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O’Malley with that ball. He’s defensive. He would have played back. Leg before wicket, I would have said, low on his back pad.’
    The man stepped into the light by the edge of the shed. He smiled a big, open smile with lots of teeth. He had good teeth and bright eyes that seemed to sparkle with his smile. David found himself smiling too, but stopped.
    â€˜We haven’t got any work. Not that we could pay for.’
    â€˜Glad to hear that. I can’t say I like work much.’ The man kept smiling. He looked down the wicket.
    â€˜Are you here to see Grandad?’
    â€˜Directly. I got caught up watching you bowl. Neat trick with the halter.’
    â€˜My skidder.’
    The man nodded seriously. It was a proper conversation.
    â€˜They call that ball a flipper, over in Melbourne.’
    â€˜Oh,’ said David, disappointed that he hadn’t invented it.
    â€˜Don’t worry,’ said the man, ‘you get it right, you’re still going to surprise most batsmen in the world whatever you call it.’ The man smiled again, and so did David, knowing straight away this must be right.
    â€˜I’ve got one that doesn’t hold up so much. It goes straight on, but faster than the skidder.’
    â€˜Do you call it a “shooter”?’
    David nodded, pleased that the man knew the right things about cricket. He got shy then, and looked down, but he could feel the man still looking at him.
    â€˜Your thumb’s more under than with the other balls.’
    David looked up, surprised. ‘You know a lot of bowling?’
    â€˜A bit. I was a batsman. Once. I used to know enough about bowling to stay in sometimes.’
    David looked at the man. He had a jacket and good shirt and hat but wore no tie. Now that he looked more closely he thought he was dressed too well to be a swagman. His shoes were good, but dusty. His hat was pushed forward in a cheeky way. He started to roll a cigarette as he talked, holding the paper easily in one hand, as he dropped in the tobacco without wasting any.
    â€˜My grandfather was a spin bowler down in Perth.’
    â€˜The inimitable George Baker. Yes,’ said the man, taking his eye off the cigarette making for a moment to look straight into David’s eyes. ‘That’s where I met him. He was a coach. Hard but fair, they always said of him.’
    â€˜They still say it now when he sells a cow.’
    The man licked along the edge of the paper, and rolled the cigarette. ‘Me, I always found him hard, but—just plain hard.’ The man laughed, and David did too for a moment, before he checked for his grandfather.
    The man lit his cigarette, then jiggled some coins in his pocket. He suddenly moved down the pitch making David step back. But he moved past and grabbed up the horse halter, moving it off the pitch. He took some pennies from his pocket and started placing them on the pitch about a yard in front of the wickets. His clothes were loose on him, like they didn’t quite fit. He stepped and bent and weaved, placing the coins. He had a limp.
    â€˜The name of the game, David Donald, is to land the ball on the coin and thereby knock the penny off the pitch. Every penny off the pitch is yours.’
    â€˜There’s sixpence there!’
    â€˜Looks like you’re going to be a rich man. If you’re any good.’
    The man flicked the brim of his hat and winked.
    â€˜How did you know my name?’
    â€˜Well I listened to your wireless commentary for a start. But also Donald is your father’s surname ... and mine.’
    David held his breath, standing in the middle of the pitch, in the middle of the lamplight in the dark.
    â€˜I’m your father’s brother. Michael James Thurstan Donald at your service.’
    David blinked. He didn’t even know his father had a brother.
    â€˜Well there’s no James Thurstan in the middle. I just made that up. I suppose you should call me