Spinner (7 page)

The comfortable silence of concentrated attention fell over the nets.

David's first ball was flatter than usual and pitched outside off stump, spinning in towards the wicket. Jarvis stepped back, and straightened, the bat held steady to keep the ball off his wicket. Jarvis blocked it, saying nothing, but nodding at what he'd seen.

David's next delivery was a leg break. It pitched on-line with leg stump where Jarvis liked it, but moved swiftly towards his off stump. He didn't get his bat there in time. The ball sailed over the wicket.

‘What did you reckon about that one then, Wally?' said Jarvis to the man behind the nets.

‘That was a leggie. Nice variation. I didn't see it coming. Seems to be a leg spinner who can bowl offies. What was that last one he gave you, Lucky?'

‘Dunno. Held up on me, sudden. Maybe a flipper.'

Jack Tanner spat a decent sized chunk of chewing tobacco onto the ground.

David was now ready to spring his trap. If it looked the same as the first, the batsman would think he recognised it, only it would really be much faster. When Jarvis saw it land, he started to go back again, ready to hit it on the off side. But this time it beat the bat and crashed into the stumps, the perfect wrong-un.

‘There you go Bob. I told you the kid could bowl. A prodigy. George Baker trained him.'

‘George Baker. Wow.'

The man behind the nets called out to David, ‘So how is old George?'

‘He's good. He's my grandad.'

‘George Baker's grandson!'

‘There's pedigree for you.'

Bob Dunne turned to David too. ‘That means your dad was Ernie Donald.'

Jarvis chimed in, arriving at the bowler's end, ‘Now that man could bat a bit.'

David held himself still, waiting for them to talk about his father.

Jack Tanner spoke from the cricket bags. ‘He's proved nothing 'cept there's some soft-hearted dills want to make a kid happy. This lad might be the grandson of George Baker but he's the nephew of Michael Donald. You forgotten why Michael left the WA team?'

Michael spoke to Dunne and Jarvis. ‘It's personal with Jack. Nothing was ever proved and it cost me my cricket.'

Tanner grabbed his bat and strode towards them as though he might hit Michael with it. ‘He got thrown out of the side for taking bets ... against his own team.'

Michael continued to talk more quietly to Dunne. ‘Suspected, not proved. But this isn't about me. It's about the kid, and what he can do for your cricket side. Come on Bob, since Sean O'Leary did his shoulder, you got no spinner worth twopence.'

‘No team in the whole country has a spinner worth a zack,' called the man from behind the nets.

Jack Tanner stood with Michael, Dunne and Jarvis. ‘He's got the coward's wound.'

‘Now he's going to attack my war record.'

‘Enough of that, thank you, Jack,' said Jarvis.

Tanner turned and went to the wicket where David was bowling, talking all the way. ‘When will you blokes learn? He doesn't want me facing the boy cos I know how to play him. Part of the trick, I reckon, is how he looks. You see this gormless little scarecrow with those long arms and longer fingers, and you feel sorry for him. And you get yourself out. If you act like a batsman facing a real bowler then he's easy.'

‘Now he's cruelly insulting the poor lad just to put him off,' appealed Michael. ‘I don't have to stand for this. We'll come back later Bob and you can have a look at him when things aren't so ... heated.'

‘Uncle Mike,' said David quietly, ‘I can bowl him.'

‘What?'

‘I've seen him bat. A lot. I thought about what I did wrong at the show.'

Michael led David off a little. ‘You sure? He smacked you a fair bit.'

‘I was thinking about all the people. They ... all the looks. All the poppy eyes and ... I started thinking about the people and what they were calling, and what he was calling.'

‘What's different now?'

‘It's cricket nets. Cricket players who I've read about and ... It's cricket nets.'

‘Well, we'll have to sort that out some time, but for now...' Uncle Mike looked at Tanner then over at the other cricketers and to Dunne. He shrugged. ‘You're right. Just cricket nets. Just some chaps from the paper.'

‘Just practice.'

Michael patted David's shoulder. He stood and called, ‘All right Jack. If it'll shut up ya whingeing.'

David went to the top of his mark. He decided that a
dipping, well-flighted ball should beat Tanner in the air. He ran in. Tanner suddenly stepped away from the crease, not taking his guard, as though not ready to bat. David had to pull up and not let go of the ball. Tanner smiled then waved at the air. ‘Flies are bad.' There was laughter.

‘You afraid to face him are ya, Jack?' said Michael.

David ignored them. He just thought about Jack Tanner in his batting stance. The same ball would do. He ran in to bowl. Again Tanner started to step away, but it was later in David's delivery. He bowled the ball, but dragged his arm down too far. As the ball came out, Tanner stepped back in. He'd just been pretending. He leaned back and launched the bat with his powerful shoulders, catching the ball on the full. Whack. It flew back over David's head and over some sheds towards the wall surrounding the ground. Tanner started bowing. There were cheers from his team mates. ‘Like shellin' peas, gentlemen.'

David yelled, ‘That wasn't fair.'

‘Fair game, I reckon,' said Tanner. ‘Now are we done?'

‘That wasn't fair, Mr Dunne,' repeated David.

‘Things aren't always fair, son,' replied Dunne.

‘Yes it is. It's cricket. It has to be fair.'

‘I bet ya twenty quid that David gets you out next ball,' yelled Michael suddenly.

‘Twenty quid?'

‘Twenty quid. And if he doesn't, we'll leave.'

Tanner smiled as he exaggerated taking his guard.

David looked at his uncle with growing alarm. David wasn't so sure any more that he could bowl at the unreadable Tanner. Uncle Mike was coming towards him, holding out a cricket ball.

‘Do you have twenty pounds?'

‘Will soon, I reckon.' He smiled the good smile, his best smile, the one with all the sparkling in his eyes.

David tried to resist it. ‘That's not right, Uncle Mike.'

‘This Tanner bloke deserves to get his comeuppance, wouldn't you say?'

David turned to look at Jack Tanner. The big man was looking at the tightly wound string around his bat handle as though David and his uncle weren't even there.

Uncle Mike talked quietly. ‘I reckon he's going to just block you.'

‘What? But he always hits me way over. That's how he shows off.'

‘But he hates me more. So, my thinking is this. He knows you've seen him go for you. But here's the picture I think he's starting to get in his mind. Tanner will just block the ball back, with nothing on it, then look at me, and hold his hand out to get the twenty pounds. He won't even smile. Take the money, and show me that he'll never think about me for a moment ever again. I'm nothing to him, and this next shot is going to show everyone, but mostly me, that that's what he thinks. Not even worth the energy of hitting hard.'

David looked at his uncle. He had just told a whole story about what was going to happen inside Jack Tanner's mind. David looked down to his hands. He had the cricket ball there. It was scuffed and torn with a frayed stitch, but the leather was still firm.

Michael took the ball from him. ‘Do you understand, David?'

‘No, sir.'

‘Let me put it this way. He is going to block you. He is absolutely definitely one hundred per cent going to block
you. Do you believe that?'

David looked at his uncle. He was trying to believe him.

‘Now get him out.' Michael gave him the ball and walked back to the others.

Tanner stood tall and loose like he was going to smash the ball out of the ground. He did not look like he was going to block it. But he often changed his stance late. He often tricked David into thinking the wrong thing. From where he was standing, it would be very difficult to get down to block one kind of ball.

‘David Donald prepares to bowl. Jack Tanner, on ninety-nine, looks set. Donald comes in.' David ran in and bowled a shooter. The shooter was like the skidder, but did not hold up when it hit the wicket. The ball flew in a temptingly slow arc through the air but when it hit the pitch it sped up, also keeping low. Tanner was caught by surprise. Just as his uncle had predicted, Tanner had moved back to block the ball, but didn't bring his bat down low enough or quickly enough to block the ball. It spun forwards fast and hit his pads, directly in front of the wickets.

‘Not out,' yelled Tanner.

Dunne's finger was up in the umpire's sign for out.

The man behind the stumps had his finger up too. ‘He's got a shooter. Lad's got a shooter. Takes ten years to work up a decent shooter, I thought. Old George musta had him practising before he was born.'

Dunne was nodding.

Tanner stayed in the crease. ‘Hit a crack. Give us another ball.'

‘We done, Dunny?' said Michael quietly.

Dunne nodded, with a bright smile. ‘By my calculation, young Michael, that boy just took four wickets in six balls.'

‘Yeah,' said Michael, ‘he'll do better tomorrow when he's had a decent feed.'

Both men laughed.

The man from behind the nets was suddenly next to David, rubbing his hair. ‘Nice work lad. Wally Grimmet.' He held out his hand.

‘The wicketkeeper, yes sir, pleased to meet you, sir.'

‘I seen your grandad bowl you know, when I was a nipper.'

‘He doesn't bowl now, Mr Grimmet. His hands are too tough from the farm.'

‘Can you bat?'

‘No, sir. Shocking.'

Grimmet laughed. ‘Your dad could bat.' He smiled, then remembered, ‘That's right. That's the story. Your dad married George's girl. Ahh. How is she, your mum? She was a grand beauty that one.'

‘Come on David. Time to go.' His uncle was tugging at his shoulder. ‘Will you get our bags, mate? I got to get our money off Tanner. Nice ball that one. Come on. Shake a leg.'

David stood at the scoreboard waiting for his uncle. He was not thinking about what he had just done, but on some of the things that had been said.

Wally Grimmet had talked about his mother and father as though they lived in an ordinary world where people could bat a bit or someone could ask how your mum was. It seemed possible for a moment to grasp their lives, past childhood, to see them doing things in a world that was not surrounded by a strange and threatening darkness. David thought about how he felt and he found he wasn't breathless at the image of his mother. Then he thought about having that thought, about how it was like feeling whether you were cold or hot, and deciding on that—feeling it and thinking about it and thinking about thinking about it all at once.

If his mother was, as Mr Grimmet had said, a real beauty, then how could David be a little scarecrow? David smiled. He had got Jack Tanner out. And Derrick Jarvis. He wondered whether this would please his grandfather, or if his pleasure in getting Tanner was childish and would lead to poor bowling.

David turned and looked at the oval. It was so green, the green of month-grown wheat. He went down the slope past row after row of wooden benches to the picket fence. It had
even, well-watered grass all the way out to the middle. There was a grandstand over the other side that looked like a kind of palace. The Test that had just finished in Brisbane at the Exhibition Ground was the first ever played in Queensland. It was hard to imagine that happening here. David would settle for being able to play for WA one day right here and never leaving.

There was a gate in the fence. It was nearly closed but not quite latched. David pushed it open with his knee. He stepped onto the ground. There was a patch of uneven grass a few yards ahead. He bent and looked at it. It was greener and higher than the grass around it. Just one patch that looked different. He imagined Jack Tanner running towards a ball hit along the ground. He imagined the ball reaching this patch. It would twist and bounce away in a different direction. ‘Oh no. Rotten luck for Tanner. The ball has evaded him and it crashes into the boundary. Four runs to Windsor in this first-ever Test match for the Ashes at the Western Australian Cricket Association ground. Oh look, it's young Donald coming on to bowl.'

David was at the end of the wicket. It was beautiful. He knelt and touched the grass. He thumped the pitch gently with his fist. It was very hard, but not like coir matting and nothing like cement. He stood and looked down the other end. Twenty-two yards. It was always the same. Always the same distance, the right distance, the same wherever he bowled. Twenty-two yards.

David became aware of the rest of the ground again: the grandstand and seats, the scoreboard. He slowly looked around the ground, following the fence all the way. From here, from the centre, it seemed vast. Strange. It must have been much smaller than the paddocks on the farm. Yet, it
seemed bigger.

He looked back to the other end of the pitch. He felt the weight of a ball in his pocket pressing against his leg. His uncle must have given him one to take back to the bags. He took it out. It was the other old ball that he'd got Jarvis out with. He spun it up and watched it hang in the air before dropping to his other hand, spinning all the way.

There was a breeze. David felt it for the first time. A hot easterly, blowing late. It blew across the wicket. A bowler could toss the ball up and let it drift a little in that breeze before it landed and spun. From this end, David could drift the ball left and away from a batsman, then spin it even further away or suddenly back at him.

David bowled. He watched the ball float and drop. When it hit the wicket it suddenly bounced high, much higher than David had expected. He carefully walked around the wicket as he went down to the other end to get the ball. The extra bounce was good. With some overspin he could make the ball seem as if it was jumping at the batsman. He could use that. If a batsman reached out for the ball they might mistime the hit. The batsmen would have to worry about movement up and down as well as side to side. David thought he would try a loopy and see how fast he could make the ball bounce up. And then a shooter to make sure it didn't bounce too high. He bent to pick up the ball.

A policeman grabbed him by the arm. ‘What do you think you're doing, lad?' The policeman was in full uniform with heavy blue jacket and helmet.

‘If you've damaged this wicket in any way, I'll 'ave yer bloody guts for garters, you little urchin.' This was from a man in a white coat and broad hat. He was moving along the edge of the wicket as though searching.

‘How'd you get in here?' said the policeman, still holding David's arm.

David had an urge to run. He hadn't formed an idea of where he'd run to, or why he should, but he just knew he wanted to.

‘Well, cat got your tongue?'

‘I know a fellow—we call him Captain—that if you said that to him, Constable, you'd get no answer. Bullet went up through his chin, took off his tongue and went out through his left eye. And he lived, although admittedly not to tell the tale. Does deliveries round Northam. Good listener though.' It was Uncle Mike.

‘Is this lad yours?' said the policeman, not joining in on Michael's smiling.

‘He bowled on the wicket,' said the man in the white hat.

‘Ah, well for that you have our sincerest apologies, gentlemen. David here has just been asked to join the WA combined team. He did not realise that the centre wicket is off limits.'

‘Poppycock,' said the man in the white coat.

‘How old are you?' said the policeman.

David couldn't answer. He was speechless. Asked to join the Western Australian team?

‘He's twelve.' Uncle Mike was bringing things out of his pocket. There was money and papers and finally a card with writing on the back. ‘This is from Bob Dunne. Our grounds pass.' He handed the pass to the policeman.

‘Well, you need to have this on you at all times, you know.'

David nodded.

‘Twelve! Twelve years old,' said the man in the white
coat, walking away and shaking his head.

‘Very good spin bowler,' said Uncle Mike. ‘You seen better around here?'

But the man was too far away now.

Uncle Mike said to the policeman, ‘Do you know a decent spin bowler in all West Australia right now?'

‘I wouldn't know,' said the policeman, handing back the pass. ‘I don't like cricket.'

‘Fair enough too. Boring game. Huge waste of time. Come on, David. Time to find a hotel.' Michael grabbed David's arm and steered him towards the other side of the ground.

‘Is it true?' asked David.

‘Which part?'

‘That I'm joining the team.'

‘Ah. Well, yes. It is true. You've been asked to join the team. But I didn't mention you were joining the team—at practice.'

‘Just practice.'

‘Well that's just a start. You'll be in the team in no time if you keep getting them all out.'

David was relieved, not disappointed.

‘With Wally Grimmet?'

‘He was particularly keen.'

David nodded.

‘Say what you like about Jack, he likes to travel in style. Fancy walking around with twenty quid in your pocket.' Michael still had a small wad of pounds in his hand. ‘Time for a treat, I reckon. Want to go to the motion pictures? How about a swim in the river?'

‘I want to sleep.'

‘Sleep?'

David thought some more. ‘And a wireless. Can we stay at
a place that has a wireless?'

‘You never know your luck in the big city.'

So Uncle Mike got them a room in the Royal Hotel which was back down near the railway station. The room had a radiogram which was a wireless in a little wooden cupboard. Uncle Mike turned a knob and the radiogram came on with a hum and glow.

‘Is the Test on?'

‘No. It starts tomorrow.'

There was music. It would sometimes fade away but then would get louder, like the wind was blowing the sound. The room had polished boards with rugs on the floor and a big soft bed. There was a bureau and wash stand. There was an electric light on the wall. The wallpaper had so many little yellow flowers David couldn't count them, but when he closed his eyes just a little bit they'd seem to slide and join and dance to the music.

He wondered if Nell would listen to the cricket too. He wasn't sure what day it was. If it was a school day she might be able to hear a little after school. Would Grandad have told Mr Wallace that he wouldn't be in school? Would Nell know? She would have gone out to the farm after the first day, David supposed. She would have ridden out and said, ‘Hello, Mr Baker. Where's David?' Would Nell ask why he was gone? Would she ask when he was coming back? David couldn't imagine what his grandfather's reply would be. He couldn't see past the old man standing in the kitchen and ordering, ‘Don't you cry, boy.'

David woke in the dark. He lay there trying to recall where he was. Some music was playing and he remembered
the radiogram. Tomorrow the second Test would start. Lights flashed across the ceiling. There was noise outside somewhere, like a constant clatter, but with no detail to it. The man on the radio said, ‘That was King Oliver's Dixie Syncopators with “Showboat Shuffle.”' Some more music came on then.

David was hungry. There was light coming under the door of the hotel room. He went out into the hall which was well lit and then halfway down the big jarrah stairs that led to the main entrance. There was carpet and flowers on tables, but he couldn't see his uncle. The front doors were open and people walked past. In the street were cars with their night lamps turned on.

A lady came in. She wasn't dressed up like lots of the people passing. David thought she looked like an ordinary lady in a print frock. She was unhappy. She went to the door of the main bar, and pushed open the swing door.

David went down the steps to see past her into the huge, smoky bar filled with noisy men.

The lady yelled, ‘Frank Reilly. Frank Reilly.'

There was laughter in the bar. A man yelled, ‘Frank, better run.'

Another man yelled, ‘He's not here, missus.' More laughs.

But the lady didn't move. She yelled louder, ‘Frank Reilly, you come home now and feed your kids.'

The bar went quiet a bit then.

‘Frank Reilly, don't you drink any more of our money.'

The men seemed to decide then, as though they'd taken a silent vote. Someone said, ‘Go on then, Frank.' ‘Go an' get some dinner there, Mr Reilly.' It was Uncle Mike. There were mutters and yeahs, and then the men nudged him forward.
He had no hat or tie. The men rippled the Frank Reilly man towards his missus. He looked drunk and subdued, but as he reached the lady he gave her an angry look. She turned and walked out. His shoulders slumped and he followed her.

The men in the bar were quiet for a moment.

‘All right then,' said Uncle Mike. ‘Mr Reilly won't be getting a chance at this authentic Terry Brown bat. Might get the rolling pin.' The men laughed.

One of the swing doors to the public bar had stayed open when Mr Reilly had left and David edged up to see further inside. Some men were in work suits, but most wore the loose shirts and trousers of working men. Each man was holding a glass of beer. Some gulped and slammed their glasses down; others sipped; one or two stroked the glass as though feeling for blemishes.

‘This is the bat he used to score his double century against England in 1893.' David's uncle was using the voice he'd used at the Northam show.

‘Bullshit,' yelled someone.

‘Oi,' laughed Michael, ‘careful of your language around young Alice there.'

There was more laughter, and the barmaid, who didn't look young to David, yelled, ‘Yeah, youse kin all watch ya bloody language.'

More laughter. David looked at her through the smoke. She was moving up and down the bar, pouring beers and taking money. The top buttons of her blouse weren't done up and when she bent you could see a little bit of her breasts.

‘I'll prove to you that it's not bulldust. I'll pass the bat around. Have a look. If nothing else tonight, you can say
for the rest of your life, that you've held the bat that belted the Poms.'

Someone yelled, ‘Yeah, that's not gunna happen again soon.'

‘Yeah, we're bloody useless.'

The bat was passed and men touched and turned and studied.

‘While you're lookin', let me just tell how I come into the possession of this amazing piece of cricket legend.'

David noticed that his uncle's voice had changed a little. He was sounding more like a farm labourer or a normal person now. He didn't sound like a teacher at all. ‘Now you might have heard about a little fracas over in Europe a few years ago now.'

There was a cheer. There were grumbles too.

‘Well, I was there.'

‘Is that when you shot your toe off?'

There was a sudden big silence. Men looked from Michael to the man who called.

Michael suddenly smiled. ‘You wanna find out how much of a coward I might be?'

All the men in the bar waited a moment with eager, hungry smiles.

But David's uncle suddenly shrugged and smiled and called, ‘I notice you waited until I didn't have Mr Brown's cricket bat in my hand when you slagged me, mate.'

Laughter. Someone called, ‘Yeah, get over it.'

‘Tell us the bat story.'

The man who had called, scowled and looked down into his beer, saying nothing more.

‘Well, on the way to France, where I stepped on something sharp, I met a man in Egypt. No, he didn't have a hump and
wasn't called a camel, and he wasn't wearing a tea towel.'

More laughter. David was laughing too in the warmth of watching his uncle tell his story and making the men smile and laugh while he did it.

‘Well, I did a bit of a good turn for the fella, and chased off a couple of Pommie sailors, and we got to visiting some ... um, close your ears now Alice ... one of those harems, shall I say ... Anyway, pissed as newts, I find out he's Terry bloody Brown's bloody son. And he's luggin' around ... yes, you guessed it. He's luggin' around his dad's bat, all over a beach in Turkey and Egypt and wants to take it to France. He sleeps with the bloody thing. Mostly, he gets it through by tying it to his rifle and no one's the wiser. Not too good if he has to see a bit of action, mind, trying to get to the trigger past two stocks.'