Hat Trick! (11 page)

Nowadays, cricket pitches are covered, prepared, and looked after with great care. But 100 years ago, things were quite different. In a 1910 game between Victoria and South Australia, with a particularly wet wicket, the match was delayed when a frog appeared from a crack in the pitch.

Monday—morning

AT
breakfast the following morning it was as though nothing had happened. Rahul greeted me with a formal handshake. His eyes met mine.

‘Thank you, Toby. It was a gift from heaven. I shall not ask you again. Ever. I promise.’ He smiled.

‘How’d it go with your dad last night?’

‘Very good. I sort of knew bits and pieces about what happened, but Dad had never fully explained everything. He said the time would come. I think it was good for him too. He found it difficult. He was crying too. But it is the best thing to have happened.’

‘Does he know about—you know, the time—’

‘No. The dream was an excellent idea.’

‘It just came into my head,’ I said. ‘You tell me about it—one day. Okay?’

Rahul looked down at his shoes, then back to me. ‘Yes. I will. But not yet. And we’ll take Dean Jones’ word for it that he went to hospital, eh, Toby?’

Monday—afternoon

After school I headed up to my room. I flicked on my desk light, hit ‘play’ on the CD player and started thinking.

I’d had an idea ticking over in my head. If I could somehow convince Jimbo’s dad to change his mind about not letting Jimbo play cricket, then maybe I could get Jimbo onto the team. Surely Jimbo’d want that. But how would I do it? How can you change someone’s mind?

I lay on the bed staring at my cricket posters, thinking about Jimbo and his dad. My mind wandered to his house. The hall…

Then suddenly it came to me. I shot up off the bed, my heart racing. The hall! The cricket kit! The kit that Mr Temple was putting in the garage sale. If I could get back to the game when Mr Temple was hit, and sneak a letter into his kit—a letter that would convince him to change his mind about his attitude to cricket—then maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t notice the letter for all those years that he didn’t play cricket. Until, one day…

I shoved things off my desk and grabbed a piece of paper. I would have to type it. But I’d write a draft first.

Fifteen minutes later I had written a rough copy. I put it aside and headed downstairs for a snack. On the way a thought struck. What if the cricket kit had already been sold? Weren’t garage sales usually on a
Saturday morning? I hoped it was next weekend. I already had a plan to get Jimbo’s dad looking in the kit.

Monday—evening

This time I would be travelling alone. I was going to head back to the same park that Jimbo and I had visited. With any luck the creepy guy in the long cloak with the scary voice and the nasty smell wouldn’t be there. Jim had said that solo travel was safer.

I told Dad I was going to do a bit more cleaning up in the garage.

‘And don’t come in until I tell you, Dad. I want it to be a surprise.’

‘Sounds good to me,’ he called from the kitchen. ‘You’ve got as long as you like!’

I managed to arrive a lot earlier this time, and walked to the park. I kept out of the way too, shielded by a clump of trees on the far side of the oval.

I waited patiently. Life here felt gentle. There were birds and dogs and empty spaces. The picnic rugs were out, and people were pouring drinks and opening up containers of sandwiches. As I sat there, enjoying the peace, it occurred to me that there was cricket happening all around the world, and every game, every situation, was different.

As the moment drew near, I started to focus more on the game. I looked at the envelope. I took out the sheet of paper and read it one more time.

You made a decision. And given what happened to you, it was perfectly understandable. But now it is time to give someone you love the opportunity to play the game he loves. And display the skills that, being your son, he surely must possess.

I folded the sheet back into the envelope and sealed it. I made my way down to where the players were mingling. Some had left. I hunted around for the cricket bag with the initials R.T. on it. It was right in among the players, who were moving around.

Don’t meddle, talk, nor interfere

With the lives of those you venture near.

I stopped in my tracks. The words had suddenly come into my head. I looked about, half-expecting someone close by to be telling me the poem. But no one was paying any attention to me. As quickly as the words had come, they were gone.

Without another thought I moved over to the bag. I bent down. A Gray Nicholls bat lay across the top of it.

‘You looking for something?’ A voice called behind me. I turned. One of the players had noticed me down near the kit.

‘Um, no. I saw this fall out when the bat was thrown onto the kit,’ I said, showing him the envelope. ‘I was just going to put it back.’ He stared at me then shrugged.

‘Hang on. I’ll grab Richard’s stuff and you can pack it all in properly.’

He came back a moment later with pads, gloves, a thigh pad, protector and a cap. There was blood on it.

‘Good man,’ he said. Carefully, I placed the gear into the bag. I slipped the letter down, resting it between the bat and the side of the bag.

I did up the straps.

It could be opened that night. Or maybe, not for years. I got up and walked away, not looking back. When I had reached a tree about 20 metres away, I turned. No one seemed to be paying any attention to the kitbag, or to me.

But for every word that boasts ahead

Means lives unhinged, broken, dead.

Seven batters have recorded over 10,000 Test runs in their careers. Sachin Tendulkar (11,821), Rahul Dravid (10,122) and Ricky Ponting (10,099) are still playing. Brian Lara (11,953), Allan Border (11,174), Steve Waugh (10,927) and Sunil Gavaskar (10,122) are the other players

Wednesday—afternoon

I
knew Mr Pasquali collected old cricket stuff, so I gave him a call and told him I’d seen a complete cricket kit including a Gray Nicholls bat, maybe 25 years old. I gave him Jimbo’s address and told him to check it out.

After that I made the decision—no more time travelling. I would go and see Jim in hospital and tell him it was over. I had tried a few times to get through on the phone. Then finally, on the Wednesday, they told me that he had gone.

‘What do you mean—gone?’ I asked.

‘Who am I speaking to?’ the lady at the hospital asked.

I covered the mouthpiece, and tried to explain to Dad as quickly as I could what was going on. Dad took the phone.

‘I’m a friend of Jim’s, and we’re wondering how he is, that’s all.’

Dad listened for a moment, said a few ‘I sees’, then hung up.

‘Strange,’ he said. ‘They’re not exactly certain what’s happened. Seems he’s just taken himself off. Evidently he’s done this once or twice before. They’re working on it.’

I must have been looking worried.

‘Hey, Toby, I know how you feel, but it’s not really our problem.’

‘Dad, if it’s not our problem, and if it’s not anyone else’s problem, then there’s an old sick man alone somewhere, maybe in trouble.’

‘Hmm. So what would you have us do?’

‘I want to just check out one thing.’ I hit redial and passed Dad the phone. ‘Ask them if there’s a fat book lying open next to his bed. A
Wisden Cricketers’ Almanack
.’

‘What? You do it!’ Dad said, thrusting the phone back at me. ‘I’m not going to ring just to ask a question like that.’

I asked for Jim’s room number. A few moments later the same sharp voice came on the line. I shoved the phone back at Dad. At least she would listen to him.

‘Hello, Peter Jones here. We spoke before. Um, look, it might seem a silly question really, but I was just wondering whether, ah, there was a book, a fat book, next to Jim’s bed?’

‘Open!’ I said, loudly.

‘An open, fat book,’ Dad added, giving me a pained look. He made a face at me. I smiled, giving him a little punch on the shoulder.

‘There is? Really? Right, well, thank you—’

I grabbed the phone. ‘Excuse me. This is really important. Please,’ I begged. ‘Can you tell me the year of the book and the page number that it’s open to? Please! Maybe there was a bookmark—’

The phone clicked.

I
love my dad so much—20 minutes later we were striding through the entrance to the Simpson Hospital. We raced up the stairs to Jim’s room.

‘We’ve just come to collect that book. It’s important to Mr Oldfield,’ Dad added.

‘Suit yourself. You can take his bag of belongings too. I put the book back on the bedside table,’ she added.

Both beds had been made, and the room was empty.

‘1931,’ I whispered.

‘What’s that?’ Dad asked.

‘Maybe we could check the library at the MCG. Jim could be there.’

‘Okay, but if he’s not there, we’d better let someone else do the searching.’

‘Like the police?’

He nodded. ‘Like the police.’

While we were in the hospital we paid a quick visit to Martian too. He’d been given the all-clear and was coming out of hospital the next day.

‘When will you be able to play cricket again?’ I asked.

He looked across at his dad, who was sitting on the bed next to him.

‘Not sure. But it won’t be too long, I hope,’ Ivo replied.

‘That’s great,’ I said.

We didn’t talk much about the accident, but I told him more about the team and how everyone had been going. He was interested in knowing all the scores and stats.

The floorboards creaked and the musty smell of old books hit me as I entered the library, a few paces ahead of Dad. Jim was sitting at the oval table, a glass of water and a plate of sandwiches in front of him.

‘Jim!’ I cried, rushing over to him. A few heads looked up.

‘My dear boy,’ Jim looked pleased to see me. Dad stood behind.

‘Hello, Jim,’ he said.

‘Peter, a pleasure. Excuse me for not standing.’

‘We’ve, um, brought your things from the hospital,’ I said, putting the
Wisden
and a bag on the table.

‘Thank you. My thanks to the pair of you.’ Dad was eyeing the
Wisden
s in the bookshelf. ‘Do have a look, Peter. The bookcase is open.’

‘Did you get there?’ I whispered to Jim.

He looked down at the old
Wisden
in front of him and shook his head. ‘I tried, Toby, I tried. But instead, I got back here. The place of my last departure. Which was some time ago now. Still, it’s good to be back.’

‘Are you okay?’ I asked.

‘Better for being back here, Toby,’ he replied. ‘What have you got there?’ he asked me. I had reached into my pocket and was fiddling with a dice.

Dad turned round. ‘Watch out, Jim,’ he said, seeing the dice. ‘He’s going to nab you for a game of dice cricket!’

‘Splendid. I shall send for more sandwiches. Come along, let’s clear the table here. I’ll choose a team from the 1930s.’ Jim started to reel off a list of names.

We ended up spending the rest of the afternoon eating sandwiches and playing the best game of dice cricket. Dad was the roller. Jim insisted on giving Don Bradman seven chances because he was so far ahead of everyone else. I managed to make sure Adam Gilchrist and Ricky Ponting got plenty too. During the game, Jim would suddenly start talking about a player from his team. His memory was amazing. He told his stories as if he’d just returned from the game. A couple of times I noticed Dad looking at me.

‘Great stories,’ I whispered to Dad at one stage, when Jim had gone off to find a book to check a score.

He nodded. ‘Amazing. You two seem to get on very well,’ he added.

‘Yeah.’

‘Something bothering you, Toby?’

‘He’s very old, Dad,’ I said.

‘Well, we all have a journey to make. Some are longer than others. I think Jim has had a pretty decent one, don’t you?’

‘I guess.’

Jim came back, a book in his hand, his eyes shining.

And even though Ricky Ponting scored 143, it wasn’t enough to trouble Jim’s ‘Invincibles’.

I must have been looking a bit down about the result. Dad said to me, ‘Head up, Toby.’

I smiled a secret smile.

Then we said goodbye. I think Jim knew that my goodbye was sort of final. When Dad was putting away the
Wisden
s he had pulled out, I leaned over and told Jim that I didn’t think I would be time travelling again.

He nodded his head, and said nothing.

‘Jim,
will
I time travel again?’ I whispered, not really wanting to hear an answer.

‘Perhaps only to help an old man fulfil a lifelong dream,’ he said quietly.

I didn’t say anything.

‘Come along, Toby.’ Dad’s hand rested on my shoulder. We shook hands with Jim.

‘Toby, I want you to have this,’ Jim said, handing me the 1931
Wisden
.

‘Jim, no—’ Dad interrupted.

‘Please, Peter. Toby deserves this. Please.’ Jim’s voice was insistent.

I didn’t know what to say. I held the precious book in my hands.

‘Off you go,’ Jim said.

‘Well, I hope we catch up again, Jim, and thank you very much for that generous gift. He’ll look after it, I promise,’ Dad said, shaking Jim’s hand.

‘Yes, I know he will,’ Jim smiled.

I
was quiet for a while on the way home.

Dad picked up on my thoughts, as always, and said, ‘You okay, son?’

‘Dad, I don’t have a grandfather, do I?’

Dad flicked his head round, then turned back to the road. ‘No.’

‘I sort of feel like I do, now.’

‘Jim’s someone else’s grandfather, Toby.’

‘Maybe not in this time,’ I mumbled. Luckily, Dad didn’t seem to hear. ‘I wonder where he lives. I wonder who looks after him.’

‘Maybe Jim looks after himself.’

‘Dad, he’s just come out of hospital. He didn’t get any visitors.’

‘We don’t know that, Toby. You can’t just enter someone’s life and assume he needs your help and guidance.’

We didn’t speak for a while until Dad said, ‘We’ll invite Jim over for a barbecue. How’s that?’

‘That’d be great, Dad. I reckon he’d love it.’

We were silent once more. I started thinking about my decision to give up time travel. Had I made the right choice? Then I remembered the evil hooded man again and became convinced that I had.