Spinner

by Ron Elliott

  Richardson was still standing in front of his wickets, only they were askew, and he was still replaying the ball flight in his own mind, looking out at David, and then around behind his legs, to work out what he should have done.

  ‘Go and put your hand under the tap again, mate. That’s you done for the day,’ said Michael, patting him on the back. Michael turned towards the Australian captain. ‘So, Mr Richardson, what do you think?’

  ‘I’d like to see a couple more,’ said Richardson.

  ‘No matter how good he is, he’s not playing,’ said Livingston. ‘We’d be a laughing stock.’

  ‘On the other hand,’ said Mr Biggins, to no one in particular, ‘this could prove to be a most interesting business opportunity.’

  ‘Anyway, you’ve seen some of his balls,’ said Uncle Michael. ‘We’re off. Prior engagement.’

  ‘Off!’ said Baker.

  ‘Got to get David some cricket clothes, I’m afraid. Can’t have him representing his country in his civvies can we?’

  David looked back, at that. He couldn’t help it. Michael was smiling. He was going to talk to them in the way David had seen before, through spinning his words this way and that, so that they wouldn’t quite know which way the conversation was going.

  Then Paul Hampton, the giant fast bowler with the enormous moustache, stepped in front of him. David gasped. But Hampton smiled and said, ‘Nice bowling, little man.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Hampton,’ said David, completely forgetting about his finger. ‘Nice bowling to you too, Mr Hampton. Especially in South Africa.’

  Hampton laughed. ‘You sure got a good memory.’ He shook his head and walked off, laughing again.

  David moved into the shade of the weeping willow and rested his hand in the water once more, waiting for it to go numb. Whatever happened now, he’d tried his best. And he’d met Paul Hampton who’d said nice bowling, and he’d bowled to John Richardson and bowled him out. Apparently. He had only seen it in his mind, but not when it had actually happened.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  David turned to see Mr Biggins standing just outside the weeping willow branches.

  ‘Nothing, Mr Biggins. The water cools my hand.’

  Mr Biggins peered at the nearest willow branch as though looking for spiders, before reaching up with his left hand and raising it so he could step through without it touching his suit. His clothes seemed brand new. He carried his homburg in his right hand.

  David took his hand from the fountain and made it look like he was scratching the back of his leg.

  ‘They are picking Ashleigh Hobbs, I’m afraid. I know it may seem unfair, as you are clearly a better bowler.’

  David noticed that Mr Biggins was not looking exactly at him, but at someone who seemed to be standing next to him. David checked and there was no one behind him.

  ‘It is sensible really. The team is already in turmoil. Their confidence is frail, you see. It would be cruel to add a player so young and at the same time suggest they believe in themselves.’ He flicked his eyes to David’s.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I wanted to say, David, that it was a pleasure seeing you bowl. Your time will come, I have no doubt. So you keep up the good work, and I hope to meet you again soon.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, um, Mr Biggins, sir.’

  Mr Biggins nodded to the invisible person next to David and then let himself out of the weeping willow as if it were a fine, curtained tent.

  Michael took the news badly. He paced in their hotel room, his limp making the pacing look like an angry jig. David sat with his hand in a bucket of ice that his uncle had got from downstairs with a bottle of brandy for himself. The ice made his whole hand ache and not just the finger.

  ‘Oh, my dear chap, it’s the rules, old bean.’ He was putting on an English accent, a little like Mr Livingston. ‘We don’t actually have a rule to cover this, but now that you mention it, we really should. Let’s say no lads under fifteen. Sensible, what? So, that’s now the rule, I’d say. Rules old chap. Must have rules. Simply not cricket otherwise.’

  Michael paused to spill some brandy into his tumbler. He’d found it on the little sink in their bathroom. Their room had its own bathroom which included a toilet. There were lots of lamps and they were all electric.

  ‘Fairness and rules. Except for the other times. Called a codicil, old bean.’ Michael had gone back to his own voice. ‘As soon as you agree to abide by their rules, that’s when they’ve got you. Duty and honour and ... that’s how they use you, while they break every one themselves, every time it suits them.’

  David had seen his uncle in lots of moods, but never like this. His anger was bitter and obvious.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Uncle Mike. My finger is hurt.’

  ‘And you got Richardson out a couple of times.’

  ‘But...’

  ‘But nothing. You still bowled four excellent balls. You are the best bowler I’ve ever seen and you deserve to be in that team. Hobbs! They actually picked Hobbs. The only chance that fellow has of getting a wicket is a catch on the boundary. In Melbourne.’

  David made himself wriggle his fingers in the ice and water in the metal bucket on the bed beside him while he hoped his uncle’s anger would wear itself out.

  ‘The world is going to see you bowl at the best there is. And no one is going to stop that. No one.’ He started emptying his pockets on a little table by the door, and separating bits of paper and tickets from the coins and pounds he had.

  ‘I can work my way up through the other teams, so everyone can see me. Learn my trade.’

  ‘No. Now. Australia needs you now. You’re ready now. Now.’ Michael grabbed up his little pile of money and the bottle of brandy, a fair bit of which was now gone. He put on his hat and left the room without saying goodbye.

  David wiggled his fingers again in the ice bucket, making the ice clink. He wondered for the first time if his uncle was a bit mad. Not just hurt and sad, like at the rail crash, but ... David found himself hoping that his uncle would find a lady, even if she were a floozy. He seemed happiest when he had a lady he was joking with.

  He thought of Nell Parker. She was a girl. His best friend. She and Grandad were his only friends, until Uncle Mike came along. Seeing as it was school holidays, Nell would be helping her dad in the workshop. It would have been brilliant if Nell had turned on the radio, and heard the Australian team being called out. David Donald. ‘Dad, Dad, Dad.’ She’d scream it. ‘He’s in the team. He is.’ She’d probably run around the town yelling it. Run all the way out to Grandad and tell him, and then they could jump around the kitchen at the amazing news.

  No, David thought. That was too far for Nell to run. David sat with his hand in the ice bucket imagining how the word would eventually get to his grandad if Nell didn’t bring it. He didn’t want any of the Mr Pringles to tell him. That would ruin it, and besides, whenever they drove out to the farm it was to take something. Maybe Mrs Pringle could do it. Seeing as this was David’s daydream, he decided that Mrs Pringle would tell Grandad. She’d ride a horse out there, and Nell would ride with her.

  David woke to a fist banging on the hotel room door. It was day, and his uncle was asleep in the bed beside him. When he opened the door, he found Mr Biggins standing in the hall. His collar wasn’t done properly, one corner up too far at the front.

  ‘Good,’ he said, ‘you haven’t left. Something terrible has happened. Ashleigh Hobbs got into a fight last night. He’s hurt his hand. Someone stepped on his bowling hand. Every finger broken.’

  ‘So, a bit of an emergency, then?’ said Michael from the bed, as though he was ordering jam and toast for breakfast.

  ‘Can you get David to the ground in time for play today?’

  ‘No problem. How about that rule? That rule is going to be a problem.’

  ‘Ah, well perhaps it won’t be.’ He nodded sadly to Michael, like an apology, then turned to speak to David’s ear. ‘Chances are you wi
ll come as no more than a guest. I think Sir Bartholomew and I are taking a rather big chance. Betting the bank, so to speak.’ He waggled his head back and forward, his shoulders going side to side with the invisible weighing up. ‘We will see. Desperate times and all that. But this will not be easy, David. Not easy at all. I hope you’re up to it.’ Mr Biggins looked encouragingly to the invisible person by David’s shoulder.

  ‘Course he is,’ said Michael, putting his feet on the floor, but still not rising.

  Mr Biggins looked a moment, perhaps embarrassed. ‘Bowl like you did yesterday, and we’ll all do splendidly.’ He nodded, then backed out into the hall, closing the door gently as he left.

  David turned to his uncle. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Sounds like you got in the team.’

  ‘What did you do? To Ashleigh Hobbs.’

  Uncle Michael looked at him, bleary-eyed.

  David could see no clue in him. ‘Mr Biggins said he got in a fight last night.’

  ‘You’ve met him. A Mosman boy with a plum in his mouth. Wouldn’t you say he’s a fellow quite likely to get in fights?’

  David didn’t know about this. It seemed to him that most men, and boys for that matter, wanted to get into some kind of fight.

  ‘Manifest destiny, son. Ever hear of that? Westward ho, and there it is, all laid out by the Good Lord. Eat, drink and don’t mind the incumbents. Lo, the lilies of the field, they toil not at sparrow’s fart.’

  David kept looking at him but still could not see any sign that he had done anything wrong.

  ‘What you’ve got, how you play, is a God-given gift. It’s so special that it’s not the work of man. All the planets must have been in exactly the right place and all the witches looking on. When the hurlyburly’s done, when the battle’s lost and won.’

  ‘Stop it,’ said David.

  ‘And who’s to say that these same deities or planets or crazy bits of dumb good luck haven’t conspired to clear your way once again, eh? Other spinners had accidents. Now Hobbs. These things happen. Why is bad luck the only thing that runs in packs? Ask my missing toe.’ His uncle wiggled his scarred foot at David. ‘And still you’re a better bowler than all of them.’

  ‘Did you do anything to Ashleigh Hobbs?’

  His uncle looked at him, unblinking, put his hand on his heart, said unsmiling, ‘I swear.’

  David stared. He did not know if the man was lying to him. He never knew.

  ‘Come on,’ said Uncle Mike. ‘A big breakfast, then we better get you some cricket gear. The Australian Cricket Team. Let me see, I think you’re playing England today. You’re allowed to say bonzer, you know.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  The river seemed to turn right outside Adelaide Oval. David waited as his uncle tried to talk their way into the players’ entrance, his brand new cricket gear at his feet. He felt scared. He felt like he was living outside his own dream, watching the man in the grey jacket looking dubiously at them both, and continuing to deny admittance. Yet he had faith in his uncle’s ability to talk his way in, just as he’d talked his way to their free cricket gear earlier in the day.

  At exactly 8.30a.m., as Mr Gould of Gould’s Sporting Goods was winding up the canvas awning outside his shop, Michael had marched up.

  ‘Are you the proprietor?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Mr Gould? I can’t be talking to someone who doesn’t have the complete authority of the entire firm,’ said Michael very seriously.

  ‘I’m Mr Gould,’ said the man, looking back at his small store and seeming to appraise whether it could be called an entire firm.

  ‘Good. This fellow here is David Donald, and he’s about to play his first match for Australia in this morning’s Test. He needs a full kit.’

  David watched the man turn to look at him. He nodded to Mr Gould, whose eyes seemed about to pop out of his head a moment before he blinked, then nodded. He turned back to Michael with an ‘Ah, I think I see. Yes. Good.’ Then he winked.

  Michael was patient, even though he continued to talk rapidly. ‘No, Mr Gould. I’m not indulging the fantasy of a young nephew. What I’m telling you is the absolute truth. David is to play for Australia in approximately two hours, and because he has been rushed here by train all the way from Perth, Western Australia, and because that train was delayed due to a rail accident in the middle of the Nullarbor Plain, we ... he finds himself without any cricket gear. None at all.’

  Mr Gould’s left eyebrow went up and down, twice, then he indicated his store. ‘I’ve got all the cricket gear you could possibly want. And in the lad’s size too, I’d wager.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I was hoping to hear, Mr Gould. The term “wager” is a most suggestive one. Do you like a punt, Mr Gould?’

  Mr Gould folded his arm across his chest. Both eyebrows rose just a little.

  ‘We want pads, bats, gloves and creams. We want shoes. Balls. A cricket bag. Do you have a cricket bag with Gould’s Sporting Goods on it, Mr Gould?’

  ‘Of course I don’t. You’d put your club there.’ Mr Gould was becoming impatient.

  David too. He wanted to get to the ground. He wanted time to warm up. He wanted time to get used to the idea of what was happening to him. He wanted his finger, which had only gone down a little, to settle.

  ‘You might want to consider rethinking that, Mr Gould, because in exchange for you giving us all this clobber, we’d want to tell all of Australia, and very often, that the great David Donald is kitted exclusively by ... Gould’s of North Adelaide.’

  Mr Gould’s eyebrows collapsed back toward his eyes. ‘You’re barking mad,’ said Mr Gould, as he tried to retreat into his shop.

  Michael followed him. ‘Come in, David. Start picking out some gear.’

  ‘He’s not going to, Uncle Mike.’

  ‘Of course he is.’ His uncle smiled the brightest smile and David knew that of course the man would.

  The previous day’s newspaper was dragged out and David’s name read as someone being considered. Turner’s injury was noted. Hobbs’ accident was explained. Finally, Mr Gould was persuaded to telephone the ACB and talk to the Chairman, Sir Bartholomew Livingston. Even then Mr Gould’s eyebrows continued their dance around his narrowed eyes. It was a big outlay of goods in the troubled times, and all based on the flimsiest of promises and the most preposterous of stories.

  At that point Michael laughed. He even clapped his hands a couple of times. ‘Isn’t it wonderful though. You are right, Mr Gould. It does you credit to be suspicious and circumspect and a little cynical. It would be prudent and entirely sensible to wish us luck and say no. I do not believe this and I will not be part of it. Twelve years old. Please, you have gone too far. You ask too much.’

  Mr Gould was nodding.

  ‘On the other hand, think of the rewards. And I don’t just mean in the potential good word and publicity. I don’t just mean the chance for financial gain, which is virtually guaranteed. I mean the pleasure of joining. Here’s this most unlikely story you are being told ... and it is about to come off. David is going to play for Australia. It is like a fairy story and you can be part of it. Part of the wondrous ... History of David Donald: the Early Years. Let’s just take a moment to think about what this means? Have you got children, Mr Gould?’

  Mr Gould blinked yes.

  That was when David wandered the sports store and began to choose his cricket gear. He had not touched cricket gloves before. No one in Dungarin owned a pair. They were stiff. He didn’t even try to put the right glove over his hurt finger. He wasn’t sure any of the gloves would fit over his fingers. The pads were stiff and shiny white. Mr Gould stopped bargaining long enough to suggest a smaller pair so that David could run more easily between the wickets. His uncle had stopped his convincing long enough to suggest a lighter bat, rather than the one David had first taken up. David didn’t tell either man that he was not a very good batsman, and had seldom had occasion to run to the other end of a wicket, even at school
.

  The cream pants and shirt were very smart. The shoes were much more comfortable than his farm boots, but he found it difficult to clatter along the linoleum floor on the short spikes that were attached to the soles. He took some steps to bowl an imaginary ball and skidded immediately.

  ‘No spikes in the shop, please,’ called Mr Gould.

  David looked into a full-length mirror where he saw a little kid, small even for his age which, as everyone kept pointing out, was twelve. He stood there looking at the boy in the brand new creams. His arms were too long, his fingers longer still. He looked like some tree—like the weeping willow at the university with its branches hanging down to the ground. He needed a haircut. His nose was sunburned, which seemed strange, given all the time he’d spent inside these last weeks. David tried to pull his shoulders back, to make his arms somehow not seem to hang there so floppily. He tried them over his stomach, but they were just a tangle. He put them on his hips, but looked like a teapot. He finally found a position that seemed to somehow not call attention to them. By pretending to scratch the back of his neck, with the arm bent, and the hand hidden behind his head, and with the other hand pushed up under his chin, as though he was thinking deeply about things, David decided his arms looked quite normal.

  ‘So,’ said Mr Gould into his telephone, ‘you’re actually telling me, Mr Biggins, that the Australian team is playing a boy in the Test today?’

  And that’s what the man at the gate of the Adelaide Oval was saying to Mr Scully, a short, lean old man who was apparently the Australian team manager. ‘This boy is playing in the Test?’

  Mr Scully spat on the ground. ‘He’s named. We’ll see about the playing. Just let ’em in mate, and leave the team selection to us.’

  The man stood shaking his head. Michael grabbed up David’s brand new cricket bag and they followed Scully towards the back of the grandstand. ‘Thought you buggers weren’t gunna make it.’