I Had Such Friends

by Meg Gatland-Veness

  His mother kept floating around us for a while, checking and double-checking we didn’t need anything else. Then she put on some classical music to help us concentrate and left to wash the curtains. Martin’s mother was tiny. She was probably less than five feet tall. His father had a moustache. That was really all I could tell you about him except that he told me I should floss my teeth more often. He was probably right because I never flossed my teeth. We didn’t even have floss in our frickin’ house. Our medicine cabinet was inhabited purely by first-aid supplies like tea tree oil and Band-Aids.

  Martin had Chemistry revision to do and I was trying to finish writing my Business Studies assignment. Martin had never been very good at concentrating on one thing for too long. He kept interrupting me with geeky crap.

  “I reached level twenty-seven on zombies last night.”

  “I can’t wait for the new Marvel film.”

  “I’m going to dress my brother up as a baby Thor for my birthday party.”

  I need to clarify here that when Martin said ‘birthday party’ he meant the family get-together he had every year when all his mob came to visit and he got lots of presents and cake and I was the only person there who wasn’t related to him. We still had to play stupid games like fucking Pin the Tail on the Donkey and have three-legged races and sack races, which just gave me more opportunities to showcase my lack of talent in any, albeit childish and stupid, athletic activity. I always got stuck with one of Martin’s old aunties or grandmothers for the three-legged race because no one else wanted to be partnered with the kid who always came last.

  Martin wasn’t fast, not by anyone’s stretch of the imagination, but he was competitive, and that helped. He just knocked people over to reach that finish line first. One year, they had a jumping castle and I nearly suffocated because all of Martin’s cousins thought it would be funny to jump on me when I fell down. It wasn’t too bad until Martin joined in. But whatever, he had fun, and it was his birthday so you can fuck off if you want to judge him.

  “Do you want another Zooper Dooper? I reckon I can snag us one.”

  That one I answered. Because who didn’t want another Zooper Dooper?

  This time I had lime. Martin had cola again. He was a creature of habit. I, on the other hand, was a free spirit, flying by the seat of my pants on whims of spontaneity. Sarcasm most definitely intended. I only had lime because all the fairy floss ones were gone. They always went first because they were clearly the best. I think Martin hid all the cola ones behind the peas or something so that he could have them all to himself.

  My assignment was basically finished and when I tested Martin on the periodic table, he knew the first thirty off by heart and all their symbols. It seemed like we were most definitely entitled to a break.

  Did I mention that I thought Martin’s house may very well have been the only one in our town with a swimming pool? It wasn’t a massive pool or anything; it didn’t have a waterfall or a diving board. It was just your regular blue-lined pool with a plastic ladder. They had only got it a year or so ago. I didn’t know why, perhaps they thought Martin might get more exercise. That was mean of me. Sorry, Martin.

  Martin changed in his bedroom while I covered myself in suncream in the bathroom. You were supposed to wait fifteen minutes for it to sink in before you went swimming, but who the fuck has time for that? Luckily, Martin took ages trying to find his goggles and rashie. Yep, he wore goggles and a rashie in the pool. Don’t pretend to be surprised. I sat awkwardly at the dining table in just my board shorts hoping no one would come in and judge me.

  Martin came in eventually. That was okay, though. Martin didn’t judge; he couldn’t judge. Just look at what he was wearing for Christ’s sake. Sorry, that was unkind. The point I’m trying to make here is that I was comfortable with Martin. I didn’t stress over trying to impress him like I did with Peter. It was nice to have that day with him. At least it was for a while. Until Martin had an asthma attack. It all went downhill from there.

  I better start from the beginning. We walked outside and the hot air slapped us in the face. Sweat instantly formed on my forehead. Martin opened the gate to let me in. He only struggled slightly with the latch. We draped our towels over the fence. I borrowed one from Martin because I always forgot to take one with me. It was a luxury, fluffy bath towel, not a beach towel. Martin had a comic book character on his.

  The water was shimmering. It was the most inviting thing I had ever seen.

  I thought about what Peter would do in this situation. He would probably push me in headfirst and then climb onto the roof of the house so he had somewhere good to jump in from. I certainly wouldn’t have done the latter, but pushing Martin in seemed like a pretty good idea at the time. If I’d been paying more attention to him and not thinking about what I could do to be more like Peter Bridges, I might have noticed that he had been panting ever since we stepped outside the house. His breath was catching and he was wheezing a bit more than usual. The change in temperature must have messed with his lungs or something.

  So there I was, thinking I was king shit and anticipating the look on Martin’s face when he emerged from the water. The shock and the disbelief. It was almost too much to bear.

  I also didn’t notice that he was still adjusting his goggles.

  It took a fair old shove to make him fall. As you know, I was not a strong guy and Martin wasn’t at all what you might call petite. But he was already quite close to the edge and I rammed him pretty hard with my whole body, not just one hand like Peter would have done.

  He fell. The water splashed up over the edges of the pool.

  A laugh managed to escape from my lips before I realised the shocked face I was expecting to see was still submerged. Martin’s pool was not deep. If Peter had jumped in from the roof he probably would have broken his neck. Even I could stand up in there on my tiptoes. So Martin wasn’t drowning. Surely he wasn’t drowning. He was just trying to scare me.

  I entertained that thought for less than half a minute before I dove in after him. Pulling him out wasn’t nearly as easy as pushing him in. And pushing him in hadn’t been all that easy. He wasn’t limp or anything. I knew he wasn’t dead. But I had to help him get his head above the surface and when I did he coughed up a shit load of water. His goggles had fallen off and his eyes were bloodshot from trying to see underwater without the prescription plastic. He looked scared. Properly scared. I think he may have thought he was going to die. I felt like the worst person in the world. The shock when I pushed him in there probably caused him to breathe in all the water. And not being able to see anything. And not being the greatest swimmer. Well, none of that would have helped.

  But, he was okay. I helped him up the ladder, which also wasn’t easy and he coughed up some more water. Even though it would have been weird, I was totally ready to give him mouth-to-mouth. Instead, he asked me to run inside for his inhaler and, reluctant as I was to leave him, I did it. A part of me worried that when I got back he would be dead. The sounds he was making were like someone from a quit-smoking commercial. You know those ones with the people who breathe through a tube in their neck?

  I rushed through the house and in my panic forgot how wet I was. I left a trail of water all over the tiles in the dining room and soggy patches all over the carpet in the hall. In a panic, I tried to dry them up with the table runner. In Martin’s room, I ransacked his school bag and it seemed to take me hours to find the inhaler. Why is nothing ever easy when you’re in a rush? Eventually I found it under his lunch box. His mother was probably wondering where that lunch box was. She would have wanted to wash it ready for Monday. There was a big wet patch on his carpet from my board shorts. I stopped for a moment at the top of the stairs, seeing the drops of water all the way down. I tried to mop them up as I went with my makeshift table runner mop. I then proceeded to slip over in the dining room, which almost gave me a heart attack. I nearly went headfirst through the glass doors.

  Outside, Martin looked
better, but he was still wheezing like that guy from that film that he loved that I can’t remember the name of. You know the one. He wears black all the time and a stupid helmet.

  I handed the inhaler to him. I didn’t realise until then how much my hands were shaking.

  “Martin, I…” What could I say? “I am so sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  He didn’t say anything for a minute because he was busy trying to sort his lungs out.

  “What took you so long?”

  “Sorry, I couldn’t find it,” I said. I didn’t mention the table runner.

  “You didn’t tell my parents, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t see them.”

  “Good, I don’t want them to worry.”

  “Are you okay?” I asked with genuine concern.

  He coughed a few times and spat out more water. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

  He was embarrassed. I know, because I would have been embarrassed to have an asthma attack in front of Peter Bridges and have him drag me out of a swimming pool throwing up water. Somehow, I didn’t think I would have been if it were Martin. But there you go. I handed him his towel and he wrapped it around his shoulders like a shock blanket.

  “What were those elements again?” I said.

  This time he listed the first forty. But, seeing as I didn’t have the sheet in front of me, he may very well have made the last ten up. Kryptonite was one, right?

  When we did finally go back inside, his mother was holding her ruined table runner in one hand and inspecting the damp patches on the carpet. She gave us a funny look.

  “Hamish had to run to the toilet, it was an emergency.”

  I deserved that. Touché my friend, touché.

  11.

  I walked in the door. I had caught the bus home from school. My eyes had searched for the beat-up car in the bus bay and, again, it had been empty. Inside, my mother was standing at the kitchen sink looking out the window. My father was sitting at the kitchen bench counting crumbs with his fingers. This was strange because normally my dad would still be out on the farm until dinnertime. So I knew something was wrong.

  “We got a call from your school today,” my mother said without turning around. Something out that window must have been really fascinating. “They told me that you have missed two days of school in the past two weeks.”

  Shit. I knew this would happen. Good boys like me always got caught. We were doomed from day one when we showed up for kindergarten with our hair combed and both of our shoes on.

  “Would you mind telling us where you were?” she said, turning around to face me for the first time. Man, she was pissed. I could tell from her face – she looked kind of like a chisel.

  “I was… Well, you see, the thing is… Pete—”

  “Peter Bridges?” she said, turning shrill, which was never a good sign. “Hamish, listen to me, are you on drugs? Because you can tell us, we just want to help you.” She took a caring step towards me.

  “What?” I yelled. “No, Mum! I don’t do drugs and neither does Peter… anymore.” I probably shouldn’t have added that last word, but for once I wanted to be honest with my parents. Fat load of good it did me.

  My mother made an angry noise and looked to my father to intervene.

  I wanted my father to support me, to tell her off. Surely, once in his life he must have felt this way; the burning desire to be cool, to be tough, to fit in. But the more I thought about it, the more I realised that he had probably never even considered being popular. It was so easy for guys like him.

  He stood up. I should have known he would take her side.

  “You are not to see that boy again, Hamish, do you understand me? He is bad news. Now you’re a good kid, you get good grades; don’t throw away all your hard work for some no-hoper kid.”

  I was so sure I was going to cry. Great big sissy tears.

  Then I said a word that I’d never said to my parents before.

  “No.”

  “Then you are grounded,” said my mother, without missing a beat. “You are not to leave the house except for school and I am going to call Martin’s mother right now and ask her to pick you up and drop you off every day.”

  “Fine,” I said. “But you can’t stop me from seeing him at school.”

  “Oh yeah, like Peter Bridges ever goes to school,” my mother scoffed and I swear I’d never been so angry at anyone in my life. I wanted to slap her right across her smug face.

  I didn’t.

  Instead, I climbed the stairs to my tiny bedroom and pounded my puny fists into my pillow a hundred times.

  I hated my parents so much that night. I couldn’t think of anything better than moving out and never coming back. The fact that they thought I was doing drugs when I hadn’t even taken a cigarette when Peter offered me one proved that they didn’t know me at all.

  I guess it wasn’t their fault that they didn’t know me. I never told them anything, never shared anything. Once, when I was young, probably like ten, I had fallen down on the driveway and I had a huge graze on my leg. I went and put long pants on so my parents wouldn’t see. It was a silly thing to hide from them; there was no logical reason behind it. It wasn’t until my mum noticed the blood on my pants that she got the tea tree oil out. But that was how it had always been with me. I had always been scared of telling them anything that might be bad news. If I had’ve had more experience at it, I might have been better at telling them that their daughter was dead.

  I seriously considered packing a bag and leaving. I thought about going to Peter’s house and crashing on his couch. I could drive to school with him in the morning and we would stop at Maccas on the way for breakfast from the drive-through. I might see him around the school and casually say something like, “See you tonight, Peter” or “See you at home, Peter” because it would be my home too. We would be like housemates in a sitcom. It sounded like such a perfect idea that I even found myself smiling and thinking of us getting into arguments about who finished off the orange juice and whose turn it was to do the dishes.

  I was worried though… What if he didn’t let me in? I even considered the possibility of going to Martin’s house, but I knew his mum would probably call mine straight away and they would show up in the ute and drag me home again. Besides, if I lived with Martin for more than a week, I would probably shoot myself in the head. Even staying over there for a night was a bit too much. Sometimes I did things purposefully to piss him off, like hiding his controller in with his brother’s nappies.

  But I didn’t pack my bag and I didn’t leave home that night. Not because I was scared Peter wouldn’t take me in or that Martin would take me in, and not because I was a good boy who always did what he was told, but because if Paige were alive, she would have told me to stay. She would have talked me out of it. Sometimes I liked to imagine that she was my little conscience and she made me do the right thing when push came to shove. She wouldn’t have told me to stay for her sake, because she would miss me, but for Mum and Dad’s sake, because they would never stop worrying.

  So I eventually slept, and in the morning when I got up, my mother was true to her word and Martin’s car was in the driveway waiting to take me to school. They honked the horn for me and it sounded so much healthier than Peter’s car that I wanted to kick up the dirt as I walked past to mess up the pristine paintwork. Even though my mum was pissed at me, she still made my lunch, so I was glad I hadn’t run away because otherwise that lunch would have gone to waste. Although maybe my dad would have eaten it. I bet he spent most of his time a little bit hungry. Just like Peter.

  Martin gave me a strange look when I got in the car and his mother welcomed me with her usual over-the-top smile. I had never known anyone to stay so positive all the time. She was the very definition of the word ‘chipper’. Martin and I hadn’t spoken about the asthma attack. He was pretending it never happened; I was wishing it never happened.

  The parking bay was on a different side of the school
to where the bus came in so even if Peter had been waiting for me that morning, I would never have known. I pictured him sitting in the car, smoking, listening to his cassette tape and wondering when my bus would arrive. Then looking out the rear-view mirror to see me step off. The disappointment in his eyes when he realised I wasn’t there. Him wondering if I was sick, worrying about me. I knew that would never happen in real life. I knew he probably wasn’t even there. He hadn’t been for a long time. Not that I was counting the days or anything.

  We listened to the radio in the car. Martin, unfortunately, sang along in the front seat. His mother thought he was very talented, but then again, she was also a little deaf. I tried not to be seen by anyone without making it obvious I was trying not to be seen by anyone so as to not hurt his mother’s feelings.

  When we reached the school, we entered the hubbub of P-platers. We had several close scrapes before we managed to find a safe drop-off point and Martin’s mother wished us a good day.

  “So,” Martin said casually, inquiringly, annoyingly. “Grounded, huh?”

  “Yep.” I wasn’t going to give it away as easily as that; he would have to work for it.

  “What did you do? What could you possibly have done? Did you crash the tractor through a fence or something?”

  Low blow, sir, low blow.

  “I wagged school,” I said, and yes, there was more than a hint of pride in my voice. “Twice.”

  “Bull twang.”

  “I did. You know I had two days off. Well I wasn’t at home sick, I was at the beach.” I almost told him who I was with. Almost.

  “But what about your studies?”

  Yep, he said that.

  “It was just two days, Martin. You take that many off when you have a cold.”