Spinner

by Ron Elliott

  ‘Phew, mate you stink,’ yelled someone else, and I knew it to be true. I was rank and stinking and unshaven. As a potential saviour I presented badly.

  ‘This is David Donald and I’m trying to get him to the cricket.’

  ‘It bloody is,’ said an old soak, peering at David’s face.

  ‘It’s the last day today,’ said someone.

  ‘An’ Australia are batting. We’re three down for forty-nine. Got no chance.’

  ‘England have batted twice?’ I asked.

  ‘Where you bin?’

  I kept watching Blackie. He was the dangerous one. Although for David it might have been his scarred face and missing ear, he gave no credit to Blackie’s eyes. Blackie always watched you like he was deciding what you tasted like. His eyes had not the least ounce of sympathy or spark of humanity. On the other hand, Wally was quite handsome. His face was unmarked, least of all by many thoughts. He looked very much the happy grocer.

  ‘I’m his uncle,’ I said to the bar. ‘I’m trying to get him to the cricket.’

  ‘You killed his father.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Says in the paper. Over in France.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ I said, with perhaps too little conviction.

  Most of the men in the bar seemed to be standing now: ten men in this illegal opening before breakfast.

  Blackie had his razor out. He flicked it so the blade swung free from its protective sleeve and flashed nicely as it caught light. ‘I read that. Me ’n’ me mate are tryin’ to rescue the kid, see. From this bastard.’ He smiled around the room.

  Wally nodded. It was as clumsy a piece of lying as I have seen.

  ‘Blackie, you don’t need him any more. Didn’t you hear? Australia are batting. They’ve already bowled twice, right? He can’t bowl. It’s over. He’s not going to be able to bowl.’

  I could tell I had Wally, because he kept trying to glance at Blackie to see what he thought.

  ‘Gentlemen, please. If you don’t believe an old digger like me, fine. But get this lad to hospital.’

  ‘That’s not my orders, Donald,’ said Blackie, advancing.

  I swung David onto the bar, where he lay like a roo carcass waiting to be butchered.

  ‘David Donald! You blokes are gunna let Blackie Cutmore and Wally Timlinson kill David Donald? Are you bloody drongos?’ I looked Blackie in the eye. ‘Oh, golly gosh. I mentioned your names. A lot of witnesses to whatever you’re going to do.’

  They were thinking. So was everyone in the bar now. ‘Just get the kid to hospital,’ I yelled as I ran at the crims, screaming like a banshee.

  Wally must have been very busy thinking about the points I’d raised, because he wasn’t paying much attention to me. I caught him a beauty right on the jaw with my first swing.

  But Blackie was already slashing downwards, slicing through the jacket and shirt and into my left forearm. I grabbed him in a bear hug, stepping forward and trying to smash my forehead into his, as O’Toole had done to me. I could feel light cuts on my back as we fell, and I opened my mouth to bite his nose. He pulled his head back just in time, banging it hard into the floor. I swear, I would have done anything. But, there was the crack of something woody hitting my own skull.

  Black. But not nothing.

  You may have noticed an awful lot of waking and sleeping in David’s story. Such a lot dozing, and semi-consciousness. It made me wonder. Is he lying in the Dungarin road after falling off his bike? Is he lying in hospital there, dreaming the whole impossible thing? Or is it me? Am I lying in France, my brother dead, having a crazy guilty adventure, delirious and off my head? Am I dreaming David or is he dreaming me? Or both or neither.

  I get up from my typewriter all these years later and I go to my bookshelf. I could choose from many cricket books, but pick a favourite that opens to a well-worn page. ‘D. Donald. Twenty wickets for one run. Melbourne...’ I touch the print as though it is him. Then I know the truth again, beyond doubt.

  He woke to find Mr Scully looking down at him, his face too big and craggy. David closed his eyes.

  He heard Mr Scully say, ‘He’s back.’ He heard another voice which sounded like Mr Richardson’s, but he couldn’t make out the words.

  When David woke again he saw more men. He was lying on a bench in a change room and Richo and Chalkie and Beardie and Tinker were all around.

  ‘He’s awake,’ called Mr Scully.

  Mr Biggins came in, but before he could talk, Ten Ton pushed through the group.

  ‘Davey!’ he said, coming forward in his batting pads.

  David tried to sit up as the big fast bowler reached out for a hug, but his head suddenly hurt and he fell back groaning. Mr Scully pushed some water at him.

  ‘Get the doctor again,’ said the Australian captain.

  There was a huge groan from the crowd outside and Mr Jackson came to the door. ‘They’ve donged Maudy and he’s been caught at mid-off.’

  Mr Richardson looked alarmed. ‘I better have a word to Legal then.’

  ‘He’s already on his way out there, Cap.’

  Ten Ton knelt down next to David’s bench. ‘I just gotta go get my eyes ready in the light, Davey. Then we’ll talk, okay?’

  David said, ‘You must have bowled well.’

  ‘Yeah. Got more in the first innings when they were still a bit frightened you might suddenly appear from the change rooms. Bit harder work in the second. Buggers got over four hundred.’

  ‘Mostly Longford and Windsor. Windsor loves batting when you’re not around, Ol’ Man,’ said the young opener, Beardsley.

  David watched Ten Ton leave. He suddenly remembered the dark room that smelled. ‘How did I get here?’

  Mr Johnson said, ‘Apparently some questionable types brought you in. One of them knew a bloke at a gate, who knew a sheila at a pie stall, and in they crept, bearing you like the ark of the covenant. Apparently.’

  ‘He said apparently because Chalkie was out in the middle so long, he missed that action.’

  Someone patted him on the back, and Mr Johnson nodded grimly. ‘Finally.’

  ‘A tough little century.’

  ‘No century is little,’ shot back Mr Johnson.

  ‘What’s the score?’ asked David, still trying to think clearly enough to know who he was and where.

  ‘Seven down for a hundred and forty odd.’

  ‘How much do we need?’

  ‘Another fortyish,’ said Ken Hall, looking closely at his captain.

  The men shuffled.

  ‘An’ there’s some clouds over east,’ said Mr Jackson.

  Maud McLeod came in bleeding from the nose. The big red drops that covered his cricket shirt were already turning brown. ‘Bloody bastards.’ He threw his bat the length of the room and it crashed into the wardrobe there.

  David looked more closely at the team as they turned to look at Mr Richardson. Ned Hall had a big bruise on his cheek. Beardie had a cut over his eye.

  ‘Two all and a draw is pretty good, considering where we were a few Tests ago,’ said Mr Jackson.

  ‘I’m not too sure we can keep ’em out that long,’ said Maud McLeod mopping at his nose.

  Mr Biggins came back with the doctor.

  The doctor shook his head. ‘Like a field hospital down here.’

  Just then there was another groan from the crowd in the stand above the change rooms. Ten Ton yelled, ‘He’s not out, but he’s down.’

  ‘I’ll be right back,’ said the doctor hurrying out, followed by most of the team.

  Mr Richardson headed out calling, ‘Tanner or Calligan?’

  ‘Welcome back, Billy,’ said Maud.

  ‘Yeah, Kid, sorry we’re lettin’ ya down,’ said Ned Hall.

  ‘You’re not,’ said David.

  David noticed Mr Biggins still standing in the doorway. He had his hat in both hands where he was turning it round and round.

  David said, ‘My uncle was a prisoner in this room with bars, Mr Biggins.
’

  ‘I want you to know I had nothing to do with that.’

  ‘Of course not. You wouldn’t!’

  Mr Biggins nodded. ‘Thank you. I’ll see if I can find out where he is.’ He turned to go, but said as he went, ‘Welcome back, David.’

  David closed his eyes to the pain in his head, but made himself open them straight away. He didn’t want to sleep any more. The world had a habit of moving on rather quickly when he wasn’t there to watch it. He stood, and felt like vomiting again. He grabbed on to the jarrah cupboard only to see his name on it. David Donald.

  His cricket gear was inside. On top of his creams and shoes was a brand new Australian cap. It was dark green with the emu and kangaroo on the front. He took the cap and fitted it firmly on his head. He dressed, fighting off his headache, but once he had one of the batting gloves on, he stopped dressing, overcome with how huge his hands seemed. He looked to his left hand. Ungloved, it was immense. ‘My hands are so big,’ he said with wonder.

  ‘Yeah an’ my nose might have been broke a few times an’ all.’ It was Mr Scully, coming into the change rooms with a little bottle. ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

  ‘Mr Scully, I can’t put my other glove on.’

  ‘How many times I gotta tell you not to put your right glove on first? How you going to do your other hand? Can’t you remember anything?’

  ‘No, sir. Not about batting.’

  ‘No, sir. And that’s the truth. What are you getting into those things for anyway? You can’t go out there.’

  ‘But just if we need the runs. If everyone else gets out.’

  ‘And you think you’ll be any help?’

  David sat down on the bench. He supposed not. He wasn’t very good at batting. He wasn’t any good at all at batting. Only bowling and he’d missed that.

  ‘Anyway, take a big sniff of this.’

  David looked at the tiny bottle that was thrust towards him.

  ‘Will it fix my headache?’

  ‘No. I’ll go see if I can find some aspirin. Clear your head a little from all that stuff they had you on.’

  ‘My head feels like it’s got an axe stuck in it.’

  ‘Let’s see then.’

  Mr Scully turned David’s head and looked at the back.

  ‘Yep. A dirty great axe stuck in there.’

  David giggled. ‘Do you think it might put their bowlers off? Me batting with an axe in my head?’

  ‘Probably not the way they’re bowling. Just give ’em more to aim at. Anyway, you’ll not be going out there, so you an’ your axe can sit here and get better.’

  Mr Scully pushed the bottle at David again and he sniffed the nasty smelling salts. They made his eyes feel big and clear, like he’d jumped in the river.

  ‘What happened to me?’ asked David.

  ‘You were kidnapped. Then rescued.’

  ‘My uncle?’

  ‘Don’t know about that.’

  ‘He was there. What happened to him?’

  ‘I’ll go get the skipper. He can tell you what’s what. Or not. Up to him.’ Mr Scully hastened out, muttering like a new harvesting machine.

  David was aware of the crowd above. They seemed clearer than before. Instead of the general murmur and noise, there was more one voice. A groan. A cheer. There was a lot of silence.

  David took his right-hand glove off and put on his cricket pads, buckling the ankles first, then under his knees. He dragged the left glove on first, then the right with more difficulty, wriggling his fingers and dragging the glove up using his teeth. He looked at his enormous fingers once again with a new wonder. Had they grown even more?

  Uncle Mike ... Michael had said some things. The crowd gasped as one and David was thankful for it. He stood and fished his bat from the back of his cupboard and set out to watch the rest of the Test match.

  Outside the players’ rooms, it was like a white sheet on the clothes line with the sun shining behind. David just stood inside the door waiting for the whiteness to clear. He saw them out there. The whole team were sitting forward on their seats looking out. They seemed frozen.

  David noticed heavy clouds over the far pavilion, the big flags flapping.

  Another crowd groan and David looked out to the centre of the oval. Legal must have ducked under a ball. He was straightening himself and loosening his arms, like he was putting on invisible suspenders.

  The field setting looked odd. It was unbalanced. There was only one player on the off side. The rest were either in slips or crowded around the on side.

  Tudor walked back to the top of his long run.

  The scoreboard showed Australia eight wickets down for one hundred and forty-seven. David did the numbering and figured they only needed another thirty-four to win. Tanner was on thirty-five.

  Tudor ran in and bowled.

  David couldn’t see the ball, but did see Mr Calligan lean back, pushing his bat at what must have been a sharply rising delivery. There was a groan from the crowd.

  Someone dived from silly mid-on. Everyone went quiet.

  But Mr Calligan straightened himself again and David heard Ned Hall yell, ‘Naw, didn’t carry.’

  The crowd began its quiet murmur again, as someone tossed Tudor the ball, and he turned to go back to the top of his run, ready for the next delivery.

  Mr Tanner went some steps down the wicket and said something to Mr Calligan, who nodded. Mr Calligan put on his invisible suspenders again, and waggled his head around as though his neck hurt.

  The clouds looked dark, like they might have some rain. David could remember that far back, before the drought, when such darkness filled the sky and fell in great sheets you could see coming across the paddocks. The noise on the farmhouse roof would make you have to shout, and the dogs would be miserable and smell damp, and water would shoot off things in hundreds of mini waterfalls, making holes in the ground where they scrambled into the hungry earth. The paddocks would turn to thick mud. Grandad would hitch up the horses and break open the grain and get to planting. And thousands of slivers of water, like silver snakes, would rush down the sides of the dam where his mother had drowned and it would fill once again.

  The crowd gasped and David saw Mr Calligan walking away from the wickets, batless, rubbing his chest. He bent over, hands on knees, gathering himself a moment. An English player patted him on the back.

  Maud said, ‘Don’t bloody offer consolation and then do it again, ya mongrel.’ There were some boos up in the stands, agreeing with Maudy it seemed.

  Ned Hall turned to Maudy and yelled, ‘How ’bout we get Tudor by the cars at the back of the pub and sort him out once and for all?’

  Mr Richardson said, ‘Oi, not in public, boys. Everything they’re doing is within the rules.’

  Mr Johnson said, ‘But hardly cricket.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be,’ said Mr Baker.

  They turned and were all looking at David, who’d edged out into the players’ seats.

  David couldn’t account for why, but he put his bat forward and grounded it, leaning it away slightly at the top, and looked out over it as he had seen Windsor do. Maybe it was something his uncle would do, for the joke. Then he grinned and turned to them.

  ‘Not on your life, David. No chance at all,’ said Mr Richardson.

  ‘I told him, Gov,’ said Scully.

  ‘But just in case,’ said David coming towards them.

  ‘Donald.’

  ‘David.’

  ‘The Kid.’

  ‘David Donald.’

  ‘It’s David.’

  His team mates stopped and looked up and around.

  David saw that the crowd in the Members were looking. And people in the stands above. They were all saying his name. It was like wind coming across the paddocks. You could see it moving around the ground slowly, both ways, a ripple of wheat in the breeze.

  ‘David Donald.’

  ‘David.’ Then they started clapping.

  Out in the middle, the cr
icketers stopped playing. They stood and looked back towards the pavilion.

  And the people stood, all of them. They stood and they started clapping.

  Then Ten Ton stood, still in his pads and he started clapping too, and Mr Johnson followed and Bardsley and Richardson and Hall and Baker and McLeod all standing and clapping towards David.

  Just past his team mates, David saw the English batsman Timothy Bishop, who had run out from the middle to see what was going on. He smiled in a strange way, like someone who sees a batsman nearly play on, but instead French cut a four. Bishop turned and ran back out to the middle.

  Mr Richardson made sitting gestures with both hands towards the crowd.

  David tried to sit, but his bat got caught up in his pads and he fell on the bench, managing to jam the bat handle into his side as he did so. ‘Ow.’

  ‘Enter the third ballerina, riding on an elephant,’ said Mr Baker.

  Mr Johnson came over saying, ‘You know why you can’t bat, don’t you, David?’

  David got his bat untangled from his pads, and his feet onto the ground before replying, ‘Because I have no technique and no eye for the ball?’

  ‘No, not generally can’t bat. I mean why you can’t go out there today.’

  David looked out. There had been a change of over during all the cheering and clapping, and Mr Tanner was facing Proctor, again to the strange field setting.

  Mr Johnson continued, ‘They’re bowling at the batsman. At the batsman’s chest and head. If the batsman does the natural, instinctive thing and uses his bat to protect himself, the ball has a very good chance of being caught by one of all those fieldsmen gathered around.’

  David watched Tanner get up on his toes and hit a ball out to the on side and run for three. The crowd roared its approval.

  Ten Ton yelled, ‘Maybe we got our lucky charm back.’

  David said, ‘But you got a hundred, Mr Johnson.’

  ‘They didn’t start doing it until I was set. It also plays to a strength of mine. I’m a good hooker. When I remember to move my feet, that is. I was able to move early and get inside the line of the rising delivery and help it to the boundary.’

  ‘Then that’s what I’ll do.’