Spinner (32 page)

‘What Makes Donald So Very ... spec. Splec. Special. What Makes David Donald So Very Special. This one is by Mr O'Toole. Physically Donald is of average height and weight for a normal, thin twelve year old. However, his fingers are extra-ornery long. Twice as long as normal. This means he has an extra-ornery ability to grip the ball all over. His right wrist is thick and powerful. His shoulder and elbow agile. This enables him to extract huge amounts of spin, but also bounce.'

David grew bored with it, the listing of it all, the picking it apart. He looked outside at the darkness.

‘Would you tell me something about my mother, Grandad?'

The old man's eyes were closed although he seemed to be listening.

‘What was she doing in the dam? What was she doing there to get drowned?'

Bright light suddenly swept the room.

‘Huh,' yelped David, dropping the paper and standing. He was sure the ghost of his mother was about to leap in at him from the dark. But it was a car.

David met Mr Biggins at the front door.

‘Hello David,' said the neat man seriously. ‘How is he?'

David shrugged, but stepped back to let Mr Biggins in.

He took off his hat and edged into the kitchen, turning it around the brim.

‘I still can't go to the dance, Mr Biggins.'

‘Oh, no. No need son. That finished an hour ago.' He checked his fob watch and said, ‘It's after midnight.'

David smelt the soup for the first time and knew how hungry he was. ‘Do you want some soup?'

‘No thank you. Go ahead. I just wanted to make sure it
was all right here. The fifth Test starts soon, and...' He shook himself and sat down at the table, slipping his homburg onto his knee. ‘But don't worry about that. We have had some success in raising money for the farm.'

David ladled some soup into a bowl and came back to the table. Two moths were thwocking into the kerosene lamp glass then chasing each other off before they did it again.

‘What if we set you up in a nice house in Sydney, David?'

‘A house?'

‘We could work out something, with school and what not ... housekeeper, eventually a trade.'

‘But I want to live here.'

‘These people, the town ... I met many of them at the dance.' Mr Biggins seemed to be having difficulty choosing his words, sorting through them and throwing some out like overripe grapes in a bunch. ‘Without your grandfather, is this really...'

‘Yes, sir. This is where I want to live.'

Mr Biggins sighed, then nodded just once. ‘Very well.' He looked around the kitchen as though taking inventory, and said, ‘There aren't any ledgers or receipts or important papers are there? A desk where your grandfather does his business work?'

‘No, sir. We're a farm. We don't do business.'

Mr Biggins gave a little smile, but then turned serious again. ‘The bank manager is making it difficult for me to access records you see, so it's more difficult to assess the ... problem.'

Then David remembered the biscuit tin his grandfather had mentioned hidden under the rain tank. David looked at him, not sure whether to trust the fixer that the Australian Cricket Board had sent. ‘I'll just ask Grandad if it's okay.'

‘So there is a file?'

‘I'll just ask Grandad.'

David went into his grandfather's room, but the old man wasn't breathing any more.

They flew out early from Adelaide on their way to Sydney. David was getting used to the sudden surge of speed as the plane hurtled along the flat landing field before it took off. He was even starting to get used to the drop in his stomach as it lifted up into the air. He wasn't used to the flying though: not the up in the air like a bird-ness of that. One thousand yards above the earth was not a place he wished to be.

They'd flown from Geraldton to Perth and from Perth to Adelaide, landing in different towns every four hours or so. They'd slept the night in a place called Forrest which seemed to be just an airfield with a small hostel next to it. Mr Biggins had organised it all on behalf of the Australian Cricket Board so that David could reach Sydney in time to play the fifth Test. Mr Biggins had organised everything, including the funeral and the farm and even the leaving behind of the reporter O'Toole. Yet, coming out of Adelaide, David was glad of the cotton wool used to block out the sound of the airplane engines. He did not want Mr Biggins to be able to talk to him any more.

They had held a funeral for Grandad on the farm the day after he'd died. David had insisted on burying his
grandfather on his own land. Mr Bonner, the minister from the church, and Old Jack from the pub, of all people, came out early in the morning and showed David what to do with tidying up his grandad's face, closing his mouth and dressing him in his best clothes.

‘Yer best duds are for your wedding and for yer funeral,' said Old Jack seriously.

‘And a few visits to church in between maybe, Jack,' said the minister.

Old Jack ducked his head a few times like he was dodging blows.

‘Grandad didn't go to church, Mr Bonner,' explained David.

Mr Bonner looked David square in the face, like a man. ‘He didn't lately, David, but he used to. Then, during the war, some things happened, which I guess you know, and George fell out with God and stopped speaking with him, least ways in public. Well, I reckon God never took the same approach to that argument that George had running, otherwise he wouldn't have made you, would he?' Mr Bonner set about adjusting the dead man's collar. ‘I'm hoping you'll forgive God on your grandfather's behalf.'

David nodded even as he tried to contemplate God and his grandfather arguing. He reckoned they were probably pretty well matched. He tried to conjure some light with this piece of information about his grandad, and to shine it on the man he knew, but nothing would come. George Baker never spoke of God. He was a fair man, but not a particularly friendly or forgiving one. Then David considered the war. People talked of before the war and during the war and after the war. Things and people changed. Out of the swirling empty mist of his mind came the idea of his father, smiling
over a cup of tea, just before the grenade landed.

Mrs Doolan and two other old ladies had also come, and they cleaned the kitchen and set out food and made big pots of tea. They kept trying to pat him so he took refuge in the bedroom with Jess and his grandfather, waving off the flies.

The old man had lost his wife during the birth of David's mother Mary, and he'd lost Mary during the war when David was little. Bit by bit, he'd been losing the farm. But he'd got up every day and worked the farm and taught David cricket and looked after him. In spite of the old man's hardness and the silence and the rules, David thought he had been glad of David, and that George Baker's life had been a good one, with some satisfactions along with the disappointments. He had lived long enough to hear about David's wondrous piece of bowling in Melbourne and surely would have taken that with some kind of pleasure.

David wondered whether he should have some regrets himself but he couldn't think of any. Maybe if his mother and father had not died then his grandfather would have been softer on himself. Maybe not. Maybe if David's mother and father had not died the whole town might have been softer on David but he suspected not.

The man had lived and he was now dead. David was used to death and used to the idea of it. Everything dies, even the biggest tree, eventually. David would miss him. He would not forget.

Anyway, that's the kind of thing he might have said over his grandfather's grave if he had the talent, but instead he just thought it. Nell's dad, Mr Parker, had brought out a wooden coffin and they'd fitted him in by forcing his knees a bit sideways. It seemed important to David that they kept
the old man's neck straight.

‘I damn forgot to bring the bloody hammer and nails,' said Mr Parker angrily. ‘Sorry, David.'

David didn't mind and went and got some from the work shed. He helped hold the lid straight while Mr Parker hammered in the nails, occasionally giving out a mild string of swear words if one didn't go in just right.

Mr Fowler from across the river and Mr Clarke from the next property helped Mr Parker and David carry the coffin up to the hole that they'd all dug on the hill overlooking the dam. David was again surprised at just how light his grandfather had become, as though whatever it was that had kept him going was made of some kind of rock. They put ropes under the coffin and inched it over the hole and lowered it down.

Words were said. The minister said prayers. Others said things about his grandad. Mr Parker made a joke about George driving a hard bargain and denying the invention of the motor car. Others said he was tough and strong. Mr Biggins talked about his contribution to local cricket and not just David.

David tried to concentrate, but someone had tied Jess up back at the house and she kept barking. ‘Will you look after Jess until I get back?' he whispered to Nell.

The Pringles nodded but left quite early, although the nice Mrs Pringle came and hugged David, just like Mrs O'Locklan, and David let her and felt her breasts push into him like the clean soft pillows they had in hotels.

He said, ‘It's all right, Mrs Pringle. Don't be sad about everything.'

She looked at him, kind of surprised, but then nodded, trying not to let David see that she was starting to cry at
what he'd said, before she hurried off.

Mr Biggins found him amidst the condolences and cups of tea to say, ‘The farm is back in your hands again, Master Donald. The contents of the biscuit tin and the donations have assured that.' He tapped his nose and gave what must have been a smile, before slipping off again amongst people holding plates of cake.

Before Mr Biggins had left, the night his grandfather died, David had taken the lamp out and dug up the biscuit tin from under the water tank. Inside, Mr Biggins had found receipts and what he called a payment schedule. While David ate another bowl of soup, Mr Biggins had gone over the papers at the kitchen table, tapping a pencil on his teeth and saying every now and then, ‘Ah,' and ‘I see,' and, ‘Hmm.' There was evidence in the biscuit tin that George Baker owned much more of his farm than had been thought.

Mr O'Toole had been at the funeral and, though he mostly kept away, David couldn't help noticing his satisfied smile as he stood near the back of the people smoking and looking at the dam.

While Mr Biggins was pouring petrol into the car Mr Parker had loaned them to take them back to the plane in Geraldton, O'Toole came up.

‘Well son, the money's pouring in. From around the country. All for you and the farm. A national outpouring of gratitude and consolation. They're rallying for you.'

This news did not make David feel happy. He guessed it was because he was taking money that other people probably needed just as much as he.

‘Oh come on, David. Bygones? I have actually helped Biggins save your farm for you.'

‘Thank you, Mr O'Toole.'

‘You're the biggest thing in the country. Maybe the whole world. You bowled out a whole team twice for just a run. No one has even come close to that before. No one ever will. It is monstrously improbable and miraculously manifest. You did it. And they got a right to hear about your exploits and your tribulations. Don't you think? For them. To give them a little ... hope and cheer in these dark times?'

‘I guess,' said David, but not sure.

‘Then why don't we start over. No more misunderstandings.' O'Toole smiled. Sweat was dribbling down from under his hat and trickling by his ear and down his neck. He held his hand out, and David shook it.

‘Your hand's bigger than mine.'

‘I suppose.'

David tried to take his hand back, but O'Toole wouldn't let go. He looked round, seeing Mr Biggins coming.

‘Why'd you bury your grandad near the dam there?'

‘He liked that spot.'

‘The dam's special, isn't it?'

David pulled his hand back.

Biggins was getting into the driver's side of the car, dragging on his thin leather driving gloves. Nell and her dad were coming round.

He had time to say, ‘It's private, Mr O'Toole,' before they edged the reporter away.

Now David was flying above Adelaide, looking down at the river, with cotton wool in his ears, flying towards Sydney and the final and deciding Test match, and he was thinking about the dam once more. ‘Of course the dam is important,' he said.

David turned from the window to find Mr Biggins looking
at him. The ACB treasurer nodded, taking a piece of cotton wool from his own ear. David looked away. He still wasn't ready to talk to Mr Biggins.

When they'd stopped in Adelaide, they took a hotel close to the plane for Sydney. David had remembered Mrs O'Locklan's address and he'd got a telegram form and had spent some time working over it, trying to keep the word numbers low and the letters the right way round.
Dear Mrs O'Lokolan comma Grandad is dead stop farm good stop how are you stop where is uncol mike stop love David.

It took him some time to decide to sign it ‘love David,' but he knew she'd like that on account of their discussion about his telegram to Grandad. He thought he should have put in about their two hundred pounds helping save the farm, but that would have to wait to be in his first ever letter maybe.

The hotel man had corrected some spelling and Mr Biggins had paid for it, frowning a little when he took a peek.

The reason for the frown came while they ate dinner in the hotel.

‘Your uncle.'

‘Yes?' David looked up from his roast chicken.

‘In Melbourne, he tried to negotiate a different contract for you.'

‘I don't understand.'

‘A special contract with a higher rate of pay than the other players.'

‘Oh.'

‘You can tell him, David, that we might agree to that.'

David nodded.

‘But we would need some guarantees.'

David chewed his chicken.

‘Do you understand the message?'

‘I think so Mr Biggins, but I don't want that. I don't think it's fair if I get more money. I mean Ten Ton has a family. He needs more.'

‘That is not the basis of this arrangement. It's about providing enough so that you can concentrate on your cricket, and also...' Mr Biggins searched the floor, before going on, ‘it allows your uncle sufficient funds...' another little search, ‘such that he would undertake not to wager on the game.'

‘Oh.'

‘He'd also have to stay away from the other players and the ground during the games.'

‘Oh.'

‘I'm sorry, David. We would run over these things with him, but ... we don't know where he is either.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Will you convey these things?'

David noticed how Mr Biggins wasn't quite looking at him again. For a little while at the farm he'd been looking and talking to David. But now he was once again looking at an imaginary person just past David's left ear. ‘I'll tell him, Mr Biggins.'

‘Good.'

‘But ... my uncle is a bit of a worry sometimes. I'll have to talk to him about it.'

‘Certainly. Talk. We can discuss the details.' Mr Biggins shrugged a little shrug and turned back to his fish, rather unhappily, David thought.

David excused himself early and went out and practised bowling in one of the big sheds that they had built for the aeroplanes to rest in. The flooring was hard and they had
big lights up near the roof. David had brought a couple of old balls from the farm, and he bowled them at a strut on the wall of the shed.

Mr Biggins appeared again in the big open doorway. He stood a moment, his hat centred on his head and his full-length coat done up against the night, even though it was pretty warm.

David landed a ball to the right of the strut, spinning it only slightly so it just grazed the metal. He landed the next far to the left, with his new off-break grip, and bowled that back the other way into the strut. There was no pain in his fingers. None at all.

Mr Biggins came in to get the balls for David, his leather shoes making a clop clop on the floor. When he got to David he didn't offer the balls.

‘I have a problem and I've been looking for the right time to talk about it with you.' Mr Biggins looked sadly around the shed at the planes.

‘What?'

Mr Biggins sucked on his bottom lip a moment. David had often seen him choose how to say something, but never take this long. Finally he said, ‘Can you bowl better than you did in Melbourne?'

‘Yes. On some balls. I can get Mr Longford out. But they'll play different this time, don't you reckon.'

‘Possibly,' said Mr Biggins to David's ear. ‘Let me tell you my problem and maybe you can help me.'

‘Yes sir, if I can.'

‘The Australian Cricket Board takes a share of the gate receipts from each ground where the Test is held. From those receipts we make player payments, salaries and contributions to tours and the like. We try to keep the gate
costs down so the public can afford to come. It's a delicate balance between revenue and doing the most good.'

David nodded, keeping all the information clear in his head, but not seeing the problem.