The Never Boys

by Scott Monk

  Dusty except for a mask of clean skin around his eyes, he pegged his goggles and bike helmet on the coach-house wall as Adam joked that they should team up as crime fighters: BYO cape and budgie smugglers. Their laughter stopped when the head shearer walked in. ‘The General’s looking for you.’

  He found her in the cellar, sitting on a stool and, surprisingly, painting.

  ‘Don’t just stand there. Come in.’

  Breathing out, he plodded down into the stony coolness. Gone were the racks of chardonnay and merlot, replaced by easels, drop sheets, a kiln and potter’s wheel.

  ‘So you reckon even water buffaloes would find me ugly, hey?’ she asked, daubing yellow blobs on a mess of reds and blues.

  He stopped and laughed nervously. ‘What?’

  ‘Isn’t that what you and Adam said before smoko?’

  His cheeks burned. ‘No. Not us.’

  She shifted in her seat and continued painting with her back to him. ‘You got my note this morning?’

  He pulled it from his pocket.

  Dean,

  A friend of mine, Peter Wallace, wants you to work for him next week. The deal is the same: eight days as a rouseabout for equal pay. Starts next Wednesday. Come and see me.

  The General.

  ‘You interested or not?’

  He tucked the note away. ‘How about the other rousies?’

  ‘They’ve already signed up. Wallace still needs a fourth so I gave him your name.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Yes. Do you have a problem with that?’

  ‘I just thought —’

  ‘Thought what?’

  ‘Y’know —’

  The brush paused. ‘Have I ever complained about your work?’

  ‘No —’

  ‘Have I ever insulted you in front of the others?’

  ‘No, but —’

  ‘Have I ever threatened to sack you?’

  ‘N —’

  ‘Then what’s so strange?’

  He eyeballed the glazed bowls and vases lining the shelves. Even with her back to him, he could feel the General’s stare. ‘But you hate having me here. You’re always giving me grief.’

  ‘Grief?’ she said, turning round. ‘When have I ever given you grief?!’

  ‘Since the first day. You made it clear you didn’t like me.’

  ‘Like you? Mate, I didn’t like that attitude of yours. You turned up on my veranda looking for a fight — not a job. You were begging for money, but not willing to work for it. Then you went behind my back and asked my daughter if you could stay the night without my permission. What kind of first impression do you think you gave?’

  ‘Yeah but —’

  ‘If I hated you, you wouldn’t be standing in my cellar right now, making a fool out of yourself.’

  ‘Then why?’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why are you helping me?’

  She gave a little shake of the head. Annoyed but short of contempt, she placed her brush down, then leaned against her knees. ‘Because you proved me wrong. I was sure you would’ve skipped through on me again by now but you’ve worked doubly hard to repay my faith in you. Frankly, I’m astounded. I rarely see that these days.’

  He glanced at his feet with shame.

  ‘If you think this is charity — don’t fool yourself. You earned it. It’s had little to do with me.’

  He stood in the middle of the cellar like one of the vases: proud but nonetheless hollow. He felt dumb. Dumber than usual.

  ‘You don’t want the job?’ She picked up her brush again.

  After a moment, he asked dryly, ‘Where will I stay?’

  ‘Here, if you want. You’ll still have to pay board of course.’

  Of course.

  ‘When do you need an answer by?’

  ‘Tomorrow night. No later.’

  She streaked more yellow paint across the canvas. It was her way of dismissing him. He had almost reached the top step when she called up to him. ‘One last thing. Do you know why the shearing shed has slats?’

  ‘To let the manure fall through.’

  ‘And do you know whose job it is to clean out that manure at the end of each season?’

  He sighed. ‘I’ll borrow a pair of gloves.’

  After the final spin of the shed’s generator, one-liners rolled over the barbecue grill as easily as the sausages. ‘Up for a snag, Deano? Or how about some mutton?’

  The shearers laughed as he lurched away with his salad. Not only had he spent the afternoon on his bare hands and knees shovelling great pyramids of sheep turds, he’d been introduced to another tradition — the end of season booze-up. But this was no backyard barbie with a coldie in one hand and an overcooked steak floating in sauce in the other. It was for barbarians.

  Earlier, as hairy as the sheep he made his wage from, Tonkin had slapped him on the shoulder, told him to wash up, then report beside the shed. They were in charge of that night’s meat. He thought, cool — an hour off work and a lazy trip to the supermarket — but no. The meat was still kicking. His latest chore involved holding down a live sheep, watching Tonkin cut its throat then helping hang the carcass on a spike. About the same time the sheep’s entrails slopped out of its belly like water balloons, Dean lost his own guts.

  ‘Hey, Deano. We’re running out of meat. Round us up some more, would you.’

  ‘How you enjoying the baa-be-cue?’

  ‘Cheers, champ. You’re a cut above the rest.’

  Oh yeah. Hilarious.

  Everyone was in high spirits. Another contract was finished and a new one was about to begin. Rousies, wives, girlfriends and children played cricket on the top paddock, as the shearers dropped catches but not their beer. The Falcon’s stereo thumped through open doors while the cooks poked browning chops, snags and, amazingly, tandoori cutlets. ‘La-de-dah,’ one of the shearers sang.

  ‘Bombay potatoes? Samosas? Kebabs?’ Zara offered him from a variety of plates.

  ‘You spun India this week, hey?’

  ‘How can you tell?’ she answered with a wink.

  She came back later with two beers and sat beside him on a car seat abandoned among the barley grass. Lights shone from the shearers’ quarters and tracked the sweat on their necks. Between mouthfuls, he stole glances at the trails on her brown skin and that butterfly tattoo. Man, was she gorgeous.

  ‘I heard you had a bit of fun at school today,’ he said.

  ‘Let’s just say I enjoy my visits to the principal’s office.’

  ‘You poisoned a classroom?’

  ‘No, I conducted a “chemical experiment”.’

  ‘In health ed?’

  ‘Boring us to tears isn’t healthy.’

  He grinned slyly. ‘So what happened?’

  ‘You know those CPR dummies — the ones you practise First Aid on? They come with an open mouth and a fake oesophagus, right? Well, I once saw this science experiment on TV that I thought I could turn into a great practical joke. All I needed was baking soda, dishwashing detergent, red food colouring and a bottle of vinegar.’

  ‘Which you can buy at the supermarket.’

  ‘Correct. I also needed a teacher. Now we’ve got this casual called Ms Bourke who’s always shouting at us — something to do with never having a boyfriend, I think — and she’s been on my case all week. She’s been yelling at me about not paying attention in class — I don’t know. Anyway, every Friday I have a double period of health ed, which is split in half by recess, and somehow I get her again. So I take this stuff and pour all of it down the dummy’s throat but the vinegar, right. When the bell rings, I’m the first one sitting down. Ms Bourke knows something’s up because she gives me this look — y’know, like this. But she’s got no proof so she goes on with the lesson. Halfway through, when she’s writing on the whiteboard, I casually lean back and add the vinegar but I put too much in though —’

  ‘Why? What happened?’

  ‘BLAAARGH! All this pink foam
spews out of its mouth! Heaps and heaps of it. It sprays the desks, the carpet and the losers in the back row. There’s this pink vomit everywhere!’

  He rocked back and forth laughing. Now that was cool. ‘What did Ms Bourke say?’

  ‘GO TO THE PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE!’

  ‘And what did the principal say?’

  ‘I can’t remember. I wasn’t listening.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘Don’t you want more girls interested in science?’

  ‘Did he buy it?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘How long did you cop then?’

  ‘Put it this way: my calendar doesn’t have Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays anymore. It’s just got detention, detention, detention.’

  He laughed some more until she pushed him away.

  A girl with a video camera appeared to their left. They hadn’t noticed that she’d been filming them all this time. But rather than shy away, Zara played up to the attention, striking poses and blowing kisses. She even led him in singing karaoke to their beer bottles. Soon, when she grew tired of the focus, she waved her friend away.

  ‘Hey, what are you doing tomorrow?’ he asked, his voice rising.

  ‘I’ve got to help Mother with the flock, plant two hundred saplings on the southern fenceline then hunt this dog that’s been raiding our western paddocks.’

  ‘All day?’

  ‘And night. Why?’

  ‘I’m thinking of heading down the south coast for a surf again. I was wondering if you wanted to tag along.’

  ‘Tempting — but I’m grounded, remember?’

  Ah! Robbed!

  ‘Maybe in a few weeks’ time?’ she suggested.

  Problem was, there weren’t any more weeks left.

  ‘Zar! Come and look at this,’ Hayden called her over to his car.

  Levering herself off Dean’s knee, she stood up. ‘I’ll be back in a minute, okay?’

  Cries of “Catch it!” followed by cheers failed to distract him from watching her. Those hips. That body.

  The girl with the camera came back. She asked if he minded if she took a seat — which he didn’t — then watched the cricketers searching through the darkness for the lost tennis ball. After a while, he felt uncomfortable. He didn’t know this stranger. Worse, Zara was probably her only friend at the barbecue. He searched for an opening. Only problem was he’d forgotten her name seconds after they’d been introduced.

  ‘They’ve turned you into a vegetarian, hey?’ she said first with the hint of a smile.

  ‘That or tonight’s favourite joke. I never want to see another carve up again.’

  ‘But that’s always the best bit. You fight to see who gets the bladder.’

  ‘The bladder?’

  ‘It makes a great water pistol.’

  She squirted an imaginary one at him and he reeled back, half-laughing, half-horrified. ‘Yuck!’

  ‘You think that’s bad. A couple of years ago, me and Zara scooped out a dead sheep’s eyes, put them in a jar of water then left them in the deep freezer for the General to find.’

  ‘Did she go ballistic?’

  ‘No, but she put them in our beds the next time we had a sleepover.’

  He was right. They were barbarians.

  ‘Any good shots so far?’ he asked to make conversation.

  ‘A few.’

  ‘Can I see?’

  ‘Sure.’ She opened the viewfinder but rewound the camera too far. It showed old footage of Zara instead. ‘Give me a sec.’

  ‘Hold on. This looks interesting. What is it?’

  ‘Final rehearsals for the Rock Eisteddfod. That’s our school hall.’

  Centre stage, a sensual and regal Zara was dressed in an ancient Greek robe. A teenage warrior slid to his knees at her side but was dismissed with a wave of the hand. Suddenly, dozens of boys in armour were dance-fighting round her, spinning and duelling to the sounds of rock music. Another change in tone saw her rip off her robe to reveal a business suit with the word OIL across its front. Soldiers, politicians and media barons replaced the warriors battling around her.

  Weird.

  ‘It’s the story of Helen of Troy,’ the girl explained. ‘No prizes for guessing who was Helen.’

  ‘You’re not showing that again, are you?’ Zara interrupted. ‘Record over it. I look hideous.’

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘You look great.’

  ‘Only because the make-up covered my zits.’

  ‘Hey, Zara! I found that CD!’ It was Balesy again.

  ‘Michelle, do me a favour: go and humour him. He’ll want me to press play next.’

  The girl with the camera left.

  A quad bike crossed the creek with an Esky on the back, forcing Zara to push her beer bottle into his hand. She gobbed a stick of chewing gum, then warned, ‘Quick! It’s Mum.’

  The General drove past them with a searching look but parked by the shearers to hassle Hayden about the noise. Relieved, Zara sculled the last of her drink behind Dean’s back, then blew a bubble. Aha. Spearmint.

  ‘Can I talk to you for a moment?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah. Sure.’

  ‘In private?’

  They scrambled down the creek bed, away from the meat, the cricket and the ancient Cold Chisel songs.

  ‘What’s up?’ she asked, standing at the bottom.

  ‘You heard about the Wallace job offer, didn’t you?’

  ‘Are you going to take it?’

  ‘Do you think I should?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Sydney.’

  She paused. Then, slowly, ‘What’s so urgent that you need to be there tomorrow?’

  ‘It’s —’

  ‘It’s what?’

  ‘— Nothing. Nothing at all.’

  ‘Then stay. Sydney can wait. The job’s lousy but a couple of grand goes a long way. Earn some extra money for that shack of yours.’ Seeing his reluctance, she added, ‘Besides, I’d like you to stay.’

  Later that evening, as the last few partygoers kicked on, he tapped the window of the study where the General sat checking her e-mails and the weather patterns. He had a new bag hitched over his shoulder and an uneasy look.

  ‘So what’s it going to be?’ she asked, spotting the backpack.

  ‘I’ll stay, if that’s okay with you?’

  ‘Sure. Good. I’ll ring the Wallaces and tell them.’ Then, still curious, ‘What’s with the bag, though?’

  ‘I’m crashing at Balesy’s place tonight. I’m off surfing tomorrow and he’s offered to drive me into the city.’

  Chapter 11

  Dean hated mad dog days at the beach. They were the worst to surf — the sea was foamy, crazy and dangerous. The only upside was that they cleared the waves quicker than a squall. He wasn’t alone in his assessment. A steady caravan of four-wheel drives and rattling station wagons looped the Waitpinga car park before leaving to search further along the coast. That left the water to the grommets competing in a junior club championship.

  To his right: ‘Excuse me.’

  He turned to see a ten-year-old girl and her younger, podgy brother in tow. They were both dripping and carrying surfboards. The boy had scrounged up a pen and a piece of paper, which he held nervously as they both stared, fascinated by the scar below Dean’s armpit.

  ‘Ask him,’ the boy said.

  ‘I am, I am, all right,’ the girl growled back. She stepped forward, grabbed the pen and paper off him and thrust it at Dean.

  ‘Your name’s Lucas, right?’ she asked.

  ‘Nah, not me.’

  ‘You sure? You look exactly like him.’

  ‘Sorry. Wrong guy.’

  He got to his feet, zipped up his wetsuit and rushed into the surf. Behind him, the boy said, ‘Told you, stupid!’ to which the girl answered with a smack. ‘Shut up!’

  He didn’t ride for long. He drank more foam than surfed. Changing back into his boardies and T-shirt, he dropped
his gear near the judges’ tent, then followed a walking trail along the Waitpinga cliff tops to a sea eagle nest an old longboarder had told him about. When he returned with the more favourable winds, he was surprised to see a stampede of people arriving at the beach. This was no normal crowd, though. As he changed back into his wetsuit, he watched some of the newcomers arrange a pathway of flowers while others helped carry a spare board into the surf. He crossed himself. God have mercy. Another paddle-out.

  Respectfully, he sat on the shore as he watched the surfers ring the empty surfboard. He absently reached down and traced the scar across his ribs — a reminder from a spooked stingray that had nearly cost him his own life — and thought of the past. He remembered a hand — panicky and strong — reaching through the deep waters that afternoon to grab him and haul him to the surface. He remembered the ambulance, the hospital, his parents being pushed away by the nurses and the small square of vanilla ice cream when he woke up. Little did he know then that a few months later he’d be burying the same guy who’d saved him.

  Hurt laughter snapped him back to the present, free of church walls and aware that the stink of flowers had sent him drifting. One funeral that year was bad enough, let alone two.

  ‘Amen,’ he said, hearing the closing prayer before diving into the surf.

  He camped at the beach again that night. The ranger came by and hassled him, but he just moved further down the shore. As he squatted by rock pools to shell a crab, he heard music raging from the official campsite back along the main road. A couple of university students had hooked up with a dozen German, Danish and Canadian backpackers. ‘You sure?’ one had asked him, half-drunk and propped against a brunette. ‘There’s plenty of beer. And’ — (behind his hand) — ‘plenty of hot chicks. Three-to-one, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Maybe later,’ Dean answered.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ the drunk bruffed. ‘I tried. More girls for me.’ Then, as an afterthought, he swivelled around to add, ‘Watch yourself out here tonight, little man. This place attracts thieves.’