Howzat! (13 page)

Suddenly he raised his arms, pointing them towards me. I lifted my bat and swung it hard as he made his move. My bat swung right through him: there was no resistance at all.

‘It’s only a bloody game,’ a fielder scoffed, jogging past me.

‘Piss off!’ I yelled, swinging my bat again.

‘What did you say?’ The fielder stopped, stunned.

‘Not you,’ I gasped. Then I felt an ice-cold hand grab my arm. I flung it away, dropping my bat in the process, and ran as fast as I could. I got to the small gate and pushed through, bounding up the steps two at a time. It was only when I got to the top step that I turned around.

‘No way,’ I whispered, watching the man slowly pick himself up off the ground. It was the spookiest thing I’d ever seen. Maybe I had somehow connected with my bat.

‘No!’ I called, as a small kid dashed out onto the oval to collect my bat. The Grubber staggered, then fell back onto the grass.

‘Here you go,’ the kid said, handing me the bat. ‘Can I have your autograph?’

‘What?’

‘Your autograph.’ I glanced at the scoreboard; it read 6 for 78. Pathetic. We were in real strife.

‘Later,’ I mumbled. I needed Jim and I needed him fast. Before the Grubber found another fielder. Or Jimbo. Because I was certain now that somehow the Grubber had taken over Freddy; got to him in some way. Was Freddy now a Grubber?

Saturday—afternoon

‘What on earth did you think you were doing out there?’ Marty glared at me.

‘Marty, I can’t explain now,’ I said, looking him in the eye. He must have noticed the expression of anguish on my face because his tone softened.

‘Listen, Toby. There was an old guy called Jim in here before…’

‘Jim? Where is he now?’

‘Beats me.’

‘How long ago?’ I was wondering if he’d seen the last half-hour.

‘Just after lunch. Toby, go and speak to him. You are both stressed about something.’ Marty raised his hands in a sign of surrender. ‘When you get yourself back here, be ready to play some cricket, okay?’

‘Thanks, Marty. Don’t worry. As long as Jimbo’s batting, we’re a chance.’

We both turned as a loud shout erupted from the field. Marty groaned.

‘It’s a shame there’s no such thing as last man’s tucker in Ashes Tests.’

Grabbing a drink from the fridge at the back of the players’ viewing room I headed to the library.

‘Hi, David,’ I called out to the librarian. ‘Have you…Jim!’ The two of them were standing in front of the MCC library’s complete set of
Wisden
s. ‘Jim, we have to talk.’

‘Here we are,’ David said, opening an ancientlooking
Wisden
. ‘Stan Northington. Played his last Test match at the MCG on 3 March 1937.’

‘Well done, David,’ said Jim. ‘Keep looking, will you? I can’t explain now but I shall need you to find me any other English players who played their last Test matches here. Probably pre-war only.’ The MCC librarian’s eyes lit up.

‘It could take some time.’

‘And time is something we don’t have,’ Jim muttered. He rested a hand on my shoulder. ‘Toby, I’m sorry about your downfall.’

‘Downfall?’

‘Your dismissal. Being bowled like that.’

‘You saw?’

Jim’s eyes sparkled softly. ‘In a manner of speaking. Come along; we have to talk. I need you to take me somewhere.’ I followed Jim into David’s
office. ‘Don’t worry, Toby. I have spoken to young Marty.’ Jim picked up an old
Wisden
from David’s table. He looked at me, his face tinged with sadness. ‘Toby, the time I have feared for so many years might have finally arrived. I need your help; cricket needs your help. I don’t think I can do this alone.’

Jim walked out of the office, still holding the
Wisden
. Suddenly he was moving quickly and I was struggling to keep up with him.

‘Is it Father Time?’ I asked, almost jogging alongside him. Jim paused.

‘Toby, I am going to do something that I hoped I would never have to do. At least not in these circumstances.’ We paused outside the door to the Committee Room, the room that led to the special Sanctum Room, where we’d met the Cricket Lord who’d helped cure Ally.

‘The Sanctum?’ I breathed, following Jim into the kitchen. ‘But what…’

Jim held up a hand.

‘Trust me, Toby.’ Jim held the cover of the
Wisden
up to the small window in the kitchen and I heard the sound of something shifting. You would never have known the window was part of a small door, built into the wall. I moved uneasily, remembering who I had encountered the last time I was here. Jim must have sensed my nervousness: he squeezed my shoulder.

‘It’s all right, Toby. We’re expected.’ The door clicked and Jim pushed it open. I followed him into
the Sanctum. It was a room that defied logic; it was just not physically possible that such a large room could exist here in the middle of the MCG Members Stand. ‘Come along, Toby,’ Jim said softly.

‘I feared this moment was nigh,’ a deep voice called from the shadows ahead of us. A tall man in faded white cricket clothes and a strange coloured cap stepped forwards, his hand outstretched towards Jim. A blue and red striped jacket hung limply from his thin frame. They shook hands. ‘Toby Jones,’ he said, turning to me. I shook his hand. ‘I have heard so much about you, young fellow. And given that it’s still more than 100 years before you’re born, I think that’s quite something, don’t you?’

‘Jim? What year is this?’

‘Toby, we are a long way back. It’s 1883, though the
Wisden Cricketer’s Almanack
is already nearly 20 years old.’ Jim’s voice suddenly changed. ‘Toby, look at me.’ The two men stood over me.

‘W-what is it?’ I asked.

‘The time has come, Toby, for you to be appointed as a Cricket Lord. We are faced with perhaps the biggest…’ Jim started to explain.

‘Toby, Jim’s time with you is over. He has been called to serve…’ the other man interrupted.

‘William!’ Jim snapped, frowning.

‘You said so yourself, Jim. The boy is wise enough even at his tender age to know.’

‘Hey! I’m in the middle of a Test match against England at the MCG,’ I protested.

‘And the best is yet to come,’ William laughed, patting me on the shoulder. ‘That second ball of your third over will be talked about for years.’

‘William, please!’ admonished Jim.

‘What ball? What happened?’ I asked.

‘Enough of this, you two. William, see to Toby’s stump,’ Jim ordered. William sighed and headed over to an old-looking table covered with an assortment of strange objects. ‘Toby, as you know, the situation is not good.’

‘The Grubbers?’ I queried.

‘The Grubbers, yes. They are leaving the Timeless Cricket Match and returning to various places in time and space, as you saw. Each is returning to the venue of their last cricket match,’ Jim explained.

‘You saw the guy on the field? The one who approached the England fielder?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ Jim said sadly.

‘Will he be all right?’

‘That, dear Toby, depends very much on you. The boy has had his soul taken over by the Grubber. That’s what I was talking about to David in the library. It helps if we can identify him and thus talk to him. All we know is that the Grubber who walked onto the field would have played his last Test match at the MCG.’

‘But that could be anyone.’

‘Well, not exactly anyone. His cricket clothes narrow the search somewhat.’ I thought of the old creams and heavy jumper he was wearing. I vaguely
recalled a blue ‘V’, but I didn’t remember any logos or numbers on it.

‘Was he from England?’

‘Yes, I believe so. And probably pre-war too. But it confirms my suspicions. The Grubbers are leaving: the Timeless Cricket Match is under threat and if the game stops, of course the scoring stops.’

‘Father Time will escape from the scoreboard?’ I asked, keeping one eye on William, who was lifting up a long glass cylinder.

‘I can’t imagine the havoc he could cause. That’s why you’re here, Toby. I’m afraid you’re going to have to take up the fight while I monitor what’s happening at the Timeless Match.’

‘What’s going to happen here?’ I looked around the vast chamber we were standing in. Apart from the old wooden table and the assortment of cricket objects on it, the room was bare.

‘Toby, you are going to become a Cricket Lord. This is not a decision I take lightly but the Grubbers leaving the Timeless Cricket Match is a potentially calamitous situation. We need all the help we can get.’

‘Ready, Jim,’ William called from the table.

‘Come along, Toby. I think you will enjoy this.’ I followed Jim to the table. ‘But, William, we don’t have much time. Toby has a cricket match to get back to.’

‘Very well.’ William pushed a tall glass jar across the table towards me. Thin wisps of white smoke
swirled inside it. ‘Toby, place both your hands on the jar and look into it carefully.’ The coldness of the glass surprised me but I held on all the same and stared at the smoke billowing around. As I watched, it seemed to be getting thicker.

‘What’s supposed to happen?’

‘You’ll see, Toby. You’ll see,’ said Jim. For a minute I stood there, my hands slowly warming, but nothing inside the tall glass cylinder changed.

‘Jim, are you sure?’ I heard William whisper.

‘Sure about…’ My fingers started to tingle. There was a smell of burning in the room and I immediately thought of the stumps I’d seen last time I was here. Each Cricket Lord had a partly burnt stump, made from a special willow tree, signifying that they were a Cricket Lord. I didn’t take my hands from the jar. Suddenly the smoke inside the jar cleared. I gasped in awe as a little village green materialised inside the glass. There were trees and cows and a group of men walking out onto a clearing. I couldn’t make out a pitch or a scoreboard. A bowler was bowling underarm.

‘Good Lord,’ I heard William breathe, standing next to me. ‘He’s predating
Wisdens
.’ I glanced at Jim quickly.

‘Predating, Toby. You’re looking at cricket events from before 1863. Before
Wisdens
.’

‘This is remarkable,’ said William.

‘I told you he was special,’ Jim said, softly. ‘Don’t take your hands from the glass, Toby. Hang on for the ride of your life.’

The scene quickly changed to a cobbled street with a group of boys playing a game. But as soon as that scene became clear inside the glass it also disappeared, and suddenly I was watching an oldfashioned looking lady playing cricket in a beautiful garden. She was bowling a strange style of side-arm on account of her wide dress. I don’t know how I knew this. The people close by her were talking excitedly, gesticulating with their arms and imitating her strange bowling action. But the image quickly dissolved again and a new picture materialised
.

Just a remnant of thin white smoke hovered over the constantly changing scenes. Men wearing tall black hats with huge moustaches and long beards changed to images of other old cricketers batting, bowling and fielding at different grounds from around the world.

The slide show of moving images changed at an increasingly faster rate. I recognised the flashing blade of Don Bradman hitting a cracking cover drive; saw a crowd of fielders hovering around a batsman on a dark and patchy wicket. I watched in amazement as wickets tumbled, boundaries were scored and catches taken.

Now the scenes were flashing by too quickly for me to recognise any person or event.

‘Keep your hands on the glass, Toby Jones,’ William said. It was becoming more difficult to focus on the flashing images. I thought I recognised the enormous stands of the MCG, but maybe not. Inside
the glass soon became a blur of white and green. I could feel my hands warming rapidly. ‘Hands, Toby.’ It was as if William knew that it was starting to get uncomfortable.

I noticed a flash of yellow followed by the unmistakable sight of black words and numbers swirling around in a mixture of white. I stole a brief look at Jim.

‘Hold on, Toby,’ he whispered. ‘It’s nearly done.’

My hands prickled with the heat from the glass. It was getting too hot, I thought, and panic swept through me as my arms twitched. I felt droplets of sweat tickle my forehead and I tried to focus on that rather than on the searing pain in my hands.

Finally, just when I thought I’d have to let go, the white fog descended from the top of the jar, quickly smothering the latest image of the World Cup trophy, and the glass started to cool again.

‘It’s done, Toby. Let go and take hold of these two items,’ William said, holding out a stump and a cricket ball. One end of the stump was smouldering and I realised that this was the source of the sweet aroma that filled the air. The ball felt good in my hand. Then Jim began talking in a quiet voice.

‘Now should there come a time one day

When the ghosts of watchers find a way

To leave forever the Timeless Match

Then with the Lord’s ball take the catch

Four simple words you then must shout,

Tell the host, “You’ve been caught out!”’

The words had barely left his lips when I experienced an overwhelming feeling of calm and ease; I had never felt more relaxed in my life. It was a sensation of floating free, high above the glass tube and the table, Jim and William, the room and the MCG; drifting above the city itself. Moving further and further away.

‘Remarkable,’ I heard William say quietly. Opening my eyes again I waited a few moments for the room to come into focus.

‘I told you.’ Jim held his hand out to me.

‘Am I a Cricket Lord?’

‘My favourite part,’ William chuckled, gently taking the stump from my hand. ‘Let’s see if the cricket law and knowledge is yours.’ I offered him the ball too. ‘Oh no, Toby. That, my friend, is something you don’t want to ever let go. And mind you, don’t play cricket with it either. Whatever you wish the ball to do, it will!’

‘Please, William. All that I can explain some other time.’ Jim looked at me. ‘Toby, I recited the words of the sixth verse of the poem to you. Can you recite them back to me?’ I closed my eyes and spoke the words. I knew them somehow, though I’d made no conscious effort to try and remember the verse.

‘How did that happen?’ I asked, looking from Jim to William. Jim smiled.

‘Just five questions, William. And then we must be off.’

‘Very well,’ William said, his voice bright and cheerful. He seemed to be enjoying the ceremony heaps. William pressed his hands together, his fingertips touching his lips. ‘Toby, how many runs did Viv Richards make in the first Test match against England during the West Indies’ 1976 tour of England?’

‘232,’ I replied. I glanced at Jim, wondering whether he’d whispered the number to me. Like the poem, the answer had just popped into my head. ‘Is that right?’

‘Yes,’ William smiled.

‘B-but…’

‘Can you tell me anything about his innings?’

I stared at William, suddenly panicking. I didn’t know the first thing about his innings. I’d heard of Viv Richards, but that’s all.

‘Relax, Toby,’ Jim said, smiling. ‘It can be a little daunting to begin with—all this cricket knowledge you have suddenly gained.’ I closed my eyes, channelling my mind onto Viv Richards and his score. In a flash the answer was as clear as the table in front of me.

‘He had a partnership of 303 with Alvin Kallicharran. It was a brilliant innings. He hit 36 runs off his last 13 balls before being caught by Tony Greig on the boundary line.’