A Song Only I Can Hear

by Barry Jonsberg

  Andrew looked puzzled. ‘I can’t remember the whole conversation,’ he said. ‘Can I just give you the highlights?’

  ‘“Cool” was a highlight?’

  Andrew sighed. ‘Okay. I was talking about how rubbish the canteen is, how it does the same food day after day. You know: “Why can’t we have a good range, a choice? Now the only options are chips, wedges and pies.” And she said, “Yeah and burgers or chiko rolls.” And I said …’

  ‘Yes, all right, Andrew. Get to what was said about me please. I don’t need the whole conversation.’

  ‘But you just said you did need the whole conversation. You said …’

  ‘Don’t tell me what I said. Tell me what she said. I know what I said. I don’t know what she said.’

  ‘I hate you sometimes, Rob. I think you should know that.’

  I waved an encouraging hand.

  Andrew sighed again. ‘Okay. Destry said, “Wasn’t that your friend, Rob someone, who did the protest outside the canteen that day?”’

  ‘She knew my name?’

  ‘Only the first one. Unless you’ve changed your last name to Someone and forgot to tell me.’

  ‘She knows my first name,’ I whispered. A rosy glow swept through my entire body.

  ‘And I said to her, “Sure. Rob Fitzgerald, possibly the greatest, most committed and kindest person in the state. Maybe Australia. Certainly in this school.”’

  ‘You didn’t say that!’

  ‘No, I didn’t. But I wished I had ten minutes later, when it was too late. Don’t you hate it when that happens?’

  ‘And then what did she say?’

  ‘And then she said that was cool.’

  ‘That was it?’

  ‘What else do you want?’

  ‘She said it was cool or I was cool?’

  ‘I dunno. God. I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t mentioned it.’

  ‘Me, too.’

  Andrew got up from the bench. I knew I’d annoyed him because his eyes were stony and his mouth a thin line. He was a dead ringer for Mum, apart from gender, age and dress sense. ‘I tellya one thing,’ he snarled. ‘The only reason I mentioned all that stuff about the canteen was because I was trying to help you – you know, be a friend, a mate. I was fishing for some comment about you. Why would I complain about the canteen only doing burgers, chips and wedges? I only eat burgers, chips and wedges.’ He stuffed a chip into his mouth as if to prove the point. ‘I wish I hadn’t bothered, Rob. You’re an ungrateful dipstick.’

  I deflated then. Not so much like a balloon, but not a million miles away either. ‘Sorry, Andrew,’ I said. ‘I didn’t want to make you feel how sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless friend.’

  He stuck a finger right between my eyes.

  ‘Are you doing that Shakespeare thing again?’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘King Lear this time.’

  ‘I hate it when you do that,’ he said. But I knew we were okay. I’m a good judge of tone.

  ‘Grandad?’ I said.

  He grunted. We sat on a bench in front of the lake at the Old Farts’ Palace. There was a central fountain, but something was wrong with it and it gave off a halfhearted dribble, like a tired garden hose. ‘Reminds me of my bladder,’ Grandad mumbled. He was in a grumpy mood despite having beaten me twice at chess. I could tell by the way he threw pieces of bread at the ducks rather than for them. They didn’t appear to care. Mind you, Grandad the Grump wasn’t exactly news.

  ‘Thanks for sharing, Pop,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure I could’ve gone another day without an update on your bladder problems.’

  ‘Don’t mention it, young Rob …’

  ‘Tell me about Grandma,’ I said.

  He stopped in mid-throw and gave me a fierce glare. Pop’s eyes are often bloodshot and today was no exception, so it was faintly scary. I smiled, but that made no difference. We sat for four, five beats, not breaking eye contact. I could see out of the corner of my eye a few ducks staring up at us, puzzled, presumably, by the sudden ceasefire. We were a frozen tableau. Apart from the fountain, which was still dribbling.

  ‘Why?’ said Grandad eventually. It was like he was squeezing the word out between reluctant lips.

  ‘Because I don’t know anything about her.’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’ Grandad finally returned his gaze to the lake. He broke off another chunk of bread and tossed it to a gaggle of ducks. They cringed instinctively as he raised his arm and then got into a group fight over the morsel.

  ‘I don’t know anything about your life, Grandad,’ I said. ‘Not really. I know you were married, but I don’t know who to. I have no idea whether she died or whether you divorced. Were you happy, were you miserable? What happened when it all ended …?’

  ‘Rob …’ Pop raised a hand in the stop sign, but I wasn’t in the mood to shut up. I’d spent most of my life shutting up when told to do so, and I was tired of it.

  ‘You’ve kept secrets from me, Grandad, and I hate it.’ I felt my eyes welling up. This was stupid. Why was I crying? I hadn’t felt emotional before. I hadn’t intended to bring this subject up. All I’d thought about doing was what we normally do – hanging out together, being mates, cracking jokes. But now I’d started, I couldn’t stop. ‘You fought in a war, but you never talk about it. I don’t even know which war it was. I asked Mum and she said you didn’t like discussing it, so I thought to myself, “Okay, I need to protect Grandad’s feelings. He doesn’t want to talk about something, so I should pretend it never happened. I should pretend my own grandmother never happened.”’ There was plenty more I wanted to say, but tears were running down my cheeks and my throat was clamped off.

  Grandad put one gnarled hand over mine, but I couldn’t react. I couldn’t even make eye contact.

  ‘Rob, please,’ he said. ‘Please don’t cry. I hate it when you cry. Listen, mate. Sometimes a person needs to keep things to himself. You don’t tell me everything and that’s fine. We all need to keep some stuff locked away. If we didn’t, then we could end up getting hurt. You know that. Even at your age, you know that.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m not asking for your secrets. I’m asking for mine. I have a grandmother and she’s a total stranger. I have a grandfather and I don’t know much more about him. I’m your grandchild and you owe me answers. Otherwise …’

  ‘Otherwise what?’

  I sniffed and rubbed snot off my upper lip.

  ‘Otherwise when you die, all I’ll have is a cross stuck in the ground and question marks in my head.’

  There was a pause. Then Grandad laughed. But it was a gentle laugh.

  ‘You’ve got me ahead of Agnes and Jim?’ he said. ‘Wow. I didn’t think I was looking that bad …’

  ‘This is not a joke, Grandad.’

  ‘No. You’re right.’

  He stood and picked up his cane from where it was leaning at the side of the bench. He tried not to show it, but even the act of standing gave him pain. Just a brief flash in the eyes and then it was gone.

  ‘Walk me back to my apartment, young Rob, and I’ll tell you some things from my rather dull life,’ he said. ‘I lived through it once and, even for me, it seems unremarkable. But … not my problem if you want to be bored.’

  ‘Bore me, Grandad,’ I said. ‘Bore me stupid.’

  ‘You asked for it,’ he said. ‘And don’t call me stupid.’

  I smiled.

  ‘One other thing,’ he said. ‘No crosses.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t want a cross in the ground. Burn me please, Rob.’

  ‘Cremation?’

  ‘That’s it. Just make sure I’m dead first.’ Grandad headed up the winding path. Off to our right we could see Jim talking to the one duck not seduced by Grandad’s artillery fire. ‘If I was you I’d do it in a fire pit in the grounds here. It’d save a lot of money, but more importantly it’d annoy the blankety hell out of the mongrels who run this place.’

 
; ‘This isn’t a subject for joking.’

  Grandad stopped. ‘Oh, young Rob,’ he said. ‘This is exactly a subject for joking. And anyway, I’m serious. Make a bonfire out of me in front of the fountain. Have a barbie. That way I could annoy from beyond the grave while serving up a snag and I can’t tell you how happy that would make me. Except I’d be dead, of course. Still …’

  ‘Grandad,’ I said. ‘Shut up.’

  He did.

  Trust me, that doesn’t happen often.

  ‘I go, and it is done; the bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell that summons thee to heaven or to hell.’

  I resisted the temptation to rush off stage, but it was difficult. The scene called for a quiet stalking – a half-determined, half-resigned Macbeth making his decision and walking, not only towards murder, but towards his own fate. Andrew told me later it looked like I’d pooed myself and was desperately trying to stop a large lump dropping down my trouser leg onto the stage. He’s not always supportive, Andrew.

  When I got to the wings I almost collapsed with exhaustion and nervous tension. But I kept to my trembling feet. This was the time, I knew, when applause from the audience – the entire freaking school – would tell me if I’d been successful or not, whether I’d made connections. The previous act had been a heavy metal band and they’d gone down really well. The rafters didn’t exactly ring, but they kinda throbbed. A bit like the audience’s heads. As I waited, I saw Destry Camberwick in my fevered imagination, eyes shining and brimming with tears, clutching her hands to her bosom and sighing as I left the stage.

  Or maybe she was rolling on the floor in a fit of uncontrollable laughter.

  There was silence after my act. This could be a good thing or a bad thing, I told myself. Possibly the audience was stunned by the power of my performance. It might take a few seconds for them to regain mastery of their emotions and then the applause would echo, not just ringing in the rafters, but maybe bringing them down altogether.

  Here’s some context.

  I’d spent an agonising fifteen minutes backstage waiting my turn. All the symptoms of panic attacks battered at me. I had difficulty breathing, as if the atmosphere was solid. It was like trying to breathe in jagged rocks and my airways could not get them down. There was a ringing in my ears (even before the heavy metal band) and I thought I was going to vomit. I tried all the tactics. I breathed deeply. I used some relaxation techniques that had helped in the past. It made no difference; I was still terrified. I waited while the other acts performed. All of them appeared to be having fun, confident and happy even when the acts themselves turned pear-shaped. There were three bands, a bad comedian and someone who did impersonations that no one recognised. Even he got a decent round of applause.

  Here’s my result:

  I died.

  That’s a show business term.

  I died.

  The students didn’t even hate it. Boos would at least have been evidence of a connection. Storming the stage and running me out of town, tarred and feathered on a pole, would’ve been a reaction, if not the one I’d hoped for. Only the staff applauded and, I suspect, Andrew. How can you tell it’s staff applauding and not students? No idea, but I’m certain it’s true. Pity and professional duty rippled through the air towards me.

  Looking back, I should’ve guessed the response. My act and a boring English class were twins separated at birth and it probably wouldn’t have surprised the audience if I’d set them an essay when I was done. Maybe I’d put them straight to sleep like a stage hypnotist.

  It didn’t matter.

  You see, I’d done it. I’d gone on stage and performed in front of eight hundred people. Who cared if they didn’t like it?

  Well, me, to be honest. But I’d survive.

  I was beginning to think I could survive almost anything.

  The school had made me apologise to the canteen staff before I could take part in the talent show.

  Milltown insists on a meeting between you, your parents and the assistant principal for student welfare before you can come back after suspension. Grandad wanted to be a part of that meeting but Mum and Dad had said no. I reckon if Grandad had rocked up, staff would have dived under desks, texted final messages to loved ones and called for police back-up. As it was, Mum and Dad had nodded at everything the AP had said, glancing disapprovingly at me from time to time. I half-expected they’d get on their knees and kiss his shoes, but that didn’t happen.

  The apology to the canteen staff was embarrassing.

  ‘I’m sorry if I offended you,’ I’d said to Mrs Appleby. I was going to add that it wasn’t a protest directed at her personally, but I wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.

  ‘Didn’t offend me, chuck.’ Mrs Appleby is a large and forbidding woman with an enormous bosom that seems an impossible burden to lug around. When she turns in your direction you feel you’re in the line of fire. ‘I agree with you, actually,’ she continued. ‘The stuff we sell here is filth.’

  The AP tried to get the conversation back on track.

  ‘The important point,’ he said, ‘is that Rob did the wrong thing—’

  Mrs Appleby ignored him. She didn’t even move her bosom towards him, but the AP shut up anyway.

  ‘Fried rubbish. Chips, chips and more chips. God knows how many heart attacks we’re storing up for the next generation …’

  ‘Yes, thank you Mrs Appleby—’

  ‘I’ve told them,’ she said. ‘But no one listens. “How about salads?” I said. “Oh, no. There’s no profit in them. Give them cholesterol until it seeps out their pores.” Take children’s money and give ’em poison in return. We’re drug dealers, really, selling death and caring only about money …’

  ‘Well, thank you, Mrs App—’

  ‘A few burgers, made from stuff that should be thrown away – gut linings, brains, livers and gonads …’

  ‘Yes—’

  ‘I won’t eat it and I won’t let my family eat it either,’ said Mrs Appleby. ‘Not in a fit. For growing minds and bodies you need—’

  ‘Mrs Appleby.’ The AP was becoming agitated. ‘You run this canteen.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, turning towards him. He flinched as her bosom hove into position but he didn’t duck. ‘For a franchise owner who doesn’t care about healthy eating. But I’ve had enough. I’m out of here.’ She picked up her handbag from the canteen counter.

  ‘But you can’t leave now, Mrs Appleby,’ said the AP. ‘The first lunch break is about to start …’

  It didn’t matter. Mrs Appleby charged towards the staff car park, scattering small children as she went. The AP and I watched in silence until she’d disappeared from view. Finally he turned towards me.

  ‘I hope you’ve learned something from this, Rob,’ he said.

  I nodded in what I hoped was a shame-faced fashion.

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said.

  (Mrs Appleby, incidentally, returned five minutes after she’d stormed off.

  ‘Bag of chips, love?’ she asked as she went past.

  ‘I thought you’d gone,’ I said.

  ‘Only for a smoko,’ she replied. ‘I need to earn a living and those deep fryers won’t start themselves, you know.’)

  So I’d sat at my normal table in front of the canteen, eating a bag of chips, thinking about my upcoming performance in Milltown’s Got Talent and hoping the chips wouldn’t make a dramatic reappearance on stage.

  Monday. I sat at my normal table in front of the canteen, eating a bag of chips and reliving my performance in Milltown’s Got Talent.

  Daniel Smith patrolled off to my right, in front of the boys’ toilets. Miss Pritchett patrolled somewhere to my left. Daniel often stakes a claim outside the toilets, presumably in the hope I’ll have to go and Miss P won’t be able to follow. I could tell him that I never go to public toilets. Ever. That I would sooner die than use anything other than my own bathroom in my own house. But I figured he didn’t really need tha
t information and, anyway, if he wanted to hang around the boys’ in a creepy fashion, who was I to interfere?

  Nonetheless, he obviously got bored because occasionally he’d take a step towards me, but Miss Pritchett would do the same and he’d be forced to back off. Then he’d try again when he thought she wasn’t looking and the whole thing would repeat.

  It was like a slow and strange dance. Or a boring gif. They should’ve entered the talent show with it. It would’ve been more popular than my act.

  I kept my head down and stuffed another chip into my mouth. A shadow fell across the seat opposite. I didn’t need to look up. Only one person sits with me – two, if you count Daniel Smith, though he normally stands to enquire whether the cat’s got my tongue. And he was still dancing with Miss P.

  ‘Do you think I’m a blankety loser?’ I asked. ‘Be honest.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said an angelic voice. ‘But you can’t always trust first impressions.’

  My head shot up, just as my jaw plummeted and my eyes tried to leave their sockets. Sweat dripped off my forehead and made an impressive lake on the bench’s surface. I attempted to speak but my brain had shut down and buggered off to parts unknown.

  Destry Camberwick sat opposite me.

  She was as gorgeous in real life as … well, I’d only ever seen her in real life, of course. But she’d never sat opposite me before. This was real. It was really real. There was nothing unrealistic about this real.

  ‘Uh, uh, uh, um, um, uh,’ I said, obviously trying to prove I was a blankety loser. She put her hand out to me across the table. A portion of her hair fell across her left eye and she had to brush it back. A small part of me shrivelled and died.

  ‘I’m Destry,’ she said.

  ‘I know,’ I said. Then I wanted to bite my tongue. Why had I said that? The obvious answer was, Really? Pleased to meet you. I’m Rob Fitzgerald, but you can call me Rob or Fitz, if you like. Friends call me Fitz. They didn’t, of course, because I don’t have friends, plural. I have a friend, singular, called Andrew, and he calls me Rob.