Scumbuster

by Tim Winton

  ‘I can’t believe youse two,’ said Rabbit Reed, a pasty Year Eight who thought he was Prince in a pink skin. ‘You think it’s cool to go round having protests and doing all this GREEN stuff. People are sick of it. They’re sick of Bob Geldof and Sting and the Oils. Mate, that phase is past. You look so sad and desperate out there, trying to be cool. You’re a joke, the both of you.’

  ‘We’re not doing it to sell records,’ said Egg.

  ‘No, you think it’ll get you chicks.’

  ‘Rabbit, you’re sick.’

  ‘Look at the water,’ said Lockie. ‘Smell it. That’s why we’re doing it. Frankly I’d rather be surfing than getting my head kicked in. What happens when this cack gets out of the harbour and onto the beaches? We’re not gonna stop just cause people think it’s uncool.’

  Lockie gave up and walked off and Egg went with him.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ said Lockie.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ muttered Egg. ‘I know for a fact that he’s into Michael Jackson.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Lockie with a laugh. ‘Now that is sad.’

  ‘People are just hard to figure out.’

  They nursed their bruises back up through town and headed home.

  Mrs Leonard dabbed some horrible smelling stuff on Egg’s face and chest.

  ‘That’ll do you,’ she said kindly.

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Lockie, ‘He wants more, Mum. He loves that smell.’

  ‘Thanks, Mrs Leonard.’

  ‘Maybe you two should stay home for a few days,’ she said. This thing has really blown up. I’m copping a bit of badmouth myself.’

  ‘Who from?’

  ‘Oh, coppers’ wives, people in the street.’

  ‘Geez, Mum. I thought people would just see the point and get behind us.’

  ‘It turns out Mr Pustling – the mayor – owns part of the phosphate factory and some of the wool-mill. He owns the dredges in the harbour and the whole town is terrified of him. He’s just too powerful. They’d rather lose the harbour than risk getting offside with him.’

  ‘It’s like . . . like The Godfather,’ said Egg.

  ‘Looks like we’re out of our league,’ said Mrs Leonard.

  ‘Maybe I better go home,’ said Egg. ‘I promised I’d help Mum and Dad pack.’

  ‘You’re not leaving town are you?’ said Lockie, alarmed. They’d just become mates. He couldn’t leave now!

  ‘I dunno yet. I think they’re trying to decide.’

  ‘I’ll help,’ said Lockie, getting up all fidgety and eager.

  ‘No, maybe it’s better if you don’t. Things are pretty tense at home just now.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Lockie, a bit hurt. ‘Seeya then.’ He leaned against the door jamb and rubbed his chin against his arm as Egg went off down the drive. He whacked his knuckles against the wooden frame and winced.

  ockie headed for John East’s on his creaking bike. He needed advice and plenty of it. John was a Guidance Officer after all, and Lockie was finally ready for some major Guidance. Life was just too complicated! I mean, why didn’t they give you a map and a compass when you were born so you could find your way around?

  He wanted to talk about Egg.

  Then there was Dot – man, his heart was aching.

  And this Des Pustling routine.

  Lockie’s brain felt like a roasted cashew.

  He couldn’t believe the sight that awaited him. There he was, the hairiest man in living memory out the front with a lawn mower and a machete. The jungle was tumbling before him. He hacked and pushed and tore and grunted and sweat ran off him like creeks through a rainforest. But when he looked up and saw Lockie, he snuffed the mower and threw down the machete.

  ‘I s’pose you’ve come to explain it all to me,’ said John East ominously.

  Lockie’s smile did a quick evacuation. ‘Um, pardon?’ He climbed off his rusty crate and leant it against the letterbox.

  ‘No doubt it’ll all be a terrible mistake. I’m getting sick of schoolkids, Lockie. I don’t know why I bother. I thought I made myself pretty plain yesterday about you and Dot.’

  Lockie just stood there. He was a couple of kicks behind the play.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ he said.

  ‘Do you see a Land Rover in my driveway?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does that suggest anything to you, Leonard?’

  Leonard? Wow, this was like school already. John East was fit for an explosion.

  ‘Did they go shopping?’

  ‘No, Lockie, they went home. A week early, they went home. My friends. My visitors. They pulled the pin. This morning.’

  ‘Oh, man,’ said Lockie, sitting on a pile of wet, hacked grass. ‘But why?’

  John East gritted his teeth. ‘Don’t fool with me, Lockie. Don’t play funny buggers!’

  ‘Sir, are you on drugs?’

  ‘You’re a smart alec, Lockie.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I just wondered. I honestly don’t get this. Honest to God, I don’t know.’

  John East walked over to his front step and sat down.

  ‘We really needed their experience,’ said Lockie. ‘Egg and I don’t know what to do next.’

  ‘Shut up, Lockie.’

  Lockie shut up.

  ‘They’re my best friends, and I think you just cost me that friendship.’

  Lockie’s jaw dropped with a thunk against his chest. ‘Sir?’

  ‘What happened with you and Dot?’

  A little squeak came out of Lockie’s throat.

  ‘For all I know, they’ve gone to the police.’

  The police? Lockie’s ears popped. His hair did Mexican waves. His eyes shrank in his head.

  ‘Did you – ’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I mean did you.’

  ‘Sssir?’

  ‘You know what I’m asking you.’

  ‘Sssss?’

  ‘Relations. Did you have . . . relations with Dot?’

  ‘Sssssspphhh?’

  ‘I mean, you see yourself as pretty . . . advanced.’

  Advanced? Him? Lockie? The slow motion replay himself? He wondered when he’d just burst right here like a party balloon. Pop! End of story.

  ‘Lockie, you have to tell me. Take a deep breath; you’re going all blue. Lockie?’

  ‘I liked her, sir,’ he squeezed out, sounding horribly like Whacko Jacko himself.

  ‘Okay. Right, okay.’

  ‘I bought her a tee-shirt for Christmas.’

  ‘Yes. Hmm.’

  ‘I saw her down the beach twice.’

  ‘Alright. You’re doing fine, Lockie.’

  ‘That’s it, sir.’

  ‘Now, don’t be devious.’

  ‘I swear, sir, that’s it.’

  ‘Come on, Lockie, be a man. Own up. What happened last night? She came home in tears.’

  ‘She did?’ Lockie cheered up at this. She actually cried? She gave him the flick and then cried? Man, that was love. ‘Really?’

  ‘All night. Queenie nearly went to the police. But then she realized that your dad is the police.’

  ‘He’s only one of ’em, sir.’

  ‘What happened, Lockie?’

  ‘She gave me back the tee-shirt.’

  ‘Was it suggestive?’

  ‘Sir, you’ve got a dirty mind!’

  ‘Alright, she gave you back the tee-shirt. Then what?’

  ‘She said she was bored with the holiday and her oldies. She was sulking. The protest, I guess. She was mad because I spent the day with Egg.’

  John East. ‘That’s all? That is ALL?’

  ‘You know me, sir. I don’t lie. I’m too lazy . . . Did she tell them something else had happened?’

  ‘Well, no, not. . . no.’

  ‘Oh, man . . . ’

  ‘Tell me straight, Lockie. How far did it . . . get?’

  ‘Sir, I’m a gentleman.’

  ‘You could be a sore gentleman.’

  Lockie got up off the
grass and brushed himself off. ‘I kissed her on the forehead. Once. That’s it. I mean, she’s a whole year younger than me, sir. It’s so embarrassing!’

  John East tugged at his beard. ’embarrassing, yeah, I think that covers it pretty much. You wanna cup of tea?’

  ‘No thanks. I think I’ll go home and recover.’

  Lockie climbed on his bike.

  ‘Lockie?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Sorry about the grilling.’

  Lockie shrugged. ‘Parents, sir. They worry.’

  ‘I’ll call ’em tonight.’

  ‘Say hi from me.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Lockie rode off smiling.

  ut the relief wore off and the facts didn’t. A girl he liked was gone for good. His campaign against pollution looked sick. And his best friend was home packing, maybe leaving town.

  Lockie wandered through the reeds and boggy ground outside his place. He watched tadpoles shoot like bullets across the drainage ditch. It looked like he was on his own again. At the end of the year he was back where he began it – lonely. Nothing seemed to last.

  Phillip joined him by the ditch. He had a bat and ball in his hands.

  ‘Sorry about the thing with Dot,’ he said.

  ‘That’s okay, Phillip. You’re just immature. It’s not your fault.’

  ‘Actually, I was jealous. Dot was a spunk.’

  Lockie turned and looked at Phillip. ‘Good grief. You’re ten years old!’

  Phillip shrugged. ‘Anyway, there’s plenty more fish in the sea.’

  ‘I’m not hearing this.’

  ‘You wanna hit?’

  Lockie sighed and had a few hits with his playboy brother who called girls ‘babes’ and still wet the bed. Life just cracked him up.

  That night on the news the unions came out against the ‘environmentalists’ and said the protest threatened jobs and should be called off. Workers carried their own placards outside the gates of the phosphate plant and the wool-mill and the message was the same.

  The Leonards sat glumly at the dinner table.

  ‘Well, I s’pose mussels and crabs just aren’t cute,’ said the Sarge. ‘Shame there’s no dolphins or koalas to defend.’

  ‘We’ll never get support with the unions against us,’ said Mrs Leonard.

  ‘Can’t we get the mayor somehow?’ said Lockie with a mouthful of mashed spud.

  ‘He’d do to you what you’re doing to that spud,’ said the Sarge.

  Blob gnawed the laminex off her high chair and spat little chips of it onto the table as if to illustrate the point.

  ‘You have to get the unions on your side.’

  Lockie chewed dejectedly. This was all beyond him; he was seriously out of his depth.

  ‘And the only way to get them interested is to . . . well, affect their lives.’

  Lockie stared at the Sarge. You could tell he’d just had an idea because his ears glowed red as stop lights.

  ‘Sarge?’

  ‘But I can’t have anything to do with this,’ he murmured.

  The Sarge got up and yawned theatrically and slumped on the sofa. ‘So what I’m about to say is just me talking in my sleep, orright?’

  ‘Are you okay, love?’ said Mrs Leonard.

  ‘Just bushed, that’s all. Hmm, sleepy, sleepy. Hmm . . . ’

  Lockie left the table and sat on the floor next to the sofa. The Sarge lay back smiling, eyes closed.

  ‘Now the union sees what comes out that pipe as someone else’s problem . . . and what goes on inside the plant and the mill is their problem.’

  Lockie squinted. Maybe the old fella really was out to it.

  ‘You have to make them the same problem. People have to see consequences now and then. A matter of return to sender, address unknown . . . ’

  And then the Sarge slipped into crooning this old dorky song, one those doo-wop jobs, and then he really did fall asleep. Maybe.

  Lockie looked up at his mum. She shrugged.

  ‘It’s the shift work,’ said Phillip. ‘And the poetry he reads. He just wants to be interesting.’

  Oh, he’s interesting alright, thought Lockie, trying to figure it out.

  KER-AAAAAASH! PHHT! PHHT! BOINGGGGG! Halfway through ‘Neighbours’ it hit him. Lockie understood. Return to sender! Yes. Most absolutely indeed! My father is a genius, he thought.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Can I go over to Egg’s?’

  ‘It’s late.’

  ‘I know, but it’s real important.’

  She looked at him. He was quivering like a little dog about to pee on the carpet.

  ‘One hour. Exactly.’

  ‘Mum, you’re . . . you’re . . . ‘

  ‘That’s fifty-nine minutes and counting.’

  Lockie was gone.

  Lockie knocked on the window. Egg poked his head out glumly.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘I’ve got it.’

  ‘You won Lotto.’

  ‘Don’t be sarcastic.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Egg. ‘Don’t mind me. I’m just having my life turned upside down. I’m just moving house. I’m just waiting for my oldies to call it quits. Don’t mind me at all.’

  ‘Orright, more sarcasm – you’re entitled to it. Listen does your mum have any secret desire to be liked by people?’

  Egg squinched his face up, wondering. ‘Not that I’ve noticed.’

  ‘What about an artistic thing . . . you know, recognition?’

  ‘Well, that yeah. She wants people to think of her as Michaelangelo with an oxy torch, you know.’

  ‘The Ninja Turtle?’

  ‘No, you dropkick, the painter.’

  ‘We have to talk to her.’

  ‘You’re insane, Lockie.’

  ‘I need a win, mate.’

  ‘We all need a win now and then, but – ’

  ‘Look out, I’m coming in!’

  In he went, the human torpedo, bringing the curtains down and the Egglestons running.

  The door crashed open.

  ‘Hi,’ said Lockie. ‘Mr and Mrs Eggleston, I need to talk to you.’

  ‘I believe you,’ said Mr Eggleston rubbing his eyes under his specs.

  ll next day Lockie watched Mrs Eggleston do her stuff. She wasn’t the kind of person you met every day. She was really intense and didn’t bother with small talk, and she wasn’t actually that friendly, come to think of it, but she really seemed to know what she was doing with an oxy torch. The morning was a blur of blue sparks. Egg and Mr Eggleston sat on the back step, the packing forgotten. They just watched with Lockie.

  She lined up eight old diesel drums and welded them together four and four. On top of them she bolted a couple of pine pallets, and then she made a frame big enough to hold an oxy set.

  ‘Will it float?’ asked Lockie.

  ‘It’ll float,’ Mrs Eggleston said. ‘It’ll take me and the set and a few bits of steel.’

  Lockie looked at Egg and saw that he was beaming.

  ‘You’ll need a second kayak,’ said Mr Eggleston. ‘To help steer it and stabilize it.’

  Mrs Eggleston looked at him. ‘You’re right.’

  ‘Me? Right?’

  ‘Don’t go on. You’re right. I’ll do another kayak.’

  ‘Have we got time?’ said Lockie, nervous now.

  ‘What time’s low tide?’

  ‘Eight-twenty-six tonight,’ said Lockie.

  ‘No problem,’ said Mrs Eggleston, and at that precise moment she smiled. It was such a rare sight everyone looked away embarrassed.

  ‘I really appreciate it, Mrs Eggleston,’ said Lockie. ‘We all do.’

  She shrugged in her overalls and flipped her mask back into place. ‘Egg asked me,’ she said, muffled by the glass. ‘And . . . my husband.’

  ‘You’re a genius,’ said Lockie.

  ‘Yes, probably.’

  ‘I’ll be back at seven, Egg. Mr
Eggleston, can you back a trailer?’

  Egg’s dad squirmed and blushed. ‘Well, not that well, actually.’

  ‘You’ll be fine.’ Then Lockie thought of the second kayak. They needed another person. ‘See you at seven.’

  ‘Operation what?’ the Sarge whispered over the enquiries desk at the police station.

  ‘Constipation,’ said Lockie with a jittery grin. ‘As in . . . return to sender, address unknown.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  Lockie looked around at the Wanted posters and the Reward posters. This place always made him nervous. It stank of blokes. Cigarette smoke, boot polish, and large blokes.

  ‘We just need the trailer for a couple of hours. Mr Eggleston will drive.’

  ‘I hope he drives better than he preaches.’

  ‘You mean yes?’

  ‘Just go very quietly, orright? Gawd, the things I say in me sleep.’

  Lockie ran the old Hoover up and down the house till it got asthma. He dusted, he polished, he did the dishes and helped hang out the washing.

  ‘Why do I get the feeling you’re sucking up to me, Lockie?’ said Mrs Leonard.

  ‘Cause I am,’ he smiled.

  ‘Okay, spit it out.’

  ‘Can you paddle a canoe?’

  ‘Is this one of Phillip’s dirty – ’

  ‘No, honest. I need someone who can use a kayak.’

  ‘What for?’

  Lockie pegged out one of Blob’s nappies. She ate so much linoleum that the patterns were starting to come out in her nappies. He looked at the floral pattern in wonder.

  ‘A commando operation,’ he said.

  ‘Are you on drugs?’

  ‘Mum – ’

  ‘I’m gonna ring your father.’

  ‘He already knows.’

  ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘Mum, it’s an operation!’

  ‘You’re sick? Lockie, why didn’t you tell me?’ Mrs Leonard spat out a mouthful of pegs and got him in a bear hug. ‘Oh, Lockie, young people just don’t communicate!’

  ‘Mum, I’m not sick!’

  ‘You’re not?’

  ‘But thanks for the hug.’

  And then he told her about tonight and she smiled like a cat that got the low fat, low cholesterol, high calcium cream.

  ‘Constipate? Life is one long toilet joke for males.’

  Lockie nodded. ‘I guess. Can you do it?’

  ‘I can’t. I’d love to, but I can’t. I’ve got Blob and Phillip to look after. What about Mr Eggleston?’