Girl Underground

by Morris Gleitzman

  ‘We’re going to where Dad works,’ I say and start giving directions.

  ‘Not so fast,’ says Dave. ‘I’m not a taxi driver.’

  I’m glad he’s not because the couple of times we get lost gives me extra time to think about how I can stop them actually going into the warehouse.

  By the time we turn into the industrial estate, I know how.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say as we park outside the warehouse. ‘Dad’s very strict on security and only people with security clearance can go in. I won’t be long.’

  I slip out of the car and hurry into the warehouse. The others don’t follow. I’m not surprised. I was pretty sure Dave would respect security arrangements.

  Dad is up the back, dusting off a sewing machine with a rag.

  ‘G’day, love,’ he says with a grin. ‘Did Mum tell you about my plan?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘Best sewing machine made in Romania, this little beauty,’ says Dad. ‘Seriously top-notch.’ He points to a pile of them stacked on pallets. ‘I’ve got enough to send one to every politician in Canberra. They’ll save a fortune on clothing alterations and repairs. Show them a little kindness and they might find it a bit easier to show some kindness to those locked-up kiddies, that’s how I see it.’

  ‘Dad,’ I say. ‘I wish you were Prime Minister.’

  Dad looks pleased.

  ‘But,’ I go on, ‘you can’t do it. It’s too risky. What if a government department decides to check where these sewing machines came from? And then everything else in here?’

  I point to all the shelves of stuff.

  Dad thinks about this. He waves the idea away.

  ‘Government departments,’ he says scornfully. ‘They’re hopeless. Take ’em years to work it out.’

  ‘But what if they’re not all hopeless?’ I say. ‘What if Dave’s department works it out while I’m in Canberra?’

  Dad thinks about that. His shoulders sag.

  ‘Sorry, love,’ he says. ‘Didn’t occur to me it might put you in the poo. I’ll leave it till you get back. Jeez, I got a bit carried away, didn’t I? I’m glad Mum sent you down here.’

  I nod. Best not to say anything.

  Dad’s face darkens. ‘But I’m gunna write to those politicians,’ he says. ‘Not on paper from here, from the newsagents. Tell them what I think about them locking up kids.’

  I give Dad a hug. ‘I’m really proud you’re my dad,’ I say.

  He squeezes me tight. ‘Good luck in Canberra,’ he says.

  Once again I don’t say anything. This time it’s because I’m distracted by what I see when I peer past Dad’s armpit.

  Menzies, standing in the loading bay of the warehouse, staring at me and Dad.

  He sees me looking at him and turns away and pretends to be studying all the stuff on the shelves. Right near him is a pile of fake Lord of the Rings t-shirts and doona covers.

  Now he’s staring at a shipping container. Or rather one particular part of the container.

  The big patch of shiny raw metal where the serial number used to be before it was illegally removed with a power grinder.

  ‘Bridget White, perhaps you can help us with our enquiries.’

  The voice is so loud I nearly jump out of my chair. Mr Creely is standing by my desk, staring down at me.

  Science class.

  He wants an answer, but what was the question?

  Desperately I try to clear my head of all the questions I’ve just been thinking about. Whether Menzies’ parents will let us go to Canberra this weekend. Why Menzies has been avoiding me for the last two days since we got back from my place.

  ‘I and the rest of the class are rather hoping,’ says Mr Creely, ‘that you’ll supply us with some information. Concerning the matter I’ve been talking about for the last ten minutes.’

  My brain feels like the cotton wool that Bangladeshi hearing-aids come packed in.

  ‘Or shall I just give you a weekend detention for daydreaming?’ says Mr Creely.

  Antoinette is signalling to me frantically. She’s mouthing something.

  Parachutes?

  ‘Parasites,’ I say, suddenly remembering.

  ‘Thank you, Antoinette,’ says Mr Creely. ‘Now, Miss White, as I’m sure you know, parasites are organisms that take what they need for their survival from other organisms. I’ve just been explaining, as I’m sure you’re aware, that there are many more parasite species on our planet than non-parasite species. So, to avoid a detention this weekend, please name one parasite species that nobody else has mentioned in this class today.’

  I stare at him in panic.

  Now my brain doesn’t even feel as intelligent as cotton wool.

  A flicker of something Dad once said comes back to me.

  ‘Fungus,’ I blurt out. ‘There’s a species of fungus that lives in mud around the Turkmenistan/Uzbekistan border and gets under your toenails and makes them drop off which is a real problem for the truckdrivers because they can’t push their trucks out of mudslides and the bandits will only tow you out if you give them half your load except they’re not interested in DVD players that aren’t multi-zone…

  My brain catches up with my gabbling mouth and I stop.

  I’ve already said way too much.

  Mr Creely is looking a bit stunned.

  The rest of the class are staring.

  The bell goes. Mr Creely shakes his head, turns away and dismisses us.

  I wait till everyone’s gone, praying that none of the other kids understood what I was really saying.

  Then I step out into the corridor.

  Menzies is waiting for me.

  Behind his glasses his eyes are big and troubled. My insides go into more knots than a Romanian hammock.

  ‘My mother called back,’ he says. ‘We can go to Canberra this weekend.’

  ‘That’s great,’ I say, but I can see there’s more to come.

  ‘First,’ says Menzies, ‘there’s some stuff I need to know. What exactly does your father do in his business?’

  ‘Not here,’ I say, glancing anxiously up and down the corridor. ‘Let’s talk in your room.’

  We go to his room. On the way I silently rehearse all my emergency excuses about Dad. How he’s not good at paperwork, specially import dockets. How he’s always losing receipts. How the serial number of the container got accidently scraped off when he bumped it with an Uzbekistan cheese grater.

  None of it sounds very true.

  We go into Menzies’ room and Menzies closes the door.

  ‘Bridget,’ he says, looking unhappy. ‘Is your father a criminal?’

  I feel extremely unhappy he’s asked, but I try not to show it, even though my chest is thudding harder than a Bosnian lawnmower.

  ‘A criminal?’ I say. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘The stuff you came out with in class,’ says Menzies. ‘DVD players on the Afghanistan border or whatever it was.’

  ‘That’s just stuff I know about,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t make my dad a criminal.’

  ‘And the Lord of the Rings doona covers in your father’s warehouse,’ says Menzies. ‘I know they aren’t genuine because in the movie Frodo isn’t Asian.’

  We look at each other and I don’t know what to say.

  It’s a fair cop.

  My legs feel like they’re turning into Bulgarian jelly, the stuff you have to drink through a straw.

  This is what I’ve dreaded for years. This is why I’ve never made a real friend. This is why I shouldn’t have made this one.

  Part of me wishes I’d never met Menzies. But something confusing is happening. Another part of me wants to tell him the truth.

  ‘Hang on,’ I say. ‘I’ll be back.’

  I go out into the corridor and knock on Dave the bodyguard’s door. It opens. Dave looks down at me, his eyebrows asking me what I want.

  ‘Dave,’ I say. ‘You know that blender my uncle gave you? Me and Menzies were wondering if you co
uld make us a smoothie.’

  Dave thinks about this.

  ‘And what’ll happen if I don’t?’ he says. ‘Will your dad shoot me?’

  For a second I think he’s serious, but then he grins. ‘Only joking,’ he says. ‘Banana or Milo?’

  ‘Both,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’

  I go back into Menzies’ room and shut the door. Menzies starts to speak, but I put my finger to my lips. We wait in silence till the roar of the Russian blender starts up next door.

  Perfect. Nobody could hear us now even if they were trying to.

  I’m still not sure what’s going to happen next. Menzies interrogating me, or me confessing to him.

  Then suddenly there’s something I want more than anything else in the world.

  One friend I can be honest with.

  I turn to Menzies.

  ‘Do you promise not to blab to your dad or anyone else in the government what I’m about to tell you?’ I say.

  Menzies hesitates. Only for a second.

  ‘I promise,’ he says.

  I dig my fingernails into my palms. It’s an old burglar trick to give you courage.

  ‘My dad is a sort of criminal,’ I say. ‘He doesn’t steal and he doesn’t do violence, but most of the stuff in his warehouse did fall off the back of trucks overseas.’

  ‘I thought so,’ says Menzies quietly.

  I keep going.

  ‘Our family doesn’t do armed robbery,’ I say firmly. ‘Or breaking and entering. Except Uncle Grub when he was first married but he regrets it now. And we don’t steal cars or sell drugs or kidnap people.’

  I stop. Confessions are really hard. Harder than secrets sometimes.

  Menzies just looks at me.

  ‘If you don’t want to be friends with a crim kid,’ I say, ‘or take one to your place, I’ll understand.’

  Menzies frowns. I can see he’s having deep thoughts. Maybe one day he’ll be Prime Minister.

  After what seems like several years, he finally speaks.

  ‘I do want to be your friend,’ he says.

  I struggle not to look too relieved.

  ‘But,’ Menzies goes on, ‘there is a problem.’

  Just as well I kept the relief under control.

  ‘Dave is a federal police officer,’ says Menzies. ‘He’s trained to spot crime. Isn’t it too risky, you being around him?’

  The noise of the Russian blender fades away and so do the knots inside me. So that’s all Menzies is worried about.

  ‘I’m used to risks,’ I say.

  Telling Menzies about my family was the big risk. Dave I can cope with.

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ I say. ‘If he was going to arrest my family he’d have done it last weekend at the party.’

  Menzies gives me a relieved smile.

  I grin back.

  Good old Dad. It’s what he’s always told me. Honesty is the best policy.

  People are kind.

  I’ve always believed that, even when sometimes they do things that aren’t kind. For example Uncle Ray was burgled once and as well as taking his TV and video, the burglar did a poo on his couch.

  That wasn’t very kind.

  I reckon the burglar was just jealous. He’d heard about all the doctor and vet work Uncle Ray does and the burglar was jealous that he’d never had the chance to go to university and make something of himself. Poor bloke, he didn’t need to be jealous. Uncle Ray didn’t go to university either.

  Dave the bodyguard is very kind.

  He’s just spent hours and hours driving us to Canberra. OK, it’s his job but he still didn’t have to. He could have taken a sickie or pretended it was too much of a security risk because of terrorists posing as petrol station employees.

  Menzies is kind too.

  When me and Dave said we were sick of playing I Spy, Menzies didn’t whinge or get cross, he just said if I was feeling tired I could sleep on his shoulder. That was very kind, even though he immediately fell asleep on mine.

  And now we’re in Canberra, driving along the dark streets towards Menzies’ place, I can see that the people here are kind too.

  The big buildings are all lit up at night so visitors don’t bang into them in the dark.

  The lawns around the buildings are all neatly clipped so small children don’t wander off and get lost in the undergrowth.

  And all over the lawns, nibbling the grass and cooling down in the sprinklers, are hundreds and hundreds of kangaroos.

  Only very kind people would share their city with hungry creatures that have come in from the bush. People with good and caring hearts. Which is why I’m sure that when we get to Menzies’ place and I ask his dad to help Jamal and Bibi, his dad’ll say yes.

  ‘So, Bridget,’ says Menzies’ dad, smiling at me across the dining table. ‘What are you and Menzies planning to do in Canberra?’

  I don’t answer straight away because I’ve got a mouthful of genuine lobster and I don’t want to risk spraying any on a government minister. Or on the walls of a genuine luxury apartment. Or on any of the other guests who all look like international supermodels and managing directors and ambassadors from exotic countries.

  While I chew I look pleadingly at Menzies, hoping he’ll answer.

  I can’t see him too clearly because there’s a big cluster of candles in the middle of the table. Through the wobbling flames he looks like he’s feeling a bit overwhelmed by everything too. His parents, their friends, the size of the dining table, everything.

  I don’t blame him.

  The knives and forks here are genuine stainless steel, all the way through. The serviettes are genuine cloth with real embroidery, not just printed on. The plates are bone china, I checked underneath. The really good quality bone china, not the stuff from Bulgaria. These are probably from China.

  Everyone around the table is looking at me.

  ‘Do you want to visit the National Gallery?’ says Menzies’ dad. ‘The Science Museum? The Institute of Sport?’

  I swallow the lobster.

  ‘Actually,’ I say, ‘we want to ask you a favour.’

  Menzies’ dad glances at Menzies’ mum, who gives a little shrug.

  ‘Everyone wants a favour from the minister,’ says one of the guests.

  The others all laugh.

  ‘Be fair,’ Menzies’ dad says to them. ‘She’s got just as much right as anyone. She’ll be voting in a few years.’

  The others all chuckle.

  I feel my face getting hot. Through the candlelight, I see Menzies is feeling the same. His face looks the same colour as the lobster shell on his plate.

  ‘Ask away, my dear,’ says Menzies’ dad to me. ‘In this country every voter has a right to be heard. I’m only a humble minister of the crown, but I’ll do everything in my power to grant your request.’

  Some of the supermodels and ambassadors applaud.

  ‘The children in the detention centres,’ I say. ‘We’d like you to set them free, please.’

  The room goes very quiet, except for Menzies’ mum who puts her knife and fork onto her plate with a tiny noise.

  Menzies’ dad gives a sigh.

  ‘I wish I could, Bridget,’ he says. ‘But I’m just one member of a team. A team called the government. And it was a decision by the whole team that people who try to get into Australia without permission must be locked up.’

  I glance across at Menzies. He’s staring at his dad and in the flickering candlelight he looks like he’s almost in tears.

  I open my mouth to tell Menzies’ dad about Bibi’s toothache and Jamal’s hunger strike plans and how they only came to Australia because their house was blown up and the government in Afghanistan tried to kill their parents.

  Before I can, Menzies stands up and yells at his father.

  ‘You can help them if you want to,’ he shouts accusingly. ‘You’re a minister. You’re important. But you just don’t want to. You don’t care. All you care about is staying elected.’

 
; He stops, panting for breath.

  The adults around the table are staring at him, horrified.

  All except Menzies’ father. His face, as he stares at Menzies, is sad.

  Menzies’ mum stands up and steers me gently out of my chair.

  ‘Come on, children,’ she says quietly. ‘Time for bed. The minister’s got a very busy night. He’s going back to the house soon for an all-night sitting. I think we should give him some time to say goodbye to his guests.’

  As she guides me and Menzies to the door, the guests at the table all start talking at once.

  ‘What about that girl?’ says a woman’s voice. ‘How rude to come here and attack you like that. I blame the parents. It’s criminal.’

  Menzies’ father’s voice is softer, and weary.

  ‘We’ve brought our son up to think for himself,’ he says. ‘As you can see, it’s working.’

  I tap on Menzies’ bedroom door and creep in.

  His room feels about six times bigger than his one at school. At first, in the gloom, I can’t see the bed. The muffled sounds tell me where it is. As my eyes get used to the darkness, I see Menzies lying with his head under his pillow.

  I’ve been pretending we’re in prison and I’ve been giving him his space. Gavin reckons when the other bloke in the cell has a cry, it’s really important to give him his space.

  I don’t know how Gavin does it. Menzies’ muffled noises coming through the wall were so unhappy I could hardly bear it. I tried to think of other things to take my mind off it, but all I could think of was Jamal lying awake at night listening to Bibi cry from toothache.

  Now I’m in Menzies’ room, though, I realise it’s not sobbing he’s doing under his pillow, it’s something else.

  Angry frustrated swearing.

  I sit on Menzies’ bed, switch on his lamp and shake his shoulder.

  ‘Menzies,’ I say. ‘Put your glasses on. I’ve got something important to ask you.’

  Menzies pulls the pillow off his head and rolls over and looks up at me.

  ‘Politics has turned my father into a monster,’ he says. ‘He used to be a hero. He used to help people. Pensioners and war veterans and people who didn’t have enough parking spaces in their office blocks. He used to care.’