by Ron Elliott
‘I thought you wanted to go home,’ said his uncle dully, without turning round.
‘I want to train.’
‘How’s your hand?’ said Mrs O’Locklan. She was having trouble turning round in the front seat.
‘That man Blackie. He had a razor and said he’d cut one of my fingers off.’
The car slewed sideways, scaring a fellow on a bicycle, before coming back to the left of the road, and stopping. Mrs O’Locklan had been flung back towards the windshield, Uncle Mike shooting out his arm in time to hold her.
‘Blackie Cutmore?’
‘The blond man with half his ear gone.’
‘Bitten off,’ said his uncle.
Mrs O’Locklan looked at him. ‘Gangsters and shylocks.’
‘Mr Squinty stopped him by pointing a gun at him. A black pistol.’
‘Were they joking?’
‘They didn’t smile and wink or...’
‘For goodness sake, Michael! They’re killers and drug dealers and ... You had no business putting us in with them.’
‘They wanted to meet David. They—’
‘They give you hop.’
‘Yeah, well they don’t sell that at the grog shop.’
‘It isn’t always about you.’ Mrs O’Locklan grabbed Michael by the chin, her fingers squeezing so hard he couldn’t speak. ‘Is David safe?’
His uncle mumbled nonsense, making a joke of her squeezing his mouth. She let him go, not laughing. ‘What do they want?’
Michael turned to David. ‘What did Blackie say?’
David had trouble thinking what was said. He had been too busy with his twisted wrist and the cut-throat razor. Finally he said, ‘My hand is worth something. Either way. And then about a sure thing.’
‘All right. Good.’ Michael put the car in gear again and pulled back out onto the road. After they’d gone a little way, his uncle asked, ‘How is your hand?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘He needs another week to be sure,’ said Mrs O’Locklan, watching Michael.
‘The Blackie man twisted my wrist.’
‘Not forgetting the splinter too! That hand’s a bit of a lightning rod isn’t it?’
David had to smile at that. His hand was held in his other, palm up. There was a little hole in the centre now where the splinter had been. Since that train accident in the desert all kinds of things had been happening to his hand. It was true.
Michael pulled up outside Mrs O’Locklan’s house. Some kids were playing cricket with a dustbin further up. Mothers were talking over fences. There were men too, mostly solitary and on verandas, home too early from no work. They were all watching the car.
‘I’ll have a chat to Squinty. Sort it out. All very sensible and proper, and then ... we can get back to having some fun eh?’ David’s uncle sounded flat, in spite of his words.
Mrs O’Locklan got out of the car and went in without looking back. David squeezed past the front seat. His uncle said, ‘Rest your hand. The next Test starts the day after tomorrow.’
‘What?’
‘When’d you think?’
‘But we just finished the last one.’
‘It’s been over a week.’
The car pulled away, scattering kids from their cricket game. The car horn seemed to give a jaunty kind of beep that for some reason made David wonder how safe his uncle would be ‘reasoning’ with Blackie and Squinty.
A man yelled, ‘Good on yer, David. Bore it up those Poms!’
David looked around the street. There was movement, like water coming down the river in a rush, grabbing up all the summer branches and leaves and lifting them, only this time it was the people in the street, as they started moving out of their yards and coming towards him. The kids, who’d been playing cricket ran ahead, and reached him first.
‘David Donald, aren’t ya?’ said a boy with black clumps of hair jutting all over his head.
‘Yeah,’ said David.
‘You gunna get them Poms?’ said a lady in a floral dress that looked like it was holding pillows.
‘Um, I hope so missus. If my hand’s all right.’
‘So, it’s true,’ said a man, ‘what Freddy said.’
‘Yes sir. Mrs O’Locklan’s been getting it right.’
‘And Freddy,’ said a thin lady in a cloth hat.
‘Yes, missus.’
David turned to see Mrs O’Locklan, but she’d gone inside.
‘Ya gunna bowl a googly?’ asked a little girl with skinned knees.
‘Course he’s gunna bowl a googly. Get Windsor with that,’ said a male voice.
‘Naw, off break and catch. Like the first innings,’ came another.
‘O’Malley’s his bunny though. No one else can touch ’im, ’cept The Kid.’
‘Have ya got a cap?’ asked a boy.
‘Not yet,’ said David.
‘You didn’t have a hat in that last Test.’
‘Naw, I forgot.’
They laughed, but David didn’t mind.
‘Play cricket with us,’ said the girl with the skinned knees.
‘Oi,’ said a man. ‘Leave him alone.’
‘He’s got a Test coming, love,’ said a lady who had a bowl of peas in her hand.
David looked back to Mrs O’Locklan’s house for a moment.
Some kids were already dragging the rubbish bin up, scraping it along the road. Two boys were wrestling over the bat.
A boy came up, ‘Show us yer big fingers.’
‘Hush Billy!’
‘Naw, it’s all right,’ said David. ‘Big as sausages some reckon.’
More laughter.
‘That’s why I keep getten ’em caught up in things.’
Someone gave him the ball. It was a well-worn tennis ball. He looked at it, not sure he could do much, but a man in a singlet pushed through. ‘Here. It’s a real one from my club.’
‘Thanks, mister,’ said David.
They laughed again. All of them. But then they went quiet, stepping back and waiting. David looked to the rubbish bin, down a corridor of people. An old man edged up, and said, ‘Well, is he as good as Grimmet? Eh?’
David stepped up and he bowled. He bowled leggies and offies and shooters and skidders and loopies. He played with flight and he sorted through some gentle spin and some that he really ripped. He played with line and length, dropping some short and pushing others through to hit the rubbish bin. No one laid bat on ball that afternoon, and everyone in the street, and many more from connecting streets turned up to have a go at David Donald. No one seemed to mind. In fact, thought David later, it became increasingly important to all, including David, that he be absolutely invincible that afternoon.
It only ended when Mrs O’Locklan yelled, ‘Time to come home for dinner, David.’
And it was like David waking, to see it was twilight and dim, and to hear their voices again. ‘Good luck, David.’
‘Um thanks,’ said David. And he turned to go to Mrs O’Locklan’s.
They started clapping. It was silly really, clapping like that in the street, thought David as he kept going to Mrs O’Locklan’s house. But when he opened the gate, he looked and the people were gathered there, and they stopped clapping when they saw him look, and when he got to the veranda he turned and they were still there and he couldn’t think what to do, so he waved, and all of them, the men and the kids and ... they all gave a wave back.
David’s hand had swollen again and Mrs O’Locklan put it into the bowl of her magic goop.
‘I don’t think its swole up nearly as much as before,’ said David.
‘Does it hurt?’ They were eating lamb chops with vegies. Mrs O’Locklan had said he was allowed to eat the chops with his hand as he only had one free. He could feel the fat running down his chin.
‘Not as much.’
‘How about where you got the splinter?’
‘It was nothing. Will you read the cables again?’ He g
estured to the telegrams in front of him. There had been two, waiting for him inside. Grandad and Nell.
‘You should practise your reading.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
She picked up the cables ignoring what she’d told him, letting him get away with it. She looked at the cable and back at him before she read. ‘No more offies STOP Bowl leggies STOP Use your field STOP Grandad.’
David nodded. He was right, but didn’t understand about his hurt hand. ‘He doesn’t know they won’t always put the field where I want.’
She read the other. ‘Master David Donald comma bonzer stuff stop Best wishes stop Nell Parker.’
‘She doesn’t talk like that,’ said David a little embarrassed because he wanted Mrs O’Locklan to think well of Nell.
‘It’s telegram talk.’
‘She doesn’t talk that much. You know. She’s more a doing person. But no airs and graces.’ David put down his chop bone and picked up his fork again. It was greasy from his hand. He pushed at the peas. ‘But she talks about cricket and droughts and peas and has a laugh. She’s cheeky about the Pringles, but not so they hear.’
‘Who are the Pringles?’
‘Just people ... in Dungarin.’
David looked up. Mrs O’Locklan wasn’t listening, he thought. She had her glass of wine in front of her and the bottle out on the table. She still had her make-up on, but her cheeks were puffy and her eyes a little runny. He wondered how his uncle would go with the gangsters.
He went to bed and Mrs O’Locklan came in to say goodnight, as she liked to do. David said, ‘Tell me about my dad.’
‘I don’t know anything.’
‘You do. You’ve said.’
She looked at him, then turned and left the room. David thought he might follow her and demand something, but Mrs O’Locklan came back with her glass of wine.
‘I met your uncle that night for the first time, when he carried your father in. I had been moved up to the field hospital, to help tend the wounded while we moved them back from the front.’ Mrs O’Locklan spoke dreamily like a teacher reading on a hot day. ‘He was very popular apparently, which was very difficult on the line, being a captain and popular, especially in the 51st, as many of them had been to Gallipoli. Your uncle’s battalion was the 16th I think, and so they finally met up around Amiens. That’s a town in France. The most haunting church there I have ever seen, bombed but still standing like it was made out of giant fish bones. Your mother ... do you know what your mother did?’
She looked at him and he whispered, ‘My mother?’
‘Apparently, she sailed to England, which was a very dangerous thing to do, so she could see your father when he was sent up from Gallipoli.’
‘They got married in England,’ said David.
‘Ah,’ said Mrs O’Locklan. ‘Then she must have gone ... come back to Australia. Anyway, this was before Amiens. What was I saying?’
‘My father was a captain.’
‘Yes, and Michael was a ... private again, I think. His cheeky mouth had him demoted as frequently as his bravery had him promoted.’
‘Brave?’
‘Yes, both of them. Fearless. They looked similar. Your dad’s hair was darker. But your father, Captain Donald, was very brave.’
She turned and looked at David, then came forward and sat next to him on the bed. She looked away again and said, ‘I’m going to tell you how he died, David.’
David felt like he’d suddenly burst out of the bush onto a ridge by the river, trying to balance and not fall in.
She was still staring at him, like asking.
‘Tell me.’
She didn’t for a moment, but then continued. ‘Michael had sneaked up the line from his battalion to see Ernie ... your dad. There was a bit of a to-do that night with shelling and forays; the big run hadn’t happened yet. However, they and some other soldiers were mostly ignoring it and having a cup of tea. A grenade—one of those German stick grenades—came out of the dark and landed in their trench.
‘Michael yelled, “Fire in the hole!” which was the warning, and everyone dived for cover. Except Earnest. Michael thinks he could see there was no cover, and they probably would have all gone. He jumped up and grabbed the grenade and tried to throw it out of the trench. But he wasn’t fast enough.
‘Michael grabbed him up with both hands around his arms to stop the bleeding. Pulled him up over his shoulders and ran him along the trench and up onto one of the duckboards back to the hospital tent. He died on the way. Michael’s foot was injured. A piece of shrapnel from bombardment shell had torn off his toe while he was running. He lost a fair amount of blood himself. No one could have got your father back in time. His injuries were too bad. But he had time to tell Michael to give his love to your mum and to look after the baby. His last thoughts were you.’
David felt sick and winded at the same time. He tried to get out of bed, but could hear choking, like gasps coming from some sick creature. Mrs O’Locklan was grabbing at him. He tried to push her away but he couldn’t see properly, nor manage any strength. It must be her, he thought, wailing like a child. She was hugging him, his face pressed into her chest. She was warm and soft and he was being squashed to her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
David imagined his father, looking like a dark-haired Michael in a captain’s uniform, seeing the grenade and rushing to it. He saw it happen again, but this time his father tossed the grenade out over the top of the trench and was safe.
David pushed Mrs O’Locklan back, out of the hug. He could see properly again. Her glass had spilled on the edge of the bed. She had tears in her eyes, searching his face looking for something or trying to give something, he wasn’t sure.
David picked up the glass and gave it to her and said, ‘Thank you, Mrs O’Locklan. Thank you for telling me. I’m going to go to sleep now.’
She didn’t say anything, and David turned away from her, wondering if she might pat him or hug him again. He saw this man see the grenade and saw the man decide to throw it back out. No secret. Just a brave thing that didn’t come off. He sighed, and the air felt good coming in, and so he sucked it in deep and held it in his lungs until his chest felt tingly.
David woke to find Michael shaking him. The light was on.
‘We gotta go.’ His uncle’s face was bleeding.
‘Come on kid, O’Toole’s got wind of where you’re staying. It’ll be in the papers tomorrow, which is soon.’ He dragged David out of the bed. ‘Get dressed. I’ve put Squinty and Mr West off, but I reckon Blackie will be right onto it if he reads the paper.’
David started dressing, as his uncle stuffed clothes and cricket gear into their bags. ‘Bloody O’Toole. Like a vendetta against you. He’s hunting down your grandad for his story.’
‘Did you fight him?’
Michael wiped at the blood. ‘Naw. Him I can take any time. There’s been a bit of a falling out between Squinty and Blackie. Come on. Do up your boots in the car.’
‘Where’s Mrs O’Locklan?’
‘Asleep.’
They went through the kitchen, Michael carrying the bags.
‘I wanna say goodbye.’
‘Well you can’t. She’s as pissed as a newt.’
David looked at her closed door.
‘Later, David. We have to go.’
It was black outside, and David could barely see the car from the light spilling from the hallway. Michael pushed their bags in the back, and cranked the engine, turning on its headlights. He ran back in and closed the front door. Then he ran to the metal dustbin that was still on the pathway and kicked it hard, making it bang and roll and clatter into the fence.
‘Bloody bastard!’ he yelled. ‘You’ve seen the last of me, bloody woman,’ he yelled more loudly.
A light came on next door. He jumped back in the seat and revved the engine. More lights came on. He turned to David and said, ‘So they know we’ve left, mate.’ He pushed the gearstick and it clunked and sta
rted driving fast.
‘Where are we going?’ asked David.
‘Hotel’d be the best, in spite of the bastards. You got a cricket match tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’
The car took the corner too fast, its tyres squealing as it slid a little.
‘Did you have to fight Mr Squinty?’
‘No bloody way. Wouldn’t be here if I tried that.’
David looked at his uncle in the reflected light in the car. His face was bruised and puffed and bloody. One eye was half shut, peering out into the streets, as the car drove slower now. David imagined him with darker hair and in a captain’s uniform. He realised then that until Mrs O’Lockan told him, he’d started to wonder if Michael were really his father, and whether that was the secret.
Michael caught him watching. He smiled at him, lit only a moment as they passed a street lamp. ‘I’ve been thinking, Davey boy. Time for a new trick. Bore it up ’em all again?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What if you do it like we did for the wharfies? You know, for a bit of a laugh, and keep everyone guessing.’
‘What?’
His uncle’s voice came out of the dark, ‘In this Test, don’t take any wickets at all. How’d that be for a laugh?’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
David’s hand was only a little swollen. It was his shoulder that hurt. The aeroplane wall shuddered against his back, even though he was wearing two coats on account of the awful cold. He supposed this air travel would not catch on if it were to be so uncomfortable, except in emergencies such as this. There was one consolation, thought David. The noise of the engines prevented Mr O’Toole from talking to him. He’d tried yelling his questions for a while, but had finally given up.
Mr O’Toole was huddled on the other side of the plane nursing a whisky bottle. Mr Biggins, who the Australian Cricket Board had sent as chaperone, seemed even more miserable as he sat amongst the sacks of mail and petrol tanks. He was further disturbed, periodically, when Mr Ulm came back from the cockpit to up-end one of the petrol containers into a funnel through to the fuel tank of the Fokker called the Southern Cross. It was in this way they could attempt to fly non-stop from Point Cook to Perth, Mr Ulm had explained when they’d loaded up the plane. Mr Kingsford Smith had said they planned to try to fly from America to Australia the following year, and thought they’d have a go at flying to New Zealand after that. ‘If we don’t stack it on this one,’ quipped Mr Ulm. They both seemed quite cheerful at the ‘stacking it’ and ‘buying it’ and ‘dropping it in the drink,’ which only made Mr O’Toole and Mr Biggins even more grumpy. Not being allowed to smoke, on account of all the fuel, had not improved matters.