by Ron Elliott
‘Yep,’ said Michael in his working man’s accent, ‘all a bit last minute, eh.’
‘Well you’ve missed the cap presentation, so that’ll have to wait.’ Mr Scully pushed a door under the back of the stand, but then suddenly turned and looked at Michael, not two feet from his face. ‘Funny what happened to Ashleigh Hobbs.’
‘Laughed so much, I thought I was gunna cry,’ said Michael with no smile.
‘Just like that.’
‘Funny ol’ world.’
Mr Scully spat towards the ground, and seemed as if he’d like to say more, but he turned and led them in.
David followed the men into the darkness. There was a corridor with many rooms under the grandstand. Their footsteps echoed on the floorboards. They went towards the front. David could see the ground out an open door at the end of the corridor. It was like a shining green motion picture showing on a tall skinny-shaped screen.
‘I’ll take the lad’s bag,’ said Mr Scully, at the players’ door. ‘Players only.’
David turned to his uncle in alarm.
Michael bent down to him. ‘This is it, mate. I’ll be in the stands.’
‘But Uncle Mike, what do I do?’
‘Well, what the captain tells you. Always. Um, and maybe you should bowl them all out.’
His uncle winked, then turned and walked back down the corridor the way they’d come. David watched him until Mr Scully tapped him on the shoulder.
‘You comin’ or what, boy?’
Just inside the door there were four men in creams, smoking and playing cards: Bill Baker, the wicketkeeper, Maud McLeod, the young all-rounder, George Jackson, the older player who had come back from the counties, and big, red Ken Hall all turned and looked at David. They didn’t say a word.
David felt he should nod or say good morning, but couldn’t make his mouth work. It felt dry.
‘It’s bloody come to this,’ said Hall, turning back to his cards.
‘Through here, lad,’ said Mr Scully, in a not unkind tone.
David looked out a huge window as he followed. There were some bench seats out the front. Geoffrey Calligan, the lawyer and fast bowler, was sitting out there, reading a book. Paul Hampton sat nearby, talking to Jack Tanner. They looked relaxed, enjoying the sun. Beyond, John Richardson was walking out to the middle, where the umpires waited, and the groundsmen pulled the roller.
‘Wakey, wakey lad. Yer a bloody dreamer.’ Mr Scully had opened another door which led to the lockers.
A variety of street clothes, shoes and cricket gear was tossed on bench seats and in the shelves and large pigeon holes. There were nicely written name tags. The room smelled of leather and old sweat which made David’s nose wrinkle at its unpleasantness.
Terry Johnson was sitting at one end of the room near a floor fan. He had a hand on each knee, staring at the floor some two feet in front of himself.
At the other end of the room, young Andrew Bardsley, who was playing in his first game, was practising some strokes. He had on an Australian cap that looked a new dark green. He turned to Mr Scully. ‘We batting or bowling?’
‘Captain’s just gone out for the toss.’
‘Right,’ said Bardsley. He caught sight of David, and hurriedly left the room, his cricket spikes clattering.
‘This is yours, Nipper.’
David looked to an empty shelf. His name was there, printed on cardboard. Master Donald.
‘Don’t talk to Mr Johnson. He doesn’t like talking, right now, in case he’s batting. You better get changed.’
‘Thanks, Mr Scully.’
‘Yeah, well, most of the boys just call me Scully.’ He looked down and thought. ‘But I suppose you and I can stick to Mr Scully then.’
‘Yes, sir.’
David opened his sports bag. He looked at Mr Johnson again. He was still staring at the floor, the fan pushing his fringe like he was in a motor car. David started to get changed, checking every now and then that Mr Johnson wasn’t watching. He looked at the lockers again.
Each name was famous but their clothes seemed so ordinary, even though there were different styles of dress. Some clothes were neatly hung up. Some were fine, but a little haphazard. Others were piled into their lockers or simply dropped onto the seat in a heap. David realised that the batsmen had laid out their batting gear on top of their bags. There was a pile of huge cricket shoes of different ages tumbling out below a seat which must have belonged to the big fast bowler, Hampton. A photograph of a lady and child was tacked to the side of the shelf above. In Jack Tanner’s locker his derby was propped against an unopened bottle of champagne.
Andrew Bardsley came in. ‘Batting.’
‘We’re batting,’ said Mr Johnson grimly.
‘Yep. Has John won a toss yet?’
Mr Johnson didn’t reply. He’d begun to put on his pads.
David said, ‘No.’
Bardsley looked at him, but said nothing.
David said, ‘Not this series. That’s the third toss that Henry Longford’s won in a row.’
Bardsley ignored David and started to put his pads on. He talked towards Johnson. ‘You reckon they’ll open with Tudor or Proctor? Proctor’s faster, I reckon, but Tudor’s smarter. Both bloody fast. Who would you rather face, Mr Johnson?’
‘Scully,’ yelled Johnson, dragging out the ee sound at the end like a cooee bush call.
Mr Scully raced into the room, looking worried.
‘Get these two kids to shut up and get out of here, will you?’
Scully looked at the other two and jerked his head to indicate they should leave. He winked at them, and David understood that they should not take too much offence.
‘Just asking,’ grumbled Bardsley. ‘Got a right to get ready too, you know.’
As they came out of the locker room they met John Richardson coming back in. ‘Morning chaps. Right, we’ll just have to see off the new ball, Andrew. That’d be the ticket. Don’t play at anything you don’t have to.’
Bardsley nodded. David thought he looked terrified.
‘Cometh the hour, cometh the man, Beardie,’ added Richardson, in a gentler tone.
Bardsley nodded again as he wandered to the door which led out to the ground. He stood looking out at the oval.
‘Mr Richardson,’ said David, ‘where should I go?’
Richardson looked down. He seemed surprised and mildly annoyed to see David. He called, ‘Maud!’ Maud McLeod stepped into the doorway from the card room.
‘Look after David here, will you? Seeing as you’re both from the country and all.’
‘I’m from the country, boss, but I’m no bloody wet nurse.’
Ken Hall yelled, ‘Watch out Maud. Likely to get your hand stepped on, you get too close to this kid. That’s what happened to Hobbs.’
‘I’ll take him.’ It was the giant, Paul Hampton, who was leaning in from outside. ‘Come on out here, David. Best seats in the house.’
Outside the players’ rooms were two rows of bench seats which were under cover, but which had a complete view of the ground. Jack Tanner looked over at him as he stepped out into the light. David made himself look back. ‘Morning, Mr Tanner.’
‘Morning, Mr Donald.’
‘Push yourself along the bench there, David,’ said Hampton.
‘Yes, sir.’ David sat on the empty bench seat, and Hampton plonked himself next to him.
‘Call me Paul. Or Ten Ton if ya like.’
‘Ten Ton?’
‘Hamp-ton. Ton. Ten Ton on account of I’m a big bloke.’
‘Ha. That’s clever,’ said David, smiling at the word play.
‘Not very clever. But it’s stuck. Like the Christmas pudding.’ He patted his stomach.
People started clapping, and David turned to see Bardsley and Johnson walking down between the seats to the gate that led onto the field.
Geoffrey Calligan looked up from his book and yelled, ‘See you fellows at lunchtime.’
The English team we
re out on the field, some jumping and others swinging their arms. A bowler was bowling practice balls to another fieldsman, but David couldn’t make out who most were. They were all a lot further away than he expected. The English team stopped their warm-ups to watch the Australian openers coming towards them. Looking at it from this perspective, it seemed unfair, as though two had to play against eleven.
Calligan called quietly to Tanner, ‘You might want to get padded up there, Jack.’
Jack Tanner turned to look at Calligan, then up at the doorway. David looked there too, in time to see Richardson in his pads looking anxiously out to the middle.
‘That’s all right,’ said Tanner loudly. ‘I don’t want to sit around in me pads all morning.’
Bardsley waved his arms and trotted up and down on the spot, still all nervous energy. Johnson trudged. David didn’t like the look of that. He knew they’d describe it as a bad sign on the radio. He looked to the bowler.
‘Who’s that warming up with the ball?’
‘Proctor. Big bloke, eh?’
David nodded, squinting out towards the middle.
‘So, your first Test,’ said Hampton.
‘Yes,’ said David, ‘I’ve never seen one before.’
‘Seen one. Ha. I meant first yer played in. So you’ve never even seen a Test match?’
David saw Calligan was watching too. He just nodded, embarrassed. Then he noticed the crowd. They were hemmed in around them. There were a lot of empty seats, but thousands had gathered to see Australia and England play. Some people were looking his way. A man looked angry, his hat pulled low. A boy stuck his tongue out.
‘So,’ said Hampton, ‘yer mum and dad out there?’
‘No sir, I’m an orphan.’
Johnson was taking guard. He would ask for leg stump from the umpire, David thought, recalling radio and newspaper reports.
David noticed Mr Hampton was looking at him. Mr Calligan and Tanner were too. He thought about what he’d said and tried to put them at their ease. ‘My grandad looks after me. He’s in Dungarin. My Uncle Mike brought me. He’s here.’ David looked away from them, in case they were still unhappy with his answer.
Proctor was at the top of his mark.
‘Not much of a crowd, boys,’ said Tanner.
David was glad for the change of subject.
‘Not much pleasure in spending three and six to watch your country getting walloped,’ said Calligan.
‘Not much pleasure in being walloped for that matter,’ added Hampton.
David couldn’t even see Proctor’s first ball. He ran in and performed a bowling action, and down the other end Johnson seemed to bend and duck, while his bat waved a little, and then the wicketkeeper acted as if he caught the ball. It was like a mime of cricket-playing. There were some ahs from the crowd, but evidently Johnson hadn’t hit it, because the umpires had not moved. ‘Was that fast?’ asked David.
‘That was fast,’ said Calligan.
Johnson jammed down on the next ball, but was very rushed in his action.
‘Yorker,’ said Hampton next to him.
The crowd made little noise. Things were tense.
It was quiet enough for them all to hear the nick Johnson got on the third ball. All six men who had been standing in a semicircle in slips jumped up shouting, ‘Howwwwww’s that!’ Johnson turned and walked from the field, not bothering to wait for any umpiring decision.
‘Oh no!’ yelled David with the rest of the crowd.
Hampton nudged David in the side. ‘As a player, we try not to barrack so much.’
‘Considered bad form,’ added Calligan. ‘Not like the hardened professionals we are.’
‘So, don’t go telling him it’s his third duck in a row, either, right.’ Paul Hampton winked at him.
David nodded.
Tanner got up from his seat, stretching casually, and strolled back into the change rooms. Richardson passed him going the other way, whistling ‘Waltzing Matilda’. He passed Johnson who was still on the ground coming in.
Someone from the crowd yelled, ‘And don’t come back, yer useless mongrel.’ Other jeers came too, as Johnson walked back through the gate and up the steps between their seats. He didn’t look at anyone, just where he was putting his feet.
The jeers continued and David looked to the crowd again. Angry faces. There were ladies yelling too. A lady in a coat and pillbox hat with one yellow flower was screaming so much it seemed to David she would have killed Johnson right there and then, had she had him in her hands. An old man was yelling, and David saw that he had no teeth. His mouth was a black growling hole. Some people raised fists. The boy that David had seen before was looking back at him, and again he poked his tongue out.
David looked away, and focused on the white painted wood of the seats in front of him. But he could feel the crowd still, feel their angry cries finally ebb, as the Australian captain John Richardson reached the wicket. The silence was tense, like the air in a thunderstorm charged with the power of the thunderclaps.
David felt for the first time the excitement of seeing the Test. Each ball bowled at the Australian batsmen brought gasps from the crowd, gasps David felt as his own.
Richardson was surviving rather than playing shots. Bardsley jumped and ducked and weaved as though dealing with a swarm of bees. Bardsley was having the worst time because he was facing the English fast bowler named Tudor. Proctor was very fast and very accurate, but Tudor was meaner. Many of his balls would follow Bardsley. He was hit on the chest and on the leg. The crowd gasped and winced, as though under attack themselves. When Bardsley skied one to mid-on, fending off another rising delivery, the crowd groaned in disappointment. Although he’d only scored fifteen runs, he had occupied the crease, and taken the shine off the new ball. Hampton said, ‘Got some guts, that boy.’ Bardsley walked back to the players’ area to scattered clapping.
Tanner strode to the gate, swinging the bat like a windmill. ‘Who the bloody hell are you?’ yelled someone from the crowd. There was a roar of laughter David found very disrespectful. But Jack Tanner walked back to the fence, with his hand held out, and a big smile, ‘Name’s Jack Tanner, from WA. How ya going?’ There was a roar of laughter and approval. Jack doffed his Australian cap, to another cheer, then jogged out into the middle.
‘Jack knows how to get a crowd onside,’ laughed Hampton.
‘Let’s hope he can bat,’ said Calligan.
David followed the example of the bowlers and clapped as Bardsley came back into the pavilion. ‘That Tudor is a right bastard,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘right at me.’ David thought he seemed to be about to cry. Bardsley thumped the side of a bench seat with his bat, making David jump.
Richardson and Tanner withstood the English fast-bowling attack. They had their moments of discomfort, but Richardson’s tight defence and Tanner’s more bludgeoning approach began to work. Once they saw off the tiring Tudor and Proctor, they started to score some runs.
Mr Johnson came out to sit in a corner of the players’ area. Occasionally someone from the crowd would yell out to him that he should get a job. David wanted to explain that he had one. He was a mathematics teacher when not playing cricket. Someone else in the crowd knew this too because they yelled, ‘Hey Johnson, what’s nought plus nought plus nought equal?’ There was laughter from the crowd accompanied with quacking noises, and the Australian opener soon went back inside.
Hampton, or Ten Ton as David was learning to call him, talked about his family. He had two girls and a baby on the way. They were buying a house in Fitzroy, a suburb of Melbourne. ‘You see, the brewery likes having a bloke who is in the public eye, who looks like they like a drink. That’s me. You’d think a brewery would survive hard times, wouldn’t you? Nope. Half the blokes in the despatch area are for the chop.’
‘But you’ve got your cricket, Ten Ton?’
‘Yeah,’ laughed the big man. When Hampton saw David looking he added gently, ‘I will just have to make sure I st
art taking some wickets then, shan’t I?’
Towards noon, Maud McLeod and Ken Hall came out, both with their pads on. Hall looked around at the crowd. ‘Not much faith in us then, eh?’
‘Seen better,’ said Hampton.
Tanner hit a four from an Ostler delivery and the crowd applauded enthusiastically.
‘He goes all right, doesn’t he,’ said McLeod.
Hall glanced at the crowd, then shot a sly look back towards David. ‘Yer know what the crowd are gunna do when the kid goes out. They’re gunna laugh for a bit, but then they’re gunna tear the place apart. We’re gunna be the biggest joke since New Broom cleaned up at Flemington.’
‘Leave it alone,’ said Hampton. ‘Didn’t pick himself, did he?’
‘As I understand it, maybe ’e did? With a bunch of burly helpers.’
David didn’t know what to say about this. He had no proof that his uncle didn’t have a hand in Ashleigh Hobbs’ accident.
Hall wasn’t finished. ‘And what the bloody hell’s going on, picking a kid who no one’s ever bloody heard of?’
‘Language,’ warned Hampton.
‘It’s a bloody man’s game and I’ll bloody use a man’s bloody language.’
David was thinking about a speech about doing his best, or something about not minding swearing, but none of it came. ‘I’ll just go inside,’ he said instead.
‘An’ don’t stop there,’ yelled Hall at his back.
‘I’ll bloody dong you if you talk to him like that again,’ said Hampton.
‘An’ I’ll help him,’ added Calligan, ‘just for the pleasure of it.’
‘Just sayin’ what we all think.’ There were more chairs inside the players’ room with the big window and a large electric ceiling fan that made it cool. Johnson sat at a table writing a letter, and occasionally looking at the cricket. In the card room, a radio was on. Bill Baker and Bardsley were listening to the cricket as they played whist. They both looked up at him. Bardsley looked down straight away, but Baker stared as though David was a two-headed lamb.
David got a wooden chair from the card room and moved it into the room where Mr Johnson was. He put it against the wall near the card room door so that he could hear the radio but not be seen by the card players. Or the crowd outside. He closed his eyes and listened to the game.