A Song Only I Can Hear

by Barry Jonsberg

  There was a loud round of applause. Well, as loud as three people can generate. It sounded genuine, as well.

  After we’d dropped Grandad off, Dad and I carried on to the golf course. We normally go in the morning, but Dad had been busy so he decided to fit in nine holes in the arvo.

  I held the little furry hat while Dad addressed the ball on the first hole. I didn’t say anything but he still hooked the ball (or was it sliced?).

  ‘Bugger,’ he said, handing me back the hatless one wood. I dutifully covered its head and returned it to the trolley as we wandered off into the long grass.

  ‘So, how’s it going with your girlfriend?’ said Dad.

  ‘Well, it’s not going,’ I replied. ‘And she’s not my girlfriend. In fact, she still has no idea who I am.’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s bound to change after your talent competition.’

  ‘Knowing my luck, she’ll get sick like she did before the soccer game and miss it.’ I gave that statement some thought. ‘Or, knowing my luck, she won’t get sick and will witness the whole grisly road accident.’ I’d been having second thoughts about the talent show. I’d been having third, fourth and fifth thoughts, actually, and I suspected Dad was right. Destry would know who I was all right. A spectacular bozo, an idiot in search of a village and the undisputed laughing stock of Milltown High.

  My self-esteem is not great at the best of times.

  ‘Confidence,’ Dad said over his shoulder, as if reading my mind. ‘That’s the key with women. Hey, you want any advice, just ask, okay?’

  ‘If I want to bust moves while chatting up Destry Camberwick,’ I said, ‘you’ll definitely be my first port of call, Dad.’

  ‘I’m serious,’ said Dad. ‘You may look at me and see a fat, bald, old loser …’ He found his ball in the long grass and gazed at it, like it was the ball’s fault for hiding in rough country, when it should have been nestled, like a good, obedient golf ball, in the centre of the fairway. I gave him the nine iron without being asked. ‘Hey, Rob,’ he said. ‘Don’t argue with my self-portrait, all right?’

  ‘Dad,’ I said. ‘You are NOT a loser. Fat, bald and old without a doubt – there’s no point hiding our heads in the sand – but you are definitely not a loser.’

  Dad parted blades of grass so he could get a decent view of the ball.

  ‘Okay, maybe a bit of a loser,’ I continued. ‘Not much of one, probably …’ I fiddled with the remaining clubs in the golf bag. ‘Right, fair enough. I won’t argue,’ I said. ‘Fat, bald, old loser seems to cover it.’

  ‘You’re spending too much time with Grandad,’ said Dad as he took a practice swipe with the nine iron. ‘And that’s a worry.’

  He hit the ball and even I could see it was a great shot. The ball rose sharply and cleared the crown of surrounding trees by centimetres. I moved a couple of metres to my left to watch as it hit the edge of the green and rolled agonisingly close to the pin.

  ‘Great shot, Dad,’ I said.

  ‘Not always a loser then?’

  ‘Oh, please,’ I said. ‘Don’t spit the dummy on me.’

  We walked towards the green.

  ‘I wasn’t a great dancer,’ said Dad. ‘In fact, I was useless. When I look back on it, there’s no reason why your mum should have given me a second glance. God, she was a looker in her day, Rob! Don’t get me wrong, she’s still a fine-looking woman, but …’

  ‘So why did she? Give you a second glance, I mean.’

  Dad whistled as we reached the green. ‘That was a great shot,’ he said. ‘Almost makes up for that hook off the tee.’ I handed him his putter.

  ‘I was a union organiser,’ he said. ‘I tell ya, those were the days, Rob. Strikes to improve our working conditions, addressing members, negotiating with employers, issuing media releases. Happiest days of my life when I look back on them.’

  ‘And …?’

  ‘And your mum fell in love with that enthusiasm. At least that’s what she said years later when I asked why she’d gone for me. “You believed in something and you fought for it,” she said. “There’s nothing more attractive than a passion for a cause, even if that cause is doomed. Maybe especially if it’s doomed.”’

  I watched as he lined up the putt and sank it. I even gave a round of applause. He raised his club as if he’d just won the American Open and waved a hand at nonexistent spectators. I took the putter and put it back in the bag.

  ‘You’re trying to tell me something, Dad,’ I said. ‘I wish you’d just do it.’

  He put a hand on my shoulder. ‘You’ve become vegetarian. You’ve bored us with the reasons why. No offence. We’ve heard about animal cruelty, greenhouse gas emissions and even though I don’t agree with everything you say – to be honest, Rob, I think my love of steaks overrules my conscience – there’s no doubt you’re passionate about it all. So …’

  ‘So I should persuade Destry Camberwick that I’m passionate by letting her know I’m vegetarian.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Dad. ‘That’s not what I’m saying at all. I’m saying if you feel strongly about something then it shouldn’t be kept to yourself. It should be a stamp on your personality, a definition of who you are, because if no one can tell what you believe in then you might as well not believe in anything at all.’

  I chewed on this throughout the next hole and came to a startling and somewhat shocking conclusion. Dad was right. Trust me, it hurts to admit it. But now it seemed obvious. Trying to impress Destry with my beliefs would be as pitiful as trying to impress someone with the number of bank notes in your wallet. You might succeed, but, almost by definition, the person you’re impressing wouldn’t be worth the effort.

  Being vegetarian. Supporting animal rights. Maybe it was time to stop treating it all like a shameful secret. Maybe I needed to stop feeding my low self-esteem. Maybe it was time to be myself and not worry what anyone else thought.

  I only lasted ten minutes outside the school canteen before I was taken to the principal. I waited outside her office for fifteen minutes before she opened the door and called me in. (Well, bellowed me in.) They do that on purpose – keep you waiting, so your imagination goes into overdrive. I’ve seen detective shows on television. It’s psychological manipulation, so when you’re finally confronted with your offence, you’re happy, no – eager –to confess. I did it, Your Honour. It’s a fair cop so cuff me and take me down. I’ve done the crime and now I’ll do the time.

  ‘I’m disappointed in you, Rob,’ Miss Cunningham roared. Or it might have been a bellow. Sometimes it’s difficult to tell the difference when your ears are ringing.

  I hung my head. This is something I’ve always done, even when people aren’t yelling at me. It’s instinctive and comes with shyness and low self-esteem. Try to make yourself small, avoid eye contact and perhaps people will let you go. Invisibility is the goal, even if you know it can’t be achieved.

  ‘There are many students at this school,’ she continued, ‘who I would expect to be troublesome, but I did not count you among them. Perhaps you will be so good as to explain your behaviour?’

  I’ve spent a lot of time with Grandad and, despite what Mum and Dad say, his influence hasn’t been all bad. Suddenly I saw this situation from his point of view. What would Pop do if someone at the aged-care facility called him into his or her office and accused him of behaving badly? He wouldn’t hang his head, even if he knew he was in the wrong. If he felt himself in the right, then … well, hang on to your blankety hats, because blankety brown stuff would splatter blankety fans. And I hadn’t done anything wrong. So why was I behaving as if I had? I raised my head and met Miss Cunningham’s eyes. My fear had miraculously melted away.

  ‘I haven’t been troublesome, Miss Cunningham,’ I said. ‘I’ve been protesting.’

  ‘About our canteen serving meat.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And did you get permission for your protest, before you stood displaying an offensive placard in front of the whole scho
ol?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t need permission to tell the truth. Which is what my placard did. But I know what is troublesome, Miss Cunningham. When a school tries to stop free speech.’

  Boy, that remark pressed a button. Miss Cunningham turned an interesting shade of purple, her eyes morphed into shards of granite and her mouth became a slit. At any other time I would probably have wet my pants, but as I say, I was … calm.

  ‘“Every burger you buy from this canteen is a nail in the world’s coffin.”’ Miss Cunningham’s voice rose in volume, which I’d imagined was anatomically impossible. Pictures on the wall rattled. ‘That is a silly exaggeration, Rob. And how do you think our canteen staff felt? They’re trying to make a living. Did you think about that when you made your childish protest?’

  I hadn’t, but it occurred to me that the argument was shifting from the main point. I didn’t think that was fair.

  ‘I’m not saying students shouldn’t buy food from the canteen, Miss Cunningham,’ I said. ‘I’m asking them to think about what it means to eat meat. You say I’m exaggerating, but I’m not. Eating meat is bad for the world. Perhaps the canteen should sell healthy vegetarian food. That’d be good for business and good for the students. There’s almost nothing vegetarian on the menu and if the deep fryer broke down there’d be nothing on the menu at all. Everything they sell is brown.’

  I could have said more, but Miss Cunningham wasn’t in the mood for healthy debate. She suspended me for three days.

  I think that was for arguing with her, rather than destroying the canteen staff’s lives, but I guess it doesn’t matter. I waited in the corridor while the reception staff got in touch with Grandad. He’s on the emergency contact list because Mum and Dad both work. The school phoned them too, anyway. It took Grandad half an hour to come pick me up. He’s a little unsteady on his legs, even with the cane, but as he says himself, he gets to where he wants to go. Eventually.

  ‘Young Rob,’ he said when he’d signed whatever needed to be signed at the front desk and I was released into his custody. ‘Suspended, huh?’ He glanced at the placard that was propped against my knees. ‘You’re a danger to society. Nothing more or less than a vegetarian terrorist. Excuse me a moment.’

  Grandad opened the door to the principal’s office without knocking and walked straight in. I have no idea what he said, because he closed the door behind him and even Miss Cunningham’s roar became muffled. But I guessed he was offering his frank opinion on her suitability for the job of principal. I suspect blankety words were used (and not by Miss Cunningham). As Pop once said, when you’ve been through a war and are close to kicking the bucket, biting the dust, cashing in your chips, going belly up, checking out, snuffing it, carking it and taking a dirt nap then you really don’t care about hurting people’s feelings anymore.

  Not that Grandad ever worried about that at the best of times.

  ‘You are not staying at home unsupervised,’ said Mum. ‘Playing computer games or watching television or listening to music is not, in my book, a punishment.’

  Mum isn’t like Grandad. She believes being suspended from school is clear evidence of guilt. Even if it was a case of mistaken identity, if I could prove I was interstate at the time of the alleged crime, she’d still support the school.

  ‘I’m not happy with you, Rob,’ she said. I chopped up vegetables for dinner. I’d promised to do a vegetarian stir-fry for everyone, though Dad looked slightly less than thrilled at the prospect. ‘So I will drop you round at Grandad’s place first thing in the morning and pick you up after work.’

  ‘You think Grandad is a punishment then?’ I said.

  Mum folded her arms.

  ‘I don’t know what’s got into you recently,’ she said. ‘I really don’t. You are turning into a smart-alec and I never thought I’d say that. You’re giving me backchat …’

  ‘I’m not giving you backchat …’

  ‘See, you’re doing it now. I’ve read about this, when your child becomes a teenager and suddenly they change, become horrible and hateful. But I never thought you’d be like that.’

  I wanted to tell her that I thought she was overreacting, but figured this wouldn’t cool the situation down. So I just chopped vegetables while she went on about how shameful it was to have a child suspended from school, how this was the last time it would happen and how maybe she and Dad had been too lenient in their dealings with me. I let her words batter against me because I knew she was hurt and puzzled and worried. But I also wanted to remind her that the shy, retiring, scared Rob Fitzgerald might have been easy to deal with, but was basically miserable. Now, I was gaining confidence – not huge amounts, it had to be said, but some – and I could catch glimpses of the person I might become. That made me feel … happy. But I also needed to remember that Mum might find the journey at least as rocky as me. Maybe rockier. And I should make allowances where I could.

  ‘So, what do you want to do today?’ said Pop. ‘We could catch a film or maybe go to a pub, get drunk and pick up loose women.’

  I’d arrived at the aged-care facility at seven-thirty, but Grandad had been up for two hours anyway, he told me. It comes with age, he’d said. Getting up earlier and earlier and finding your bladder can’t make it for half an hour throughout the night. This was way too much information, but that’s never stopped him before.

  ‘I have strict instructions, Pop,’ I said. ‘I am to do whatever schoolwork I can. I’m not to play with my phone, watch television or enjoy myself in any way until three forty-five when school’s officially over.’

  ‘So your mother didn’t actually forbid getting drunk and picking up loose women?’

  ‘I know what I want to do later, Grandad,’ I said.

  ‘You want to learn how to play chess,’ he said.

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Yes. You just don’t know it yet. But I’ll teach you how to play and then I’ll kick your sorry backside.’

  ‘Wow,’ I said. ‘You make it sound so attractive, I couldn’t possibly say no. But I know what I want to do after you’ve taught me chess and after you’ve kicked my sorry backside.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Take Trixie for a walk.’ It was true. I was becoming attached to that fluffy bundle of rubbish and it wasn’t because I wanted to see Destry Camberwick. The dog had attitude, despite there being no reason for it. Maybe I had more in common with it than I’d thought.

  ‘Blankety hell,’ said Grandad. ‘If anyone was reading a transcript of this conversation they’d never guess who was thirteen years old and who was the old fart.’ He pointed an accusing finger at me. ‘I want to be like you when I grow up.’

  *

  Grandad taught me chess and then kicked my apologetic rear end. Twice. After that we went in search of the FBR. Agnes was happy to hand Trixie over.

  ‘I can’t walk the distances I used to,’ she informed me. ‘Don’t ever get old, Rob. That’s my best advice to you.’

  ‘I certainly don’t intend to,’ said Grandad.

  ‘You,’ said Agnes, ‘are the most pathetic and childish idiot I’ve ever known. And I used to work in politics,’ she added, ‘so the bar for idiocy has been set exceptionally high.’

  ‘I think she’s seriously attracted to me,’ said Pop after we’d walked half a kilometre out of the grounds. ‘It’s not surprising. She’s only human.’

  ‘She certainly hides it well, Pop,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t be fooled, young Rob. It’s clear she thinks I’m hot. Her insults are a pathetic and frankly transparent camouflage for her true feelings. No. Anyone can see she has a thing for me.’ He sucked on his cheeks for a few moments and I was treated to a brief whistle. ‘Trouble is,’ he added, ‘that thing could be a baseball bat.’

  Even though I was in deep trouble with Mum and Dad and had done myself no favours with school, I had the best time that afternoon. Just me and Grandad in the park, trying to control Trixie and laughing. Lots of laughing. Don’t get me w
rong. I missed school. I missed hanging out with Andrew. And there was a part of me that felt I maybe should have thought about my protest more clearly, perhaps taken other people’s feelings more into account. Yes, there was some guilt there.

  Funnily enough, I didn’t even think about Destry Camberwick until we were back at Grandad’s place. And when I did think about her, my pulse didn’t exactly race. It jogged along at a healthy lick, true, but it didn’t race.

  On the day of Milltown’s Got Talent, the day I returned from suspension, I half-expected to get a text message from my mysterious sender. Maybe words of encouragement, or even a question about whether I was doing it at all. There’d been no communication since the last challenge was set and I didn’t know whether this was confidence I would rise to the occasion or a loss of interest.

  Andrew caught up with me at recess.

  ‘I was talking to Destry Camberwick today and the conversation turned to you.’

  Now, I seem to remember saying something along the lines that the mention of Destry’s name no longer caused my heart to race. Well, I might have been jumping the gun. Andrew’s words punched me in the gut and my heart tried to escape from my chest, desperate for freedom and battering at my ribs. I fought to gain control. It was important to be cool about this news, maybe raise an eyebrow and say something along the lines of ‘Destry who?’

  ‘OH, MY GOD!’ I shrieked. ‘What did she say about me?’

  ‘We were talking about your protest outside the canteen,’ said Andrew.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘And she said she thought it was cool.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Cool. She said it was cool.’

  I was tempted to hit him with a whole bag of chips, but obviously this was a situation that required all my tact and diplomacy.

  ‘Andrew,’ I said. ‘Give me the whole conversation, right now, or I’m going to kick your head in.’