13

When I appeared at breakfast the older men were speaking of how their indulgences of the night before would be likely to inhibit their success on the field. I hoped so. I particularly hoped that Mr Fremmel would be bowled out for a duck by a boundary rider like Tom Larkin or Staples, who would never be in need of credit and thus had nothing to lose. But cricket, I already knew, was a very inexact instrument of punishment, and was just as likely to make fools of good men as of bad.

Constance looked up at me in my whites, her brown eyes sparkling as she said, ‘Good luck, Mr Dickens, but not too much so.’

I thought how delicious it might be to caress her by dark on the veranda. She was, after all, just a girl, fifteen or sixteen, still young enough to be unaware of her power over young males like me, and to carry it all casually.

In the midst of our brief conversation, I saw Mrs Fremmel inspecting us with sharp eyes, as if admiring something between us, perhaps the artlessness of Constance. You could read doubt and goodwill in her expression. With any luck, it meant she had put an end to behaviour that would only encourage her besotted nephew.

Fred Bonney came up to me wearing a red sash around his waist and a red cap. He was carrying a number of similar caps and sash belts, which he handed to me, saying, ‘Ah, my valiant lieutenant. Could you distribute these to our team, some of whom are gathered beyond the homestead gate? Mr Desailly and I will toss a coin in about ten minutes. I believe his chaps are already marking out the field. Who would you say should open the bowling for us?’

I was conscious that Constance was taking a harmless account of our conversation and did my best to imitate the air of an aide advising his general. ‘I’m aware, Mr Bonney, that you have a splendid record and that it would be suitable if you began from one end, with the blacksmith, Larkin, from the other. Then maybe Staples and Mr Suttor.’

Smiling at Constance, Fred commented, ‘He is a scholar of such things, this Mr Dickens.’

I felt delighted at this first use of the word ‘scholar’ and my name in the same sentence by this antipodean guardian of mine.

‘You must have a turn with the ball though, Plorn. And I have you batting third wicket down. I hope that suits you.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Some of our openers may be brittle, so if they are bowled out cheaply I’d like you to be there to steady the ship.’

I had batted first wicket down for the Higham team, but was familiar with the etiquette by which a gentleman coming to a new team should always be willing to bat further down the order than he was accustomed to.

Out in the full light of morning the limits of the cricket ground had been marked off with flags, and there was an atmosphere of a crowd, like a village fair. I suspect all the crafts and trades in the crowd would spend the day watching and drinking while engaging in the central drama itself. The Paakantji from both stations were milling around as if they had been accustomed to the English passion for cricket since the beginning of time. I distributed our red livery to Yandi, Tom Larkin, Staples, Willy Suttor, and the rest. Soon Fred Bonney and Mr Desailly came out in glittering white shirts and their different sashes – blue for the Netallie team – and threw a florin coin into the air. Mr Desailly won the toss to a roar from his team of station hands and gentlemen, and said, for the benefit of his side, ‘We’ll bat first and then you chaps can drink too much beer at lunch and score abominably this afternoon. That way Netallie can have the victory!’

Taking the field I saw Blanche’s beau, Mr Brougham, whose face looked as transparent and empty of desire as an angel’s beneath his tan. He also looked like a competent cricketer.

Both teams now met and shook hands, witnessed by a crowd of men and women of perhaps unprecedented size on this ground.

‘Will we allow round-arm bowling?’ Fred Bonney asked Mr Desailly loudly, to clear up the matter.

‘My God, Fred. We are not Americans,’ Mr Desailly replied.

‘Yes, I must say I have a very handy round-arm bowler in Yandi. Could you not indulge us, Alfred?’

‘Very well, we’ll pretend it’s Georgian times,’ agreed Mr Desailly to general laughter.

‘No quarter!’ called Fred Bonney for our team’s sake and all of us red caps cheered. The Netallie storekeeper and Edward Bonney took up their umpiring positions, and Fred Bonney then set our fielding positions around the ground, consigning me along with a native named Momba Alfie to the slips positions near our padded and gloved wicketkeeper, Brian Cleary. We applauded the opposition’s two opening batsmen, the young law clerk Malleson and Brougham, as they came to their creases. They both looked like knowledgeable and stylish batsmen

Fred Bonney opened the bowling with a polite and unthreatening set of deliveries. Brougham hooked one of them and it ran all the way to the boundary. Malleson did nearly as well, running three. Larkin then started his over from the other end. His first two balls were wild and wide, the third whistled past within a hair of the bat and then Larkin’s last ball clipped the outside of Malleson’s bat, and I managed to catch it in that wonderful way, without even knowing I had.

Ecstasy followed for me and the Momba team.

Yandi bowled a sullen round-arm and kept hitting batsmen very accurately on their bodies causing the white batsmen’s tempers to flare. When not intimidating the batsmen Yandi smashed the wicket twice, the second time dispatching Maurice. As he walked back to the boundary a member of his team called out, ‘You should shoot that darkie, Maurice. But Fred Bonney won’t let you.’

There was a gust of laughter from the crowd, though it was pretty good-natured.

At last, Fred called, ‘I’m taking you off, Yandi, because you’re just too good with that round-arm stuff.’

Mr Fremmel was a great success for the Netallie team, reaching his half-century and stylishly raising his bat to the people watching from the margins, including of course to his wife. Happily it was the fast bowling of Tom Larkin that got him two runs later, because there was little conceivable damage Fremmel could do to the amiable man.

Fred Bonney called that it was my turn to bowl from the northern end, and Staples from the southern. I had a quick success, spinning the ball that got the overseer of Mount Murchison Station out. When the Soldier came in to bowl, it was quickly apparent he was gifted in the art of that delivery they called the wrong’un, so named for going the wrong way if one studied the bowler’s arm. He bowled it once and took a wicket, and bowled it a second time to the new batsman, clean-bowling him too!

Brotherton, the teacher from the Wilcannia national school, approached the stumps next to try to deal with Staples. He took his stance, patted the ground with his bat, and we watched as Staples made a short run-up to the wicket and then stopped abruptly, wrapping his arms across his chest as if he was stricken with the pain and calling out, ‘Almighty Jehovah,’ to the cloudless sky. ‘I have been one with your Son and carrying an eternal wound on my side. I call on you, O Lord, to guard your servant in the end for no one else will . . .’

The manager of the National Scottish Bank in Wilcannia, who was the batter near him, said, ‘Come on, old chap, you can’t talk to God here. This is a cricket match.’

‘Very well. I’d better bloody well bowl, I suppose.’

And with that he ran and without interruption, delivered an absolutely unplayable ball which looked as if it would bounce towards the batsmen’s leg but veered to the offside instead, clipping the bat and going straight to point.

Now, from amongst the crowd, Dandy was running onto the field, stammering apologies to the two umpires. He reached Staples and called, ‘Is it p-playing up on you, old ch-chap?’

‘Sometimes,’ Staples told him, ‘it happens for no bloody reason.’

It was then we saw that the Momba red sash was saturated by Staples’ blood and Dandy Darnell cried, ‘His w-wound! It’s opened.’

A sulky was quickly prepared and one of Netallie’s non-playing gentlemen raced Dandy and Staples off to be seen by the surgeon in Wilcannia, by good fortune a mere fifteen miles east.

Tom Larkin then took the last Netallie wicket with a sizzling delivery leaving them all out by lunch for 137 runs.

During sandwiches and a cold beer, a passing Constance Desailly paid a small, wondrous compliment to my bowling and fielding, saying, ‘You look like a man who knows what he’s doing, Mr Dickens.’

Fred Bonney leaned close to me and said, ‘Astonishing. The Soldier is a boundary rider, mounting, dismounting, repairing fences, and on some occasions doesn’t even see Dandy for days. Yet it happens that today, when he is playing a game and with dozens of people, his wound opens. It seems to me that Staples has something of a grievance against the Deity. But he should be grateful for today.’