I grabbed the safety rail and pulled myself along the deck. Another wave smashed on the deck. The water churned around my thighs. When I got to the wheelhouse I pushed the door open.
‘Where are we?’ I screamed. It was almost impossible to talk above the clatter of the engine.
The old man said nothing, his eyes were glued to the compass. He wrestled with the wheel as the boat lurched into another mountainous wave.
‘Where are we?’ I screamed, as loud as I could.
Still he said nothing, but pointed towards the cabin.
Then we got hit side-on. The boat rolled viciously. I was flung into the wheelhouse, against the old man, knocking his hands from the wheel. The boat kept going over and over, until it was almost on its side.
‘It’s not gunna stop, it’s not gunna stop,’ I was yelling. But at last, when the mast was almost parallel to the surface, it rolled the other way. Both of us were thrown against the other side of the wheelhouse. The old man grabbed the wheel.
‘You’re trying to kill us!’ I screamed.
Warm tears were sliding down my wet face.
‘Get back in that cabin,’ yelled the old man.
‘You’re trying to kill us! You hate us!’
With one hand the old man grabbed me by the front of the shirt.
‘Get back in that fucking cabin,’ he said, and he shoved me through the doorway.
The boat rolled and I went flying into the safety rail, my momentum almost catapulting me over. Then it went the other way and I was thrown sprawling onto the deck. I crawled, on hands and knees, the water streaming around me, back to the hatch and dropped into the cabin.
I got back on the soaking bunk. Team-man was on the floor. He was dry-retching now, his body heaving. The smell in the cabin was putrid.
‘Where are we?’ he said weakly.
‘We’re gunna die,’ I said.
I believed it, too. The next time the boat rolled would be the last time. We’d keep on going, all the way to the bottom, to Davey Jones’s locker.
I soon got tossed out of the bunk again. This time I stayed there, wedged in next to Team-man. I could feel his vomit, warm and sticky, against my cheek. I didn’t care.
Somehow, I don’t know how, I went to sleep. When I woke the boat was steady. I opened the hatch. The water was much calmer. I could see a lighthouse flashing in the distance. We were behind the island, almost home.
The old man said nothing as we moored the boat. Nothing as we rowed into the beach. Nothing as we got into the car. Team-man collapsed onto the back seat.
I sat in the front. The sun was just coming up.
‘I never want you on my boat again,’ he said, slowly, emphatically.
I didn’t say anything.
‘Do you hear me? I never want you on my boat again.’
‘Okay,’ I said, softly.
Then he shook his head and started the car.
‘My own son a gutless wonder. A gutless fucking wonder.’
I rubbed my forehead. I’d never felt so ashamed in all my life.
And I hadn’t been on the boat since that day. I hadn’t been anywhere near the boat since that day.
12
After I left Pickles, I walked along the coast. First along the beach, the rich tang of rotting kelp in my nostrils, then onto the rocks. Most of the coast around the Port was rocky, which was fine by me. Beaches are okay, but let’s face it, they’re dead. Nothing lives in sand, except maybe a few worms. But rocks, they’re teeming with life. Look in any rock pool, you’ll see urchins, starfish, anemones, crabs, fish, sponges – all sorts of animals, a whole community.
I stopped when I got to Black Rock. Us Blacks owned Black Rock. Not legally of course, but it was straight down from our place and we used to hang out there all the time. Especially at high tide it looked like a giant naked Nunga about to duck dive. Two great big black cheeks and a weedy crack sticking out of the water. I wanted people to call Black Rock ‘Bum Rock’ (or at least ‘Black Bum Rock’) because in my opinion its bumness was greater than its blackness.
‘Coming down Bum Rock for a swim?’ I’d ask a sibling.
‘Where?’ they’d reply.
‘Bum Rock, you know – used to be Black Rock,’ I’d explain.
‘Oh, Black Rock, why didn’t you say? Sure I’ll come.’
It was hopeless.
I scrambled up the sandy cliff and onto the road. The siblings were having kicks, end to end. Jenny had the footy.
‘There he is, the first ruck,’ she said when she saw me.
She kicked the ball. An immaculate drop punt hit me square on the chest.
‘Over here,’ said Kevin. ‘Kick it to me.’
I took careful aim. The ball flew high over Kevin’s head and bounced off Darcy’s mailbox.
I tell you, it was getting more and more difficult to believe in God. Mrs Ashburner, my old Sunday School teacher, said that God was kind and just. Maybe, but why did he make my sister a better kick than me? It didn’t add up.
I went inside.
Mum was in the laundry, leaning on the washing machine, a book propped up in front of her. The machine was shaking and the book was jumping about. Didn’t worry Mum, though. She was used to it. She spent a lot of time in the laundry. I suppose it was inevitable with a family as big as ours. But I also think the laundry was a kind of sanctuary for Mum, where she could get away from us lot for a while. None of us liked to go there, not with that smell. It used to be worse, when the three little ones were in nappies, but Team-man still wore socks.
I couldn’t see the title of the book but I knew it was a Mills and Boon romance, an M&B. That’s all my mum read, apart from magazines like Women’s Weekly and Woman’s Day.
‘Hi, Mum,’ I said.
‘Hello, dear,’ she said.
I could see the title now – A Circle of Opals.
‘That’s a good book, isn’t it?’ I said.
I’d started reading it in the toilet that morning. Mum left her M&Bs all over the place, in the kitchen, in the laundry, in the bathroom, in the toilet – especially in the toilet. And if you’re sitting on the dunny, not doing much, and there’s an M&B just sitting there, then of course you’re going to read it. It’s screaming out to you, ‘read me, read me, pick me up and read me’. How can you resist?
‘Haven’t you got schoolbooks to read?’ she said
Mum wanted me to read books that improved my mind.
‘I’ve read them,’ I said.
Which was true.
She turned the page.
‘Mum,’ I said.
‘Yes.’
‘Do you reckon Opal will find true happiness with the dark stranger Zac Heynes? And what is that glamorous Mari up to?’
She gave me a dirty look (even dirtier than the clothes on the floor), closed the book, and slipped it into her apron.
Mum was a really fast reader, she just gobbled up the pages. She was about halfway through A Circle of Opals; tomorrow she’d finish and take it back to the library. I’d never get to finish it. This happened all the time, I’d start a M&B but I wouldn’t get to finish it. This worried me a bit, because I’d read this article at the barber’s, in a People magazine, about this kid who committed all these robberies. When he got caught he said he didn’t realise that he’d get into trouble, because his parents made him go to bed at eight on the dot, so he only got to watch half of whatever cop show was on the telly. He never saw the end, with the car chase, where the villain got caught and sent to jail. It got me thinking. Maybe I’d have a similar problem when I got older and started having love affairs. I’d be really good at the first bit, the ‘she met his steely gaze’ stuff, but I’d be hopeless later on, because I hadn’t read those chapters.
The machine clicked into spin mode.
‘Are you all ready for Saturday?’ asked Mum.
‘I think so. Who’s coming?’ I said.
‘Practically the whole town,’ she said.
‘The old
… I mean, Dad’s coming, isn’t he?’
The old man wasn’t too interested in the footy. The only advice he ever gave was ‘make sure you come off the ground exhausted’, which didn’t really make a lot of sense. Normally I didn’t care if he came or not, but I really wanted him to go to the grand final. I don’t know why, maybe I wanted to show him that I wasn’t so gutless after all.
‘He said he was, dear.’
‘But last night he didn’t even remember it was on when Tim asked him.’
‘Your father’s got a lot on his plate.’
‘Got a lot in his glass more like it,’ I said.
The machine stopped spinning.
Uh oh, I thought, she’s gunna crack a wobbly. Mum didn’t often crack a wobbly, but when she did, it was a very wobbly wobbly.
‘That’s enough of that sort of talk,’ she said. ‘Come on. Give me a hand to hang these out.’
‘Sure, Mum.’
She opened the machine, and pulled out a tangle of clothes. I grabbed the basket.
One day, I promised myself, I’m going to ask her – what did you marry him for? Why did you make all those kids? Of course there’s nothing wrong with all those kids. One of them is me, after all. And some of the siblings are quite presentable, but still, you’ve gotta wonder. They just didn’t seem to have much in common, my olds. Not from the start.
I’d seen this photo of the old man. I s’pose he was about twenty, something like that. He’s sitting on a motorbike, and he’s wearing a leather jacket. And even though the motorbike is really old-fashioned looking and the leather jacket is pretty daggy, there’s something about him. He looks tough. If you were a bloke and you saw him roaring down the street you’d think – No way I’d pick him. But if you were a girl I reckon you’d think something else.
Actually this photo of the old man reminded me of this kid at school called Jimmy Downes.
I reckon there’re three types of tough. There’re kids like Pickles who act tough, but they’re not. There’re kids who don’t act tough, but they are. Like the Thumper. And there’re a few kids, not very many, who act tough and are tough. Jimmy Downes was one of these.
He was always in trouble. Always getting the cuts. He’d even been expelled for a while. Then he started going with Sarah Goodkin. Sarah Goodkin’s old man was filthy rich, a doctor or bank manager or something. She was a senior prefect, she was top of her class, and she was really good at sport. You’d think she’d be the last person to go for Jimmy Downes. But she did. Did she ever. This one time I was in the dunnies and I heard Jimmy Downes telling some other kids about what he did to Sarah Goodkin after the school social. Except he didn’t say ‘did to Sarah Goodkin’, he said ‘done to Sarah Goodkin’, just like my old man would say it.
13
The night before the grand final. I couldn’t sleep. I was nervous, excited. Tossing and turning; my bed felt too small. The sheets and the blankets were all messed up.
I tried counting sheep. One sheep. Two sheep. The third sheep was enormous, it had the Thumper’s face. I stopped counting sheep.
I needed something. Something to help me sleep. Maybe Mum would give me one of her pills. The little ones she kept on the side of her bed.
I got out of bed and tip-toed along the corridor. The bathroom door was closed, but I could see light seeping under the door. Then I heard a soft splash. Mum was having a bath, getting some of her beloved peace and quiet. I looked out the window, the old man’s car wasn’t there. It was late, probably past midnight, but Mum would stay up until he came home, so she could serve him his dinner. She always did this.
‘Mum,’ I said.
‘Who’s that?’
‘It’s me, Mum, Gary. I can’t sleep. Can I have one of your little pills?’
‘No you can’t. Wait a minute and I’ll make you a nice cup of Milo.’
More splashes.
‘It’s all right. You stay there, Mum. I can do it.’
The house felt really strange this time of the night. Eerie. I wasn’t used to it being so quiet. Everybody asleep except Mum and me. Seven kids sleeping, not making a noise, is a lot quieter than one or two.
I put the pot on the stove, filled it with milk, and turned on the element. Then I put a teaspoon of Milo and two teaspoons of sugar into a cup. The milk didn’t take long to boil. I filled the cup and gave it a good stir. I took it into the lounge room and switched on the light. All the Best Team-man trophies, the little silver men, stopped what they were doing and stared at me. What’s he doing in here this time of night?
There were hardly any books in our house. Mum always took her M&Bs back to the library, to swap for more, and the old man only ever read the form guide. But we did have Great Finals in Football History. I’d read it so often I knew some parts off by heart.
I opened it at my favourite chapter. The 1970 grand final. Carlton versus Collingwood. At half-time Carlton were down by 44 points. Then the great Ron Barassi told his players to go handball happy. They did, and the rest is football history. Carlton won and modern football was changed forever. There’s a big photo of Jezza taking the mark of the century. I gazed at it, sipping my Milo. How could somebody get so high? Jezza was practically standing on the other bloke’s head. It didn’t seem possible. Like it was against the laws of physics. I don’t know whether it was the Milo or Jezza’s mark, but I felt calmer now.
Mum was still in the bath. I knocked on the door.
‘Yes.’
‘Mum, I’m feeling better now,’ I said.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘You get some sleep. You’ll need it.’
I climbed back up onto my bunk. Below me Kevin was snoring. I could feel the Milo, warm inside me. I soon fell asleep.
14
I woke up. At first it seemed like any other day; light streaming in through the window, a kookaburra outside cackling madly, and the whiff of Team-man’s socks drifting up from the floor. Then I remembered. Football. Grand final. Wangaroo. The Thumper. Today. Shit-a-brick!
As I sat up I could feel them in my tummy. Butterflies. They were flying around in there, a squadron of them. Loop the looping, spiral diving, formation flying. It was a veritable air-show.
Why am I doing this? I thought to myself. Why am I putting myself through this torture? Nobody has to play football. It’s entirely voluntary. So why am I doing it? For the glory of it. That’s what Arks would say. The glory. It was a strange word, especially for Arks. It didn’t go with the rest of his vocabulary. It made me think of the war, the Anzacs. Our glorious men going over the top at Gallipoli. Did they feel like this? Did they have squadrons of butterflies vrooming around their tummies? The Anzacs were going to meet the dreaded Turk and probably death. I was going to meet the dreaded Thumper and probably death.
I had a long shower, the taps on full, the water blasting against my skin. Nobody bashed on the door, which was unusual. In our family if you got two minutes undisturbed in the shower you were lucky. But I suppose the siblings had been up and running about for ages already.
Then I got dressed. The clothes I usually wore to the footy – jeans, t-shirt and a black windcheater.
‘Morning,’ I said as I sat down at the kitchen table.
There was enough food to feed the whole team. Snags. Eggs. Bacon. Tomato. A mountain of toast, already buttered. Even apricot jam. What a luxury. It was usually dark plum from the tin. But this was apricot from the jar.
‘Morning, dear,’ said Mum.
Best Team-man was already tucking in, tomato sauce slurped all over the place. His plate looked like a road accident.
‘Where’s everybody?’ I said.
‘Around the place,’ said Mum. ‘Getting ready.’
‘What about Dad?’
‘He’s still sleeping. He had a late night.’
Mum put a plate in front of me.
‘There you go,’ she said.
I looked down. Mum had attempted to recreate Mt Kosciusko using nothing but common foodstuffs. There were th
ree snags, two tomatoes, two fried eggs and about a pig’s worth of bacon.
‘Thanks, Mum,’ I said, trying to sound sincere.
Actually, a couple of Weetbix would’ve done me fine, but Mum had gone to all that trouble, so I had to eat some of it.
I took a mouthful of bacon. It plummeted into the airfield, causing two butterflies to collide. I tried a bit of snag. Another mid-air collision resulted. I resisted further bombardment. Instead I sipped some milky tea.
‘You haven’t touched your food,’ said Mum.
‘I’ll have it,’ said Team-man.
He leant across the table, and swiped my plate.
‘I’m not feeling too flash,’ I said. ‘I might go and lie down for a while.’
‘Not too long. We’ll get going soon,’ said Mum.
‘But Mum, the game doesn’t start until two!’
‘You know I like to be early.’
I sure did. It didn’t matter what the occasion was – wedding, funeral, final – Mum’d be the first one there. Being early was a religion to her.
I lay down on the sofa. Were the siblings hyped up, or what? They were running around all over the place, in and out of doors. It looked like a Marx Brothers’ movie. They’d blown up balloons, tied streamers onto sticks, and made a banner from an old sheet. ‘PORT FOR PREMEIRS’ it said.
‘That’s not how you spell “premiers”,’ I said.
‘Isn’t it?’ said Kevin. ‘Too late now. We’re gunna tie it to the fence. Right next to you.’
‘Thanks a lot, Kev.’
Then Mum said, ‘Okay, let’s go!’
By the time me and my squadron of butterflies got outside, the car was packed.
You know that old joke – how d’ya get four elephants into a Mini Minor?
If you don’t then get ready to piss yourself because the answer’s pretty hilarious.
Two in the front seat, two in the back seat.
Okay, well here’s another one.
How d’ya get ten Blackies into a car?
You probably said five in the front and five in the back, but I haven’t told you that the Blackymobile is a station-wagon.
Deadly Unna? Page 6