The Nest

by Paul Jennings

  ‘I know,’ said Mother Tree. ‘But don’t swear in front of Little Jack, dear.’

  ‘Why couldn’t the world be made with no frigging birds?’ said Father Tree.

  ‘Or caterpillars?’ said Mother Tree, giving him a frown for swearing again.

  ‘Or dogs?’ said Little Jack. ‘Their piss really stinks and you can’t get it off.’

  Suddenly Little Jack saw something growing near by. ‘Look,’ he said.

  They all stared. They were over the moon.

  ‘We’re having a baby,’ said Mother Tree.

  ‘I didn’t know you two had been at it again,’ said Little Jack.

  ‘It’s a boy,’ said Mother Tree giving another frown.

  ‘A son,’ said Dad.

  ‘We’ll call him Gordon,’ said Mother Tree.

  In only two years, Gordon had grown tall and strong. One day Mother Tree and Dad saw him doing something odd.

  ‘No,’ yelled Dad.

  ‘No, no,’ yelled Mother Tree.

  ‘No, no, no,’ yelled Little Jack.

  ‘What?’ said Gordon. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘You’re moving your branches,’ said Grandmother Tree. ‘It’s not allowed.’

  ‘Only the wind should bend your branches,’ said Dad.

  ‘It’s not natural to do it yourself,’ said Grandfather Tree.

  ‘The boy’s peculiar,’ said Dad.

  ‘He can shoo off the bloody birds with his branches, though,’ said Little Jack. ‘That’s cool. That’s really cool.’

  ‘And he can pick off the horrible caterpillars,’ said Grandmother Tree.

  ‘And piss off the bloody dogs,’ said Little Jack. ‘That’s far out.’

  ‘No,’ said Father Tree. ‘We just have to put up with birds and caterpillars and dogs. Trees have to stand and take it.’

  ‘Now look at him,’ said Little Jack.

  ‘Gordon,’ shouted Dad. ‘How dare you. Don’t do that.’

  Grandmother Tree closed her eyes in shame.

  Gordon was rubbing a short twig that had been pruned when he was just a baby.

  ‘He’s wanking!’ yelled Little Jack.

  After that, no one in the forest wanted to talk to poor Gordon. Only Mother Tree and Little Jack.

  Dad and Mother Tree began to argue about what Gordon was doing. Every day they would argue.

  ‘Leave him alone,’ said Mother Tree.

  ‘He’s an idiot,’ said Dad. ‘Totally loopy, out of his tree.’

  ‘Don’t call him an idiot,’ said Mother Tree.

  ‘You’re an idiot too,’ said Dad.

  ‘Don’t speak to me like that,’ said Mother Tree.

  ‘Be quiet, woman,’ ordered Dad.

  Mother Tree could take no more. ‘This arguing is all too much for me,’ she said. She began to scratch at the dirt.

  ‘What are you doing?’ yelled Father Tree. ‘That’s against the rules.’

  ‘Digging,’ she said.

  ‘Stop at once, you fool,’ said Father Tree. ‘You are a tree, not a rabbit.’

  Mother Tree did not stop. She dug around her roots with her twigs.

  All the trees in the forest were horrified.

  Mother Tree stepped out of her hole.

  ‘Now what are you doing?’ screamed Dad.

  ‘Running away,’ she said.

  ‘Get back in your hole,’ said Father Tree. ‘At once.’

  Mother Tree did not get back into her hole. She was sick of Father Tree’s bullying.

  She walked off over the hill. And never came back.

  Father Tree was angry. He yelled at Gordon. ‘It’s all your fault.’

  A sudden thought came into Gordon’s consciousness. He saw himself reaching over and ripping every leaf off his father’s head. But it was just an image that flitted into his mind like the wind passing through dry grass.

  He didn’t really want to do it. It was just a thought.

  THE NEST

  4

  After I leave the principal’s office I go back to my Maths class. I’m not going to make an appointment with Mr Rogers. Kids who go there are either psychos or misfits and I’m neither. Or maybe I’m both. Either way I’m not having any labels hung around my neck.

  I go through every class on automatic. I do what I have to do but I don’t join in discussions or answer questions. I sit up the back thinking about the way my life is going down the gurgler. When the final bell sounds I grab my bag and make my escape.

  The bus isn’t there. Now we’ll all be late getting home, which is a pain when everyone wants to get away for the school holidays. The bus kids start to mill around on the footpath. I don’t feel like talking to anyone so I go back inside the school gate and sit on the edge of the fountain. It hasn’t been turned on in two years because of the water restrictions. I sit there and think.

  A shadow blots out the sun. I look up but at first I can’t make out who it is because he’s silhouetted against the bright light.

  ‘Hi, Robin,’ says Mr Rogers.

  ‘Hi, Mr Rogers,’ I say with a resigned sigh. He doesn’t look like a teacher with his faded jeans, T-shirt and denim jacket. He’s not a bad bloke – one of the most popular staff members actually – but if you go to see him everyone knows about it. Already I can see a couple of kids looking over in our direction. I thought I saw Charlie glancing my way but maybe it was just my imagination.

  Mr Henderson’s obviously told Mr Rogers I’ve got a problem, and he’s come looking for me. I’m wary; there’s no way I’m going to start blabbing about my flickering images.

  ‘Call me Steve,’ he says, taking a seat next to me. ‘All the kids who come to see me do.’

  ‘But I don’t come to see you … Mr Rogers.’

  He gives an amused smile. ‘I read your story, Robin. The Tree.’

  ‘Did you like it?’ I say, trying to steer him away from questions about my mother.

  ‘It’s very clever,’ he replies. ‘Black humour. Well written. What’s it about?’

  ‘I thought you said you’d read it.’

  ‘I did. What’s it about?’ he says again.

  ‘Trees.’

  He tries once more. ‘What’s the theme?’

  He’s playing the literary game. Trying to get under my guard. ‘Freedom,’ I say.

  ‘The mother tree?’

  ‘Yes, she took off.’

  ‘Why?’

  I hesitate. ‘Because her family was hopeless. Arguing and criticising and complaining. They got what they deserved.’

  ‘Maybe there was some other reason she went,’ he says slowly.

  This comment annoys me. I should know what it’s about. I wrote it. ‘It’s my story,’ I say.

  ‘Is it?’ he says. ‘That’s interesting.’

  I don’t know what he’s getting at but I can feel resentment welling up inside me. ‘Well, what do you think the theme is?’ I shoot back.

  ‘It could be about abandonment,’ he says.

  I spring to my feet. ‘I have to go,’ I say. ‘The bus is here.’

  ‘Robin,’ he says, ‘I think you have something to tell me. I have no idea what it is but I’d just like you to know that it’ll be safe with me if you do.’

  ‘I have nothing to tell you,’ I say as I head for the bus. ‘But thanks anyway … Mr Rogers.’

  The next day Dad gives me the day off. I decide to do some downhill skiing. It’s still early and the slopes are not too crowded yet. I jostle along in the line with the other earlybirds towards the chairlift.

  ‘G’day, Rick,’ I say to the attendant as I get to the front.

  He winks at me and gives me the obligatory tap on the shoulder. ‘Go, Robin,’ he says.

  The chair slams into my backside and swings us up into the air. I say ‘us’ because it’s a double chair and there’s a girl sitting next to me.

  ‘I didn’t arrange this,’ says Charlie frostily. ‘So don’t go getting any ideas.’

  I hadn’t reco
gnised her in the queue because she’s not wearing her red parka but a blue one with the hood up. I’m too amazed to say anything. We both sit in the swaying seat without speaking as it climbs up the mountain above the skiers and snowboarders whooshing silently beneath us. My heart’s thumping and my stomach has turned to jelly. Now I’ve got the chance to explain what happened that day in the forest with the bird – but I have to be careful. Charlie’s just as likely to clap her hands over her ears if I say one wrong word. Or she might even jump off the chair and break a leg or worse.

  Think, Robin, think. How are you going to handle this?

  Normally a chairlift seems to take ages to get to the top but this ride is rushing by, eating up the time I have to explain. We’re already more than halfway up the slope and I still haven’t spoken.

  Finally I say, ‘I thought long and hard before I decided to kill that little bird and …’ I’m interrupted as our chair bumps more noisily than usual over a pylon. Automatically I glance upwards at the point where it attaches to the cable.

  ‘Liar,’ says Charlie. ‘You looked upwards. A liar always looks up. Isn’t that what your father says?’

  The last thing I want to think about is my father. A feeling of hatred towards him grabs me like a vice. Guilt instantly replaces it. I shouldn’t hate him. He’s my father. You have to love your father, everyone knows that. ‘Leave him alone,’ I say.

  ‘Okay,’ she says. ‘Let’s talk about you.’

  ‘Me? What have I done?’

  ‘Hanging out with that Verushka.’

  ‘What do you care?’

  ‘She’s a user. Everyone knows that.’

  I don’t stop and ask myself if this is true. Instead I continue the attack.

  ‘You don’t like anyone except your own group of do-gooders. You’re all too holy for people like me and Verushka who don’t have both parents waiting hand and foot on them. You and your precious dad are perfect.’ I shouldn’t have said that. Russell’s a great guy – I wish my old man was like him, but my mouth is running off and I continue to spit out my words. ‘You judged me over that bird and yet your own father killed Alf and –’

  She cuts me off. ‘You heard me apologise to him about Alf. I was wrong. Dad made the hard decision. He loved Alf as much as I did. He didn’t want to put him to sleep.’

  This is where I should tell her that I tried to put the bird to sleep in the icy water but instead I hear myself snort out a smart-arse reply. ‘Put him to sleep. Put him down. Put him to bed. What’s the difference?’

  ‘Dad ended Alf’s suffering in a gentle and caring way. But what you did was impulsive and cruel and …’

  The chair starts to rattle. We’re reaching the end of the ride. Once again I’m pushing her away.

  We lift up the front of our skis so that we can ski off the seat as we reach the platform. In a second we’re gliding down the exit ramp, Charlie to the right, me to the left. The cold air is roaring in my ears. She turns away from me. Our roads are parting. I shout at her, giving her back her own words. ‘What you are doing is impulsive and cruel.’

  Her back is disappearing fast. I want to go after her. I was trying to be clever, just using words to win and punish, but I’ve been cut by her blindness and I’m so angry that I can’t contain it. ‘Read my bloody letter,’ I yell. ‘If you’ve got the guts.’

  She speeds away. I’m faster than her on skis and I could catch her if I tried. But I just stand and watch as she becomes airborne off the top of a mogul and vanishes behind it.

  I flinch as my lunacy hits me like an icy snowball.

  The next morning I decide to cheer myself up with a haircut. I take The Habit with me on the bus to do a few revisions as I’m going to enter it into a competition run by the local paper. It’s not a bad story and – you never know – I might have a chance.

  I go to the unisex place instead of the barber’s where I’ve always gone before. It seems strange at first, sitting in the chair next to a middle-aged woman with foils on her head, but the stylist is pretty cute and she gives me a bit of confidence with her friendly smile. ‘How do you want it?’ she asks.

  ‘Like that,’ I say, pointing to a photograph pinned to the mirror. It’s a guy with a cut similar to one in Verushka’s book.

  ‘That’ll suit you, show off those brown eyes,’ she says, giving my scalp a little scratch with the tips of her fingers. That brightens me up. This is another me – a fresh start. My spirits lift even further as my new self evolves in the mirror. When it’s finished I stare at the stranger looking back at me.

  ‘Fantastic,’ says the stylist. ‘Makes you look older.’

  She’s right. I do look older, and more confident somehow. I give her a grin as I get out my wallet.

  Outside birds are singing, kids are laughing, there’s not a cloud to be seen. I’m happy to pick up a few groceries in the supermarket for the old man, and even treat myself to a bottle of cheap aftershave.

  The bus is only half full for the trip home. I scan the empty seats for a good spot to stretch out. Oh, what! Two unexpected meetings in two days. It’s Verushka. She glances up but then looks away.

  I’m embarrassed. ‘Verushka,’ I say. ‘How are you going?’

  She regards me coolly through those hooded eyes. ‘Robin,’ she says in a flat voice. ‘The jealous writer.’

  ‘Okay if I sit here?’ I ask, looking down her low-cut top, even though I shouldn’t. I think she’s wearing a push-up bra. I try to stop my eyeballs wandering but ever since that night after the art class they seem to have a life of their own.

  She shrugs. I shove my pack into the rack above the seats and swing down next to her. ‘You were right,’ I say first up, to get her on side.

  ‘I usually am.’ She stares out of the window but I’m not deterred.

  ‘About the painting,’ I say. ‘It was childish. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone on like that.’

  Her face totally changes. ‘Okay, I forgive you,’ she says. ‘I like the haircut. You are maturing. At last. That jacket’s still looking a bit tatty though. You need something to go with those shoes I made you buy.’

  We start talking as if nothing happened. I tell her about my meeting with Mr Henderson and how he wants me to see Mr Rogers. Of course I don’t mention anything about snapping snakes but she listens carefully to my account. She makes sympathetic murmurings and sort of draws it out of me, all the while patting me on the thigh in a ‘there, there’ sort of way. She asks me if I’ve got the story with me.

  ‘Not that one. I’ve got another one, though.’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  I think for a moment. ‘It’s about … desire.’

  ‘Let me see it,’ she says.

  She reads The Habit without saying a word. I don’t say a word either. It’s sort of like ‘don’t speak until you’re spoken to’. I wait for her judgement nervously. I feel as if I’ve given her a look into my soul.

  ‘It’s good,’ she says as she turns the last page. ‘Your best so far.’

  ‘Really? Do you like it?’

  ‘I just said so, didn’t I, dummy? Why do you always doubt yourself? Respect your talent. Go for it. If you don’t look out for yourself no one else will.’

  ‘Sorry. Thanks. I’m glad you like it.’

  ‘But you need some advice,’ she continues.

  ‘What sort of advice?’

  ‘Do you want to get published?’

  ‘Well, sure, one day maybe. I was going to enter it into that competition run by the Standard.’

  ‘Don’t bother with that. I can help you get published and you’ll make heaps of money.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I know someone. He comes to the Polar Bare.’

  ‘Who is he?’ I’m suspicious.

  ‘Don’t start that again, jealous boy. You’re all grown up now, don’t forget. He’s a literary agent.’

  A literary agent. That sounds impressive. ‘I can’t afford someone like that,’ I say, think
ing how badly I need this guy and how little I earn from the old man.

  ‘You don’t pay up front,’ she says. ‘He’ll take a percentage. And so will I. I do something for you. You do something for me.’

  ‘That sounds fair enough,’ I say, thinking what a good day it is and how my luck’s changing. Verushka never doubts herself. She’s so confident.

  She goes on with another bit of advice. ‘What you need to do is write creepy stuff and scare the shit out of the reader. It’s the black bits in this story that are good but some of it doesn’t go far enough. The monk should drown in champagne after ripping the guts out of someone. You need to get into horror. That’s where the money is. Look at Stephen King. He’s made squillions.’

  ‘I was thinking of writing a love story,’ I say.

  ‘No, no, no,’ she says. ‘Do horror. Gordon the Ripper, not Brother Gordon. Love stories are soft.’

  ‘I have to write what comes,’ I tell her. ‘I can’t plan it.’

  ‘Go on, do one for me,’ she says putting her hand back on my leg. God, it feels good.

  The bus bumps its way slowly up to the snowline and she dozes off. There’s no way I’m going to fall asleep with her hand there. I’m too turned on. When the bus reaches the top of the mountain Verushka looks at me with those eyes of hers and flashes a knowing smile. ‘One day soon you’ll get what you want,’ she says.

  ‘I will?’

  ‘Don’t look so puzzled, dummy,’ she says as she gives my thigh a final squeeze. ‘Come over next Saturday night and bring me a horror story.’

  I know I have a good imagination. But right now it’s in overdrive.

  I’m still high when I get home in the afternoon but the old man soon extinguishes my mood. He’s drilling out a steel bracket on the workbench.

  ‘Good grief,’ he says when he sees me. ‘What have you done to your hair? You look like a camel’s arse.’

  ‘Don’t you ever say anything positive?’ I reply. ‘It’s so depressing working for you. I could just walk off now and go to Melbourne.’

  ‘Go on then. I’m not stopping you.’

  ‘You think I won’t?’

  ‘I’ve seen the way you look at that girl. You’re not going to leave here without her.’