by Tim Winton
Under his breath he said a prayer. He didn’t know what else to do anymore.
ith the rain still driving into their eyes and the wind in their teeth, Lockie and Phillip and Blob came up the flooded driveway and the baby pusher lurched through the mud like an amphibious assault vehicle. Lockie felt the water pouring out of his ears as he shoved the stroller along to keep it from bogging. He hardly felt a thing now. He was numb with cold and blank with desperation. This, he thought, is the absolute lowest point of my life.
He was at the verandah steps before he saw the figure hunched beside the front door. A raincoat. Someone bending at the doorstep with their back turned. The person straightened up. A check teatowel hung from one hand. A yellow raincoat with a yellow hood. When she turned around it took Lockie a few seconds to realise who it was up there at his front door. The rain was in his eyes and the hood of the raincoat made it hard to see properly, but it was her alright. He knew those green eyes anywhere. He stood there, sinking in the mud, stunned.
‘Hello, Lockie Leonard.’
‘Vicki?’
There was a big saucepan on the doorstep.
‘What’re we doin here?’ said Phillip. ‘Playin’ statues in the rain? Lockie, pick up your end of this thing, willya?’
Lockie stood there a moment longer. A great drop of rain hung off the tip of his nose. He went cross-eyed to watch it hang and lengthen and then kamikaze into the mud. Phillip kicked his shin, so he bent down and helped him haul the pusher up the steps to the shelter of the verandah.
‘You caught me by surprise,’ said Vicki Streeton, pulling off her plastic hood. All that kinky brown hair fell free and Lockie’s pulse went spazzo. ‘I didn’t hear you coming.’
‘So,’ said Phillip, ‘it’s you leaving the grub. You’re our guardian angel.’
Vicki smiled nervously and blushed five kinds of crimson.
Phillip went straight to the saucepan on the step. ‘Cor! Meatballs!’
Lockie just stared helplessly.
‘You’d better come inside,’ said Phillip.
‘I think I should just go,’ said Vicki, looking at Lockie with those big green eyes.
‘Don’t be a dork,’ said Phillip. ‘It’s cattin’ and doggin’ out there.’
Lockie chewed his lip and managed a nod.
‘Okay. Just for a sec’
So Phillip picked up the meatballs, Lockie took Blob and Vicki embarrassed them all by picking up their drenched groceries and they all went inside in an awkward convoy. Lockie wished there was some secret trap door he could slip into and simply disappear.
When Lockie came back into the kitchen all dry and changed with Blob on his hip, he found Vicki making everyone steaming mugs of Milo. Lockie felt all torn up inside, thinking one thing but feeling something entirely different. He could see Vicki was trying to be kind but it was dead embarrassing. It made him feel like a geek, as though he was too stupid to look after his own problems.
‘I just found the stuff and thought—’
‘Uh-huh,’ Lockie mumbled ungratefully.
‘I didn’t mean to take over or anything.’
Lockie wanted to tell her it was okay, that it was great to see her, that he really appreciated her kindness but all he could do was shrug.
Vicki bit her lip and pushed a mug towards him. Phillip came out wearing his pyjamas.
‘Don’t laugh. Everything else is wet or dirty. It’s a disaster area around here. Ah, Milo. Cool. Thanks, Vicki.’
‘You’re welcome, Phillip.’
Lockie gave Blob a hunk of bread and let her grovel about on the floor for a while.
‘So.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Hmm.’
Lockie drank his Milo. His hands were shaking. It was unbelievable. Vicki was in his house and he couldn’t think of one halfway intelligent thing to say. He sipped at his Milo and snuck a glance at her now and then. She was just the same. Kinky brown hair, those eyes. With her raincoat off he saw that she wore an old pair of Levi’s with the knees knocked out, a pair of Docs on her turned out feet and a sloppy grey pullover. She looked senSATIONAL. It gave him a headache just to look.
‘It’s, ah . . . it’s . . . ’
‘He means it’s really nice of you,’ said Phillip blushing.
‘Well, it’s just Milo.’
‘He means everything else. The food on the doorstep all the time. See, we’ve still got all the pots and pans. Didn’t know who to give ’em back to.’
‘My oldies think someone’s stealing it all. The Angelus Casserole Bandit.’
‘She’s an angel, Lockie. Aren’t you glad you kept her photo all this time?’
‘Go watch TV, Phillip.’
‘So you can get rid of me?’
‘Phillip.’
‘I’m not gonna miss this.’
‘Miss what?’ said Lockie through his teeth, growling like a bull terrier.
‘You two, stupid.’ Phillip’s eyebrows went up and down. ‘Like old times, eh.’
Lockie just died. He looked for a handy bit of kitchenware to brain him with but there was nothing lethal enough close by.
‘Okay, okay,’ said Phillip. ‘I’ll go, Romeo.’
Lockie lunged at him.
‘My life as a middle child, Vicki,’ said Phillip heading for the door. ‘It’s left me damaged!’
‘Yeah, brain damaged!’ yelled Lockie after him.
Vicki laughed. ‘Gee, he’s really grown since last year.’
Lockie nodded, trying to cool off. ‘Well, we’ve all had to grow up since last year.’
‘Ain’t that the truth. Anyway, it must be really tough for you.’
Lockie shrugged.
‘Look, I’d better go. Looks like the rain’s easing.’
Don’t go, he thought. Don’t go now. Look at me, the smoking ruins of your old boyfriend. You dump me for some bloke with a driver’s licence and then come back making charitable handouts. I’ve gone from being your boyfriend to your little brother or something. Me heart’s all over the floor like a 500 piece puzzle. Look, I’ve got nappy pins in me shirt. You just feel sorry for me and it’s so humiliating.
‘I’ve been watching you go through this, Lockie,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I think you’re doing an awesome job of it. I really admire that.’
‘Yeah, sure.’ As if.
‘I think you’re a total legend. Even if you do hate my guts.’
Lockie didn’t say a thing. He just wasn’t capable. He knew what an ungrateful pig he was and he just watched as that beautiful creature pulled on her raincoat, grabbed up her pots and pans and clattered out into the weird world without him.
Aaaaarrrrrrggggggghhhh!
ockie lay all evening on his bed. He listened to Soundgarden and silverchair for a while and sank deeper into his own misery. He used to dream about a day like today. Vicki showing up at his door. Geez, for months after they broke up he would have paid lunch money to get within spitting distance of her. He used to plan the speeches he would make, the tragic figure he’d be: the misunderstood bloke. But now that it had finally happened he was a mess.
The Sarge appeared and leant against the doorframe. ‘So we ID’d the guardian angel, I hear.’
Lockie shrugged.
‘Phillip’s rather browned off at you. Reckons you weren’t real friendly to her. Says you’re jeopardising his new food supply.’
Trust him to think of his guts first,’ Lockie murmured. ‘Stupid little idiot.’
‘What’s the problem?’
Lockie shrugged.
‘Saw your mum after work. She’s good today. I think she’s making real progress.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Well, don’t get too excited,’ said the Sarge, a bit hurt.
‘Just leave me alone, willya?’
Lockie stared at the ceiling. The Sarge gave up with a sigh and went to bed.
Phillip came in and climbed into his PJs.
�
��Turn the light out, Lockie. I wanna go to sleep.’
Lockie heard him over the hiss and crash of the Walkman but he didn’t move a hair.
‘Fine, dorkbreath,’ said Phillip snatching up his pillow and quilt. ‘I’ll sleep on the sofa. I bet you’ll take up golf, next.’
Lockie lay there half the night thinking about Vicki Streeton. He knew he should be happy and grateful that someone had cared enough to help out. But her, the girl who dumped him in front of the whole school. It was too humiliating taking charity from your own executioner. He supposed he should be flattered that she cared about him and his family. After all, last year he’d loved her till his toenails ached. Just the idea of her had made his ears twitch and his hair crackle with electricity. Even after it was all over a hot tremor went through him at the sound of her name. He couldn’t ride past her old man’s car yard without a shiver of longing. There was something special about her, something that set her apart from other girls. The rest just seemed like . . . like schoolgirls. Vicki was already a woman somehow. She was so strong and self-possessed. She made him feel like a snail in a borrowed shell with a cheap paintjob. He would never match up to her. And now this. Having her come around playing Mother Teresa. It made him angry. Like she was rubbing his nose in his own snail trail. It chewed at him, that anger, and he didn’t even understand it. He lay there burning hour after hour. Lockie Leonard, Angry Snail.
In the morning Lockie woke late. The Sarge had gone to work and Phillip came in to rip the blankets back and snap the curtains aside.
The first thing Lockie saw was Phillip’s hair.
‘What the hell have you done to yourself?’
Phillip hoisted Blob onto the bed. She stank like a compost heap. Phillip ruffled his hair and looked at it in the mirror. It was crimson. Stark raving crimson.
‘It’s my protest, Lockie.’
‘What protest?’
‘About you being a butthead to Vicki and all of us. I saw what you did to her yesterday. She went home bawling, if you care to know. You made a complete turd of yourself and we’re real embarrassed. So, two can play that game—’
‘What’s that got to do with crimson hair?’
‘You’ll see. I found this stuff in the bathroom. Hawaiian Sunset. Reckon it suits me.’
‘You look like a safety match, you ignoramus.’
‘Do you hate it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does it really, really annoy you?’
‘Got it perfectly.’
‘Does it bring shame and embarrassment to your name?’
‘That covers it. Yeah.’
Phillip beamed. ‘Brilliant. Most excellent, dear butthead brother. You can suck eggs till you start being nice to Vicki. The Hawaiian Sunset stays.’
‘Whatever you say, Phillip.’
Phillip called it civil disobedience. Lockie had other words for it.
Lockie was loading disinfected nappies into the washing machine when he heard a familiar whistle. He looked out through the laundry window and saw Phillip running out to the back shed. He disappeared around the corner in a horrible crimson flash and came back a minute later with a casserole dish wrapped in a teatowel. A second later, Lockie caught a glimpse of Vicki Streeton heading out through the marshy grass towards the road.
He wiped his stinging hands and headed for the kitchen.
‘Apricot chicken!’ yelled Phillip. ‘Yee-har, pardners!’
Lockie stood there, scowling.
‘Don’t worry, she’s gone. She doesn’t wanna hurt your feelings. Poor sensitive thing.’
‘Shut up, Phillip.’
‘Shh! Blob’s asleep, you know.’
The phone rang. It was the Sarge.
‘Wingnut’ll be over in a minute to take you to the hospital. Everything okay there?’
‘So-so.’
‘Lockie?’
‘What.’
‘Try not to make a butthead of yourself today. At home and the hospital. Everyone else has feelings, too, you know. Get your act together, alright?’
Ouch.
ockie looked around the hospital room trying to see what it was that was wrong about it.
‘It’s Julia,’ said Mrs Leonard. ‘The girl with anorexia. They’ve taken her to Perth.’
‘Oh. Will she be alright?’
‘No.’
‘Geez.’ Lockie looked at his cracked and peeling hands. They hurt now every time he opened or closed them.
‘That’s dermatitis you’ve got, Lockie. Too much detergent. You’ll have to start wearing rubber gloves when you wash.’
Lockie sighed. Rubber gloves. You beaut. My life’s complete.
‘What’s the matter?’ she murmured.
‘Nothin’.’
‘You look terrible.’
‘I am terrible. Vicki Streeton keeps coming round. Makes me wild.’
‘Ah.’
‘She keeps bringing food around.’
‘Hmm. I see what you mean. That’s bad.’
Lockie looked at her. There was a bit of a smile on her chapped lips.
‘What?’
‘You tell me, Lockie.’
‘I can’t stand it.’
‘A while ago you were so in love with that girl you were a fire risk.’
‘Yeah, well’
‘I know, she dumped you. The whole town knows that.’
‘Well,’ he admitted, ‘it wasn’t that simple.’
‘And here she is next summer bringing around Spaghetti Bolognese, your favourite. That’s pretty tough.’ She grinned at him.
‘Whose side are you on?’
‘Well, you could show a bit of kindness. I happen to know she’s had a pretty rough time of it the past few months.’
‘What, cruising around in souped-up cars? Man, that’s hard labour.’
‘I think you’ll find she’s been hurt badly. And you know how people talk in this town.’
‘Well, maybe she had it coming.’
‘Don’t talk like that.’
‘Sorry.’ He was sounding like a pig and he knew it. ‘I just wish she’d keep her charity to herself.’
‘A girl shows a bit of concern and you’re angry. When you need all the help you can get and your family is struggling—’
‘We’re not struggling. We’re perfectly fine.’
‘Gawd, Lockie, I’m depressed, not stupid. I can see you all traipsing in here looking like zombies every day. Your poor father looks like the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.’
‘Who’s Edmund Fitzgerald?’
‘It’s an old song, forget it. The point is I know everyone is under a terrible strain. I feel rotten about it. I know you’re all trying to keep it from me so I won’t feel worse than I already do but I can see it in your faces. I know I should be home. I want to be home. I’ve got kids. I’ve got my little baby girl at home without a mother.’
She was crying now and Lockie got panicky. Man, this was getting out of hand. It was too hard. He wanted to run off and talk to Monster, someone mad enough not to know what was going on at all.
She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and sniffed. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be sorry.’
‘I’m scaring you off.’
‘No,’ he lied.
‘Oh, God. All I’m saying is, don’t throw someone’s kindness back in their face. Why would anyone knock back some help?’
‘Because I’ve got some pride left, Mum.’
‘Hmm.’ Mrs Leonard wiggled her feet in their sheepskin boots. Her shins looked pale and skinny. ‘Pride.’
‘Oh, man, now everyone’s off at me.’
‘It takes real guts to do what Vicki did. A lot of people would be too up themselves to bother. I like her. She’s got real spirit.’
‘Oh, great.’
‘Yeah,’ said Mrs Leonard. ‘She reminds me of you.’
hat afternoon Lockie had to collect his textbooks for the new school year. He pushed Blob and dragged Phillip all the way up the hill
to the dreary old hulk of the high school and stood in line at the bookshop with fifty others. Some kids came with their parents, awkward and nervous. Year Eights. First years. They looked too young for high school. Did he look that green last year? Surely not. What a nasty thought.
There were others he knew, kids ahead of him or behind in the queue or just hanging around with skateboards and blades and bikes. And there he was with a baby stroller and his crimson-headed little brother. Death!
‘Oi, Lockie!’ someone called out from the balcony. ‘Haven’t you and Vicki heard of contraception?’
A ripple of laughter went down the line of bored kids. Even Phillip laughed. Lockie could have throttled him. He blushed until his cheeks matched Phillip’s hair. Hawaiian Sunset to the max.
‘Can’t wait to get to high school,’ said Phillip.
‘You must be joking.’
‘No way. Look at these chicks. They’re so . . . developed.’
‘Oh, spare me, willya.’
‘I think Pve grown hormones. Man, look at that.’
Lockie looked around. There were some great-looking females, he had to admit. Hair like fairy floss. Legs and bums and lips and chins and . . . oh, man. But there was also the rest of it. The maudlin shadows of the building. The stink of squashed bananas and the sweet smell of urinals were still potent after six weeks’ break. All the closed doors like eyelids. The dead echoes of the joint. Lockie sure as hell didn’t look forward to another year of it. There’d always be some wacker yelling from the balcony. He couldn’t wait.
Lockie got to the head of the line eventually and collected his parcel of books: New Geography, New Intermediate Maths (revised), Science: a fresh look, New Ways of Seeing II. Everything was New and Improved. It was like grocery shopping. He half expected to see algebra in Economy Size. Or a Family Pack of William Shakespeare.