`  England HAVE WON the Asheeeees!' trumpeted Brian Johnston in a singsong exclamation that lives on through the oft-shown TV newsreel. And fittingly, the batsman sweeping that historic four was the most glamorous and popular English cricketer of them all, Denis Charles Scott Compton.

The nation stopped again for a moment on April 23, when news of Compton's death was broadcast. He was 78, and had last batted for England 40 years previously. Yet none whose summers had been warmed by his joyous cricket – to say nothing of his exploits on the left wing for Arsenal in winter – could dodge the pain of losing someone who had somehow become a vivid part of one's own life.

Though Compton played no Test cricket between his 22nd and 28th birthdays because of the war, he became the ideal torchbearer when the game resumed. Britain then was grey and exhausted, desperate for entertainment of the pure kind as opposed to that which was aimed at propping up morale in the years of terror and tragedy on the Home Front. It was almost as if Compton as cheerer-up-in-chief in the second half of the 1940s had been born to fulfil that national need.

He laughed a lot on as well as off the field, which could easily fool the moderns into regarding him as totally frivolous and frolicsome. They should speak to some of the bowlers who bowled to him. He was so often just the man for a crisis. Len Hutton, his contemporary co-great, displayed the weight of his very considerable burden with solemnity of expression, facial and physical. Compton could never look anything other than boyish.

Usually capless, which made him the ultimate model for the famous Brylcreem association, and with strong shoulders, a narrow waist and sturdy legs which sculptors might have felt were an inch short of perfection, Denis Compton strode smiling to the crease. All eyes were riveted on him. He was handsome; he was a genius; and he was unpredictable.

His unpredictability extended not only to what time he might turn up (or, in later years, at all manner of functions, whether he would turn up at all) but to his running between wickets. All batsmen have at least one blemish in their make-up. This was Compo's. But he was easy to forgive. Even elder brother Leslie ( Middlesex wicketkeeper, Arsenal and England centre-half) had to find forgiveness in himself for this particular sin in, of all occasions, Les's own benefit match.

The contradiction with Compton, as with batsmen like Trumper and Gower, is that he is remembered for style and, a word unknown to Trumper, charisma. And yet Compton also has some major records to his name.

Apart from his 181-minute 300 for MCC against North-Eastern Transvaal in 1948–49, the fastest triple-century, his 3816 runs in 1947 (from 50 innings, average 90.86) and 18 centuries are both records for a first-class season. And the pleasing thing is that with today's restricted programme, Compton's name is unlikely to be removed from the top of these prime tables. (Even before that golden summer, he had scored over 1100 runs in Australia and New Zealand since the start of the year.)

 TO CRICKET-LOVERS of a certain age, the very mention of 1947 conjures dewy-eyed visions of sunshine and two men: Compton and his shorter, less elegant sidekick Bill Edrich. They slammed and laughed their way through that extraordinary summer, Edrich also passing Tom Hayward's record aggregate of 3518 (61 innings), which had stood since 1906. Most of Middlesex's 16 county opponents suffered, having first had to deal with the serene Jack Robertson and fellow opener Syd Brown. The `twins' also terrorised the South Africans, posting a third-wicket stand of 370 in the Lord's Test, the highest partnership by anybody against that country until the recent 385 by Greg Blewett and Steve Waugh. Compton made centuries in four of the five Tests, chalking up 753 runs, still second only to Hammond's 905 (v Australia, 1928–29) for an England batsman in any series.

It would be misguided to suppose that Compton was a greedy, crease-hogging accumulator. He simply loved batting, and he gained pleasure from being an entertainer. He took risks and was sometimes unorthodox, yet he was just the man Englishmen loved to see bounding onto the field in a batting crisis.

In spite of all his centuries – 123 of them in only 839 innings – he rated the unbeaten 76 in the Lord's Test of 1938 as the best innings of his life. He was only 20, and had just become England's youngest centurion with 102 at Trent Bridge on his Ashes debut (`Wally gave me a right ticking-off,' he used to giggle, `for getting out straightaway. I hit Fleetwood-Smith and was caught – just over there'). Now, in the Second Test, on the ground where as a lad he had sold score-cards and helped push the roller as an MCC groundstaff `Nipper', he held Australia at bay, rapacious O'Reilly and all, and saw England through the danger. In a match that encompassed Hammond's five-star 240 and Paynter's 99, plus Bill Brown's 206 not out for Australia, that three-quarter century rated so highly by Compton half-a-century later at least atoned for his dropped catch at slip which cost Ken Farnes a hat-trick.

Season of his life: Denis Compton on the attack in the Oval Test of 1947, during his golden summer

His career, so cruelly interrupted by war, could otherwise be divided into two parts: pre-and post-Knee. The capital K is used advisedly, since it became a matter of national concern. He first damaged it in a pre-war collision with the Charlton goal-keeper, and by 1950 the pain and inconvenience were intolerable. The kneecap eventually became a kind of sacred semi-secret exhibit at Lord's. Denis's sailor gait became more pronounced, his career was granted an extension, but the injury was a curse for the rest of his life, especially when weight accumulated in later years. England's post-war cricket recovery looks even more dramatic when Hutton's shortened, damaged left arm and Compton's gammy right knee are taken into account.

 BORN IN HENDON, north London on May 23, 1918, Compton played his earliest cricket in front of a street-lamppost wicket. From Bell Lane School, he went to the local town hall as a trainee clerk, and was signed by Arsenal at 14. Plum Warner saw his century at Lord's for Elementary Schools, and soon he was on MCC's books, and then Middlesex's. In both sports he was inclined to listen politely to coaches and then go out and do it his own way. It is always exciting when the rumble goes round that a very special young batsman has been spotted. His Middlesex debut came in 1936 with a handy knock from the No. 11 position; a maiden first-class century came three weeks later at Northampton (his 100th came at Lord's against the same county 16 years – or 10 seasons – later) and at 18 he became the youngest batsman to make 1000 runs in his first season. His mentors, Hobbs and Hendren, were very proud.

He was blooded by England at the Oval against New Zealand in 1937 when only 19 years 83 days; Cyril Washbrook, 22, was another debutant. And when England were wobbling at 36 for 3, Compton (65) put on 125 with flaxen-haired Joe Hardstaff. The debut century came against Australia next summer, followed by only 1 in England's 903 for 7 at the Oval, which was cause for mirth ever more. The ripening of his glorious generation of batting was complete in 1939 with centuries by Hutton and Compton against a strong West Indies pace attack (backed by spin too) in the Lord's Test. There, the Northerner and the Southerner joined in a fourth-wicket stand of 248 in 140 breathtaking minutes. The only problem was that world war was now 10 weeks away.

 Compton played soccer for England during hostilities, before being shipped off to India as an Army physical-training instructor. There, in 120-degree heat in Mhow, he drilled the local lads, one of whom became General Zia of Pakistan many years later. Enjoying local conditions, young Sergeant Compton, invited to play for Holkar in the Ranji Trophy, scored 249 not out against Bombay in the final, having been promised a handy sum per run by a local businessman. Afterwards he was told that the businessman had been called away: no bonus. It was another deflation he delighted in recounting.

Those wartime football internationals did not count as full caps, but the memory of playing in a forward line of Matthews, Carter, Lawton and Hagan was imperishable. In peacetime, full-bodied rewards came his way: a League Championship medal for 1947–48 and an FA Cup-winner's medal in 1950 after Arsenal beat Liverpool 2–0 at Wembley, with Leslie at centre-half and Denis at outside left (fortified, at Alex James's suggestion, by a large slug of brandy at half-time). And that was that: the knee saw to it.

 TOO YOUNG AND HANDSOME to be let loose on a cricket tour in 1936–37 according to one biographer (Arsenal wanted him anyway), Compton made it to Australia 10 years later and won over that country instantly, though Test runs came in quantity only at Adelaide, where he made twin centuries. Returning four years later, he had his worst series of all: 53 runs at 7.57. His last Australian tour came in 1954–55, as an elder statesman under Len Hutton's captaincy, and they went out on a triumphant note, retaining the Ashes after all the suffering of the first few postwar series. In the final Test, at Sydney, Compton bustled around, out of sorts, until he decided to toss his cap to the umpire. Then he swept and drove strongly through cover as of old, signing off with 84.

His best series against Australia came in 1948. For almost seven hours in the second innings at Trent Bridge, often in eerie light, he went to his highest score against the old enemy, 184, saving England's face, though the match was still to be lost. His own face was almost damaged as his final ball, another of Keith Miller's roaring bouncers, sent Compton tripping over his stumps. So annoyed was he that he brushed past his Aussie mate's outstretched hand as he returned to the pavilion. He and Hutton had a stand of 111 here, and it defies logic that England's two paramount batsmen so seldom linked up for long during their many years in the Test XI together.

An even more stirring century came in the Third Test, at Old Trafford. Soon after taking strike, Compton edged a no-ball from Ray Lindwall onto his brow, and had to be helped from the field (by Miller, of course), blood gushing. Stitches and a liquid restorative saw him ready to resume at the fall of the fifth wicket at 119, after a reassuring wink to the newsreel cameraman. Lindwall greeted him with a bumper, and Denis fought and charmed his way to 145 not out. Rain later hindered England's advance to possible victory. They had to wait until Feb 1951 for that first postwar win against Australia, and it was fitting that Hutton and Compton ran the winning run, the latter's wretched series contrasting as it did with the Yorkshireman's 1950–51 average of 88.83.

That heroic 145 was Compton's eighth century in 11 consecutive Test matches, placing him on a pinnacle, while the sensation of the county season of 1948 was his unbeaten fourth-wicket stand with Edrich of 424 in only four hours against Somerset at Lord's. Compton's 252 not out did not remain his career-best for long. The 300 at Benoni on England's tour of South Africa came that December (first 100 runs in 66 minutes, second in 78, third in 37), one of his eight centuries on that trip.

Boys in the street nearly all wanted to be Compton, while women adored him for his good looks (more Ray Milland perhaps than Michael Wilding: John Arlott hated being mistaken for him, yet felt flattered), and men, in the depths of their hearts, envied him.

 Compton's joint-captaincy of Middlesex with Bill Edrich in 1951–52, however, added nothing to his reputation. Genius does not endow automatic leadership skills.

Into his thirties he went, and though the run output could not be maintained at quite the previous level, he was a key figure for county and country. Ashes glory in 1953 was followed by his only tour of the Caribbean, where he did his bit towards England's dramatic comeback from 2–0 down to square the series, and in 1954, when 36, he unexpectedly stroked his highest Test score, 278 against the new Pakistan team, at Trent Bridge. The knee that day – and all but five of his runs did come in a day – had to support him for just on five hours.

Late for the party: never the most reliable timekeeper, Compo managed to miss the start of the gala dinner for his own 70th birthday

At 37 he was still good enough to make 492 runs at 54.67 against the testing 1955 South African attack of Heine, Adcock, Tayfield and Goddard. But when the kneecap was removed that winter, his countless fans feared the worst.

He returned gingerly to Middlesex at the end of June, scored 100 at Glastonbury in his second match, and another century against Kent at Lord's. The nation thrilled at his return to the England side for the final Test against Australia, the Ashes already secure. There were moist eyes when he scored 94, limping noticeably.

He even embarked on the tour of South Africa that winter, another gripping series, in which he bowed quietly out of Test cricket, his two half-centuries coming in the victory at Cape Town in the Second Test.

 THEREAFTER, IT WAS semi-social cricket and appearances for the International Cavaliers; television commentary with his man-in-the-street voice and open attitude; and a long twilight in which he was feted and honoured repeatedly. He was made CBE in 1958, while others who have done little by comparison to delight the nation have taken higher honours. He was one of the key luminaries at both Centenary Test-match jamborees. And they named a stand after him at Lord's, which meant more than anything else to him. As he strolled bulkily along the boundary on the St John's Wood Road side of the ground on his way back to the beckoning glasses in the committee-room, he waved and his eyes crinkled above those rosy cheeks. He was astoundingly unspoilt by his legendary status. Those ageing spectators who remembered how Denis Compton had lifted the post-war gloom now waved back, and quietly wept.

One obituarist recently claimed that Compton`never denigrated' modern sportsmen, who is to depict him as mindless. That he most certainly was not. He did express disgust at times in his newspaper column and in company, when he contemplated certain inflated egos and reputations.

He never seemed to dwell on the fortunes made by the top moderns, though he made no huge wealth himself from the game. Playing in the 1990s, Compton would have been an earner in the Lara/ Tendulkar class at least. At his peak, he carted hundreds of unanswered letters and unbanked cheques and all manner of invitations around with him, incapable of coming to grips with the problem of response. An agent, Bagenal Harvey, fixed all that. But commercial interest in that era was slight.

Sweeping all before him: more runs for Compton in 1947, the year he set news records for first-class runs (3816) and centuries (18) scored in a season

He backed horses, some of which won, and played golf very competently. His outspokenness on the South Africa issue offended many, and even his two South Africa-based sons strenuously opposed his viewpoint. He was not really a political animal, and was not trying to be. But he never ducked a challenge.

Marriage was another matter. He outgrew two, and embarked on his third in 1975, aged 57. He and Christine enjoyed over 20 years of Grecian 2000 bliss as opposed to the Brylcreem excitement of the quarter-century preceding.

You can reflect on the youngish man who ran Mankad out with a kick of the ball at the Oval in a 1946 Test, or the slow left-arm bowler who took a surprising 622 first-class wickets (and might have won the 1948 Headingley Test had catches from Bradman, twice, and Morris not been missed off him). But the images that prevail are of the capless batsman employing a short-arm pull or reaching across and sweeping a ball to the boundary, and raising his bat on high, pleasure written across his pleasant features, showing how grateful he was that so many were sharing the sunshine with him.

He was, of course, late even for his grand 70th-birthday dinner. And he might not even have made it to 70 had thugs had their way a couple of years earlier, demanding money from him at a petrol station. `Sorry,' said Denis, `I haven't any on me. But I have something for you in the car.' On the back seat was a signed bat. He brandished it, saying, `And I know how to use this.' They must have known their history. They fled.

 Denis Compton died from complications following a third hip operation in Princess Margaret Hospital, Windsor, on April 23. It was St George's Day and 11 years all but a day since Bill Edrich had died. It was the first day of the new cricket season, and flags were lowered to all the county grounds. And of all the tributes, none was more graphic than Fred Titmus's. Asked by Mike Atherton just how good a batsman Compton was, the former Middlesex and England offspinner replied: `I can't tell you that, Mike, because you just wouldn't believe me.'

MAKING RIOT ON THE SOLEMN FIELD

Especially as his knee became an agonised-over national joint, he rolled around the field. When called on to try his Chinaman, he sometimes came up to bowl like a man who hadn't turned his arm over all winter. A limb might fly off, the ball could go wide, or he might entirely deceive a batsman who couldn't stop laughing. The bails jumped up in merriment. There were a few moments in the late 1940s and early'50s when somehow the comic swagger of being Denis and Keith Miller could make riot on the solemn field – without ever marring the knowledge that you were watching two of the greatest players ever, men who were lurking somewhere between gully and short leg, the Artful Dodger and Errol Flynn.

Denis was often distracted, headstrong, mercurial, daft – his running between wickets was never fully understood by human beings. He and Bill Edrich kept at least half a mind on the Saloon Bar, the 3.30 at Goodwood and those two pretty girls sitting in front of the Tavern. Denis Compton was so good, so natural, at cricket that his attention had time and space for other things. And when he scored his last century of all, a midweek game, when he drove Worcestershire (I think) all over the field, he was laughing and the salt-and-pepper hair tossed, saying, `Come on, chaps, I've got to be somewhere this evening.'

David Thomson is a leading film critic and author of many books including `4-2', about the 1966 World Cup.

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