The Gift of Speed

by Steven Carroll

  3.

  A Players’ Chorus

  While Rita is contemplating the front of the house and Vic is striding towards the golf course, Michael hears music. At first it is soft, like a whisper. Then it is stronger, sweeping across the dried playing fields of the school with the dusty north wind. Soon it fills the room and he wonders why the quiet activity of the classroom hasn’t been disturbed. But nobody lifts their head and Michael doodles on the page in front of him as a symphony of metal drums and island voices drowns out the morning.

  Before every game they play this calypso music. He’s read this. They gather in a room, turn on the hi-fi, and the sound of tin drums and steel guitars fills the air for an hour before play. Both teams sing these songs together. And he can see them tapping their feet, singing, moving to the rhythms of the music he hears on the radio because this summer has brought them all more than just cricket. Sobers, Davidson, Kanhai, McDonald — the great Hall — they all gather before the games and listen to the same songs. He can imagine Sobers dancing to this music in the rooms that overlook the grounds upon which the series will be played. Sobers plays like a dancer, light on his feet, skipping down the pitch, this music possibly going through one part of his mind while that part of his mind that plays cricket can get on with the business at hand without too much conscious effort. And perhaps Davidson, whose job it will be to stop the dancing Sobers, perhaps he too has this music rolling round somewhere at the back of his mind as his right arm rises and he sights the stumps through the crook in his elbow, sees the batsman’s pads, and eyes the exact spot he wants the ball to land as his left arm whips over and the ball begins its swinging, cutting journey to Sobers at the other end of the pitch. Sobers, who — at that moment of imagined delivery — may well be inwardly humming the very same chorus that Davidson is. They may each be humming exactly the same line — same words, same melodic strain — in that split second it takes for the ball to leave Davidson’s hand and reach Sobers’s bat, or beat it. Is this also the music that the great Hall hears as he runs to the bowling crease? Is this what he will hear as he runs in again and again throughout the summer? In the First Test the great Hall will run up to the bowling crease and bowl three hundred and sixty-eight times. He will run miles and miles, in short sprints.

  With the music still in his ears, Michael picks up his ballpoint pen — the one his English teacher says is good only for inferior words. Serious words, he says, need to be written with a fountain pen. Serious words will only respect the nib and ink of a proper pen, not the insult of an American ballpoint. Nonetheless, Michael picks up his ballpoint pen and begins his calculations. The great Hall bowls forty overs a match. If he bowls three hundred and twenty times, he covers ten miles simply by running in to bowl. But it is not simply the numbers, nor the speed. It is the way Hall bowls. He bowls like this music — loud, bright and brash. He brings laughter to bowling. It is a different kind of bowling altogether from the great Lindwall, who was cool and smooth, and not only had the gift of speed but the gift of grace. To watch the great Lindwall bowl was to marvel that anybody could do that. There are those, Michael knows, who say that he learnt from the great Larwood, and there are those who say he was simply blessed and could bowl like that before he could walk. Throughout the summer, and the summers to follow, Michael will return to the action of the great Lindwall and indeed marvel that anybody could do that. And he will eventually come to the only conclusion that makes sense, the only conclusion there is. That the great Lindwall had no idea how he got it himself, because it was a gift. He ran in to bowl one day and discovered — quite casually — that he had this thing, this gift. And his life from then on would be lived in its light and its shadow.

  But the gift of speed comes in different ways. Michael cannot imagine music in the great Lindwall’s ears as he swoops upon the bowling crease. But he can in the great Hall’s. And when he reaches his delivery stride does the batsman at the other end hear the sound of metal drums and island voices? Is it just possible that the music they all share in the mornings before these state and country matches in the players’ rooms, stays with them out on the field? That when the great Hall runs towards the pitch, those who wait — the batsman at the other end, the fieldsmen — share this music? And is it possible that in the quiet moments, when the damage has been done, when the stings from being struck have dulled to an ache and the great Hall is walking back to his bowling mark, that they all return to this music they shared before the game, and that one, or two, or all of the players in the lull between deliveries, hear exactly the same chorus, exactly the same lines at exactly the same moment, and that at such times a symphony of metal drums and island voices engulfs the playing field?

  4.

  On the Fairway

  At the same time that Rita is contemplating the front of the house where the new French windows will go, and while Michael sits in his classroom listening to the island symphony, Vic is on the fairway.

  The world is wide again out here. No houses, no streets, no footpaths. Nothing but the endless fairway rolled out before him. Crisp, trimmed and springy as a new carpet beneath his feet, the bright green lawns sweep down the gradual slope of the first fairway until the grass meets the creek that once ran through the whole suburb. Once children jumped this creek going to and from school, now it runs unseen and unheard beneath the footpaths and roads of the suburb. On the other side of the creek the fairway starts again and runs up to the meticulously manicured green where a small red flag flutters in the afternoon breeze.

  You need binoculars to see that far, binoculars strong enough to see into the future because that’s where that tiny red triangle of fluttering red cloth seems to be. You also need a good, strong swing to hit the ball that far. The first tee of this golf course is famous across the city. A few minutes ago, as Vic stood on the tee, his legs perfectly placed, his balance just right and the glistening white ball firmly in his sights, he felt as though he might be able to hit that ball clear into tomorrow. And when he hit the ball he was sure he had never hit a ball so cleanly and sweetly before in his life. But the stroke was no match for the fairway and it landed a brisk stroll away. One day he’ll look up and that ball really will be a tiny, white dot on a distant green.

  As he dropped his club back into the bag, Vic and the three other men with whom he has teamed up for the afternoon began their stroll out to the middle of the fairway, and that was when the world opened up and he forgot all about the shot and his disappointment. The green and white clubhouse shrank behind them, the foursome waiting on the tee to play next became small and the world became wide again. Wide, like it always was when he drove those old engines all through the night, clear out into the next morning. Like it always was when he drove out into the sun with the whole city spread out in front of him and everybody was still sleeping. And because he’d seen tomorrow rise up before him time and again on the night shift, he never doubted that tomorrow would always be there to be driven into and that the world would always be wide. That was the kind of expectation that engine driving gave you.

  He wheels his buggy down to where his ball lies and watches as, one by one, the other three players clip their balls across the creek. He knows one of them, Gannon, an ex-policeman, a short, square man, but he doesn’t know the other two. Gannon is graceless and brutal. He clubs the ball, bludgeons it onward and the ball resists him, but goes anyway, on pain of further violence. Another, an accountant in a neatly ironed golf shirt and yellow leather gloves, is a morning golfer whose day has been thrown out. As Vic studies him, he can see that he has the crisply dressed look of a man used to teeing off with the dew beneath his feet, just like Arnie. The third is a bank manager who slips away from his office once a week. Out here they all cease to be what they were and are — an ex-engine driver, an ex-detective, an accountant and a bank manager. Out here, they are golfers.

  Nobody says much. Vic watches as the new, white balls, each in turn, glide across the creek and land within chipping distance of
the green, its flag still fluttering in the afternoon breeze. Beyond the fairway, the rough, the ghost gums, pines and the rotted wooden fence that runs along the eastern boundary of the golf course, the rest of the world goes on. Somewhere out there, Webster’s factory presses scrap metal into spare engine parts; special wheat trains bring grain to the mill; Nat, the Italian barber, trims a customer’s moustache; a red suburban rattler pulls out of the station; and Bruchner’s builders raise a wooden beam into place on the square frame that will be somebody’s home.

  The quiet, weekday industry of the suburb continues as it always does, nobody looking up. Vic sweeps on up the fairway. He feels the breeze on his cheek — and after a lifetime of shaving twice before work he feels that breeze more keenly than those around him. As he turns his cheek to the side to feel the full rush of the breeze part of him is driving again. And as he steps over the small, wooden bridge that fords the creek, he looks around him at the sky and the tall gums that were all there before the suburb arrived, and briefly recovers that feeling of width that his world once had.

  5.

  Webster’s Factory

  Michael is carrying his school bag over his shoulder on his walk home. His usual way does not require him to cross the railway line — there are really two suburbs — his side of the railway line and the other side, east and west. And whenever he crosses the railway line he feels, for that time, out of his territory. But this afternoon he has been distracted by the sight of Webster’s factory.

  This whole block, this acre of open ground bordered by the railway line and the two main streets of the suburb has always been vacant, flat ground, for as long as he can remember. But during the last few months it has taken on the appearance of a battlefield. Not that Michael has ever seen one.

  The machines from Webster’s factory have been tipped out into the open. All of them. And the mystery of the factory, the mystery of what goes on inside, is now in plain view for everyone to see. Webster’s was the first factory in the suburb. It takes up a whole block. A long, red brick building with the name Webster in high metal lettering at the front as if it were a department store and not a factory. The owner of the factory is simply known in the area as Webster. Nothing more. He is not referred to by his other names because no one seems to know them. Nor is he referred to as Mr Webster. He is simply Webster of Webster’s factory. He is his factory. His factory is him. And so — to the people of the suburb, those employed in his factory — he is simply Webster. The way, it occurs to Michael, that you would talk about Larwood or Jardine. Their surnames are enough and no one thinks to place a Christian name or a Mr before Webster. It is a name written in metal at the front of the factory. Nothing else is required.

  Mulling over this Michael wanders through the rows of discarded machines in the paddock. Already rusted by the spring rain, but with the smell of oil hanging about them from the days when they pressed scrap metal into spare engine parts, these machines have a military look. Like tanks and cannons from jungle battles that might just as easily have been fought on the golf course, for the war in this suburb is never far away. Every day, to and from school, he passes the house of Hacker Paine. Hacker Paine, who never returned from the war quite right, who is often to be found on the golf course on summer nights, patrolling the undergrowth for the remnants of an Imperial Japanese Army that had surrendered years before but which is forever invading his sleep. Hacker Paine — teacher, war hero — whose shoulders spanned the Grade Five doorway, whose medals jangled in the corridors of the school every Anzac Day, whose only daughter lost her head when her sports car ran under a semi-trailer parked on the dark highway out beyond the suburb on the hill called Pretty Sally — Hacker Paine is never at rest. And the war that he brought back with him is never far away in this suburb.

  It is late afternoon and the rust that covers the machines is the same bright orange as the sun that now coats the corrugated iron of the factory roof. Levers and plunges and giant hammers that crush and flatten are all around him in shadow and light. Giant wheels with metal teeth have rusted into place where they last stopped. These levers and hammers could crush limbs with the same indifference that they crushed sheet metal. And those giant wheels with metal teeth could chew up fingers and hands in a flash if you were unlucky enough to get your hands in the way — and it occurs to Michael as he stares at the machines that hands and limbs would surely have been crushed and chewed up by these things.

  He comes to a large pressing machine which is near the back of the factory and must have been protected from the rain because it’s not cloaked in rust and the smell of lubricating oil is still strong. It looks like it still works. Looks as if it were used just yesterday, as if it could be used right now. The metal is blue and shiny and greased — ready. Michael looks about the block, from the rows of piled metal to the red brick wall of the factory, and sees nobody.

  He steps up to the platform where a machine worker would, until recently, have stood all day, repeating the same actions over and over again. With his bowling arm he reaches out for the handle that controls the wheel, that turns the wheel, that lowers the hammer that does the crushing. He pauses before deciding to set the thing in motion — then turns the handle. It moves easily, like the wheel of a small bicycle, and at once all the other parts of the machine that he hadn’t even noticed until now snap into operation. The whole apparatus responds to his fingertips, as wheels with blue metal teeth turn more wheels and the hammer suddenly drops and crushes non-existent scrap and Michael jumps back as if he has set off a bomb. He looks about but not even the birds in the trees along the street have stirred. It must surely have been so thunderous that the whole neighbourhood heard. But no one has. So, with nobody about and nobody looking on, he steps back up to the machine and sets the whole thing in motion again. The hammer springs into place and Michael notices a metal can on the ground next to the machine. It is a strong looking can, more like a container, one that once housed tea or biscuits. He picks it up, wondering what impact the hammer would have, curious to know just what this hammer can do if given something to crush.

  With the can in hand, he reaches his bowling arm out across the machine towards the spot where the hammer hits, leaves the can there, then hurriedly removes his hand. Wheels turn wheels, and the hammer pounds into the can and crushes it flat in an instant, then springs back into place awaiting further instructions. Michael retrieves the can from the machine. As he turns it in his fingers he realises that it has not been crushed flat, that the can was larger, wider than the hammer, that there is a rim all around it and what was once a can now resembles a small bowl. Or, and he reappraises his first impression, an ashtray. He has, he now decides, just manufactured an ashtray. The faded paint that covered the original can is still visible and the whole thing is good to look at. He can, with no difficulty, see it sitting on the coffee table in their lounge room and he decides on the spot that he will take it home and give it to his father as a gift.

  Pleased with himself he doesn’t at first notice the back double doors of the factory open, but something catches his attention and he turns to see two men standing in the doorway. He slips the crushed can into his pocket and begins walking back along the row of discarded and rusted machines that eventually leads back out onto the road. He turns once. One of the men is short and square and compact — as if crushed into shape by Webster’s machines. The other is tall, his hair is grey at the sides, and his legs are planted on the factory floor as if having taken root there. He is wearing a dark brown suit and blowing smoke into the air as he laughs. Although he has never seen him, this — Michael knows — is Webster.

  And in the instant that Michael turns, Webster looks up from his conversation and sees him making his way out — a kid, no doubt, who’s just been up to no good, like most of the kids in this suburb. But Webster does nothing, his eyes see Michael off his property, and he returns to his conversation with the short, squat man who looks to have been crushed into shape by one of his machines.

>   With his house calls completed, at the wheel of the Land Rover he has become famous for, Dr Peter Black waits for the lights at Webster’s corner, noting young Michael to his right, the boy’s school bag over his shoulder as he emerges from the factory. He knows Michael. He knows the whole family. More, he suspects, than the family knows itself. Vic already has a dodgy heart from the years of hard living and Black has told him time and again to give up the booze or the pills he takes will be useless. But the prospect of death does not bother the boy’s father, Black muses as Michael steps out onto the street. Most people fear the Distinguished Guest, but not Vic. He is, Black recognised from the very start, one of those who will live and die in the manner of their own choosing. And it doesn’t matter what you tell them. The physician in Black is appalled, the writer he might have become (still curled up inside him) is intrigued.