by Tim Winton
‘Geez, Mum, go easy, willya?’
‘I’m sick of going easy!’
‘Mrs Leonard, Lockie spent the day trying to cheer me up.’
‘Oh? And do you need special cheering up today, Egg?’
‘Mum, his dad got the sack yesterday.’
‘On Christmas Day?’
‘Mum, things aren’t real good round Egg’s place at the moment.’
‘I was kind of shrieking interior maximus.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Kind of upset, you know.’
‘He gets depressed, Mum. Geez!’
‘Anyway, Lockie was trying to cheer me up. He’s been a drongo lately and I was seriously less than happy about his miserable level of achievement in the friendship zone of his life, but today he was trying to suck up to me and cheer me up.’
‘Well,’ said Mrs Leonard sitting down tiredly. ‘Did it work?’
‘He tried to drown me. It was fun.’
‘Fun?’
‘Well, I’ve been thinking about drasticality, you know. Having someone try to drown you sort of takes your mind off it.’
Lockie clutched his head. ‘Nice work, Egg. That really clears it up.’
‘He’s basically a nice kid, Mrs Leonard. You should be glad to have him. Could be worse – you could have got me. I’ve got zits and hammer toes and I get depressed. Plus I’m into Death Metal which is a worry.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with you, Egg,’ Mrs Leonard said kindly.
‘Lockie’s just confused, Mrs Leonard. He’s having female trouble.’
‘Egg,’ said Lockie, exasperated. ‘Females get female trouble.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’ve got – ’
‘What have you got, Lockie?’ asked Mrs Leonard, sniffing a real good heart-to-heart coming on.
‘I’ve gotta go and make up some placards,’ said Lockie bolting from the room.
Egg shrugged. ‘He’s so sensitive, too. Isn’t that nice?’
eing the human torpedo, Lockie got to the protest late, but the sun was still up and the driveway out the front of the phosphate factory had a football atmosphere to it. There were only about twenty people or so down there but they sounded like a vast, wild partying mob. Blurring white everywhere, placards shook and lunged all over. There was chanting and cheering. He saw his mum with Blob in the stroller. There was John East and his friends Queenie and Cleve, all lunging it out in front of the chain-link fence.
As he wheeled down the hill a van overtook him and he recognized the logo on the side. Great South TV. Man, this was going ballistic!
‘Whaddawewant?’
‘Clean up!’
‘Whennawewannit?’
‘Now!’
That was his mum with the loud hailer! This was hot!
Lockie unstrapped his placard and joined the circus.
‘Better late than forever,’ said Egg, grinning.
Egg looked happier than Lockie had ever seen him and a second later he saw why. Egg’s dad was with him and shouting like mad till his glasses fogged up.
‘Whaddawewant?’
‘Cleanup!’
‘Whennawewannit?’
‘Now!’
Lockie laughed and held up his placard: MEGA POO THANX TO YOU.
‘Oh, nice work, Lock.’
‘It was all I could think of at the last minute. Show us yours.’
SLIME IS A CRIME, said Egg’s.
‘Pretty deep, huh?’ said Mr Eggleston.
‘Sorry to hear about your job,’ said Lockie nervously.
‘Thanks. Anyway, it lets me join the riff-raff for a day, huh?’
‘Oh yeah, you’re serious riff-raff, Dad,’ said Egg.
Lockie grinned. Mate, this was great. This was like the French Revolution meets the AFL Grand Final. TV cameras started scooting in around them. A woman with aluminium-looking hair traipsed around with a microphone. Lockie saw Vickie and smiled like Liberace’s piano. Blokes in suits were at the gate now, telling them to sod off, and why didn’t they go and get a job and were they all escapees from the loony bin.
SAVE OUR HARBOUR
TWO YEARS TOO LATE
CLEAN UP NOW
THE STINK STARTS HERE
There were placards everywhere, and hands clapping and a bit of jostling and gate rattling. John East worked his way over to Lockie.
‘Your mum’s a real demon on this stuff,’ said John East.
‘Absolutely,’ said Lockie proudly.
‘They reckon the mayor’s going to show.’
‘Really?’
‘He’s a nasty piece of work, Queenie reckons. It’ll be interesting.’
‘You’ve got nice friends,’ said Lockie.
‘Well, you’re biased,’ East said with a laugh. ‘Just go careful, mate, orright?’
‘I don’t get what you – ’
‘Just don’t make it awkward for me, okay?’
‘Sure,’ said Lockie, still not getting his drift. ‘No worries.’
Just then someone shouted, ‘Cops!’
A paddy wagon wound down the hill and behind it a black BMW.
‘Pustling!’ A woman called.
‘Excellent insult,’ said Lockie.
‘That’s his name, dorkoff. The mayor.’
‘Pustling?’ That wasn’t a name; it was a skin disease, surely.
The aluminium hairspray head with mike ran out to meet the BMW and the blokes humping the videocams followed. The chubby little guy was talking even as he got out of the car. Lockie saw the cop car pull up and a skinny constable got out and then the Sarge. The Sarge waved to people in the crowd; he doffed his cap and smiled. He was like Jack Nicholson arriving at an airport. Lockie half expected him to start signing autographs. Oh, shame and agony! Couldn’t his old man have been an accountant or something?
‘This is a complete beat-up!’ shouted Mr Pustling at the cameras. ‘These people are the kind we should be very wary of. They frighten people for the sake of it.’
‘What about the EPA report two years ago, Mr Pustling? Has the town done a single thing to clean up the harbour?’
‘These people want to close down a good business and put a lot of decent hardworking people out of a job. And I won’t stand for that!’
‘Sir, what about the terrible smell?’
‘We live by the sea. It has an odour sometimes. What do you want, Chanel No. 5?’
‘Do you eat fish from the harbour?’
‘Every day. Nothing wrong with it.’
‘Do you swim in it?’
‘Every day. What a tourist asset it is. These people are dragging this town’s good name through the mud.’
‘He’s a liar!’ someone yelled.
The reporter whirled and stuck the microphone in Queenie’s face.
‘What do you think, madam?’
‘Des Pustling is a liar and a thug and the reason this town stinks is because the people who run these factories are frightened of him.’
Lockie’s jaw dropped. Suddenly the reporter shoved the mike near his gaping mouth.
‘What about you?’
‘Me?’ he squeaked.
‘Do you want to see this plant closed down?’
‘Ah, um – ’
‘What about these people’s jobs?’
‘Er – ’
Death! Aaargh! Total annihilation and shame!
‘We don’t want the factory closed down at all,’ said Egg.
‘And what’s your name?’
‘Axl Rose,’ said Egg with a dumb smirk.
‘Go ahead, Axl.’
‘Well, we don’t wanna see any people lose their jobs – besides the mayor – but the phosphate plant and the mill over there and all the industries with stuff going into the harbour have to clean up their act.’
‘Shut up, pizza face!’ yelled Pustling bustling in towards Egg. ‘I’ll have you in – ’
Just then the Sarge bolted in and got between the mayor and the crowd.<
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‘See? See?’ Pustling screamed at the cameras. ‘I need protection from this mob. This is a riot!’
‘Well, actually,’ said the Sarge apologetically, ‘it wasn’t you I was protecting, sir. But go ahead, don’t let me interrupt.’
The mayor went pink, then white, then blue and turned and headed for his car. The crowd cheered. Lockie tried to cheer with them but inside he felt like a wet Kleenex. Everyone had been so cool and he’d been like a total stumblebum and in a couple of hours the world would know. Lockie Leonard, Mister Media. Not!
he loungeroom was crowded with celebrating, excited, expectant people and Lockie stayed in his room. He could smell the pizzas and the boxes of Kentucky Fried Chicken doing the rounds. He heard the Sarge come in from his shift. He heard Phillip telling everyone his stupendously boring knock-knock jokes. Lockie just lay there unable to celebrate.
A knock at the window. It was Egg.
‘Why are you cracking a sad?’
‘I’m not,’ said Lockie.
Egg climbed in through the window and sat on the chest of drawers.
‘Did you see my dad there? Man, I couldn’t believe it! He said he had nothing to lose and he was glad.’
Lockie smiled weakly. ‘I didn’t see you afterwards.’
‘Well, you took off like a cut cat. Anyway, I just walked home with Vicki.’
‘Vicki Streeton?’
‘Yeah. She’s not so bad, you know.’
‘Uh-huh?’ Lockie felt cold all of a sudden. Vicki? And Egg?
‘I sort of guessed you’d go home with Dot.’
‘Dot wasn’t even there,’ said Lockie.
‘Yeah, she was sitting in her oldies’ Land Rover; didn’t you see her? Didn’t get out the whole time.’
Lockie munched on his lower lip. That was pretty disappointing. Maybe she was sick; maybe he should have looked for her. And maybe she didn’t give a rat’s ring about Angelus Harbour. After all, she didn’t live here.
There was a roar from the loungeroom.
‘Let’s go and see it on the news,’ said Egg. ‘Mate, we gave ’em heaps today.’
‘Nah, you go.’
‘Come on, Lockie, don’t be a squid.’
Egg hauled him up and shunted him out the door. They walked into the steam of food and talk and suddenly there it was on the idiot-box. A whirl of faces and slogans. Everyone cheered at a shot of Blob with two fingers up her nose. Vicki Streeton shouting. Mister Eggleston beaming. Queenie with a fist up. Then Lockie’s agonizing, squirming five seconds of death and then Egg giving them plenty – ’We don’t wanna see any people lose their jobs – besides the mayor.’
‘Axl Rose, eh?’ someone yelled over the TV.
Lockie slipped away, leaving Egg to cop the glory. He kicked the screen door open and saw Dot standing by the clothes hoist in the last of the light. He hesitated a moment and then trudged over.
‘Hi,’ said Dot.
‘You didn’t see me go down in flames on TV. You really missed something.’
Dot shrugged.
‘What’s up?’ he asked.
‘I’m bored, I guess.’
‘With what?’
‘This town, this holiday. The swell’s gone. It’s just dead here.’
Lockie swung thoughtfully on the clothesline. ‘Geez, I thought it was a pretty action-packed day.’
‘For you, maybe.’
‘Egg said you stayed in the car at the factory.’
‘So?’
Lockie dropped to the grass. ‘Your oldies are really into the environment. Your mum’s famous for it. I just – ’
‘That’s their thing. It’s got nothing to do with me. I just wanna go surfing.’
‘What happens when the crap in the harbour pukes out onto the beaches? You won’t be able to surf in that.’
‘I don’t live here, Lockie. It’s not my problem. This is my summer holiday.’
It was dark now and Lockie couldn’t see her. She was just someone talking in a cloud of mosquitoes. It was like he was talking to someone he didn’t know at all. Geez, he was so confused, and numb. He wanted to shout at her. Didn’t she know every problem was everyone’s problem? Didn’t she care about things like this? What was all this sulking crap, all this moaning about the surf and ‘my summer holiday’? Man, it was so childish!
But he didn’t yell at her. He was too depressed, and besides he wasn’t so perfect himself lately. Face it, she was hardly twelve years old. What did she know any different? Hell, she probably surfed all day and went home to watch Disney videos and play Barbie and Ken in her room.
‘You didn’t come and see me today,’ she said.
‘I had something I had to do.’
‘You went to the beach with Egg.’
‘Yeah. He’s having a real bad time in his life, you know. He’s my best friend and – ’
‘Here, I brought this back.’
Lockie saw a pale flash in the dark and felt a brush of cotton against his face. The tee-shirt.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I’m giving it back.’
‘You didn’t like it.’
‘It’s okay.’
‘Geez, thanks, Dot.’
‘I just don’t like competition.’
Lockie balled the tee-shirt up in his hands. Mosquitoes were giving him intravenous hell but he just stood there and took it.
‘No, you love competition, Dot. I bet you’ll end up Women’s World Champ. You’ll be famous one day.’
‘I don’t mean that kind of competition.’
‘I know,’ Lockie said taking the tee-shirt and heading straight inside without her. He heard her leaving, crunching up the gravel drive. Oh, man, he told himself, that was the shortest romance on record. You broke all previous on that one, son. The average cold lasts longer than this. He’d had longer nosebleeds, seen longer mini series on the telly. And now Egg was walking home with Vicki? There is no justice out there. Man, what a day.
He lay on his bed and laughed. He just couldn’t help himself. He didn’t see the face at the window because he pulled the tee-shirt over his streaming eyes and smelt the coconut smell of Dot Cookson and laughed till his teeth hurt.
gg and Lockie walked down the main street to buy a paper and see how the campaign was progressing. The pong off the harbour was truly astounding. In the sunlight the water was dark green and thick as soup.
‘You look terrible,’ said Egg.
‘She dumped me,’ said Lockie with his arms hanging off him like wet washing.
‘Dot? Dumped you? It never got going, did it?’
‘You’re probably right. Well, I was in deep, mate.’ Lockie kicked at a Coke can and missed completely. On top of everything else, love was making him a bit unco.
‘Up to your nostrils, mate.’
‘Well, it didn’t work out. We’re incomp . . . incomp . . . ’
‘Incompatible?’
‘Absolutely. And mate, she’s eleven and three quarters. What was I having – a midlife crisis?’
Egg had something dead clever to say but suddenly they were surrounded and the thought vanished. Lockie hit the pavement first. His head whomped like a split melon and then Egg crashed down beside him. Five faces peered down at them.
‘It’s you two, innit?’ said a guy with a tattoo of Marcia Brady on his left cheek. ‘On the telly, it’s you two smart turds.’
‘Yesterday and the Day Before.’
Lockie tried to spit out his tongue and speak but a Blundstone boot pressed into his throat.
‘Our dads and our uncles and aunties and brothers and cousins – ’
‘I think he means his family,’ said Egg who copped a backhander for his trouble.
‘They work at the plant, see. It’s their jobs. They been there since – ’
‘The dawn of time?’ offered Egg. He got a thump in the guts for that one, and shut up.
‘They like their jobs, orright? So we want you two little snots to go back to your hip
py mates and call off the noise, orright?’
‘It’s not about jobs,’ stammered Lockie.
‘What would you know, kid? You never had a job.’
‘I make my bed and wash the Falcon on Saturdays,’ said Lockie.
‘Oh, mate, I’m impressed.’
‘We just want the outlet cleaned up,’ said Lockie. ‘The plant doesn’t have to close down.’
‘Get your facts straight, kid. Read the paper. Change your tune, ‘cause we know who you are.’
Then they were gone and Lockie and Egg lay on the path out in front of the post office like two banana skins, getting their breath back.
‘You orright, Egg?’
‘Yeah. I think we better buy a paper.’
When they limped into the newsagent’s there was a mob of headbangers and bogans crowded around the music and motorbike shelves. One was reading Tattoo Monthly, another had Thrash and Throttle, a third opened More Metal and moved his lips carefully as he read.
‘G’day,’ said Egg.
None of them would even look at him. ‘Noddy, Dork, Dishrag, how’s things?’
Nothing, not even a hello.
‘I’m starting to feel like a leper in this town,’ whispered Egg.
Lockie bought a copy of the Angelas Advocate and straight away he saw the problem.
BUSINESS PULLS OUT OF ANGELUS, Said the headline.
Management of the Great South Phosphate and Fertilizer plant and the Angelus Textile Mill said yesterday that it was ready to shut down operations in Angelus after harassment by agitators and eco-groups calling for a halt to their activity. This would mean the loss of two hundred jobs and a vast industrial investment in this town . . .
He didn’t bother to read on; he passed it to Egg and they slipped out of the shop into the stinky street.
‘This is totally sputumnal,’ said Egg.
They walked in a daze down to the town jetty and stared out at the hideous poison green of the harbour. A few kids from school were catching blowfish out on the end, letting the ugly little things puff up and then splatting them with their heels. It was a heartwarming sight. The kids froze when they saw Lockie and Egg.
‘Here come the Big Men,’ someone muttered.
‘Show-offs.’
‘Suckholes.’
‘Well, g’day to you too,’ said Egg.