Here I am at the grave where the
ashes of Charles “Almighty” Fry are interred. I’m not a sporty person but I’d
read about this hyperactive high achiever and drove to Repton,
a small town in Derbyshire, to find him.
A hundred years ago he was the greatest all-round sportsman of his
time. If he was around now he’d probably be squashed under a ten-ton weight of
media attention, millions of pounds and sponsorship deals.
The grave was found quickly along the back wall of the beautiful St Wystans’s church which adjoins the posh Repton
School For Rich Folk. It was at this school Charles
demonstrated not only a terrific mind but the ability to become one of the
greatest all-round athletes ever. From Repton he took
up a scholarship to Oxford where he gained a first-class degree in Classics.
Aged 21 he equalled the world record for the long jump after a good meal and a
cigar. Aged 22 he started playing cricket for Sussex and from aged 23 he played
the first of twenty-six test matches for England. Simultaneously he played
rugby for Blackheath and football for three UK football teams (playing in the
FA cup final of 1902.)
Do you know any other sportsmen so gifted? And he even had a party piece
- jumping backwards onto a mantelpiece from a standing position on the floor -
not off the mantelpiece but onto it.
Blimey.
His finest achievements were on the cricket field. He played 26 games
for England. Over the years he played for Sussex, London County and Hampshire
and scored almost 31,000 runs.
His brain barely rested; while pursuing these sports he wrote in “CB
Fry’s Magazine” for a decade, covering topics from men’s fashion to safety razors to phrenology (studying the shape of the
skull) to map reading. There was also a novel and an autobiography (he was even
on This Is your Life.)
Despite his talents he was always short of money and didn’t take part
in the 1896 Olympics due to being skint (folk reckoned he’d have won the 100 metres spring and the long jump.) He
was often so short of money he resorting to nude modelling. He couldn’t carry
the weight of his genius and had the first of many nervous breakdown while
still at Oxford University. As with some gifted people he wasn’t emotionally
intelligent. He seemed to be more like a machine.
From age 36 he and his wife ran the boys naval training ship Mercury
on the River Hamble in Hampshire (she was cruel and he feared her all his
life.) Aged 48 he was offered the throne of Albania (they were looking for an English gentleman with an
income of £10,000 a year to become their king) but he preferred politics and
stood three times unsuccessfully for Parliament.
Aged 50 he retired from cricket and moved into cricket journalism
working for The Captain magazine for
boys and the Daily Express newspaper.
He was suffered from diabetes and
neuritis and died of kidney failure at the Middlesex Hospital in London aged
84.
I’d parked outside the church and returned to the car for a coffee and
a bit of walnut cake. Repton is one of those slightly-quaint
attractive towns where schoolchildren can be seen up and down the streets. Repton School dominates and its one of those old posh
schools you put your child down for minutes after its appearance in the Labour
Ward. If you want to send your spawn to its hallowed corridors and hallways it
costs £33,000/year to board or a paltry £29,000 for day attenders. For 400
years only human beings with a dangling sausage attended - no girls – but they
attend now and no doubt bear names like Cassandra, Penelope and Cordelia (can’t
imagine there’s a Brenda Belcher or Morag Smelly in attendance.)
As I sat in the car a gaggle of boys in cricket whites crossed the
road and disappeared through the main school entrance. Mmmmm….thought
I’d go and have a walk around and I strode purposefully passed the security
office. Up and down pathways beautiful buildings shovelled themselves
competitively into the eyes: chapel, priory, orchard, various school buildings
- all moated by mature trees and well-manicured sports grounds. It was like a
film set - it was a film set - it was
“Brookfield School” twice in the 1939 and 1984 films Goodbye, Mr Chips.
An alleyway suddenly opened out and a few hefty saloons had dropped
anchored in the car park, disgorging parents who had come to watch their young
whack balls. Thankfully I was dressed as a vicar and the volley of “hellos” and
instant smiles was uplifting.