Do You Dare? Tough Times

by Simon Mitchell

  Tom looked around desperately. On the cobblestones next to his left foot was a flat bit of cement the size of a MacRobertson’s chocolate frog. Without stopping to think, he knelt down, picked up the jagged chunk of cement and threw it as hard as he could at Tank’s head. It ricocheted off his temple and into the fence with a clang.

  Tank stopped and put a hand to his head. When he moved it away, his fingers were dark red. He stared at his blood in disbelief, then looked at Tom and gave a howl of rage. Tank thrust his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a thin, mean knife. He narrowed his eyes and began creeping purposefully towards Tom.

  Tom took a few steps backwards, and so did the other Daredevils. Tank was capable of anything, he knew that. Tom had seen him smack a rival gang member in the head with a plank of wood until the other fellow was out cold.

  ‘Tank?’ said Razor. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Shut up, Razor,’ said Tank. ‘Go home.’

  ‘I thought we were just gonna rough ’em up a bit?’ said Razor, his voice quavering.

  ‘We were,’ said Tank. ‘But now they’re really gonna pay.’ Tank kept coming at Tom, blood dripping from his forehead. He held the knife out in front of him so the sun caught the edge of its sharp blade.

  The Daredevils shuffled back until they were pressed against the fence at the end of the deserted laneway. Frank swore under his breath, and Samson gave a yelp. Tom couldn’t breathe – was Tank going to kill them all?

  Razor tugged at his brother’s arm. ‘Tank, stop!’ he pleaded.

  But Tank shook him off and held the knife up to Tom’s face. ‘You’d better start praying,’ he whispered.

  But then a voice boomed out from the end of the alleyway. ‘I’d stop right there if I were you!’

  Tom was shocked when he saw who the voice belonged to. It was a crazed-looking man. His matted grey-black hair spilled past his shoulders, his lined face was covered with a week’s worth of stubble, and he seemed to be taking his enormous billy goat for a walk. It was Mr Codling.

  Tank looked taken aback for a moment, then regained his trademark sneer. ‘What if I don’t want to?’ he said.

  Mr Codling stormed towards Tank, who actually took a step backwards. Tom was surprised to see that Mr Codling was a good inch taller than Tank. ‘Then I’ll do to you exactly what I did to the Germans in the war,’ Mr Codling barked. ‘But I won’t need my bayonet this time – I’ll break you in half with my bare hands.’

  As if on cue, his billy goat let out a shriek and gnashed its teeth, lunging in Tank’s direction.

  Tank’s eyes darted from side to side and he licked his lips. Tom guessed that even he had heard the stories about Mr Codling.

  ‘All right,’ Tank said, carefully replacing the knife in his jacket and holding both hands up in front of him. ‘Whatever you say.’

  Mr Codling growled and kept his eyes on Tank, who edged along the fence. Razor followed closely behind his brother. Tom had never seen him look so terrified.

  Mr Codling cleared his throat. ‘And the dog.’

  Tank hesitated for a second, then nodded at Razor, who was only too happy to let go of the homemade leash. Fungus immediately rushed to Tom and sat on his feet, leaning against his legs and whimpering softly.

  Tank and Razor backed up to the gate where they had first appeared. Razor ducked through it as quickly as he could, but Tank paused with one hand on the fence. He reached up to touch his cut forehead. ‘This isn’t over,’ he said to Tom.

  ‘Oh, yes it is,’ said Mr Codling. ‘I know where you live now, and if anything happens to these boys I guarantee you I’ll be coming round for a visit. My goat, too.’ As if on queue, the billy goat lunged again, drooling.

  Tank opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it and stepped through the gate, shutting it behind him with a clang.

  Tom took his first breath in what seemed like hours and hours. He knelt down, slipped the clothesline from around Fungus’s neck and hugged his dog tightly.

  Frank tapped Tom’s shoulder. ‘C’mon, let’s go,’ he muttered, with a glance at Mr Codling.

  Tom followed the other Daredevils as they slipped past Mr Codling. But he paused at the corner of the main laneway and looked back over his shoulder. Mr Codling was mumbling something to his goat as it chewed on a weed growing through the cobblestones.

  ‘Tom, hurry up!’ called Frank. Ahead of him, Joan and Samson were already squeezing back through the hole in the fence.

  ‘Wait a sec,’ said Tom. He jogged towards Mr Codling, whose billy goat bleated suspiciously. Tom kept his distance. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said.

  Mr Codling looked surprised. Tom supposed he wasn’t used to people talking to him. ‘Quite all right,’ he muttered. ‘I hate young men like that. They go around acting like they’re as hard as nails, but deep down they’re always the biggest cowards.’ He shook his head. ‘Of course, a madman like me is usually enough to put the fear into anyone.’

  Tom stared at his feet and shuffled awkwardly.

  ‘Oh, I know what people say about me,’ said Mr Codling. ‘That I’m crazy as a cut snake. And maybe I am. During the war I saw things that would send anyone insane. But really, does that make me any madder than the world that those things happen in?’

  Fungus had been exchanging licks with his friend the billy goat, but now he padded over and sniffed Mr Codling’s hand. Mr Codling bent down and scratched Fungus behind the ears. And then, to Tom’s astonishment, his hollow cheeks swelled into a smile.

  ‘I had a dog just like this once,’ he said. ‘I always wanted another one, but dogs made my wife and boy cough like anything.’

  Tom stared at his feet again and thought about running away. He’d been so grateful to Mr Codling for standing up to Tank that he’d almost forgotten this madman had killed his own wife and son.

  ‘They had bad lungs, you see,’ said Mr Codling. He gazed into the sky, and his face suddenly seemed even more weathered than before. ‘The Spanish Flu got them in the end. Both died on the same day, would you believe?’

  The Spanish Flu! So Mr Codling hadn’t murdered his family after all. Suddenly Tom felt terrible for believing all the ridiculous stories people told about him. ‘Mr Codling?’ he said. ‘Would you like to keep an eye on Fungus when I’m at school on Monday? Mum hates having him at home during the day. She thinks he’s trying to dig a tunnel through to China in the garden bed.’

  Mr Codling smiled. ‘I’d like that. And I daresay Herbert would enjoy the company as well.’ He patted his goat affectionately.

  ‘Psst,’ hissed Frank from around the corner.

  ‘I’d better go now,’ said Tom. ‘Fungus and I are trying to save my house.’

  Mr Codling raised one bushy eyebrow. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Until Monday, then.’

  ‘Till Monday,’ said Tom. ‘I’ll drop Fungus around first thing.’

  As Tom pelted down the alley towards the hole in the fence, a nagging thought at the back of his mind told him that Mr Codling might be in for a disappointment. Because if Fungus didn’t win first prize at MacRobertson’s Dog Show, Tom might not even be here on Monday morning.

  13

  Fungus was grubbier than ever after his ordeal with the McGees, so Tom decided to dash home and give his dog a lightning-fast bath.

  ‘Meet you at the tram stop in half an hour,’ he said to the other Daredevils.

  ‘Right,’ said Frank. ‘And don’t be stingy with the soap. It’ll take a lot to get rid of the stink of Razor, I reckon.’

  As Tom rounded the corner of his street and saw a group of people gathered around a truck in front of his house, he realised something was wrong.

  Two burly-looking men were carrying Tom’s bed out into the street. Dot and Petey’s beds were already standing on the footpath along with a pile of clothes. Dad was waving his arms around and yelling at the men, while Mum stood to one side with her head down, gripping Dot and Petey’s hands. Ted Sullivan and his brothers were watch
ing the proceedings and shaking their heads, and as Tom got closer he saw the little figure of Mr Botherway darting about giving orders.

  There was no mistaking it – they were being evicted.

  ‘Where have you been?’ asked Mum as Tom and Fungus arrived.

  ‘Just out with Fungus,’ mumbled Tom. ‘So it’s really happening?’

  Mum chewed her lip. ‘It’s happening,’ she said. ‘The bailiffs are repossessing our house.’

  ‘Stealin’ it more like!’ yelled Dad.

  Tom couldn’t believe it had come to this. But there was still time for him to fix it. ‘It’s going to be fine, Mum,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back in a couple of hours with all the money we need.’

  Mum rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t be daft, Tom,’ she said.

  ‘No, honestly! I’m entering Fungus in the MacRobertson’s Dog Show.’

  ‘This isn’t the time for games.’

  ‘It’s not a game,’ said Tom. ‘First prize in the trick contest is ten pounds! And Fungus, he’s got this great trick where he –’

  ‘Just stop,’ said Mum. ‘Nan and Pop sent a telegram this morning saying they’re happy for you to live with them. They’ve already paid for your train fare, so you can leave for the Mallee tonight.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Quiet, Tom,’ said Mum sharply. ‘It’ll be over soon.’

  Tom could only bite his thumbnail as the bailiffs carried the family’s possessions out of the house and dumped them on the footpath. His parents’ wardrobe took its place next to Tom’s bed, followed by the sideboard, the kitchen table and even the stove. A larger crowd of neighbours was gathering now, their angry mutterings getting louder and louder.

  As the bailiffs leaned the Parkers’ kitchen clock up against the table, Tom realised that the Daredevils would already be at the tram stop. ‘Please, Mum!’ he begged. ‘The others are waiting for me.’

  ‘Tom, no!’ said Mum. ‘I’m sorry you haven’t seen your friends much this week, but it’s your own fault for fighting. You’ll just have to send them a letter to say goodbye.’

  One of the bailiffs dropped a pile of the Parkers’ things onto the gutter and began sorting through it. He picked up Dot’s shoebox dollhouse, tipped the clothespeg family out onto the ground, then crushed the box and tossed it over his shoulder. Dot started wailing.

  Ted Sullivan took one look at Dot crying and strode up to Mr Botherway. ‘Oi, mate,’ he said. ‘You can’t do this.’

  Mr Botherway glanced at Ted and gave one of his forced smiles. ‘I’m afraid we must, sir,’ he said. ‘The First Victorian Capital Bank takes the non-payment of debt very seriously.’

  ‘What about these poor kids?’ said Ted.

  ‘I’m afraid the children are neither a concern of mine nor the responsibility of the First Victorian Capital Bank,’ said Mr Botherway. ‘Now please stand aside so these men can finish their work.’

  ‘Bugger that,’ said Ted. He turned and whistled at his three brothers. ‘Lads! Help me get this lot back inside!’

  The Sullivan brothers each grabbed a leg of Tom’s bed. Then, to Tom’s astonishment, they heaved it onto their shoulders and manoeuvred it back through the front doorway of the house. A loud cheer went up from the other neighbours who were watching. The bailiffs exchanged a worried look while Mr Botherway spluttered with fury, his cheeks turning pink.

  ‘Stop that,’ he squeaked. ‘The board of directors will hear about this!’

  Dad rolled up his shirtsleeves. ‘Will they now? Then let me give you something else to tell your precious board about.’ He started striding purposefully towards Mr Botherway.

  Mr Botherway backed away from Dad. ‘Now, just relax, Mr Parker. You don’t want to do anything you might regret.’

  ‘Not again,’ said Mum. ‘Tom, keep an eye on these two, will you?’ She let go of Dot and Petey and hurried over to Dad, who was advancing on Mr Botherway like a tiger on a wounded antelope.

  More people had stopped to watch the commotion, cheering enthusiastically as the Sullivans heaved the Parkers’ heavy wardrobe onto their shoulders. Dot and Petey were busy watching Mum trying to reason with their angry father. For the moment, no one was taking any notice of  Tom.

  Moving slowly, Tom held Fungus by the scruff of the neck and backed away from his brother and sister. As he reached the edge of the circle of people, Dot turned and met his eyes. Tom winked at her and held a finger up to his lips. His sister put her arm around Petey and gave a small nod.

  Tom turned and pelted down the street with Fungus beside him, determined to save his family once and for all.

  14

  ‘What happened?’ said Frank, as Tom arrived at the tram stop with Fungus in tow. ‘We’re gonna be late.’

  ‘Got evicted,’ said Tom breathlessly.

  ‘Already?’ said Joan.

  ‘Yep. But we’ll fix it with that ten quid. Here comes the tram.’

  The electric tram car shuddered to a stop beside them, and the two ladies who were waiting beside the Daredevils climbed aboard. Tom was about to follow them on with Fungus when the conductor stepped into the doorway.

  ‘Oh no you don’t,’ the conductor said.

  ‘It’s all right sir,’ called Samson, jingling the change in his pocket. ‘We’ve got the fare.’

  The conductor adjusted the peak of his black cap. ‘That may very well be,’ he said, ‘but dogs aren’t allowed on the tram.’

  ‘Please, just this once?’ said Tom. ‘It’s really important.’

  ‘So is the cleanliness of my tram floor,’ said the conductor.

  ‘What if we pay double?’ asked Frank.

  The conductor’s eyes lit up. ‘In that case –’ he began. Then he looked at the Daredevils closely and a frown crept onto his face. ‘Say, aren’t you the cheeky little sods who are always messing about with sardine tins on the Gertrude Street cable?’

  ‘Er . . . no?’ said Frank.

  The conductor narrowed his eyes. ‘Oh yes you bloomin’ are,’ he said, stepping back inside the tram. ‘Have a nice walk!’ He gave them a wave as the tram took off with a cheery ding.

  ‘Dirty grub!’ called Frank after the tram. ‘What now?’

  Tom was already tightening his shoelaces. ‘Now we run.’

  So the Daredevils bolted north along Brunswick Street, past Dr Harcoff’s Wine Shop, a row of pawn shops and the boxing stadium, which in a few hours would be filled with fans howling for blood. The post office, the Provincial Hotel and a greengrocer’s barrow passed by in a blur, and a few hundred yards later they were over Reilly Street and into North Fitzroy. Here the streets were a little bit wider, the houses were a little bit bigger, and the men’s coats were a bit less frayed at the edges.

  The gang curved around the football ground and on past the neat bowling greens to the Edinburgh Gardens, where a grassy area behind the band rotunda was fenced off by low ropes to form a large dog ring. A bold crimson-and-gold MacRobertson’s banner fluttered above it, and hundreds of people were milling around waiting for the competition to start.

  Yapping and squirming between them were masses of dogs – fluffy white terriers, poodles with ridiculous haircuts, and spotted Dalmatians that reminded Tom of raisin puddings on legs. There were German shepherds, labradors, cattle dogs and Saint Bernards, and even a team of grey-and-white wolf-like dogs pulling a cart full of squealing children.

  ‘Whew!’ said Samson, wiping the sweat from his forehead and panting even more than the bulldogs. ‘We made it!’

  As the Daredevils wound through the crowd, Tom noticed a lot of the dog owners seemed to have come from the toffier parts of Melbourne. The men were dressed in smart suits with shiny shoes, while the women wore expensive-looking dresses and velvety hats. Tom wondered what they thought of the shabbily dressed locals that had turned up to watch the show.

  They passed a sweets-tasting tent, where dozens of children (and plenty of adults) were lining up to try MacRobertson’s latest creations. Frank stopped and ga
zed at the trays of brightly coloured lollies on offer. ‘Um . . . you don’t need us for a few minutes, do you, Tom?’ he said.

  Tom grinned. ‘No, go on,’ he said. ‘I’ll catch up with you lot once I’ve entered Fungus properly.’

  ‘Beauty!’ said Frank. ‘I wonder if they’ve got raspberry nougat?’ He disappeared inside the tasting tent with Joan and Samson close behind.

  Tom fought his way through the mass of dogs and people to a small table beneath a sign that said ‘Registration’. A young man in a tweed jacket sat behind it sorting a pile of papers. He had so much ointment in his hair that Tom could almost see his reflection in it.

  Tom lifted Fungus up and plonked him on the table. ‘I’d like to enter my dog in the trick contest, please,’ he said.

  Ointment Head glanced at Fungus and wrinkled up his nose. He took a pocket watch out of his jacket. ‘I’m afraid you’re too late,’ he said. ‘Registration closed at two o’clock, which was precisely six minutes ago.’

  ‘But – surely six minutes doesn’t make a difference?’ said Tom. ‘I’ve got the money right here!’ He pulled the three shilling coins from his pocket and held them out.

  Ointment Head looked down at the coins in Tom’s grubby hand. ‘Rules are rules,’ he said, shuffling his papers into a neat stack and standing up. ‘I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait until next year. Good day!’

  Tom couldn’t believe it. After everything the Daredevils had gone through to get here, they had missed out by six lousy minutes. Tears of frustration prickled at the backs of his eyes.

  ‘Just a moment please,’ said a voice.

  Tom looked up to see a dignified-looking old gentleman beside him. He had a bushy white moustache and was wearing a spotless suit and brimmed white hat that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a sheriff in the Wild West. Tom was sure he’d seen him somewhere before.

  The old gent smiled at Tom and turned to the man behind the desk. ‘Is there any way you could make an exception for this young fellow?’ he asked. ‘It’s only a few minutes, after all.’