Spinner

by Ron Elliott

  Ostler was bowled off stump, uncharacteristically hanging his bat out towards the ball as if it might burn him. The left-handed Morgan changed his stance significantly, seeming to position his left leg outside the line of his off stump. The ball was a brute. It spun hugely and quite high. It would seem to this reporter that if one cannot find the ball with the bat, then thrusting a leg is compromised. The ball seemed to catch Morgan’s back leg, and off that, find its way to the stumps. It could have gone anywhere, but on this day, there could be only one answer. And yet another hat-trick.

  Tudor, who has never been a crowd favourite, trudged to the centre for the last ball of Donald’s over. There were so many men around the bat that, should he edge, it had to fall in someone’s hands. Longford may have suggested he let it go. He seemed to try, but the ball bounced in line with the middle and even the worst batsman must place his bat between ball and wicket. The ball spun, taking a faint edge, and Tudor was caught by Richardson in a copy of the first innings dismissal, although this one came to Richardson at a more comfortable height. It was over. England all out for 1 run. Australia 2 runs, declared. Australia win the fourth Test by twenty wickets and 1 run.

  Richardson Explains 2-Run Declaration

  ‘It was matter of momentum. The moment was there to be seized. Young David was clearly bowling like a magician, and I felt our fielding performance was rising to meet his challenge. Certainly McLeod’s catch at mid-on in the first innings, and many pieces of work by Tanner all through the match, were special efforts. So, momentum and self-belief were a factor.

  ‘I also believed, as did my team mates, that the English were a little shell-shocked, if you’ll forgive that phrase. I did not wish to give them time to regroup, nor to have time to rethink their approach. I actually only wanted one run, so as it turned out, getting two was exactly what was needed. I concede it was a gamble, but cricket is sometimes that, and life is always that.

  ‘Can I also say,’ he said in closing, ‘and I don’t have any perspective at all on this thing that has just happened, that I thank God for granting me the privilege to have been on this field of play today.’

  Balls Checked Again

  Umpires Wisden and Bosanquet have stated that the balls used in the Test are not in any way faulty. They examined the ball carefully at the end of the first outrageously destructive over. Indeed, Longford examined it on arrival at the wicket in the first innings. It was changed for the Australian innings and changed again for the next English innings, albeit with a great deal of shine still left.

  Further tests were done at close of play, with a representative from the English team present for bowling and batting tests in the middle. [They continued for the afternoon. Many of the crowd, perhaps feeling they had paid to see a day’s cricket, remained to observe the testing procedures].

  Whirring Sound a Fright

  The ball tests may confirm a theory concerning the mysterious whirring sound reported by players during Donald’s bowling. Opposing wicketkeepers agreed that the noise was caused by the speed at which Donald was spinning the ball. Mr Baker reported hearing that kind of noise every now and again when a spin bowler managed to elicit a particularly large amount of spin on the ball. Likewise Mr Morgan had also heard such sound on occasion, but certainly never on every delivery.

  The theory is that the whirr comes from the stitching catching in the air like some whining piece of war ordinance. The effect on the English batsmen was equivalent. Minds seemed focused and then alarmed and befuddled. In the end the sound seemed to evoke sheer terror.

  Off Their Heads

  BY VISITING BRITISH NOVELIST BERNARD CHESHIRE—Delight. Then astonishment. Then a kind of glee, just as one imagines the rising expectation as the carts brought in the aristocracy to be guillotined, and as the inevitable next wicket fell, like some coiffed head tumbling into a basket, so too the next roar of approval. The executions were despatched so swiftly that scorers and crowds-people could barely take in the moment, let alone the whole occasion. ‘Was that a googly?’ ‘Was he stumped or caught?’

  Let me share a confidence. Where normally somnulating hacks take our moment in the sun and catch up with a little reading and correspondence, a new thing began to dawn out here today: enormous tension. Would they score even one run? We’d entered a new kind of world, some drunken night in April, some Shakespearean midsummer, where top is bottom and Alice rules our world. Somehow, we knew quite early the wickets were gone. It was that one run that was in doubt.

  And I therefore declare victory. Longford got the run. The English captain stood tall today and rained on the Australian parade, denying Donald his perfect game. The king is not dead yet. Long live the king. I am still not sure whether I completely dreamed this.

  David’s Grandfather Ill

  David Donald’s grandfather is gravely ill. George Baker, West Australian cricket coach and farmer, has looked after David since an early age, and trained him in the art of spin. WA is gripped by the worst drought in twenty years and it is understood that the family farm is mired in debt. It is to be hoped that young David’s exploits on the cricket field may rally his grandfather.

  The official attendance was 87,446.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The aeroplane landed on the playing fields of the Esplanade in Perth between the town and the river just after dawn. A thin group of office workers, idlers and government officials had shown up with a band playing ‘God Save the King’.

  ‘Might want to play that a few times an’ all,’ muttered Mr O’Toole, rather drunkenly.

  Mr Biggins hissed, ‘That will be enough of your dark wit, thank you, O’Toole. I for one care very deeply about the King’s health.’

  Mr Kingsford Smith gave some speeches, but proceedings were interrupted, as a car had been arranged by the Western Australian Cricket Association to take David to Toodyay, where they were holding up the train to Dungarin. The dashing pilots had tried to arrange for some fuel to be taken to Dungarin so they could take David all the way, but there had not been time.

  David tried to thank both men but couldn’t reach them through the crowd. People were patting David on the shoulder and ruffling his hair and generally not letting him through. When Mr Biggins dragged him towards the car, David saw the crowd doing the same thing to Kingsford Smith, who took it with good grace and a very untired smile. David wondered at Mr Kingsford Smith’s ability to draw energy from his feat and from the crowd like a kerosene lamp being turned up. David found it draining. He slept in the car, woke for some breakfast in Toodyay, and slept again on the train back home.

  It was just after lunch when they came into Dungarin. Even though David had only been gone for some months, the town seemed to have pulled back on itself, like a puddle drying in the heat. What had seemed a limitless world appeared no more than a siding to David now, even before O’Toole spoke. ‘Well kid, maybe it’s not the arse end of the world, but how about its armpit?’ For once, Mr Biggins seemed to agree.

  David had been watching Mr Biggins and still could not decide on him. He was a neat man who wasted few words or movements. So, while he was of average height, he seemed shorter. According to what Mr O’Toole had got out of him, he had once been a solicitor but was now the treasurer of the Australian Cricket Board, but also, suggested O’Toole, a bit of a ‘fixer.’ David doubted from the way he said it that this meant he was good with machinery. Mr Biggins’ eyes never smiled, and never gave any hint at what was going on behind them.

  On the other hand, there was Mr O’Toole, who never left you in any doubt whatsoever concerning every single thought, feeling, opinion and bodily condition that made up each minute of each hour of the day. He’d finally got to David about half an hour out of Dungarin, plopping himself on the seat next to him on the train while Mr Biggins was off fixing something. David opened an eye, and closed it again, pretending to sleep. O’Toole smelt of tobacco and stale milk.

  ‘So, where’s your uncle?’

  ‘I don’t know,
’ said David, and he didn’t. His Uncle Mike had delivered him to the hotel that night, and Mr Biggins and Scully had come and got him a few hours later to go to the cricket ground.

  ‘So he’s just abandoned you, has he?’

  David said nothing. He couldn’t think of a way to answer the question that didn’t come out badly.

  ‘How about your grandad?’

  ‘He’s good.’

  ‘I thought he was sick. I thought that’s what I found out for you, and that’s why we are going to see him.’

  David looked at him. O’Toole was smiling his loose dribbly smile. His face was pink, like he was lifting something heavy.

  ‘You do know you wouldn’t be getting back to see him if I didn’t write those articles about you and him and the shared plight of our nation, and being mired in debt?’

  David shrugged. He wasn’t sure if that was true. He’d only read the article in the one paper on the plane.

  ‘So you don’t care about your grandad?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Man who raised you single-handed out on the farm. Taught you everything you know.’

  ‘Stop it.’

  ‘Do you love him?’

  David looked away, like he was looking out the window, even though he was not looking at anything except his own angry feeling.

  ‘Doesn’t matter, David. They call you Billy like in Billy the Kid, but they also nicknamed you The Old Man. Is that after him?’

  ‘No. Mr Baker said I had like an old head on young shoulders. At cricket. Nothing else.’

  O’Toole started laughing. It was like a low rumble of thunder down a mine. ‘Yeah, well we’ll keep that one from them won’t we? That’s called projection that is. Projection onto a pretty clean canvas.’ He nodded to himself, satisfied with his joke.

  David started to get up. ‘I got to go.’

  ‘Where? We’re on a train.’

  ‘Toilet.’ David just wanted to be away from him.

  ‘Okay, tell me about that ball you got O’Malley with in the second innings?’

  ‘Yeah, that was a good un,’ said David with a smile.

  ‘You know they’re calling it the greatest ball ever bowled?’

  ‘Ever?’

  ‘And it wasn’t even leg spin was it? It wasn’t your googly. It was a different grip, like you used in the third Test.’

  It was true. David had intended to keep bowling leg spin. They were coming out exactly as he wanted and with good control. But Mr Johnson had been watching him bowl a couple of very good offies in the corridor that morning, and thought a good off-spin delivery at the start of the second innings would confuse and panic the English even further. It sure did that, although at the time David was not thinking about the collective minds of the other team. He was concentrating on nothing more than getting as much spin into his off break as he possibly could. He put everything into that ball and it sure did change direction off the pitch. He’d actually erred in putting it too far out to the leg side. If it had not drifted in a little, it might have been called a wide. The greatest ball they all talked about was a whisker from a mistake and nearly another run.

  ‘Anyone home?’ O’Toole was watching him. ‘What kind of ball was it?’

  ‘I can’t tell you. You’ll put it in the paper, and then the Poms will read it.’

  ‘Who told you that? Richardson?’

  David nodded, sure he’d got O’Toole back.

  ‘Well, sure. But we can put a little bit of truth on some and then we can put a little bit of misdirection in there too. A bit of spin of our own.’ He smiled, his eyes closing like a cat in front of a fire, sharing his secret.

  David said, ‘I’m sure you could. But I won’t.’ David prodded him with his knee to be let out.

  O’Toole winced, but did heave himself up out of the seat, so that David could pass. ‘I don’t need your cooperation for the story, Old Man. You are the story, but where that goes is up to me.’

  David didn’t sit again on the train to Dungarin.

  David was adamant that Mr O’Toole not come out to the farm when the oldest Mr Pringle offered to take them in his car. There had been a welcoming committee of sorts at the little station. Nell wasn’t there. All three Mr Pringles and their wives were dressed up. David smiled at the Mrs Pringle who had been his mother’s friend, and she smiled back with no sign of sadness at all, although the morning sun lit her face hard, and David realised that she might be as old as Mrs O’Locklan. Her husband, as mayor, offered a speech concerning returning sons who had done great things, which in this case was not a dead soldier but David. The other Pringles tipped their heads forward as though listening, but they were really allowing the hat brims to shade their eyes. Bob Pringle and Jimmy Clarke leaned up against the steps, yawning. Bob had a white shirt, and David supposed he must be working in the bank now. He whispered something to Jimmy who laughed out loud until he saw a Mr Pringle glaring. Old Jack came over from the pub, and he looked David up and down, before shaking his head and going away. Apparently there was to be a town dance that night. There was some clapping, but when O’Toole yelled, ‘And we can declare a fundraiser to save the Donald farm,’ it stopped abruptly.

  Eventually they all turned to David and it was evident it was his turn to speak. He said, ‘Can I go see Grandad now?’

  There was a splutter of a laugh from Bob, but everyone else seemed as relieved as David that the welcome was over.

  Mr Pringle, the banker, explained the financial side to Mr Biggins while he drove them to the farm. He may have forgotten David was in the back, as he made no attempt to be polite. But then David considered that this was how Mr Pringle had always dealt with him.

  ‘It’s not a recent debt. It has accumulated with the interest and every now and then, when it gets out of hand, we buy up some of the land, so we can square things.’

  ‘Foreclose, you mean,’ said Mr Biggins, nodding.

  ‘Yes. Most of the farmers have been finding it hard. Fourth straight year of the drought. Old Baker held out better than most on account of his pumps and pipes contraption from the river.’

  ‘Irrigation?’ Mr Biggins turned to David then, and nodded appreciation, which David felt his grandad deserved.

  ‘Yeah. Good land by the river, usually,’ said Mr Pringle, looking out at the dusty paddocks and bush.

  ‘And how much of that is now ... the bank’s?’

  ‘I’d have to look at the map and the deeds and surveyors reports to be sure.’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘Been a long drought, Mr Biggins. Not much decent rain before that. You reckon we want dead land? Not worth anything if you can’t grow wheat on it. Always bin too dry to run much sheep.’

  Mr Biggins nodded as though he’d been chastised.

  Mr Pringle looked over at him, and nodded once himself. ‘Old George is a pretty stubborn old coot.’

  ‘He is not,’ said David.

  Mr Pringle looked back for just a moment, but then away. ‘Anyway, he won’t hire anyone. Only been him and the boy, so they haven’t been doing much work. And now he’s...’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Pringle. Most interesting. Of course, when the drought breaks, the river land would appreciate quite considerably, wouldn’t it?’

  Mr Pringle looked at Mr Biggins, who looked back. Neither man let his feelings show, like a good batsman looking at a good bowler.

  ‘We worked really hard. Both of us,’ David said finally, but it didn’t make David feel any better about what he’d heard.

  It looked dry, even for February, and the easterly was kicking up dust down by the river line, which was not a good sign. Jess barked as they drove into the yard. There was dust thick on the kitchen window and some leaves over the doormat.

  David scrambled out of the car and started for the door, but Jess kept jumping in his way, and he yelled, ‘Git out of it dog,’ and she slunk down so he could go inside.

  ‘Grandad?’

  There were some dishes i
n the sink and flies there. He went into the bedroom, where his grandad was lying on the bed in his clothes.

  ‘Grandad.’

  The man opened his eyes. ‘David.’ He struggled to sit up. ‘Having a nap.’ His face was pale, a whiteness having somehow insinuated itself into his tanned face. His lips looked bluish and his eyes yellow. He’d lost a lot of weight, also from his face. The dog came in and sat just inside the door. His grandfather didn’t order her away. He was looking at David. ‘You done the watering?’

  ‘No, sir. Not yet.’

  He looked at the window. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘After two, I guess. You want some lunch?’

  ‘I must have dozed off.’ Then he looked at David again, as though for the first time. ‘David.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Then he must have seen the men, because he squinted, and yelled, ‘Get out Pringle. I’m not bloody dead yet.’ His grandfather’s voice seemed as strong as ever. It was his eyes that had gone soft.

  ‘Steady on, George. Just brought the boy out. Trying to help.’ Mr Pringle raised his eyebrows at Mr Biggins, but the little man was already backing out of the kitchen.

  His grandad watched the doorway a moment longer before he said, ‘There’s some pay books and other papers hidden in a biscuit tin under the rain tank.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ David said, and checked to see that Pringle had gone out too.

  ‘When I’m gone, you take them to someone ... not a Pringle, and you get them to sort it out. Maybe the blacksmith.’

  ‘Nell’s dad. Yes, sir. But Grandad, you’ll be all right.’

  He looked at David again, and again it was like he had forgotten he was there. His skin had gone tighter around his cheeks. Some of the hundreds of lines that had crossed the old man’s face had evaporated. His lips were moving, and David leaned to hear, but he wasn’t speaking. He was working up a smile. The smile passed like the thin shadow of a cloud. Then his grandfather’s face set hard.