Girl Underground

by Morris Gleitzman

  Maybe have plastic surgery.

  Or at least wigs.

  The stars are all blurry now. I wipe the tears away and concentrate on my escape plan. Dave the bodyguard can’t patrol an entire school this size. I’ll wait till the moon goes behind a cloud, then climb over the side fence.

  ‘Bridget.’

  I freeze.

  Somebody just hissed my name.

  I look around wildly for somewhere to hide. That’s the trouble with escaping across cricket pitches. No trees or long grass. There aren’t even any kangaroos to duck behind.

  I start running.

  I can hear the thud of footsteps coming after me.

  How did he know? How did Dave know I was going for the side fence? Must be the training. They must do a special course in side fences.

  I glance over my shoulder to see how close he is. And stop. It’s not Dave panting towards me out of the darkness.

  ‘Menzies,’ I say. ‘What are you doing here?’

  He doesn’t say anything for a while, just pants. But I can tell from his face he’s pretty upset. He must have guessed what I’ve decided to do.

  Finally he manages to speak.

  ‘Dave’s gone,’ he says.

  ‘What do you mean, gone?’ I say.

  ‘He’s been ordered back to Canberra,’ says Menzies. ‘I woke up when he slid a note under my door. By the time I got down to the carpark he was gone. That’s when I saw you.’

  I stare at Menzies, taking this in.

  ‘And he didn’t even say goodbye?’ I whisper.

  Menzies looks at the ground.

  ‘They never do, bodyguards,’ he says sadly. ‘It’s the training.’

  We look at each other in silence.

  Part of me wishes I had bodyguard training too. It’s really hard saying goodbye to your only friend.

  ‘Where are you going?’ says Menzies.

  I’ve been dreading him asking, hoping I didn’t have to say the words, wishing I could leave him a note as well.

  I can’t.

  ‘Home,’ I say. ‘To start a new life somewhere else with Mum and Dad.’

  Now I’m the one staring at the ground. I’m Menzies’ only friend too. He’ll be all alone in this place. I hate the thought of that.

  We look at each other again.

  ‘Thanks for being my friend,’ I whisper. ‘Sorry I didn’t say goodbye before.’

  Menzies doesn’t say anything.

  I try to think of something cheerful to add.

  ‘Now Dave’s gone you’ll be able to rescue Jamal and Bibi.’

  I know it’s stupid even before I finish saying it.

  Menzies stays silent for a bit. Then he shakes his head.

  ‘One person can’t do a rescue like that,’ he says quietly. ‘Not even if I was trained.’

  I know. Now I feel even worse.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I wish I didn’t have to leave. But I’ve got to go into hiding.’

  Menzies takes a step towards me and for a moment I think he’s going to grab me. He doesn’t. He just pushes his glasses up his nose and looks at me, eyes big and worried.

  ‘Bridget,’ he says. ‘What if your parents don’t want you to go into hiding with them?’

  I stare at him.

  Suddenly I want to grab him. And shake him.

  But only because he might be right.

  I’ve just exposed my family’s guilty past to every newspaper and TV channel and talkback radio show in Australia. If I was Mum and Dad I’d be furious. Maybe so furious I wouldn’t even want me around.

  Menzies is still looking at me, eyes big.

  I realise what he’s up to.

  ‘I haven’t got time to rescue refugees,’ I hiss at him. ‘I’ve just put my family in danger and I’ve got to find some way of rescuing them.’

  ‘Exactly,’ says Menzies. ‘That’s what I’m trying to say. Perhaps the best way you can help them isn’t nicking off. Perhaps it’s staying here at school and getting good marks and becoming a success in society and earning respect for your whole family.’

  I stare at him for a long time, thinking about this.

  Suddenly I want to hug him because he’s right. And because he’s my friend.

  That’s why Mum and Dad sent me to this school, to earn respect and admiration for our family.

  Suddenly it’s all so clear.

  Suddenly I feel so much better.

  I just wish Menzies didn’t look so sad.

  My guts are a bit wobbly as I walk across the courtyard towards the headmaster’s office.

  Partly it’s tiredness because I’ve been awake most of the night planning my future career as a lawyer.

  Partly it’s anxiety because I’ve never apologised to a headmaster about my family before, and I’m not sure how good I’ll be at it.

  But mostly what’s making my insides tremble is sadness.

  I keep thinking about Jamal and Bibi.

  I have to stop that.

  I pause on the steps of the main building and look up at the school crest over the entrance. It’s in Latin, but I know what it means.

  Our Minds Are Open And Our Hearts Are Strong.

  I have to be strong. In a few years when I’m giving a brilliant speech to a jury in the high court, and they’re just about to agree that my client is allowed to knock down some cruddy old houses to build a really top-notch office block, I have to be strong enough not to think of Jamal and Bibi and start blubbing in front of everyone.

  Instead I have to be strong in my heart and think about Mum and Dad. How proud they are of my success. How grateful they are for the admiration and respect I’m bringing to the name Podger or White or whatever we’re calling ourselves at the time.

  Our Minds Are Open And Our Hearts Are Strong.

  I repeat this to myself several times as I go up the steps and into the building. It helps me stop thinking about Jamal and Bibi.

  Almost.

  I don’t stop thinking about them completely until I look down the corridor past the genuine oil paintings and the genuine priceless porcelain vases and see who’s sitting miserably on a genuine leather couch outside the headmaster’s office.

  Mum and Dad.

  Just as I reach Mum and Dad, the headmaster steps out of his office.

  ‘Thank you for responding so promptly to my call, Mr and Mrs White,’ says Mr Galbraith with a smile. ‘Would you like to come into my office?’

  Then he sees me.

  ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘You have your daughter with you.’

  Mum and Dad look up, startled.

  They didn’t see me coming. I crept along the corridor quietly because I wanted to try and spot what mood they were in. Angry, or very angry. But both their faces are more sad than angry. Which makes me feel even worse.

  ‘If we’re going to talk about our daughter,’ says Mum to Mr Galbraith, ‘she should hear it as well.’

  ‘Of course,’ says Mr Galbraith.

  As he ushers us into his office, I try to catch Mum or Dad’s eye to let them know everything’s going to be OK.

  I don’t manage to.

  Mum, Dad and Mr Galbraith sit down. There isn’t another chair so I stay standing.

  ‘Well, Bridget,’ says Mr Galbraith, smiling at me. ‘I hear you had beautiful weather on your trip to Canberra.’

  Before I can reply, he turns to Mum and Dad, who are looking a bit confused.

  ‘Mr and Mrs White,’ says Mr Galbraith. ‘I’m going to come straight to the point. Your daughter’s conduct in Canberra was commendable vis-è-vis the setting of personal goals, the planning of an outcome-oriented strategy, and the execution of a pre-determined agenda.’

  Mum and Dad are looking very confused. I’m not surprised. Mr Galbraith sounds just like the Prime Minister.

  ‘Regrettably, however,’ continues Mr Galbraith, ‘the dramatic nature of her conduct was not in keeping with this school’s tradition of restraint and decorum. My colleagues on the school bo
ard have very real concerns that this school may not be the most suitable for Bridget’s future development. It is felt, therefore, that in Bridget’s best interests she be withdrawn from enrolment.’

  ‘Eh?’ says Dad.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ says Mum.

  Now that I’m learning the language important people speak, I do.

  ‘I’m being expelled,’ I whisper to Mum and Dad.

  ‘Expelled?’ gasps Mum.

  ‘We prefer to say withdrawn,’ says Mr Galbraith.

  Desperately I open my mouth to tell him that I’m a reformed character. That I’m giving up trying to help refugees. That I’m aiming to be dux of the school and an eminent old girl.

  Before I can, Dad stands up.

  ‘Now just a sec,’ he says. ‘My daughter was in Canberra on a mission of mercy and compassion. And if my Latin serves me right, mercy and compassion happens to be the motto of this school.’

  ‘Our Minds Are Open And Our Hearts Are Strong,’ says Mr Galbraith.

  ‘OK,’ says Dad. ‘I got it a bit wrong. But my daughter didn’t get it wrong in wanting to help poor kids who are locked up. I’m proud of what Bridget did in Canberra.’

  ‘Leonard,’ says Mum quietly. ‘Sit down.’

  Dad stays standing.

  I want to hug him right here in the headmaster’s office. I don’t care if hugging is against every rule in the school and I get a million detentions on my last day.

  Before I can, Mr Galbraith stands up.

  ‘We are proud of Bridget, too, Mr White,’ he says. ‘In a sense. But this school’s mission statement is clear. We are charged with passing on the finest values and modes of behaviour to young people from the very best families. I’m sure you understand what I’m saying. We have the son of a government minister enrolled here.’

  ‘I know,’ says Dad. ‘He was at my birthday party.’

  Mr Galbraith stares at Dad for a moment. Then his eyes narrow slightly.

  ‘I’m afraid the school board’s decision is final, Mr White,’ he says. ‘If you’d like some counselling, we can refer you to an excellent grief therapist.’

  Dad’s eyes narrow too, which isn’t a good sign. Dad doesn’t lose his temper often, but when he does, watch out. He punched a Bulgarian toaster once when he found it was a cheap copy made in Latvia.

  Mum stands up.

  ‘Mr Galbraith,’ she says. ‘We chose this school because we wanted our daughter to have more than she could get from us. Now I happen to think she went too far in Canberra. But if you’re telling us that her compassion is against the values of this school, then I think we’re wasting our money.’

  Mr Galbraith looks at Mum and Dad with an expression of sad regret.

  ‘I fear you may have a very good point there, Mr and Mrs White,’ he says. ‘Have you considered a state school for Bridget? There are some very fine ones that would almost certainly give your daughter more than she could get from people like you and your husband.’

  Now Mum’s eyes narrow, which is a very bad sign. When her cousin Rooster got drunk in a nightclub once and insulted a woman, Mum went round to his place the next day and hit him with a chicken casserole.

  I’ve got to do something.

  Mum hitting Mr Galbraith will only make things worse.

  Perhaps I should speak up now and tell everyone about my plan to be a successful corporate lawyer. Except I’m not sure if I want to be one any more.

  Before I can think of anything else to say, a loud commotion outside in the corridor makes us all turn round.

  The door bursts open. Mr Creely strides in. In front of him he’s gripping a short man in a long shirt. Behind them both is Menzies, glasses crooked and face pink with alarm.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, Mr Headmaster,’ says Mr Creely. ‘I apprehended this man trying to break into the boys’ building. I think he might be a terrorist.’

  ‘He’s Jamal’s father,’ says Menzies.

  Mr Galbraith snatches up a phone. ‘Miss Pryne,’ he says. ‘We have an intruder. Call the police and initiate the school’s anti-terrorist plan.’

  ‘He’s not a terrorist,’ I say. ‘He’s a dad.’

  ‘Wait a sec, Bridget,’ says Dad. He turns to Menzies. ‘Is this bloke the dad of those kids in the detention centre?’

  Menzies nods.

  Jamal’s father stops struggling in Mr Creely’s grip and looks at Dad.

  ‘You are Mr White?’ he says. ‘The father of Bridget? Menzies told me about you on the telephone.’

  ‘The name’s Podger,’ says Dad. ‘Len Podger. Dad of Bridget Podger. Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Mohammed Houssini,’ says Jamal’s father. He gives us all a hopeful smile. But even while he’s smiling, he still looks tired and anxious.

  Dad looks up at Mr Creely, who is still gripping Jamal’s father by the arms.

  ‘Let him go,’ says Dad. ‘He’s with me.’

  I can’t believe it. My dad is more wonderful than I ever knew.

  Mr Creely grips poor Jamal’s father more tightly. Dad’s eyes narrow. He reaches into his inside pocket and takes a step towards Mr Creely.

  Mr Creely lets Jamal’s father go and takes a nervous step backwards. Dad pulls out a Bulgarian gameboy and slaps it into Mr Creely’s hand.

  ‘Go and play Alien Invaders,’ he says.

  I feel like cheering. When I’m a refugee rights lawyer I’ll tell this story at conferences.

  ‘Mr and Mrs White,’ says Mr Galbraith angrily. ‘Please take your daughter out of here now and leave us to deal with this trespasser.’

  ‘He’s not a trespasser, sir,’ says Menzies. ‘I invited him.’

  Mr Galbraith looks like he’s going to expel Menzies as well. Before he can, Dad strides over to him.

  ‘I’ve read letters written by this bloke’s son,’ says Dad to Mr Galbraith. ‘This bloke risked everything for his kids, including his life. Take a long hard look at the parents at this school and tell me how many of them have done that.’

  For a second Mr Galbraith doesn’t know what to say. Then he thrusts his chin forward.

  ‘Just what I’d expect,’ he says. ‘A criminal standing up for a criminal. Get out.’

  Dad thrusts his chin right back at Mr Galbraith.

  ‘Leonard,’ says Mum sharply.

  She steers Jamal’s father towards the door and signals for the rest of us to follow. Mr Creely steps forward as if he’s going to try and stop Jamal’s father leaving. Dad glares at him and Mr Creely backs off.

  ‘Come on,’ says Dad to me and Menzies. ‘Let’s get out of here before I forget I’m a law-abiding citizen.’

  On the way out I grab the Russian blender from the top of Mr Galbraith’s filing cabinet.

  He doesn’t deserve it.

  We all walk down the corridor past the wood panels and the vases and the paintings, which don’t look so genuine anymore.

  Several of us are trembling. Me, for a start, and Menzies. Dad’s hands are shaking a bit, though that might just be the stress of having a daughter who’s exposed the family in the national media and been expelled in the same week.

  Mum seems fairly relaxed. She’s probably just pretending so Jamal’s father feels he’s in safe hands.

  Jamal’s father isn’t trembling at all. He looks exhausted but calm. I guess when you’ve survived explosions and pirates and detention centres, a bossy headmaster isn’t such a big deal.

  As we leave the building, someone calls my name. It’s Chantelle. She hurries over with Veuve and Antoinette.

  ‘Bridget,’ she says excitedly. ‘I just rang my dad. He reckons if you graduate in law from uni with first class honours and don’t get arrested again, he’ll give you a job in our law firm.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say.

  I decide not to go into my new career plan right now. But I do have a thought.

  ‘Does your dad take refugee cases?’ I ask her.

  Chantelle notices Jamal’s father for the first time. She look
s at him doubtfully.

  ‘I think we’re a bit tied up in court at the moment,’ she says. ‘We’re suing a construction company.’

  ‘What about you, Menzies,’ says Antoinette. ‘Why doesn’t your dad help the refugees? Or is he too busy spending our taxes on overseas trips?’

  Menzies looks hurt but doesn’t say anything. Jamal’s father puts his hand on Menzies’ shoulder.

  ‘It’s OK, Menzies, I understand,’ he says softly. ‘Your father is a politician, and politicians must do what is right for politics. It is the same in my country.’

  ‘In Australia,’ mutters Dad, ‘we prefer them just to do what’s right.’

  Jamal’s father turns to him.

  ‘Mr Podger,’ he says. ‘Will you help my family?’

  Dad, who was about to express some more thoughts about politicians, suddenly doesn’t know what to say.

  ‘I ask you,’ says Jamal’s father, ‘because you are a powerful man. Menzies told me you are an importer of goods. In Afghanistan, importers are wealthy and powerful men too. I beg you, Mr Podger, as an important and respected citizen, please help us.’

  Dad is lost for words. So is Mum.

  ‘My son and daughter are good children,’ continues Jamal’s father. ‘They try to give presents to the guards, they try to play soccer with them, and Jamal once tried to bake bread for their morning tea using only flour and grass seeds. But I fear for them. Bibi has tooth pain, and I fear Jamal is planning something dangerous.’

  Jamal’s father pauses, his dark eyes clouded with worry.

  I wonder if I should tell him what Jamal is planning. I decide not to. No point worrying him more.

  ‘There is something worse, Mr Podger,’ says Jamal’s father. ‘I am worried Jamal and Bibi and my wife will be sent back to Afghanistan without me. My country is in chaos. Warlords rule. They are from a different tribal group and they hate my people. If they could, they would kill my family.’

  I stare in horror at Jamal’s father. This is even worse than toothache and plastic pipes in the guts.

  Jamal’s father grips Dad’s arm.

  ‘You are a father too, Mr Podger. I know you would die for your family like me. But I fear my life is not enough. Please, help my children.’

  Jamal’s father looks at Dad with so much dignity mixed up with helplessness that I want to cry.