I walked back through the crowd of people.
‘Good onya,’ said Slogsy. He shook my hand.
‘He done well eh, Bob?’ he said to the old man. ‘He’s a credit to ya.’
The old man’s cheeks were red. Which always meant he’d had a few. But he was in a good mood; he had that loose look about him.
‘He done real well,’ he said.
How would he know? I thought, he wasn’t even there. He finished off his beer and let the plastic cup drop to the floor.
‘Let me shake your hand, son,’ he said.
He took my hand. I could feel the rough calluses on his palm. Then he squeezed.
My old man believed in a firm handshake. According to him, if a handshake wasn’t firm then you were probably dealing with a bludger, or a no-hoper, or maybe even a poofter.
‘It was a gutsy effort,’ he said, looking me in the eye, squeezing harder.
‘Thanks,’ I said.
Little bones in my hand were crunching.
‘We’ll get you out fishing soon,’ he said.
‘Great,’ I said.
He squeezed even harder. Christ! Little tears were forming in the corner of my eyes.
Finally, he let go.
‘Gotta get back to the table,’ I said.
As I made my way back to the table people were slapping me on the back.
‘Well done, Blacky.’
‘Onya, Blacky.’
Maybe I wasn’t such a fraud after all. I mean, everybody else at the ground thought I’d tackled the Thumper. I was the only one who didn’t. How could all those people be wrong? Maybe I’d tackled him without realising it – subconsciously. That was it – I’d subconsciously tackled him. I was starting to feel pretty good about myself. A premiership. Best Team-man trophy. The old man was going to give me another chance. I sat down.
‘Which brings me to the last of tonight’s presentations,’ boomed Big Mac. ‘The McRae Medal for best on ground. Donated by Desmond McRae, mine host at the Port Hotel, for all your liquid refreshment needs.’
The big one. B.O.G. Best on ground. Big Mac handed the trophy to the local member.
‘And the winner is …’ he said
I elbowed Dumby in the ribs. The McRae Medal was his. He’d had twice as many kicks as anybody else. Taken heaps of marks, including the speccy of the century. He’d booted five goals, half our score. Dumby was a sure-fire odds-on cert. He was unbackable.
‘Mark Robertson!’
At first I thought they’d made a mistake, or he’d made a mistake, that dickhead local member. And I was feeling a bit sorry for Mark Arks because he was jumping up and down and getting all excited. The poor bastard thought he’d won the McRae Medal.
Any second now, I thought, they’ll announce who the real winner is.
But they didn’t. Mark Arks really had won the McRae Medal.
The whole place went apeshit. You’d think he’d just won the Brownlow the way they carried on. And I thought footy was supposed to be a team game. They all clapped and cheered as he walked onto the stage. They all clapped and cheered as he got his medal. They all clapped and cheered as he made his stupid speech. Not me, though. I got angry.
I looked around for Dumby. He’d gone.
‘Bullshit!’ I said to Pickles.
‘Whatta ya mean?’ he said.
‘Mark Arks getting B.O.G. It’s bullshit. That’s Dumby’s trophy.’
‘Give it a rest,’ said Pickles.
I got angrier. I could feel it growing inside me, getting bigger and bigger, stronger and stronger, like a whirly-whirly spinning across a paddock.
And then that nasty little man with the sledgehammer started up again, bang bang bang into my brain.
I had to get out of there. It felt like everybody was crowding in on me, suffocating me.
I got up from my seat and pushed through the crowd.
‘Where ya going, Blacky?’ somebody said, grabbing me by the elbow. ‘The party’s just starting.’
‘Piss off,’ I said, and I shrugged them off.
Outside the air was cool. I could smell the salt in it. I started running, away from the Institute, back down the main street. When I got to the anchor I stopped, and lay down on the bench.
Mark Arks – what a joke! It just wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. But what could I do?
Then I started thinking about this bloke on the telly the other night, a Buddhist monk. He was protesting about some war or something. So he set fire to himself. I’m not kidding. Right there on the six o’clock news he pours kero all over himself and then lights a match. Whoosh! Up he went.
I could do the same, couldn’t I? Protest. Not by setting fire to myself. That was a bit over the top. I’d retire, that’s what I’d do. Retire. Hang up my boots. Withdraw my services. Terminate my brief and not particularly glorious career.
I’d tell them why, too. Because you cheated Dumby out of his medal, you lousy bastards.
Then I realised I was still holding my Best Team-man trophy.
I stood up. My weight evenly balanced, eyes down. I lined up the goals – two piles of seaweed on the beach. I ran up, and kicked. Leg straight, toe pointed, follow through. The Best Team-man trophy went spinning through the air, the little silver man’s squashed head glinting in the moonlight. It bisected the two piles of seaweed and landed in the sand with a soft thud. Not a bad kick to end my career, I thought. Not bad at all.
‘Youse can stick your footy,’ I screamed at the top of my voice, ‘up your arse.’
And then, for the second time that day, I slipped into unconsciousness.
Yep, Mum was right – too much gallivanting.
SUMMER
18
Some people reckon summer starts the day school breaks up. Others reckon it’s the first of December. According to old Darcy it was when the gars first went on the bite. But I had my own theory – summer started when I walked down the main street of the Port and the first three people I ran into all said, ‘Hot enough for ya, is it?’
It was early in the morning, but already warm. The sky was blue and sparkling. The sea was blue and sparkling. The sort of day you always have at the Gold Coast. According to the ads anyway.
Big Mac was hosing down the footpath in front of the pub.
‘Gidday, young Blacky,’ he said. ‘Hot enough for ya, is it?’
‘Sure is,’ I mumbled, hurrying past.
I walked past the garage. Rocker, the mechanic, was leaning against an oil drum, drinking a bottle of Coke. As usual he was wearing a greasy white t-shirt with a packet of ciggies tucked into his sleeve, tight jeans and boots with pointy toes. Rocker had tatts down both arms. They were hopeless. I reckon he’d done them himself with a pin and a bottle of ink. His burnt-orange Monaro, the hottest car in town, was up on the hoist.
‘Hot enough for ya, is it eh?’ he said.
Rocker was from Queensland, he said ‘eh’ after everything.
‘Sure is,’ I said.
Arks was standing outside his shop, putting out the Four ‘n’ Twenty pie sign. He was wearing a white singlet and shorts. There were little beads of sweat running across his forehead. Maybe this would be it, the start of summer. But I wasn’t confident. Ever since the grand final, and that was months ago, Arks had been behaving strangely. He was always in a good mood, never grumpy like before. I didn’t like it, it wasn’t natural. And he’d become even more obsessed with football. He hardly ever talked about anything else, not even the weather, and in the Port everybody talked about the weather. Most of the time that’s all they talked about.
He smiled when he saw me. I crossed my fingers.
‘Hot enough for ya, champ?’ he said, wiping his brow with a crumpled hanky.
Hooray! Summer had started.
‘Thinking about playing you in forward line next season,’ he continued.
‘Great,’ I said.
I hadn’t told him about my protest, my decision to retire. I hadn’t told anybody. After the D
o some kid had turned up with my Best Team-man trophy. Said he found it on the beach. Was there a reward? he’d said. I told him to piss off. But the little silver man was now in the lounge room, on the mantelpiece, getting acquainted with all the others.
‘Reckon you’ll do well up there. We could work on your kicking over the summer.’
‘I gotta go, Mr Robertson. I’ll see ya later.’
‘See ya, champ.’
Dazza and Pickles were sitting at the anchor. They were both wearing footy shorts and t-shirts. Dazza had thongs on. As usual Pickles was barefoot. He was cleaning his fingernails with his knife. It was a Buck, his pride and joy, and he kept it razor-sharp. There was a box, full of jars, in front of him.
‘Gidday,’ I said.
‘Gidday,’ said Dazza.
Pickles said nothing.
‘What’s in the jars?’
‘Gents,’ said Pickles.
‘You buy ’em from Darcy?’
‘Nuh.’
‘Where’d you get ’em from, then?’
‘None of your business.’
‘From Skippy,’ said Dazza.
‘Skippy?’
‘Yeah, you know,’ said Dazza and he started singing, ‘Skippy, Skippy, Skippy the dead kangaroo.’
‘You’re kidding?’ I said.
‘No mate, I’m not. Pickles here rides out the highway until he finds Skippy the dead kangaroo. Then he slits it open and scrapes the maggots out of its guts with that knife of his.’
‘What for?’
‘Whatta ya think? He’s gunna go into business ’gainst old Darcy.’
Nobody had ever thought of going into business against Darcy. He had a monopoly on the gent market.
‘You’re kidding?’ I said.
‘Why not?’ said Pickles. ‘It’s a free world. Nuffin special ‘bout those arsey maggots any rate.’
Pickles and Darcy didn’t get on. Pickles called him Arsey Darcy, sometimes to his face.
‘Just maggots aren’t they?’ he continued. ‘Arsey carries on like they’ve got pedigrees or somethink.’
‘How much you flogging them for?’
‘Hundred for a dollar.’
Half what Darcy charged. Maybe Pickles Mickle was on to something.
A white car pulled up. A late-model Ford. The roof-racks were piled high with gear. There were two people in the front seat, one in the back.
‘Campers,’ said Dazza. He made it sound like a dirty word.
We always called them campers. Not tourists, not holiday-makers: campers. And we hated them. We hated them because they came from the city, and we didn’t. We hated them because they could hang around in shopping centres, and go to the flicks whenever they wanted, and eat Maccas three times a day. We hated them because of all the presents they got for Christmas – push bikes and fishing rods and snorkelling gear and spear-guns. We hated them because they stuffed up the fishing. Because they got in our way when we went squidding. Because they sat on our seat by the anchor. We hated them, and we couldn’t wait until they arrived.
The driver’s door opened. A man got out. He stretched, the way grown-ups do after a long drive. He was wearing a tennis shirt, tennis shorts, short white socks and tennis shoes. Only thing missing was the racquet. But he wouldn’t be playing tennis, not in the Port anyway, because our courts were full of cracks, weeds sprouting up through them. Somebody had nicked the net, too. Maybe it was just his idea of casual.
‘Hello boys,’ said Mr Camper. ‘Great day, isn’t it?’
We all agreed it was a great day.
Then the back door opened. A girl got out. She was about our age, I suppose. She was about medium height, her long brown hair was tied back in a ponytail, and she had sunglasses on. She was wearing cut-off jeans, all frayed at the edges, and a short yellow top.
She walked past, her ponytail bouncing.
‘What’s this thing here for?’ she said, leaning against the anchor.
‘It’s from a windjammer,’ I said.
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s a big sailing ship. In the old days they’d come here to load up with wheat and that. Then they’d race to be the first back to England.’
‘How fascinating,’ she said. ‘Where’s the nearest McDonald’s?’
‘Adelaide,’ said Pickles. ‘Sucks, doesn’t it?’
Mr Camper gave her a please-don’t-interrupt-while-I’m-communicating-with-the-natives frown.
‘You boys are obviously locals,’ said Mr Camper. ‘Could you tell us where the McDermott holiday home is?’
He had a strange way of talking, with full-stops and commas, like he was reading from a book. Then Mrs Camper wound down the passenger-side window. She had a perm and an encouraging smile.
‘Turn right at the pub,’ said Dazza. ‘It’s about a mile down the road on the left. It’s a big place with a boat outside. Can’t miss it. If you end up at the boat ramp you’ve gone too far.’
‘You staying there?’ I said.
‘As a matter of fact we are. The McDermotts are good friends of ours. We’ll be spending a couple of weeks with them,’ said Mr Camper.
‘Usually we go the Gold Coast,’ said the girl, flicking her ponytail. ‘Last year we went to Disneyland.’
‘Well, not this year,’ said Mr Camper. He sounded a little annoyed.
‘I’m sure we’ll find plenty here to keep us occupied,’ he said, looking around. It took a while before he actually found anything. Then he saw the jetty. ‘The fishing must be excellent.’
‘They’ve been getting a few good-sized tommies,’ I said.
That was a lie. They hadn’t been catching anything lately, but I didn’t want to disappoint them.
‘What’s a tommy?’ asked the girl.
‘A tommy ruff. A type of fish,’ I said.
‘If you’re going fishing you’ll need some gents,’ said Pickles, pulling a jar from the box. ‘Got some right here. Nice and fresh.’
‘Gents?’ said the girl. ‘What are they? Give me a look.’
Pickles handed her the jar, a smirk on his face.
She unscrewed the lid. Then she pushed the sunglasses onto the top of her head. Her eyes were brown, like her hair. She peered inside.
I expected her to scream, or faint, the way girls are supposed to do when they look into a jar of squirming maggots.
‘Oh, maggots,’ she said, ‘and you call them gents. That’s so cute. Look at the little darlings. Aren’t they sweet. Can we buy them, Daddy, please can we?’
‘Cathy!’ said Mrs Camper. The encouraging smile had disappeared. ‘Give the jar back to the boy, please.’
So her name was Cathy. As in Catherine.
‘Please, Daddy. Can we please buy them?’
‘Not right now, honey. Maybe when we get settled. Come on, we better get going. The McDermotts are expecting us,’ he said.
Cathy handed the jar back to Pickles. Mrs Camper wound her window back up.
‘Thanks, boys. No doubt we’ll be seeing you around,’ said Mr Camper.
He got back into the car, and so did his daughter. As they drove off, she gave us a little wave from the back seat. I gave a little wave back.
‘Wow!’ said Dazza, ‘she’s a spunk, eh?’
‘Not my type,’ said Pickles. Pickles’ type had blonde hair and big knockers.
‘Whatta ya reckon, Blacky?’
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t.
‘I said whatta ya reckon, Blacky, she was spunky, eh?’
‘I gotta go,’ I said.
I walked home, in a daze.
19
‘You look really funny,’ said Greggy as I walked into the kitchen. He was spreading Vegemite on a piece of bread.
‘Do I?’
‘Yeah, sort of sick.’
‘I’ve been smitten.’
Now I knew exactly how Opal felt. She’d been smitten by the dark stranger, Zac Heynes.
‘By a mozzie?’ said Greggy.
He sure was s
preading that Vegemite on thick.
‘No, a girl.’
‘Yuk. Did it hurt?’
‘Not yet.’
‘I hope I never get smitten by a girl,’ he said, folding the bread in two.
Then he screwed the lid back on the Vegemite, and put the knife in the sink. He was a tidy kid, Greggy, I’ll give him that, but he had a lot to learn about life.
20
The McDermotts were rich, maybe not filthy rich, but still rich. They’d been coming to the Port for ages; their shack was one of the first ones here. We called it a shack but it was bigger and better than our houses. The correct term, I suppose, was holiday house.
You always knew when the Maccas arrived in town for the start of the holidays, you could hear them. They’d come charging down the main street, in the latest-model Statesman, with a huge boat behind, and Mr Mac would be leaning on the horn – beep, beep, beep all the way to the jetty.
Mr and Mrs Mac looked like Americans. I don’t know why, they just did. They both had blond hair with lots of contours. And they wore gold jewellery. Mr Mac spent most of his time on his boat, churning up the gulf. While Mrs Mac would be out in the back yard, on a banana lounge, in a bikini, working on her tan.
They had two kids – Andrew, who was my age, and Craig, who was a year older. They had blond hair too. Which was lucky for them, because they were surfies. They wore board shorts all the time, they had surfboards and they were always reading magazines like Tracks and Ripcurl. They did everything, except surf. Not in the Port anyway, because we had no waves. Didn’t worry those Maccas though. Didn’t worry the local girls either, they all thought the Maccas were drop-dead gorgeous. Even my own stupid sisters. Especially my own stupid sisters.
I have to admit, though, that those Maccas had the knack, they knew exactly what to say to girls. It was uncanny. I used to think that by hanging around with them, I’d learn a thing or two, I’d get better. No way. I was still as hopeless as ever. In the end I decided chatting up girls was like rolling your tongue – it was a genetic thing. Either you were born with it, like those Maccas, or you talked about dead stars, like me.
Another thing about those Maccas, they went to Kings College, in Adelaide. Christ, and didn’t they go on about it. What a great place Kings was. How good the Kings’ footy team was. How some famous cricketer or another had gone to Kings. All the wonderful things they got up to at Kings. Kings this. Kings that. It really gave me the shits. I couldn’t understand it either. To get into college you had to be really brainy, but the Maccas weren’t brainy. They knew a lot about surfing (the theory, anyway) and chatting up girls, but that was about it. So how in the hell did they get into college? It had me beat.
Deadly Unna? Page 10