Spinner (3 page)

David headed down towards the river to turn on the irrigation before the sun came up. He had a thick piece of bread dangling from his mouth and Jess watched the bread rather than him as she trailed him on his morning jobs.

The irrigation was a clever system of pipes and taps, which came up from the river to water a couple of paddocks where they grew fruit trees and some melons. If things got dry, and they were already very dry this year, they could move some of the hoses and pipes to keep some feed going on higher paddocks. If the river held. His grandfather said, ‘If the river goes, and it does every twenty years or so, there's no good pumping dirt.'

To save as much water as they could there were taps at virtually every juncture of pipe. It was David's job of a morning to turn every single tap on, then half an hour later, turn them off. Each tap was big and hard to turn. He liked to think of it as part of his bowling practice, for the years of turning and turning back had considerably strengthened his wrist and fingers. David crouched by a tap. ‘Donald to Windsor ... and he bowls.' He turned the tap sharply. ‘Bowled middle stump.'

Jess came up and prodded him with her snout and David gave her a bit of crust. He knew he shouldn't. ‘Don't pet the
dogs. They're working dogs. You want a pet, move to town.' His mother had ruined a good working dog when she was young. She kept giving it biscuits and petting it and playing and mothering. The dog took to sneaking off to her in the day when it should have been working sheep. ‘What did you do, Grandad?' David had asked. He half expected his grandfather to say he'd shot the dog or locked his mother in the tool shed or something like that, but the old man had simply coughed and spat before confessing, ‘I wasn't tough enough on her and she kept the dog. It was already spoiled by then.'

David turned angrily on Jess, ‘Go on, git. Git out of it. I got work to do.'

Jess's ears dropped and she skulked off, but she didn't go far.

David reached another tap down by the river. He tugged before it gave, but then turned, allowing the canvas hose to fill, like a huge snake breathing in. As David went to the second tap, some twenty yards on, he returned to his commentary. ‘And Mr Donald moves in to the English captain, and he bowls. The ball is spinning viciously in the air. One can see it spin from the stands. It bites on the pitch and spins. Longford is reaching. No. It's past him. He's out. Longford has been bowled, out for forty-nine.'

David waved his hands in the air, making a scratchy crowing sound, like the crowd cheering when it's heard down a telephone line and into the wireless.

Jess joined in, barking with the crowd noise.

David was now approaching the next tap. ‘Windsor, imperious as ever, regards young Donald as he comes in to bowl.'

David's grandfather felt that Windsor was susceptible to
spin because of his open stance.

Jess had moved now. She'd taken up her position at the next tap along the line. As David came forward, she shuffled back low on all fours seeming to wait for the next dismissal.

‘He bowls. It's the skidder.'

Jess barked.

David made the crowd cheer as he moved to the next sprinkler.

David and his grandfather had been working on strategies to bowl at all the great batsmen in the world, especially the English. David's grandfather said there were few quality spinners in the world today and so batsmen were not practised at playing them. David wondered if the war had killed all the old spinners as it had his father.

David bowled out Proctor and continued spinning his way across the paddocks, bowling out batting line-ups from around the world to the adoring barks of Jess. Breakfast was at six and usually quiet, as Grandad thought through his own chores for the day. Today though, he was more talkative, as he swallowed bread and egg with a gulp of strong tea.

‘You got the linchpin all right then.' Grandad nodded at the bolt lying on the kitchen table.

‘Yes, sir.'

‘No trouble?'

‘No, sir,' said David, thinking that maybe his grandfather didn't need to know about Mrs Pringle. It was likely to upset him too. His grandfather was studying David hard, and so David smiled to let him know he was fine about it all and knew he'd deserved what happened and there were no
grumbles from him.

‘You didn't do your bowling practice last night.'

‘But I couldn't, sir, because I had to get the bolt.'

‘If you're ready for school, we can do five minutes now.'

‘Can we? Oh, I'm right. Ready as rain. Beauty, Grandad.'

The old man followed his grandson out to where they practised. There was a concrete pad exactly the size of a wicket set along the side of the work shed across the yard from the house. There was matting laid across the top of half the slab, just like they did on non-grassed wickets down in Perth and in India.

When his grandad was The George Baker, he had built it to practise on in the off-season. David practised on it now. At the far end was a metal contraption resembling the three stumps, but which would not fall over when hit by the ball. Three yards behind the wickets was half a corrugated rain tank, set in a semi-circle to stop any balls from rolling too far away.

David went to a box of old cricket balls at the bowler's end, grabbed one and started spinning it up into the air, to catch it and start it spinning again.

‘Show me your new one,' said Grandad, taking a position halfway down and next to the pitch so he was looking back at David.

‘The skidder?'

His grandad nodded.

David could feel him watching closely as David concentrated on getting the grip right. He extended his forefinger and index finger across the seam, with his thumb bent under. The thumb was the key to this one.

David moved in normally and bowled with his usual loop. But, as he was about to let it go, he ripped his thumb
backwards rather than spinning his fingers forwards. It was like clicking his fingers to make a noise, as he squeezed out the ball. The ball hit the mat and instead of turning away from the wicket like normal leg spin or towards the wicket like a googly or wrong-un, it went straight, skidding forwards and low. When the ball hit the metal wickets it clanged and David leapt into the air. ‘Yes.'

‘No.'

David thought through everything. Good grip. Same flight and action. It was a good straight ball. Might have got an lbw if the batsman was defensive. And it did go lower for the backspin. David didn't know what he'd done wrong.

‘Show me your grip again.'

David got another ball from the box, and extended his three longest fingers across the seam once again. He bent his thumb under and checked his other fingers.

‘Now show me your grip for the googly.'

David moved his thumb up toward the other fingers just a little.

His grandfather pointed to his hand. ‘Your thumb's come up closer to your other fingers.'

‘Yes, sir,' said David, turning his hand to see. ‘It lets me spin it more.'

‘No problem with the googly or your leggie, but when you're running in to bowl your skidder, what's the batsman doing?'

‘Taking guard?'

‘After that?'

‘Deciding on the shot?'

‘Before that.'

‘Watching the flight?'

‘Before that?'

‘Looking at the ball in my hand!'

‘Yes.'

David moved his thumb backwards and forwards. ‘He might see I'm going to bowl the skidder, because I've moved my thumb.'

‘Find a way to get your hand positions closer to your other deliveries.'

‘Yes sir.'

‘Fifty or so, then get off to school.'

‘Yes, sir.'

His grandfather nodded before leaving. David looked down at his hand around the ball moving his thumb backwards and forwards while feeling it push into the leather. Happy that he had a similar grip to his leggie, he stepped in to bowl. The ball was straight but it didn't back spin at all. In fact, it simply bounced up and would have been hit into the grandstand. ‘Maybe even out of the ground,' said David as he grabbed another old ball out of the box. He practised for another ten minutes before having to hurry for school.

David wasn't much interested in school and it didn't seem to have much interest in him. When confronted with pen and chalk, his long fingers behaved with the sureness of the legs of a newborn calf. He wasn't bad at 'rithmatic but just couldn't make the spelling of words stick at all. His reading was awful. Even in a farming school, where most kids would be working at thirteen, David was a poor scholar. His dreaming didn't help, said his teacher Mr Wallace.

At lunchtime, Mr Wallace came up to where David was sitting on the edge of the oval watching the other kids play cricket. ‘Not good news, I'm afraid, David.'

‘Worse than this morning sir?'

‘All out for one hundred and twenty-three. And four for forty-nine.'

‘Us or them?'

‘They enforced the follow-on.'

‘We're getting killed sir.'

‘They haven't beaten us since 1912.'

‘Until now.'

‘You never know. Read on,' said Mr Wallace with a half smile. He was offering the paper. It wouldn't have today's figures but the back pages were full of the first two days play. It was Mr Wallace's way of getting David to read.

David tried to read the story down the bottom because the word ‘Spinner' had caught his eye. ‘Spinner Cause?'

Mr Wallace must have already read it all because he nodded. ‘Spinner Curse. There's a sports reporter named O'Toole who believes there is a curse on Australian spin bowlers. Hobbs fell off a horse and broke his arm.'

‘Hobbs! He had a sore foot. He was nearly better wasn't he?'

‘Read the story and find out.'

David sighed and pretended to read the news report while he considered Hobbs' accident. Hobbs was past his prime but a clever and talented spin bowler. Australia could sure use him now as England seemed to fancy the fast bowlers.

‘If you didn't try so hard they'd let you play, you know?'

When David looked up confused, his teacher pointed out to his classmates, including Nell, who were playing cricket during their lunch break. ‘It's no fun for any of them if you just get them out with every ball.'

‘Don't try, sir?'

‘Not so hard. Just with them. For the fun of the game.'

‘I can't, sir.'

‘Of course you can. Toss some up so they can hit them.'

‘Even if I want to, Mr Wallace, my fingers won't let me. I've tried. When I come in to bowl my fingers take over and bowl properly no matter what I tell them.'

David watched Mr Wallace looking at him with the kind of look he gave when he thought someone was lying about the spit ball on the blackboard. ‘Then you can't blame them if they won't let you play.'

‘No, sir.' David didn't blame them, certainly not for the ban on him bowling and probably not for any lack of friendship either.

‘You can keep that,' said Mr Wallace, pointing at the newspaper. ‘Practise your reading. You might want to look at the falling wheat prices too.'

‘Thank you, Mr Wallace,' said David, watching his teacher mop the back of his neck under his hat as he went back inside. Mr Wallace was one of the people who David made especially irritable, like hot muggy weather or a fly that won't stop going at your eyes. David would like not to annoy Mr Wallace. He quite liked him. But David did not know how to get people to like him.

School ended at two p.m., which was four p.m. in Brisbane because it was across the other side of the country. Even so there should have been some hours of cricket play to listen to from the wireless in the window of the Railway Hotel. By the time David got there, it was already over.

‘In what has been one of the most comprehensive victories from a touring side, England has given Australia a lesson in all aspects of the game. It is a lesson that Australia needs to take to heart forthwith if they are to have any hope in the remaining four Tests. It's very difficult to see any possibility
of improvement by the next Test in Melbourne.'

Australia had been bowled out for just eighty-four in the second innings. They'd been beaten by an innings and four hundred and sixteen runs. It seemed they needed batsmen as well as bowlers. They'd been thrashed in all areas of the game.

Mr Pringle's motor car was parked in the yard when David got home. The engine ticked slowly like a one-winged cicada. Even though his grandfather never said a word, David was pretty sure that the Pringles rarely visited without taking some of the farm with them when they left.

Two of the Mr Pringles were in the kitchen with Grandad when David went in. The oldest Mr Pringle, who owned the Westralian and the bank and the dancing Mrs Pringle, was standing. The youngest Mr Pringle, who ran the silos, was sitting at the table with papers out in front of Grandad.

‘I told Mrs Pringle to put the shaft bolt on the account,' said David quickly.

‘That's good, David,' said Mr Pringle without looking at him.

‘Good afternoon, young Donald. School, eh?' said the youngest Mr Pringle with a grimace.

It was as if David had come across a painting of the kitchen. His grandfather never looked up from the papers and the other two men stayed frozen where they'd been when he came in, looking at the papers as though they might try to fly away.

David felt like he had to rescue his grandfather from something. ‘Did you hear the result? It's over already.'

‘Not now David. Get some food and do your jobs.'

David went to the meat safe for apricot preserve and
bread. He didn't get butter because he could feel the men waiting for him to leave. His grandfather just kept reading one of the papers, his forefinger tracing the numbers on the page, with his lips moving ever so slightly as if in prayer.