Spinner

by Ron Elliott

  ‘Easy for you to say. Stop pawing.’

  David said, ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Ah, damn, see. You just had to be quiet.’

  ‘Yeah, with your hand down me top.’

  The door opened, and David saw his uncle swaying in the light of the hall. There was Alice the barmaid, with her top open. She saw David and started to button her blouse.

  ‘Hello there, laddie. Saw you watchin’ Michael’s bat lottery.’

  Uncle Mike turned, mostly hidden in the dark behind the door. ‘You should have come in, mate. I would have got you something to eat.’

  David watched them both standing in the doorway.

  ‘Doesn’t say much. Is he right?’ said Alice.

  ‘Out you go, Alice. You’re a little too rude, I fancy,’ said his uncle, suddenly unkind.

  ‘Not what you thought, when you couldn’t keep your hands off.’ She was angry too.

  ‘Out.’ Uncle Mike took her by the shoulders and turned her away. ‘And shh, or you’ll lose your job.’

  ‘You lying bastard,’ Alice called, as Michael shut the door.

  It was dark in the bedroom once again.

  ‘All too true, in every sense,’ said Michael. Then he must have banged into the chair by the door, because there was a scrape of wood and the sound of lots of coins clattering and rolling onto the floor. Shillings, thought David, from the bat lottery. He could hear his uncle crawling on the floor, as he tried to find the coins, in the dark.

  David got up and turned on the electric light on the wall. His uncle was on all fours gathering the shillings.

  David bent and started to help. He said, ‘I’m sorry, Uncle Mike.’

  ‘Plenty more where she came from.’

  ‘I meant the bat. I’m sorry you had to sell the bat.’

  Michael laughed, but not with pleasure. ‘Plenty more of those too, in my bag of tricks.’ He got up with difficulty, grabbing onto the back of the chair for help. He looked towards the bed from there, still holding the chair. He pushed off and staggered to the bed where he sat. ‘You can only do one per city though. You’d be surprised how likely it is for someone to turn up in more than one pub.’ Michael let himself fall back in bed. ‘Not going to talk your way out of that. Front bar full of cheated punters. That is a shit-kicking. You can take it from me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  His uncle rolled over. ‘Newcastle once. A right shit-kicking.’

  David collected all the coins and put them back in the hat. His uncle was snoring on the bed, his shoes still on.

  David went to the wardrobe. He opened the sports bag, pushing aside the cricket balls and some batting gloves. Under some newish bats were two older ones. David took them out. Both were signed. Both were dated. Terry Brown. 1893.

  David looked from the bats to his sleeping uncle. He wondered suddenly if the man really was his uncle at all. He never said anything about his father or mother. He told lies to all kinds of people. Even the barmaid Alice had called him a liar, and she was a floozy. Michael told stories about sad things just so he could trick people into giving him money. David thought back to the night and then the morning he had been driven away from the farm. He wondered if it were possible that Michael had tricked his grandad into letting him go.

  David looked down at the sleeping man. His mouth was open and ugly, his eyes closed. David hurried to put on his shoes and coat. He needed to talk to his grandfather. He needed to check with him to see if Michael had told lies. He needed to tell his grandfather what his uncle was really like. He needed to ask his grandad about why Michael made him scared.

  David took a cricket ball from his uncle’s bag and two shillings from the hat.

  Outside the Royal Hotel, it was still night. Two night carts clopped up the road, lanterns swinging. Apart from them, it was quiet, the city asleep. Nearly deserted.

  The train station across the road was dark. That was a start though, reasoned David. The train tracks would take him to Guildford, and from Guildford, he could follow more train tracks, or maybe even find the highway that would take him home.

  He started walking, figuring that daybreak wasn’t too far off.

  It took David three days to get to Toodyay. He had walked along the line past miles and miles of dark houses. At six the trains had started and he caught one to Midland, then a mail truck, going further. But after that, David decided not to spend any more money, so he walked and only used what he had left for food. It felt good to be walking in the country again. There were magpies and crows. There were cockies and twenty-eights and honeyeaters and finches and cockatiels. Some birds were bright and loud. Others had dull feathers and hid amongst the bushes. They all darted, and called and chatted and chided and screamed and squealed.

  David didn’t so much walk, as bowl. ‘David Donald has the ball. O’Malley crouches forward, waiting. Defensive. Donald steps in, and bowls.’ The ball arced, and bounced. There was little sideways movement to be got from the road, but some overspin. ‘O’Malley steps forward, bat out and angled down. The ball hits the bat. It’s up. Bardsley’s diving. Catch!’ David danced around on the gravel, his hands raised. ‘England, one down already for only ten runs.’

  David walked along the road, to gather up the ball, ready to bowl again. He’d pick out a smooth spot on the road some twenty yards ahead. He didn’t want to hit a stone. He was trying to nurse the cricket ball for as long as he could. He stood a moment, at the beginning of his run-up, deciding who he’d like to bowl at. O’Malley again. He bowled at O’Malley for four miles straight that afternoon, and had England one wicket down for less than twenty runs every time.

  The real cricket score was not nearly so encouraging. At around 4p.m. on the second day of walking, David bought some cheese from a store along the Toodyay road, and he asked.

  England had declared four overs before the end of play at eight down for four hundred and fifty. Australia had already lost a wicket. They could play for a draw by equalling or nearing the English first innings score. They’d have to dig in, but surely could. They had a very experienced opener in Johnson. John Richardson, the captain, was the best bat in the country. Ken Hall was handy and McLeod, the all-rounder, was a real goer. They had the makings of a good batting line-up. Everyone said that, including Grandad. They just had to get a good start.

  It was hot. David slept under a bridge on the first night, after wolfing down some bread and tomatoes. Mostly he was thirsty, as the creeks were dry. He’d only occasionally come across a water tank. There were others about on the road too. There seemed to be a lot of men tramping and looking for work. David kept a wide berth, uneasy in their unshaven, desperate-eyed presence.

  They found him on the road just out of Toodyay. David had been glad to be walking downhill for a bit, and the thicker trees here gave him a lot of shade. The heat of the day was making him a little giddy. When he heard the car coming up behind, he’d stepped off the road, but the car’s gears strained down ready to stop. He already had his little story ready. ‘Just going to the farm up there, Mister. No worries. Got any water? Heard any cricket?’ But when David turned, there was Michael smiling lazily from a roadster driven by Mr Dunne.

  Mr Dunne laughed. ‘Well, you’re a sight for sore eyes, young David.’

  ‘Hello, Mr Dunne.’ David didn’t look at his uncle.

  Mr Dunne turned off the engine and pulled out a canteen. ‘You look thirsty.’

  ‘Yes sir. Thank you.’ David went up onto the road and took it. It was one of the ones left over from the war, made of metal but wrapped in a thin blanket to keep the water cold.

  ‘That ball looks a bit easy to spin,’ said Michael.

  David looked down at the ball. It was a mess. There was no leather left. It was fluffy and not even round.

  ‘You sure that’s not some run-over pigeon you’re trying to bowl there?’

  David smiled, but made himself turn to Mr Dunne. ‘I don’t suppose you know the cricket score, Mr Dunne.’ />
  ‘’Fraid I do, lad. We lost.’

  ‘Already?’

  ‘All out for two hundred and eighty-seven and then one hundred and twenty-two. A few retired hurts, mind.’

  Michael was reaching into his jacket and pulling out some bits of coloured cardboard. ‘On the other hand, every cloud has a silver lining.’

  Mr Dunne looked darkly to the other man, then to David. ‘They want you to come over. The Australian team want to have a look at you.’

  David went blank a moment. Maybe it was the heat. He had to shake his head to see things again. ‘What?’

  Michael got out of the car and showed the bits of cardboard. They were train tickets. ‘Their fast bowler, Tudor, is turning out to be a bit of a menace. He’s bowled a short ball and it’s collected Freddie Turner in the face. Broken nose. Shattered teeth. He’s in hospital.’

  ‘The spinner’s curse!’ said David.

  ‘Wally Grimmet telephoned Anthony Crowley,’ explained Mr Dunne, ‘and kept on about you. They telephoned Sir Livingston, the chairman of the board. Poor fellow will try anything at the moment. Anyway, Biggins, the Cricket Board’s money fellow, sent the tickets. You see Wally’s seen some spinners in his time, and they trust his opinion. They wired me. I don’t think you are ready, David. But I don’t think it will hurt you or the team to see you bowl. It might just lift their spirits.’

  Michael interrupted. ‘Grimmet saw how good you are. Mr Dunne knows that too.’

  ‘I figure what will happen is that they’ll ask you to bowl to them in the nets. Just like I was planning to do. David, they are much better batsmen than young Hasluck, and Jarvis is not as good as he used to be. But it will give them some practice against a quality spinner, and you’ll get to meet them all. That’d be pretty good eh?’

  David smiled. To meet the Australian team. He blinked the sweat out of his eyes. Mr Dunne and Michael were still standing in front of him on the road.

  ‘Anyway, they want to see you and Jack Tanner in Adelaide. As soon as you get there.’

  ‘I got to go home first.’

  ‘There’s no time. We’re on tomorrow’s train,’ said Michael.

  ‘No, I’m going home.’ David turned and started walking.

  His uncle caught up, limping a little. ‘It’s the Australian team. It’s what you’re meant for.’

  David kept walking.

  ‘When they see you bowl they won’t be able to say no.’

  David stopped and turned on the man. ‘So you can make money.’

  Michael grinned. ‘Yeah. Where else we going to get it?’

  ‘You’re a cheat. That bat wasn’t special. You just signed it and told lies about it.’

  ‘Ahh. The bat.’

  ‘It’s not even his. You lied.’

  ‘David, it was just a bit of fun. Everyone in that pub got a cracking good yarn, and for a spare shilling they got a chance at a score. And back in Perth a fella is carrying round that old bat and bragging to anyone who’ll listen about the wonderful thing he’s got in his possession. Are you really telling me that many of those blokes believed me? They were all in on the blarney of it. That’s half the pleasure.’

  David said, ‘And what about Alice. You lied to her.’

  ‘Alice. Alice who?’

  ‘The floozy.’ David had been thinking about the barmaid angrily doing up her blouse. ‘What lie did you tell her?’

  ‘Ah, right. Well, sometimes a man, when ... No. No, you’re right. I didn’t handle that night very well, mate. Been just me for too long, and I wasn’t thinking. How about this then? I’ll be better. No more floozies. No more lies. Okay?’

  David looked at him closely.

  Michael smiled. It was one of his big, bright, shining smiles, and it made David angry again. ‘I don’t want to go with you.’ David started walking again.

  He heard Michael hurrying after him. ‘You got to.’

  ‘No I don’t.’

  ‘I’m all you’ve got.’

  ‘I’ve got Grandad.’

  ‘He can’t look after you.’

  ‘You don’t know anything.’

  ‘Of course I do. He told me.’

  David stopped. He looked at Michael. ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘You think I just turned up out of the blue one dark night? He telephoned. He knows how good you are. He knows you’re better than anyone who’s ever been. He can’t leave the farm and he can’t afford to look after you.’

  ‘He can,’ said David weakly.

  ‘Can you imagine The George Baker letting me take you if it wasn’t what he wanted?’

  David was having trouble getting enough air into his lungs.

  ‘He couldn’t face you. He couldn’t say it himself.’

  David was trying to concentrate on his breathing and not hear Michael’s words.

  ‘Anyway, when he asked, I couldn’t say no. You see, I promised your father in a hole in the French mud that I’d look after you.’

  There were no birds. No trees. No road. Nor even any sky. Maybe there wasn’t even any David. There was just Michael’s voice.

  ‘Now will you just get in the bloody car so we can go play cricket against the Poms?’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The train went under a bridge and everything was a scream in the dark until it burst out the other side. David let his head rock, like he had no neck muscles, allowing the train to flop him as it would, sometimes forward and sometimes back against the seat.

  They were on their way to Kalgoorlie. They would change trains there and go across the desert, before changing again to another train which would take them to Adelaide. The second Test in Melbourne had finished early and the Australian team were going to use the extra time to practise, things being so calamitous. David had got the word calamitous from Mr Dunne and rather liked it.

  Mr Dunne had seen them off at the station. The Australian Cricket Board had paid for their tickets. They would also pay for their hotels and meals. Mr Dunne never lost his doubtful look though, even when he shook hands with David and said, ‘Make your grandad proud, son.’

  When they had stowed their bags in their sleeper David asked his uncle, ‘If we do make money, can we send it to Grandad?’

  His uncle looked away a moment, then straight back with the smile that David was beginning to distrust. ‘What a nice idea. Super. Does that mean you willing to try to get into the Australian team?’

  ‘But we’re just going to practise.’

  ‘No. In the team. If you’re willing to start getting serious?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Michael smiled an easier smile. ‘You know, of course, the best course when getting serious is not to be serious at all. Part of being serious is relaxing and enjoying. A batsman does not concentrate all day at the crease. A batsman who is good enough to spend some time in the middle relaxes between deliveries. As the bowler turns and starts to run in, the batsman starts to concentrate again, and his concentration increases, so it is at its maximum, with eyes wide open and feet about to move, just as the bowler releases the ball. Once the batsman plays the delivery, and then makes a series of decisions about running, he relaxes again, relaxing his body and resting his mind—seriously.’

  ‘I know.’

  His uncle nodded as if he’d been corrected, and went to leave.

  Even though David had wanted him to go, and looking a little hurt, just as he was, he couldn’t help adding, ‘But when a batsman is facing a quality spin bowler, you can do all sorts of things to not let him relax. You can move the field. You can put doubt in his mind about what ball he might bowl next. You can hurry him too by stepping up to bowl your next delivery sooner and sooner, or you can keep him waiting as though you’re thinking of a clever delivery that is going to be his downfall. You can tell that, because he’ll look around the field frowning, or prod the wicket where he thinks there’s a funny spot, or he might practise the shot he just mistimed. And so he doesn’t relax between balls, and he worries more and
more.’

  Michael smiled clean and laughed his bright laugh. ‘You’re like a kind of genius aren’t you?’

  David felt some slight in the comment. ‘Grandad told me.’

  ‘But it’s all in there somewhere, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s just training. And hard work.’

  ‘Dear to me shall be the lyre and bow, and in oracles I shall reveal to men the inexorable will of Zeus. No, Davey boy. It’s not just training. It’s all kinds of gifts and curses. You know you have to watch out, don’t you? When the gods give a gift there is always some hidden catch, some huge price that goes with it.’

  David watched his uncle’s eyes. He seemed to have become serious himself, even though his words sounded joking. He thought he detected something else. Somewhere, below all that smiling and teasing, there was anger.

  David thought of Gruff. Gruff had been a magpie that lived on the farm and mostly just chased other magpies and occasionally sang in the late afternoon. But every mating season, Gruff got protective and started swooping the dogs and David. Gruff would hide in the big tree down near the pumps, and he’d wait for David. If David watched the tree and never took his eyes off, Gruff wouldn’t swoop. But eventually David would forget and he would turn his back. And suddenly, there was that noise, the last flap of wing before a beak clacked close to David’s ear and he’d be diving into the paddock dirt. David didn’t know why his uncle made him think of Gruff. He had never done anything like an attack. Maybe it was just the feeling you shouldn’t take your eyes off him.

  When David came back from the memory of Gruff he found his uncle had gone. David thought about the end of Gruff. One year, during the magpie breeding time, his grandad had come back to the house, bleeding from his head. He had got his rifle and gone back out and shot Gruff. After, over tea, his grandad said he felt badly, as he had succumbed to a disgraceful show of anger, and that the bird was only following its instincts. Grandad’s anger was easy to see if you were alert to it, and mostly earned. Poor old Gruff had badly misjudged his man that day.