by R. M. Corbet
Setting up took us all morning. The stage looked like the garage sale from hell. The centrepiece was a contraption Lou and Miles had been working on: a scaffolding made out of cast-iron pipes, slotted and bolted and welded together, with hooks for hub caps and bike horns and doorbells to hang from; a huge metal gong with a boot on a pole to hit it with; and a bucket with a bowling ball in it.
It looked like a giant game of Mouse Trap.
The PA was too small to mike up the band. It was there for the MCs to speak to the crowd through. Lou showed me how to operate the mixer. There was one mike and one volume control. Not Front of House, exactly, but how could I refuse?
It was three in the afternoon, and still there were no people.
The stage was set. It was time to get dressed.
Everyone had tried to look eye-catching. Ivy was dressed like an alien with luminous purple skin. Jill wore a grass skirt and African tribal mask. Miles wore a wetsuit with snorkel and flippers. His mates were a scarecrow, a convict and a wizard. And then there was Lou in his tux.
It looked like he’d gone and dry-cleaned it.
He got them to gather around in a circle. It didn’t matter that no one had come yet, he said. ‘Everything starts out from nothing,’ he told them. ‘Great things can grow from the tiniest seed.’
He was starting to ramble, so Ella walked up to the mike.
‘Friends and neighbours! People of the earth! It gives me great joy to introduce an act I know you’re going to dig immensely. Direct from Willowbank Road, the one and only, the extremely fabulous and fabulously extreme . . . Let’s hear it for the FUNKY JUNK ORKESTRA!’
Ella and I clapped as the band members took their places. They raised up their soup ladles, hammers and tongs.
Then, on Lou’s count of four, they began.
It started out a bit sluggishly. Half the band were either playing the wrong song, or else they were a half-beat behind. You might not have thought it would matter so much, but even junk needs to be played right.
The song ended and the neighbourhood dogs started barking. An old lady came out and stood by her gate to see what all the noise was about. Two girls rode past on their scooters. A jogging man stopped to do stretches.
‘ROCK’N’ROLL!’ shouted Ella.
Then off they went again, like a giant flightless bird, lurching and veering and flapping.
The band was midway through their set and things were picking up. Two mums walking prams were blocking their ears. A boy and his kelpie were catching a frisbee. Still not a big crowd, but Lou didn’t mind. He was having too much fun to notice.
Among all the racket and rumpus, I heard a far-away rumble. The rumble grew to a thundering roar as a line of motorbikes cruised down the street. The bikes slowed and turned, then came into the park. They circled and pulled up to check out the band.
There were four of them, lined up on black Harley Davidsons: big guys with thick arms and big bushy beards, beer guts, black helmets and black leather jackets. They stayed on their bikes and they kept their bikes running. The rumble was too loud. It drowned out the band.
‘Thanks for coming,’ said Lou when the FJO had finished the tune. ‘If you guys killed your engines, you’d hear us even better.’
The bikers’ response was to rev even louder.
I turned to Ella. ‘So what happens now?’
‘Let’s see what we can do,’ she said.
Together, we marched over to where the bikies were standing. When they saw us coming they took off their helmets.
‘Afternoon, ladies.’
‘Your bikes are too loud. We can’t hear the music,’ said Ella.
The leader was a towering bear of a man with several of his front teeth missing.
‘You call that music?’ he growled.
But Ella wasn’t intimidated.
‘It’s fun,’ she replied. ‘So why don’t you join in, or else go and play somewhere else?’
The big biker scratched his head while his mates laughed. ‘Could be, we got a different idea of what fun is. Eh, Smiley?’ they taunted.
Smiley put his hands on his hips.
Ella put her hands on her hips.
It was a stand-off. No one was backing down.
The band started playing a noisier tune. Or maybe they were just making noise now, who knew? The bikies weren’t going to be drowned out, though. They jumped on their bikes and rode round on the grass, revving louder and louder. It was a sound-collision of motors and metal. The small crowd that had gathered disappeared in disgust. The gig had degenerated into a deafening, booming cacophony.
‘Now what?’ I shouted.
‘Let’s dance!’ shouted Ella.
The cops arrived even as she suggested it. They came in two vans, and they knew what to do. They rounded up the bikies and shut the band down. Miles did a runner and two police chased him. When Lou tried to stop them, they grabbed him instead.
‘Hey!’ I screamed. ‘Let him go!’
I watched in horror as they marched Lou away to their van and pushed him inside.
‘You can’t do that!’
I pushed past the uniformed officers to try the door handle, but they grabbed me and threw me in with him.
Go to jail. Go directly to jail.
The police van was empty except for the two of us. The metal seats were cold and the air smelt of pine disinfectant. As the cop closed the door, I put my face in my hands and told myself not to cry.
McNaughton, M: convicted felon.
‘So what did you think of the band?’ asked Lou.
‘Let’s not talk about that right now.’
‘The first song was a mess, I admit.’
‘Lou! We’ve just been arrested.’
‘I thought it might help pass the time.’
‘My mum and dad are going to freak.’
‘Call them. Say you’ve been held up and can’t get away.’
‘Ha! Very funny.’
‘Don’t worry. We didn’t do anything wrong.’
‘Disturbing the peace? Noise pollution? If they wanted to, they could find something.’
‘It might make a good story: Junk Band in Bikie Gang Noise War.’
‘Do you ever stop thinking about publicity?’
Despite our strange circumstances, or because of them, it felt good to be alone, talking to Lou. It felt like a long time since things had been so simple: One boy. One girl. One police van.
‘All in all, not a bad gig, then,’ said Lou.
‘I admit, you looked good in your tux.’
‘Only now it’s filthy again.’
He showed me a grass stain he’d got in the ruckus.
‘You got it dry-cleaned for the gig?’
‘For the gig,’ he grinned. ‘And for general use.’
They unlocked the back door then, and Smiley climbed in. In such a confined space, he looked even larger. Lou and I moved to make room for him. He grumbled something about it being the second time that month. Then he closed his eyes, folded his arms and ignored us.
One boy. One girl. One wild bikie.
So much for things being simple.
‘Did you find a new date for the ball yet?’ asked Lou.
‘Not yet,’ I said, ‘but I’m looking.’
‘How about that guy who you went with last time?’
‘Simon? It turns out he’s got a girlfriend.’
‘That was quick.’ Lou smirked.
‘Actually, they’ve known each other for years.’
‘How come he never invited her to the dance?’
‘It’s complicated.’
Through the wire-mesh van window we watched the band members packing up the stage, while Ella spoke with the bikers and cops. From the way she was pointing and waving her arms, I figured it was just a matter of time before she joined us.
Then the policewoman came over and opened the door. There were no charges, she said. We were all free to go.
Smiley sat upright and blinked at the s
unlight. As he climbed out, he looked at the cop and growled: ‘Those kids need more time to sort themselves out. She needs to ask him to go to the dance. Now, while she’s still got him cornered.’
He winked at us, then he trundled off towards his mates.
I tried to think of the reason we weren’t going to the ball together. Because he’s my best friend didn’t seem like a very good one.
‘Would you?’ I asked. ‘Would you come to the ball?’
Lou’s face was pale as he stared at the floor.
‘I can’t, Maude. The band’s got a gig on that night.’
pressure
THE BAROMETER SAID CHANGE but the forecast was uncertain. The climate was impossible to predict. The temperate conditions of the stable high-pressure system had given way to a low-pressure trough. There was turbulence in the upper atmosphere. A large insecurity complex was moving in, bringing humility, anxiety and depression.
Merri Creek had slowed to a trickle. The baby trees needed watering, but the banks had been weeded and the grass had been mown. The old willow-tree stump had been taken out. The ducks had flown off somewhere else. The treasures had vanished; the rusty old U-bolt was gone. The whole place felt empty. Abandoned.
The barometer said change, but the needle was broken. I’d been waiting years, and the change still hadn’t come.
It was the week of the annual hard-rubbish collection. All along Willowbank Road, people were leaving their junk out for the council to come by and take it. There were old fridges, microwaves, TVs, computers, bicycles, lampshades, bookcases and bed bases. Antique-shop owners and secondhand dealers prowled the streets looking for bargains. I expected to see Lou and Miles in a frenzy, scavenging for the Funky Junk Orkestra, but they must have been too busy rehearsing.
Then the big day arrived. The big day was here. The big night was tonight. I woke up too early and lay in bed waiting, for the dog to stop barking, for the truck to go past, for the light at the window, for the first sound of birds, for the barometer to change.
I got dressed and went downstairs to make myself breakfast. There was no one else up yet. I set out my bowl and the cereal packet. I read the nutritional information on the side, about kilojoules per serving and percentage of daily intake. Was I getting enough dietary fibre, I wondered? I didn’t feel hungry, though, so I plodded back upstairs to bed again.
All the songs on my iPod were a hundred years old. I had read all the books in my bookshelf at least twice.
The barometer said change. The clock said 7.35 a.m.
Only eleven hours and twenty-five minutes to go.
What now, Maude McNaughton?
I realised I needed to do things.
Starting out slowly, I dusted my bookshelf, even though it wasn’t dusty. I rearranged my books alphabetically. I reorganised my wardrobe and rearranged my drawers. I sorted my socks and refolded my clothes. I re-tidied my desk and I remade my bed. I clipped my toenails and painted them red. I switched on my laptop and changed my screen saver from shooting stars to spirals to 3D pipes. For a long time, I watched the pipes forming and joining. I made playlists of my best dance songs, my best sad songs and my best love songs. A lot of the sad songs and the love songs were the same.
The barometer said change, but the change hadn’t come yet.
Mum came in looking for junk to put out for the hard-rubbish collection. I told her to go away and leave me alone. She asked whether I was okay. I said, ‘Go away.’ In the wardrobe, she found some old blankets that nobody ever used. I told her to take them and leave me alone.
‘What about under your bed?’ she asked.
‘Don’t even go there,’ I growled.
When she was gone, I took out my wooden box of found objects. I dusted my window ledge, rearranged Lou’s treasures there, then I added more items of my own from the box – the polished stones, Chinese coins, hinges and bolts. I took all the precious things out of their zip-lock bags – the duck feathers, wildflowers, dragonflies and moths – until there was no room on the ledge to add anything more. In the centre were the two hand-carved elephants, side by side – one perfect and one with its broken trunk.
Elephants never forget, Lou had said.
I picked up the barometer. I shook it and waited.
But the needle was broken. It still said change.
Dad stuck his head round the door to remind me: ‘Tonight’s the big night.’ Like I needed reminding. Mum came to offer me hair advice. I sent her away. Dad came to offer me hair advice. I sent him away. Downstairs, I heard Mum and Dad fighting over hair advice.
I watched and waited, but the barometer didn’t change.
This is no way to live, Maude McNaughton.
Then there I was, unexpectedly, standing in my slinky red dress, looking at myself in the mirror, wondering about my hair, my teeth, my make-up, wondering whether I should clean my ears again.
Then the door bell rang. It was seven o’clock.
It was SEVEN O’CLOCK!
He was HERE.
I told myself to stay calm. I told myself not to panic.
All you need to do, Maude McNaughton, is put on your shoes and walk down there.
Except that I couldn’t find them.
I heard Dad open the front door. I heard footsteps below in the hall. I heard voices. My shoes weren’t anywhere in my entire bedroom. Not in the cupboard. Not under my bed. I looked out the window. My shoes were not out there. My shoes were gone. My shoes had been thrown out by mistake. I couldn’t wear sandals. I couldn’t go barefoot. I would have to stay home. It was over.
‘Maude. Are you ready?’
‘Just a minute!’
My shoes were in the bathroom. Who knew how they’d got there? I nudged one with my toe and tried slipping my foot in, but it wouldn’t fit. I squeezed and I wrestled. My shoes had been twisted! My shoes didn’t fit me! I would have to stay home.
Right foot. Left shoe? Problem solved.
I did up the straps, grabbed my shawl from the bed, took a deep breath and, just as I switched off the light, I wondered whether the barometer needle had changed ever so slightly . . .
‘Here she comes,’ said Dad as I came down the stairs.
Below, in the hall, all three heads turned to look. Mum and Dad, and the handsome boy in the tux.
‘How do I look?’
‘You look awesome,’ said Simon.
maiden voyage
OUTSIDE, WILLOWBANK ROAD was empty. There was just the faraway sound of the city at night in our ears as we walked to the front gate.
‘Your dad dropped you off?’
Simon nodded. ‘So what now?’
‘Our lift should be here soon. Don’t worry.’
From down the street, we heard a car engine sputtering. There were loud revs and the crunch of a gearbox, as a beaten-up old BMW came jerking and hopping towards us. It stopped with a screech and the driver wound down the window.
‘You guys need a ride?’ said Ella.
Beside her was Lou. He was wearing his tux.
‘Lou, this is Simon, my date for the evening.’
They shook hands as we climbed in the back.
‘I’ve heard all about you from Andy,’ said Simon.
‘Don’t always believe what you hear,’ replied Lou.
‘So where to?’ asked Ella.
‘I’ll give you directions,’ said Simon.
It was Ella’s maiden voyage. She had got her licence the day before and had bought the car that same morning. It was an old bomb, with ripped seats, a caved-in roof and a cracked windscreen. But it was registered, roadworthy and very reliable, according to the guy who had sold it to her.
Ella sat hunched forward over the wheel, talking herself through every step: ‘Clutch in and brake off. Check your mirrors. Don’t forget to indicate. First gear. Now ease off the clutch slowly. Slowly . . .’
She stalled the car twice before we got going. She drove on the wrong side of the road, then turned left when Simon said ‘right’. S
he got honked for going too slowly, then honked again for changing lanes. She swerved to avoid a brown paper bag and almost collected a telephone pole.
Driving with Ella was an experience.
Ten or more narrow escapes later, we pulled up outside our destination.
‘Are you sure this is it?’ Ella asked.
‘This is the place.’ Simon nodded.
‘You’re kidding?’ said Lou.
The house was an absolute mansion. It was set back behind a high brick wall, with a big metal gate and a long pebbled drive.
‘You never said she was loaded,’ said Lou.
‘I never knew, but why should it change anything?’
‘Are you sure this is going to work?’ said Ella.
‘It’s worth a try,’ said Simon.
‘Okay. We all know what to do.’
With Simon well hidden under a coat on the back seat, Lou and I got out of the car. We rang the buzzer and two people appeared in the doorway. The gate clicked open as they came out to meet us.
I whispered to Simon to stay still and not breathe.
‘Lou, this is Phoebe, my best friend from school.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Lou.
Phoebe was wearing a polka-dot dress. Her father wore a dressing gown and slippers. Lou was quite charming and gentleman-like, but it made little difference to Mr Wu. He looked Lou up and down, from his borrowed black shoes to his mop of brown hair. He made a small sound like clearing his throat as he adjusted his rimless round glasses. He asked Lou what school he ‘attended’ and Lou mumbled something, in the middle of which Mr Wu noticed the beaten-up Beamer.
‘Is that what you’re planning on taking her in?’
‘We’re sunk,’ I whispered to Ella.
Mr Wu came over for a closer look. He inspected the various dents in the side doors; the cracked windshield and the broken tail-light. He peered in the back window, where Simon’s left leg was showing.