Spinner

by Ron Elliott

  Lunch seemed to take no time at all. There was an eagerness to the murmurs as they went out now. David looked to the scoreboard. Bishop was in next.

  ‘Ten Ton, who’s Bishop?’

  ‘New kid. Like you. His first game.’

  ‘But I don’t know how he bats.’

  ‘Join the club, mate. We’ll soon find out, or are you gunna get him out first ball too?’

  Richardson joined them. ‘Well Master Donald, where can I place your field?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Richardson’s shoulders slumped.

  ‘I know for Windsor, but I don’t know for Bishop.’

  ‘Well, let us just make it up as we go along, shall we. Start with the field you had for O’Malley?’

  ‘I don’t think that will work, Mr Richardson.’

  ‘Might not, but let’s start somewhere. Yes?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Bishop played back to the first one and knocked it down easily. He moved forward to David’s second and edged it down to fine leg for two runs. He stepped forward to David’s off spinner, but then didn’t play a shot. He got to the pitch of the next ball and hit it back over David’s head for four. Richardson moved some players back to more conventional positions.

  David started to feel his finger. It hurt a little at the knuckle. Richardson was scratching his chin.

  Windsor called out, ‘See, Timothy. Take the circus element out, and it is like batting against a child.’

  David over-pitched his next delivery and Bishop stepped inside it, cross batting it on the full to hit a six over the square leg boundary. There was some clapping for the English, but some of the booing had started up again. Bishop scored three runs to deep mid-on on the second last ball of David’s over. His finger was starting to swell again. He had one ball at Windsor.

  David started to wave to players to come in. Richardson came to his end of the pitch, and asked quietly, ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I don’t want anyone on the boundary, Mr Richardson.’

  ‘After being hit for two, four, six and three?’

  ‘But not by him. Windsor will try to go over the top.’

  ‘Yes he will. But he can go over the top virtually anywhere around the ground.’

  ‘I want him to try, sir. I’m going to bowl a shooter.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘My shooter. It is like halfway between my skidder and my loopy.’

  ‘Your what?’

  ‘It has top spin, but it keeps lower than the loopy. Good for lbw or bowled. Maybe even a slips catch.’

  Mr Wisden came over to them. ‘Mr Richardson, we’ve discussed these unnecessary delays.’

  ‘Certainly, Mr Wisden. I can only repeat my word of honour that I am not intentionally causing delays.’

  And so David had two slips and an otherwise defensive looking field. It was the kind of field you might set if you were saving a single, which is what David’s grandfather had suggested was what you wanted the batsman to think. Grandad’s reasoning had been that Windsor would see these fieldsmen as a kind of fence, a fence he would immediately try to break down. There was always the possibility of a miscued catch, but the field positions were really bait. Grandad felt Windsor would not be able to resist going over the field to all that lush green space beyond.

  Windsor stood, surveying the field, with his bat planted like a hussar’s sword. After making a point of keeping David waiting longer, he took his guard. David imagined the ball he would bowl. He whispered, ‘And finally the moment we have been waiting for. The great Windsor meets the great Donald.’ David imagined where the ball would land and how. He stepped forward and sent it flat through the air. Windsor’s eyes widened and he stepped forward to drive it. The ball hit the pitch, speeding up and keeping low. Windsor flashed his bat, but over a ball that crashed into off stump.

  Windsor looked back at his stumps. Then he patted a spot on the wicket with his bat. ‘Hit a crack,’ he said as he walked off.

  Windsor bowled Donald for forty-three. England were four for one hundred and eighty-six, only ten behind Australia. But their four best batsmen were out.

  ‘How’d he bloody miss that?’ said McLeod as he came in. ‘Nice ball, kid.’

  ‘That was David’s shooter, apparently,’ said Richardson.

  ‘Shooter, flipper, my aunt Mary ... call it what he likes as far as I’m concerned,’ said Baker.

  Then all the men stopped and went quiet. David looked at their faces to find them looking at him differently.

  ‘Well here’s a bloody go then,’ said Johnson.

  ‘Did you just swear then, Chalkie?’ smirked Calligan.

  ‘Too bloody right. Let’s have at ’em, I reckon,’ said Johnson.

  Richardson tossed the ball to Calligan. ‘Legal, how about you knock over this new fellow, now that David’s made him over-confident?’

  The men laughed. David noticed that they trotted back to their positions with their shoulders back. There was clapping from the players now, and calls of encouragement to Calligan.

  The crowd’s single voice had broken now; there was just noise, but none of it with common mood.

  David looked at his finger. It was starting to swell. He’d have to change his grip.

  Calligan bowled a terrifying over of short-pitched deliveries that moved off the seam. Bishop flashed at one and missed. He stepped back at the next one blocking it dangerously off his chest. The batsmen scampered for a single.

  Morgan was a left-hander and took his guard, saying in his dry Yorkshire accent, ‘Glad to be facing up to the adults, like.’ Calligan bowled a yorker to the Yorkshireman, and it struck him on the foot. Everyone jumped up to yell their appeal. Mr Fitzmorris raised his finger. Five down for one hundred and ninety-one.

  David’s next over was to Bishop again. He changed his grip to try to relieve the pressure on his sore finger, just as Uncle Mike had shown him to do at his trials. The first ball surprised Bishop and he only just got back to keep it off his stumps. He was more wary of David now. But the ball didn’t carry as far when David bowled with this grip, and Johnson and Baker had to edge up closer to the stumps. Bishop flashed at the next ball, which caught the high edge of his bat only to fly past Johnson and down towards the boundary for two runs.

  That’s how it went for some overs. David kept getting Bishop to bowl to, while Calligan kept getting the English all-rounder, Peter Ostler. Both batsmen seemed to fancy their respective bowlers. David resented that he couldn’t get as much variety with his alternate grip. He thought he might try an offie that behaved like a leg break. He and Grandad had been working on a ball that came out of the back of the hand, with lots of top spin, so that instead of spinning in towards the stumps, it would behave like a leggie and spin away. He thought he might fool Bishop. But it was so slow that Bishop had plenty of time to pick the spin and lean back to cut it to the boundary.

  Richardson came to David before his new over. ‘Why have you changed your grip? Enough of these experimental balls, David. Bowl the leggies.’

  David held his hand out.

  Richardson looked at the finger. ‘Did I say you were going to drive me mad, David?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Insane you said.’

  ‘That’s you for the day.’

  ‘It might settle down after a couple of overs.’

  There was encouraging clapping around the ground when David went to his usual position behind the bowler. He stood for a moment, looking around and relaxing for the first time. He marvelled that he did not feel particularly hot, or thirsty. There seemed to be a breeze about somewhere that cooled him.

  Hampton was brought on for David. He pinned Ostler down a little, slowing the scoring. Then Calligan got a chance at Bishop. He played at a rising delivery that came on to him faster than he expected. He skied it and Tanner took a catch at short fine leg.

  Darby was caught behind a few overs later, and they went to tea with England at seven for two hundred and thirty-six. There
was respectful clapping for the whole team this time, and David noticed that many more people seemed to have found their way to the cricket ground. It was fuller than it had been all match.

  Scully came to David. ‘Mr Richardson says for me to look at your sore finger.’

  When David held it up, Scully shook his head in disgust. ‘We were going to look at this before, weren’t we?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Scully, but Mr Baker got hurt. Then my uncle took me before I could get changed.’

  ‘Well, he should know better. You’re going to have to rest it.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Yeah right. Yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir. Turn it. Wriggle. Bend. Hmm. I think you got a torn ligament. Which is bad. I can’t do any tricks for you. You gotta rest it. You got to put it in ice at least. Promise me you’ll do that tonight.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Yeah, sure. You players are all the same. No respect for your own bodies.’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Scully.’

  Scully harrumphed, but then smiled. ‘Any time you want to get that Windsor prat out, you go ahead.’

  It was Australia’s afternoon. Although Ostler made forty, the bowlers finally mastered the English tail enders. David even managed to field a strongly hit ball that went past McLeod, and received some applause.

  David had a good plan for bowling at Tudor, but Richardson gave him a firm no. Besides, all the other bowlers wanted to have a go at Tudor, because of his mean streak. There was little polite chat while he was at the crease. Even Hall made no jokes.

  With only half an hour to go until stumps, Ostler was caught behind off Hampton, and England’s first innings was complete for only two hundred and eighty. It had been Australia’s best show all tour.

  The crowd gave them generous applause as they left the field, and David felt confident enough to look at their faces for the first time all day. An old man in a striped shirt doffed his hat. A young boy ran forward to the fence and waved. But then a man behind with a large grey moustache and big eyebrows gestured for David to get off. His face was angry. Two men behind pointed at David and laughed. Mr Jackson mumbled, ‘Might get the blighters off our backs for a session or two.’

  Mr Livingston and Mr Biggins were dressed in tails and carrying top hats as they waited for them in the rooms when they came in. Mr Livingston waved his cigar like a conductor as they passed. ‘Good show fellows. Fine day.’

  ‘Not over yet, Mr Livingston,’ replied Richardson.

  ‘A very good crowd too,’ said Mr Biggins with a twinkle in his eye.

  Ten Ton, Legal and Mopsey McLeod were very bouncy in the change rooms. Bardsley and Johnson had gone quiet however. Richardson turned to everyone and said, ‘Good day in the field, lads. Now can you fellows hold off your showers for a tick, and let the openers and I get ourselves focused?’

  Outside the dressing room, Ten Ton stopped and patted David on the chest, nearly knocking him into the wall. ‘Good job.’ Then he wandered into the card room, yelling, ‘I suppose it’s too soon for a beer, eh?’

  ‘Don’t you dare, Ten Ton,’ yelled Scully, ‘or I’ll fine you. Don’t you think I won’t. Oi, you blokes, what yer doin’? Ned, you put me down. I’ll ’ave you.’

  When Mr Johnson and Bardsley came out of the change room, David started clapping. It made them both turn and look at him oddly. He said, ‘Good luck.’ Bardsley shook it off, but Mr Johnson looked at David a moment longer, before deciding to nod.

  Unfortunately luck wasn’t what Mr Johnson got. He was given out leg before wicket in the third over, in spite of the fact that everyone thought it had struck him both high and outside the line. Mr Johnson wasn’t jeered off this time, so clearly the crowd also thought he was having awful luck. Or they may have been so buoyed by the rest of the day’s play that they were in a forgiving mood.

  Richardson stuck around with Bardsley, and Australia were one for twelve at stumps. The man on the radio said the game was finely poised. It was anyone’s.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Uncle Mike appeared early again at the players’ room door. The team members were either in the showers or outside near the players’ race having a glass of beer in the shade. Michael too smelled of beer.

  ‘Did you see my wickets?’ David asked as they headed down the corridor.

  ‘Sure did. Windsor was my favourite.’

  ‘I can do much better.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Has Grandad called?’

  ‘He doesn’t know where you are, mate. Here, put these on.’ Uncle Michael took a grey school shirt out of his bag and a cap. When David looked at them, his uncle explained, ‘Disguise.’

  David changed in the corridor, looking at the school cap a moment before he put it on.

  ‘Perfect. Just another lad at the cricket with his dad.’

  David looked at his uncle and smiled, but Michael was already moving towards the door.

  ‘Do you think they will give me an Australian cap?’

  ‘Why didn’t you bowl more overs?’

  ‘My finger. It swole up again. Mr Scully said we have to look after it. Rest and ice.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘He said it’s a ligament.’

  As they came out the players’ door, some people turned, but his uncle said loudly, ‘This way, Freddy,’ and the people lost interest. They caught a taxi outside the ground.

  ‘Can I cable Grandad?’

  ‘Soon as we get back to the hotel. We have to go somewhere first.’

  David hid his disappointment. He was tired and hungry too. He was always hungry. It seemed to him, as the taxi tooted and grumbled into the other traffic, that only half an hour after he ate, he was ready to do it again. The players’ lunch was good, but afternoon tea was cakes rather than a real meal. They never ate flash food on the farm but there was always bread and lots of meat.

  There were people at Gould’s Sporting Goods, and they all turned to watch the taxi pull up. David crouched low at the back window.

  ‘There’s not too many. Think of it as a kind of training. For when you’re famous and lots of people want to say hello.’

  ‘I don’t want to be famous.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ His uncle put on an English drawing-room voice. ‘Then you have begun to excel in entirely the wrong kind of work. You didn’t think about being a child genius at library book filing? Or a whiz at shoe fitting? How about the greatest coal miner the world did never see?’

  Finally, David had to smile.

  Mr Gould bustled forward, his eyebrows dancing about in delight. He opened the door, saying, ‘My dear David Donald, I’m so glad you could drop in and see your old friend, which is me, here today at your favourite store, which is here. Here too, in Adelaide.’

  ‘Hello, Mr Gould,’ said David. The closer people gasped.

  ‘Mr Gould, old friend,’ said Uncle Mike, loudly.

  Mr Gould breathed through his nose, like a dog sniffing something, and with as much pleasure.

  ‘David Donald, may I present my son and daughter, John Gould and Mary Gould.’ He turned to show David to a teenage boy who looked him up and down as though he were a cow well past milking age, and a girl who had definitely inherited her father’s eyebrows. ‘Oh my,’ she gasped looking only at David’s hands and grinning.

  David met Mr Gould’s wife, his brother-in-law and family, his sporting good suppliers, store neighbours and a number of presidents of local cricket clubs.

  Most complimented him, then told him what he was doing wrong.

  ‘Good bowling today son. Got to practise that fielding.’

  ‘Can you bat?’

  ‘Lucky ball, I think. You won’t have Windsor falling for that one again.’

  ‘It’s a gimmick, isn’t it? To get more people to go to the cricket to see what all the fuss is about? You can tell me.’

  David found he was not actually called on to reply. He had tried at first, but had not had a chance to get more than a word or two out, before the que
stioner either supplied their own answer, or he was taken to someone new. At the counter he saw Uncle Mike being given another sports bag and some money.

  Finally David was presented with a sticky bun, but before he could bite it his uncle took it away, because the photographer was there. All the people were cleared away as the man set up his tripod and arranged a bun-less David and a sniffing Mr Gould in front of the shop awning. Mr Gould’s eyebrows were up near his fringe. The flash of bright light stayed in front of David even when his eyes closed. When his vision finally cleared, people were swarming in again. Uncle Mike dragged him towards the taxi.

  All the voices called on top of each other. ‘Good luck tomorrow, David. Hope you bat. Work on that fielding. Give it more flight. Have to do better next time—to stay in the side. He touched this bun, you know.’

  David sat silent in the taxi, seeing the people again in his mind, while Michael opened the cricket bag. More cricket clothes and gear.

  ‘Are there batting gloves with longer fingers?’

  ‘Yes. I asked.’

  The hotel had thick carpets rather than floorboards or linoleum. There were electric lights and red chairs with brass ashtrays on stands and little tables with gas lamps. There were fresh roses in huge glass vases. It smelled of leather and something nice, rather than soap and cigarettes and old beer.

  The man behind the counter, who got their key down from a row of hooks, wore a black uniform and said, ‘Welcome, Mr Donald. Welcome, Mr Donald. I hope you had a good Test today.’ The man had a black beard trimmed close, and slicked down hair.

  ‘Yes, sir. We took it to them today, I think.’

  ‘You certainly did, sir.’

  They went to a door marked ‘Lift’ and a man in a red suit with a funny brimless hat opened two doors sideways and David and Michael got into a small room.