by James Roy
I saw Miss Huntley the next day, while I was eating my lunch on the front lawn. (Dad was right, by the way – the fertiliser was working really well. But I was also kind of glad that he couldn’t get the mower started, because I really liked the grass when it was a bit longer and spongier and more comfy.)
Miss Huntley had just pushed her wheelbarrow around the side of her house. She saw me sitting on the lawn and waved to me, so after I’d waved back, I got up and crossed the street.
‘Oh, you’re just in time, Miss Elizabeth,’ she said. ‘Would you be a doll and put those empty pots into the barrow? My back is giving me the rounds today.’
I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I did understand about the pots, so I started loading them into the wheelbarrow. As I did it, I asked her what she’d said to Dad the day before.
She looked a bit confused, and stopped raking up weeds. ‘When did I say something to your father?’
‘Yesterday, when he was mowing the lawn. Or when he was trying to mow the lawn.’
‘Ah,’ she said, and she gave this big nod and went back to raking. ‘The infamous non-starting mower. That was quite the paddy he threw, wasn’t it?’
‘What’s a paddy?’
‘What he did. Like a tantrum.’
‘What did you say to him?’ I asked again. ‘Because it only made him madder, I reckon.’
She stopped raking again, and gave me this long look. ‘I know you only have his best interests at heart, Lizzie, but to be honest, that was between your father and me. But I can reveal that I did give him a tiny taste of the old Matron Huntley wisdom.’
‘So you’re not going to tell me?’
She shook her head. ‘No, I’m not. But whatever is worrying you, I’m sure it will all turn out well in the end.’
I frowned at her. How would she know?
CHAPTER 26
Dad wasn’t at home again that night, but he wasn’t reviewing a restaurant. He was out with some of his friends. They weren’t even doing anything fun like seeing a movie – they were just having a drink or something just as boring.
Mum hadn’t been all that happy that he was going out two nights in a row, especially since she hadn’t been to dinner or had drinks with her friends for a while. (I knew that because they talked about it very loudly while Dad was having a shower, and I could hear everything through the bathroom door.) Mum thought that Dad got to go out a lot for work, and he reckoned that going out and eating at a restaurant for work was different from relaxing with his friends. And Mum wondered why he couldn’t relax with her.
Mum went to bed early that night – I wasn’t really sure why. But she did give me some jobs to do before I went to bed, and one of those was taking the kitchen scraps around to the worm farm.
As I went around the end of the house, I heard Muppet barking like mad near the gate that led next door.
‘What is it, boy?’ I asked, but of course he didn’t answer me, except to do some more barking.
‘Sorry,’ I heard a man’s voice say from just on the other side of the gate.
You know how sometimes people say they almost died of fright? Well, that’s how I felt when I heard him speak. Of course, I recognised the voice almost straight away, but that didn’t stop my heart from racing like I’d just run all the way home from the shops. I dropped the bucket of vegetable peels and apple cores and bread crusts and turned to run.
‘It’s okay,’ the man said. ‘It’s me, from next door.’
I stopped and turned around. I couldn’t see much at all past the shadows around the bin and the gate. Besides, he was on the other side of the fence – all I could see was the shape of the top of his head.
‘It’s me, from next door,’ he said again, like I was stupid or something.
‘I know who it is, but you still scared me!’ I said. ‘What are you doing there?’
‘I was just using your bin – I hope that’s okay.’
‘Well, it’s not,’ I said.
‘Oh. I’m sorry you feel that way.’
‘Quiet, Muppet!’ I said, and he stopped barking and started quietly growling instead. ‘You know, you’re a bit mean.’
‘Me?’ the man said. ‘Why would you say that? You don’t even know me!’
‘You’re mean because I brought you knives and forks and things, and you didn’t even say thank you.’
‘Yes, I did!’
‘No, you didn’t.’
I heard him sigh. ‘Well, I did, but in case you didn’t hear me the first time, thanks for the cutlery set. It came in very useful.’
‘It did?’ I asked.
‘Yes. I appreciate it.’
‘Even though you didn’t really need it?’ I said.
‘That’s right. It was the thought that counted.’
‘Yeah, my mum says that all the time. But I still think you’re mean.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes. You told me to get lost, after I did something nice for you, and now you want to use our bin.’
‘Oh, so this is your house?’
He had me there, so I changed the subject. ‘You know, if you sneak around at night like this, someone might shoot you.’
‘Do you have a gun?’ the man asked.
‘No. But someone might. There’s that man who drives around in the little security car – he might have a gun.’
‘I’ll take my chances,’ he said.
‘Why are you even living in that display house?’ I asked. ‘And why isn’t anyone allowed to know?’
‘Because it’s called squatting. And you’re not meant to do it.’
‘So why are you doing it? Quiet, Muppet!’
The man paused. Then he said, ‘It’s going to sound pathetic, but I’ve got nowhere else to stay at the moment.’
‘Why not? Don’t you have a house?’
‘No, not any more. My wife and I separated, you see.’
‘Are you getting a divorce?’
I heard him sigh. ‘I think so, yes. I’ve already lost my house. I mean, I’ll get some money when we sell it, but for now . . .’ Then he stopped talking, and cleared his throat.
‘But why do you have to stay here? Don’t you have, like, a brother or anyone you could stay with?’
‘No.’
‘A sister?’
‘No.’
‘No friends?’
‘Not really,’ he said.
‘Oh. That’s sad,’ I said, because it was. Even though Richie was little, I kind of knew that if the grown-up me ever needed somewhere to sleep, the grown-up Richie would let me stay at his place.
‘Yeah, it’s quite sad, and I’m a bit sick of pizza and kebabs and takeaway Chinese food,’ he replied. Then he sighed again. ‘You know, sometimes it feels kind of hopeless. If I didn’t have to get out of this house before opening time, I don’t think I’d even get out of bed most mornings. But at least I have somewhere to sleep, so that’s something.’
‘It is something,’ I agreed.
‘Hey, what’s your name, anyway?’ he asked.
Would you tell him your name? Well, I didn’t want to tell him mine, either.
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
‘You don’t know?’
‘Um . . . no.’ I couldn’t think of anything else to say, even though I probably could have said, ‘I don’t want to tell you my name because I don’t really know you.’
‘Okay, fair enough,’ he said. ‘Stranger danger, I suppose.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘We talked about that at school last year.’
‘That’s wise,’ he said.
‘Well, I’m sorry you don’t have a house to live in,’ I said. ‘If you need anything –’
But then I heard the back door rattle, followed by the sound of Dad’s voice. ‘Betty!’ he was calling. ‘Betty, you out there?’
‘Dad’s home. I’ve got to go,’ I said to the man. ‘Bye.’
‘Is that you?’ he asked. ‘Are you Betty?’
I had to think
about how I answered. But then I didn’t think about it any more, and I just said, ‘I might be. Who are you?’
‘I might be Derek,’ he said.
*
Sometimes I help out by changing Richie’s nappy. It’s not a job that I enjoy – who would? – but I know my parents like it when I help them. And that’s what I was doing, while Mum sorted through Richie’s clothes and took out the ones that were too small for him.
‘What are you going to do with those?’ I asked her, looking at the pile on the floor.
‘I thought you could take them to Helping Hands,’ she said. ‘I’m sure someone will find a use for them.’
‘Hey,’ Dad said. He was standing in the doorway, holding a sheet of paper. ‘What are we doing on Thursday?’
‘Which part of Thursday, Marty? There’s a total of twenty-four hours in Thursday –’
‘The evening part of Thursday. What are we doing?’
Mum shrugged. ‘What we usually do on a weeknight, I suppose. Making dinner, eating dinner, cleaning up after dinner, going to bed –’
‘Doing our homework,’ I added.
‘Yes, doing our homework, watching a bit of TV if there’s anything good on. Why, Marty?’
He handed her the sheet of paper. ‘An invitation.’
‘From Feine Wurst?’ she said as she began to read. ‘What do they want?’
‘Actually, they want to give us a free meal,’ he replied.
‘After what you said about them?’
‘Yes. The manager hopes that . . . How does it go again?’
Mum read from the letter: ‘“We hope that you and your guests will find our food, service and ambience to be of the very highest Bavarian standard.” So in other words, they want you to change your mind about the place.’
‘Yes. And provide a written apology, no doubt.’
‘We’d need a babysitter for the kids,’ Mum said. ‘I can ask Carol and Tony.’
Unbelievable, I thought. ‘I want to come to Yuck Sausage as well!’ I said.
Dad nodded. ‘I think Betty should definitely come along. I need to hear my fellow reviewer’s opinion of the place. If Carol and Tony can’t do it, can we get that red-headed kid?’
‘Lauren? Yeah, sure, I can ask if she’s available.’
And she was.
CHAPTER 27
‘So, here it is,’ Dad announced as we parked the car in the laneway. Above the restaurant door, a bright red sign made out of those wiggly light tubes said FEINE WURST.
Mum was taking it all in with the same expression she has when someone tells her a lie. ‘You’re sure this is a good idea, Marty?’
‘Nope,’ Dad said. ‘Not at all. But we’re going to go in there, and we’re going to smile and let them impress us.’
‘Why are we doing this?’ I asked. ‘Can someone tell me why we’re going to a restaurant that Dad hated? I mean, there’s like a million really good places we could have eaten at instead. We could have just gone to The Green Gecko.’
‘They want me to give them another chance,’ Dad said.
Mum smiled at him. ‘Don’t you mean you want to give them another chance?’
‘Let’s just say I’m prepared to give them another chance.’
‘Do you think the food will be better?’ I asked him.
‘No chance,’ he said as he swung his car door open. ‘Come on, let’s do this. Smile, people.’
I actually thought it smelt okay when we opened the door and went in – a bit like a barbecue, only different. I know that doesn’t make much sense, but my nose was confused. It was as if I recognised it, but at the same time I didn’t, a bit like when you see a teacher at the shops. Actually, you know what it smelt like? Like a cross between a primary school on election day and the Greek salads that Dad likes to eat.
Because of Dad’s review, I was kind of prepared for what it would be like in there. But I still wasn’t ready for how much wood there was. Everything that hadn’t been painted was made of wood – the walls, the floor, the ceiling, the tables, the chairs, the window frames, everything.
‘Everything’s wood,’ I said to Mum.
‘Ah, Bavaria!’ she replied.
The girl who greeted us at the door was very short, and quite pretty. She also had a wide smile which stayed just as wide but changed shape slightly as soon as Dad said, ‘Good evening, I’m Marty Adams. We have a booking for tonight.’
‘Of course, Mr Adams,’ the girl said, with that nervous face some people get (even though she was still smiling). ‘Would you like me to get Mr Heckner for you?’
‘I’m sure Chef is very busy in the kitchen,’ Dad said. ‘Why don’t you show us to our table, and then you can let Chef know that we’re here.’
‘Yes . . . of course,’ the girl stammered. ‘Oh, and I’m Sarah.’
‘Hello, Sarah,’ Dad said.
Sarah showed us to a booth right inside the front window. She was about to walk off when Dad touched her on the arm. ‘A couple of drinks, maybe?’
‘Of course – I’ll just send Callum over with the drinks menu,’ Sarah said, looking even more nervous than she had before. ‘And the regular menus as well. For the food.’
‘Thanks,’ Dad said. ‘Smashing.’
‘Well, this is . . . interesting,’ Mum said after Sarah had left. ‘Very rustic.’
‘Don’t,’ Dad said. ‘I’m meant to have come in here with an open mind.’
‘I don’t mind rustic,’ Mum replied. ‘It’s just an interesting choice of decor. Surprising, I guess.’
‘Just wait until you try the food,’ Dad said, as he felt around down by his leg. A couple of seconds later he placed a small chunk of sausage on the table. ‘Ah, a perfect start,’ he said.
‘Get rid of it, Marty,’ Mum hissed.
Dad swept the chunk of sausage off the table with the back of his hand. ‘I really hope I haven’t wasted that,’ he said.
Mum was checking out the room, which was mostly empty. ‘Is this how busy it gets?’ Mum asked. ‘It’s almost eight o’clock, and there are . . . two other people here.’
Dad just raised his eyebrows. I guess sometimes you don’t have to say anything.
Over Dad’s shoulder, I saw a man walking towards us. He was quite a big man, with a shaved head and a large moustache, and he was wearing a white top that stretched over his enormous belly and came all the way up to his neck, with buttons right down one side. Well, I think the top used to be white, but now it was kind of grey, with rust-coloured food splotches all over it.
‘Dad,’ I said, nodding towards the man. ‘It’s the cook.’
‘The chef, Betty, the chef.’
The chef had reached the end of our booth. He stuck out one of his huge hands. Its back was covered with red hairs, and there were bright blue bandaids on three of his fat fingers. ‘Martin,’ he said. His accent was one that I didn’t think I’d heard before – he sounded like this: ‘Mar-tin! I’m so glad you came. And you brought ze family! Zis is excellent!’
‘Hello again, Dieter,’ Dad replied, shaking hands with the chef. ‘This is my wife, Denise, and my daughter, Lizzie.’
‘Guten abend,’ he said, and then he wanted to shake Mum’s hand too. But he didn’t try to shake my hand – he just kind of nodded at me and said, ‘Hallo, kleine Dame.’
‘Hi,’ I said.
‘So,’ Dieter said, ‘you have returned, Mar-tin. I am glad. I trust that you vill enjoy your meal with us. Of course, please feel free to order anysing you vish from ze menu, or if somesing else you vish to try, please tell ze waiter, and I vill cheerily comply. Let me get some pretzels for you to nibble on – zey are very fresh.’ He snapped his big fat fingers at Sarah, who’d gone back to her spot at the door and was looking just as nervous as ever. ‘Sarah, einige Salzbrezeln, bitte.’
‘Yes, Mr Heckner,’ she said, and she scurried off.
‘So,’ he said to us, ‘I vill leave you now. Please enjoy.’
‘Thank you, Dieter. I’m sure
everything will be wonderful.’
‘Of course, I hope so too.’
But it wasn’t. It was actually kind of awful. It could be that I just don’t like German food. The thing is, I know Dad does like German food, but he didn’t seem to like this German food. But even though he was making a screwed-up kind of face, he did eat his meal, and Mum ate hers, and I pushed mine around the plate with my fork. Luckily the big, crusty, chewy pretzels with the salt crystals were good, because that was pretty much all Iate.
‘I like these,’ I said, taking my third one.
Dad just raised his eyebrows at me. ‘Don’t get too excited – he probably buys those in from the German bakery in Surry Hills.’
Later, as we were getting ready to leave, the chef came out again.
‘I trust everysing vas good,’ he said, shaking Dad’s hand.
‘It was really lovely to get out with the family for the evening,’ Dad said. ‘Thank you so much for the opportunity to bring them here to show them what you do.’
‘Of course,’ Dieter said, his face all shiny with pride (or it might have been the sweat). ‘Sank you for coming. Trucefully, vielen Dank.’
‘No, thank you,’ Dad said. ‘And I feel confident that your restaurant is going to be famous.’
‘I do hope so. Lovely to meet you, Denise, and you too, Liza.’
‘Lizzie,’ I said.
‘Forgive me – Lizzie. Auf Wiedersehen.’
‘Auf Wiedersehen,’ I said, because I knew that means goodbye.
As we were walking to the car, I asked Dad, ‘How come you told him that his restaurant was going to be famous? It didn’t look like you enjoyed it at all.’
‘I didn’t,’ he replied. ‘I thought it was horrible. But things can be famous for being bad as well. So, who’s for Maccas on the way home?’
I don’t think I need to tell you what me and Mum said to that.