Spinner

by Ron Elliott

  ‘My finger hurts.’

  ‘Turn your body to face Chalkie,’ said Richardson.

  ‘But keep your bat facing Richo,’ said Bardsley.

  ‘Feet further apart,’ said Jackson.

  ‘Not that far,’ said Richardson. ‘Here it comes.’

  David was so busy twisting and getting his feet in position that he didn’t actually see the ball get thrown. Even so, it was so slow, that David suddenly lifted his bat, managing to scoop it up at the ceiling, where it came down right at him. He threw his arms up just in time to ward off the ball, sending that bat towards the card room door. Jackson ducked back in as David’s bat hit the door jam with a woody crack. It fell to the wooden floor with more thuds and bangs.

  David stood looking at the men. Tanner was the first to laugh. The other men joined in. Even Mr Johnson.

  ‘I wasn’t ready,’ said David, blushing and angry.

  ‘Strewth,’ said Jackson, ‘thought I was gunna lose an eye.’

  ‘So, out of fielding and batting, fielding would be your strength then,’ said Richardson with a grin.

  Tanner shook his head. Jackson bent down to find his cigarette.

  David glared at Mr Richardson and he stopped smiling. ‘Beardie, toss the kid a couple of balls. Help him get his eye in.’

  ‘You can’t send him out there. He’ll get killed.’ It was Jack Tanner.

  ‘This isn’t the time, Jack,’ said Richardson. Then he looked around at the other men and finally David. ‘If he can just hang around for a few balls, just maybe Ned can farm the strike and get his hundred. If we can get up to near two hundred and fifty ahead, we can put some pressure on these blokes. For the first time.’

  David nodded.

  Richardson turned to look at Jack Tanner. Tanner said, ‘My mistake, John. I spoke out of turn.’

  They both nodded.

  Richardson said, ‘David, if the ball is bowled anywhere short of halfway, you just hit the deck. Don’t even try.’

  Bardsley threw a couple of balls to David and gave him some pointers, until Calligan was bowled for eleven. ‘Better sit outside and get your eyes used to the sunlight, mate.’

  David went outside to watch Ten Ton. Slowly all the seats outside began to fill. David looked around. The whole team was outside watching Ten Ton and Hall bat. Even Mr Johnson had come outside.

  ‘You just have to block it, David,’ said Bardsley.

  ‘Just do what Ned says,’ said McLeod.

  ‘If you’re not sure, duck away,’ said Baker.

  Ken Hall had reached ninety-two runs when Ten Ton fended a ball off his throat to silly mid-on. It was the fifth ball of Tudor’s over.

  David remained sitting on his bench until someone pushed him up. He went out the small white picket gate, aware of the distant noise of a million bees. He walked out towards Ten Ton who smiled and said something but David still couldn’t hear past the buzz. He got halfway to the wicket, then stopped. The English team had gathered in a group after dismissing Ten Ton. They’d all turned and were looking at him. David couldn’t move. They were big men, all dressed in white, with unreadable faces. Tudor pounded the cricket ball from hand to hand like it was dough. Ostler whispered to Proctor who nodded. Windsor smiled with nothing like welcome. And still the buzzing in his ears. Hall was coming towards him, speaking. David made himself breathe. He took some slower breaths and finally the buzzing started to fade.

  Hall reached him. ‘So you came out eh, mate?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Hall.’

  ‘Right. Good on ya. Now if you can last out the over, I’ll have a real crack next one, and try and keep them off ya. Right?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Hall turned and David followed. Hall turned back to see him, and pointed. ‘That end.’

  The Englishmen started to go back to their fielding positions, but talked loud enough for David to hear.

  ‘There he is, Mr Proctor. That’s the genius who said you were nothing but raw speed with no skill.’

  ‘Oh aye,’ said Proctor and grimly watched David pass.

  Morgan got back behind his stumps and called, ‘Personally, Mr Wisden, I think you’ve been doing a first class job.’

  ‘Let’s see how many tricks he’s got with a bat,’ called someone else.

  Windsor stood in slips, with his hands on his hips, scowling. He called, ‘Knock his little head off, Douglas.’

  Longford stepped forward, ‘All right, enough of that. Good afternoon, Mr Donald.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Longford.’

  David took his place at the crease. The sun was too hot, too white. It made the ground and all the people around him too bright. He was already sweating from the walk out. His throat was dry.

  ‘Take your guard.’ It was Hall calling.

  Mr Fitzmorris called, ‘Which stump would you like, David?’

  When David said nothing, Hall said, ‘He’ll take middle.’

  All the while Tudor stood at the top of his run, watching. He was so far away that David couldn’t make out his features. With the sun, he seemed to shimmer a moment, like some white bird across the river. Then he started to run in, at first slowly, but then faster and faster until he reached the crease. He bowled.

  David felt movement in the air near his face and heard the sound of a whack as the ball hit the wicketkeeper’s leather gloves. He played a shot, even though he assumed the ball had been bowled. Then he ran.

  Hall was in front of him, yelling, ‘No. No. No.’ He was waving David back like he was sheep coming the wrong way.

  David turned. He was quite a few steps down the pitch. The wicketkeeper had the ball. David started running back. Morgan underarmed the throw with his glove still on. David got back to his crease. The crowd were screaming and cheering all at once. Morgan had missed.

  David looked down at the crease, listening to the crowd noise wash around him from all directions. At his feet, the wicket was scuffed and lots of lines had been drawn across. There were juicy footmarks too. There was a tap on his shoulder. It was Hall.

  ‘Don’t run. Just stay in.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Cripes, what kinda shit shot was that?’

  ‘I didn’t see it. I didn’t see the ball.’

  ‘Bloody lucky then. Nearly took yer nose off. Two more balls.’

  Longford had stepped in. ‘Let’s not waste time here, Mr Tudor. I want the wicket.’

  Tudor had the ball again. He was standing at the top of his mark.

  David took his guard. He made his eyes open wider as Tudor got closer. David tried to start his shot as Tudor let the ball go. He saw it, at the last minute, near his legs. There was a woody sound, but not of ball on bat. He turned. One of the wickets was missing. Then he saw it, still in the air, cartwheeling past second slip.

  David groaned, and turned to say sorry to Hall, but the Australian batsman was already striding towards the boundary, raising his bat like it was a flag.

  The English players were leaving too. David looked at the scoreboard. They’d got two hundred and eighty-two. The same as England had in their first innings. It didn’t seem like enough. They needed to get England out for less than two hundred.

  He turned back to the pitch and bent down to look more closely at the surface. There were some very nice footmarks to bowl at the left-handers. There were cracks too starting to open in the turf, splitting as the sun dried it out.

  David saw Proctor, and hurried up to catch him. ‘Mr Proctor,’ he called.

  The English fast bowler stopped. When he turned, he did not look angry. He didn’t look anything, but just stood above David waiting with an unreadable face that put David off. He’d wanted to say sorry about the newspaper, and to explain, but he didn’t have those things straight in his head, and Proctor’s dead look made his mind go even blanker.

  David said, ‘Um, nice bowling.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He still looked at David, still waiting. And David could think of nothing.


  ‘Good day then,’ said Proctor and walked off the field.

  But he twisted it, thought David, thinking of O’Toole. Only he couldn’t be sure because he couldn’t remember when and how he’d mentioned Proctor during the meal.

  Proctor followed the English team to the gate leading to their rooms. David went into the Australian rooms where they were already getting ready to field.

  Mr Calligan was patting Hall on the back. ‘Good knock, Ned.’

  ‘Blimey, comin’ from you, I musta done something wrong.’

  ‘Well, good knock and I owe you a beer for not sticking with you.’

  ‘Wake me up, I must be dreaming,’ whooped Hall, even though his voice stayed sarcastic and teasing.

  ‘Let’s just get a wicket or maybe two in this half-hour, and we can finally put the wind up them,’ yelled Richardson, clapping his hands together.

  They didn’t however. Although both Ten Ton and Calligan bowled with pace and movement, England were none for ten at stumps.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Uncle Michael wasn’t in the rooms after stumps. David checked through his bag and locker but found no clothes. Apparently he’d been delivered that morning in his cricket whites.

  Most of the team had already showered before they took the field, and didn’t stay long. Ten Ton was going back to the hotel so he could telephone his wife before she bathed the kids. Bardsley, Johnson and Tanner were going out to dinner at the old Exchange hotel. Mr Calligan and Mr Hall shared a glass of beer in the card room.

  When Mr Scully came to tidy up the change rooms, David hid in the toilet at the end of the showers, crouching behind the half-closed door. Mr Scully might feel he had to stay, or had to take David somewhere, and David didn’t want that. He would feel like he was putting him out. So he just listened to Mr Scully mutter about messy buggers and the sound of the broom swishing. When Scully turned the light off, David waited longer, until he couldn’t hear anything except the faint drip of the toilet.

  Out in the players’ viewing room it was still light. David looked out the window. In the centre of the oval, groundsmen were working on the edges of the wicket, filling foot holes with sand. Others were dragging a roller up and down, firming up the wicket. There were still some people in the outer, sitting and talking as though the cricket were still on.

  David sat in Mr Johnson’s seat and watched things around the ground. The front awning of a pie van was put down. The light went out in one of the bars. David wondered whether his uncle might have been there, whether he would be coming soon. He knew the name of the hotel, but didn’t think he could get there without a taxi. He was used to taxis now, but had no money. You paid the driver when you got to where you asked them to take you. If they were bright and chatty, like Uncle Mike, you said keep the change, mate. Men with hessian bags moved along the seats picking up people’s rubbish. All the spectators were gone.

  David went into the card room. He searched the side table, where Mr Scully often left extra bits of bread and leftover sandwiches during the day, but he’d tidied all the food away. Otherwise the mice would get it, David supposed. He sat at the card table for a moment. The cards were well worn, but it was already getting too dark to see their faces clearly. David didn’t want to risk turning on the light. He thought he might go to find Uncle Mike, or at least the room with the mattress on the table down the corridor, where he could sleep, but the door leading out of the players’ rooms was locked.

  He went to the door leading to the players’ outside seats. It was bolted, but from the inside. He pulled back the bolt and opened the door. The air smelt of grass and distant smoke. He went out, pulling the door closed, then walked down a couple of rows of seats, then across to where another low picket fence joined the members’ area. He climbed over and made his way along the face of the grandstand towards its end, where he could hear people talking and the clink of glasses somewhere above.

  ‘Oi, what you doing?’ There was a man with a hessian sack standing in the nearby shadows.

  David jumped over some benches and out over the picketed area to the side of the grandstand. He ran around towards the back.

  ‘Oi, you,’ yelled the man from behind.

  There were stairs round the side that led up to another part of the grandstand. Some men in black evening dress turned. One peered down. ‘Should you be here?’

  David kept running. At the back of the stand, there was a horse and cart. A dark-skinned man and boy were unloading metal trays. They both looked up at him a moment, but then went back to their work. The lights were brighter here. Another man was sweeping with a huge broom, by the players’ entrance.

  ‘Hey,’ he called as David ran past him.

  David headed right along the road behind the grandstand to come around its other side, where there were more shadows. He edged along the side and moved towards the front. At this end of the grandstand there was a higher wire fence separating the members’ from the grassed area.

  David looked across the ground. The sky was cloudless still and going grey. A man with a kerosene lamp in a wheelbarrow was heading towards the wicket from the other side of the cricket ground. Two other figures were dragging the roller off. Someone else was moving a sprinkler in the gloom.

  David jumped over the picket fence and onto the ground, ducking down.

  ‘He was round this way,’ he heard a gruff voice say. There were footsteps. ‘A kid in white.’

  ‘The ghost of Babe Donald,’ said another voice, laughing.

  David crawled along the shadow of the fence. He could see lights up high in the grandstand—a party. Laughter and light and glass tinkles carried out into the dusk. He crawled to the players’ gate, and reached over to unlatch it. He thought he could see movement down where he’d jumped the fence, but looking the other way couldn’t see the man who’d been picking up rubbish. He crawled up the steps and pushed at the bottom of the door into the players’ viewing area. It was still open.

  He closed and latched the door, panting. His knees were wet and probably grass stained. He raised himself carefully and took another look out the big window. The figures in the centre of the oval continued to work by lamplight, moving in purposeful but slow diagonals. They’d pause and bend, then move again. More lanterns wobbled about like drunken moths.

  David found a little bit of barley water syrup in a bottle and filled it in the change room. When he’d drunk that, he found enough gear to make a little nest in the chair he’d slept in during the day. ‘My kingdom for a horse,’ he said aloud in the empty room then smiled, as his uncle would fancy such a quote. He thought that if he had a horse he’d probably eat it all, he was so hungry.

  He’d eat a big breakfast in the morning, then go out and bowl. He wiggled his sore finger. Not too bad. Those footmarks looked very useful. He could do a lot against the left-handers. He’d have to convince Mr Richardson to let him bowl early, before the English put on too many runs. Otherwise they’d have their eye in and their tails up. They might approach him differently now. Windsor wouldn’t. Grandad had said that. Windsor would try to dominate you, no matter what. Bishop was a different matter. David had no idea how to bowl to the new batsman.

  David woke early with the light. He felt stiff and hungry. He went into the change rooms and washed, then changed into a fresh set of cricket creams from his cricket bag. He got his bat and tried to hit a cricket ball against the brick wall, but it made his finger hurt too much, so he bowled the length of the change rooms, finally finding the spot where the ball would hit the wall on the full and come back to him without having to move his feet. He did that until he heard Scully calling, ‘What’s that bleeding racket?’

  Scully put his head in the door. ‘What the ’ell are you doing in here?’

  ‘Got locked in.’ David bit his lip. Thought maybe he should have said something else.

  ‘All night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why didn’t you hammer on the door? Or go out the players
’ race and tell someone?’

  David looked down at his feet. He only half knew the answer to this and didn’t want to explain.

  ‘Geez, David. Use ya noggin for cryin’ out loud. Maybe O’Toole’s right and ya are touched. I don’t know. Geez. It’s not right. I’m not your ... I shouldn’t have to be looking after a kid, not an’ the team as well.’

  ‘Don’t tell anyone,’ said David.

  ‘Tell?’

  ‘They’ll think the same as you. That I should have done something different. Like someone else would.’

  Scully stood staring so long, that even though David wanted to keep looking him in the eye, he couldn’t.

  Finally Scully spat on the floor, which was as much a relief to David as it must have been for Scully. ‘Yeah, well, all right. I got to tell some day though.’

  David looked up.

  Mr Scully was smiling. ‘Too good a story. All night in the rooms. An’ bloody bowling in the morning. In ’ere.’ He shook his head, smiling a dreamy smile, in the way people did.

  David decided the dreamy smile was better than them staring. ‘Have you got any tucker?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m pretty hungry.’

  ‘Yeah. An’ all. Where’s yer bloody uncle?’

  Uncle Michael came to the door as soon as the Adelaide Oval gates opened. David went out into the hall to talk to him.

  ‘I couldn’t get in, mate. They’d locked the gates when I got back from the ... um ... and they wouldn’t listen to me or let me in. They said you musta gone with the rest of the team. Anyway here’re some clothes.’

  He had a bag with pants and shorts and jackets and shirts. They looked quite smart, although not new.

  Michael was unshaven and his eyes were murky. His hands shook slightly. ‘Have to get shoes when you’re with me. Not sure about those big feet of yours.’ He kept looking up and down the hall while he spoke, and caught David looking to see too. ‘I better be off. Richardson wants a chat, so Tanner’s probably been in his ear. And now Livingston wants a confab too. Not just yet, eh?’

  ‘You’re not allowed to take money for interviews.’