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‘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 started 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?'

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.

The Prime Minister, Mr Stanley Bruce, had insisted on getting David across to Dungarin, once everyone heard that Grandad was sick, and Mr Kingsford Smith and Mr Ulm had volunteered to move up their record attempt. ‘May as well get in on the record-breaking act,' Mr Ulm had said at the airstrip as the newspaper men took photographs to record the event. ‘With the Wonder Kid's luck, we'll probably get there by yesterday,' Mr Kingsford Smith grinned. Mr O'Toole claimed, ‘Nothing is too good for David Donald. The entire nation rallies.' There was some coughing at that point, and one press man said, ‘Steady on, Charlie. We'll write our own headlines if you don't mind.'

David felt his sore shoulder, and then had another go at reading the newspaper. Even without the shaking of the plane, the words were difficult to make out, but he had many hours to practise his reading.

VICTORY FOR AUSTRALIA—ALREADY!

The fourth Test of the current series of the Ashes began and concluded yesterday when England was bowled out for a total of 1 run. Australia, by virtue of scoring 2 runs in the first innings, has consequently won the Test. The entire Test match lasted less than three hours.

The wicket was affected by the lack of water, yet this is clearly the most astonishing bowling feat of the modern or any era. Young bowling prodigy David Donald took all wickets, finishing with the incomprehensible figures of ten for 0 and ten for 1.

MELBOURNE, JANUARY

27—Words seem as inadequate as an English bat in attempting to capture the tumult of today's play, however these reporters will endeavour to record the day as if it were an ordinary game of cricket.

Anticipation turned to the first of many surprising pieces of play when Richardson tossed young Donald the ball to open the bowling. Muttering could be heard around the ground, as this move was dissected by the crowd, some assuming the kind of gamesmanship Australia was accused of using during the third Test in Adelaide.

William O'Malley, who had already become somewhat Donald's ‘bunny' in the third Test was safely at the other end, and it appeared Dorrington was attempting to curb his natural aggression by defensive play. From the beginning he did not seem comfortable. The first he edged onto his pads.

The second delivery went to ground short of a diving Hall, at silly point. The third ball seemed exactly like the second, however, it caught the bat high and managed to hold in the air long enough for Hall to take a fairly simple catch. England were one down for none, and Australia were cockahoop, no one imagining what was to come.

In what was to become a succession of wickets in which the walk to and from the wicket took longer than the batsman's innings, ample time was allowed for the crowd and cricket reporter to dissect the bowling. This discussion was essential as it is doubtful whether anyone other than David Donald and perhaps umpires Bosanquet and Wisden had specific knowledge of any of the types of balls bowled by Donald today.

Indeed, this will be a matter for later analysis, requiring intense interrogation of fielders and batsmen to achieve any intelligence of the issue. Donald's combination of flight, dip, trick balls and massive spin seem to defy descriptions of stock spin bowling. Put more simply, the ball is doing too much to read from the press box. Clearly the English bats felt the same way.

Longford appeared to greet Donald with a friendly nod. The ball he received was far from that. It reared up off the pitch and climbed sharply. The English captain began a simple block, however the ball caught an edge and was claimed by Baker, keeping up to the stumps. Longford nodded his appreciation of the delivery to an unmoved Donald.

Edward Windsor strode to the wicket, imperious as ever. Making no concession
to the circumstances, he charged Donald, who appeared to alter his line such that the next delivery passed the swinging bat, only to spin back into Baker's gloves where he made an easy stumping. Windsor did not adjust his stride to continue back to the pavilion.

At three down for no score, young Timothy Bishop, who had caused Donald some problems in the third Test, came to the crease. There appeared to be a conference between Donald, Richardson and Jack Tanner at this point, with much pointing from Tanner and Richardson and much nodding from Donald.

The field came in, and Bishop wandered and darted about on the crease as if to dance the foxtrot. A man less nimble would not have managed to evade the ball so delicately as Bishop did today. Bowled middle stump. England four for none. At this point, delirium broke out around the ground.

Not on the field however, where matters remained concentrated. Donald still had one ball left of his first over. He used it to bowl an attentive Morgan. The ball pitched well outside the left-hander's off stump. There have been reports since the game that there was a kind of whirring sound, “like a tiny car engine.” The English wicketkeeper was determined not to get an edge, as the ball changed direction and headed inexorably towards the top of off stump. Morgan watched the ball all the way behind his legs to its final destination. England five wickets down for 0 runs.

The jubilation of the first over soon gave way to new interest. Relieved of Donald's total domination, what would the English do? The answer was predictable, as it turned out, in a most unpredictable day. O'Malley, who had been secure up the other end, did what O'Malley always does. He did not play any ball that he did not have to and he blocked those that he did. Let us be clear. Calligan bowled very well. On any other day in any other Test he would be lauded. He probably might have got a wicket. But on this day, he bowled a tight, spirited line just on and outside off stump. He took no wicket. O'Malley scored no run.

Ostler, having watched O'Malley play tight defensive cricket for an over, appeared to decide he'd have none of that. As Donald came in to bowl his first ball, Ostler stepped back and forward and swung lustily. More importantly he connected with the ball. It travelled in the air halfway to Bardsley at a kind of deep backward point. Whether Ostler was so surprised at his feat, or whether O'Malley was too fearful to leave ‘the shallow end of the pool,' both batsmen paused sufficiently for Bardsley to gather the ball on the bounce and fire it back to the wicketkeeper. On any other day in any other Test, it was surely an easy single.

Ostler attempted a similar shot next ball, but it appeared to hold up on him, and he mis-hit. Still, on another day it may have been four. McLeod, at extra cover, leapt high and to his left. The ball bobbed from his outstretched left hand, only to be gathered in by both before he hit the ground, to take a corker of a brilliant catch.

Darby, perhaps employing spinner's tactics to a spinner, swept his first delivery to square leg, but sent a catch to short fine leg when he attempted the same shot to the similar-looking next delivery. It is illustrative of the game that Johnson was brought into the short fine leg position for that very ball.

The remaining batsmen did not trouble the scorers and should little trouble this account. Dwyer was caught in first slip by Richardson. Tudor was bowled middle stump, trying to get his pad to the ball outside the line. Finally, and next ball, Proctor did not offer a shot and was pronounced leg before wicket. Four balls for four wickets.

I confess I remain giddy reporting the day's play. It is as though I have stood too hurriedly and lack sufficient blood to the brain. I can't quite recall exactly what happened next, and I have asked many people. There was no cheering.

As Australia came off, and allowed Donald first egress, the crowd stood and they clapped, in a rather restrained manner. Perhaps they knew what was to come.

(More on this issue by another columnist—Ed.) Douglas Tudor seemed particularly fired up for his opening over, and struck Johnson with the second and third ball. When, after five balls of Proctor's opening over, Johnson nicked one down to fine leg, Bardsley charged down the pitch, Johnson turning for a second on the throw and just making his ground for a chancy two runs.

As though on an arranged signal, the Australian batsmen looked immediately
to the pavilion. It took all those at the ground quite some time to work out what had gone on. They had been called in. Australia was declaring the innings closed—for just 2 runs! It seemed an insane decision at the time, throwing away all the advantage of Donald's glorious work with the ball.

There were mutters and booing from the crowd, and no little consternation in the press box. A bewildered English team tarried on the oval, but had broken up into a number of smaller groups in earnest conversation as they retired from the field.

Donald was given the new ball again, but employed different tactics at the beginning of the British second innings. Richardson and Donald crowded an outrageous number of fielders around the bat. Only two fielders (not counting Donald) were further than two yards from the batsman, one being Hall at extra cover and Bardsley at short fine leg. England had changed tactics also, O'Malley facing.

It was a brute of a delivery which bowled O'Malley first ball. It was especially damaging not only to him but to the whole English side, I believe, given O'Malley's renowned defensive abilities. When the ball pitched, it seemed as though it would very nearly be called a wide, but was already drifting in. It spun viciously, both more briskly and more sharply than this reporter has ever
witnessed. But it also kept low. And it didn't appear to be finger spin. O'Malley was simply too late to get his bat into position.

This ball did not just get O'Malley out. It did much more than that. This ball, The O'Malley Ball, may signal the necessity of a structural change to the game of cricket. O'Malley in his normal stance, ready to face all comers, at least expects them to come from the front. This ball seemed to come from the side, and O'Malley was not in a position to cope with it. The ball that bowled O'Malley at the start of the second innings in Melbourne today is the greatest ball I have ever seen, not least because it seemed to defy the laws of physics. It was impossible and outrageous and unplayable. O'Malley stood, as we all did, shaking his head like a big man who has been punched hard by a bantamweight. Or like Goliath on that day.

Longford did not come in next. This may have been a ploy to save the left-handers, although everyone was now vulnerable to Donald, if he could switch from unplayable leggies to right-angle googlies/arm-balls at will. Whatever the reason, the batting order was changed and Windsor strode out, I suggest, a little less manfully than before. Windsor swept the first ball beautifully. His left leg went forward early, and he was down on his knee hitting cleanly across the spin. Only a miraculous dive by Hampton sent the ball ricocheting towards Donald at the bowler's end. Dorrington only just made his ground to prevent a run-out, although it must be admitted that Donald fumbled the ball. Even with all the miracles of today, Donald cannot field or bat.

Attempting the same sweep shot next ball, Windsor took a top edge, which, being hit with some force, flew over Baker's head. Tanner at second slip dived backwards and at full stretch to take the catch magnificently. The crowd cheered again when Windsor threw his bat away when he was halfway to the rooms. (We are sure to hear more of that matter.)

Bishop was next. He danced around the wicket again, and again failed to achieve congress of bat on ball, being hit below the roll of his pad, dead in front. Umpire Bosanquet denied an enormous appeal, and not just from the players. It appeared plum. The next ball was equally straight, but lower, some suggesting it was Donald's famous skidder. This one was given: Bishop out lbw for none, and no longer Donald's nemesis. The crowd became more

The crowd became more restive at this point. So did the press box. It began to dawn on all of us watching today that the special thing we were witnessing could turn into something miraculous. It was now three wickets down for no runs in the second innings. Would England even score a run? Even the contemplation of such a thing was surely impossible.