Cannily, Cannily

by Simon French

  From a short distance away, Trevor sensed that Peter, the third “injury”, might be about to yield to Fuller’s threats and so chicken out. He sat down on the reserve bench with David and Martin as Fuller launched into a last-minute morale booster.

  “What are we going to give them?”

  “HELL!”

  “Are we going to win or lose?”

  “WIN!”

  “Who’s the best team in the district?”

  “CLUB UNDER TWELVES!”

  “Maybe you should go back on,” Trevor whispered to Martin.

  “No,” Martin replied. “If we lose it’ll be Fuller’s fault, not mine.”

  Seconds later, the teams were reassembled on the field. The opposition kicked the ball off, and like mechanical toys Fuller’s team came to life.

  And then the inevitable happened.

  The grey clouds finally yielded a fine mist of rain across the town. There was a chorused groan from the spectators as the mist increased to a drizzle. Overcoats and umbrellas slowly appeared as a coloured canopy against the shower, while on the field the football game continued relentlessly. And just as it looked as though the final part of Martin’s plan had been abandoned, it was unintentionally completed.

  The opposition had the ball and were moving across the wet field. Fuller’s team ran up and closed in as the opposing team methodically passed the ball out along their line of players until the kid at the end was left to make the short dash for the tryline. Bradley Clark, however, was not far behind, and with a desperate burst of energy, lunged at the player and tried to tackle him.

  But somewhere on the way down, Bradley’s foot slipped on the wet ground and he fell heavily on to one knee. His left hand had just grasped the opposing player’s ankle, enough to make the boy stumble and lose his grip on the ball. In the confusion of movement the wayward ball was knocked on and the referee’s whistle sounded.

  Everyone started to organise themselves into a scrum except for Bradley, who was having trouble standing up.

  “This is bloody incredible,” Martin said in a low voice. “Clark’s really hurt himself.”

  “How d’you know?” Trevor asked.

  “Well, look at his face. He’s nearly bawling.” Martin suppressed a smile. “Tough toenails for Clark. Serves him right for trying to be such a smarty.”

  “What happens now, though?”

  “Dunno. We’ve never had this many real injuries in one match before.”

  They briefly watched the on-field drama as the referee and Fuller confirmed that Brad’s knee was definitely out of action for the time being. There were concerned noises from the parents on the sidelines.

  The rain continued to drizzle down and another lull of silence swept over the crowd as Fuller quickly decided what to do next. He swiftly turned to the reserve bench.

  “Briggs!” he shouted. “Can you run on that ankle yet?”

  It was David Briggs’s parents who answered for him. “He’s not going on that field injured,” they said, with a surprising note of rebellion.

  “Grace!” the coach shouted then, “what about you?”

  Martin silently displayed his shoulder, which by now was vividly bruised and beyond vigorous use. Fuller gritted his teeth in exasperation and turned quickly to the field. “Jason Evans, you’re playing Clark’s forward position …” And then he realised the next problem. “Are you two sure you can’t play?” he asked Martin and David.

  Their reply was silent and negative.

  Valuable time was being lost. Fuller moved up to where Trevor was sitting at the end of the reserve bench. With some difficulty, Trevor looked up and saw the man’s rain-wet, intimidating face.

  “I don’t trust you, Huon. You’re a liar and a sneak …”

  At that moment, Buckley moved up beside Trevor, a defensively angry look on his face.

  Aware of this, Fuller continued in a low voice, “Get on that field and play, Huon. You’re five-eighth, and you’d better play well, boy. I’ll be watching.” The coach stalked off.

  Trevor sprang up and ran on to the field. The other kids looked at him blankly, almost disbelievingly, as he appeared amongst them and lined himself up adjacent to the reformed scrum. Brushing the wet hair from his forehead, he pulled the headband from his pocket and put it on. For one short moment his eyes found his parents, who were sheltering from the rain under one of Buckley’s coats. Quickly he tried to read their expressions – encouraging, concerned, anticipating – and then realised that now he was on his own.

  Fleetingly, he could also see Fuller’s angry face. Bringing his attention back to what was happening around him, he joined the team as they fought their way back across the halfway line, trying desperately to anticipate their movements, to apply what he’d spent an eternity watching from the sidelines.

  The drizzle of rain intensified again as the referee’s whistle blew, and the scrum commenced their wrestling for the ball’s possession. Seconds later the ball was sent skating from the ruck into Michael O’Leary’s hands. He turned quickly and sent the ball into Trevor’s anxious grasp. Breaking into an erratic half-run, Trevor swung sideways and passed the ball on to Jason Evans and the front row.

  There had been no time to think. Everything had just happened, and miraculously, had happened the right way. Grimly, the game continued.

  So did the rain, in steady opposition. It soaked both teams alike until their hair and football clothes clung to them, cold and uncomfortable. Every time one of them was tackled he came up caked with mud and grime, because the grass cover was gradually losing out to the wet and the pounding of football boots. But still the spectators’ shouting and enthusiasm urged them on against the elements.

  Carefully, Trevor kept an eye on the opposition. At close range, they were as large and fast as had been feared, and played with a speed and aggression that Fuller’s team seemed to find it hard to cope with, let alone overcome. Suddenly someone shouted, “Trevor!”

  He turned to see the ball sailing in his direction. Miraculously he caught it and attempted to run ahead, but found his path blocked by members of the opposing team. Quickly he sidetracked, found Michael O’Leary running parallel to him, and clumsily passed the ball out. Just as quickly, Michael was tackled. He stumbled up, and the ball was passed out again. Suddenly caught in the very midst of play, Trevor found the ball in his hands once more. His mind spun dizzily, and he ran.

  Jason Evans yelled, “Kick it!”

  Just short of being tackled, Trevor managed to give the ball a running punt. It sailed through the air, missing everything except for the waiting hands of the opposition. Now the tables were neatly turned, as Fuller’s team headed across the field in hot pursuit of the opposition.

  They were either too slow or too late, or maybe the field was just too muddy in the wrong places. At any rate, an opposing player made a last marathon dash, beating the efforts of pursuers to cross the tryline and triumphantly thump the ball down on the ground. There was wild cheering from the opposition’s parents, and an almost stunned silence from Fuller’s side of the field.

  And then, in final insult, the shower of rain turned to a downpour.

  As far as the referee was concerned, this was the last straw, and he blew his whistle, frantically indicating for everyone to leave the field. At this command, kids and parents alike scattered in all directions to shelter. Trevor, not seeing Kath and Buckley anywhere in sight, ran quickly back to where the kombi was parked.

  Kath and Buckley sat inside, wet and dishevelled, and Trevor hastily scrambled in beside them.

  “Welcome aboard the Titanic,” said Kath with a grin.

  The interior of the kombi was deathly cold and the insides of the windows had begun to fog up. From the vantage point of the front seat, they watched the last of the drenched spectators dash across to a parked car.

  Buckley was laughing. “That would have to be the funniest spectacle I’ve witnessed for some time. All those manic parents. All those poor kids …”
He looked at Trevor. “So you finally got to play, huh?”

  Trevor sighed very loudly. “Yes.”

  “And what was it like?”

  “All right,” Trevor answered, because he felt neither satisfaction nor disappointment. Just fatigue, and cold.

  They sat in the kombi for five, ten minutes. The rain thudded heavily on the van roof, and all over the town and surrounding valley could be seen the hazy sweep of the storm.

  After a while, carloads of people began to leave, and Buckley said slowly, “I think that’s the end of it.”

  And just as abruptly as he had been thrown into the day’s confusion, so Trevor left it. Barely twenty minutes ago it had finished and yet already it felt oddly distant. On the field there had been little time to think, but now as they drove home through the rain to the caravan park, time stretched forever.

  He was momentarily aware of a faint, almost intangible distance from his parents and all that he knew. The day had been a measure of his own independence, but a price had been paid for it. Uncomfortably, he was reminded of the deceit and realised how intensely he disliked trying to be what he wasn’t.

  Much later, he sat at the table in the caravan, carefully and laboriously finishing off the story for Mr Fuller. It had become a story about lots of things. There was himself, Buckley and Kath, and a life story compressed into twelve pages of an exercise book. In weary defiance he thought to himself, I don’t care what Fuller says about what I’ve written.

  Something was not quite right, and for a moment he no longer felt like Trevor Huon, but like a faceless stranger.

  He lay awake that night on the bunk in the kombi, reliving the day and the four weeks beforehand. In the caravan, Kath and Buckley weren’t playing familiar songs on their guitars; they were talking. Their voices rose and fell, and it was difficult to hear or understand what they were saying. They almost seemed to be arguing, but Trevor reassured himself that this was an impossibility, since Kath and Buckley never seemed to argue.

  For a while, he could have been asleep. When he next opened his eyes, the van door was open, throwing light from the caravan around the inside of the kombi. Buckley was sitting at the end of the bunk.

  “Hello,” he said softly.

  Trevor sat up and rested one elbow on his pillow.

  “I’ve come to talk to you,” Buckley added.

  “What about?”

  “About … lots of things.”

  Trevor said nothing.

  “Right, now Trev, you and I have got to be very honest with each other.”

  “Why?”

  “Because sometimes your mum and I worry about you. Now is one of those times. Watching the football today, watching all those crazy people. It really was pretty weird … Trevor, what do you really think of the life we lead?”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “Moving around all the time. Doing seasonal work and odd jobs. Staying in caravan parks.”

  “I like it,” Trevor said with resolve.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  “Kath and I thought a long time ago what a good thing it’d be for a child of ours to have the experience. To go places, explore the country, meet different people and see how they live. Let you know there are more than one set of rules for living. It sounds great, but it’s also a bit lonely, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. Sometimes.”

  There was an awkward silence. Buckley looked away for a moment, stroking his beard thoughtfully.

  “Sometimes though,” Trevor said after some thought, “I really wish we could stop travelling and stay in one place to live.”

  Buckley grimaced. “But imagine living in a town like this all the time, Trev. To be accepted by anyone, you’d have to be like them. I wouldn’t like to imagine you becoming like the kids here, but I think that’s already started to happen.”

  “No, it hasn’t!” Trevor replied indignantly. “I got into the football team to prove I wasn’t as bad as they reckoned. I wanted them to like me, I didn’t want to be like them.”

  In agreement, Buckley nodded. “I understand.”

  “I wouldn’t want to stay in a place like this, anyway,” said Trevor.

  “Where, then?” prompted Buckley.

  The answer was an obvious one that pictured itself clearly in Trevor’s mind. The house, he thought, but knew how weak and far fetched it might sound in the daylight of Buckley’s commonsense.

  “I don’t know,” he said finally.

  For a moment, the two of them gazed seriously at each other, trying to extract some mutual understanding.

  “We’re going to be leaving,” Buckley said then. “Staying here and putting up with what you have been serves no point. When would you like to leave?”

  Trevor brightened. “Next week?” he suggested.

  “Next week it is,” Buckley replied quietly.

  Kath stepped into the kombi then, leaned over and silently kissed Trevor goodnight, and sat on the bunk next to Buckley.

  There were still things Trevor wanted to say, but was not quite sure how they should be said. Slowly he lay down again, cocooned himself within the sleeping- bag and the blankets, and stared mutely into the semi-darkness.

  For another stretch of unknown time, he could have been asleep again. When he opened his eyes once more, it was still dark. And his parents were still sitting at the end of the bunk, looking back at him almost sadly.

  THIRTEEN

  Buckley picked up a familiar looking exercise book and placed it on the dining table next to Trevor.

  “Found this here last night after you and I had our talk. We read your story.”

  “Oh,” Trevor replied hesitantly. So now they know. It didn’t seem to matter so much this morning. He looked down again, seemingly engrossed in the bowl of muesli before him, trying to imagine the circumstances that would shortly meet him at school. Today is Monday, he thought to himself yet again. Yesterday was Sunday. Today is the day after the game.

  “Sorry,” Buckley started to apologise. “Hope you didn’t mind us reading it.”

  “No,” Trevor said, not sure whether he minded or not.

  Kath walked into the leaden silence that seemed to occupy the caravan. Seriously, she watched as Trevor quietly ate breakfast and as Buckley clutched the exercise book, trying to think of the next thing to say.

  “We read it several times,” she said, and switched on the electric jug. “It was really good, Trevor.” He looked up at her, and she added, “I mean that.”

  “Yeah,” he said slowly. Today is Monday. “I’m going to get into trouble, but.”

  “Why?” Buckley asked.

  “Because Mr Fuller wanted me to write something imaginary and I wrote about something real. The first time I wrote it, he made me do it again and told me to write something different, or else.”

  Buckley sighed, “Are you pleased with your story?”

  Trevor nodded. “I think it’s the best thing I’ve ever done at school.”

  His parents nodded in some sort of agreement. Kath sat down next to Buckley and Trevor, mouth full of cereal, looked over at them, waiting for something more to be said.

  “Did you really mean everything you wrote?” Kath asked.

  “What d’you mean?”

  “About living in a caravan. About moving.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  At a loss for words again, they fell silent, exchanging self-conscious looks in an attempt to convey their thoughts. Trevor took note of the pensive expressions on his parents’ faces before allowing himself to become once more besieged by the threat of the approaching day at school, by the certain aftermath of the weekend’s football match. The successful image of Mr Fuller’s football team lay in pieces around him, and he was feeling at least partly responsible for the Sunday afternoon that had run out of control. What happens now? he mused.

  Buckley spoke up. “What you said last night …”

  “About what?” Trevor asked.

&
nbsp; “About moving,” his father reminded him.

  “Oh,” he answered thoughtfully. “Yes.”

  “Do you still want to leave next week?”

  “Yes,” he said quickly.

  Buckley nodded. “I’m finishing up work on Wednesday. We can get on the road first thing Thursday morning, which is this week.” Inquiringly, he looked at Trevor for a response, but none was forthcoming. “I’ve had enough of bricklaying,” he added with a reassuring smile, “enough of this town. I think we all need a change.”

  “Where will we go?” Trevor asked.

  “Haven’t decided yet,” Kath answered. “But probably somewhere we’ve been before.”

  Something in her reply intrigued Trevor, and it seemed to him that she and Buckley had already decided on a destination. Where? he wondered, but did not ask them aloud. He smiled and settled back in his seat, considering the week’s new perspective.

  “We’re leaving Thursday morning?” he asked again, just to make sure. “This week?”

  “Yep. Is that all right?”

  He nodded. “It’s all right. It’s terrific.” Three more days of school.

  At last Buckley stood up. “I must be going. Be late for work, otherwise.”

  Kath looked at her watch. “You’ll be late for school, too,” she told Trevor. “I’ll write you a note to take.”

  Buckley was at the caravan doorway. “You know all those things in your story?” he said. “What you wrote about the beach, and the house where we used to live?” He paused. “Do you think about it that much?”

  Trevor stared back at his father, wanting to be still in bed, with the sheets and blankets hiding his face and all that he felt. “Yes, I guess I do,” he answered with an effort.

  Buckley turned to leave, then stopped and said, “You know what? So do I.”

  Trevor thought about that for a while.

  Kath wrote out a brief note of excuse for Mr Fuller and then drove Trevor to school in the kombi.

  “Got your story with you?” she asked as he clambered out at the school gate.

  He nodded. “Yeah, it’s in my bag. See you, Mum.”

  “See you later.”

  The school was shrouded in its usual Monday morning quiet. He could hear good morning songs being sung in the kindergarten classroom, spelling lists being chanted in one of the primary grade rooms. Quickly, he crossed the empty stretch of asphalt playground, thankful for having missed the ritual of morning assembly, and yet feeling strange to be beginning the day differently. At the steps of his own classroom he hesitated before climbing the steps to the doorway.