by Ron Elliott
Uncle Mike said, ‘Five please.’
The other man said, ‘Very good, sir.’ He slid the doors closed and turned a winding lever. The room moved.
David grabbed for the wall. The room was rocking.
‘First time in a lift, David?’ smiled Uncle Mike.
David said nothing, just leaned against the wall.
‘A system of pulleys and cables that pull us up and down, sir. An electric motor and two sets of brakes. Very safe,’ said the man in red.
‘Saves on the stairs. Very posh.’
The lift room crunched to a halt. The man put the lever flat, and then pulled open the doors. They were no longer at the lounge room of the hotel, but were now facing a corridor with lots of doors like any hotel. There was more carpet and more little lights.
‘I do hope you’ll try the lift again, sir. You do get used to it,’ offered the elevator man.
‘Not likely,’ said David, who tested the corridor floor for firmness.
The room was no bigger than some of the pubs they’d stayed in, but had lots more furniture. There were little tables and chairs that matched each other and the sheets on the bed looked brand new. Michael opened a door and David saw that they had their own bathroom. There was a toilet and a bath and mirror. There were shiny tiles with a pink rose on each one.
Michael looked at what appeared to be a new pocket watch, and said, ‘You have a wash mate, then we’ll go down stairs to eat.’ He turned on two different taps and the bath started to fill with warm water. ‘Tomorrow, we better get you some city clothes.’
After his bath, Michael suggested David get dressed in his new cricket clothes, to see if they fitted. ‘Don’t think those workboots of yours will go well on these rugs here.’
‘No disguise?’
‘Not in here, mate. A bit of knowing who you are will take us a fair way.’
David looked at him warily.
‘What?’ said his uncle.
‘Don’t sell any of those fake bats, Uncle Mike.’
‘No need to. When you’re on your uppers, it all comes to you.’
David didn’t like the sound of that, but was fairly sure Michael wouldn’t sell the bats.
On their way out again, David insisted on the stairs, although by the time they got down to the lobby area, he noticed his uncle’s limp was a little worse.
In the dining room, which was a big restaurant, there were round tables with white tablecloths and their own little gas lamps in the middle. Each table had lots of knives and forks and spoons already laid out. A man in black coattails and a blue velvet vest looked at them, and Uncle Mike said, ‘O’Toole.’
As they followed the man, David was trying to remember why this name meant something. At a table next to a wall sat the reporter who had been at the railway station. This was the Mr O’Toole who had written in his newspaper that David was a disgrace.
He still wore his coat, but his tie was loose and he seemed crouched over his whisky as though he was thought someone might try to take it. ‘Michael. I’ve ordered the lobster and some prawns. Always eat the seafood in Adelaide, if you can’t go into the Barossa valley for the Kraut stuff. Hope you don’t mind, but I have to shoot off after dinner. Deadlines, print runs, bevies of typists to debauch.’
David sat watching the newsman watching him.
He smiled but not with his eyes, then suddenly turned and called to a man in white, ‘Another two scotches and what, David, lemonade or you on the hoochie cooch too now you’re in the team?’ He turned to Michael. ‘Imagine living in the States now. What were they thinking?’
‘Lemonade thanks,’ said Michael to the waiter.
‘So, David, how’s the Australian team treating you?’
‘Very well, sir.’
‘Call me Charlie. Didn’t look like anyone was too pleased by your selection in the team.’
David said nothing.
Their food and drinks arrived.
‘That was fast,’ said Michael.
‘Yeah, chop-chop, chin-chin. Like I said...’
David had never eaten lobster, although it looked like crayfish which he’d seen but not eaten in Geraldton. It was in a cream with lots of greens on the side. The prawns were done in something smelly, but tasted good.
‘I’m guessing two things, David. One is you’re bloody hungry.’
‘Hollow legs,’ said Michael.
‘Still growing,’ said O’Toole. ‘And the second thing is you read my article this morning.’
David looked up from his eating a moment. Mr O’Toole was looking at David’s hands. ‘No, Mr O’Toole. I only saw the headlines. They wouldn’t let me.’
‘Ah, I see. Many of the players choose not to read the newspapers while they’re playing. Puts them off. Unless they’re doin’ well of course. Then they can’t get enough. Okay, as the Americans say, would you like to put the record straight?’
‘What?’
‘Do you want to tell your side of it, David?’ said his uncle through a mouthful of lobster.
David thought for a moment. ‘We’re doing our best and we’re in this game. One good session is, um, good, but we need more to beat them.’
‘Yes, very true,’ said O’Toole without interest. He downed his scotch, and glanced at his watch which lay open on the table next to his cigarette packet and lighter.
‘You bowled some great leg breaks today to get your wickets, then changed to off breaks and mystery balls. Why?’
‘Trade secret,’ said Michael before David could answer.
David was conscious of his finger, but didn’t stop eating.
‘Do you think that once the novelty or shock value of you being in the side wears off, you’ll take no more wickets?’
‘I’ll take more.’
‘These are the best batsmen in the world today. Won’t they learn to pick you?’
‘I’ll have to vary my bowling enough so they won’t be able to.’
‘Your whole inclusion and Richardson’s tactics of holding up play for interminable discussion is just shameless gamesmanship isn’t it?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Yes, I can see that’s likely.’
‘Oi,’ warned Michael. ‘You’re the only journalist talking to the biggest story in cricket.’
‘And paying for the privilege. But never mind. You’re in the team to trick the batsmen out. You’re insultingly young and, well, let’s say it. You look strange. You don’t bowl them out like a man, you trick them out. Care to comment?’
Michael started to stand. ‘Right, O’Toole, that’s enough.’
‘It’s all right, Uncle Mike.’ David turned to O’Toole. ‘Tricking batsmen is what spin bowlers do. They make the batsmen think the ball will go one way, and make it go another. Instead of speed they use variation. All bowling is mostly mental, unless you’ve got just the out-and-out speed of a Proctor. You place the field in such a way as to get wickets or slow down the runs, but you also use it to put ideas in their heads.’
‘Well, here’s someone new. Who told you all that?’
‘My grandad. We’ve been training. He’s George Baker. He was coach of Western Australia Rural.’
David gave a big burp. His plate was empty.
Michael said, ‘David grew up on a farm and trained every day under his grandfather’s expert tuition. He was a state-level spin bowler and coach. David’s father played for Guildford Grammar on a sports scholarship. So he hasn’t come out of nowhere.’
‘Why’s your uncle touting you around then, and not your dad?’
‘My father died in the war.’
O’Toole suddenly looked interested again, lighting a cigarette. ‘How old are you?’
‘Twelve.’
‘So you don’t remember him.’
‘No, sir.’
‘So your uncle and your grandfather have been helping you with your game.’
‘No, sir, just my grandfather. And Nell Parker.’
‘Nell?’
‘
She’s my friend from school. We listen to all the games on the radio and work out...’ David burped again. He felt a pain in his guts, but it passed.
Michael said, ‘David, why don’t you go up to the room and rest?’
David stood. He didn’t feel so good.
O’Toole said, ‘So is Johnson going to keep his place?’
‘He shouldn’t have been out today. It was a mistake.’
O’Toole smiled. ‘So many headlines, so few column inches.’
David left, glad to get away from O’Toole. He felt hot and took his cricket vest off as he walked up the stairs. His legs felt light and weak. He had to stop a moment at the fourth floor to rest before going up to the room on the fifth. He was sweating by the time he went down their corridor. He was trying to remember the room number. He didn’t have a key. He sat down to wait for his uncle. The walls were dark and heavy.
David woke in the corner of the players’ rooms. He was in a wicker chair with a blanket over him. There was a metal bowl on his lap that was clean but gave off the faintest smell of vomit. He remembered he had vomited a lot. He blinked and looked towards the glass viewing window. From where he was sitting all he could see was sky. Sky and Mr Johnson’s back.
‘What’s the score, Mr Johnson?’
‘Ah, back with us. Good. We’re doing fairly well I think, although Richo is out. We were two for seventy-eight at lunch—young Bardsley and Two Bob are going along nicely.’
‘Good.’ David thought he might have another nap.
‘Thank you for your support in the newspaper, by the way.’
Yes, thought David. There had been a meal with Mr O’Toole. That’s when David had started to feel sick. He remembered now.
Uncle Mike was in the hotel room. With towels. ‘Better out than in matey,’ he’d said more than once. There was ice too. David was shivering and sweating, his hand was in the ice bucket, his face panting into towels.
He recalled waking another time when his uncle was carrying him from a taxi. ‘You’ll be right, you’ll be right, you’ll be right,’ over and over in a strange tight voice. Maybe this memory was a dream because his uncle had said, ‘Don’t you bloody go, Ernie,’ which can’t have been right.
Mr Scully had been in the rooms. No one else. Scully and Michael had talked about crayfish and field hospitals, and Michael made jokes about Private Simpson and his donkey. ‘A tent is a bloody lousy battlement; the cloth doesn’t keep the bombs out very well at all. Skin isn’t much better, mind, for keeping the bombs out.’ Mr Scully had spoken in an unusually gentle voice. ‘Hey, boyo, you got to leave that stuff over there. If you keep it with you, you’ll go under.’ David thought he was referring to the vomiting and promptly obliged.
His stomach ached now, but not with the stabbing pain he’d felt before. Now they were just sore. He felt thirsty. He opened his eyes and was about to call his uncle for water, but he was in the players’ room again.
Mr Richardson dragged a chair over and sat next to him. ‘Right there, David?’
‘Yes sir. Much better. How we going?’
‘Jack Tanner’s out and Ken’s gone in. Young Bardsley is gutsing it out.’
David nodded, feeling at his own guts once again.
‘Your talk to Charlie O’Toole last night.’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he pay you?’
‘I don’t know. I think he paid Uncle Mike. And the dinner.’
‘I’ll talk to your uncle. It’s not on, old chap. We give interviews for free.’
There was a groan and then applause. Richardson stood and looked out the window.
Mr Johnson turned. ‘Caught at gully.’
‘Damn.’ Richardson walked to the door leading out and called, ‘You look after yourself Bill. Don’t be a hero with that cheek.’
Mr Scully came in from the card room with some barley water. ‘See if you can keep that down.’
David took it and drank.
‘You remember what the doc said?’
David shook his head. ‘Thinks you got an allergy. To the crayfish or the prawns or to the bloody garlic. So don’t eat ’em again.’
David nodded, handing back the empty glass.
‘Might want to stay away from that garlic stuff anyway, if you want to keep any mates. It’s got a pong.’
‘Good show, Beardie,’ called Johnson from his chair, as Andrew Bardsley came back in.
‘Short of me fifty,’ he said, but he seemed happy. Richardson patted him on the back, and he smiled at David on his way past, saying, ‘Right there, cobber?’
‘Thanks, Mr Bardsley.’
Richardson came back. ‘Now about this interview. I’ve got to sort out some of the things you’ve said.’
‘What kind of things?’
‘Well, firstly, you really shouldn’t wear your cricket gear around in public. Kind of bad manners, really, at this level of the game.’
‘They were my best clothes. We were going to buy some street clothes this morning, but I got sick. I only had farm clothes.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Richardson looked down. He blushed slightly.
‘The bastards,’ yelled McLeod in through the door. ‘They’ve brought Tudor on against Bill.’
‘That’s to scare him,’ said David, ‘so he’ll be worried that Tudor will hit his cheek again.’
‘Yes. Look, I have hurry up this talk we’re having, and I shouldn’t, but ... Now that I’m beginning to know you David, I think you’re a stand-up sort of chap. But you’re young. So, here is a rule for you. You can’t just say what you think. Especially to a newspaperman. You mustn’t. The umpires are angry with us, and Proctor’s livid.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, you said Proctor was stupid.’
‘No I didn’t.’ David thought about it some more. No, he was sure he didn’t say that, because he didn’t think it was true. ‘I wouldn’t.’
There crowd was started to sound concerned, and Richardson got up and moved to the window again. He watched the rest of the over before he came back to David.
‘Did you accuse the umpires of making mistakes?’
‘No, sir,’ said David, then he added, ‘well, kind of yes, maybe. I said that I thought Mr Johnson wasn’t out.’
‘You must not do that. We don’t criticise the umpiring. Well, only in private, but never on the field and never in public. That is a rule.’
‘But that’s not how I said it. Not like that. He was being mean.’
‘O’Toole?’
‘He’s twisted things.’
‘Hmm. That’s what I suspected. Good. I will explain and apologise to Mr Proctor, and to the umpires.’
‘I will.’
‘Not at all. My job. No more talk to any newsmen, even if your uncle says.’
There was a big groan out around the ground, then applause. ‘Baker’s out,’ said Johnson.
‘What’s the score?’ asked David.
‘Five for a hundred and forty something. Ken Hall looks like he’s got his eye in though. Touch of Jack Tanner about him today.’
At lunch Australia were five for one hundred and fifty-seven. Their lead was less than eighty.
David went into the change rooms and had a shower while things were quiet. He felt sweaty and a little weak and wanted to wash the oniony smell from his skin.
He dressed in his cricket clothes. He put on his pads as he’d been shown. He found his new, longer-fingered gloves and his bat, then went outside to sit with the other players. The sun was so bright it made his eyes water and his forehead start sweating. He took some little breaths while he waited for it all to come back into focus.
He heard someone from the crowd yell, ‘Hey David, how stupid is Proctor?’ There was a burst of laughter.
Someone else yelled, ‘Hey, Babe, how stupid are you?’ More laughter, but some shushing.
David looked as people turned to look at him and the wave of chattering noise got louder.
A boy yelled, ‘Good on ya, Dave.
Stick it up ’em all.’
A man, sweating awfully in a football jumper, yelled, ‘You think you’re too good to talk to us for free do ya Donald?’
Ten Ton stood up and pointed at the man. ‘You can leave off, right? And Norwood couldn’t play footy if they tried.’ There was laughter around the man with the football jumper and he sat back down into the other people again.
Calligan said, ‘And that is the Members Stand. You certainly polarise opinions, Babe.’
Ten Ton sat back down.
‘Babe?’ asked David.
‘O’Toole’s headline was “Out of the mouth of babes.”’
‘“The wit and wisdom of David Donald, aged twelve,” was the subtitle,’ added Tanner who was sitting near the back. David wasn’t sure whether he heard pleasure in Tanner’s voice.
‘He’s sure taken a shine to you,’ added Calligan.
There was applause as Hall scored a boundary. He was batting with McLeod. David looked to the scoreboard. Hall was fifty-eight. Jackson had made thirty-five before getting out to Proctor. David noticed that Proctor had taken most of the wickets.
Mr Calligan and Ten Ton seemed tense. His own legs started jiggling up and down too, as he looked out across the ground and thought about batting. When McLeod edged one of Proctor’s deliveries to slip, Richardson called David inside.
Richardson had a cricket ball in his hand. ‘Show me your guard?’
David grabbed for his bat, dropping his gloves in the process. He bent for the gloves and managed to stick the handle of the bat into his stomach.
‘Gloves first,’ said Johnson, who’d turned in his usual seat. Tanner had moved to the door to look in. Bardsley and Jackson came to the card room door, fags hanging from their mouths.
David put his gloves on. Bardsley came out and bent down, and pulled David’s gloves hard, back towards his elbows.
‘You don’t want them loose.’ He pulled the little belt at the wrist. ‘And no flaps or buckles out either, or the ball might hit them.’ He tucked the flaps back behind David’s hands.
David sneezed as the smoke from Bardsley’s cigarette went up his nose.
Bardsley stepped back, not much happy with what he saw. He shrugged.
David took his guard stance, bat down, facing Richardson.
‘Grip the bat tighter,’ said Johnson.
