Victor and I wander off from the group. He takes my hand and holds it as we walk. I’m glad that Billabong is surrounded by trees and bushes. No one can see me holding hands with another boy. I don’t really mind doing it but I just don’t want anyone to see me. It’s sort of like a father and a little kid. I’m starting to like Victor. As we go, I name things.
‘Tree,’ I say.
‘Tree,’ says Victor.
‘Sky,’ I say, pointing up.
‘Sky,’ says Victor.
I know that this is not proper talking. He is just copying me like a little baby. Suddenly I get an idea. What if I can get Victor to say something properly? Just one word of his own. I could be the one to get him talking. Suddenly this seems really important. Worth doing. All thoughts of lunatics and idiots vanish from my mind and I start to dream about how wonderful it would be if I could get Victor to just say one word. His parents would be pleased. Wherever they are. Whoever they are. I bet they didn’t really like leaving him to live in a place like Billabong Home for Retarded Boys.
A sneaky thought comes into my mind. I twist the top of the lolly jar so that it’s really hard to open. Then I give it to Victor. He looks at the sweets inside – humbugs, sherbert bombs, little umbrellas covered in hundreds and thousands, lemon drops, and gobstoppers.
‘Say one word, Victor. Say the word “open” and you can have all the lollies.’
‘All the lollies,’ says Victor.
He tries to open the jar with his short stubby fingers. He is strong but he is clumsy. He can’t get the lid off. He struggles and strains and grows red in the face but the lid won’t budge. He waves the jar in my face but I shake my head. I am not opening it unless he asks me. He starts to jump up and down making weird groaning noises. Suddenly he raises the jar high above his head.
‘No,’ I scream.
I am too late. Victor throws the jar down onto a rock. The jar smashes open. He falls down on his knees to get the lollies. I am really scared that bits of glass might have stuck to the lollies. I start to sweep them together with my hands but one gobstopper has rolled away a bit and Victor goes after it like a dog chasing a rabbit. In a flash it is in his mouth. But he wants more.
I shove the rest of the lollies into my pocket not worrying about any glass. ‘No,’ I say. ‘No, Victor.’
Victor is angry and upset. Like an infant if you snatch their ice-cream. With a loud roar he turns and runs. Across the oval he goes. He is not very fast and I soon catch up and grab his coat. But he is strong. He pushes me off and I fall to the ground. He lumbers across the asphalt playground and heads for the school gate.
‘Come back. Come back. I’m sorry.’
It’s no good. His blood is up. In no time at all he is out the gate and running along the pavement. I am going to be in big trouble for this. What if he hurts himself?
As I run I try to wipe one of the lollies clean but it is hopeless. My fingers won’t work properly while I am jogging up and down. We are running along the street past all the houses and their driveways.
Victor suddenly changes course.
‘Hey, Victor,’ I yell. ‘Don’t go in there. You’ll get into trouble.’
Victor doesn’t care. He is not the slightest bit worried about what people think. He doesn’t live in the normal world. He charges around the back of a house. Someone lives in there. It could be anyone. A policeman. A judge. A wrestler. A criminal. But Victor doesn’t give it a thought.
He has disappeared into the back garden. I stand at the gate hopelessly. This is serious. You are not allowed into other people’s back gardens. If I go and try to pull Victor out he won’t come. The owners might call the Police. They might say we are stealing. I can’t go in but I can’t leave him there either.
Without warning, a snarling noise comes from round the back. It is followed by loud barking. Oh no. They have a dog.
A big dog. An Alsatian.
Victor comes belting out of the back garden with the snarling, snapping dog at his heels. He is terrified.
‘Dog, dog, dog,’ he yells.
Victor hides behind me and peers around my shoulders at the Alsatian.
‘Get back, you mongrel,’ I yell.
This makes the dog even worse. I can see that if we turn and run it will bite one of us for sure. Slowly, slowly I start to move backwards. Victor is behind, gripping my shoulders in fright. After a bit he gets the idea and he does what I do. We take small steps backwards. It takes ages and ages of inching along but finally we reach the end of the street and the dog leaves us and goes home. All in all, we were there for about half an hour. Or more.
I walk back to Billabong with Victor holding my hand the whole way. He wipes tears from his eyes and pats my head. I can tell he likes me. I slowly start to calm down myself. I’m so glad that nothing terrible happened but I realise that we are going to be late back.
All the students are inside the classroom when we return.
‘There you are,’ says Mr Hooper, ‘We were just about to send out a search party.’
He doesn’t seem to mind us being late so I decide not to say anything about Victor running off. Stinker would have given me the strap for sure. Everyone is sitting on the mat in front of Mr Hooper who is showing them toys or pictures which he takes from a box. They are things like telephones, plastic apples, rolling pins and even a small wireless set. He hands an object or picture to someone and they have to take it and name what it is. If they get it right everybody claps. Most of them can name something. Even Seagull Boy can say something besides ‘bloody’. He can name a picture of an ice-cream.
Mr Hooper gives Russell a salad bowl. Russell puts it on his head.
‘Hat,’ he says.
Everyone laughs and laughs. Some don’t know what they are laughing about. But others do. I feel sad. The poor boy thinks a dish is a hat.
‘All their food comes ready cooked,’ Mr Hooper says to me in a soft voice. ‘He has never seen a real kitchen. Most of these children have never been on a farm. They think milk comes out of bottles and that vegetables just appear on plates. I would like to take them to a farm one day. But it takes money. And time. And a lot of helpers.’
I feel sad about this. Why can’t they live at home in a proper family?
Mr Hooper takes the bowl from Russell’s head and pretends to stir with a spoon.
‘Bowl,’ says Mr Hooper.
‘Bowl,’ says Russell. Everyone claps.
Mr Hooper holds up a large pencil. ‘What is this, Victor?’ he says.
‘What is this, Victor?’ Victor replies. Mr Hooper tries not to look defeated.
Suddenly I get an idea.
‘Can I have a go, please, Mr Hooper?’ I say.
‘Sure, Hedley,’ he says.
I search through the pile of cards inside the box until I find what I am looking for. I show the picture to Victor.
‘What is this, Victor?’
‘Dog, dog, dog,’ he yells.
Well, you wouldn’t believe it. Mr Hooper starts jumping up and down and clapping.
‘Well done, Victor. Well done. Good man. Great stuff.’
The whole class starts yelling and clapping and laughing. They all pat him on the back. He is a hero.
Mr Hooper is so pleased. He seems to be blinking back tears. He shakes me by the hand.
‘Hedley, mate,’ he says. ‘You have taught Victor to talk. You have given him his voice. This is the breakthrough we’ve been looking for. I knew you were the right one for the job. You are amazing.’
I feel really good inside about this. For the rest of the day I help in the classroom at Billabong. At lunchtime I give out the sandwiches and apples that a nurse brings around for everyone to eat. They don’t bring their own lunches like at our school. Some of them have to take pills that a nurse in a white uniform gives them.
At the end of the day I say goodbye to Mr Hooper.
‘What do you think of my students now, Hedley?’ he says.
‘They�
��re different,’ I say. ‘But they’re nice.’
Mr Hooper frowns.
‘So is everyone else the same then?’ he asks.
I don’t know what to say. For some reason I think of Bruno Ferrari, a kid in our grade who can’t speak English and smells of garlic all the time. Foreigners are different. But they do know what a salad bowl is by the time they are thirteen. And they do know where milk comes from. I don’t say this, though. Instead I say, ‘I’m different. I’m a Pommie. And I think too much.’
My Hooper puts his hand on my shoulder and smiles.
Just then Victor comes up and gives me a big hug. He grabs me like a bear and won’t let go for ages and ages. I hope that he doesn’t do this tomorrow when he comes to our school.
I hold out my hand to Victor.
‘Shake,’ I say.
Victor holds out his hand and I pat him on the head.
We all laugh like crazy.
16
chinese burns
KATE IS IN her bedroom doing homework. She is making a picture on a piece of cloth with a thick strand of wool and a needle. At our school girls do needlework and boys do handwork like making wooden trays covered in dead matches. We have to collect the matches during the week and then glue them on in the handwork period. Kate doesn’t want to talk. She doesn’t like being interrupted when she is working.
Mum is cooking tea. If I go into the kitchen she’ll ask me to set the table. If I’m quick I can nip down to the bottom of the garden and visit Major Manners.
I run across the lawn. The skull is in the sack where I left it. The whole thing is still crawling with bull ants. There is no way I can pick it up. I will have to get the ants off later because at any moment Mum will call me for tea.
I squat down and look at the sack from a safe distance. And I feel sad and lonely again. Tomorrow I am going to give the skull to Ian Douglas and then Major Manners will never be laid to rest. Goodness knows what the gang will do with him. Something horrible, that’s for sure.
‘Sorry, Major Manners,’ I say. ‘I know you should be back in your grave. But if I hand you over I’ll have some friends.’
A picture of Timothy comes into my mind. He used to live next door to me in England. We used to swap Beano comics. In the winter we would splash around in puddles in our Wellingtons together. He knew what Wellingtons were. Over here no one has ever heard of Wellingtons. They call them gumboots. When I told Dad this he shook his head and gave me a lecture all about Lord Wellington who was the first one to wear long boots. Wellington defeated Napoleon who was a Frog. Dad calls the French ‘Frogs’ because he doesn’t like them.
‘We saved them in two World Wars and they still aren’t grateful,’ he said.
When I asked him what this had to do with gumboots, he snorted, ‘Do you think it was Lord Gumboot who beat Napoleon at Waterloo?’
I am wandering again. All this started off because I told Major Manners I need some friends.
You already have friends, he says. You have Victor.
‘Victor is simple,’ I say. ‘He doesn’t know much. He is not like everyone else.’
Are you like everyone else? Is anyone? says the voice in my head.
I think about this. I am not like everyone else. I talk differently to the other children. And I am not really good at anything at school. Except Composition. I am no good at Times Tables. When we have Tables, Stinker stands at the front of the class and spits them out like a snake striking a mouse. He doesn’t even say your name. He just points to you and you have to give the answer.
‘Seven tens?’
‘Four threes?’
‘Nine elevens?’
‘Eight nines?’
I hate the nines. I can never get the nines correct. Especially eight times nine. For some reason Stinker always asks me the nines. If you get one wrong he raps you over the fingers with a ruler and it hurts.
Seventy-two, mate, says Major Manners. Turn it around the other way. Nine eights. Ten eights is eighty so take away one eight and bingo – seventy-two.
Major Manners is smart and he likes me, so I don’t tell him that when Stinker is spitting out the Tables you are filled with terror and don’t have time to think about little tricks in your mind. I have heard the one about turning the Tables around before.
Just then Mum calls out my name.
‘Tea time, Hedley,’ she yells out through the kitchen window.
‘See you later, Major Manners,’ I say.
See you later, mate, he says. And…
‘Yes?’
You’re a nice kid. Just remember that. Be nice to yourself.
‘Thanks,’ I say.
I hurry inside and take my place at the table. Someone else has set it. Mum or Kate but definitely not Dad who often goes and sits on the toilet when there are jobs in the kitchen. He does this when the washing-up is to be done. He takes a book into the toilet and somehow or other always seems to come out just when the washing-up is finished.
‘Watch this,’ Mum said one night. She filled the kitchen sink up with water and waited for a couple of minutes. Then she pulled out the plug. There was a loud gurgling noise as the water ran out of the sink. Dad immediately came out of the toilet. His face fell when he saw the dirty dishes still on the table.
‘Got you,’ said Mum.
We all laughed but Dad didn’t think it was funny. He stomped off to the garage.
Tonight for tea it is oxtail soup made in the pressure cooker. It is served up with dumplings which are sort of doughy cakes that are not sweet. I love oxtail soup but I’m not crazy about the dumplings. I eat them, however, because at our place it is: ‘eat everything or get nothing’. This includes ice-cream.
‘How did your day at Billabong go, dear?’ says Mum. ‘I’m ever so proud of you being picked to be the one to look after Victor.’
I open my mouth to answer but Dad gets in first and tells a story about a simple man who works in his factory. His story goes on and on and on, but he finally finishes up with …
‘The poor bloke left a tap running when he went home. In the morning the whole place was flooded. I had to give him the sack. He was simple. A dill. Not good for anything.’
I quickly try to say something. ‘This boy Victor –’
‘Speaking of boys,’ says Mum. ‘There are four of them loitering outside.’ She is staring out of the window. ‘They don’t look very nice.’
I peep out through the net curtains and see Ian Douglas and his mates lurking by the letterbox. My heart sinks.
‘Are they your friends?’ says Mum.
‘No,’ I say. ‘But I know who they are.’
‘Tell them to go away,’ she says. ‘They look common.’
I walk out to the letterbox which in Australia is attached to the garden fence and not set into the front door like in England. My mind has a billion thoughts which swirl around like all the ingredients in the sloppy cake-mix my mum stirs with a wooden spoon at Christmas.
I can’t let them have Major Manners. He is my friend. But he is only a bone. And everyone will admire me when they know I have stolen him. I could swear at the gang and act tough. But they are tougher. I could run away. But I will have to come home again in the end.
I could scare them. But how? An idea comes into my head as I reach the gate.
‘Where’s the skull, Headless?’ says Ian Douglas.
‘Hidden,’ I say.
‘Get it.’
‘I can’t. I’m not allowed out. My mum wants you to go away.’
Henderson turns to Frank Kelly. ‘My mum wants you to go away,’ he repeats in a put-on voice. ‘Oh, diddums.’
The others laugh cruelly.
‘It’s dangerous,’ I say.
‘What is?’
‘The skull.’
‘It’s evil,’ I say. ‘It talks to me. Its eyes get red in the dark. It comes from Hell. It makes me do what it says.’
For just a moment there is a small doubt in their eyes. I warm up to my
story.
‘It wants me to lead you to the grave. It’s the entrance to Hell. The Devil is waiting for the skull’s victims.’
Ian Douglas nods his head as if he is a very wise person giving this some thought.
‘Like in Inner Sanctum,’ he says. ‘Yeah, I read that comic too, Headless. Good try.’
The others look at me as if I’m pathetic.
‘Next it will be howling at the moon in the dead of night,’ says Henderson.
‘A full moon, of course,’ says Frank Kelly.
They all laugh in a mean way.
I give up my silly attempt at trying to scare them. ‘Look,’ I say. ‘I think we should put it back. What if the Police find out?’
‘Who’s going to tell them?’ says Ian Douglas.
‘My parents.’
For a second he looks worried. ‘You haven’t told them, have you, you idiot?’
I think of saying ‘yes’ but I know this won’t save me. So far the gang haven’t done anything wrong. I am the one who took the skull. If adults get involved the gang will tell on me. I would be the only one to get into trouble.
‘No,’ I say. ‘But my mother is watching. She wants you to go away.’
They look over to the window of our house and sure enough, there is Mum staring out through the net curtains with a disapproving look.
‘Bring it to school tomorrow. Or else.’ Ian Douglas says this last bit through his teeth. It sounds really scary.
The gang mooch off into the evening, mumbling something about giving me a Chinese burn.
A Chinese burn is when someone grabs you by the wrist with two hands and twists your skin in different directions. It hurts like crazy. But not as much as being bitten by bull ants. I hope Major Manners is all right down there at the bottom of the garden. He should be safe. I tell myself that the bull ants will stop anyone touching him.
17
a fiendish plan
THAT NIGHT I toss and turn in bed. I have to figure out a way of getting rid of the bull ants so that I can take Major Manners to school. I have to get them off before morning. But I can’t do anything until Mum and Dad are asleep. I lie there thinking about all my troubles, trying not to fall asleep. My eyes are heavy and I know there is a danger that I will nod off if I’m not careful.
How Hedley Hopkins Did a Dare... Page 7