by Brett Lee
‘Toby! Come on!’ Georgie cried. She ducked into a toilet but came straight back out again, looking embarrassed.
‘What?’
‘It’s the men’s. There were boys in there. And a man. There’s all these weird—’
‘Yeah, well never mind that. I don’t see many girls here. You’re going to be a boy, aren’t you?’
‘I guess.’
‘Well then?’
‘You come in too.’
We both went in together. Georgie grimaced and she quickly turned away as a boy approached the brown urinal.
‘Stand in front of me,’ she hissed, almost tripping over herself as she tried to take her trackpants off.
‘C’mon, Georgie, this is—’
‘George!’ she snapped, buttoning up the waistcoat. She adjusted her cap and turned to face me. ‘How do I look?’
‘Cute,’ I said.
A little boy was standing at the urinals, staring at us. He was making a big mess, having lost concentration on what he was doing. Georgie didn’t know where to look.
‘Da?’ he called, looking worried. We edged along the back wall, carefully avoiding the spillage on the floor, then raced out the doorway.
I crashed into a guy standing just outside.
‘Um…er, sorry,’ I mumbled. Looking up, I almost fell over with shock. Georgie screamed.
‘Well, that didn’t take long,’ sneered an all too familiar voice.
‘B-but how…’ I stuttered.
Phillip Smale stood there smugly, his long black coat almost reaching the ground. He wore a large hat with a dark band around it, making him look like a gangster from an old movie. He was horribly convincing.
‘You left the Wisden open, you silly boy,’ he jeered. ‘Very convenient. And I’d heard enough about the scorecard to know how it works. Very simple, really. Intriguing too,’ he added.
A groan came from behind Smale.
‘Come along, Scott,’ he said. ‘Get up. I’ve a little job for you.’
Scott Craven! He was dressed in a similar outfit to Georgie, except he had the long socks and shoes as well. He looked pale and stunned. ‘Is…is this r-really—?’
‘Yes. Now take this girl here and keep out of trouble. Toby and I have an appointment to keep.’ Smale’s chuckle was not comforting.
Scott grabbed Georgie’s arm and half dragged her away towards the oval. She threw his arm off, planted her feet and stood firm.
‘Uncle Phillip,’ said Scott, ‘maybe we’ll just stay here and wait for you.’
‘Uncle?’ I gasped.
‘That’s right. Is there a problem?’ Scott said.
I turned to run but Smale grabbed me hard and pulled me back. His other hand went to his pocket. He bent down close.
‘Not much anyone can do about a boy lost in time 75 years ago, eh? Now turn and walk,’ he said, smiling meanly. ‘Scream, and I’ll kill the old man too. I know exactly where he is.’
I managed to catch Georgie’s eye. She nodded quickly. I tried to slow Smale down, but he pushed me firmly away from the toilet block and the old stand nearby. He was right behind me, one hand on my shoulder as though we were father and son, guiding me away from the ground.
When we were outside we turned left and walked more quickly. There were fewer people out in the street, and those we passed paid us little attention.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Shut up and keep walking.’
There was a shout from behind as we turned the corner. ‘TOBY!’ Our pace quickened.
Georgie raced up and flung herself onto Smale’s back. I stuck a foot out as he stumbled forwards and all three of us went sprawling on the pavement. Smale pulled himself to a squatting position. He was obviously shaken. I dragged myself out from beneath him as he reached for his pocket.
‘Watch out, Georgie, run!’ I yelled, struggling to my feet. But Georgie was lying there, not moving. She’d hit the pavement hard.
‘I’ve had enough of this!’ Smale began.
But before he could say another word, I threw myself on his shoulders, toppling him over so that he banged his head on the pavement.
I turned to Georgie. ‘Come on!’ I yelled, shaking her. She groaned. ‘C’mon, we’ve gotta go!’
Smale tried to haul himself up, but he was looking dizzy. Not wanting to lose my advantage, I drove a knee into his neck, once more pressing his face into the pavement. Reaching into his pocket, I felt around for whatever it was he’d been after. My fingers closed on the scorecard.
By now a small crowd had gathered around us.
‘He was trying to steal our money!’ I shouted, helping Georgie up. Blood streamed from a cut on her forehead.
‘Tha deserves all tha gets,’ one guy growled, nodding at Smale who was looked blearily from one face to another.
I grabbed Georgie’s hand and pulled her through the ring of bystanders. Scott was jogging towards us, but he took one look at me and flattened himself against the fence. He must have spotted his uncle lying at the roadside, surrounded by bystanders.
I looked down the street, then ran onto the road, still holding Georgie’s hand. An old open-seated car honked at us but we got across safely. There were shouts from behind. We turned left and raced down a narrower street. Georgie was struggling and gasping for breath; blood covered her face and shirt.
‘C’mon, Georgie,’ I cried, but even as I spoke she stumbled and fell.
I hauled her up again and we took another turn, this time to the right. The houses here were smaller and darker. A woman was hanging some washing over the railing of a short flight of steps that led up to her front door.
I looked up at her. ‘Please,’ I panted. ‘Can I borrow a cloth or something? My friend here—’
The lady had seen Georgie and even as I was speaking, she took a shirt from her basket and pressed it against Georgie’s forehead. I touched the shirt. The fabric felt cool and wet. Georgie clutched it gratefully.
‘You okay?’ I asked.
Tears streamed down her face. She didn’t say anything, just nodded.
The woman shook her head when she saw the blood soaking into the shirt. ‘You keep it, lad. It’s not much use to our Bill now ’e’s in London. Tha’s all right, eh?’
‘Thank you so much,’ I said, and turned to look down the narrow street. Smale and Scott came tearing around the corner.
‘Toby,’ Georgie began, ‘why don’t we just—’
‘C’mon, we gotta go.’
I turned to the woman. ‘Thank you,’ I said again. I couldn’t imagine what she was thinking, but there wasn’t time to explain.
We ran on, diving down tiny laneways and running across streets. Mostly the roads were empty. We turned another corner and stumbled onto a game of cricket in one of the lanes. The boys were using a wooden crate for a wicket and the ball looked hard, small and black. They all stopped and stared at us grimly.
‘Sorry,’ I said, walking backwards. It didn’t look like we were welcome.
‘Tha can field,’ said the oldest-looking kid. He tossed the ball from one hand to the other.
‘No, it’s okay, we were just—’
‘Covers,’ he added, pointing to a spot by the paling fence that ran along one side of the lane.
‘C’mon, Toby,’ panted Georgie. ‘Let’s just get out of here. Right out.’
‘No, it’s okay.’ I saw Scott appear at the top of the lane and ducked down. Seeing me attempt to hide, the boys turned.
‘Wha?’ one kid shouted.
Smale jogged by a few seconds later. Georgie and I ducked again, pretending we were part of the game.
‘Bowl it!’ I hissed at the kid with the ball.
He shrugged, walked back to his mark and ran in to bowl. I stared at the batter, praying that Scott and his uncle wouldn’t venture back to check the game.
Three balls were bowled and nothing happened. It looked like Georgie’s bleeding had stopped.
The batter hit the next ball ha
rd to my left. Sensing that the runner at the bowler’s end was on the move, I bent down quickly and, without thinking, I grasped the ball, spun round and hurled it at the crate at the bowler’s end. It smacked into the crate so hard that it toppled over. The kid, who was about my age, was run out.
I froze and looked over at Georgie. Open-mouthed and frightened she returned my stare.
‘Nash Street,’ she breathed. ‘That was the exact same…’ Her words trailed away. I followed her gaze.
Scott and Smale were leaning against the fence, smiling. I glanced back at Georgie. This time there was real fear in her eyes. She was staring at Smale. He had something in his hand and was waving it about. All the players backed away, but none of them ran.
Slowly he raised his arm and levelled it at me. I stood, transfixed.
‘The poem!’ Georgie shrieked.
Suddenly the ball fizzed past me and crashed into Smale’s hand. Whatever he was holding went flying, and so did three of the kids, diving for it. Smale started walking slowly towards us. He looked scary with his grim expression, black coat, hat and bloodied face. The cricketers bolted.
‘Now, let’s be sensible and reasonable about this, shall we?’ Smale said, edging closer still.
I grabbed Georgie’s hand.
‘Noooooooooooo!’ he shrieked, lunging at me.
‘Uncle Phil!’ Scott’s voice died as I yelled aloud the words:
‘But every word that boasts ahead
Means lives unhinged, broken, dead.’
The highest total by a team in a Twenty20 match was scored by Sri Lanka when they knocked up a massive 6/260 against Kenya on 14 September 2007.
21 Scott Lends a Hand
RECITING two lines of the poem while you’re running is not the best way to return. We both crashed into the wall next to Smale’s office door.
‘Why didn’t we do that—’
I held up a hand for Georgie to be quiet. The room was eerily silent. Nothing had changed.
I sat up slowly and looked around. ‘He’s not here,’ I whispered.
‘Who?’
‘Smale. He grabbed at my leg. I felt the tug. But maybe he slipped.’
We waited another few moments. Then I got up and walked over to the drinks machine just outside the little kitchen door. I thumped at a few of the buttons.
‘Jim!’ I cried suddenly, turning around.
‘Can’t he just say two lines of the poem?’ Georgie asked.
‘No. I’m sure he told me once that if you get carried through to a new time, the only way back is to be carried.’
‘Even if he has the power of travel?’ Georgie asked.
‘Yep.’
Georgie started taking off the waistcoat. ‘Maybe he meant it to happen like this. Maybe he’s where he wants to be.’
‘Georgie! What if he’s waiting there now for us? And remember, he’s only got two hours. I’ve gotta go back.’
‘Won’t you need a Wisden?’ Georgie asked, looking around.
‘Smale had it—you know, to put the scorecard in.’ I groaned. ‘You reckon he would have taken it with him?’
‘No idea. Can you do that?’
‘I don’t think so. I never have.’
We spent the next few minutes hunting about the place. Smale’s office door was locked; Georgie’s keys probably sitting on his desk inside.
‘What now?’ I called from the kitchen. ‘Georgie?’ There was no answer. ‘Georgie!’ I charged back into the room.
‘You could have killed me!’ Smale roared, shaking with anger.
So I had dragged him through, but obviously only just. He must have held on for long enough to get through, but not at the same time as we did. He took a few more heavy breaths trying to calm himself.
‘Give me the scorecard,’ said Smale, stepping towards me.
‘Give me the Wisden,’ I replied.
He hesitated. I pulled the scorecard from my pocket and held it out. Georgie wasn’t in the room. Nor was Scott.
‘Where’s Georgie?’
He shrugged and reached out his hand.
‘You put the Wisden in Georgie’s hand and I’ll give you the scorecard,’ I said firmly.
Smale looked around.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, girl! Where are you?’
Georgie appeared at the door a moment later. She took in the scene immediately, crossing behind Smale and coming round beside me.
‘Give Georgie the Wisden,’ I repeated, holding the card up for him to see. He looked from the scorecard to me, then back to the scorecard. Reaching deep into his coat pocket, he pulled out the Wisden. Georgie took a few steps forwards and he slapped it into her hand.
‘Now, Mr Jones, the scorecard,’ he hissed.
For a moment I thought of trying another escape, back to 1930, but we’d been lucky the first time and I couldn’t leave Georgie to face Smale’s rage alone. I held the scorecard out. He snatched it out of my hands.
‘C’mon, Georgie,’ I said. ‘We’re out of here.’
‘Where’s Scott?’ she asked as we headed for the door.
‘No idea. Do you care?’
She stopped at the door and repeated the question to Smale.
‘He’s waiting for you,’ he chuckled, striding over to his office.
We jogged out the door and headed back to the other side of the oval, stopping behind a small scoreboard halfway round.
‘What did he mean that Scott is waiting for us?’ Georgie asked. Cap in hand, she was shaking out her hair.
‘I’m not sure. But Scott is still back in 1930. Surely Smale isn’t going to leave him there.’
‘Scott’ll probably go looking for Jim,’ Georgie said.
‘Yeah, and Jim can’t travel. They’re both stuck. Smale has to go back. Maybe he’ll meet himself,’ I said hopefully.
‘There’s a bigger chance that you will, Tobes. Just be ready to say two lines of the poem, okay?’ Georgie said. She knew what I was going to do. I nodded.
‘Georgie, hold the Wisden for me. I’ll come back soon, hopefully with Jim. Will you wait?’
‘Of course, idiot. I might go and wash my face though, if that’s okay,’ she said, nodding towards a toilet block further round the oval.
‘Yep. Right. You okay?’
She looked up from the blood-soaked shirt still wrapped around one hand. ‘Hey, this shirt is over 70 years old.’
‘No, it’s not. Think about it.’
‘I have. If it was made in 1925, then that makes it—’
‘Georgie! C’mon, open the book. Jim’ll be getting anxious.’
Georgie thumbed through the Wisden, then turned it over for me to see.
‘You keep holding it, okay?’ I said, staring into the misty swirl of black on white.
‘Watch out for…’
Georgie’s voice faded as the two number 1s pulled together and locked into position.
I landed smack bang in front of Scott.
‘Scott! Sorry, can’t hang around,’ I said, getting up.
‘You took ya time,’ he snarled, getting up from the ground himself.
‘You got plenty of that on your hands now, eh?’
‘Whaddya mean?’
‘Who d’you reckon’s gonna take you back, Scott?’
‘Uncle Phillip, of course. He said I’ve got exactly one—’
‘Scott. Right now your Uncle Phillip is trying to explain himself to two policemen and Georgie is heading back to the MCG to hand in the old 1931 Wisden and the scorecard. The scorecard, Scott.’
He looked at me, his eyes narrowing. ‘You’re bluffing, Jones.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. But don’t mess with me, Scott, or you’ll definitely lose your last chance of getting back.’
Scott’s eyes darted about. He seemed to be searching for a solution.
‘Mind if I head off then?’ I said.
‘Where?’
‘To find Jim.’
‘Wait!’ he called, jogging after me.
&nb
sp; I raced down to the stand where we had left Jim. It seemed like hours ago. I looked up at the scoreboard. To my horror I realised that I had returned at pretty much the exact same time as my first visit. Don Bradman was 45, Woodfull 11.
‘Scott, you’re going to have to go and get Jim,’ I said, as we passed a crush of people and reached the edge of the stand where Jim was sitting.
Then, from nowhere, I suddenly remembered the kid I’d brushed past when I’d left Jim to go off to the toilet block with Georgie. I stopped dead and looked at Scott, who almost crashed into me.
‘Oh, my God,’ I whispered.
‘What?’
I swallowed fearfully. Right now another version of me was up in the stand with Georgie and Jim. I hadn’t felt any pull yet, but I started to step cautiously backwards, away from the stand.
‘Um…’ I caught my breath. ‘Scott, go up into the stand here and tell Jim it’s time to go. Tell him Toby says now. It’s vital.’
Scott looked baffled.
‘Go!’ I felt like adding, ‘And don’t look at the two kids who race past you,’ but he was gone, heading for the stand. I looked about me, then decided to head deep into the crowd in front.
‘Hey, lad, mind yerself, eh? The cricket’s not going anywhere!’
‘Sorry, sorry,’ I apologised, slowing down. I had to force myself not to turn around. There was a sudden buzz in the crowd. A ball had got through Bradman and had been taken by the keeper, Duckworth.
‘Aye, tha’s human, after all,’ someone joked. A few people laughed.
‘Bloody never ’appens when ball’s in line to stumps,’ another spectator said.
Their accents made it hard to understand just what they were saying, but I thought they were cursing their luck with Don Bradman. What if I quietly told them what he’d end up scoring? They wouldn’t believe me—not till tomorrow anyway, when England finally got him out. It would be awesome for any team to score 300 runs in a day. But Don Bradman scored 300 runs himself in one day!
I watched him flick a ball out through point and head off for another run, and wondered whether another Toby Jones was watching the same stroke from somewhere else in the ground.
At the end of the over I made my way up to the back of the crowd and looked over to the stand. Scott and Jim had disappeared. Panicking, I barged through the last few lines of spectators and burst out into an open space where only a few people stood around.
