4. The 12th Man.

Click…Click…Click…Click

The ceiling fan in the station was revolving slowly, stirring the hot air in the station and rustling the papers on Bill's desk. High summer in Ballarat was fine if you could be outdoors at the lake, or in the cool of a shady tree with a frosty beer to hand while listening to the Test on the wireless. Now in the third day of a heat wave, the thermostat was heading north towards 100 degrees and the old ceiling fan did little or nothing to relive the suffocating humidity and heat. A blowfly buzzed lazily and beat against the windows. It was too hot for miscreants to be out making trouble and the Station House was somnolent and quiet.

Click…Click…Click…Click

Bill sighed. He was damp with perspiration and his hands were leaving sweaty marks on the reports he was working on. What he wouldn't give for a cold one right now! He fanned himself with a sheaf of papers trying to stir the air a bit more. It was going to be another long, hot afternoon with nothing much happening, he thought to himself. It was too hot for thieving; any self-respecting thief was having a summer holiday.

Click…Click…Click…Click

Nearly dozing in the heat, Bill doggedly continued with his appointed task of filing and reviewing reports. Behind him he could hear Lawson talking softly on the phone to the Metro office. Out in the front office a phone began to ring. Young Parkinson was supposedly manning the desk this afternoon but Bill could hear the phone jangling on and on. 'Parky must be on a tea break', thought Bill and he rose and made his way to the front desk. Bill didn't hurry at all, it was too hot to rush, but whoever was calling the station were insistent about contacting them.

Bill reached the front desk and picked up the phone 'Ballarat Police,' he growled into the receiver.

'About bloody time! What'er you lot doin' down there, taking a nap?' screeched an angry male voice.

Bill gritted his teeth and maintained a forced calm. 'How can I help you? Do you wish to report an incident Sir?'

'Damn right I do! Get down here and arrest this thieving bastard! Little ratbag has been nicking stuff. I caught him red handed.'

Calmly Bill wrote down the particulars and assured the caller that an officer would call in shortly. He hung the phone just as Parkinson returned from the back of the station. 'Where've you been?' asked Bill shortly. 'You don't leave the front desk unattended. EVER.'

Parky just looked at him and shrugged, 'Needed to take a leak.'

Bill snarled, 'Learn to hold it or get someone to cover for you in future'. Violently he tore off the sheet of paper with the details and stomped back to his desk. He did not see the sneer that Parky shot at him behind his back.

Lawson was just finishing his phone call as Bill strode up to his desk. He looked up inquiringly and Bill waved the incident report at him. 'Store manager down at Mason's dry goods has caught a shoplifter. They need someone to come in and arrest some kid who has been caught nicking a cricket ball.'

Lawson's eyebrow raised. 'A kid stealing a ball is hardly the crime of the century. Send Parkinson to deal with it.'

Bill considered all the men who worked in the Station his family, but he felt that Parky was the irresponsible younger brother that wasn't really ready to be out on his own as yet. But, you didn't dump on family. 'I'll go, Parky needs to keep the front desk manned. Seems he hasn't really got a handle on that aspect of the job yet.'

Lawson grunted. He had not been overly impressed with Parkinson's work ethic either. 'Fine, as long as your reports are filed by the end of the day you can deal with it.'

Mason's Dry Goods Emporium was a short walk down Grenville Street around the corner from the Station House. Bill kept under the shaded veranda's as he strolled. Arriving at the store a cheery bell tinkled out as he opened the door to announce his arrival. Mason's was a well-kept older style store selling traditional dry goods to the local rural market. Bolts of cloth and general haberdashery, bins of animal feed, canned goods, sacks of flour and rice, that sort of thing. At the rear of the store ran a long counter that held a number of jars holding liquorice and hard sweets next to the old-fashioned till. In front of the counter were open shelves that held a variety of children's toys and sporting goods; rag dolls, cricket bats and balls, paper kites, card and box games, comics; all enticing goods to catch a youngsters' eyes as they waited for their mother to complete the more mundane purchases. Mr. Mason was an early believer in 'pester-power'.

The owner and general manager, Clive Mason, stood behind the counter and watched Bill cross the floor. Like his store, Mason was well-kept and old-fashioned. Short and balding, he wore shop-style coveralls, white shirt and a blue bow tie. 'Took yer time.' He commented with a scowl.

Bill looked a Mason without expression. 'Where is the boy?' he asked.

'I locked the thieving little tea-leaf up in the back room. I want him arrested!' Mason demanded.

'Take me to him,' sighed Bill. He watched while Mason rushed to the front of the shop, locked the door and turned the 'back in 5 minutes' card side to view. Bill then followed Mason around the counter and into the back room. Bill walked into a dusty back room stacked with cartons and old stock. A battered desk piled with paperwork and invoices stood in the centre of the room. Faint muffled thumps and howls were emitting from the large coat cupboard placed behind the desk. The doors of the cupboard were firmly locked with a large padlock.

'You locked him in there? Today? In this heat?' Bill was appalled. 'If that lad has suffered heat stroke…' he left his threat unfinished.

Mason glared. 'What else was I to do with him? Tie him up? You should have come faster.'

'Open it. Now.' Bill's temper was beginning to simmer.

Mason scuttled around the desk and fiddled with a ring of keys. Finally finding the correct key, he opened the padlock and swung the cupboard door open to reveal small boy huddled in the corner. The tow-headed youngster looked up at both men with wide blue eyes, his dirt smudged face streaked with tears and perspiration.

'Out you come, Son,' said Bill.

Fast as a goanna climbing a tree, the youngster suddenly jumped up and streaked around the desk, pushing past Mason making a beeline for the office door. With a single side step Bill blocked his path, reached down and grasped the lad's collar and lifted him up onto his toes.

'Bastard bloody bastard! He locked me up! Bloody bastard!' He squirmed in Bill's grasp.

'Stop.' Growled Bill giving the lad a bit of a shake. The boy wilted and subsided.

'I want him arrested! I want him locked up!' Mason was red in the face.

'You said on the phone he took a cricket ball. Must have been gold plated to cause this fuss,' commented Bill. 'Let me see it.'

With poor grace Mason dug into the pocket of his coverall and pulled out a red rubber ball. He handed over to Bill, who read the price stamped on the leather. '2s/6p? Not exactly grand theft. And its not even real leather.'

Mason was fuming in anger. 'These thieving hoodlums! They steal anything not nailed down and I'm sick of it. I want it stopped!'

Bill handed the ball back to Mason. 'Right', he said. 'I'll take him down to the station and have a little chat with him and his mum, open the bloody door.' Mason ran to the front of the shop and unlocked the front door as Bill grabbed the boy firmly by the upper arm and marched him out of the shop. At the doorway Bill glared fiercely at Mason and snarled into his face, 'You are bloody lucky this lad isn't hurt. I don't care what they steal. You. Do. Not. Lock. Them. IN A CUPBOARD!' Mason fell back a step his face paling. The boy looked at Bill in surprise.

Holding the boy fast in his grasp Bill half walked half dragged him down to the Station. Bill shoved the front door open with a crash and pulled the lad inside. Parky watched the spectacle in amazement. 'Catch a dangerous one, did 'ya, Bill?' he smirked.

Bill said nothing, just marched the boy past him into the office, his face a thundercloud. Swinging the boy around by his arm, he plonked him into a chair next to his desk and growled at him 'Sit. And DON'T MOVE.' The boy was suitably cowed and sat in the chair wide eyed and fearful. Lawson looked up from his desk and said nothing but watched. Bill pulled out a record book and a pen and looked over at the boy and asked, 'Name?'

Snivelling slightly, but with false bravado the boy shot back, 'Me Da' says all youse coppers are bent! I don't have to say nuffin to youse!'

'Son, do you really want to sit in the cells while I find out who you are? Its' not good idea to waste our time, bent or not.'

The boy clamped his jaw shut tightly.

Bill sighed. 'Tell you what son, I bet you're thirsty after being locked up like that. How about a cuppa tea?'

The boy considered. He was thirsty. He nodded. Bill stood up, looked at him and said 'Don't move from that spot or I'll thump you.' Then walked off. The boy sat frozen to the chair while he looked around the Station house office curiously. He studied the desks and the filing cabinets, his eyes growing wider as he spotted the glass fronted gun safe in the corner. His eyes roved around the room until finally they were caught in Lawson's steady gaze. He shrank into himself slightly as he stared back.

'That's Sergeant Bill Hobart, you know.' Said Lawson conversationally to the youngster. 'Best you be up front with him.' The boy's eyes widened even further. He'd been taken by The Bulldog Bill? And was still alive to tell the tale? His Da' had threatened him more than once that he would call in The Bulldog if he didn't mind his Mum.

Bill returned to his desk with two cups of tea in his hands. He put one in front of the boy as well as handing him a couple of Anzac biscuits. 'Thought you might be a bit peckish as well,' he said gravely. The boy took his tea and biscuits in wonderment. He drank thirstily and then crammed one of the sweet biscuits all in his mouth at once.

'Right son, can we just have a quiet little chat between just you and me? Can you tell me your name?'

Something in the gentleness of Bill's tone and residule fear of the legend of The Bulldog broke the boy's resolve and with a spray of biscuit crumbs he burst out, 'Robbie. Robert McEwan!'

'Ah. Stuart McEwan's boy?' Robbie nodded. Bill considered, Stuart McEwan had been sent away last year for Break and Enter. He was currently serving 5 to 10 at the Castlemaine jail. Charlie had caught him in the act of breaking into the Tyneman's mansion. It had been Stuarts' first offence but the judge had come down hard on him, at Patrick Tyenman's insistance.

'Have you been up to see him?' Robbie shook his head no, his face a misery. Bill knew the family slightly from court room appearances. McEwan had a wife and another, older son, Alistair, as well as young Robbie. He knew Mrs. McEwan was doing it tough. 'How old are you, Robbie.'

'Eight.'

'That's pretty young to be starting a life of crime, Robbie. You know, you don't want to end up where your Da is.'

'Dun care,' said Robbie sullenly.

'Where's your Mum Robbie? How come you're out on your own.' Asked Bill

'She's working. At the boot fact'ry. Me bruvver Al minds me, see?'

'And where is Al right now then?

Robbie looked at his dusty bare feet and sighed. ''e's at the cricket ground inna park.'

'Ah. I see.' Bill pondered. 'Did Al ask you to steal the cricket ball for him?'

'NO!' Robbie burst out and stood up.

'Sit, Robbie. It's okay.' Bill was soothing. 'Just tell me why you took the ball. It's okay, you can't get into any more trouble if you just tell the truth.'

Robbie sat back down with a thump. He looked over to see Lawson watching. Lawson lifted an eyebrow at the boy and nodded his head towards Bill. Robbie looked back at Bill and with a shuddering half sob burst out, 'Me bruvver won't let me play wif' him and 'is mates. They's all playin' cricket together and I has ta' watch and they won't let me even play catch. Cain't play unless you brings some 'quipmen. Thems the rules. They said iffen I brung a ball or a bat I could maybe 12th man! So I snuck off and got me savin's outa me piggy and went to buy a ball. But I only gots 2 shillin's and the ball's 2 n' 6.'

Robbie was glum. 'I arksed an' arksed Mr. Mason ifen I could have it on the tick and pay him later, but he grabbed at me and called a thief like me Da' and I runs and he catches me and slung me in the cupboard. I was on'y holdin the ball, I weren't stealin' it! I weren't!'

Bill considered carefully. This was, he felt at some instinctive level, a turning point in Robbie's young life. It could go either way. It was difficult enough to live in Ballarat with the stigma of having a father doing time. The last thing Robbie needed was to be tarred with the same brush. Bill glanced over at Lawson who was watching him carefully. Bill raised an eyebrow in question and Lawson slightly nodded. Bill knew Lawson was giving him tacit approval for however he wanted to play this.

'Well young Robert, Mr. Mason is insisting we punish you. He's had a lot of petty theft in his store recently.'

'T'weren't me!' protested Robbie.

'I believe you, son.' Bill shook his head sadly. 'Seems like you might be taking the blame for others.'

'Will I go to jail like me Da? I don't mind so's much if I can be where he is.' Bill had thought he had a heart of stone, but at this statement he felt a definite crack in that lump in his chest.

'No Robbie, I won't send you to jail this time. Let's just have you sit here and finish your tea while I call your Mum in for a chat.

...

Robbie sat quietly in his chair, swinging his legs. He watched the goings on of the station house, amazed at the bustle and efficiency of the place. Leaning forward and peering around from his chair he could see into the front office where Sergeant Hobart was in discussion with Parkinson. Parky turned suddently and stared at Robbie fiercely. Robbie quickly shrank back in his chair.

Bill came back to his desk and sat down. 'Robbie?' he asked, 'Can you use a broom?' Robbie nodded back in confusion. Of course he could use a broom, what a silly question. 'Good' responded Bill but said nothing more.

Click...Click...Click...Click...

The fan kept spinning the minutes away. Eventually after what seemed like hours to Robbie he heard his mother's voice at the front desk.

'Mum!' he called out, 'I'm here!'

'Quiet, Robbie.' growled Bill and Robbie subsided. Bill got up, went to the front desk and brought back Mrs. McEwan. He grabbed another chair, placed it by Robbie and indicated she should sit there.

'Oh, Robbie! What has ya' done?' said Mrs. McEwan sadly.

'Nufin Mum! Honest!' protested Robbie stoutly.

'Mrs. McEwan,' interjected Bill, 'Robbie has been accused of trying to steal a cricket ball from Morgan's Dry Goods Emporium. Frankly, I think Mr. Morgan is mistaken in his accusation, but he is insisting that Robbie be punished.'

Mrs. McEwan threw her arms around Robbie and hugged him to her tightly. 'Not my boy too, Sergeant! Don't take my boy as well.'

Bill smiled at her gently, 'No, no. Nothing like that. But we need to be seen to be doing our job to Mr. Mason, he will drop his charge if I can convince him Robbie is being suitably punished. I have a suggestion that I hope Robbie will agree to. If he accepts, there is no need for this incident to go onto record, he won't have to before the Children's court. Providing he agrees, that is.'

...

For the next three weeks, weekdays between 3 and 4 pm in the afternoon, Robbie presented himself at the Station. His brother Alistair chaparoned him there and waited outside on a bench for him each day. This was Al's punishment for not watching his brother carefully enough and allowing him to get into trouble. Robbie's task was to sweep the Station offices carefully and thoroughly under the gimlet eye of young Parkinson. The lad turned up on time each day and carried out his duty with great care and attention to detail. The best afternoons were when Sergeant Bill Hobart was at his desk. Bill would greet him with a 'G'day young Robbie. How's it going?' Robbie would grin and duck his head and answer 'Fine thanks, Sarge.' He would then proceed to sweep most carefully around Bill's desk. Robbie never noticed that for some reason there were always more pencil shavings and torn scraps of paper scattered around Bill's desk. It always took him twice as long to sweep there.

On the last day his three week 'sentence of hard labour' as Bill had put it, Robbie reported to Bill at 4pm. Bill looked up from his reports to see Robbie standing at the corner of his desk anxiously.

'All finished, son?' Robbie nodded. Bill glanced around the swept clean office. 'Good-oh. You've done a bang up job the past few weeks. I reckon you've paid your 'debt' to society. I'll make sure Mr. Mason knows and won't bother you again, but stay out of his store in future!' Bill grinned at Robbie who grinned back.

'Sorry to see you go.' Bill reached over and held out his hand. Robbie looked at it for a second before understanding, then grasped Bill's hand and shook it heartily.

'Ta' muchly Sarge.' responded Robbie. Robbie was almost sorry to have his 'sentence' end. But summer was waning and in a week he would be back at school. There was only a little bit of summer holidays left!

'Before you go Rob,' said Bill a bit hesitantly, 'I've got something for you.' Bill reached into his desk drawer, scrabbled around a bit, then pulled out a new shiny red leather cricket ball. A 'proper' leather Test cricket ball! He handed over the gift to Robbie who's eyes nearly popped out of his head. 'Consider it your wages for a job well done. We both know you didn't try to steal from Mr. Mason. It takes a big man to take an undeserved punishment without complaint.'

'Oh Sarge!' breathed Robbie, holding the treasured ball in his hands, 'This is bonzer!'

'Right then, off you go. Don't let me see you around here again.' Bill smiled at Robbie who smiled back then turned and dashed out of the office.

'You not going soft on me now, are you Bill?' Lawson said from his corner of the office. Bill just gave a sort of a growl and Lawson chuckled.

...10 years later...

Bill was out on the back veranda of his little weatherboard house. He sat on a deck chair with a beer to hand and a transistor radio playing at his side. Bill sighed in contentment as he listened to Anne and young Gracie in the background washing up the lucheon dishes in the kitchen. Then he cocked his ear, reached forward and turned up the sound on the radio to hear...

...'and now stepping up to the crease for his first appearance with the Victorian side at this season's Sheffield Shield is young Robbie McEwan. Robbie is a born and bred Ballarat boy...

Bill leaned back in his chair with a big smile on his face and listened to the match.