On the first day of spring, the day before Dad was due to leave for the mainland, the Red Cross volunteer ladies organised a picnic and cricket match. All the previous week storms had lashed the island, but on that Sunday you would’ve been hard-pressed to believe it. Mum put on her light-blue summer frock and her hat and gloves. Dad stepped into the kitchen wearing his old Coolgardie Cricket Club creams and baggy yellow cap, from back in the olden days when he lived in the goldfields. He swung the bat and nearly sent the flour canister flying from the kitchen bench.
‘You’re as bad as Jack,’ declared Mum, though she would’ve been twice as cross if it had been me.
I’d never seen so many people on the island all at once. On the edge of the oval beside Constable Campbell’s police house, several tents and marquees had been put up, including the biggest one with a rope fence surrounding it. It was the beer tent and it was already crowded with blokes gathered round the keg by the time we arrived. Some American naval officers in their white uniforms were talking to the ladies at the tea and scone tent. At the far end of the oval a group of about six black sailors sat under a tree by themselves.
George T Washington leaned against the tree. I waved at him and he lifted his hand in recognition. He didn’t come over or anything, but just nodded at me and grinned.
The cricket match had been arranged between Colonel Hurley’s Army XI and Mr Merson’s Main Roads Board XI. Both teams sat on the bench behind the rope at the beer tent laughing and knocking back the Swan Lager like it was going to be rationed at any minute.
‘The hour approaches, gentlemen. Commander Grant, our special guest from the US Navy, has graciously agreed to spin the coin.’
I recognised the voice behind me and turned. Mr Palmer had risen from a deck chair, a cream panama hat shielding his eyes.
‘Ah, young Mr Jones, I’m glad to see you’re up and about,’ he said. ‘Captain Anstey has kept me informed of your progress. You are well on the mend, I hear. Capital. Though Andrew tells me it was a pretty close shave.’
‘I enjoyed the books you sent me, sir,’ I replied, not quite knowing how to react.
‘Good. Good. And your homework?’
I knew he’d bring that up, but he didn’t wait for me to answer.
‘No, it’s far too fine a day to be discussing homework. No, we are here to watch the workers thrash the army, eh? Show them a thing or two. Workers of the world, unite.’ He winked at Captain Jansen, who stood nearby, and then gave me his warmest smile ever. ‘I’m the official scorer today and it’s about time we began these little ... hostilities.’
I could hardly believe he was the same Mr Palmer.
Mr Merson won the toss and elected the Main Roads team to be first in to bat.
‘Come out fighting but keep it fair. No scratching, no biting, no hitting below the belt,’ laughed the commander.
The audience laughed politely at the commander’s little joke, as the team captains shook hands.
Mr Palmer had the school blackboard for the scores mounted on an easel near the tea tent. I was surprised to see Dad’s name—Rob Jones—as number three batsman after Little Eric and Captain Anstey. Captain Anstey used to play for Perth Cricket Club and had been made an honorary worker for the day to even up the skills. But Dad? Dad was fine at hit ’n’ run on the beach, but at number three?
Colonel Hurley opened the bowling and within minutes both Little Eric and the captain were out, caught from rising bumpers. The colonel seemed to think he was Harold Larwood and Douglas Jardine rolled into one and hurled the cricket ball down with all the power of a live grenade.
Dad strapped on his pads and walked out to the centre. The crowd clapped politely. The first four balls from the colonel rocketed at him, but Dad just blocked them. I thought it would be only a matter of minutes before he’d be out as well, but as the fifth hurtled down the pitch he calmly stepped back and swung his bat at shoulder height like it was a tree-felling axe. His bat caught the ball with a crack as loud as a Webley pistol firing. The muscles in Dad’s arms rippled as he connected and the ball soared off into the air.
‘Did you see that?’ yelled someone at the rope.
Silence fell in the beer tent, and then applause started as people realised Dad had whacked the ball so far over the boundary it had disappeared into the trees.
Captain Williamson, the chaplain, and of course the only one able to be trusted by both sides to umpire for the day, called for another ball.
‘See what you make of this one, then,’ called Colonel Hurley to Dad.
Dad just winked at him and tapped at the concrete with his bat.
I think he hit the next ball even harder. It shot across the ground at head height and towards the deck chairs. Several people ducked out of the way. There was an almighty crash as the ball shattered the window of Mrs Campbell’s front room. I heard someone curse. Several people laughed as Constable Campbell held up his handcuffs and dangled them for Dad to see. Dad shrugged his shoulders and turned his palms out in apology. He was slightly embarrassed at breaking the window but there’d no doubt be a whip-round at the end of the day to pay for it.
Dad stayed at the crease, walloping balls all over the ground until he reached a very quick century and Mr Merson declared.
‘That’s the last we’ll be seeing of him for some time,’ said Mum, as excited players ushered Dad into the beer tent for the lunch break. She pretended to be annoyed as it wasn’t even twelve noon but I thought she was as proud of him as I was.