The Ball

The Ball

  Jonathan M Barrett

  Copyright 2010 Jonathan M Barrett

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  He can't believe his eyes. In truth, Ted doesn't trust his eyes anymore, and so he fetches his distance glasses from their case on the Welsh dresser.

  Normally he tells Mary he's got something urgent to fix in the kitchen while she watches the six o'clock News. As the theme music starts, he'll get up and announce that he's just remembered a screw that needs tightening, or a runner that ought to be waxed, but, more often than not, he spends the time staring into the garden. Sometimes a neighbour's cat or, in summer, a hedgehog will pass by. But that's a rarity, something to tell Mary about afterwards. They understand she'll call him back in for the weather.

  Ted used to get so angry at the News. "Lock them all up and throw away the key – that's what I say." His throttling hands would tremble at the sight of the accused in the dock. "God only help me if I get hold of him."

  One day when Ted was threatening a cocky youth, who shuffled and gesticulated between stolid men in green uniforms, Mary muted the TV. "What could you do? Really, can't you see what they're like?"

  Ted looked away, and Mary brought the sound back. So, he no longer watches the News because he can't stand the thought of finding himself weeping along with his wife at the latest murdered baby or battered pensioner.

  With his distance glasses on, through the panes of the backdoor, Ted can see there is something, white and alien, nestled in the herb bed. At first he thinks it might be a mushroom, a huge puffball sprung up from the rain they'd had earlier. That can happen, you know. But it's too white, a perfect sphere. It looks just like a ball.

  Ted twists the deadbolt halfway. He checks whether Mary has heard. He can see her reflection in the dresser mirror; she's dabbing at her eyes, along with the broken mother on the screen. When she's rapt in her world of misery, you could set off a firework and she wouldn't notice. He turns the lock fully and steps outside.

  The temperature has dropped after the rain. Maybe he should get the cardigan he left in the lounge. But, if he does, Mary might want to know what he's up too. Then she'll fret about his going outside when the News is already on.

  Ted's hands poise above the thing. It's so bright against the damp greenery he wonders whether it might be hot, like a rock fallen from space. He prods it with his index finger, just to make sure, before he frees it from the leaves. Ted smiles at his fancy that it might be too heavy for him to lift. It is a ball; light but firm; smaller than the soccer balls he'd kicked around as a boy. In those days, the balls had thick stitches all across them like the sutures of a bashed up war veteran. And, when they were wet, heavy as a medicine ball. Catch one of those old time footballs in the midriff and you'd be winded and down in the mud all right. He holds the ball in both hands, and then dares to throw it hard towards the ground. It disappears from sight, but there it is, right back into his waiting hands. Again. There's a taut thumping and straight back as though it's on a string.

  Ted pushes his glasses up onto his forehead. There's some writing on the skin. He holds the ball close to the tip of his nose but still can't make out the words. Maybe they're gang signs. That's probably it: the ball must belong to a gang of taggers or home invaders, and it's a trick to get him outside. He thinks he better just put the ball back where he'd found it. Mary will see it the morning. She'll know what to do. He expects she'll call the police, like she normally does. As Ted places the ball back in its nest, he hears footsteps pounding past the hedge at the top of the garden. They stop. He thinks, I can just slip behind the laundry wall – no one could have seen me; if I don't make a noise, they'll give up and go away. His heartbeat is steady as he peeks from his hiding place.

  A girl comes to the back gate, she searches for a handle, but they'd had it welded shut. She rattles the gate in experiment. The girl is probably a watchout, but she wouldn't be able to see him from there. The girl calls out "Hello," and looks around; she steps from foot to foot.

  Ted shouts. "Have you lost a ball?" He stays hidden.

  The girl doesn't answer but peers through the bars of the gate. She seems to be alone.

  Ted moves into view. He holds the ball up like a trophy. "Is this yours?" There's the voice of a querulous old man. Well, let me tell you young lady, your ball has flattened my wife's rosemary bush – just you wait til I tell your parents. There'll be hell to pay. He winces. What a terror it had been as a boy to have to retrieve your ball from the garden of a crabby old man. "Don't worry," he says, "there's no harm done." But he's not sure she's heard.

  She's not a young girl but not a teenager either. Ted is no good at telling ages. Still, she shouldn't be out on her own at this time of evening. It's just not safe anymore. "I'll bring it up to you," he calls to her. But he hasn't managed the steps for months. He tries to make light of it, but the girl must see his grimaces. "Sorry," she says softly, at each of his sighs. The steps are uneven and wet, and his lenses play havoc with his perception as he looks down at his footing. Fourteen times he sighs, and fourteen times the girl whispers her soft sorry.

  Ted holds himself against the gatepost as he gulps down winter air that burns in his lungs. "Your… ball?" Sometimes, Ted thinks of himself as a dog that growls when it wants to be stroked. One morning at the supermarket, he warned a young woman about not letting her toddler climb in the trolley. They tell you, on the speakers even, you mustn't allow it. They can fall, and then… he couldn't bear to think of then. He thought the mother might be grateful, but what a foul mouth full she gave him.

  He manages a gentler tone. "Is this… a netball… is it?"

  The girl nods, her eyes downcast. She's a beautiful child. Her hair reaches almost to her waist, and two pink circles flush on her brown cheeks. She's like the Madonna – she was young too, hardly more than a girl. Ted stares. He'd forgotten how a person could be so beautiful.

  When he was a boy, his uncle Ted, for whom he was named, would take out his false teeth and pull pennies from his ears. He had a whole repertoire of party tricks to amuse children. Ted was never a clown like his namesake, but, now more than ever, he wishes he were. Then maybe, he could make this fretting girl laugh, and take away the puckering his staring has brought to her brow. His mind turns over, slowly like an old waterwheel, flop, flop. Uncle Ted used to pretend to pull the top off his thumb. How did he do that? But Ted knows the girl doesn't want to see an old man's tricks. She just wants her ball back, and she's too shy to tell him outright. "Is this your ball?" he asks.

  "My nana gave it to me. See, it's got my name and address on it."

  Ted tries an underarm lob, but the gate is too high. The ball falls back and makes a line of descending arches as it bounces towards the top of the steps. If the ball goes over and down once more into the kitchen garden, Ted isn't sure he could make it back up again. The girl's mouth makes a perfect O and she raises her hands to cover her gasp. Ted's right foot lashes out and stops the ball that's already half over the edge of the first step. His foot rolls the ball back and onto the top of his tartan slipper. With an automatic flick, the ball is on Ted's knee, and into his hands. The girl lets out a noise of surprise and delight. She raises her hands as though she might clap. And, although Ted thinks he may have pulled a muscle or worse, they're both smiling as he reaches up to drop the ball over the gate. She catches it easily.

  "Thank you, mister." She turns and starts to run.

  "Wait!" Ted's fists grip the bars of the gate. When he presses his face against the metal, he sees her frozen at his command. He'd meant it as a prayer.

  He im
agines persuading the girl to come to visit tomorrow, after school. He would explain everything to Mary, and she would bake. And, of course, the girl would be shy at first, but then she'd open up and start to tell them all about school, her friends, and about netball. Netball is sometimes on the News, and he could start following it. They could even get the piano tuned. Mary can't play anymore but she could teach the girl well enough, and then she would always want to come visit. It would be like sunshine every day. Ted smiles at the thought. Ah, but there might be brothers too. He imagines the one who's just out of prison, tattooed and snarling. She'll let him in, beyond the deadbolt, beyond the spy hole and chain, because he's threatened her ball. She'd have to. It's not her fault, and then he and Mary would be first item on the six o'clock News.

  "Go home," Ted tells the girl, "quick."

  The girl doesn't smile again, just flees.

  Ted makes his way down charily, and checks over his shoulder each time he manages a step. There's a sharp pain and stiffening in his right ankle; it's like a slow cistern filling. His foot will be swollen and unusable tomorrow. He slips back inside the kitchen, trying not to limp, and turns the deadbolt. Mary calls from the lounge. "You'll miss the weather, love. They say there's a deep trough over Tasmania and it's heading our way."

  Dusk has now become night, but Ted can still discern the impression in the herb bed, like where a cat has slept. He won't tell Mary how a young girl's ball had fallen there, she would only fret.

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  About the author

  Jonathan M Barrett lives and teaches in Wellington, New Zealand. He has written several plays, novels and short stories.