Spinner

by Ron Elliott

  Dunne was nodding.

  Tanner stayed in the crease. ‘Hit a crack. Give us another ball.’

  ‘We done, Dunny?’ said Michael quietly.

  Dunne nodded, with a bright smile. ‘By my calculation, young Michael, that boy just took four wickets in six balls.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Michael, ‘he’ll do better tomorrow when he’s had a decent feed.’

  Both men laughed.

  The man from behind the nets was suddenly next to David, rubbing his hair. ‘Nice work lad. Wally Grimmet.’ He held out his hand.

  ‘The wicketkeeper, yes sir, pleased to meet you, sir.’

  ‘I seen your grandad bowl you know, when I was a nipper.’

  ‘He doesn’t bowl now, Mr Grimmet. His hands are too tough from the farm.’

  ‘Can you bat?’

  ‘No, sir. Shocking.’

  Grimmet laughed. ‘Your dad could bat.’ He smiled, then remembered, ‘That’s right. That’s the story. Your dad married George’s girl. Ahh. How is she, your mum? She was a grand beauty that one.’

  ‘Come on David. Time to go.’ His uncle was tugging at his shoulder. ‘Will you get our bags, mate? I got to get our money off Tanner. Nice ball that one. Come on. Shake a leg.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  David stood at the scoreboard waiting for his uncle. He was not thinking about what he had just done, but on some of the things that had been said.

  Wally Grimmet had talked about his mother and father as though they lived in an ordinary world where people could bat a bit or someone could ask how your mum was. It seemed possible for a moment to grasp their lives, past childhood, to see them doing things in a world that was not surrounded by a strange and threatening darkness. David thought about how he felt and he found he wasn’t breathless at the image of his mother. Then he thought about having that thought, about how it was like feeling whether you were cold or hot, and deciding on that—feeling it and thinking about it and thinking about thinking about it all at once.

  If his mother was, as Mr Grimmet had said, a real beauty, then how could David be a little scarecrow? David smiled. He had got Jack Tanner out. And Derrick Jarvis. He wondered whether this would please his grandfather, or if his pleasure in getting Tanner was childish and would lead to poor bowling.

  David turned and looked at the oval. It was so green, the green of month-grown wheat. He went down the slope past row after row of wooden benches to the picket fence. It had even, well-watered grass all the way out to the middle. There was a grandstand over the other side that looked like a kind of palace. The Test that had just finished in Brisbane at the Exhibition Ground was the first ever played in Queensland. It was hard to imagine that happening here. David would settle for being able to play for WA one day right here and never leaving.

  There was a gate in the fence. It was nearly closed but not quite latched. David pushed it open with his knee. He stepped onto the ground. There was a patch of uneven grass a few yards ahead. He bent and looked at it. It was greener and higher than the grass around it. Just one patch that looked different. He imagined Jack Tanner running towards a ball hit along the ground. He imagined the ball reaching this patch. It would twist and bounce away in a different direction. ‘Oh no. Rotten luck for Tanner. The ball has evaded him and it crashes into the boundary. Four runs to Windsor in this first-ever Test match for the Ashes at the Western Australian Cricket Association ground. Oh look, it’s young Donald coming on to bowl.’

  David was at the end of the wicket. It was beautiful. He knelt and touched the grass. He thumped the pitch gently with his fist. It was very hard, but not like coir matting and nothing like cement. He stood and looked down the other end. Twenty-two yards. It was always the same. Always the same distance, the right distance, the same wherever he bowled. Twenty-two yards.

  David became aware of the rest of the ground again: the grandstand and seats, the scoreboard. He slowly looked around the ground, following the fence all the way. From here, from the centre, it seemed vast. Strange. It must have been much smaller than the paddocks on the farm. Yet, it seemed bigger.

  He looked back to the other end of the pitch. He felt the weight of a ball in his pocket pressing against his leg. His uncle must have given him one to take back to the bags. He took it out. It was the other old ball that he’d got Jarvis out with. He spun it up and watched it hang in the air before dropping to his other hand, spinning all the way.

  There was a breeze. David felt it for the first time. A hot easterly, blowing late. It blew across the wicket. A bowler could toss the ball up and let it drift a little in that breeze before it landed and spun. From this end, David could drift the ball left and away from a batsman, then spin it even further away or suddenly back at him.

  David bowled. He watched the ball float and drop. When it hit the wicket it suddenly bounced high, much higher than David had expected. He carefully walked around the wicket as he went down to the other end to get the ball. The extra bounce was good. With some overspin he could make the ball seem as if it was jumping at the batsman. He could use that. If a batsman reached out for the ball they might mistime the hit. The batsmen would have to worry about movement up and down as well as side to side. David thought he would try a loopy and see how fast he could make the ball bounce up. And then a shooter to make sure it didn’t bounce too high. He bent to pick up the ball.

  A policeman grabbed him by the arm. ‘What do you think you’re doing, lad?’ The policeman was in full uniform with heavy blue jacket and helmet.

  ‘If you’ve damaged this wicket in any way, I’ll ’ave yer bloody guts for garters, you little urchin.’ This was from a man in a white coat and broad hat. He was moving along the edge of the wicket as though searching.

  ‘How’d you get in here?’ said the policeman, still holding David’s arm.

  David had an urge to run. He hadn’t formed an idea of where he’d run to, or why he should, but he just knew he wanted to.

  ‘Well, cat got your tongue?’

  ‘I know a fellow—we call him Captain—that if you said that to him, Constable, you’d get no answer. Bullet went up through his chin, took off his tongue and went out through his left eye. And he lived, although admittedly not to tell the tale. Does deliveries round Northam. Good listener though.’ It was Uncle Mike.

  ‘Is this lad yours?’ said the policeman, not joining in on Michael’s smiling.

  ‘He bowled on the wicket,’ said the man in the white hat.

  ‘Ah, well for that you have our sincerest apologies, gentlemen. David here has just been asked to join the WA combined team. He did not realise that the centre wicket is off limits.’

  ‘Poppycock,’ said the man in the white coat.

  ‘How old are you?’ said the policeman.

  David couldn’t answer. He was speechless. Asked to join the Western Australian team?

  ‘He’s twelve.’ Uncle Mike was bringing things out of his pocket. There was money and papers and finally a card with writing on the back. ‘This is from Bob Dunne. Our grounds pass.’ He handed the pass to the policeman.

  ‘Well, you need to have this on you at all times, you know.’

  David nodded.

  ‘Twelve! Twelve years old,’ said the man in the white coat, walking away and shaking his head.

  ‘Very good spin bowler,’ said Uncle Mike. ‘You seen better around here?’

  But the man was too far away now.

  Uncle Mike said to the policeman, ‘Do you know a decent spin bowler in all West Australia right now?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ said the policeman, handing back the pass. ‘I don’t like cricket.’

  ‘Fair enough too. Boring game. Huge waste of time. Come on, David. Time to find a hotel.’ Michael grabbed David’s arm and steered him towards the other side of the ground.

  ‘Is it true?’ asked David.

  ‘Which part?’

  ‘That I’m joining the team.’

  ‘Ah. Well, yes. It is true. You’ve been a
sked to join the team. But I didn’t mention you were joining the team—at practice.’

  ‘Just practice.’

  ‘Well that’s just a start. You’ll be in the team in no time if you keep getting them all out.’

  David was relieved, not disappointed.

  ‘With Wally Grimmet?’

  ‘He was particularly keen.’

  David nodded.

  ‘Say what you like about Jack, he likes to travel in style. Fancy walking around with twenty quid in your pocket.’ Michael still had a small wad of pounds in his hand. ‘Time for a treat, I reckon. Want to go to the motion pictures? How about a swim in the river?’

  ‘I want to sleep.’

  ‘Sleep?’

  David thought some more. ‘And a wireless. Can we stay at a place that has a wireless?’

  ‘You never know your luck in the big city.’

  So Uncle Mike got them a room in the Royal Hotel which was back down near the railway station. The room had a radiogram which was a wireless in a little wooden cupboard. Uncle Mike turned a knob and the radiogram came on with a hum and glow.

  ‘Is the Test on?’

  ‘No. It starts tomorrow.’

  There was music. It would sometimes fade away but then would get louder, like the wind was blowing the sound. The room had polished boards with rugs on the floor and a big soft bed. There was a bureau and wash stand. There was an electric light on the wall. The wallpaper had so many little yellow flowers David couldn’t count them, but when he closed his eyes just a little bit they’d seem to slide and join and dance to the music.

  He wondered if Nell would listen to the cricket too. He wasn’t sure what day it was. If it was a school day she might be able to hear a little after school. Would Grandad have told Mr Wallace that he wouldn’t be in school? Would Nell know? She would have gone out to the farm after the first day, David supposed. She would have ridden out and said, ‘Hello, Mr Baker. Where’s David?’ Would Nell ask why he was gone? Would she ask when he was coming back? David couldn’t imagine what his grandfather’s reply would be. He couldn’t see past the old man standing in the kitchen and ordering, ‘Don’t you cry, boy.’

  David woke in the dark. He lay there trying to recall where he was. Some music was playing and he remembered the radiogram. Tomorrow the second Test would start. Lights flashed across the ceiling. There was noise outside somewhere, like a constant clatter, but with no detail to it. The man on the radio said, ‘That was King Oliver’s Dixie Syncopators with “Showboat Shuffle.”’ Some more music came on then.

  David was hungry. There was light coming under the door of the hotel room. He went out into the hall which was well lit and then halfway down the big jarrah stairs that led to the main entrance. There was carpet and flowers on tables, but he couldn’t see his uncle. The front doors were open and people walked past. In the street were cars with their night lamps turned on.

  A lady came in. She wasn’t dressed up like lots of the people passing. David thought she looked like an ordinary lady in a print frock. She was unhappy. She went to the door of the main bar, and pushed open the swing door.

  David went down the steps to see past her into the huge, smoky bar filled with noisy men.

  The lady yelled, ‘Frank Reilly. Frank Reilly.’

  There was laughter in the bar. A man yelled, ‘Frank, better run.’

  Another man yelled, ‘He’s not here, missus.’ More laughs.

  But the lady didn’t move. She yelled louder, ‘Frank Reilly, you come home now and feed your kids.’

  The bar went quiet a bit then.

  ‘Frank Reilly, don’t you drink any more of our money.’

  The men seemed to decide then, as though they’d taken a silent vote. Someone said, ‘Go on then, Frank.’ ‘Go an’ get some dinner there, Mr Reilly.’ It was Uncle Mike. There were mutters and yeahs, and then the men nudged him forward. He had no hat or tie. The men rippled the Frank Reilly man towards his missus. He looked drunk and subdued, but as he reached the lady he gave her an angry look. She turned and walked out. His shoulders slumped and he followed her.

  The men in the bar were quiet for a moment.

  ‘All right then,’ said Uncle Mike. ‘Mr Reilly won’t be getting a chance at this authentic Terry Brown bat. Might get the rolling pin.’ The men laughed.

  One of the swing doors to the public bar had stayed open when Mr Reilly had left and David edged up to see further inside. Some men were in work suits, but most wore the loose shirts and trousers of working men. Each man was holding a glass of beer. Some gulped and slammed their glasses down; others sipped; one or two stroked the glass as though feeling for blemishes.

  ‘This is the bat he used to score his double century against England in 1893.’ David’s uncle was using the voice he’d used at the Northam show.

  ‘Bullshit,’ yelled someone.

  ‘Oi,’ laughed Michael, ‘careful of your language around young Alice there.’

  There was more laughter, and the barmaid, who didn’t look young to David, yelled, ‘Yeah, youse kin all watch ya bloody language.’

  More laughter. David looked at her through the smoke. She was moving up and down the bar, pouring beers and taking money. The top buttons of her blouse weren’t done up and when she bent you could see a little bit of her breasts.

  ‘I’ll prove to you that it’s not bulldust. I’ll pass the bat around. Have a look. If nothing else tonight, you can say for the rest of your life, that you’ve held the bat that belted the Poms.’

  Someone yelled, ‘Yeah, that’s not gunna happen again soon.’

  ‘Yeah, we’re bloody useless.’

  The bat was passed and men touched and turned and studied.

  ‘While you’re lookin’, let me just tell how I come into the possession of this amazing piece of cricket legend.’

  David noticed that his uncle’s voice had changed a little. He was sounding more like a farm labourer or a normal person now. He didn’t sound like a teacher at all. ‘Now you might have heard about a little fracas over in Europe a few years ago now.’

  There was a cheer. There were grumbles too.

  ‘Well, I was there.’

  ‘Is that when you shot your toe off?’

  There was a sudden big silence. Men looked from Michael to the man who called.

  Michael suddenly smiled. ‘You wanna find out how much of a coward I might be?’

  All the men in the bar waited a moment with eager, hungry smiles.

  But David’s uncle suddenly shrugged and smiled and called, ‘I notice you waited until I didn’t have Mr Brown’s cricket bat in my hand when you slagged me, mate.’

  Laughter. Someone called, ‘Yeah, get over it.’

  ‘Tell us the bat story.’

  The man who had called, scowled and looked down into his beer, saying nothing more.

  ‘Well, on the way to France, where I stepped on something sharp, I met a man in Egypt. No, he didn’t have a hump and wasn’t called a camel, and he wasn’t wearing a tea towel.’

  More laughter. David was laughing too in the warmth of watching his uncle tell his story and making the men smile and laugh while he did it.

  ‘Well, I did a bit of a good turn for the fella, and chased off a couple of Pommie sailors, and we got to visiting some ... um, close your ears now Alice ... one of those harems, shall I say ... Anyway, pissed as newts, I find out he’s Terry bloody Brown’s bloody son. And he’s luggin’ around ... yes, you guessed it. He’s luggin’ around his dad’s bat, all over a beach in Turkey and Egypt and wants to take it to France. He sleeps with the bloody thing. Mostly, he gets it through by tying it to his rifle and no one’s the wiser. Not too good if he has to see a bit of action, mind, trying to get to the trigger past two stocks.’

  More laughter. Laughter at each of the jokes. Laughter at all sorts of things that David didn’t understand.

  Then Michael stopped smiling. He looked sad. ‘Well, I don’t want to go into the particulars of what happened to
Stan. Suffice it to say, like many a good mate, he copped it soon after we got to France. And ... well ... here I am, all these years later with the bat. The bat that Stan’s dad, the great Terry Brown got two hundred with.’

  The men had gone quiet as they listened to the story, just sipping beer now.

  ‘Anyway,’ continued Michael, ‘I’ve kept this bat through thick and thin. And now it’s just thin. I’m outta work and I’m ... To cut a long story short, this bat has to be worth forty or fifty quid. But I’m short. Skint, like a lot of you. But, now wait for this idea I’ve had. I’m not going to sell it. Who’s got that kind of money but some toff. No. Terry Brown was just a simple bloke by all accounts even when he was a champion. So ... I’m going to raffle it. One shilling is all I ask to get yourself a chance at history. Keep passing the bat round. That’s his signature and date right there, plain as day. This is your chance to own a piece of history. For only one lousy shilling. You couldn’t buy a new bat for that. Now I got these bits of paper here I’ve written numbers on.’

  Alice the barmaid came over to Michael and gave him a beer. He winked to her, and she smiled. ‘And Alice here, as honest and trustworthy a lass as I’ve ever met, can draw the winner.’

  Hurrays, laughter.

  David rubbed his cheek feeling a tear. His own father had died in France and he had never met him. He turned and went back up the stairs to his room. There was news on the radiogram about banks closing. He turned it off and lay back down on the bed.

  He thought he might ask his uncle what he remembered about his father. He’d ask Wally Grimmet too. Maybe they shouldn’t be staying in such a grand hotel if they didn’t have much money. David had lost all their money when Jack Tanner had belted his bowling all around the Northam showground. He’d won some back today, but he supposed it must be expensive to do all this travelling and feeding and trying to get David some bowling experience.

  David woke to giggling. A woman. He lay listening, thinking for a moment that he might be dreaming. Sometimes he would dream of women he liked, but in the dream, they would be his mother.

  There was a sigh and a rustle outside. He could see shadows in the gap of light under the door. Another giggle. ‘Shhh, you’ll wake him,’ whispered his uncle.