One of Australia's best loved writers, William McInnes makes us laugh, cry and grab life with both hands. Chris Andersen loves cricket. He may not be a legend like Bradman or Boonie, but in the Yarraville West Fourths, Chris Andersen is king. He is the captain, the coach, the manager and, thankfully, a player. They are getting hard to find, players. Every Saturday in summer Chris ropes together a motley team of men and a couple of boys to turn up in their cricket whites to try and win a game. Everyone has a different reason for being there: to hear the music from a nearby house, a block out the memories of another place, to be entertained, to please their dad, or just to have a go. And everyone has a story to tell. 'Marvellous reading' - Woman's Day 'Entertaining' - West Australian 'A book about a lot more than cricket? And even though you laugh out loud, you recognise something real' - The Age 'Big-hearted novel with character, leaving the reader with the urge to stand up and cheer' - Sunday Telegraph 'An affectionate, gentle and touching tribute to cricket and blokes who play it for love, not money' - Adelaide Advertiser
Release date:
July 1, 2010
Publisher:
Hachette Australia
Print pages:
288
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Chris Andersen’s heel had started to hurt on the Friday morning. It had started as soon as he got off the train and walked
to his office in the city. He was a big man, Chris Andersen, and as he thumped along the footpath he occasionally felt a twinge
at the back of his shoe. The shoe was one of a pair that had been bought for him as a birthday present by his mother. The
shoes were huge boats of things that made his feet look twice as big as they were. His mother had bought them overseas, when
she had gone trekking in Nepal.
‘They’re handmade, Christopher, handmade by a Nepalese villager. As soon as I saw them I thought of you.’
Chris Andersen loved his mother and until then had nothing in particular against Nepalese villagers. He thought it was pretty
incredible that his mother had gone trekking in Nepal at the age of seventy-two. It was even more incredible that she had
brought back these shoes for him. But why did she think of him when she saw them?
Chris didn’t want to be too judgemental and perhaps many Nepalese villagers were skilful cobblers. But he knew as he got closer
to his office that his mother had not found herself one of those. Whoever made these shoes should probably stick to being
a mountain guide. If you want to go up Everest get a Nepalese villager, if you want to buy a pair of shoes go to Mathers.
‘You don’t like them, do you?’ his mother had said as soon as he unwrapped his present.
He looked at the shoes. ‘Well, they’re great … but you know …’
‘It’s alright. Some poor little man has made them and I’ve brought them all the way back but if you don’t want them …’
‘Mum,’ he said.
‘Oh no, it’s alright. I’ll give them to your father,’ his mother replied.
Chris Andersen’s father shot a look at his son. Earlier, his first words as he entered his son’s house were not ‘Happy Birthday’
but a frantic whisper, ‘For Christsake, Chris, whatever your mother gives you, keep it. I don’t want the bloody things coming
back to me.’
Chris sighed and smiled at his mother. ‘No, no, look, Mum, they’re great. Very good. Just a bit … unique that’s all. But they’re
great. Very authentic.’
His mother looked at him and nodded. ‘Well, I hope you wear them. They look authentic because they are authentic. Now, who’s for a Fluffy Duck?’
Chris Andersen’s father raised his thumb and mouthed silently as his wife prepared a festive drink with advocaat and lemonade,
‘Good boy.’
•
Chris hadn’t planned on wearing the shoes. It was Julie, his wife. The night before they had sat around the table eating.
‘Please, mate, do you have to speak with your mouth full?’ Chris said to his son Lachlan.
‘Do you have to call him “mate”?’ Julie asked.
‘No, I don’t have to call him “mate”.’
‘Good, then don’t, Chris, there’s enough of that matey, blokey stuff around without you bringing it home.’
‘Don’t speak with your mouth full, cobber.’
‘Chris!’
‘Listen, china,’ Chris said.
‘What?’ said Lachlan. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Your father is being funny in a smart alec-y way, Lachie.’
‘Oh,’ Lachlan said, not quite understanding.
‘Jesus, mate, it’s a joke … a joke.’
His son looked at him. Chris Andersen looked at his son.
‘Oh, come on, Lachie …’ His son turned away.
‘Listen, Lachie …’ he held out his hand towards his son.
‘Sweetheart, don’t play with the dog when you’re eating,’ Julie said to Moira, their daughter.
Chris turned away from his son.
‘Yes, Moisy, you really should keep that thing outside.’
‘But, Daddy … he has to have a pat. You only yell at him.’
Julie looked at her husband. ‘Oh, does Daddy yell at Pixie?’
Moira nodded and Chris Andersen shook his head. ‘Only when Pixie deserves it.’
‘Chris, don’t. Don’t yell all the time …’
‘Sorry.’
‘Your mother rang today.’
‘Oh, yeah.’
‘She was wondering if you could call a Mrs Martin.’
‘Mrs Martin?’
‘Yes, that’s what she said.’
‘Mrs Martin?’
‘Is Dad being smart alec-y again?’ asked Lachlan.
‘Mate,’ Chris said.
‘No, Lachie, he’s being thick. Yes, Mrs Martin. Mrs Martin wanted you to ring her up.’
‘That Mick’s mum … Michael Martin.’
‘Tomorrow, could you ring her tomorrow?’
‘Listen, Moisy, don’t pick up the dog … Moisy!’
‘Why do you yell at Pixie, Daddy?’
Chris Andersen looked at his wife. ‘Listen, can you tell her to put that dog down?’ He looked back at his daughter. ‘And I
am not yelling at Pixie. I’m yelling at you.’
‘Sweetheart, pop Pixie down and go and wash your hands … Your mother also wanted to know if you’ve worn those shoes.’
‘Oh, Christ.’
‘Daddy said a naughty word,’ sang his daughter as she padded off to the bathroom.
‘Swear jar,’ said Lachlan.
‘Sorry,’ Chris Andersen said to his family.
‘Why don’t you just wear them and then she won’t keep asking?’
‘Why didn’t you tell her I had worn them?’
‘But that’s lying, Daddy,’ his daughter called out over the squeal of water from the bathroom tap.
‘She’s right. It is lying,’ Julie Andersen said and smiled. ‘And what about the poor little man who made them?’
‘Oh come on … Listen, I am not going to wear them.’
‘Why?’ Moira said as she sat back up at the table.
‘Because they are shocking, evil, woeful looking things … Did you wash your hands, Moisy?’
His daughter rolled her eyes like Maria Callas and offered her hands for inspection.
‘What about the little elf that made them?’ she asked.
‘Little man,’ said Lachlan.
‘Yes, some little Nepalese man … villager. No elves, sweetheart.’ Chris Andersen laughed. ‘Snow White and the seven Sherpas.’
‘Dwarves,’ said Lachlan. ‘Snow White and the seven dwarves. Moisy said elves, you said Sherpas. You should have said dwarves
after elves or there’s really no connection …’ Chris Andersen’s son looked down at the table. Was he trying to be funny? He
looked embarrassed and Chris felt his face begin to burn.
‘Yes, alright, mate, haven’t you got homework to do?’
Julie was about to say something then changed her mind. He knew it would be about the way he had spoken to his son. It came
out sounding more bad-tempered than he had meant. He reached out and patted his son’s arm. ‘Go on, Lachie, homework. Elves … dwarves, I really don’t keep up … Elf Dwarf …’
‘Elf Dwarf,’ his son said and laughed a little. ‘Maybe that’s his name.’
‘Whose name?’
‘The man who made the shoes … Elf Dwarf sounds like someone’s name.’
Chris Andersen smiled, ‘Yes, Elf Dwarf the shocking Sherpa cobbler.’
‘Well, why don’t you make Elf Dwarf and your mother happy and wear the shoes … Or throw them out and tell her you don’t like
them,’ his wife said and smiled.
Chris Andersen liked it when she smiled.
‘Are you daring me?’ he sounded like he was six.
Julie laughed. ‘How old are you?’
Chris Andersen liked it even more when his wife laughed. He looked at her and his heart was very full. ‘I will wear the shoes
of Elf Dwarf tomorrow.’
Julie smiled again. ‘You idiot!’ She bent down and kissed his head and then whispered softly, ‘Just watch how you speak to
Lachie. Please?’
He smiled back.
There was a yelp from a bedroom.
‘Moisy, don’t put the dog in your dresses.’ Julie headed off to her daughter’s room.
Chris Andersen was left alone for a moment. ‘Michael Martin,’ he said to himself. ‘Michael Martin … now there was a player.’
•
Friday morning at an intersection, Chris Andersen looked down at his feet. His feet were in the shoes that his mother had
bought from a Nepalese villager.
‘Fucking Elf Dwarf,’ he muttered. The left shoe was rubbing on his heel. As he looked up Chris could see a couple on the other
side of the street laughing, staring in his direction. The lights changed and he walked across. His feet flapped like he had
flippers on and he lifted his knees high so as not to trip over his toes. He flapped closer to the laughing couple. They were
sniggering now … at his shoes.
‘My mother bought them for me,’ was all Chris Andersen said as he slapped past.
As he flapped on to his office he thought again of Michael Martin. He had been a terrific player. A cack-hander. A molly-dooker.
A left-hander.
They were terms that would mean little to most people these days and probably had never meant that much.
They were cricket terms and Chris Andersen, the man in the awful shoes, the big man who walked a little like a hyperactive
marionette, loved cricket. Had done since he was a boy. He still played and this day would follow a pattern honed over the
seasons.
Today he would ring around and try to gather the semblance of a team to play in the Western Region Fourth Grade Subdistrict
Cricket Competition. He had been doing this for years, for Chris Andersen was the captain of the Yarraville West Fourths.
The mighty fourths. Like some sad old battalion they lurched on. They had had their glory days, when people actually used
to turn up to training, but these days it was hard even to get eleven to make a team. Answering the phone was too much of
a commitment.
Chris had played almost all his cricket at the Yarraville West Club. He belonged to a dynasty. Every club has to have a dynasty
and Yarraville West’s was the Andersens. The mighty Barry Andersen, father of Chris, Greg and Tony, was a club legend. Barry’s
name was printed in gold on the walls of the clubroom to prove it. Tony and Greg’s names were there as well. Barry was still
secretary of the club and Greg and Tony had played their junior cricket with Yarraville West before they’d moved on to a higher
calling. Greg had gone on to play for the state and Tony … Tony had played like an angel.
Chris had never played for anybody except Yarraville West. He’d spent a couple of years in the firsts but never really looked
like he belonged. Yet he loved cricket.
Well, he must, because nobody would actively go through what he was about to go through that Friday. Soon Chris Andersen would
switch his phone on and his day would explode. Besides being a fourth grade cricket captain, Chris Andersen was also an industrial
officer with the State Public Workers’ Union.
His mother, Barbara, had never really understood why Chris had ended up working at the union. ‘You did so well at uni, Christopher
… well, you did well enough,’ she would say.
Barry would roll his eyes like Maria Callas and wink at his son.
‘Mum, I did okay.’
‘You got your degree, you worked hard … look at Greg, he worked hard and look at him … his shops.’ His mother pointed to a
photo of his brother. Actually it was a photo of his brother and his brother’s family. They were posed in a smiling lump in
front of a rumpled blue drape and grey background.
Chris looked at the photo. It was sandwiched between a collection of wall plates of Old West settings. Indians staring off
into sunsets and looking at the stars. A coyote howling at the moon and a man with a buffalo head talking to a cowboy who
looked like John Wayne.
The plates came from Barry Andersen, they were gifts for his wife. He saw them on the back of the magazines that she would
buy and he read in the toilet.
He had bought the first one for his wife one Christmas. Barbara had seemed to like it and so he had bought more. The Andersens
were a family that enjoyed a routine.
Just below the man in the buffalo head and the man who looked like John Wayne was the photo of Greg and his family.
Chris looked at the photo. In a strange sort of a way it didn’t look out of place amidst the Western wall plates. It was the
way that the faces in the photo looked off to one side of the camera in a glazed, smiling middle-distance vapidness that somehow
matched the crinkled faces of the Comanche chiefs.
Chris’ brother was a chemist and he had done well. He owned a chain of pharmacies. The crinkled blue and grey background in
his family photo was found in the ‘Photoland’ corner of his pharmacies. Chris had a copy of the photo in the same frame. It
was a Christmas present from his brother. Thankfully Chris didn’t have any Western wall plates. Yet.
‘Do you think he paid for this?’ Chris asked.
Barry Andersen unwrapped a packet of ginger nut biscuits. ‘Bit of a goose if he did.’
‘Greg is a chemist, he worked hard and now he can enjoy his life.’ His mother swept a hand towards Greg and his tribe.
‘Mum, Greg has no hair.’
His mother laughed as she told him off. ‘Christopher, he may be bald but he’s happy … You’re a lawyer, Christopher –’
‘He’s actually a solicitor, love,’ said Barry.
Barbara looked at her husband. ‘Well, thank you, Barry. Is there a difference?’
‘Well, slightly, love. In any case, I’m just being specific …’
‘You’re being a specific plumber then, are you, Barry?’
Barry Andersen was indeed a plumber.
‘Yes, love, I suppose I am … and if you are going to be a plumber then you might as well be a specific one.’
‘Alright, Barry.’
‘Cheers, love.’ Barry Andersen dipped a ginger nut biscuit into a cup of tea.
‘Well, yes, Mum. I am a solicitor and I’m still doing legal work –’
‘For the union, Chris … the unions.’
‘Yeah, is that so bad?’
‘Well, I don’t think so, mate,’ said Barry.
‘Thanks, Dad.’
‘I don’t mind … if you like it, if you’re happy. It’s important to be happy, Christopher.’ His mother looked at him. ‘It’s
so important to be happy …’ She had that look in her eyes.
Chris moved over to his mother, touched her gently on her shoulder and then took her hand. ‘I am happy, Mum, don’t worry …
I am happy.’
‘Alright, then,’ she said.
Chris looked over at his father, who held up one big thumb from a balled fist. ‘Good boy,’ he silently said just before he
dunked another ginger nut into his tea.
Chris turned to look at his brother and his family and raised his arm in the practised cowboy way. ‘How!’
Both his parents laughed.
His mother asked him often if he were happy. He could see the look on her face, that shadow of wariness, a hint of slight
panic before she asked. Maybe panic was too strong a word. Concern. There, that was it, that look of concern.
She should ask me if I am happy now, thought Chris Andersen as he tripped over a gutter, his Nepalese flippers catching on
the rim of the cement. Not enough to send him sprawling, just enough to make him jerk awkwardly. Just enough for a man drinking
coffee in a cafe to snort out a mouthful.
Chris looked at the man and the man laughed even more. The man laughed and coffee from his cup spilt and fell into his lap.
The man leapt up.
Chris Andersen pointed at the man. ‘Who says there is no justice?’
Chris felt a little better and walked through the doorway of the building that housed his office and switched on his phone.
Within seconds he heard beeps. Messages.
Already.
Fridays for Chris Andersen were review panel days. On these days members of the union would make their way into the city with
their complaints, their concerns, or their defences, and address a panel. It was a big union that basically covered any service
the state provided. Every Friday Chris would sit with a variety of members and listen. The days were uneventful but the process
was time-consuming, although panel day did give him the opportunity to go through the candidates for the cricket team on the
sly.
On this Friday, Chris had a full roster of union members to deal with. A rabbit-shooter from Shepparton, Kelvin Ryan; a prison
security officer, Ian Sykes; a couple of timber workers, Toni Divaniski and Ryan Pope; a groundsman, Brian Love; and a meteorologist,
Meryl Top. As he limped into the meeting room Chris checked his messages. There were two from his mother and one from Julie.
His mother had called first to remind him to ring Mrs Martin. Julie’s message told him his mother had rung her to remind her
to remind him to call Mrs Martin. Julie had told Barbara Andersen that Chris was wearing the Sherpa shoes. The next message
from his mother told him that Julie had told her that he, Christopher, was wearing the shoes from the Nepalese villager and
that she was pleased. ‘I’m happy, Christopher, those are unique shoes.’
He looked down at his feet. He shook his head.
Chris sat down and decided to kick off the Sherpa shoe that was hurting the most, and wriggle his feet free. No one could
see his feet anyway as they filed in. As he bent down his phone beeped again, a text message. ‘LIVEY IN. PLUS THE FIVE USUALS ADD TWO JUNIORS. RING ROUND FOR ROB AND REST. CLUB SEC … PS LUV DAD.’
Chris nodded to himself. ‘Oh, very nice.’ Livey Jones and the five regulars in the team made six and these two probable juniors
meant that he had eight as a starting number for Saturday’s team. If he could get Rob Orchard then he’d add an extra man.
‘Yes, very nice.’ Maybe he wouldn’t have to ask Lachlan to play after all.
Even though he thought it bad form not to play a full team when you had the opportunity, he had to admit the last couple of
times he had recruited Lachlan hadn’t gone well. Maybe he shouldn’t ask his son to make up numbers. He didn’t know if Lachlan
would be disappointed or relieved.
Perhaps if he explained to Lachlan, then it might not be so hard. Maybe it would be good if his boy didn’t play. Chris had
always loved to play cricket with the seniors when he was Lachlan’s age, but then that was him and Lachlan is Lachlan.
He thought for a moment about ringing Mrs Martin and checked his watch. Still a couple of minutes. He flicked his shoe off
then dialled the number. His foot sprang free like some harnessed animal and it began to bound about with relief. He could
hear the phone ringing and rubbed his foot. He flicked up the inside of the shoe and felt rough edges all around.
‘Bloody thing is as rough as guts.’ The phone continued to ring. He brought the shoe up on his desk and peered into it. There
was a rough metal label stuck to the tongue of the shoe. He looked at it. The phone continued to ring. He read the label.
‘Made in Yugoslavia.’ As he digested this the phone stopped ringing. A nice voice spoke.
‘Hello, Carol Martin.’
‘Yugo-fucking-slavia!’ Chris said in disbelief.
‘Hello … excuse me, who is this?’
Chris Andersen tried to put the handbrake on but it didn’t respond in time. As he spoke a big stomach on a little body entered
the room. It was Kelvin Ryan. Kelvin the rabbit-shooter. He wore an aqua-striped shirt and brown pants. His legs and arms
looked thin and fine, but his stomach looked like he had borrowed it from somebody for a joke.
He made his way to where Chris sat and Chris Andersen stared for a moment, transfixed by the vision.
‘Who is this, please?’ Carol Martin said.
The aqua-shirted one spoke. ‘G’day … you’d be Chris Andersen, Kelvin, mate. Kelvin Ryan.’
Chris nodded and spoke in a rush into the phone, ‘Sorry, I’m terribly sorry, Mrs Martin …’
The problem was that Kelvin the rabbit-shooter decided to speak too.
‘What’s that?’ Kelvin’s beady eyes were set on the big shoe sitting on the desk. ‘What is that fucking thing?’
‘Mrs Martin, this is Chris Andersen. I’m so sorry about that.’
‘Is that a shoe? Christ, that is a shoe. That is a whopper, mate …’
‘Oh, hello, Chris.’ Mrs Martin sounded relieved.
‘Yes … hello. Look, I was talking about these shoes that my mother brought back from when she was in Nepal. She said that
she had bought them from a Nepalese man in a village who had made them …’
‘What’s wrong with Australian shoes?’ grumbled Kelvin. ‘Jesus, mate. You’re a bloody union man and you’re buying bloody crap
from overseas.’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Martin, sounding not so relieved.
‘Yes,’ echoed Chris to Mrs Martin. ‘Listen, Kelvin, can you just wait a moment?’
‘Oh, don’t mind me,’ said Kelvin as he poked at the shoe with a little jab of his finger.
‘Yes,’ repeated Chris.
‘Yes?’ said Mrs Martin.
There was a silence.
‘Bloody foreign crap,’ said Kelvin.
‘Yes, well, they weren’t made in Nepal … in the village …’
‘. . .
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