The Never Boys

by Scott Monk

  Slowly, he straightened up and went back to his playing. This time it was a mellow tune; the warm notes wavering like the salty haze over Trigg Beach. Just as he was crooning the Indian Ocean, it was seducing him. Later, he promised himself. Later.

  It’d been two months since he’d come back to the west coast. True, his world was bigger now but this was where he felt the most at ease. Every afternoon he was here: surfing, swimming, playing or just sitting despite being relocated to the other side of Perth. Already the last of the March heat was fading from the waves and an Easter chill was setting in. There wouldn’t be too many good days left.

  He had melted to his knees when he saw that unstoppable, flat, green-blue horizon once again. Beyond it lay the edge of Australia and so many castaway dreams he’d made as a kid. He could still remember how as nine-year-olds he and Lucas had raced towards it, paddling hard on their boards until their small arms ripped with pain. Thankfully, they’d only given up after their mum’s concerned calls had hooked them back — although not before some more jostling about who would wimp out first.

  He smirked. Funny. The ocean always seemed to bring him home.

  His song grew livelier with the memories. He only stopped when he slipped on a note. Twice.

  ‘It’s E, D sharp then C sharp, I think you’ll find.’

  He twisted round to see a dark-haired girl filming him, dressed in boardies and a white singlet top. No. Surely it was a mirage.

  ‘Here, let me show you.’

  She lowered the camera, dropped her towel beside his then played the song again perfectly. As it rose and dipped, so did his anxiety. He tried listening, but was drawn to the smooth curve of her neck, the rhythm of her chest and the freckles peppered across her nose. He’d forgotten how enthralled he felt by their closeness; the nervous, pulsing joy. With the final strum, she gave him back his guitar with an accidental touch of their hands. A forbidden thrill jolted through him, and, encouraged, he dared to kiss her.

  But she shied away.

  ‘You play pretty good,’ he said with a hurt tone.

  ‘I had a good teacher,’ she answered, shifting slightly sideways. ‘I just wish I knew his name.’

  ‘Andrew,’ he replied. ‘Andrew Geddes.’

  ‘Nice to meet you. I’m Michelle.’

  Amid the saltiness, he could smell oranges and chocolate. Flavours now seemingly bland.

  ‘Do you come here often?’ she asked.

  ‘All the time.’

  ‘To play?’

  ‘To remember,’ he said, turning the smooth rosewood in his hands.

  He picked a few notes but they sounded hollow. Instead, he put aside the guitar that his father had made him. The ocean filled the quiet.

  ‘Hayden says hi,’ she offered.

  A little smile of recognition. ‘Does he? How’s he going?’

  ‘Great — we think. None of us has really seen him since orientation week. He met a girl from the Clare Valley and they’ve been cosy ever since.’

  ‘Lucky guy.’

  ‘Clive’s will also came through.’

  ‘Yeah? Did Bea —?’

  ‘No, no one did. The money’s being donated to charity instead.’

  ‘Any in particular?’

  ‘Would you believe one for returned servicemen and women?’

  He gave a bemused grin. How ironic. ‘They could do with an extra couple of grand.’

  ‘And the rest.’

  ‘There was more?’

  ‘Four hundred thousand more.’

  He rocked back. ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘Nope. It seems he didn’t lose most of his Papua New Guinea gold after all.’

  Finally, he snorted. Maybe now the old man could rest.

  ‘And Zara?’ he asked. He was reluctant to learn the answer. It was so easy to condemn her, but all she’d done was force him to admit the truth.

  ‘Same old Zar. She got suspended last Friday for stealing the school bus.’

  ‘The school bus?’

  ‘Get this. Some of the boys locked the driver in the toilets just after final period. Everyone on the bus was about to riot before Zar decided she’d waited long enough. She jumped in the driver’s seat and would have made it out of the car park if she didn’t sideswipe the principal’s van!’

  He fell about laughing. Same old Zar, all right.

  ‘The General would’ve loved that,’ he said.

  ‘She’s already filled out the foster care papers.’

  He paled. She realised what she’d said and looked away.

  ‘How is the old girl?’ he covered.

  ‘Good. She said to tell you that you’re a two-faced, stupid and idiotic boy who needs a good belting for what you’ve done. But she wants a postcard within the next month — or else.’ Then she dropped five-dollars-ninety into his hand. ‘And she asked me to give you this.’

  ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘That’s your change.’

  ‘My change?’

  ‘From my plane ticket. The General paid for it. Well, you did.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Michelangelo’s forwarded your last pay cheque to her. She cashed it in to pay for my flight and motel.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Typical.’

  A couple of grommets screamed as they tumbled under a break. Andrew and she watched them for a while, feeling the spray against their faces and the sharp prickling of the rock.

  ‘It’s Thursday. Shouldn’t you be at school?’ he asked, desperate to shrug off the silence.

  ‘Shouldn’t you?’ she replied.

  They half-smiled then turned away. ‘I’m taking a short holiday.’

  ‘How short?’

  ‘Two days.’

  ‘With your parents?’

  She leaned back. ‘Not exactly. They’ll probably be over here tomorrow.’

  ‘The same day you leave? I don’t get it.’

  She cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘They don’t exactly know I’m here.’

  ‘You — ran away?’

  ‘Contagious, isn’t it? But I’ll ring them tonight and tell them where I am.’

  ‘They’ll kill you!’

  She shrugged. ‘Too late now.’

  ‘But why?’

  Another glance. ‘Guess.’

  His pulse rose again. However, that look could mean anything. He stewed on the right words but chose a safer option. ‘How’d you find me?’

  ‘Your foster parents. They seem like nice people.’

  He nodded. ‘They are. I get on better with the dog but we’re working things through. They’ve agreed to care for me until the court case is over. After that — who knows?’

  ‘What are you charged with?’

  ‘Fraud. The cops dropped the auto theft. At least that might keep me out of prison.’

  ‘What’s going to happen?’

  ‘I don’t know. Legal Aid thinks I’ll get community service but I’m not so sure. I’ve fooled a lot of people, Shell.’

  He dropped his gaze and stared at the sea between his feet. It churned like his stomach.

  ‘Dean —’

  ‘Michelle —’

  They paused. ‘You first.’

  ‘— sorry, Andrew,’ she grimaced. ‘Let’s go for a walk.’

  Triggs was empty except for a few hardcore sun-bathers, surfers and truants. He left his guitar and towel by Lucas’s surfboard and continued down the shore with her. As they walked quietly, he wanted to hold her hand and smooth his thumb over it as he once did. Even now, he longed for the smallest of graces.

  ‘Shell, be honest with me,’ he said finally. ‘Are we a chance?’

  She stopped and surveyed the horizon. His horizon. She stood there, arms crossed as her thoughts rode the waves. The longer she took, the more fearful he became.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He sighed thinly as he felt tears threaten. He kept it together, though. Broken, he was still a man.

  ‘So you hate me?’

>   She closed her eyes. ‘I don’t hate you. I just need time.’

  The pain was too much and he was the first to leave. He shoved his towel, lotion and cap inside his backpack, grabbed his guitar case then reached for his brother’s surfboard. He paused. Looked at the peeling sticker. Saw the name. No, it wasn’t a giant sundial. It was a tombstone.

  Running towards the surf, he carried the board in both hands and the autumn heat on his bare back. He crashed flat on the first wave then paddled hard into the open sea. The Big Blue swelled under and over, keen to stop him but he was equally determined to break through. The final curling monster loomed but he plunged straight through its middle then resurfaced, feeling the water stream down his spine. He was free.

  Arms tiring, he pushed himself into a sitting position, then bobbed on the great emptiness. He ironed his hand across that peeling sticker one more time, thinking of Lucas, his mum and his dad. How he’d dishonoured them not only by rejecting his name, but also by letting their stories die as well. But no more. He slipped off the surfboard backwards, feeling it shoot between his legs. When he resurfaced, he watched it float towards the horizon where he prayed his brother still rode.

  Sapped, he crawled through the last few waves and heaved saltwater from his lungs. He heard feet splashing towards him then felt two hands hook under his arms to lift him up. He collapsed against Michelle’s chest and smelt oranges. The sweetest of scents. ‘Please forgive me, Shell.’

  He held on, using her strength as his, until he felt a kiss. A light one at first against his hair, then another on his cheek, his ear and finally his lips. Squaring himself, he almost spoiled the moment. ‘But I thought —’

  ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’

  They stood embraced, he kissing her hair and rejoicing at its freshness. Mandarin and cardamom. Sugar and spice. Love and loss. Hurt and clemency. One existed and so must the other.

  ‘What happens now?’ he dared.

  She pushed back his fringe and smoothed the water beaded on his face. She grimaced, still afraid of who he really was but also, admittedly, in love. ‘We start again.’

  He sighed with the relief only an absolved man could feel. He squeezed her hand, then held it like a saint’s.

  ‘In the meantime,’ she added, ‘I say we go for a swim, catch a bus into the city then let you do what all guilty boyfriends must do.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Buy me dinner at the most expensive restaurant before —’

  ‘Before?’ he grinned.

  ‘— the police raid the place, arrest you and drag me back to my parents.’

  He laughed. Great bellyfuls of happiness. They’d need more of it if their relationship was to heal.

  Kissing Michelle again, Andrew rested his forehead against hers, smiled and turned to the sea. On the western winds, he heard the first few notes of inspiration.

  ‘I’ve got a better idea,’ he said.

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Ever been to Spain?’

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to Emily and Denise Rice, who not only found the real-life setting for The Never Boys, but also shared their yarns about sheep bladder water pistols and frozen eyeballs.

  Thanks also to the research centre staff at the Australian War Memorial.

  And to historian Sue Rosen for allowing the use of the leech story from her book, We Never Had a Hotbed of Crime! Life in Twentieth Century South Sydney (2000).

  An Author’s Cut

  My high school woodwork teacher had a black and white photograph above his blackboard showing a teenage boy’s scalp tangled around a drill bit. It was a full-on nest of hair ripped from the skin. He repeatedly warned us this was what happened to students who mucked around too close to his equipment. Of course, the moment he turned his back, a chunk of wood would undoubtedly hit one of us in the head.

  Being mooned in the boys’ change room, falling in love with twins from South Africa, getting kicked out of class and staying awake at camps to avoid getting your eyebrows shaved were all part of my school life. Food would be thrown into ceiling fans, kids would be caught making out in the sick room, bags would be hoisted up flag poles, Bunsen burners would be converted into water pistols and teachers’ cars would be wrapped in newspapers on muck-up day. Occasionally, we’d learn something.

  Each one of these tales adds up to a larger story. Just like writing a novel. The following Q&A is a quick insight into how this one came about.

  How did you come up with the idea of The Never Boys?

  I’ve always had this picture in my head of a guy fleeing north on a train through burning canefields at night. There would be flames, silhouettes and a shovel beheading an escaping snake. I thought it would be a good opening because immediately the reader would be asking: ‘Why is this guy on the run? Why is he hiding?’ That helps drive the plot. Problem was when I started researching into Queensland’s sugar farms, I found out most don’t use fire any more. My next step was to find out where else freight trains travel to. I remembered seeing these enormous trains heading west towards the Nullarbor when I was sent out on country assignments as a journalist.

  Why did you pick the Barossa as Dean’s hiding spot?

  Two reasons. First, it was between the Nullarbor and Sydney. Second, when I write, the story unfolds like a movie in my head. Like a cinematographer, I needed a great backdrop and the Barossa Valley has all these amazing landscapes, food and history. It helped living in Adelaide at the time, too. I could drive up there and photograph the different locations.

  One of those locations is a sheep station. Why did you pick that?

  Originally, Dean was going to work for a winery. However, when I talked to my friend, she shared her experiences about growing up on a sheep station in the region. She and her mum showed me their farm and a friend’s farm. Walking among the barley grass, exploring all these old bluestone buildings and seeing a car speared into a creek because of a wayward driving lesson won me over immediately. Plus it was a good idea to put a guitarist with clean hands into a get-down-and-dirty job picking sheep turds.

  The ditched car is a real story?

  Absolutely. So are the stories about bladder pistols, leeches, the stolen ambulance and eyeballs in the freezer (although they were never put in a bed!) If you go diving at Noarlunga, you’ll find the cuttlefish that opens its tentacles when you give it a backrub. And the washing line of dog pelts is a story from a box of newspaper and magazine articles that I keep.

  How did you find out about these?

  Research. Anyone who wants to be a writer should read books on the subject, talk to people, watch documentaries or actually explore the setting of their story. For instance, I learnt about the cuttlefish while asking a diving instructor about the types of fish at Noarlunga. I used the dying wether scene after seeing a National Geographic documentary. I needed to discover what jobs teenagers did during the Depression, so I found a Max Dupain coffee book of photos. I had no idea they existed until I started looking into them. A little snooping around made the story more colourful and realistic.

  Did you do research for Clive’s letters?

  Lots. I spent two full days down at the Australian War Memorial. Not only did I research everything I could about the HMAS Australia, but I also read several thick bundles of love letters from a sailor to his girl written during WWII to get a feel of the language at the time.

  Why did you choose the HMAS Australia?

  Because we’re taught about the ANZAC soldiers but little about the navy and air force. I was amazed to learn all these stories about the Aussie — the Kamikaze bombers, the Japanese soldier pulling a gun, the milk incident and life on board. I felt ripped off that I’d never heard any of them before.

  How did you come up with the characters?

  Again, Dean came out different to originally planned. He was a going to be a moody rock guitarist but that sounded too familiar. I’d tried learning flamenco guitar myself but found it fairly tough. So Dean
picked up where I left off. Not only did it give me a chance to develop his parents’ back story, but it’s an unusual choice for a teenager. It would make him self-conscious and a target of bullies. However, from the beginning I knew I had to keep people guessing about his motives. Was he good or bad? Is he the thief and arsonist?

  Zara was always going to be the rebel tomboy. She and Dean were destined to be a couple, with her finally breaking free of the confines of the farm and the General. That was until I was Christmas shopping for chocolate in Rundle Mall, Adelaide. A pretty counter girl with brown hair offered me a free slice of fudge while her boss wasn’t looking. She was scoffing a few herself. I talked to her for ten minutes about her job and walked out of there with a new character called Michelle.

  The General stayed the same throughout the novel, although at first she had an ageing cockatoo on her shoulder called the Major. Thankfully, common sense won out.

  Do you spend much time coming up with their names?

  Funnily enough, I pick them either through a baby book of names or from the weirdest sources. Zara was always going to have an uncommon name because she stands out in a crowd. Michelle came about after I was searching for a song title with a girl’s name in it. I always try to use one nickname, hence the General. Occasionally, for minor characters, I’ll name them after South Sydney Rabbitohs, such as Mrs Fletcher at the party. And then there’s always a real-life friend or two who pops in as a cameo.

  Do many of your original ideas end up on the cutting room floor so to speak?

  Heaps. The first draft never looks anything like the final draft. For instance, chapter one involved a biker picking Dean up on the Nullarbor as a thunderstorm rolled in. He ended up at the Yalata roadhouse piercing his ear as people thumped on the toilet door. That got cut because it was too long and took away some of the mystery of his arrival at the Kaesler property with bleached hair.