Blabber Mouth

by Morris Gleitzman

  I almost rushed out and told her it wasn’t funny.

  Then I realised that if she was out there chuckling, she probably hadn’t come with bad news.

  I went out.

  ‘G’day Ro,’ said Ms Dunning with a friendly grin.

  I relaxed.

  ‘G’day Tonto,’ said Dad. ‘I invited Ms Dunning out to take a squiz at the orchard. She’s gunna do a fruit-growing project with you kids.’

  I was pleased to see Dad had remembered his manners and was speaking with his mouth.

  ‘Your Dad’s offered to come talk to the class about apple-growing,’ said Ms Dunning.

  Suddenly I wasn’t relaxed anymore.

  Dad in the classroom?

  Horrible pictures filled my head.

  Several of them involved Dad singing and Mr Fowler having to evacuate the school.

  I pulled myself together.

  Dad and Ms Dunning were heading down to the orchard. I ran after them to try and persuade them that the whole thing was a terrible idea.

  As I got closer I heard Dad telling Ms Dunning about the fight last night.

  Admitting the whole thing.

  In detail.

  I couldn’t believe it.

  I wondered if a person could get concussion from coleslaw.

  And Ms Dunning was laughing.

  She was finding it hilarious.

  I wondered if chalk dust could give you brain damage.

  I grabbed Dad’s arm to try and shake him out of it.

  He turned and gave me a look and when I saw what sort of a look it was, half irritable and half pleading, and when I heard what Ms Dunning said next, about her breaking up with her boyfriend a month ago and giving him a faceful of apricot trifle, I realised what was going on.

  I can be so dumb sometimes.

  Dad hadn’t invited her over for educational purposes at all.

  He’d invited her over for romantic purposes.

  And judging by all the laughing she was doing, she wasn’t feeling deeply nauseated by the idea.

  I gave them both a sheepish sort of grin and walked back to the house.

  Correction, floated back to the house.

  Every thing’s falling into place.

  First there’ll be a whirlwind romance, with Ms Dunning captivated by Dad’s kindness—he never sprays if the wind’s blowing towards the old people’s home—and Dad bowled over by Ms Dunning’s strength of character and incredibly neat hand-writing.

  Then a fairy-tale wedding at apple harvest time so Dad can use one of his casual pickers as best man.

  And then a happy family life for ever and ever, with Ms Dunning, who’ll probably let me call her Mum by then, making sure Dad behaves himself and doesn’t upset people, particularly my friends’ fathers, and keeps his singing for the shower.

  Keeping Dad in line’ll be a walkover for a woman who can make Darryn Peck spit his bubblegum into the bin.

  Suddenly life is completely and totally great.

  As long as Dad doesn’t stuff it up before it happens.

  The first fortnight is the dodgy time, that’s when his girlfriends usually leave him.

  He seems to be doing OK so far, but.

  When they got back to the house, Ms Dunning was still laughing, and Dad said, ‘Me and Ro usually have tea at the Copper Saddle on Saturdays, care to join us?’

  I struggled to keep a straight face.

  The Copper Saddle is the most expensive restaurant for miles, and the closest we’ve ever been to it is driving through the car park blowing raspberries at the rich mongrels.

  Ms Dunning said she’d love to and we arranged to pick her up at seven-thirty.

  That’s still two hours away and I’m exhausted.

  I spent ages helping Dad choose his clothes.

  I managed to talk him out of the cowgirl shirt. For a sec I thought of trying to persuade him to get a white polyester and cotton one, but then I remembered he’d have to go to Mr Cosgrove for it.

  We agreed on the pale green one.

  It’s almost avocado.

  Since then, as casually as I can, I’ve been trying to remind him to be on his best behaviour.

  ‘Ms Dunning doesn’t like too much chatter,’ I said just now. ‘She always telling us that in class.’

  Dad grinned.

  ‘Teachers are always a bit crabby in class,’ he said.

  Then he messed my hair.

  ‘I know how you feel, Tonto,’ he said. ‘Bit of a drag, having tea with a teacher, eh? Don’t fret, you’ll be fine with Claire, she’s a human being.’

  I know I’ll be fine, Dad.

  What about you?

  It started off fine.

  When we picked Ms Dunning up she said she liked my dress and Dad’s dolphin belt buckle and I’m pretty sure she meant it about both of them.

  When we got here the waiter sat us at the table and Dad didn’t get into an embarrassing conversation with him about shirts even though the waiter’s shirt has got a big purple ruffle down the front and Dad’s got a theory that shirt ruffles fluff up better if you wash them in toothpaste.

  Then the menus arrived, and even though they were as big as the engine flaps on the tractor, Dad didn’t make any embarrassing jokes about recycled farm equipment or taking the menus home for spare parts or any of the other embarrassing things I thought at the time he could have said.

  When we ordered, he even said ‘steak’ instead of what he usually says, which is ‘dead cow’.

  I started to relax.

  At least I thought I did, but when I glanced down at my knees they were bright pink, so I was obviously still very tense.

  Ms Dunning asked Dad if he was going to the parents and teachers barbie tomorrow and he said he was looking forward to it.

  He asked her what would be happening there, and she went into great detail about the chicken kebabs and the raffle and the fund-raising auction and the display of skywriting by Darryn Peck’s brother and the sack race and the jam stall and the wool-carding demonstration by Mr Fowler’s nephew.

  I was totally and completely bored, but I didn’t care because I could see they were having a good time.

  Then the meals arrived.

  They were huge.

  The pepper grinder was as big as a baseball bat, and the meals were bigger.

  We started eating.

  Ms Dunning asked me about my old school and I told her, but I didn’t mention Erin in case my eyes went red. I didn’t want Ms Dunning thinking she was marrying into an emotionally unstable family.

  Dad, who was repeating to her what I was saying, was great. He didn’t mention Erin either, even though he’s a real fanatic about me telling the truth. He reckons if I tell lies I’ll get white spots on my fingernails.

  Why couldn’t he have stayed considerate and quiet and normal for the whole evening?

  The disaster started when Ms Dunning said she couldn’t eat any more.

  She’d only had about a third of her roast lamb.

  Dad looked sadly at all that food going to waste and I knew we were in trouble.

  At first I thought he was going to call for a doggy bag, which would have been embarrassing enough in the Copper Saddle, but he didn’t.

  He did something much worse.

  He told Ms Dunning how he’d read in a magazine somewhere that if you stand on your head when you feel full, you open up other areas of your stomach and you can carry on eating.

  Then he did it.

  Stood on his head.

  The waiter walked out of the kitchen and saw him there next to the table and nearly dropped a roast duck.

  All the people at the other tables stared.

  I wanted to hide under the tablecloth.

  I waited desperately for Ms Dunning to swing into action. If Darryn Peck stood on his head in class, she’d be giving him a good talking to before you could say ‘dingle’.

  But she didn’t give Dad even a medium talking to.

  She just watched him a
nd laughed and said that she’d read in a magazine somewhere that if you stand on your head when you’re full up you choke and die.

  Dad sat back down and they both laughed some more.

  I can’t believe it.

  OK, I know that inside she’s deeply embarrassed, and that after tonight she’ll never want to be seen dead in the same room as Dad again.

  But why doesn’t she say something?

  Too nice, I suppose.

  That’s how she can sit through all those extra reading lessons with Megan O’Donnell without strangling her.

  It’s tragic.

  Here’s Dad, pouring her some more wine and chatting away happily about why he gave up drinking, and he doesn’t have a clue that he’s just totally and completely stuffed up his best romantic opportunity of the decade.

  Because he’s his own worst enemy.

  And he doesn’t have a clue.

  And he won’t till someone tells him.

  Ms Dunning won’t.

  So it’ll have to be me.

  Me and Darryn Peck’s brother.

  While I was creeping out of the house this morning Dad gave a shout and I thought I’d been sprung.

  ‘Jenny,’ he called out, and I froze.

  I took several deep breaths to try and slow my heart down and in my head I frantically rehearsed my cover story about going for an early morning run to train for the big race with Darryn Peck.

  Then I checked my nails for white spots.

  Then I remembered my name isn’t Jenny.

  Jenny was Mum’s name.

  I crept along the verandah and peeked through Dad’s bedroom window.

  He was still asleep, tangled up in the sheet, his Elvis pyjamas scrunched up under his arms. Dad’s a pretty tense sleeper and I’ve heard him shout in his sleep a few times. Usually it’s Mum’s name, though once it was ‘The hat’s in the fridge’.

  I stood there for a few secs watching him. There was something about the way he had his arms up against his chest that made him look very lonely, and seeing him like that made me feel even more that I’m doing the right thing.

  I ran into town.

  Along the road the insects were waking up, and judging by the racket they were making they thought I was doing the right thing too.

  ‘Go for it,’ a couple of million screeched, and another couple of million yelled, ‘He’ll thank you for it later.’

  One said ‘You’ll be sorry’, but I decided to ignore that.

  I went to the bank and put my card in the machine and took out my life’s savings.

  Then I went across to the phone box and looked up Peck in the book. There were two, but I didn’t think Peck’s Hair Removal sounded right, so I went to the other one.

  It was quite a big fibro place with a mailbox nailed to a rusty statue of a flamingo by the gate, and two motorbikes in the front yard.

  I had to ring the bell four times before the front door half opened and a bloke with a sheet wrapped round his waist and a red beard peered out.

  ‘Are you the skywriter?’ I asked him.

  He stared at my note, yawning and rubbing his eyes.

  ‘You want Andy,’ he said.

  He looked at me for a bit, then turned and yelled into the house.

  After he’d yelled ‘Andy’ the third time, a bloke with red hair and a tracksuit appeared, also rubbing his eyes.

  ‘She wants Andy,’ said the sheet bloke.

  The tracksuit bloke stared at me.

  ‘Andy!’ he yelled.

  Another head appeared round the door.

  It wasn’t Andy.

  It was the one I’d been dreading.

  Darryn.

  He stared at me in amazement, then his eyes narrowed.

  ‘What do you want?’ he demanded.

  ‘Get lost, shortarse,’ the sheet bloke said to him.

  I was glad Darryn’s family knew how to handle him.

  ‘Vanish, pest,’ the tracksuit guy growled at him.

  They didn’t have to be so nasty about it though.

  Darryn looked really hurt, and for a moment he reminded me of Dad at the sports carnival after Mr Cosgrove had called him badly dressed.

  Then Darryn scowled at me and vanished.

  The door opened wider and a thin bloke in a singlet and shorts stepped in front of the other two.

  I guessed he was Andy because on the front of his singlet was written Crop Dusters Don’t Say It, They Spray It.

  ‘What is it?’ he said, looking at me.

  ‘I think she’s that girl from Darryn’s class,’ the tracksuit guy muttered to him. ‘The one he’s always on about. You know, the one that can’t speak cause she was shot in the throat by Malaysian pirates.’

  The three of them stared at me.

  Andy was looking doubtful, and I knew I had to grab his attention before Darryn came back and started telling him more stories about me.

  I decided the note I’d written explaining every-thing might be a bit complicated to kick off with, so I showed Andy the money instead.

  He looked down at the two hundred and ninety dollars in my hand.

  ‘Tell me more,’ he said.

  Where is he?

  It’s twenty-three minutes past four and he was meant to do it at four.

  Come on Andy, please.

  Perhaps he’s lost the bit of paper and he’s forgotten what he’s supposed to write. No, that can’t be it, because after he finished laughing, and agreed to do it, he wrote it on his wrist.

  If he doesn’t get here soon it’ll be too late.

  Dad’ll have upset and embarrassed every parent and every teacher at this barbie and they’ll form a vigilante group and we’ll have to move to another town.

  He’s already upset the lady on the jam stall by asking if he could taste all the jams before he bought one. She laughed but I knew that inside she was ropable.

  And he’s embarrassed Megan O’Donnell’s dad by buying twenty raffle tickets from him just because the third prize is a Carla Tamworth CD.

  Mr O’Donnell shook Dad’s hand and slapped him on the back, but I could tell that inside he knows we haven’t got a CD player and he thinks Dad’s a loony.

  And at least six people have commented how Dad’s purple and yellow shirt looks as though it’s made from the same material as the big purple and yellow Parents and Teachers Association banner over the marquee. They pretended they were joking, but inside I bet they were nauseous.

  At least the Cosgroves aren’t here.

  It means I won’t see Amanda today, but I’m prepared to pay that price if it means Dad and Mr Cosgrove won’t be stabbing each other with chicken kebabs.

  Four twenty-four.

  Come on, Andy.

  Perhaps he’s got mechanical trouble. No, that can’t be it, everyone knows crop-dusters keep their planes in A-1 mechanical condition. Farmers won’t hire you if you keep crashing into their sheds.

  I’ve got a knot in my guts the size of Antarctica.

  Relax, guts, it’ll be fine.

  That’s the great thing about talking in your head. It takes your mind off stress and you don’t get ulcers. If I wasn’t having this conversation now I’d be a nervous wreek.

  Oh no.

  I can’t believe what Dad’s just done.

  He’s donated a song to the fund-raising auction.

  He actually expects people to bid money for him to sing them a song.

  This is so embarrassing.

  I’d go and hide in the marquee if I didn’t have to keep an eye out for Andy in case he’s having trouble with his navigational equipment and I have to set fire to some chicken kebabs to guide him in.

  Dad’ll be so hurt when nobody bids.

  I can picture his face now.

  Good grief, someone’s just bid.

  Two dollars, that’s an insult.

  Haven’t these people got any feelings?

  And now four dollars from Doug Walsh’s parents.

  What are you try
ing to do, destroy my father’s self-respect?

  Dad’s grinning, but inside he must be feeling awful.

  Stack me, Ms Dunning’s just bid ten dollars.

  Why’s everyone laughing? At least she’s doing her best to make him feel better.

  Oh.

  The ten dollars is for him not to sing.

  Mr Fowler has banged his auctioneer’s hammer and declared her the successful bidder.

  Everyone’s laughing and clapping, including Dad, but inside he must be bleeding.

  Four twenty-seven.

  Andy, this is getting desperate.

  I know skywriting is just a hobby for you, but it’s a matter of life and death down here.

  Now Ms Dunning’s trying to persuade Dad to go in the sack race.

  That woman is incredible.

  Even though he’s taken the sack off his feet and put it on his head and she must be burning up inside with embarrassment, she’s still pretending she’s enjoying herself so she doesn’t hurt his feelings.

  Definitely a saint.

  Four twenty-eight.

  Where is he?

  If Andy Peck has flown to Western Australia with my two hundred and ninety dollars I’ll track him down even if it takes me the rest of my life because it took me hundreds of hours helping Dad in the orchard to earn that money.

  There’s Amanda.

  She must have just arrived.

  Oh well, at least now I’ve got someone to moan to about the Peck family.

  Oh no, if she’s here, that means . . .

  Mr Cosgrove.

  There he is.

  He’s seen Dad.

  Don’t do it, Dad, don’t take the sack off your head.

  He’s taken it off.

  He’s seen Mr Cosgrove.

  They’re staring at each other.

  Oh no.

  Wait a sec, what’s that noise?

  Is it . . ?

  Yes.

  It’s a plane.

  Andy Peck turned out to be a really good skywriter for an amateur.

  Though as I’d paid him two hundred and ninety dollars I suppose that made him a professional.

  Anyway, he did a great job and I’m really happy.

  Fairly happy.

  I think.

  His letters were big and clear, huge swoops of white smoke against the blue sky.

  As the plane started buzzing overhead, Mr Fowler stopped the charity auction. ‘We’ll take a breather,’ he said, ‘and enjoy the spectacle.’