I turn to Veronica, whose fluffy party-dress balls are trembling almost as much as her lips.
‘Rescue Flossy,’ I whisper to Veronica. ‘You won’t get hurt, I promise. Just say good dog.’
Veronica stares at me.
I can see this isn’t the birthday party she was hoping for.
‘Better hurry,’ I whisper. ‘Flossy’s running out of air in there.’
Veronica goes nervously over to Anthony. She has to step around her father, who is yelling insulting things at Anthony again.
‘Bad dog,’ he’s shouting. ‘Bad dog. Bad dog.’
Anthony ignores him and turns to face Veronica, his jaws still closed.
I can just make out faint tremors of movement inside his mouth.
Veronica hesitates. Then I see Anthony looking into her eyes and I know everything’s going to be OK.
Veronica can hardly get the words out.
But she does.
‘Good dog,’ she whispers to Anthony.
‘Mr Pobjoy,’ I say. ‘Look. Veronica’s saving Flossy.’
And she is.
‘Good dog,’ she says, and Anthony slowly opens his mouth. Veronica puts her hands inside and lifts out a soggy, bedraggled, stunned-looking Flossy.
‘Woof,’ says Flossy.
‘Good dog,’ says Veronica.
‘Thank God,’ says Mr Pobjoy, taking Flossy from Veronica. ‘Flossy, sweetie. It’s OK, you’re safe. Good dog. Good dog.’
He hugs Flossy.
‘Good dog,’ he says, over and over.
Then he hugs Veronica.
‘Good girl,’ he says to her. ‘Good girl.’
Veronica is tearful again, but in a way that lets us all see this is the best party she’s ever had.
‘Good on you,’ I whisper to Anthony.
Mr Pobjoy stops hugging Flossy and Veronica, and looks over at me and Anthony.
‘I think it’s best,’ he says tersely, ‘if you both leave.’
Then he goes back to hugging his dog and his daughter.
I don’t argue.
On the way out, Veronica’s mum catches up with us.
‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘Thank you both so much. Veronica’s cousin is having a party next week. I don’t suppose you and Anthony can come?’
‘That’s very kind,’ I say. ‘I think we can.’
I check with Anthony.
He licks my hand.
I can see he likes the idea of another party.
We both do.
Cornflakes
That morning I didn’t have the faintest inkling my life was about to change forever. So I just did what a ten-year-old boy normally does first thing. Padded sleepily to the toilet and had a pee.
I watched it spurt out.
Why, I wondered, does the first pee of the day always look like chicken soup?
I hadn’t had any chicken soup for weeks. So if it was chicken soup, why had it taken so long to reach my willy? And why would chicken soup only drain out first thing in the morning?
Gradually, as the pee trickled out of me, so did my sleepiness.
My thoughts got clearer.
I realised it probably wasn’t chicken soup. It didn’t smell like chicken soup, and there were no vegetables in it.
∗
Now, all these years later, I know the truth.
My pee wasn’t chicken soup, it was much more interesting than that.
Like all human urine it was a deadly aqueous solution of salts, minerals, vitamins, corpuscles, uric acid, nitrogenous waste products, organic compounds, and chemicals from lollies.
When it splashed into the toilet bowl, there was widespread carnage. Most of the hundreds of millions of tiny organisms who had spent the night floating in the toilet water without a care in the world were killed instantly.
Peed to death.
Please don’t blame me.
I didn’t know then.
My family didn’t know either.
My mother didn’t have a clue, as she cleaned her shoes over the kitchen sink, that she was wiping out a microbe population bigger than the human population of Australia, including Tasmania.
My big sister Sarah had no idea, as she delicately removed a wax-based community from one of her ears with a fingernail and ate it, that she was a mass-murderer of mind-boggling proportions.
My father didn’t suspect, as he waited for the toaster to finish its work, that he was searing and scorching countless tiny bread creatures and turning them into, well, toast.
The only member of the family who did suspect something was my little sister Nell.
‘Nell,’ said Mother. ‘Eat your cornflakes, love.’
Mother pointed to me.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘Timmy’s eating his.’
Nell pushed the bowl away.
In those days, I thought Nell was just a cute little kid who didn’t know much.
I was wrong.
Nell already suspected that if she ate her cornflakes, innocent creatures would die. But it wasn’t the millions of cowering proteobacteria trying not to draw attention to themselves on the surface of the milk in her bowl that she had in mind.
‘Nell,’ said Mother. ‘Why don’t you want to eat your cornflakes?’
‘Because of the fairies,’ said Nell.
Mother and Father looked at each other and tried not to smile.
One thing I did know was that adults could sometimes be a bit hurtful, even when they were loving parents who didn’t mean to be, and that sometimes little sisters needed a brother on their side.
‘Fairies?’ I said to Nell. ‘Where?’
‘In the cornflakes,’ said Nell. She pointed to a picture of a fairy on the cornflakes box. ‘See?’
Now Mother and Father did smile.
‘You’re so funny,’ said Sarah, giving Nell a tickle. ‘And dopey.’
I’ve never approved of younger sisters being called dopey, so I gave Sarah a look. And I gave Mother and Father one too, just in case they were thinking of using the same word.
‘Nell,’ I said gently. ‘We’ve taken the fairy out, remember?’
I pointed to the plastic fairy standing next to Nell’s dish, plastic wand raised, plastic wings bejewelled with cornflake dust.
‘Not that fairy,’ said Nell, getting annoyed. ‘The other fairies. The tiny ones. In the cornflakes.’
Sarah struggled not to laugh. She put her hand over her mouth and millions of finger microbes found themselves having a travel experience they hadn’t expected.
I spoke up quickly before somebody said something else that hurt Nell’s feelings.
‘There’s only one fairy,’ I explained gently to her, pointing to the side of the cornflakes box. ‘It says so here.’
Because Nell couldn’t read yet, I did it for her.
‘One fairy per carton.’
Nell didn’t look convinced.
‘Come on, sweetie,’ said Father. ‘Eat up.’
Nell shook her head.
‘The box is wrong,’ she said.
‘Those cornflakes manufacturers are mean,’ I said to Nell. ‘Only putting one fairy in each box.’
‘Tell you what,’ said Mother to Nell. ‘How about Timmy has the first spoonful of your cornflakes to prove there are no more fairies?’
I wasn’t sure about this. I felt like we were all ganging up on Nell. But Mother and Father were both looking at me pleadingly.
I scooped some of Nell’s cornflakes and milk onto my spoon and lifted it to my mouth.
Nell’s pudgy little jaw started to quiver and behind her blonde curls her dark eyes filled with tears.
I hesitated.
I wanted to help, not hurt.
‘If you scare fairies by trying to eat them,’ said Nell fiercely, ‘they make you sneeze.’
I looked at Mother and Father to see what I should do.
Father gave a little nod of encouragement.
I put the cornflakes into my mouth and chewed.
Up my nose,
chaos broke out. Several million nasal-passage microbes, alarmed by the sudden proximity of the proteobacteria in the milk, tried to crowd into my sinuses.
My mucus membranes got seriously trampled, my cilia became inflamed, the whole subcutaneous region went tickly, and I sneezed a spray of cornflakes and milk across the table.
Nobody moved. Except Nell, who picked a bit of soggy cornflake off her face and put it back into her bowl.
‘See?’ she said.
Nobody else said anything for a moment.
I stared at the bowl of cornflakes, and in that instant I felt my whole life change.
Then Father spoke.
‘It’s OK, sweetie,’ he said to Nell. ‘You don’t have to eat your cornflakes if you don’t want to.’
‘Oh dear, Timmy,’ said Mother. ‘I think you might be coming down with something. I’m going to make you some chicken soup.’
I didn’t reply.
I was too busy staring at the cornflakes and wondering if I had enough money in my junior saver account to buy a microscope.
Many years later, when I was a professor at university, I told a class of students about Nell and how she’d changed my life.
I brought my first microscope along to show them, and as I took it out of its battered old box, I knew exactly what they were going to ask. So I gave them the answer before anyone even spoke.
‘Not powerful enough,’ I said, shaking my head and giving my dear old junior microscope a fond polish.
I don’t teach at the university any more. I went on to become a research scientist, and I’ve been one for over thirty years now.
Last year one of my ex-students came to visit. He was very kind and congratulated me on being what he called one of the most brilliant research scientists in the world.
‘I’m not really,’ I replied. ‘Not compared to my little sister Nell. She’s the one who is truly brilliant.’
I could see the ex-student thought I was just being modest. He’d forgotten what I’d told him that day in class about how I owe my whole career to Nell.
He’s remembered now.
A few months ago Nell won the Nobel prize for her work developing the most powerful microscope ever. The one that uses fixed orbiting satellites to increase its focal length.
That ex-student was one of thousands of people who sent Nell messages congratulating her on the prize.
She deserves it.
It isn’t easy being the youngest. You get a bit overshadowed. Specially when everyone thinks your older brother is the brilliant one, plus your older sister owns the biggest pest-exterminating business in the world.
It hasn’t been easy for Nell as a scientist, either.
When you’re doing research that’s a bit different, other scientists can sometimes be hurtful even when they don’t mean to be, and sometimes little sisters need a brother on their side.
I was with Nell in the lab yesterday when she finally did the thing our colleagues said could never be done.
She turned from her microscope, eyes shining with excitement.
‘Look,’ she said.
I looked into the microscope, the one Nell had invented. I looked for a long time.
‘I knew you’d do it,’ I said.
Scientists aren’t meant to get emotional, but we both laughed and shouted and danced. Which can sometimes happen when scientists have a breakthrough in the research project they’ve been working on for years.
Then we went to our favourite restaurant and celebrated with chicken soup.
I can’t go into too much detail about our breakthrough because the official announcement hasn’t been made yet, but I can say it’s a remarkable discovery involving cornflakes.
My First Ever Go At Bomb Disposal
A Play by Ned Timms
NOTE – If you do this play at home or in class, please make sure the part of Mum is performed by somebody under 35 as she’s getting a bit sensitive about her age.
SCENE ONE
ME AND MUM SITTING IN A TRAIN AT CENTRAL STATION WAITING TO GO TO AUNTY KATH’S IN LEURA FOR AFTERNOON TEA AND HUNDREDS OF HOURS OF GROWN-UP TALK. THE TRAIN ISN’T LEAVING FOR ANOTHER SIX MINUTES AND I’M BORED ALREADY.
ME I’m bored already.
MUM Don’t start love. Read your book.
ME I forgot it.
MUM Well listen to your MP3.
ME I forgot that too.
MUM I left it on the kitchen table for you. How could you forget it?
ME I must have put my book on it.
MUM DOES ONE OF THOSE LOOKS SHE DOES WHEN SHE FORGETS THAT PEOPLE ARE ONLY HUMAN.
MUM Right young man well you’re not sitting here for a two-hour train trip whingeing the whole way so you’ll have to think of something else to do. You didn’t forget your imagination did you?
ME No Mum.
MUM Well use it.
ME How do you mean?
MUM I don’t know Ned it’s your imagination.
MUM STARTS READING HER BOOK WHICH IS ALL RIGHT FOR HER, SHE HASN’T INHERITED DAD’S BAD MEMORY.
ME I spy with my little eye something beginning with X.
MUM DOESN’T ANSWER. SHE HATES I-SPY.
ME Xpress train.
A MAN GETS ON THE TRAIN AND SITS A FEW SEATS AWAY FROM US. HE HAS QUITE DARK SKIN AND A BLACK MOUSTACHE AND A BRIEFCASE AND FOREIGN CLOTHES. I LOOK AT HIM FOR A WHILE. SOME OF THE OTHER PASSENGERS LOOK AT HIM TOO. SUDDENLY I HAVE A SCARY THOUGHT.
ME (WHISPERING) Mum.
MUM Mmmm?
ME What if that man’s a terrorist?
MUM Eh? What man?
ME (POINTING) That man sitting over there.
MUM Don’t be silly. And don’t point.
ME He could be. He’s foreign and he looks like the terrorists on telly and he’s wearing a terrorist kaftan thing like you used to wear when you didn’t want people to see you were fat.
MUM Ned. Enough.
ME Maybe we should tell somebody.
ME Be quiet.
MUM HAS GOT HER TEETH CLENCHED LIKE SHE’S STRUGGLING NOT TO PANIC. SHE GIVES THE MAN AND THE OTHER PASSENGERS A FAKE SMILE.
MUM I’m sorry, please excuse my son.
THE MAN SMILES BACK. IF HE’S A TERRORIST HE MUST BE REALLY WELL-TRAINED BECAUSE YOU CAN’T TELL IF HIS SMILE IS FAKE OR REAL.
MAN Is OK. Is happy time to travel with children.
MUM Mmmm.
THE MAN STOPS SMILING. SUDDENLY HE LOOKS VERY SAD LIKE HE’S THINKING OF BAD THINGS HE’S DONE IN THE PAST FOR EXAMPLE BLOWING UP BUILDINGS, OR ELSE BAD THINGS HE’S PLANNING TO DO IN THE FUTURE FOR EXAMPLE BLOWING UP THIS TRAIN.
MUM Say sorry Ned.
ME Sorry.
MUM Not to me, to the gentleman.
BEFORE I CAN, THE MAN JUMPS UP.
MAN Please to protect my seat.
THE MAN GETS OFF THE TRAIN.
MUM I despair of you sometimes Ned. You’ve hurt his feelings and the train’s leaving in four minutes.
I STARE AT THE MAN’S EMPTY SEAT WHICH ISN’T AS EMPTY AS I’D LIKE IT TO BE.
ME Mum, look.
I POINT. MY FINGER IS TREMBLING. SOMETIMES WHEN YOU STRUGGLE TO STAY CALM ALL THE PANIC GOES TO YOUR FINGER.
MUM An innocent businessman, and just because he comes from Iran or Iraq or somewhere…
ME He’s left his briefcase.
THE MAN’S BRIEFCASE IS SITTING ON HIS SEAT. MUM STOPS YAKKING. SHE STARES AT THE BRIEFCASE JUST LIKE I’M DOING AND SEVERAL OF THE OTHER PASSENGERS ARE DOING TOO.
ME What if it’s a bomb?
A COUPLE OF THE OTHER PASSENGERS MOVE TO OTHER SEATS.
MUM Don’t be silly.
ME It could be, you don’t know.
MUM Ned I’m losing patience.
ME Ring the army bomb disposal squad. Or the police if you haven’t got the army bomb disposal squad’s number.
MUM Ned…
ME On the platform it said we should report all unattended luggage. (POINTS) That luggage is totally unattended.
SOMETIMES MUM GETS A TONE IN HER VOICE THAT IS VERY SCARY. NOT AS SCARY AS A BOMB ON A TRAIN, BUT SCARY. I SIT BACK DOWN. OTHER PASSENGERS SIT BACK DOWN AS WELL.
MUM There’s probably a simple explanation.
ME Like what? The train leaves in two minutes. Name one possible thing.
MUM I don’t know, he could be getting a paper.
I THINK ABOUT THIS.
ME He’s foreign. He probably can’t read English.
MUM THINKS ABOUT THIS.
MUM He could be getting a snack.
I THINK ABOUT THIS.
ME What if he’s only allowed to eat special foreign food? The station only sells Australian pies and Australian sandwiches and Australian lollies and Australian chewing gum.
MUM THINKS ABOUT THIS.
MUM He could be ringing his family from a public phone because he hasn’t got a mobile.
I THINK ABOUT THIS.
ME He’s got a briefcase. People who have briefcases always have mobiles.
MUM DOES ONE OF THOSE LOOKS SHE DOES WHEN SHE FORGETS THAT SOMETIMES OTHER PEOPLE ARE RIGHT EVEN WHEN THEY’RE YOUNGER THAN HER.
MUM For goodness sake Ned use your imagination he could be going to the toilet or getting some exercise or having a quick coffee or asking for a timetable or picking up some dry-cleaning or sniffing the flowers on the flower stall or looking for an umbrella he left in the ticket office or buying an MP3 player.
MUM SLUMPS BACK IN HER SEAT, OUT OF BREATH.
ME If you’re right, why didn’t he take his briefcase?
MUM DOESN’T HAVE AN ANSWER TO THAT. I LOOK AT HER IN TRIUMPH. I’VE WON. THEN I REMEMBER I HAVEN’T WON. WE’RE ON A TRAIN WITH A BOMB. THE TRAIN GIVES A JOLT AND STARTS MOVING.
ME Quick Mum, open the window.
Give Peas a Chance Page 9