Spinner

by Ron Elliott

‘“And freedom.”’

  The men applauded. Nodding to each other. They began to mutter. The police behind the gate were talking. One of the workers there was talking urgently to them.

  A big man came up to Michael. ‘Leave it out, sunshine.’

  ‘Not interested in the poor?’ called Michael, so everyone could hear.

  ‘I am the bloody poor, mate, an’ I don’t need some tosser with a plum in his mouth making trouble.’ The man then raised his voice too and spoke to everyone. ‘These men just want jobs, not trouble. They’re hungry and so are their kids. So put a cork in it, or I’ll thump you.’ The big man came to within a couple of yards of Michael, who looked at him and smiled.

  David knew his uncle wanted to be hit. And even though a moment ago he himself had wanted to hit him, he didn’t want it now. ‘No. Uncle Mike. Don’t.’

  His uncle blinked. Then straightened. It was like a switch on an electric light. Click and he was different. He laughed and looked at the big man. ‘A laugh. No harm mate.’ He turned again to the men, who were still watching. ‘Ladies and gentlemen. May I present, currently bowling for the Australian Cricket Team, Master David Donald.’ He laid out his hand to indicate David.

  ‘Pull the other one.’

  ‘Thump him, Muzza.’

  ‘He’s just a drunk.’

  They grumbled and swore, and started to turn away again.

  The big man, Muzza, turned back to look at Michael, trying to guess his game now.

  ‘It bloody is,’ said a tiny man, stepping forward holding out a newspaper. ‘Here’s ’is photo. It’s The Kid.’

  Everything got noisy again as the men looked at David and talked amongst themselves rapidly.

  ‘Well, what’s ’e doin’ up at this hour?’ asked an older man, suddenly. ‘It’s nearly midnight.’

  ‘And no coat. Get round this fire, son.’

  ‘Ladies and germs,’ said Michael, arms raised in surrender. ‘This is part of our royal tour.’ Michael reached into his pocket and brought out a pound note. ‘Here’s my plan. Cos Davey doesn’t want me angry. An’ to prove I’m not. The great David Donald bowls to ya. If you hit him, you get a pound.’

  The men suddenly went quiet. Some licked their lips. Most had eyes on the pound.

  Michael went serious. ‘No laughing matter, I know. Here’s more of my plan. We don’t leave here until every last one of you has won his pound. Fair enough, Muzza?’

  There was a cheer. Muzza was still doubtful.

  David whispered, ‘But what if they don’t hit it?’

  ‘Then it’ll be a long night.’

  ‘But I don’t bowl like that. I bowl my best or not at all.’

  ‘Then it’ll be a very long night.’

  ‘No.’

  Michael bent down to him. ‘David, they’ll take the pound, and I’ve got plenty, and they’ll give it to their wives and mothers and it’ll be gone. But that one night they batted to you, they’ll have all their lives. They’ll bore their grandchildren witless. That’s your gift.’

  ‘I’ll bat first,’ said the little man, who’d found the newspaper photo.

  There were cheers.

  David looked at the men. Some seemed happy. Others still looked wary, but hopeful, like a dog looking for a pat. But their voices were lighter. Their shoulders seemed higher. Even the police, the other side of the fence, were craning forward, smiling.

  Michael said, ‘Do it.’

  David wondered what his grandfather would say in this situation. He was fairly certain he would tell him not to bowl; to save the hand. ‘My hand is not so good,’ he said.

  ‘Then it’ll be a short and happy night,’ said Michael, going to stand by one of the fires. He took a swig of his brandy, then handed the bottle round.

  ‘I told you he was hurt on that last day,’ said someone, low.

  One of the big men came to David with their ball. ‘Here ya go, lad.’ David took it. ‘Don’t bowl too good, will ya.’

  ‘How’s that Proctor then?’

  David didn’t see who asked. ‘He’s pretty ferocious,’ said David, and the men started to laugh.

  ‘Ferocious. That’s a good un.’

  David went up the other end and held the ball. His fingers were cold. Numb. The little man held the battered bat, his eyes alive. ‘I reckon I coulda played for Australia.’

  There were guffaws.

  ‘A pound to every man who can hit him,’ yelled Michael.

  ‘That’s more than the Poms can do,’ yelled Muzza, finally a believer.

  ‘Hey, there’s over forty men here!’ called someone at the back.

  ‘Got ya covered,’ called Michael.

  The men laughed.

  David bowled. It was a long hop, with no spin at all. The little man let fly and missed it.

  The men laughed more.

  ‘My missus coulda hit that.’

  David rubbed his fingers. Looked at his swollen hand. He probably couldn’t bowl well, even if he wanted to.

  ‘I don’t know whether he can bowl easier than that, mind,’ called Michael, happy now.

  ‘Here ya go, David,’ said a Greek-looking man, with a big bushy moustache, and a slight accent. ‘Good on ya, son.’ The man reached up and squeezed David’s ear. It was probably gentle, but it stung a bit in the cold. The man’s eyes were weeping slightly, but he had a huge smile.

  David bowled a medium-fast full toss and the little man hit the ball way back over the men and up the street. They roared with a cheer. There was clapping, as the little man jogged down the other end with the bat under his arm, like Windsor after he’d scored a hundred. Three men were racing up the street after the ball, bumping each other until they tripped and fell into a tangled heap.

  Men were doubled over with laughter. A man clapped another on the back, because he sounded like he was choking.

  ‘Well bowled,’ yelled Michael.

  ‘Yeah, well bowled,’ went a chorus.

  The little man shook David’s left hand, gently. ‘God bless, son.’ Then he went over to Michael and got his pound and held it up. Another cheer.

  A man with a wild beard and a Collingwood football beanie grabbed the bat from the little man. ‘An’ the next drop is Jim Williams. Lot a form this fellow.’

  ‘Yeah, but not form with the bat.’

  The men cheered this man in too. ‘Onya Jimmy.’

  Someone gave David the ball. Patted him on the back. He was feeling warm now. His hand didn’t even hurt.

  ‘An’ coming in to bowl, to the great Jim Williams, is the Aussie demon, David Donald,’ said the man with the bat, doing his own radio commentary, just like David always did. ‘The bowler looks a bit worried here. He’s heard of Williams, standing on ninety-nine not out.’

  David stood a moment, listening to the man talk about him as though he was famous. Jim Williams smiled, his bat raised and ready. Then David bowled, as badly as he knew how.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  As the police paddy wagon pulled to a halt, a light came from the driver’s cabin and lit up the prisoner’s part for a moment. David looked across to his uncle who swayed on a bench, his face bruised from where O’Toole had headbutted him during dinner. He looked down at his bowling hand. It was swole up like a lump of lamb. The lock clicked on the back door of the van and it swung back to reveal two grinning policemen.

  One of them clapped David on the shoulder as he climbed out. ‘Thanks gents,’ said Michael as he came down to the road. ‘Look after that hand, David,’ said the other policeman, and he winked before they both climbed back into the front of their van and drove off. It was dark, except at the far end of the street, where David could see a lantern, barely illuminating a milk cart. A dog barked, which started some more.

  Michael felt his way up to a gate and along a small path to the front door of a semidetached house. He knocked.

  Muzza and the police had got together to organise a ride to Helen’s house. The police had eventually come out from behin
d their gate and had a bat themselves, which, after some nasty jokes, the dock workers had let them do, so long as they didn’t get one of Uncle Mike’s pound notes. They didn’t seem to mind, so long as they had the chance to hit David for six. David had never bowled so badly as he did that night, nor to greater acclaim.

  A light came on in a window, then in the hall, behind the door. ‘Who is it?’ It was a lady and she didn’t sound too happy.

  ‘Michael.’

  The door opened, and the lady stood in her dressing gown with her hair all messed.

  ‘Just passing by, and I thought I saw your light on.’

  She stepped out and hugged him, with her head on his chest and her arms around him. Michael stood in the hug, with his hat knocked crooked, smiling. She pushed him back, holding both his arms and looked him up and down, as if for dirt. ‘You’ve been in a fight.’ She turned to look at David before Michael could answer. ‘Hello.’

  ‘David, this is Helen.’

  ‘Hello, David. Pleased to meet you.’

  She was smiling, but at the same time studying him through the smile.

  ‘Hello, missus.’

  ‘You can call me Helen.’

  ‘You’re too old. It’d be rude.’

  ‘Hmm. Yes, wouldn’t want to be rude. Well, call me Mrs O’Locklan.’

  ‘Cos that’s her name,’ said Michael.

  Mrs O’Locklan turned and went inside.

  ‘Come on,’ said Michael, ‘it’s bloody freezing out here.’

  David and Michael followed Mrs O’Locklan up the passage. It had a worn runner going all the way down. David thought that she was not a floozy. She seemed too old and not beautiful enough. Her bottom was big and her dressing gown was plain and thick.

  In the kitchen Mrs O’Locklan lit the stove.

  Michael fiddled with a sugar jar on the kitchen table. ‘You’re out of sugar?’

  ‘Must have run out.’

  ‘I’ll pick you up some tomorrow if you like.’

  Mrs O’Locklan didn’t say anything, but stopped lighting the fire for a moment. Finally she said, ‘Very well.’

  Michael went over to the fire. ‘I’ll get that.’

  David watched as Michael moved to the fire, and Mrs O’Locklan moved away, and around the table, not looking at each other, but not bumping into each other either, like they were watching each other but only out of their elbows and shoulders.

  ‘There’s half a loaf in the bread box, and some fig preserve, if you men are hungry.’

  Michael turned to David and winked.

  David didn’t know what the wink meant.

  ‘Not hungry?’ Mrs O’Locklan was looking at him too.

  ‘He’s always hungry.’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Mrs O’Locklan went to the breadbox and unwrapped some bread.

  ‘That cupboard there, David. Will you get the preserve?’

  David went to a row of cupboards and found the jar of fig. It smelt strong and sweet as though it were not far from going off, which was just how David liked it. He brought it to her, and put it next to the breadboard, where she was cutting big slices of bread.

  ‘Thank you.’ Then she grabbed his hand. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘I hurt it on the train. And I keep hurting it again.’

  ‘Tendon?’

  ‘Ligament, Mr Scully said. Maybe.’

  She held David’s hand, with four fingers under it and her thumb resting in the middle of his palm. Her fingers were soft, but her grip was strong. She didn’t smell of tobacco or sweat. She smelled of powder and old soap. David looked up at her face, just for a moment, but she was looking down at his hand. She turned it over and looked some more, then turned it back.

  ‘Long fingers.’ She said it matter of fact with no teasing in it.

  ‘Like Grandad.’

  ‘I’ll take a look at it in the morning.’

  Michael said, ‘Helen’s a nurse.’

  David looked over to see his uncle at the table, rolling a cigarette. David realised that he’d forgotten he was there, and moved to sit at the table too.

  ‘How did you hurt your hand?’ asked Mrs O’Locklan.

  ‘There was a crash. In the Nullarbor desert, there was a train crash. There was cattle, and ... some dynamite blew up ... and...’ David remembered his uncle in the desert and how he got sick, and thought better of telling any more about that night. ‘But then it got better, a bit, when we got to Adelaide, so I pretended it was okay. To beat the Poms. In the Test match. That’s two to one now, but I reckon we’ll beat them in the next one. Here, in Melbourne. They played in Brisbane at the Exhibition Ground, then here in Melbourne and then in Adelaide. Now it’s back in Melbourne and then the last one will be in Sydney.’

  ‘What a motor mouth,’ said Michael, teasing. ‘Must be the promise of fig jam.’

  Mrs O’Locklan brought the big piece of bread with fig jam and put it in front of him. She turned to Michael. ‘So a giant cricket-watching trip around Australia.’

  ‘I’m watching. He’s playing.’

  David watched his uncle’s eyes twinkle. He was playing with her and waiting for her to catch on, so he could see her surprise.

  She saw that, but she didn’t smile. ‘And so you’re in Melbourne. Lucky me.’

  ‘Don’t be like that, Hellie.’

  She looked sad for a moment, and somewhere else, then got the tea and started to put it in the teapot.

  ‘How long?’

  She wasn’t watching Michael but he was watching her.

  ‘It’s a week before the next Test, then the week of the Test I guess.’

  She went to the kettle and brought it back to the teapot. David thought she seemed angry.

  ‘I was wondering if we could stay here.’

  David turned to his uncle. They had a hotel.

  ‘Is that all right with you, Hellie?’

  ‘Of course it’s all right with me. Love to have you. Both. We can try to sort out David’s finger and fatten him up a bit.’

  ‘A bit of stability’d be good.’

  ‘For you or him?’

  Michael looked at her, sharpish, then yelped like a dog and suddenly fell off his chair. He just let himself fall sideways and bang to the floor. David stood to see if his uncle was all right. He lay on the floor with his eyes open and a crooked smile on his face.

  ‘For Lord sakes, woman, not the nagging. I just got home from pit and you’re naggin’ me noggin all o’er the town.’

  David wondered about his uncle’s ability to be very drunk, then very sober, all by turns. It seemed like a talent. Sometimes David didn’t know which one was pretend and which one real.

  ‘Have you got any money?’ She asked it gently, maybe too gently, which made David wonder again about all kinds of things they weren’t saying, or were hiding in the things they were saying.

  Michael got up from the floor. ‘Lots and lots and lots.’ He started pulling money out of his pockets and dropping it onto the kitchen table, just like he had in the hotel room. There were twenty pound notes and tens and fives.

  David said, ‘But no pound notes. They all went to the men down at the wharves.’

  ‘What have you done?’ She looked down at the money as though it were some strange animal with sharp teeth.

  ‘There’s some in my bags too, but they’re at the hotel.’ He started giggling, all drunk again. ‘Look at all this stupid moolah.’

  ‘Michael, what have you been doing?’

  ‘Making money in the only way an honest man can in these straitened times, my dear. Betting on a sure thing. David is the greatest spin bowler the world has ever seen, and until now, I was the only person who knew it.’

  ‘Talk sense.’

  ‘Am. David Donald and I are boring it up ’em, in our own ways, and life is grand, and behold, the ripe fruit falls for the righteous to gather. And no toiling for lilies or swallows this week.’

  ‘What’s he saying, David?’

>   ‘I got O’Malley out with my first ball to him, and Uncle Mike bet I would and then I got five English batsmen out in the second innings, and Uncle Mike made some bets that I’d do that too.’ David looked to his uncle to see if he’d got it right.

  Michael nodded seriously. ‘And at appropriately ridiculously prodigiously long odds too.’

  She looked back at Michael, but shook her head in mild annoyance, before looking to David again. ‘You are actually playing cricket for Australia?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs O’Locklan.’

  ‘Tell me it’s not too crazy not to be true,’ said his uncle.

  Mrs O’Locklan looked back to all the money doubtfully, then pointed at David. ‘Sleep.’

  She led him to the sleep-out on the back veranda. There was a bed there already made up. ‘My dad’s,’ she said, ‘but he’s dead.’

  ‘Mine too,’ said David. He looked up and caught her thinking, about him, he was sure. He looked away.

  ‘Goodnight David.’

  David woke late. He sat up suddenly, worried about how angry his grandad would be, and then blinked at the strange room. He saw his grandad sitting at the kitchen table in Dungarin, ready to eat tea. He was looking up, the way he did, as he waited for David to come in from his last chore. David watched his grandad’s look, as he came through the door, and he realised that that look was as close to contentment as his grandfather ever got.

  He lay back on the bed with an ache around his heart. He cried, silently at first, just letting the tears bleed out. There was no one here to stop him, so he let them keep coming cold down his cheeks, while he looked at his grandad watching him practise his bowling. He heard his grandad’s voice say, ‘Give it some air.’ Then David saw his grandad not say goodbye, and send him from the farm, and David heard an awful cry, a wounded howl from somewhere in the house. He sat up and listened, but couldn’t hear anything except his own panting. There was no one here, except him, he was sure.

  He got out of bed and looked out through the louvres. He hurried down the steps into the tiny cement yard to the outhouse by the back gate. He sat on the toilet, feeling its walls. He felt a bit shaky, like when a horse gets away a bit, and gallops too fast, before being reined in. He took some deep breaths, comforted somehow by his own smell. He could hear flies starting to come. He looked to a hook on the wall, where there were apple papers. He smiled again. As everyone knew, apple papers were soft on the backside. ‘That’s a bit of luck,’ said David.