by Ron Elliott
The old man had lost his wife during the birth of David’s mother Mary, and he’d lost Mary during the war when David was little. Bit by bit, he’d been losing the farm. But he’d got up every day and worked the farm and taught David cricket and looked after him. In spite of the old man’s hardness and the silence and the rules, David thought he had been glad of David, and that George Baker’s life had been a good one, with some satisfactions along with the disappointments. He had lived long enough to hear about David’s wondrous piece of bowling in Melbourne and surely would have taken that with some kind of pleasure.
David wondered whether he should have some regrets himself but he couldn’t think of any. Maybe if his mother and father had not died then his grandfather would have been softer on himself. Maybe not. Maybe if David’s mother and father had not died the whole town might have been softer on David but he suspected not.
The man had lived and he was now dead. David was used to death and used to the idea of it. Everything dies, even the biggest tree, eventually. David would miss him. He would not forget.
Anyway, that’s the kind of thing he might have said over his grandfather’s grave if he had the talent, but instead he just thought it. Nell’s dad, Mr Parker, had brought out a wooden coffin and they’d fitted him in by forcing his knees a bit sideways. It seemed important to David that they kept the old man’s neck straight.
‘I damn forgot to bring the bloody hammer and nails,’ said Mr Parker angrily. ‘Sorry, David.’
David didn’t mind and went and got some from the work shed. He helped hold the lid straight while Mr Parker hammered in the nails, occasionally giving out a mild string of swear words if one didn’t go in just right.
Mr Fowler from across the river and Mr Clarke from the next property helped Mr Parker and David carry the coffin up to the hole that they’d all dug on the hill overlooking the dam. David was again surprised at just how light his grandfather had become, as though whatever it was that had kept him going was made of some kind of rock. They put ropes under the coffin and inched it over the hole and lowered it down.
Words were said. The minister said prayers. Others said things about his grandad. Mr Parker made a joke about George driving a hard bargain and denying the invention of the motor car. Others said he was tough and strong. Mr Biggins talked about his contribution to local cricket and not just David.
David tried to concentrate, but someone had tied Jess up back at the house and she kept barking. ‘Will you look after Jess until I get back?’ he whispered to Nell.
The Pringles nodded but left quite early, although the nice Mrs Pringle came and hugged David, just like Mrs O’Locklan, and David let her and felt her breasts push into him like the clean soft pillows they had in hotels.
He said, ‘It’s all right, Mrs Pringle. Don’t be sad about everything.’
She looked at him, kind of surprised, but then nodded, trying not to let David see that she was starting to cry at what he’d said, before she hurried off.
Mr Biggins found him amidst the condolences and cups of tea to say, ‘The farm is back in your hands again, Master Donald. The contents of the biscuit tin and the donations have assured that.’ He tapped his nose and gave what must have been a smile, before slipping off again amongst people holding plates of cake.
Before Mr Biggins had left, the night his grandfather died, David had taken the lamp out and dug up the biscuit tin from under the water tank. Inside, Mr Biggins had found receipts and what he called a payment schedule. While David ate another bowl of soup, Mr Biggins had gone over the papers at the kitchen table, tapping a pencil on his teeth and saying every now and then, ‘Ah,’ and ‘I see,’ and, ‘Hmm.’ There was evidence in the biscuit tin that George Baker owned much more of his farm than had been thought.
Mr O’Toole had been at the funeral and, though he mostly kept away, David couldn’t help noticing his satisfied smile as he stood near the back of the people smoking and looking at the dam.
While Mr Biggins was pouring petrol into the car Mr Parker had loaned them to take them back to the plane in Geraldton, O’Toole came up.
‘Well son, the money’s pouring in. From around the country. All for you and the farm. A national outpouring of gratitude and consolation. They’re rallying for you.’
This news did not make David feel happy. He guessed it was because he was taking money that other people probably needed just as much as he.
‘Oh come on, David. Bygones? I have actually helped Biggins save your farm for you.’
‘Thank you, Mr O’Toole.’
‘You’re the biggest thing in the country. Maybe the whole world. You bowled out a whole team twice for just a run. No one has even come close to that before. No one ever will. It is monstrously improbable and miraculously manifest. You did it. And they got a right to hear about your exploits and your tribulations. Don’t you think? For them. To give them a little ... hope and cheer in these dark times?’
‘I guess,’ said David, but not sure.
‘Then why don’t we start over. No more misunderstandings.’ O’Toole smiled. Sweat was dribbling down from under his hat and trickling by his ear and down his neck. He held his hand out, and David shook it.
‘Your hand’s bigger than mine.’
‘I suppose.’
David tried to take his hand back, but O’Toole wouldn’t let go. He looked round, seeing Mr Biggins coming.
‘Why’d you bury your grandad near the dam there?’
‘He liked that spot.’
‘The dam’s special, isn’t it?’
David pulled his hand back.
Biggins was getting into the driver’s side of the car, dragging on his thin leather driving gloves. Nell and her dad were coming round.
He had time to say, ‘It’s private, Mr O’Toole,’ before they edged the reporter away.
Now David was flying above Adelaide, looking down at the river, with cotton wool in his ears, flying towards Sydney and the final and deciding Test match, and he was thinking about the dam once more. ‘Of course the dam is important,’ he said.
David turned from the window to find Mr Biggins looking at him. The ACB treasurer nodded, taking a piece of cotton wool from his own ear. David looked away. He still wasn’t ready to talk to Mr Biggins.
When they’d stopped in Adelaide, they took a hotel close to the plane for Sydney. David had remembered Mrs O’Locklan’s address and he’d got a telegram form and had spent some time working over it, trying to keep the word numbers low and the letters the right way round. Dear Mrs O’Lokolan comma Grandad is dead stop farm good stop how are you stop where is uncol mike stop love David.
It took him some time to decide to sign it ‘love David,’ but he knew she’d like that on account of their discussion about his telegram to Grandad. He thought he should have put in about their two hundred pounds helping save the farm, but that would have to wait to be in his first ever letter maybe.
The hotel man had corrected some spelling and Mr Biggins had paid for it, frowning a little when he took a peek.
The reason for the frown came while they ate dinner in the hotel.
‘Your uncle.’
‘Yes?’ David looked up from his roast chicken.
‘In Melbourne, he tried to negotiate a different contract for you.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘A special contract with a higher rate of pay than the other players.’
‘Oh.’
‘You can tell him, David, that we might agree to that.’
David nodded.
‘But we would need some guarantees.’
David chewed his chicken.
‘Do you understand the message?’
‘I think so Mr Biggins, but I don’t want that. I don’t think it’s fair if I get more money. I mean Ten Ton has a family. He needs more.’
‘That is not the basis of this arrangement. It’s about providing enough so that you can concentrate on your cricket, and also...’ Mr Biggins searche
d the floor, before going on, ‘it allows your uncle sufficient funds...’ another little search, ‘such that he would undertake not to wager on the game.’
‘Oh.’
‘He’d also have to stay away from the other players and the ground during the games.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’m sorry, David. We would run over these things with him, but ... we don’t know where he is either.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Will you convey these things?’
David noticed how Mr Biggins wasn’t quite looking at him again. For a little while at the farm he’d been looking and talking to David. But now he was once again looking at an imaginary person just past David’s left ear. ‘I’ll tell him, Mr Biggins.’
‘Good.’
‘But ... my uncle is a bit of a worry sometimes. I’ll have to talk to him about it.’
‘Certainly. Talk. We can discuss the details.’ Mr Biggins shrugged a little shrug and turned back to his fish, rather unhappily, David thought.
David excused himself early and went out and practised bowling in one of the big sheds that they had built for the aeroplanes to rest in. The flooring was hard and they had big lights up near the roof. David had brought a couple of old balls from the farm, and he bowled them at a strut on the wall of the shed.
Mr Biggins appeared again in the big open doorway. He stood a moment, his hat centred on his head and his full-length coat done up against the night, even though it was pretty warm.
David landed a ball to the right of the strut, spinning it only slightly so it just grazed the metal. He landed the next far to the left, with his new off-break grip, and bowled that back the other way into the strut. There was no pain in his fingers. None at all.
Mr Biggins came in to get the balls for David, his leather shoes making a clop clop on the floor. When he got to David he didn’t offer the balls.
‘I have a problem and I’ve been looking for the right time to talk about it with you.’ Mr Biggins looked sadly around the shed at the planes.
‘What?’
Mr Biggins sucked on his bottom lip a moment. David had often seen him choose how to say something, but never take this long. Finally he said, ‘Can you bowl better than you did in Melbourne?’
‘Yes. On some balls. I can get Mr Longford out. But they’ll play different this time, don’t you reckon.’
‘Possibly,’ said Mr Biggins to David’s ear. ‘Let me tell you my problem and maybe you can help me.’
‘Yes sir, if I can.’
‘The Australian Cricket Board takes a share of the gate receipts from each ground where the Test is held. From those receipts we make player payments, salaries and contributions to tours and the like. We try to keep the gate costs down so the public can afford to come. It’s a delicate balance between revenue and doing the most good.’
David nodded, keeping all the information clear in his head, but not seeing the problem.
‘In Adelaide, the receipts were quite outstanding, starting low, but as word of Australia’s fightback and your curious and then amazing inclusion filtered out, we achieved full ground capacity. In Melbourne, the ground was sold out. By lunchtime, they broke down a fence and poured in. The official attendance was eighty-seven thousand. Some estimate that there were a hundred and twenty thousand people in the MCG to witness the ... miracle.’
Mr Biggins giggled. It was a strange sound coming from him. He looked up suddenly. ‘It was truly amazing, David. I was there. So ... exquisitely beautiful, like a piece of music. Extraordinarily ... pure.’ He looked at the scuffed cricket balls in his hands and smiled. ‘But also like some crazy comic thing too. You know, people who weren’t there still won’t believe that it happened.’
His face went serious again. Sad again. ‘But the receipts, you see. Eighty-seven thousand, yes, but no day two. No day three or four or five. Do you see?’
‘No, sir.’
‘The greatest day of cricket in the history of the game has cost us a fortune. By my calculation, given your current age and, barring injuries, we have possibly thirty years of monetary losses ahead of us. Massive losses.’
David blinked. It was a completely different way of seeing. It ... well it was like flying really. Or like Uncle Mike suggesting no one should own a horse so that everyone can have them.
‘Can you get a loan?’ said David, brightening.
‘Hmm.’ Mr Biggins looked into David’s eyes. ‘Can you bowl less well? Just a little.’
So, David was glad of the cotton wool in his ears. He could tell Mr Biggins felt very bad about what he’d asked, but David did not want to talk about it. Mr Biggins had not been the first to ask, but the answer remained the same. It would be disrespectful to cricket. It was completely against everything his grandfather had taught. But, even over those things, David knew it was against everything he did and the way he did it and who he was.
David sat in the plane, trying to imagine bowling below his best and every time he got near the idea he found his whole body tensing, every muscle tightening, and all the while, he could hear his grandfather’s voice, deeply disappointed with him. Finally, in another plane approaching Sydney, he’d started vomiting in some bags they had for just that. He only stopped when he could see the huge city of Sydney below, with its two big bridge ends ready and waiting for a bridge to be built across the harbour.
As David came out of the plane in Sydney, Mr Biggins said, ‘Listen, David. I’ve upset you. I’m very sorry. Forget that idea, will you? It was a mistake on my part. You just play well tomorrow.’
David nodded, and the man patted him on the shoulder. ‘Good man. I’ll get our bags. There should be a car.’
He hurried off amid the baggage and bags of mail and sheds.
‘David.’
David turned to see a lady dressed up in furs and jewels smiling at him.
‘Your Uncle Michael has a car. Round here.’
‘Where is he?’
‘In the car, darling. He’s had a skinful.’ She laughed, but it was quiet. She wore lipstick so pale pink that it was nearly white, and a green colour on her eyelids.
David followed her. There were wooden sheds and buildings mostly painted green. A trolley of parcels and bags of mail were being stacked outside one shed.
‘Hurry up or they’ll turf us out of here.’
She wore a short skirt and it showed her knees, which were skinny. He’d have to talk to his uncle about her. She might be nice, but David needed rest to prepare for the Test match, not his uncle’s parties. He wondered if Mrs O’Locklan would approve and thought not. If he could get his uncle to promise to behave, which he had done sometimes, he could get Mr Biggins to let him come to the games too.
The car was a big Dodge with four windows in the back. A driver in a loose suit had a back door open and the lady clattered on her heels to it. Then she stepped back so David could get to his uncle. Only it wasn’t his uncle. It was Blackie Cutmore.
David tried to step back but the other man was behind him, pushing. Blackie grabbed David’s wrist and pulled him in, as the driver slammed the car door behind.
‘Gidday, Billy.’
David was pushed back into his seat, as the car took off. The driver was driving them fast. The lady was walking away past the mailbags. David turned to look at Blackie, his smile twisted like the scar on his cheek.
‘Where’s my uncle?’
Blackie had a little bottle of liquid. He started tipping it into a handkerchief.
‘You cost everybody a shitload of money, kid.’
Before David could answer, Blackie pushed the handkerchief up at David’s face. It smelled like a nasty medicine, and David tried to get away from it, but felt his head being pushed back into the seat and then his head felt like it was being pushed through the seat and through air like he was tumbling out of an aeroplane and through the clouds.
Black. Nothing.
He was lying on something like a pallet in a dark room. His head ached and h
e felt like his arms were asleep. There were men’s voices muttering somewhere below and the scuttling of rats somewhere above. He held his breath a moment and could make out someone snoring nearby, but the ache in his head grew sharper and he had to breathe again.
It was day. He could tell because a little light came in from behind some hessian bags hung over a high window. Brick showed through broken plaster on the walls. Across the bare boards David could see someone else, lying on another dirty pallet. It could be his uncle, judging from the clothes and from the back of his head, but David couldn’t be sure. He tried to speak but his mouth wouldn’t say words. He heard a door open and footsteps, boots on bare wood, then crunching on fallen plaster too. He made out a radio somewhere.
‘...fine start by Australia, even without Donald. Perhaps he will show, but with England three down for forty-four, this is a promising start.’
The footsteps were right there. ‘Not too much,’ said Blackie’s voice. ‘Don’t want to kill ’im.’ The handkerchief was there, stinking of the chemical.
‘Not yet, anyways,’ said some other man.
Black.
When David woke fully again he was drinking warm water from a jug. He gulped and gulped but couldn’t make his thirst go. He guessed he must have crawled over here while half asleep. He must have smelled the water. His head hurt like he’d been kicked, like the kicking was still going. It was early on another day judging by the light and the cold. He was on the floor next to his uncle, who still snored. There was a smell of piss and shit. There were six empty brandy bottles on the floor and one full one. David got up at once and nearly fell. He went to the glassless window, holding onto the bars. He vomited in the corner.
When he was done, he went back to his uncle and pushed his shoulder roughly. ‘Uncle Mike,’ he whispered. ‘Michael, wake up.’
His uncle’s face was bruised, his lip split. There was blood all over his shirt and jacket.
‘Wake up.’
‘David.’
‘We have to get out of here.’
David went back to the window and pulled open the hessian sack to peer through the bars into the dawn light. There was a lane or street down a floor, but it was filled with sandstone bricks and corrugated iron. The houses had no roofs, half their walls had tumbled into piles of bricks.
