Game as Ned

by Tim Pegler

  Once Miss Kendall knew I listened to the stories, there was no point pretending otherwise. She never put me on the spot again, asking me for stuff in front of the kids. But we had an understanding. She’d leave books out that she thought I might enjoy. I read every single one. To help her out, I’d take books from the returns trolley and put them back on the shelves, in their right places. Soon I could visualise where each book went and what titles should be either side of it. I could see where they belonged without even checking the codes on their spines.

  And, when no one was looking, I wrote things down. Notes. Scrawled details of people conquering fear in all kinds of places. But I never showed them to anyone. Not a soul.

  I spent four years in Grade 6. At sixteen, I was much taller than the other kids and physically more mature. Too visible, despite my best efforts. Conspicuous. The staff couldn’t stomach having me around any more. They petitioned the principal. Evicted me. On my last day, Miss Kendall was the only teacher to say goodbye — and to write me a ‘report’ on my years at the school.

  She handed the report to Grandpa. Then pressed a book to my chest, A Pictorial History of Bushrangers, along with a sash in the violet and gold colours of the school. My report read:

  Nicholas (Ned) Edwards is a polite and intense student. I’m confident that he is an accomplished reader, with an excellent memory. I have greatly enjoyed his companionship and assistance in the library and will miss him greatly.

  Leanne Kendall.

  Librarian

  Lawler Street P.S.

  December 1974

  When Grandpa read it, he cried.

  CHAPTER 5

  The longer I remained at Lawler Street, the closer a threat loomed like a dark cloud over a cricket match. Kids like Nigel Collier taunted me. Every day. Said I belonged in a ‘special school’. Teachers grumbled amongst each other. Said ‘that boy should be in an institution’. I didn’t know what it all meant. Figured it must be bad, though.

  So when Grandpa told me I would be going — going somewhere new — the old panic flared again. I had to reach out. Grasp the table as the kitchen spiralled away. Grandpa was downcast delivering the news, which made it even more frightening. New was bad enough. New and sad was terrifying. I walked briskly to my bedroom. Grabbed my bushranger book. Lay on the bed with it. Looked deep into the pictures, stepping in amongst the sepia. Hoped the bushrangers would lend me their courage.

  The following day Grandpa and I left home early. We walked in an unfamiliar direction, away from Lawler Street, with Grandpa chattering nonstop, as if he needed to reassure himself. It made me even more anxious.

  ‘This place will be OK, Ned. You’ll be fine. They call it The Silver City, you know. That doesn’t sound too bad, does it? It’s a workshop. There will be jobs there you can do. Make sure you pay attention to which way we’re walking there now. I know what you’re like with your dreaming. You’ll be walking to the workshop on your own most days — it’s too far for me — so you better pay attention to the route.’

  I wondered what sort of jobs there would be for a sixteen-year-old to do. I dried dishes for Grandpa. Hung out and folded washing. Even split and stacked firewood. I like splitting wood. It’s a job that suits me. It’s all about routine. Repetition.

  Select a log; balance it on the chopping block; pick up the axe, raise it, swing it. Should be all shoulders, no back. A smooth, fluid strike. The log screeches, falls in two. Lean the axe against the block. Stack the split wood. Start again.

  Grandpa said I made the neatest woodpiles he’d ever seen.

  As we walked, I slouched low. Kept my head down, focused on the path blurring beneath my feet. Ran my hands up and down the straps on my lunch pack, up and down, up and down, feeling the hessian prickle my skin. Reached under my shirt. Felt the glossiness of Miss Kendall’s good-luck sash, wrapped around my waist. Rough. Smooth. Rough. Smooth.

  At The Silver City, I glanced up enough to see a door marked ‘Reception’ and a lady with rippling red hair staring at us. Eventually she mumbled, ‘I’ll get Mick.’ She walked away, yelling, ‘Mick, Mick — there’s people in your office!’ Her calls grew faint as she went deeper into the complex. She didn’t return.

  As we waited, I studied the office. An ill-fitting brown canvas blind cast shadow over the room. Dust specks danced along the sunbeams leaking from its margins. The wide, battered timber desk was basically clear, apart from a blotter with some scrawls around the edges.

  ‘G’day, I’m Mick Hartnett.’

  I tried not to react as a voice burst into the room. Grandpa stood up. His firm, familiar hand on my shoulder urged me to do the same.

  ‘Vic Edwards,’ he said. ‘And this is my grandson, Ned.’

  Mick plonked himself behind the massive desk. Stocky and suntanned, he looked uncomfortable in the manager’s chair. Fidgety. He wore faded Stubbies shorts and a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. A button was missing, exposing a furry belly. Mick gave the impression he’d rather be doing anything other than sitting in his office and talking. He seemed all right. Wasn’t fussed whether I looked him in the eye or not. I liked him. Straight up.

  ‘I better show you around,’ Mick said, springing from his seat. ‘Follow me. I’ll introduce you to the locals.’

  In the main building there were lots of boxes. And long benches with fifteen men and women hunched over, sorting out stuff. Some of them were in wheelchairs.

  ‘Ladies and gents, this is Ned,’ Mick said. ‘He’s going to be helpin’ out round here. Say hello.’

  Some said hello. Some waved or nodded in my direction. One laughed, rocking forward and back enthusiastically.

  ‘That’s Bruce. He likes to laugh,’ Mick said, with a smile in his voice. When we left the activities room Bruce was still laughing.

  Mick pointed to the other buildings. ‘You’ve seen the office. The box on the side of the main building is the kitchen and bunkroom. Over there is the storeroom and the one next to it is the workshop. We get our nickname from all the corrugated iron sheds. It can get bloody bright ’round here on a sunny day.

  ‘Way over at the end of the block is where I live with my missus. You met Janine earlier, I gather.

  ‘Anyway, that’s us. I’ll see you ter-morra, Ned. Welcome.’

  Grandpa didn’t talk as we walked home.

  CHAPTER 6

  Like Grandpa and Miss Kendall, Mick Hartnett doesn’t mind that I don’t speak. Doesn’t seem to, anyway. Likes talking to himself, I reckon. Commentates while he works. Tells himself when he has done something poorly or well. ‘Orrr, you idiot, Mick! You should have thought about it before you dug yourself into such a bloody big hole, ya nong.’

  A couple of days after I began at The Silver City, Mick pulled me out of the workshop. ‘Give us a hand would ya, Ned,’ he asked, beckoning me out into the yard. ‘Can you hold this bracket steady while I whack a couple a screws in?’

  To my surprise, I followed him out. Put my hands where he indicated. Stood there while he drilled. I didn’t speak. Didn’t look him in the eye either. But, in that moment, my role changed. From that day on, I worked as Mick’s assistant, rather than spending time sitting with the others in the workshop.

  Mick unloaded his secrets on me. Knew they could never be safer. He might’ve struggled for words in the office but, out in the yards or even in the cabin of his ute as we went into town for supplies, he was never short of stuff to say.

  I heard about his family; the mongrel dog he had as a kid; and Stanton, the town he grew up in. Sometimes he talked about stuff that troubled him. Finances. His wife. The war.

  Mick said he was sent off to war with a bunch of young guys who had no idea why they were fighting. President Kennedy (‘JFK’ Mick called him) had warned Australia would be taken over by communists if we didn’t fight. New Zealand too. Mick didn’t agree. ‘Why would the commies bother with New Zealand? They’re joking, aren’t they? Too bloody cold and wet! S’pose they want Antarctica too, do they?’<
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  JFK was murdered before Mick was called up for national service but Mick had to fight anyway. Muhammad Ali refused to go. Mick felt it was the right thing to do because his old man had fought in France. And his grandad, one war earlier. It was the done thing. Answer the call. Do your bit. Fight for God, Queen and country.

  Trouble was, this war was different. Vietnam. ‘What were they bloody thinking?’ Mick asked. ‘The French wasted a century trying to sort the place out. They failed. And they left. Just up and left. Walked away from the joint and cut their losses. Said it was an unwinnable war. But did the Yanks believe them? No.

  ‘To be honest, Ned, I’m still not bloody sure why we were there. The joint was a mess. We were hooked up with the South but some southern folks were fighting for the North. It was impossible to tell who was who. I’ll tell you this much, though — I wish the bloody joint would get the hell out of my head.’

  I could tell whenever Mick had had a rough night. When I arrived in the morning, he’d already be immersed in some job — usually grunt work where some well-applied aggro didn’t go astray … cutting down a tree or chipping away at the gorse clawing at the rear fence. His face would be taut. He’d smell of smokes. It might be an hour before he spoke.

  ‘Sorry, Ned. Didn’t sleep too good last night. Bloody nightmares. Pass me the chain oil, would ya? I wonder if the members of bloody parliament have bad dreams about sending us to war. I’ll bet you a tenner they don’t.’

  Listening to Mick, I learned of a war that began as a Boy’s Own Adventure. Guns. Uniforms. Mates. Helicopters.

  I wondered if he’d known my dad.

  ‘Camping out, spinning yarns about women, trading practical jokes with yer mates — it started out OK,’ he growled. ‘But when your buddy stands up to stretch his legs and ends up with his neck blown open, the fun stops pretty damn fast.

  ‘You realise that for every goddamned minute you’re sweating in that ruddy jungle, you’re sixty bloody seconds more likely to wear the next bullet. There won’t be a warning. There won’t be a polite sounding of trumpets and then forces charging over a hill. Just the sounds of insects and jungle and then a whiplash crack you hear about the same time you’re hit. And then you’re choking, drowning in your own blood.

  ‘So you wait for that bullet and, as you wait, the fear eats away at you like a cancer.

  ‘You try to feel any other emotion. Love for your family. Pride in your country. Even hate for the bastards with their rifles pointed at you. But you can’t. It’s all gone … as if someone pulled your sump plug and drained your guts away.

  ‘Then you get home. Everybody expects you to chill out, get back to normal and find your happy bloody ever after. But all you feel is numb. Numb as buggery. And if you don’t drink yourself to sleep, you’re back in that bloody jungle, every bloody night …’

  I’d been helping Mick dig a trench for a drainage pipe. As I stopped to catch my breath I noticed a lingering silence. I sensed him looking my way. Turned towards him, slowly, wanting to know he was OK. He was staring hard at me.

  Eventually he spoke. Quickly. Quietly. ‘It’s a terrible thing, fear. Crippling. I’d hazard a guess that you and I have a bit in common.’

  CHAPTER 7

  Don’t think I haven’t tried to speak. I’ve had moments when the need to blurt out words has been intense. So intense, so all-powerful that the voice inside screams. Swirls inside my skull like a cyclone. Pleads. Begs. Wails. Grieves for all the things unspoken.

  At most, only a howl ever makes it beyond my throat. As my mouth opens, the panic comes washing back in. Words, thoughts, feelings all swept away. Drowned.

  I’ve been desperate to tell Grandpa that I love him. That I miss Gran. To thank him. To let him know how much it means that he ignored all the doctors’ labels and let me be. I can’t even give him a smile.

  I’ve wished I could yell back at people who reckon I’m stupid. Inform them that silence doesn’t mean I’m deaf, dumb or ignorant. I’ve hungered for a way to say no to people. Stop. Leave me alone.

  I’ve never succeeded.

  Three months after I started at The Silver City, Mick had to travel to Melbourne. ‘I’ve gotta shove off for a couple of days, mate,’ he said. ‘Sort some stuff out in the city. Keep an eye on things for me, would ya? And if yer lookin’ for somethin’ to do, the fallow beds in the vegie garden need diggin’ over. That’d be great.’

  The vegetable garden was away from the shade of the lemon-scented gums and peppercorns, at the rear of the complex, close to Mick’s cottage. It was a warm day and, as I dug, I took off my shirt, working in a navy singlet and jeans.

  And felt myself being watched. It was Mick’s wife, Janine. Staring at me. Staring from the veranda of their cottage. I didn’t let on I’d seen her. Focused on my work.

  An hour passed. Her watching. Me being watched. Uncomfortable. Wishing her far away. Then she approached me, smiling. ‘Ned, it’s so hot today! How about you take a break? Come in for a cold drink.’

  A command, not an invitation.

  I didn’t like the idea. Shouldn’t be in Mick’s place when he wasn’t around. Janine left me little choice. I flinched as she clutched my arm, just above the elbow. Too close! Too close! Contact like an electric fence.

  She led me to the stairs. Up to the veranda. Through the whispering, multi-coloured plastic strips across the front door. I’d been inside the cottage before, for a cuppa with Mick. Without him, it felt different. Unsafe. Hostile.

  ‘Come into the lounge,’ Janine said. ‘I’ll go chase up that drink.’ She paused. ‘Actually, you’ll prob’ly want to wash up first. There’s a towel beside the laundry trough.’

  I stepped past Janine in the kitchen. Moved quickly through to the laundry. Found a cracked yellow chunk of Velvet soap on the ledge of the trough. Scrubbed my hands under the cold tap until they were pink. Considered going out the back door, skipping the drink. Couldn’t do it. Too risky. Didn’t want to offend Mick’s missus. I’d make it a quick drink then get out.

  Back in the lounge there was a tray on the coffee table with a jug of lemon squash and two empty glasses. A pedestal fan whirred in the corner. Janine returned from the kitchen with a saucer of biscuits. She sat beside me. Too close! Too close! She poured the drinks and then said: ‘I need something in my room.’ She sprang away, catlike.

  I downed my drink and got up to leave. Janine hadn’t returned. Then, from the bedroom, ‘Ned, can you give me a hand?’

  Didn’t want to respond. No way. I was already nervy. Anxious. I trusted Mick. Janine made me uneasy. Queasy. But I couldn’t let Mick down if she needed help.

  My pulse pounded as I entered the bedroom. The blind almost fully drawn. Janine in front of the window with her back to me, her mane orange as a sunset. ‘Come here.’ An order. Whispered.

  I scanned the room, looking for clues as to what she might want. Some clothes were thrown over a chair. On the window side of the room, one of the bedside table drawers was ajar; obviously Mick’s side of the bed. I saw a lamp, a crowded ashtray, a jumble of loose change, a bottle of pills. And, glinting in the drawer, a handgun.

  ‘Ned,’ Janine said. Slightly louder. Insistent.

  I took three steps towards her. I had goose bumps, despite the heat. Didn’t want to be there. So close. Too close.

  Janine turned. She’d changed into a slippery white dressing gown. She reached for me. Took one of my hands, then the other. Drew them to her. Placed them inside the gown. Shuddered at my touch.

  One hand grasped my chin. Guided it down towards her.

  Her eyes — her eyes consumed me. Terrified me. They were weeping. Silent tears. Her sadness hung in the room like fog.

  Her breath feathered my neck. ‘Ned. You’re beautiful …’

  My head spinning. The floor tilting. Fearing the gun, hating her touch, I fell away, backwards, across the corner of the bed. Rolled off. Stumbled away blindly, grazing my head at the doorway. Hyperventilating. Somehow I made it d
own the front stairs. Into the garden. Threw up among the tomatoes.

  Then I ran. Didn’t slow until I was away from the house and its secrets. Away from Janine’s intoxicating sadness. Away from The Silver City. Away, away — anywhere away. Anywhere I could find my own space. Safe space.

  CHAPTER 8

  I considered never going back. Couldn’t be where she could watch me. Sidle up close. Touch me. But each time I decided to stay away I thought of Mick. If I didn’t return he’d need to know why. He’d ask questions.

  If Janine told him the truth, I couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t witness his pain. And if Janine blamed me, I had no way to deny it. The only way I could protect Mick was by going back. Pretending nothing happened.

  Janine waited for her moment. With Mick called to the phone, she strode up to me, hands on her hips. ‘You gutless wonder,’ she spat. ‘What are you afraid of? It was just a bit of fun. Harmless. God knows Mick has hardly laid a hand on me for years.’

  I refused to look at her. Eventually, she strode away, hair flaming behind her. My hands were shaking, my clothes cold with sweat. Ned Kelly wouldn’t have been intimidated. Not like me.

  Fortunately, Mick had plans that kept me in his office and out of Janine’s way for the rest of the day. Government funding for the complex had increased. Mick was rapt: ‘It’s a windfall, matey.’ He could afford to pay me some money for my work and hire a new assistant for Mrs Runciman, the cook. And, much to my surprise, he wanted me to sit in on the interviews.

  There were three applicants for the job. The first didn’t show. The second was a snarly-looking lady called Mrs Redpath. She scowled when I didn’t greet her and didn’t relax when Mick informed her I don’t speak. She clearly didn’t think I should be present at her interview.