by Brett Lee
‘Georgie?’ I whispered.
‘No, it’s your fairy godmother. C’mon, you lump. I thought you said half past five.’
I jumped out of bed. ‘Okay. Where are you?’
‘Two doors up, on my bike, freezing. Hurry.’
For the second time in eight hours I was skulking down the stairs like a burglar, then sneaking out the back door. Dad’s bike and then Nat’s crashed to the concrete as I tried to retrieve mine from behind them. I might as well have rung the front door bell for the sound I’d just made.
I closed my eyes, swore again and waited for someone in the house to stir. Nothing. Somewhere down the street a dog barked. I decided to leave the two bikes lying there and hoisted mine over the top. Putting my helmet on, I wheeled the bike down the driveway.
‘I’m still half asleep,’ I whispered to Georgie when I met up with her a few moments later.
‘Then someone else must be sleepwalking too,’ Georgie said, nodding towards my house. A light had just come on, and the side drive was as bright as day.
‘Let’s go,’ I murmured, mounting the bike and pedalling hard.
‘How far is it?’ Georgie said, catching up.
‘It’ll take us 10 minutes, tops,’ I told her. I’d checked out the area on a map I’d downloaded from the Internet and there were a few laneways we could take to make the trip shorter.
It was cold and eerily silent. There was also a wispy fog that dimmed the streetlights.
‘Hey, it’s pretty good at this time of day, isn’t it?’ I said.
‘What are we actually going to do?’ Georgie asked, ignoring my question.
I hadn’t really thought about that. Maybe we could sneak into Pixie, like I had into Dad’s car last night, though big cars were not the first things that came to mind when I thought of Pixie.
‘Here we go,’ I said, ignoring her too. ‘This is the service station I saw. I reckon Jim’s place is straight down this street, on the right.’ Somewhere ahead an engine was idling—the sound was a throaty rumble, deep and threatening.
‘C’mon,’ I called, speeding past Georgie. About halfway down the street was the line of houses I’d seen last night. An enormous car sat outside Jim’s, shaking a bit and blasting out plumes of smoke from its exhaust.
‘That’s Pixie?’ Georgie gasped, staring at the old car shuddering in front of us.
Jim’s garage door stood open; I was amazed the car could actually fit inside it. ‘It must be,’ I whispered. We ran our bikes into the garage and dashed back to the car, stooping low to avoid detection. We needn’t have bothered.
‘I take it you’ll be letting me drive,’ a voice called from the front of the house. We both spun round.
‘Jim!’ I gasped. ‘Um, well, me and Georgie, we were out—’
‘Come along,’ he said, looking at his watch. ‘We may already be too late.’
‘This is Pixie?’ I asked, trying to open the passenger door.
‘The very one,’ Jim said, climbing stiffly into the driver’s seat.
‘I can’t…I can’t open…’ Georgie grabbed the long silver handle with me and together we managed to open the door, which creaked and groaned.
‘Better hold it while I get in,’ she said, grinning as she shoved past me.
‘I’m not sure when I last had passengers,’ Jim said, reaching back for his seat belt.
‘Maybe the 1960s?’ Georgie suggested, hunting around for a seat belt herself.
‘Hmm, you’re probably right there.’
Georgie and I looked at each other. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea. ‘Jim? Are you sure you…’ I began to say before we were both flung back against the seat as the car lurched and sputtered into action.
‘It needs a bit more choke,’ Jim muttered, pulling out a little lever by the steering wheel.
‘Choke?’ Georgie mouthed to me.
I shrugged.
Jim pulled hard on a thin stick poking out from behind the steering wheel and the car jolted again.
‘Right then,’ he said, gripping the wheel and staring straight ahead. ‘I guess you two are wondering why you always see me in a taxi, and not in a Pixie.’ Jim grinned, looking at us in the rear-view mirror. ‘Well,’ he continued, ‘Pixie’s been out of action for quite some time, but I’ve recently discovered mobile mechanics.’
I just hoped the mobile mechanic hadn’t botched the job. Pixie certainly didn’t sound well-oiled and tuned.
‘Now, I take it you two are also keen to find out just where Mr Smale is heading this morning with his letter of information?’
‘Er, yes,’ I replied, feeling tiny on the brown leather seat, which was cold against my bare legs. I looked enviously at Georgie in her jeans. She had finally fastened her seat belt.
‘And what’s your assessment of the situation, Master Jones?’ Jim asked.
‘Well, I reckon Phillip Smale has organised five people to travel back to a game in the past, using the scorecard.’
‘Just what we hoped he wouldn’t do,’ Georgie said. ‘But knew he would,’ I added. Pixie rumbled and grumbled as we waited for the lights to change.
‘And now?’ Jim asked, looking at me in his mirror.
‘Well, we go to Smale’s place and hopefully we can follow him to where he’s going to hand over the letter. Then we—’
‘Then we reassess the situation,’ Jim said firmly. ‘I take it your parents don’t know you’re driving across town with an old man at the wheel?’
‘We didn’t want to wake them, did we, Tobes?’ Georgie said.
I shook my head. ‘No, why worry them?’
Jim was working hard to negotiate a roundabout.
‘How much further, Jim?’ I asked.
‘Almost there. We’ll park a short distance away.’ After a couple of minutes Jim pulled in behind another car.
‘Which house is Mr Smale’s?’ Georgie asked.
‘Three up on this side,’ Jim said. ‘I think we’ll give our friend half an hour, then head back for breakfast.’
‘What if he’s already gone?’ I asked. ‘Why don’t I just slip out—’
‘No!’ Georgie and Jim cried together.
Fifteen minutes later, having finally convinced Jim that it was time to do something, I had wrenched open the door and was darting from bush to bush. Jim had said Smale’s garage would probably be locked but that I might be able to see, possibly through a window or under the door, whether his car was there or not.
Smale’s house was big and modern, and a huge fence ran along the front of an impressive garden, but the gates were open. I didn’t think this was a good sign, so I darted through them then crept along the side fence, avoiding some rose bushes as best as I could, until I reached the garage. The door was closed.
But just as I rested my ear against the door to see if I could hear anyone inside, it clanged and started going up. Wildly I searched for a place to hide. There were no trees or large bushes anywhere, so I belted across the front garden and hauled myself up the wooden fence on the other side. There was a three-metre drop to the neighbour’s yard, but a sore foot seemed better than meeting Phillip Smale in front of his house.
I grabbed the top of the fence with both hands and gently lowered myself down, trying to reduce the distance between my feet and the ground. Letting go, I luckily landed on soft earth. I jogged back towards the road, careful to stay low.
‘Oi!’ a voice shouted from behind me. ‘Are you the new paperboy? I said I wanted my paper delivered to the porch, here, not down in the garden.’
Smale’s car was reversing down his driveway.
‘Yep, right you are,’ I looked around for the paper. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s over there,’ the man growled, pointing to a bird bath on his open lawn. I grabbed his wrapped-up paper and took it up to him.
‘On the porch in future, got it?’ he snarled, snatching it from me.
I backed away, listening for Smale’s car. It sounded as though he had backed out and was heading up
the street, towards Pixie.
‘Well, what are you waiting around for?’ the guy on the porch asked, starting to get suspicious. ‘Where are all your papers, anyway?’ he said, moving towards me.
‘Um, I…I was just…wondering…’
Smale drove past and the mean guy gave him a wave.
I spun around. ‘Okay, I’m off,’ I called, running back to the pavement. Smale’s car was well past Pixie by the time I started sprinting down the street towards Jim and Georgie.
‘He’s gone!’ I panted, struggling to open the door. ‘Did he see you?’
‘We hid,’ Georgie said. ‘You?’
‘Nup, don’t think so.’
Pixie’s engine grumbled deeply as it warmed up. Slowly Jim wheeled her around to face the other way, but he couldn’t do it in one turn and had to reverse before heading off.
‘C’mon Jim, floor it!’ I yelled, doing up my seat belt.
‘Hold on!’ he called. Pixie quickly picked up speed and we charged back the way we’d come.
‘There!’ Georgie called, looking out her window. Jim hauled on the wheel and we spun to the right. I looked at Georgie, who had turned a bit pale.
‘Don’t worry. I did an advanced driving course some years ago, and you never forget these things,’ Jim chuckled, a gleam in his eye.
We managed to stay a good distance behind Smale’s sleek black car. A few times Jim backed right off and twice I thought we’d lost him, but Jim seemed to know what he was doing and a moment later there was Smale’s car, 50 metres ahead.
‘Ally lives around here,’ Georgie said as we turned into a street with big trees along each side.
‘And I think our friend does too,’ Jim said, slowing down and carefully parking a safe distance from the black car’s position. We watched Smale march up to the door and knock. Nothing happened.
‘Did Ally choose this address?’ Georgie asked, as Phillip Smale glanced about furtively.
‘Nope. She just made contact. This must be the house of the fifth person,’ I said, ‘but no one seems to be home.’
As I watched, Smale became more and more frustrated, slapping an envelope against his thigh. Again he banged on the door, this time with his fist. Finally he left the front of the house and walked around the side. A minute later he reappeared, but without the letter.
‘He must have found someone,’ Georgie said.
‘Time to go,’ Jim said, reversing Pixie.
‘But Jim, what about…’
‘All in good time.’ Jim launched Pixie back onto the road. We turned and headed up a side street where we waited for a few minutes, before crawling back to the mystery house.
This time we all got out. Jim hung back, pottering about near the front while Georgie and I dashed down the side. It was Georgie who found the letter, with a hastily scrawled note written on the back, under the doormat at the rear of the house.
‘Right then, detectives. That was a successful mission, wouldn’t you say?’ Jim beamed as he took the letter from Georgie and we hurried back to the car. ‘We shall reconvene this afternoon—at your house, Toby.’ It appeared that Jim was going to get first look at Smale’s letter. That was fair enough, since it was his Pixie that had brought us to it.
‘Why do you call the car Pixie?’ I asked, settling back in the enormous seat.
‘Maybe it’s got something to do with its size?’ Georgie said, rolling her eyes.
‘But this car is a monster,’ I replied.
‘Exactly,’ Jim chuckled.
Charlie Turner holds the record for the most first-class wickets in an Australian season. Playing for New South Wales and Australia in 1887/1888, he took an incredible 106 wickets in only 12 games. That’s an average of almost nine wickets a game!
14 Timeless Travel Tours
Friday—afternoon
‘THE letter is on your bed,’ Jim whispered to me in the kitchen that afternoon, a few minutes after Georgie and I had arrived back at my home from school. No one had missed us that morning and there’d obviously been no calls from Mr Smale or his neighbour about any funny things going on. Georgie and I grabbed a snack from the fridge and raced up to my bedroom.
I’m pleased that you have made contact, Geoff. We shall depart from the Scorpion clubrooms at 9.00 p.m. this Saturday. We shall be gone no longer than an hour. I trust that you have been, and will continue to remain, fully discreet in this matter.
Please wear comfortable, light clothing as befitting an Australian test-goer of the 1960s.
Phillip Smale
(Manager)
Timeless Travel Tours
‘It doesn’t say much,’ I muttered, handing the letter over to Georgie.
‘No, only where and when Smale is planning his little tour party,’ Georgie said sarcastically. ‘What did you expect?’
‘I dunno.’ I was starting to get nervous about the final, worried that I hadn’t been thinking about it enough—though maybe that was a good thing. Probably the more I thought about it, the more worried I’d get.
‘Georgie?’
She looked up sharply, noting something in my voice.
‘We’ve got the grand final tomorrow. I reckon we should forget about this for a bit and, you know, focus on the game tomorrow. Do you want to set a field or maybe work out a batting order?’
Georgie folded the letter. ‘Yeah, Toby. Good idea.’
We spent the next hour working on fielding positions and the batting order. I’d come up with a 6–3 fielding setup: six fielders on the off side and
three on the on side. We could use it when I was bowling to a right-hander—though not necessarily to Scott Craven. The field would have to be spread more when he was batting.
Georgie and I had a long argument about Martian’s position at silly mid-off. I would also have really liked to have a short leg, like they do in the Tests, but in our games no one is allowed to field closer to the batsman than a half-pitch length, unless you are the keeper or in the slips or gully.
‘You’re giving away runs down through third man,’ Georgie argued, pointing to the big open area behind the slips.
‘Well, if I’m finding the edge of the bat then that’s good. With those two slips and a gully I might be getting a few wickets.’
‘Not if their shots are going along the ground,’ she replied.
‘But I’m still finding the edge.’
‘We might only have a few runs to play with,’ she said, folding her arms.
We were going around in circles.
We finally agreed that the fielding positions depended entirely on the situation of the game. Maybe at the start of the innings, when we were on the attack, we could have this sort of field.
‘Yeah, but what if we’d been bowled out for only 53?’ Georgie said, as we headed into the kitchen for some food.
‘We still attack,’ I said loudly. ‘Like Danny said: we’ve got to look and play like winners, whatever the situation.’
‘He didn’t say that—’
‘One more sleep to the final, guys,’ Dad called out from the next room, hearing us in the kitchen.
I grabbed a couple of nectarines from a bowl on the kitchen table and headed into the lounge. Georgie followed me in.
‘Cup of tea, Jim?’ Dad asked, passing us in the doorway.
I noticed Jim was also in the lounge, reading a book. ‘We’re going to focus on the game this weekend, Jim,’ I explained, passing him the envelope with Smale’s letter inside.
‘Good, good,’ he nodded, closing his book. ‘An excellent decision. The last thing you need is this sort of distraction.’ He slipped the letter into the inside pocket of his jacket.
‘Will you be doing anything?’ Georgie whispered to Jim as I gave her a nectarine.
Jim looked at me. ‘Perhaps I’ll go and have a talk with Phillip, though I fear his heart is set.’
‘We have to get the scorecard back,’ I said.
‘Not yet, Toby. You have other cricket matters to attend to. L
et’s think about all of this after the weekend—after the grand final, hmm? What do you think?’
I looked at Georgie. She shrugged, looking thoughtful.
Four more people were finding out about the time travel, I thought as I lay in bed trying to sleep, wondering where Mr Smale was going to take the group that had signed up for his trip.
How many people knew about it now? Me and Jim. Then Georgie, Rahul, Jay, Jimbo and, of course, Ally. Also Scott and his uncle, Phillip Smale. Maybe Gavin, Scott’s friend—and who knew how many others Scott might have told?
And now four complete strangers. Four adults. What would go through their heads when they were transported back through time to a cricket match in the past? They would freak out completely. There was no way they would be able to keep that sort of experience secret.
In a week’s time it could be all over the town. All over the news. On everyone’s lips. But Mr Smale didn’t want that. He wanted secrecy. To what lengths would he go to ensure that time travel by means of the scorecard and the Wisdens remained a secret?
I glanced at the red numbers on the clock next to my bed: 10:34. In 10 hours I would be playing in the most important game of my cricket career and here I was lying in bed worrying about Phillip Smale, Wisdens, scorecards and four complete strangers about to go on the journey of their lives.
I bet Scott Craven was sound asleep, dreaming of cartwheeling stumps and high fives…
The most balls bowled in a Test match by one bowler is 774 by Sonny Ramadhin of the West Indies. Playing against England at Birmingham in 1957, he bowled 31 overs in the first innings, taking 7 for 49. In the second innings he bowled a whopping 98 overs, taking 2 for 179.
15 Collapse
Saturday—morning
IT was another warm day. There were already plenty of people about when we arrived at the ground, setting up rugs, portable chairs and even barbecues.
‘Finals atmosphere, son,’ Dad said, looking excited. ‘Come on, Nat. Help me out with all this gear. Toby,’ he said, looking at me and holding out his hand. ‘Best wishes, mate. Enjoy yourself. The result will look after itself.’
