hats, some green underneath, carrying bags and hampers, the older ones wearing jackets and ties, and mostly men but lots of children. I didn’t know about cricket except they all wore white, and I didn’t know these people. They were smart and made me feel scruffy. I started sweating and it got into my hands and started making the telly slip, but we couldn’t put it down because we’d get trampled. I shifted the weight to get a grip and Busola looked panicked but took it until I got hold again and frowned at me to keep going. ‘Look at them, Daddy,’ a boy said, holding his dad’s hand, but the man just shook his head and marched them on. It was the sound of feet, thumping and clicking and marching on the pavement. ‘Leg stump.’ ‘Away through the mid-wicket.’ ‘A really bad short ball.’ Everyone walking against us. ‘Terribly good.’ ‘Only day three.’ I couldn’t understand it. But I could feel them. ‘Off how many overs?’ ‘Watch out!’ A teenager wasn’t looking and bumped into us. He stepped back and frowned, looking at everyone like what were we doing, and went round us. ‘Locals?’ It was a blur of people and we couldn’t fight our way through. We looked at each other, and pushed back on to the pavement, up against the gate by the big school, and put the television down. We didn’t sit in case they trod all over us. We stood leaning back on the gate and let the television get in the way to keep us safe. They kept flooding past and I couldn’t look at them any more, it hurt my eyes and pulled away at me. I clung on to the gate with my fingers. A faded sign painted on the wall of the cricket ground opposite said STOP THE KOREAN WAR NOW. I held on to Busola’s hand, and she let me. It was like standing on a ledge with white water rushing past. ‘We keep the ashes.’ We could only do it if they didn’t see us. ‘Is that a television?’ So we crouched down to let them go over our heads.