Spinner

by Ron Elliott

  ‘Good job,’ said David.

  ‘Not that many going around,’ said Mrs O’Locklan.

  There were more closed shops on the high street, and lots of men sitting and standing about, like they were waiting for the train to come and pick up the wheat after harvest, only without the wheat or the train.

  In the post office Mrs O’Locklan took two telegram forms and they went to a writing counter, where she handed him a pencil.

  ‘Will you write it?’

  ‘It’s your telegram. You should. Try to use few words.’

  ‘I’m not much good with the writing.’

  ‘Now is a good time for practice.’

  ‘Did you used to be a teacher?’

  ‘No, I’m just naturally bossy.’

  David laughed. He couldn’t help it. It just came out in a couple of quick snorts. He put his hand to his mouth, embarrassed, but she started laughing too, until they saw stern looks about them, and they shushed.

  David printed Hello Grandad, I got 5 for with my sore hand. He was about to write of Ten Ton, but realised he wanted to tell his grandad about all the team. How Ten Ton was bonzer, and Mr Richardson was a great leader and how he shouldn’t think too unkindly about Mr Johnson, because he was just having a run of bad luck. Then he thought of Proctor and Windsor and wanted to tell him they were mean, but Longford was a gentleman, and ... it would take too long to write. Mrs O’Locklan was leaning in with another pencil and turning his l’s and r’s around on what he had written.

  ‘They always go the wrong way round.’

  ‘What else do you want to say?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Love from David?’

  ‘No! A girl would say that.’

  ‘Oh dear. Can’t have that. So what kinds of things do you say to your grandad when you’re off to school?’

  ‘Bye, sir.’

  ‘What about when you’re off to sleep?’

  ‘Night, sir.’

  ‘What does your grandad say about if you do something really good ... when you bowl well?’

  David thought about this. He saw his grandad standing by the lamp flicking at mossies. His grandad looked at where the ball had pitched and then at the wicket. He nodded. Then he said ... David said it, as he heard it, ‘All right. That’ll do.’

  ‘Hmm. Could you put “wish you were here”?’

  David thought about that. It was true. He did wish that, even if he knew his grandad couldn’t leave the farm. He nodded and Mrs O’Locklan wrote that on the cable form.

  ‘Now who is this Nell?’

  ‘She’s my mate.’

  ‘But she’s a girl.’

  ‘No she’s not. Not like that. She’s good.’

  ‘Well, at least there’s one of us out there somewhere.’

  ‘One what?’ asked David.

  ‘Never mind.’

  And they composed one to Nell together, and Mrs O’Locklan wrote this one out asking David some more about if the letters seemed the wrong way around on lots of words, but he had to explain that he only saw them differently sometimes, so he wasn’t sure which way was the right way and when.

  They went to the counter, and Mrs O’Locklan fished in her handbag and brought out a roll of twenty pound notes.

  ‘I’d also like to cable two hundred pounds with that cable thank you.’

  The man behind the counter looked up at her sharply. ‘Two hundred pounds?’

  ‘Is that not possible?’

  The man looked at her, then at David, and made a note.

  ‘We might be sending some more later, if my investments continue to thrive, so I would like to know that there is no problem.’

  David looked at her. She was smiling, but her eyes were not.

  ‘No problem, Mrs O’Locklan.’

  Outside the post office she looked at her receipt and laughed. ‘Thought I’d nicked it, he did.’

  ‘You got it from Uncle Mike though.’

  ‘Yes. Just have to tell him when he wakes up.’ She looked at David, to share the joke, and in spite of David being unsure about the wickedness of what she’d done, he joined her smiling.

  Finally David said, ‘He promised.’

  ‘And now he’s kept his word.’

  Michael was gone when they got back to the house and still not back when Mr Feenie came again with his motorbike. David put the goop on his hand, and Mr Feenie did his elaborate show of turning on and setting up the motorbike. David put his hand on the back mudguard, feeling it shudder and shake under his fingers. Mr Feenie said nothing, until Mrs O’Locklan went back inside.

  Then he yelled, over the motorbike noise. ‘So this uncle? Does ’e hit yer?’

  David shook his head, unsure what Mr Feenie was getting at.

  ‘Well, if ’e does, you let me know.’

  ‘He never has,’ yelled David.

  Mr Feenie looked hard, didn’t believe him, and tapped his nose. ‘If ’e does, I’ll sort ’im.’ He nodded many times then, and seemed to growl a bit for a while, but David couldn’t hear much above the bike engine.

  A little later, when David was crouched down with his hand resting on the side of the motorbike, Mr Feenie’s face appeared over the seat.

  ‘Often are ya?’

  ‘Often?’ yelled David back.

  ‘Or-phan. No mum ’n’ dad.’

  ‘Yes,’ yelled David back, nodding and hoping Mr Feenie would stop.

  Later, Mr Feenie yelled, ‘Yer poppy’s right tho’.’ Mr Feenie nodded eagerly. ‘Yer poppy.’

  David supposed that the motorbike was making his eyes go poppy, so he scrunched them closed a moment.

  ‘Taught yer like yer tricks,’ Mr Feenie went on, nodding some more.

  David stood up, and Mr Feenie stepped back, as though he thought David might strike him. David couldn’t think what he was talking about and just nodded, putting his hand back on the mudguard.

  Mr Feenie faced away from him again, looking at the house for some time, but then looked back from the corner of his eye. ‘Five for thirty-two. With a busted hand.’ He laughed and shook his head, and then slapped his thigh, and then looked back at David, winking. ‘With that hand.’

  David was quite glad when Freddy Feenie left, and asked Mrs O’Locklan. ‘Have you told Mr Feenie about me being an orphan?’

  ‘No, David. I wouldn’t do that. What has he said?’

  ‘It’s true and so ... but I just didn’t know he knew things like that.’

  ‘The papers, David. There are stories in the papers and they are asking who you are and where you’re from and why are you so good at bowling.’

  ‘Oh,’ said David, surprised, but then when he remembered what he’d done and where he was, he nodded. ‘Like a famous person.’

  ‘Yes,’ she laughed. ‘Just like one.’

  Uncle Mike came home in the afternoon in a new suit. ‘Get dressed. We’re going to a party.’

  David wasn’t keen, nor Mrs O’Locklan.

  ‘You say I never take you anywhere.’

  Uncle Mike put the gramophone on loud while David got dressed. He was acting strangely, even for Uncle Mike, tapping his fingers on the mantle as though they were drums. Then he’d pace, and then dance two steps, then pace back to the mantle. David watched him lean in towards the mantle mirror as though he’d seen something in his own eye. He pushed his hat forward, nearly covering his eyes, and squinted at himself, looking mean. He turned suddenly to look at David and said, ‘Gangsters,’ and burst out laughing.

  ‘It’s a private party,’ said his uncle as they parked his car next to a grandstand at Moonee Valley Racecourse. There were some other cars: new ones, with running boards and some without roofs. Two men in uniforms waited with the cars. One doffed his cap at Mrs O’Locklan as they passed.

  Near the steps a blond man stepped in front of them. He had a jagged scar under one eye.

  ‘Squinty invited us,’ said Michael to him.

  The man looked at Michael a moment like he
didn’t believe him. David could see that some of his ear was missing. He turned to David suddenly. ‘What’s wrong with your hand?’

  David pulled his hand behind him.

  The blond man sneered.

  ‘Settle down, Blackie.’

  There was a big man with a fat neck at the top of the steps. One eye was puffed with a droopy eyelid that made him look like he’d just woken up. He flicked both eyes towards David. ‘You’ve brought the little miracle man.’ He smiled like he was hungry and about to eat his lunch.

  ‘Gidday Squinty,’ nodded Uncle Michael.

  Squinty nodded and said, ‘Excuse Blackie Cutmore. He’s from Sydney and so doesn’t know any better.’ He glared.

  Blackie turned and looked back a moment with no smile or anything at all. He shrugged and said without apology, ‘Just what the papers are saying.’

  ‘Come on up and have a drink,’ said Squinty.

  Blackie seemed to step aside reluctantly, and was still trying to get a look at David’s hand as he went past.

  David wanted to call out to his uncle. He wanted to say, ‘Let’s go back to Mrs O’Locklan’s, Uncle Mike. Please.’ But he didn’t say anything.

  Inside, there was a room with tables, like a restaurant, but with a stage up one end. You could see the track out enormous windows, just like the cricket. Some men and ladies were at two tables dragged together, eating. The men wore loose day suits, but the ladies wore shiny dresses that were just flat material, leaving their arms and legs not covered. They had long beads around their necks and small hats with little feathers.

  Michael was talking loudly. ‘Well, this looks nice. All we need is a bit of music and we got it made.’ Michael walked across the hall towards the tables.

  David felt Mrs O’Locklan stop, and he stopped too.

  ‘Jock, get some more champagne and some beers,’ said Squinty to a man at another table. ‘Oi, you girls move up. David Donald is here.’ The ladies in the shiny little dresses moved up the end of the table, while the other men looked over towards David.

  ‘Oh my,’ whispered Mrs O’Locklan, ‘That’s Jack West there. And Mr Scallin, the member for Yarra. Squinty has to be Squinty Tyler.’

  ‘Who?’ said David.

  ‘The criminal. These people run Melbourne.’

  ‘David, come here,’ called Michael.

  Everyone was staring now with the tasting look that David had come to dread. They would be ready with their questions that would all be the same and their peering at his hand and their comments on what he did wrong.

  David looked to Mrs O’Locklan. She seemed unhappy too.

  ‘David, come and meet these fellas.’

  ‘Toilet,’ said David suddenly. ‘I gotta go to the toilet.’

  David went down the steps and to the track. The men in uniforms were talking by the cars with Blackie Cutmore. He looked up and stared at David.

  David went towards the track. He didn’t need a toilet but he didn’t want to talk. He realised that he didn’t mind being at Mrs O’Locklan’s house. He could listen to the radiogram and sit on the back step in the sun, listening to kids play somewhere out in the back lane.

  There was a sprinkler clacking on the short straight. The grass looked thick.

  David looked up to the huge window overlooking the straight. He thought he saw Squinty standing there, but when he looked away a moment and back, the window was empty.

  There were some stables near the track. David thought he’d like to touch a horse, if there were any about. Even if there weren’t, he’d like to smell the animal smells that would be in there.

  The stables were big and open but had no horses. They’d been mucked out and there was fresh straw. The troughs held water, but the feed drums were clean and empty. David heard the sound of what he thought was a scraping shoe, but when he looked around he couldn’t see anyone. The gates to each stall were open, but darkish. A mouse ran across from one empty stall to another.

  David saw something in the dirt and bent to get it. It was a horseshoe nail, bent and a little rusty. He held it and turned it, like it was a cable from home with good news.

  In the middle of the stalls was an alleyway that led to large gate at the edge of the track. David threw the horseshoe nail down and moved towards the green grass and sunlight.

  His fingers felt good, he realised. He stretched them and made a fist, then loosened and wriggled. He looked at his hand. There was no swelling. He flicked his wrist, gently, then sudden and hard. He looked at his open palm and realised that he wanted a cricket ball, wanted to feel his fingers around it, to heft its weight.

  David rested his palm on the wooden railing that ran along the racetrack straight, pushing gently against the edge, testing beneath. A sharp pain made him snatch his hand back from the rail. It wasn’t his injury, but a splinter. A big one, stuck in his palm. Blood was seeping out around the piece of wood.

  ‘What’s that?’

  Blackie was behind him. He grabbed David’s hand, and pulled, spinning David around.

  ‘Let go,’ said David.

  ‘Hang on. Hurt does it?’

  Blackie held his wrist, and put his other hand on David’s arm, so he couldn’t pull away.

  ‘God, you are a freak. These fingers are longer than bloody octopus tentacles.’

  ‘Just a splinter,’ said David, trying to pull his hand back again. ‘Let go.’

  ‘Hold still.’ He twisted David’s hand until his wrist was being twisted too. David tightened his wrist, so the man couldn’t keep twisting. Blackie stopped and looked at him. Then he sneered, meanly and started to twist again. As he kept twisting, David had to kneel down to stop the pain.

  ‘See, this hand is worth a bit. Good or bad, it’s worth something either way.’ The man reached into his jacket pocket with his now free hand.

  ‘I’ll call out,’ said David, kneeling in the dirt by the racetrack.

  Blackie’s hand came out of his pocket holding a razor. ‘If you do, I’ll cut yer.’ He flicked the razor outwards, and the blade flashed out from its hinged protector. ‘The thing about a razor cut is how much it hurts, even when it’s not deep.’

  David looked at the razor blade raised above his hand. He was helpless, held still by his wrist. All he could do was try to spread his fingers so the splinter didn’t dig deeper.

  Blackie looked down at David and smiled at something he saw in David’s eyes that he liked the look of. He looked back to David’s hand. ‘How about I just take one finger off, how’d you like that?’

  David looked at the razor blade, then at a movement behind Blackie. ‘How about we don’t?’ There was the double click of a gun hammer cocking. Squinty Tyler stood just behind Blackie with a revolver pointing at the blond man’s head. ‘Tell me why I shouldn’t put a bullet in your head.’

  David’s hand was free. He pulled it back, grabbing himself around the wrist.

  ‘Relax, Squinty. Kid’s got a splinter.’

  ‘Is that right?’ said Squinty, his drooping eyelid aimed down at David. He pushed his pistol until it touched Blackie’s head, just under where the piece of his ear was missing.

  David could see the revolver load, a bullet in each chamber.

  ‘Look Squinty, sorry for putting the wind up little lord Frontenroy here. No harm.’

  David tested his wrist. It felt stiff.

  ‘If you’ve damaged the...’

  ‘If I’ve damaged the merchandise then at least you know, for sure.’ Blackie turned with difficulty, turning through where the pistol was pointing until he was looking at Squinty past the barrel, which was now pushing into his scarred cheek.

  Squinty seemed to be deciding whether he’d shoot him.

  ‘Nothing like betting on a sure thing,’ said Blackie, as though there were not a gun pointing into his face.

  David got up and ran.

  ‘Hey, stay here,’ ordered Squinty.

  David didn’t turn around. Still holding his wrist, he ran around the pavilio
n and up the steps. His uncle was coming out the door as he reached the top.

  ‘Thought you got lost.’

  ‘I want to go home,’ panted David.

  ‘Not yet mate. Got these blokes for you to meet.’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘What’s wrong with your hand?’ said Mrs O’Locklan coming out too.

  ‘I got a splinter.’ David didn’t know why he didn’t tell them what had just happened. He wanted to be away from here, but he didn’t want to say anything. Not here. ‘We have to go now,’ he said, looking at Mrs O’Locklan.

  She put her hand up on David’s shoulder, and said, ‘Very well. Let’s go then, David.’

  ‘We’re just getting started,’ said Michael.

  ‘Let me see,’ she said.

  David held his hand. She peered and reached towards the splinter. Her nails weren’t long, and weren’t painted either. They touched the edge of the wood and for a moment he felt the start of the sharp wood digging deeper, but then it left. She was turning it in the air, so he could see. ‘Wow, that’s a beauty. About an inch,’ she said.

  ‘We still have to go.’

  ‘We gotta meet these people. It’s all set up.’

  ‘We’ll walk,’ said Mrs O’Locklan, heading down the stairs. ‘Don’t know why we drove in the first place, it’s so close.’

  David followed her, looking out for Blackie and Squinty. The drivers watched them but not with much interest. The sprinkler spat its water on the straight.

  ‘All right.’ Michael had come after them. ‘Not a problem. Let’s get outta here.’

  David nursed his hand as they drove out of the racecourse. There was a big old building across a park and a cricket ground.

  ‘I want to go to training.’