India hold the ace cards against England in the fourth test.

 India hold the ace cards against England in the fourth Test.

By the time stumps had been drawn at Old Trafford to end Saturday's proceedings it looked as if England had grabbed the initiative against India in the fourth Test. But then somebody decided to throw a spanner in the works. India were clearly not finished with England and there was unfinished business to be dealt with. Sometimes Test cricket can be so wildly unpredictable that even the most straightforward of all contests can become very complicated. 

England were stacking up the runs like a hod carrier on a building site who keeps piling on brick after brick before deciding that enough was enough and the load is far too heavy. England had reached a mammoth total of 669 all out and that in itself looked a decisive and match winning margin of victory. So it was that at some point during this most extravagant first innings mountain of runs, that India would have been forgiven for throwing in the towel and were now ready to surrender. 

At Old Trafford, they can still hear the voices of yesteryear echoing through the years. Somewhere in the ether, they can both see and hear the likes of Jack Bond, David Lloyd, Clive Lloyd, Faroukh Engineer and Harry Pilling whispering words of encouragement and support for today's England. It is a fond thought but one that remains just an unspoken fantasy. Still, it was Old Trafford and, deep in the heart of Manchester, they still know a lot about the purities of English cricket. There is a strong emotional attachment to the England side in the fair county of Lancashire and the affection for the game persists.

Yesterday England attacked and then flung themselves into the game with wild abandon. There was a brutish brutality, an air of swashbuckling confidence about them, a riotously rampant England committed to wanton destruction, a bloodthirsty and bellicose intensity that at times looked unstoppable. In the distance at Old Trafford, you could imagine the fast train flashing past this most traditional of grounds and imploring England never to declare. Keep going England, let your mighty sixes and fours go free. Breathe deeply and just exhale. It's time for fun, freedom and runs, runs, runs, shots, shots, shots.

And indeed classical shots were very much order of the day, lofted to all four corners of the Pennines, over the Peak District and right into the heart of some distant location where the red ball could never be found. This was the currency of the day for England. If a ball was to be hit, then why hang around and retreat into their shell where caution and prudence might have been considered and then dismissed. And then there was Ben Stokes.

Ben Stokes is England's now deeply loved and respected English cricket captain. With ginger beard bristling with menacing intent and heart on his sleeve, Stokes was in no mood for leniency and clemency, an unforgiving figure who was determined to go on the warpath. He was in no mood to show any mercy whatsoever for an India side who were clearly steaming and sweating in the mid summer sunshine. Stokes, at one point, gazed into the warm Lancashire sky and thought he'd found a star in the ascendant. 

Stokes was brave, formidable, inspirational, a bold, cool and calculating figure, ruthless to his fingertips, leading from the front as perhaps you'd expect him to be. In another era, one Ian Botham can still be seen, a man seemingly gripped by the occasion, contorted with ecstasy, bounding down a Headingley pitch, wickets held  high, triumph glistening in his wide eyes as Australia were ripped to shreds in the 1981 Ashes. What a year that was and English cricket will forever be grateful for this pivotal moment in the history of the game.  

But yesterday the cream of England's greatest batsmen unfurled the most colourful of banners with a ruthlessly professional and devastating cutting edge. Joe Root clubbed the most stylish and scintillating of centuries, only departing the crease when he was at 150. It could have been far worse for India since Root pulled, hooked, and reverse swept the ball to all four corners of Old Trafford with just a smattering of sixes. And then Ben Stokes notched up his century for England as if to rub salt into India's festering wounds, eventually ending up with a handsome and gritty 141 much to the delight of the England fans.

India, to their eternal credit, did look threatening at times but after being bowled all out to a seemingly  meagre 358 all out but the contest ebbed and flowed back in England's favour. India were then faced with an uphill battle as captain Shubman Gill threw the strategic dice about, tinkering and tweaking with tactics, scoring a dogged 52. This though was not nearly good enough for an England team who could clearly see the chinks in the vulnerable India armour. 

Sadly though, Jasprit Bumrah, bowling with vivacious swing and seam that nipped back to a number of confused looking batsman, was but a helpless onlooker. Now it was that England's crack unit of bowlers began to assert their dominance. Chris Woakes found movement in the air and a ball that seemed to be behaving too disobediently for India. Woakes took vital Indian wickets at crucial times, while Liam Dawson contributed a healthy 26 before being skitttled out with a straight ball that kept low and was fast enough to send him back into the pavilion.

For England though, this was another yeoman and upstanding performance from Harry Brook again, with Ollie Pope as the consummate player who never disappoints when his country comes calling. Ben Duckett and Zak Crawley were always forceful and fiercely competitive while the backbone of the English attack never looked like cracking. 

By Saturday evening, India were facing the music, trailing by 120 runs but more than capable of a remarkable recovery from nowhere. Somewhere at Old Trafford, the trains were still rattling past the ground as if scenting a miracle. This match will go to the wire, with both England and India playing the most enigmatic game of chess. And Test cricket finished on a Saturday evening, a captivating game of cricket which either side can win and where the men who have followed cricket so hardily in these parts, will remember exactly where they were as the winning stroke is acclaimed by boisterous English throats. Oh to be in England when the last days of July herald the final chapters of the cricket season. It is always sweet. Life is always sweet.