Spinner

by Ron Elliott

  That was exactly how it went, except that David had much more fun than he thought he would. Part of the fun was the way Uncle Mike talked to the crowd.

  ‘Let’s see how this fella is going to go. Anyone reckon he’s even going to get near it?’

  And the crowd, which had grown to over forty, would cheer and groan and boo along with Michael.

  ‘Come on now. What’s your name, son?’

  ‘Frederick,’ replied the beefy farm youth defiantly, as he took a couple of loosening swings with the bat.

  ‘Frederick, huh. Now that’s a king’s name that. Not Fred, mind.’

  There were spirited calls from Frederick’s friends. Good-natured cheers from the crowd.

  ‘Okay, then. Quiet now. Give King Frederick a chance. This is for a pound. Bit of concentration here.’

  The crowd settled.

  ‘Belt it Fred,’ yelled someone.

  ‘Don’t let him hit you, David,’ yelled someone else.

  There was some more cheering then, and some mutters and talk.

  David stood waiting, trying to ignore the talk a little. In the beginning he had listened and gotten caught up with the jokes and cheering and the like. And it had put him off. He’d been lucky, because as his uncle had predicted, the batters swung so wildly that it didn’t seem to matter where he pitched the ball. He’d bowled a few wide though, and his uncle had insisted he bowl those again, ‘With no extra charge, good folk of Northam.’

  Also in the beginning, David had looked at the people. A man had a big round nose, like a pig’s. A lady had ears that squashed out under her hat. An old man had a sore on his face that was weeping some nasty looking water. There was hair growing out of noses and ears and into eyes.

  And the people looked back. Some had smiled. Others had glared. There were some who gave him even odder looks. A farm boy yelled, ‘Gawd will ya look at the kid’s fingers. Like he’s holding a couple of dead chooks.’ They’d all laughed loud at that. David bowled the next ball without even thinking about it at all and the ball had sailed over his head and way out near the big tent.

  That’s when Uncle Mike had started talking to him as much as the crowd. He whispered to David, ‘Good. That’s the pound we wanted to give away, so everyone thinks they’ve got a chance. You sly old devil you. But you concentrate now, all right. Not them. You got that?’

  Now David was concentrating on each ball as though it were practice at home. He started to pretend he was by the shed, with nothing but a few chooks clucking after dinner. He had tried a skidder a couple of times and a shooter, but Uncle Mike had whispered to leave them out today. He’d explained that they were too straight and could be mis-hit with a bit of luck. So David concentrated on his leggies and wrong-uns and his off breaks. Although he only had to make sure the batters didn’t hit his bowling at all, David still hit the stumps with regularity, which seemed to please the crowd more than anything. As did the wild swings.

  David looked at Uncle Mike who tapped his forehead. This was his uncle’s sign that Frederick was a wild swinger. They had settled on some calls by mid morning. The wild swinger. The dancer, who’d try to advance down the wicket. The sideswiper. The prodder. Uncle Mike privately called them punters and seemed to know what they would do.

  David decided on the perfect ball for a wild swinger. He tossed it up slow, with a good arc, watching Frederick open his eyes, not believing his luck with such a slow thing. The lad took the bat back way past his shoulder, then started to bring it forward just as the ball dipped suddenly in the air. David watched Frederick realise. He tried to speed up his stroke, to bring the bat forward faster than he had first intended, but he never quite got there. The ball hit the mat, a good six inches in front of where Frederick could possibly reach it, and bounced high. Frederick’s bat flashed uselessly, but also kept going, dragging the lad forward with his own momentum. His front foot went too far forward then, and Frederick fell over on his back.

  The crowd cheered hugely, and David couldn’t help turning to them.

  Amidst the laughing, jeering faces, David saw a serious man who wasn’t looking at fallen Frederick but at David. He was a big man with a full, browned face. He wore a checked suit and a derby hat. He looked at David and then tapped his nose, knowingly.

  David looked away.

  Uncle Mike was helping Frederick up and making a big show of dusting him off. The young lad was blushing red, and trying to shrug David’s uncle off.

  ‘Let’s have a big hand for Frederick, please folks. And I’ll tell you something. If this bloke here goes into the boxing tent, I’d put a couple of shillings on him.’ The crowd cheered again, especially Frederick’s mates, and the lad settled down. ‘Can’t bat for nuts, but good shoulders.’ And the crowd laughed again, and Frederick found himself grinning too, as his uncle gently pushed him back towards the crowd.

  Uncle Mike stopped smiling.

  David looked where he was looking, and it was the big man in the derby moving forward. People were patting him on the back.

  David looked back to his uncle, who had made the smile come back to his mouth but not his eyes. He looked at David and made his eyebrows go up and down.

  ‘You get ’em, Jack,’ yelled someone from the crowd.

  ‘That’s Jack Tanner,’ David heard someone nearby say.

  ‘Jack, how are you?’ asked Michael flatly.

  ‘So this is where you’ve been hiding,’ said the big man, without any humour at all. Tanner took his coat off and flexed his shoulders. He was tall and well fed, with massive forearms. He had a yellow silk vest that caught the light and shimmered.

  ‘Not hidin’, Jack. I been waiting for you, so I can take your sixpence.’

  There was a look in the man’s eyes that David did not like. It was clear Jack Tanner did not like his uncle, and David felt compelled not to like Jack Tanner on that account alone.

  ‘Well, then, will you take a pound worth,’ said Jack loudly, bringing out the note. ‘Thirty or fifty balls ought to do it, eh?’

  Uncle Mike’s shoulders slumped, ever so slightly, before he spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. ‘Come on now, Jack. A state cricketer like you trying to take money off a kid of twelve years old.’

  Jack turned to the crowd with his pound note still raised high. ‘Seems to me this kid’s been taking plenty of pounds out of Northam. Just want to get a little back for my home town.’

  They cheered.

  Uncle Mike licked his lips, then shrugged. ‘Suits us then doesn’t it, David. We’ll take the great Jack Tanner’s money. I’ll make sure I spend it at the Colonial here in town tonight.’

  Another cheer.

  Jack Tanner smiled, as he handed his coat and hat and fob watch to a pretty lady in a bright yellow dress. He strode to Michael’s cricket bag and took out the heaviest bat in there before taking his time to flex his shoulders again, and roll his big neck. He went to the wicket and finally took his guard. ‘Nothing personal, lad. You bowl pretty good for a nipper.’

  David wasn’t sure what to say. He’d heard of Jack Tanner. He was a batsman for the Western Australian combined side who played visiting teams from the other states and from overseas. He looked to his uncle, who gave the ‘dancer’ signal, but he wasn’t smiling his usual smile.

  David took a moment to think. What would Grandad say now? Probably that this was a good thing. If David was going to learn to bowl better, he should bowl against better batsmen. Learn. The crowd started muttering a little at the delay. David decided to bowl a high bouncing leg break, to avoid the dancing down the wicket. He bowled.

  Jack Tanner didn’t move. He didn’t raise his bat. He simply stood before the wicket and watched the ball hit the mat and spin a long way to the off side.

  The crowd groaned.

  ‘Nice overspin there, lad,’ said Tanner.

  ‘He’s having a look at you, David,’ said his uncle.

  David next bowled a ball on the other side of the pitch. He gave it everything, ri
pping his fingers across the stitching as he let go of the ball. It sang in the air like a little car motor. It was another leggie and it pitched perfectly outside leg stump where it spun behind Jack’s legs, knocking over the wickets with a lovely woody sound.

  Some of the crowd cheered. Some gasped.

  Jack stood smiling and nodding towards David. He still hadn’t played a shot. ‘That was a beautiful ball, boy. Just about impossible, it was so good.’ Jack Tanner went and retrieved the cricket ball, examining it.

  ‘No tricks, Jack. Just good bowling,’ said his uncle.

  ‘I’m sure there’s a trick, Michael. Just can’t see it yet.’ Then to David, ‘You got a googly?’

  ‘Don’t bowl him one, David,’ urged Michael, as he put the wickets back in position.

  ‘If you bowl me a googly next ball, I promise I won’t hit it.’

  ‘He’s going to start playing little guessing games in your head,’ said Uncle Mike.

  ‘Unlike Michael Donald, I don’t tell lies, boy. I don’t know where he found you, but I hope he’s paying you your bloody share in advance.’

  ‘Oi, no call for that in front of the ladies now, Jack.’

  ‘Apologies ladies. David. Uncalled for, I grant. How much money you got in the kitty there, Michael?’

  ‘Just try to hit the ball, Jack.’

  Jack nodded. Waited. David bowled another leg break, but it never landed. Jack Tanner took a huge step down the mat and caught the ball on the full. There was a gasp from the crowd, and maybe from David, as they ducked. They didn’t need to. The cricket ball flew high and far, crashing into the tent near the central arena. There was applause.

  When David looked back to the wicket, his uncle was handing Jack Tanner the pound note they’d been showing everyone as the prize. Michael applauded too. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the great Jack Tanner, famous son of Northam, takes the prize. Congratulations Jack. Now who else wants a turn? Come on folks. See, no tricks. It can be done.’

  Jack shook his head. ‘By my figuring I’ve got twenty-seven balls left.’

  A cheer. Jack grinned at the crowd.

  ‘Come on, Jack,’ said Michael quietly. ‘You’ve taken me.’

  ‘Not yet. Not while you’ve got all those coins in the can there and not while you’re still in Northam.’

  So Jack Tanner proceeded to hit David’s bowling everywhere. When David tried to land shorter, so he couldn’t hit the ball on the full, the batsman let it bounce and collected it on the half-volley, before it could spin far. For the next ball he stood so far forward, David mixed up where he was going to land it. David took his wicket on the third ball but it didn’t seem to matter. Tanner chuckled, and muttered, ‘Nice nut. Now that was a googly,’ before blasting the next ball, which didn’t spin at all, out over the big tent.

  David looked from where the ball had disappeared to his fingers, which seemed to have lost all feeling. He couldn’t account for why the last ball hadn’t spun at all. This had never happened. The crowd were laughing and jeering. Many had moved to the side, peering round the side of the tent and from behind each other, in fear of injury. A fat man, with white whiskers and a red runny nose, yelled, ‘That one got hit to Perth.’

  Jack Tanner stood over Michael, watching him count sixpences and shillings into piles, as the crowd edged closer. Finally, Michael handed Tanner the can and turned out his pockets.

  ‘That’s it. Six quid. The lot.’

  ‘But you still owe me a lot of deliveries.’

  ‘And I can’t pay you if you hit them, Jack. I’m flat.’

  Jack Tanner turned to the crowd and raised the tin. They cheered.

  ‘That’s it then,’ said Jack. And it was. A man came from the Northam Show and made them pack up because it was too dangerous. One of the cricket balls had hit a prize melon and smashed it.

  Uncle Mike giggled. ‘I would have liked to have seen that. Must have been pretty hairy down in the main arena with all those cricket balls raining down on the Agrarians of Northam.’

  They worked quietly, putting the coconut shy back together. The one-armed man seemed pretty happy himself because he’d been paid in advance and would get a half a day of coconutting in as well.

  ‘Could ya spare a broke digger the price of a drink,’ Uncle Mike asked him.

  ‘You bet big, you lose big, mate.’

  ‘Yep,’ said Uncle Michael with a smile, ‘but it’s a bigger laugh along the way.’

  As they made their way out through the crowds who were all still enjoying the day, David said, ‘My fingers wouldn’t do what I told them.’

  His uncle walked a few more paces, nodding, before he finally said, ‘Well, that’s a good thing to find out now I guess, rather than in front of the Western Australian team.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  Just after dark Uncle Michael returned to the hotel room to tell David they had a ride waiting downstairs. He pushed his own clothes into the cricket bag and grabbed up David’s Gladstone.

  ‘I’ll just toss them both over the veranda side mate. Much quicker. Meet ya down at the truck. Down the stairs and out the front. Last one there’s a dead Kraut.’ He was already opening the door to the veranda when he prodded David towards the hall door.

  David went down the stairs and out past the rowdy bar to find a truck idling out in the street. A man with a huge beard and only one eye sat next to the wheel. Uncle Mike was already sitting next to him.

  ‘Come on mate,’ his uncle called. ‘We can’t keep the captain waiting. We got deliveries to make.’

  David climbed into the back amongst lots of sacks and packages. The truck lurched with a crunch of gears as it left Northam. They stopped every now and then at towns and houses along the road and David passed parcels and boxes down for his uncle to put on verandas and in little tin sheds by the road while the captain sat rolling cigarettes in the cab, watching Michael wordlessly.

  The truck finally came off the road and backed into a shed behind a hotel, near some railway lines. Michael nodded to the driver who nodded back again wordlessly before he went into the hotel.

  Michael came back to where David stood ready to jump down. ‘So how were things back here in steerage eh? Looks warm enough to me.’ His uncle climbed up and arranged some empty sacks and some of their clothes into a makeshift bed.

  David looked out at the hotel and back again, before he finally said, ‘We’ve got no money?’

  ‘Jack Tanner got most of it. I got a little for the old cricket balls and matting.’

  David started to take his boots off.

  Uncle Mike said, ‘The second Test starts soon.’

  ‘In Melbourne,’ said David, brightening. ‘How do you think we’ll go?’

  ‘We’re gunna get killed.’

  ‘Grandad says they are formidable.’

  ‘Yep. And we don’t have a spinner worth a damn.’

  David smiled and looked at his uncle, but he was lying down, with his back to him. David thought of grabbing a bit of his uncle’s coat over him, but the night was hot with barely a breeze.

  ‘Don’t we just need better batsmen?’

  ‘The Australian team’s paltry scores of a hundred and twenty-three and eighty-four contributing to your thinking there?’

  ‘If paltry means bad.’

  ‘Hmm. But what did England make in their first knock?’

  ‘Six hundred and twenty-three.’

  ‘Seems to me there are two ways of looking at that particular problem. It would be good to turn up a couple of brilliant batsmen just lying around the country. But it would be pretty useful to the existing team to keep England from scoring such a whopping big total too.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Up in the rafters of the shed were mice. David watched their silhouettes scamper and chase. He thought maybe city mice were the same as country mice in their habit of playing about in the dark.

  In the morning, they took their bags and caught the train to the city. David looked out from the station at t
he crowds of people dodging cars, trucks and trams on the street in Perth. There was a man in rolled-up shirt sleeves, standing outside the station holding up a sign which said ‘Out of work.’ The men in suits passed without stopping to read it. Ladies in bright dresses looked away as they pushed their wicker baby carriages. A taxicab driver was trying to crank his car engine into life, but it didn’t seem to want to go. Car horns squawked, brakes squeaked, gear boxes groaned and engines coughed. Perth was noisy and smelt of petrol fumes and smoke.

  ‘Come on Davey,’ said Uncle Mike, ‘we gotta get down to the WACA.’

  ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘I know one or two men down at the cricket ground. They’ll spot us for a feed.’

  David felt jostled by yet another passenger and pushed himself back against the station wall. Other passengers coming up from the trains didn’t seem to mind all the pushing and bumping.

  Uncle Mike looked like he might get angry but then fished in his pocket. His hand came up with a few coins which he looked at without much enthusiasm. ‘Let’s see. Four bob, and ... not much more.’ Michael looked at David a moment. ‘Well, you’re right. Can’t bowl on an empty stomach. Come on. We’ll get breakfast here at the station. They say, in England, that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. In France they eat sweet buns and chocolate for their breakfast, which seems to go on most of the day.’

  David followed his uncle back into the station.

  ‘You ever thought about that word? Breakfast. It breaks the fast of the night, you see. A fast is a period of non-eating. In some places around the world, they fast for days. Not cos they’re poor. Believe it’s good for the soul. Other places of course, they fast for longer and die. That’s cos there’s nothin’ to eat, because the czars eat it all, but we won’t go into that this morning.’