Spinner

by Ron Elliott

Jack Tanner came forward and patted him on the chest. ‘Good ball, Mr Donald.’

  ‘It isn’t over, boys,’ said Richardson. ‘Lots more wickets to take and not many runs to play with.’

  ‘Well, laddie,’ said Ernie Morgan, the English wicketkeeper, when he came to the crease, ‘you’re starting to look like a bolt of lightning out of the blue.’

  David thought he’d said it not unkindly. Morgan edged him through slips for a single.

  Richardson brought Calligan back next over and trapped Morgan leg before wicket. Ostler scored off his first ball, then he and Bishop rotated the strike with ones and twos.

  When David came back for his next over it was against Bishop and, as in the first innings, David had no ideas. The new English batsman would not keep still on the crease. Even when David was stepping in, he was still moving sideways or forwards or adjusting. It put David’s placement out. Bishop edged David’s first ball well over slips for four. On the next delivery, he danced down the wicket and drove along the ground. David put his hand out, and it cracked into his right hand. He dropped to the ground. The pain left his hand in a hot numbness and seemed to travel up his arm and then down into his stomach.

  He heard Bishop say, ‘Well that’s taken care of that.’

  David rolled on the ground panting, not sure whether to grab for his hand or his guts. His head throbbed. The men’s faces appeared in the sky above him, and he heard himself groaning.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he called. ‘Sorry.’ He was sorry, because he knew he was crying and he shouldn’t be. He pushed his thumb into the palm of his hand and it eased the hurt.

  Scully was there. He and Don Bidman helped him off, before Bidman, the local twelfth man, took his place in the field.

  In the rooms, Scully put his hand in ice water, in a bowl on the table at the big window so he could still look out at the game. Scully muttered, ‘Shouldn’t be out there, ’cept you’re so damned good.’ His finger stopped hurting in the tearing way not long after it got in the water. Then it just ached. Scully came back with an aspirin, unfolding the paper to let the powder fall into a glass of water. ‘Know what your figures are?’

  ‘Um, three?’

  ‘Three for twenty-four. Even better figures if you consider it’s this team, and you got their top three.’

  By lunch England had steadied a little. They were five for eighty-eight. Over shepherd’s pie, Ten Ton promised to get Bishop for David. And in the fifth over after lunch he did, having him caught behind. He had Ostler, who had been on the march, caught at mid wicket half an hour later. England were now seven for one hundred and nineteen and in some trouble. Darby and Dwyer then settled in to take England to a slow but dangerous seven for one hundred and sixty-one at tea. Some of it had been at the cost of Bardsley who’d come on to try to bowl his part-time leggies.

  David had been working his hand. He could not bowl leg breaks. He felt he could bowl off breaks. ‘I can get Mr Darby out, Mr Richardson.’

  Richardson looked to Scully, ‘How’s his hand?’

  ‘I can bowl with the off-break grip. See, using mostly my first two fingers.’

  ‘His finger needs rest, but it’s bruised, not broken. I reckon he’s still got the other injury under the bruise.’

  ‘Naw, he’s tough. Let him bowl,’ said Hall, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘We can win this.’

  Richardson looked to Johnson who was sitting further along the window in his usual spot.

  Mr Johnson looked worried, but shrugged. ‘He can come off again if he can’t bowl.’

  ‘Yeah,’ laughed McLeod, ‘we got all of forty runs to play with.’

  ‘I can do more, John,’ said Calligan.

  ‘Yeah, I know mate. Maybe not firing today,’ replied the captain.

  The crowd cheered when David went out with them after lunch. The ground seemed full. You couldn’t see a spare seat or piece of grass anywhere around the outer. There was just one cloud in the sky; a white snail of fluff off in the east.

  Calligan and Ten Ton bowled fast, but Darby and Dwyer seemed set. The wicket was giving the fast bowlers little. There was even bounce and it wasn’t high. The English had some luck too. Dwyer edged Ten Ton for four that both Baker and Bardsley left for each other to catch.

  At seven for one hundred and seventy-seven, Richardson called David in. David had asked Richardson to wait until Darby was facing, but he had Dwyer.

  ‘I don’t have a plan for Dwyer.’

  ‘Well I can’t wait. They only need twenty-three runs to win.’

  David went to his mark, and held the ball in his usual grip, even though it was excruciating. He felt he had to because of his plan for Darby. He stepped and bowled and the ball came out badly. It never got the chance to spin one way or the other because it reached Dwyer on the full and he lofted it into long on. The batsmen ran three. Now Darby was facing.

  ‘Very well,’ said Darby loudly, ‘let’s see what all the fuss is about.’

  David set a traditional leg-spin field, favouring the off side with a ring of fieldsmen. The English spinner played forward with a long stride, his other foot camped in the crease, so he wouldn’t be stumped. David hid the ball in his hand, so that Darby wouldn’t see the change of grip. He hoped Darby would assume leg breaks.

  He stood at the top of his mark, with his left hand covering his right, but also trying to disguise that his finger hurt. He saw the ball he’d bowl. ‘It’s Donald to Darby, one spinner to another.’ He stepped in and bowled. The different action did surprise Darby, but he was good enough to adjust to where it pitched, but he was still expecting it to spin away. Instead, it was a fast off break, spinning back towards off stump which it clipped. One bail fell.

  Darby looked down at the pitch before walking off. He came close to David and said, ‘That was poor batting, not good bowling.’

  The team came in to David, but they didn’t cheer. They just touched him, on his head and back and shoulders, but not as hard as usual. Just a touch each. Then everyone stood back to watch Tudor coming.

  David said, ‘I can get Tudor.’

  ‘Right then,’ said Jack Tanner.

  ‘That’s the plan,’ said Richardson.

  The men went to their fielding positions.

  Tudor came out and took his guard. No one said hello.

  Dwyer broke the mood. ‘Only twenty to get there, Douglas.’

  David stood at the top of his mark. He brought Maud McLeod into the silly mid-off. This was only to crowd Tudor. David felt he’d get him out caught behind. He saw the ball hitting the pitch and spinning back towards the wicket. He saw Tudor flashing. David bowled, but the ball did not land where he wanted it to. He bowled a long hop, and Tudor couldn’t believe his luck. He had time to step forward and hit. David turned, as did everyone in the Adelaide Oval and watched the ball keep going up and out. It went way back. The crowd groaned, and David remembered their existence for the first time in hours. Mr Fitzmorris had both arms up. Tudor had hit a six, and David wasn’t sure whether it had been hit out of the ground, until someone tossed it back over the fence.

  David worked the base of his sore finger nervously. He did know how to get Tudor out. He wasn’t sure he could carry out the plan. He thought of the same ball as he had imagined before. He stepped forward, but again it didn’t land in quite the right place. It landed in line with off stump and spun down leg side. Baker had to dive to his left, to save a run. David tried again, but the ball came out just as it had the ball before. This time Tudor got some bat to it and they ran a single. Dwyer faced.

  Richardson hurried up. ‘Just keep him there, David. You don’t have to take a wicket every ball. Just no runs. Got that?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Richardson spread the field, putting more players on off side to protect David’s leg breaks. Dwyer cut David down to third man for two. He did it again next ball. Richardson brought Calligan up closer, and Dwyer played exactly the same shot to the same ball but for a single.

  T
hey only needed eight runs to win and had two wickets in hand. David had one ball at Tudor. He signalled for Maud to come in. He had Bardsley and Richardson in slips, Hall in leg slip. Tudor looked confident. David started to step in. He stopped himself. Went back to the start of his run-up. He imagined the ball he wanted to bowl. ‘Donald to Tudor. The Test may hang in the balance.’ David bowled. He bowled an off break, but really flicked his fingers on release. It pitched just outside off stump and came in fast. Tudor brought his bat back to defend, but the ball climbed faster. It clipped his gloves and went through to Baker, who held it up. The slips fieldsmen jumped.

  David yelled, ‘How’s that?’

  Fitzmorris raised his finger. Tudor walked off.

  David jumped up this time. Yes. He’d got Tudor.

  The team gathered around him and there were more pats on the shoulders. They talked more quietly than before.

  ‘Nice one David.’

  ‘Can’t call yer Babe. Baby gorilla more like,’ said Maud.

  ‘So,’ said Richardson to Johnson, ‘who bowls the other end?’

  ‘I can do it, Captain,’ said Calligan.

  ‘Ten Ton’s been loafin’ all day,’ said Tanner.

  Richardson gave Hampton the ball saying, ‘No loose ones. Hold down this end, and we’ll bring David back for one more.’

  Richardson set a defensive field to save the single. Dwyer blocked the first two, but hit the third ball cleanly past point. Calligan was coming at the ball, moving fast like he was a train. He picked the ball up with one hand and, without slowing, threw off one step. Dwyer was already turning, assuming it was an easy two runs, but then saw Calligan.

  ‘No,’ he yelled to Proctor, who turned like a tractor in a foot of mud. He seemed to take three little steps before he could take a big one sideways, and only then face back towards Baker. Baker caught the ball on the bounce and swept the bails, as Proctor finally lunged.

  They all turned to Mr Fitzmorris at square leg. His finger was raised. Proctor run out, Calligan.

  England all out for one hundred and ninety-five. Australia had won the third Test.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The people stared, all of them. A man with a sly smile only looked at David with one eye, bending in half to look up at him. A woman with a fox fur ruffled his head too hard, the fox’s dead eyes looking nowhere. Soon David started to look only at their teeth, so he wouldn’t have to look at their eyes. Some white ones, others missing ones. There were crowded teeth like a bent fence near a creek. There were wet tongues like huge blue leeches waiting to come out for a taste of him.

  The mouths said the same things, which was to suggest that they were all being tricked in some way.

  ‘Is this really David Donald?’

  ‘The David Donald? The bowler.’

  Uncle Mike would say, ‘The very one.’

  ‘That’s him!’

  ‘One and the same.’

  ‘Don’t shake his hand. It’s sore.’

  Uncle Mike got sillier as the evening went on, as more people bought David drinks, which Uncle Mike drank on his behalf. ‘His royal specialness, yes.’

  ‘Yes, the wonder that is Davey boy.’

  ‘No, this is his brother,’ he said once, but then went quiet for a while after that.

  They had come into Melbourne late in the afternoon in a green motor car that Michael had bought, insisting that he was sick of trains and they’d find the team when they got in. David spent most of the drive thinking about the cricket game, never tiring of remembering as many moments as he could and turning them over and over to find some extra pleasure in each new angle of the reliving.

  When Calligan had helped run out Proctor, all the men ran to the tall man. Hall had got there first, and tackled him like an Aussie Rules footballer, pushing Legal to the ground. They were both laughing. Everyone ran in and jumped on top of the stack, trying to pat Calligan for running out the last English batsman and winning the Test.

  The crowd were waving and calling. Feet were stamping in grandstands. Others beat metal cups or plates with spoons. There was such a din that you couldn’t hear any one thing through all the different callings and laughing and banging. As they neared the gate, a wave of ‘Waltzing Matilda’ washed out over them, and away.

  Inside the change rooms Scully was dancing around excitedly and rushing backwards and forwards with bottles of beer. He’d run out to the card room and open another bottle with the bottle opener tied to the cupboard there, and then run back into the change room and hand it to another player.

  ‘You bloody beauty,’ yelled Maud.

  Ten Ton grabbed Maud around the neck in a headlock and shook him, saying, ‘Mopsey, you champion.’

  ‘Yessss,’ yelled Richardson at the top of his voice, as Tanner came out of the showers in just a towel, and started slapping his hairy chest with his open palms and howling like a dog left on its chain. Hall stopped not a foot from Tanner’s face and yelled at the top of his voice, ‘Two Bob!’ And Tanner yelled ‘Ned,’ like a sheep bleat. And they put their elbows down and ran into each other’s shoulders, like rams, spilling beer everywhere.

  ‘How sweet it is,’ yelled Mr Johnson.

  ‘Chalkie!’ called Bardsley from where he was sitting with Jackson.

  Tanner and Hall suddenly ran up to Mr Richardson and grabbed him under the shoulders.

  ‘Oi, no,’ said Richardson gruffly as they started to drag him towards the showers. ‘I mean it, you two. Leave off.’

  Beardsly and McLeod put their beers down and ran to help drag and push the fully clothed captain towards the showers. He struggled hard.

  ‘I’m ya bloody captain. No.’

  They got him in, and turned on the cold water, but he held both Hall and Bardsley, so they got soaked too.

  Richardson stepped out of the showers, dripping. ‘Ya bastards.’

  ‘Ya bastard,’ laughed Bardsley.

  ‘You’re a bastard, Legal,’ laughed Hall, suddenly pointing at Calligan.

  ‘An’ you’re a right bastard with the bat, Ned,’ said Calligan.

  Mr Baker screamed, ‘We won!’

  And men cheered, and Ten Ton up-ended his beer bottle so beer poured over Mr Baker’s head.

  Mr Jackson sat in the corner shaking his head, as Scully ran in with more bottles of beer.

  ‘Plenty more where that came from,’ he yelled, then turned to David. He looked horrified. ‘David?’ Then he got an idea and brightened. ‘I’ll get lemonade. I’ll get you lemonade, boy.’

  David nodded and smiled and called, ‘And a pie? Can I have a pie, Mr Scully?’

  ‘I’ll break down the pie stall to get it,’ declared Scully.

  David smiled and turned. The room had gone quiet.

  The men’s faces were suddenly serious. Grim. David thought he’d seen a funny look, but wasn’t sure. They were all looking at him where he sat with his hand in a bucket of ice.

  Ten Ton said, ‘Now what are we going to do about him, Skipper?’

  ‘Yeah, driving me to the insane asylum, and he hasn’t even got a decent nickname,’ said Richardson, seriously, scratching his chin.

  ‘Babe suits,’ said Bardsley, also seriously.

  ‘Naw, O’Toole’d love that too much,’ said Jackson.

  ‘Goliath,’ said Mr Johnson.

  ‘The Kid,’ said Tanner.

  ‘Like Billy the Kid?’ said McLeod.

  ‘Billy!’

  ‘Wonder Kid.’

  ‘Not going to call him Wonder Kid,’ said Hall. ‘That’s poncy.’

  ‘Besides,’ said Bardsley, seriously, ‘he’s not like a kid. Not really.’

  ‘No. No normal kid.’

  ‘The Old Man,’ said Baker. ‘We should call ’im The Old Man. I’ll just ask The Old Man where he wants his field set.’

  There was laughter, which David didn’t enjoy. Nor did he enjoy them talking about him as though he wasn’t there.

  Richardson said, ‘We should call him Sweet Bloody
Thankful Manna From Heaven, that’s what we should call him.’

  They all looked at David again, some shaking their heads in the way people did.

  Mr Jackson made a signal with his right hand, like he was drawing a cross in the air.

  Things grew silent and fitful, and David looked down, but he could feel them examining him too closely.

  Then Mr Johnson said, ‘Bit of a mouthful mind, Skip. And this is our spinner here, Sweet Bloody Thankful Manna From Heaven.’

  The men laughed again, and started singing and drinking and calling each other bastards some more. Mr Scully came back with a bottle of lemonade and two pies and David ate and watched, feeling good again now they’d forgotten about him. Until Mr Scully told him his uncle was waiting outside to drive him to Melbourne.

  Melbourne was big. It was much bigger than Perth or Adelaide but only had a skinny little river. They drove in lots of traffic, Michael sounding his car horn and dodging the trams. They had to wait for trains to go by before driving into narrower streets where the houses were all joined together. There were laneways down the back, where David could sometimes see kids playing cricket with a metal dustbin as wickets.

  Michael had parked the car in one of the little streets in a place he said was Fitzroy. He went through a short wire gate and up some steps at one of the houses that were joined together. There was no answer to his knocking.

  ‘Maybe she’s at work,’ said Michael over-brightly when he came back to the car.

  So they’d come to this hotel. They wanted Michael to pay in advance until he explained who David was. David had become The David Donald like Grandad was once The George Baker.

  In the hotel room Michael had emptied his pockets onto the bed. There was money in all of them: notes in his jacket pockets, shirt, trousers. Twos and ones and fives and even ten pound notes. He let the money fall, like leaves, onto the bed.

  ‘To think that until recently I was a communist,’ he giggled. ‘There’s more in the bag. Still that was the run, probably. For those few days, I was the only one who knew that you are the greatest spin bowler the world will ever see. Now I’ve lost my edge. Maybe we both have.’

  David had looked from the money to his uncle, looking for the joke of it. Perhaps there wasn’t one. His uncle wasn’t smiling. He was looking down at the money as though it were a broken vase. Finally David had said, ‘Is it wrong? What you’re doing?’