Confidence in Young Bradman

Daughter two came round to see us. She brought Polish fudge for the dog. It is sold in yellow packaging with a smiling cow on it, and it has always been his favourite. For some reason they have stopped selling it in Sainsbury’s in London but it is still available in Southampton, where she lives.

She is an underwater explorer. Sometimes she does this in her guise as an archaeologist and hands over the goodies that she discovers to the University where she works, but at other times she is a treasure hunter and then she keeps what she finds. It is rather like doctors. You go and see them on the NHS and they bounce around enthusiastically on their beds, sing about Voldemort and take six months to send you the letter that says, yes, you do have cancer; so you go private and, just like in Hammer Horror films, it’s the same man sitting grinning across the desk, deadly efficient now and clocking up the charges like a manic runaway taxi.

She had on her shoulder a rather mangy bird.

What’s that bird, I asked.

It’s my Parrot.

It’s not a parrot.

I know it’s not a parrot. Parrots can’t swim. It’s called Parrot.

Is it one of those birds that swim on David Attenborough?

It’s very good when I’m treasure hunting under water.

You’d be better off with an otter.

Why she needs anything on her shoulder I can’t think and didn’t ask. Probably she’s jealous of her brother, the privateer, who often sports an exotic bird or two when at the wheel of The Jolly Thought and, less acceptably, when visiting his family in England.

Anyway the dog was the point of her visit and she was saddened to see him. He was listless and took little notice of his fudge. Previously he has always been delighted when she visits, but not today; he lay on his rug muttering and from time to time his head turned three hundred and sixty degrees.

Do stop that, I said whenever he did it, but to no avail. He fixed me with his new diabolical stare and said something in Latin.

I walked daughter two to the station. Something will have to be done she said, and I agreed.

I’m hoping that your great great uncle can help, I said.

Who?

Never mind. I’ll tell you if anything comes of it.

No sooner had daughter two descended into the Underground than it did. I was walking back along the pavement when someone barged into me.

My God, it’s Jessica Ennis, I cried. I’m such a fan of yours.

Stow it, said P2.

P2’s slang sometimes betrays her pre-War origins.

Much better than your Victoria Beckham, I said, recovering my dignity.

Pft, said P2, and disappeared, as did the whole King’s Cross mise-en-scene.

Just a quick one, said Uncle Edgerton. On my lunch break. From the insurance. What’s all this about exorcism?

I explained about the dog. I’m at my wits’ end, I said. Can you help? I can’t think of anyone else who can.

Uncle Edgerton stroked his chin, in a way no longer fashionable.

Yes. I probably can. Won’t be easy. Won’t be cheap.

He fell silent.

And?

Two things. It’s a bad spirit. We’ll need to drive it out.

It says it’s Satan himself.

Pft. They all say that. Satan wouldn’t waste his time on a pet dog.

I bridled. The dog is a much-loved Staffordshire bull terrier of good parentage. He wrote The Ride of the Valkyrie by Wagner.

It’s a bad spirit. We’ll need to drive it out and we’ll need something to drive it out into.

A person? A Z person?

No, for a dog it’ll have to be another animal. You fix that and await the call. You, the dog, the receptacle and we’ll do our best. Never certain, these things, but we’ll do our best.

Two things, you said, Uncle E. The other one?

Ah yes. We have a test series this summer.

Yes I know, I said, the 1934 Australians. Bent on avenging the Bodyline tour.

Tell me something I can use. You can use the shaving mirror again.

I smiled.

I don’t need to. The second Test is at Lords.

Of course, he said irritably. The second Test is always at Lords.

I smiled again.

Hedley Verity takes fifteen wickets in the match. Seven for sixty-one in the first innings and an astonishing eight for forty-three when Australia follow on. England win. The last time in a Lords test against Australia in the century – not that that helps you.

And the rubber?

Australia win two to one.

And young Bradman. Does he come good?

Oh yes, very good. Though not at Lords. The greatest batsman ever.

He looked at me sideways.

Looks like a busted flush to me. All right, all right. My people will be in touch.

Your P2?

Of course.

I staggered slightly as I reconnected with my body at King’s Cross in 2012.

Behave yourself, sir, said a nearby policemen. A Paralympian ® might see you….

I rang daughter two on my mobile.

How do you fancy meeting your great great uncle Edgerton in 1934?

Yeah.

She’s a brave girl.

The only thing…

Yes?

Parrot. He needs to come. And he needs to be very brave.

She was silent.

I’ll get you an otter…

OK then.

We arranged to await developments.

When I got home the dog had embarked on learning the Lord’s Prayer backwards, in Latin. I tested him on it. Whatever the outcome it might come in useful.

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