Alice Henderson On Debut

Two

The summer after I turned eight, Mr Williams, our Phys. Ed. teacher, announced over the PA that if anyone wanted to play cricket for the school, they should line up by the bottom gate after the first lunch bell. My older brother Adam and I had grown up on cricket, so it was a no-brainer for me to be down by the gate that day. When Mr Parkinson turned up, he asked what I was doing there. When I told him I wanted to play cricket, he laughed. I had no idea what was so funny about that, but he pointed towards the netball courts and told me that I should be over there with the girls. Before I could protest, Mr Williams had turned up and told Mr Parkinson I could at least have one training session and see how I went.

Adam, of course, thought it was hilarious that I was the only girl at training, and when we got home that afternoon he couldn't wait to tell my parents how I'd embarrassed myself for thinking I could play cricket with the boys. My parents gave each other a funny sort of look, and Nan said, "If Alice wants to try her hand at cricket, then she should go for it."

Nan was always my biggest supporter, which is why I don't mind spending time with her at the nursing home every Friday night. Adam says she's losing her marbles, which Mum says is offensive and totally not okay to say to anyone outside of the family. I just think that once you get to her age, which is eighty-three, it's not surprising you start forgetting stuff with everything you've had to remember over the years.

When we arrive, Nan's sitting up in her bed watching TV, her headphones covering her ears making her look smaller than she actually is. She's almost deaf, so the headphones make sure no-one else has to listen to constant repeats of Wheel of Fortune. Nan's also got the early stages of dementia, so no matter how many times she watches a show, it's like the first time she's seen it. As we walk into the room, she yells at the TV, "It's Clarke Gable you bloody idiot!" Adam laughs and I shove him. He thinks the fact that Nan swears and says inappropriate things sometimes is hilarious, and I guess it is. I just prefer to think of it as Nan finally coming out of her shell and saying what she wants, when she wants. Plus, she gets to forget she ever said it, and so long as no-one brings stuff up, she's never going to be embarrassed by anything again.

She smiles when she sees us and takes off her headphones. She can never remember who Adam is, although I think she just messes with him, but she always remembers me. And she calls Mum 'the nurse' sometimes instead of Jenny, but Mum doesn't mind. Dad puts the bags of takeaway on a table and Adam and I pull over some chairs.

"What did you bring?" Nan asks.

"Chinese," Dad replies. It's always Chinese.

"I love Chinese," Nan says, rubbing her hands together. "Did I ever tell you about the one time your grandfather cooked me dinner? Tried to pass the fried rice from the Chinese shop up the road as his own." She chuckles and we all laugh with her, even though this is the same story she tells us almost every Friday night. Sometimes she refers to Pop as 'a boy', because she forgets that we actually know who she's referring to. Adam gets annoyed when Nan tells the same stories over and over again, but I don't care. The ones she remembers are always the happiest, and I like to think that when she doesn't know who she is or where she is, that she's back in her memories, reliving those happy times over and over again.

I set out the plastic plates and cutlery and Dad starts dishing out the food. Having dinner with Nan every Friday night has been a ritual for as long as I can remember, even back when Pop was still alive and Nan still had all her marbles. We'd all sit around her kitchen table, Pop up one end, Nan the other, Mum and Dad on one side and Adam and I across from them. It was even noisier when my cousins were visiting from the city. Nan would put the dining chairs away and bring out the long bench seats and we'd all squeeze in along the sides of the table, banging elbows and picking food off each others' plates, a million and one conversations going on all at once. Now Nan finds it hard to concentrate on one train of thought, although sometimes it's surprising what she remembers.

"Mum said you've got a big cricket match tomorrow, Adam," Nan says. She spoons honey chicken onto her plate, picks up a piece with her fingers and eats it, sucking the sauce that drips onto her hand.

Adam swallows a mouthful of fried rice. "Scouts are coming up from the city. They're looking for players for the grade sides down there. Could be a stepping stone to rep."

"Do you think you'll make it?" Nan asks.

Adam shrugs. "I hope so. Coach says I have a good chance. I've had the best bowling figures for the seniors for the last two years."

Nan turns to me. "And what about you, Alice. Are you playing?"

"Yeah, actually. First time in ages I've played in a proper match."

"It's not really a proper match, Alice," Adam says. "You're just playing in the other side."

I shoot Adam a look but before I can say anything, Dad says, "A match is a match, Adam. Don't belittle your sister."

I hate it when Dad comes to my rescue. Sometimes he makes things worse.

"I'm just saying," Adam says, his mouth full of sweet and sour pork. "The match is so the scouts can look at us in the A team. Alice is playing because they needed an extra player at last minute."

I stab a piece of chicken with my plastic fork. "If I was a boy I'd be in the A Team."

Adam laughs. "Yeah, right."

I drop my fork onto my plate and glare at him. "I've got a better batting average than half the guys in the A team. Plus, I can hit the stumps from the circle better than any of your team, so stop thinking you're so hot."

Dad puts his hand on my arm. "That's enough, Alice." He turns to Adam. "No more cricket talk."

Nan bites into a prawn cracker and glances up at the TV. "Oh for God's sake you morons, it's Sydney Opera House." Adam and I both snort and Dad gives us the evil eye. "So," Nan says, turning back to me, a piece of prawn cracker stuck to her bottom lip. "Got any plans for tomorrow?" And just like that, the previous conversation is over.

Just as we're finishing our dinner, Mum rushes into the room. "Sorry I missed dinner. Old George had a fall in his room. Silly bugger woke up and forgot he didn't have his leg on."

Nan sniffs. "That man would forget his head if it wasn't on straight." Everyone cracks up laughing, but it seems like Nan has no idea that she's just made a joke at her own expense. Mum whispers to Dad that it's time Nan had her medication, which is our cue to leave.

"We should get going," Dad says, putting the dirty plates and rubbish onto a tray. "The kids have got a big day tomorrow."

"I haven't had dessert yet," Nan says.

"You had dinner with us tonight," Dad says. "There is no dessert."

Nan folds her arms across her chest and narrows her eyes. "Do you think I'd forget whether I've had dessert or not?"

Adam sniggers.

"They've got chocolate pudding tonight and I'm not going to bed until I have some."

Mum puts her hand on Nan's arm and uses her nurse voice. "I'll go and see if they have any left in the kitchen for you."

Nan takes Mum's hand and says, "Thanks, love."

I jump up. "I'll come too. I need to go to the loo anyway."

I have a funny feeling this is one of those times she knows exactly what's going on, but if she wants chocolate pudding, I'll go find her some.

As Mum and I walk down the hallway to the kitchen, Mum says, "I've managed to swap shifts with Leanne, so I can come and watch the game tomorrow."

"Thanks, Mum." Even though tomorrow is Adam's big day to impress the scouts, Mum can go and watch him play any weekend in summer, but me? I hardly ever get to play and I like it when Mum and Dad are there to watch. It gives me someone to show off for.

Mum pushes open the kitchen door and I follow her in. "We better find Nan some pudding before she starts yelling at Dad instead of the TV."