‘Come on,’ says Jen.
He turns and allows her to lead him away to the drinks table, his arm around her waist.
I think he’ll get over it.
‘I knew it was you,’ says Danny. ‘I wasn’t fooled for a second. I just asked you to dance for a laugh.’
I look up.
Lisa Mackney is looking down at me.
‘I can explain,’ I say.
‘Go ahead,’ she says.
‘Um . . . er . . . I . . . ah . . . um . . .’
‘You could always try telling the truth,’ she suggests.
She’s right. I never thought of that.
‘Um—the truth is that I’m very immature for my age.’
‘I know,’ she says. ‘And you know what else?’
‘What?’ I say.
‘You have terrible taste in underpants.’
put my suitcase on top of the bed, flick the locks open and lift up the lid.
He’s lying there. Staring. He never stops. He’s been staring at me day and night since I took him from Mrs Scott’s garden a few days ago.
Hands on hips. Little fat belly sticking out of his shirt. And the strangest expression on his face. It could be a smile. It could be a grimace. It’s hard to tell.
All I know is that he’s not like the other gnomes.
Each year when I come to Mildura to visit my grandparents I borrow one of the gnomes from Mrs Scott’s garden and bring it with me. I take a photograph of the gnome and send it to Mrs Scott with a little message on the back saying, ‘Having a great time! Wish you were here. Love, Gnome.’
When I get home mom the holiday I put the gnome back in her garden—exactly where it was before—and leave Mrs Scott to figure out how on earth a garden gnome manages to travel five hundred kilometres north all by itself.
Sometimes I give them to Danny and other friends to take away as well. In a good year Mrs Scott’s gnomes send her postcards from all around Australia.
I don’t just do it for Mrs Scott’s benefit, though. I also do it because I think it’s a nice thing to do for the gnomes. It must be pretty boring just standing in the same spot in the same garden day after day.
They’ve always looked pretty happy to escape. Until now.
I take the gnome out of the case and lay him on the bed. I rummage through my clothes to find my shorts. I undo the top button of my jeans and unzip my fly. I stop. The gnome is still staring. I turn him over so that he’s face down on the bed.
I know it’s stupid to be embarrassed about getting changed in front of a concrete gnome but it just doesn’t feel right—not the way this gnome stares.
A loud whining noise comes from the backyard.
I go outside.
Grandpa is standing next to what looks like a mini rocket launcher.
‘Hey, Andy!’ he calls. ‘Come and see my new mulcher.’
Every time I visit, Grandpa’s got some new garden machine or gadget. His shed looks like a garden supplies warehouse.
‘It can chew anything,’ he says. ‘Watch!’
He picks up a branch thicker than his arm. He flicks the switch and the engine roars into action. Grandpa shoves the branch into the blades. There’s a high-pitched whining noise. An explosion of sawdust from the exit chute. No more branch.
‘Isn’t she great?’ says Grandpa. His red face is beaming with pride. ‘Want a try?’
‘Yeah,’ I say.
He hands me a branch. Grey knotty and gnarled. I jab the end into the blades. It makes a slight whining noise. I pull back.
‘Don’t be shy,’ says Grandpa. ‘Push like you mean it.’
I push the branch in hard. Whine, spit, puff! Gone.
‘Want to do another?’ he says, beaming.
‘Yeah,’ I say.
Grandpa hands me another branch. I push it in. Gone! He hands me another. Gone! And another. Gone!
Granny sticks her head out of the window.
‘There’ll be nothing left in the backyard if you carry on at that rate,’ she says. ‘Why don’t you go to the pool, Andy?’
It’s not a bad idea. Grandpa’s mulcher is fun, but it’s hot work.
‘Okay, Gran,’ I say. ‘Can we do some more later, Grandpa?’
‘Yes,’ he chuckles. ‘I’ll cut down another tree. That should keep us going.’
I go back to my bedroom to get my towel.
The gnome is lying on top of the bed.
But not face down like I left him. He’s face up. Staring.
That’s weird.
But hang on. My case, which was open, has been closed and placed neatly at the foot of the bed. Granny must have come into the room while I was outside and straightened things up.
But the gnome is starting to freak me out. I’m going to take the photograph, then wrap him up and try to forget about him so that I can enjoy the rest of my holiday.
I grab my boardshorts, my camera, the gnome and head for the pool.
There’s heaps of people at the swimming pool.
The diving tower is working overtime. Dives, bombs, bellywhacks, screams . . .
Hey! I could set the gnome up on the edge of one of the diving boards. It would make a cool photo.
I wonder if it’s against the pool rules?
There’s a sign forbidding everything else: no running, no jumping, no horseplay. It doesn’t say anything about gnomes, though.
I join the top tower ladder queue. I’m holding the gnome in one hand and have my camera over my shoulder.
I hear laughter behind me. I turn around.
Two big guys are smirking.
‘Got your gnome, have ya?’
They crack up laughing.
‘Yeah,’ I say.
‘Or is it your little brother?’ says one.
‘Nah, couldn’t be,’ says the other. ‘It’s too good looking.’
This cracks them up again. I ignore them. I put my hand on the thin steel of the ladder and pull myself up. My hand is shaking.
I have to admit that I’m not really a top-tower sort of guy. I’m more of a bottom-runger. I usually just put my foot on the first step of the ladder and then take it off again and go and play in the toddlers’ pool. I don’t really cope with heights very well. But the smirking guys are behind me. I can’t back out now. And besides, I want that photograph.
My knuckles whiten as I climb. My knees feel weak, like they’ll cave in if I put too much pressure on them.
Finally I reach the platform. It’s so high I can practically see the whole town.
The girl in front of me runs along the plank and then pin drops to the water below. She screams the whole way down. It’s horrible.
Now it’s just me and the smirkers.
‘Can you give me a second?’ I say. ‘I need to take a picture.’
I tiptoe out as far along the plank as I dare. I feel sick. I set the gnome up on the end. It’s facing back towards the tower.
I return to the platform. I kneel down and point my camera at the gnome. I can hardly hold the camera still enough to take the photo.
‘Smile,’ says one of the smirkers.
‘He looks like he’s in pain,’ says the other.
‘Maybe his pants are too tight.’
They crack up laughing again. Maybe their pants are too tight.
I take a few shots and tiptoe back out onto the plank to retrieve my gnome. I crouch down to pick him up. I’m trying not to look at the pool below in case I get any more dizzy than I already am. I place my hand on his hat. As I stand up he seems to jump.
I lose my balance and slip. I grab the end of the diving board. I’m hanging by one hand. The gnome has fallen over onto his side. His head is sticking over the edge of the board. Staring at me. But it’s not a look of pain on his face any more. That’s a smile.
I’m slipping. I’m only holding on by two fingers.
Oops.
Make that one finger.
I can’t hold on any more. I’m falling. I hit the water belly f
irst. But I’m alive. I push my way back up to the surface. Spitting and choking.
I look back up at the board.
The gnome is plummeting towards me. He’s not content with making me fall, now he’s trying to knock me out. He wants to drown me.
WHOOOMP!
The gnome does a fantastic pin drop into the centre of the pool and sinks straight to the bottom.
A woman starts screaming and pointing at me.
‘Guard! A small child has fallen into the pool!’
‘I’m not that small,’ I call.
The guard dives into the pool. But he doesn’t try to save me. He dives down to the bottom of the pool and emerges with the gnome in his hand.
He is not happy.
‘Is this yours?’ he says.
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Would you mind explaining what he’s doing in here?’
‘Swimming?’ I say.
‘Do you realise that garden gnomes are banned from the pool?’ he says.
‘It doesn’t say that on the sign,’ I say.
‘It shouldn’t have to,’ he says. ‘It should be obvious.’
He hands it back to me.
‘Get rid of it.’
The smirkers are laughing as I leave.
Maybe this whole thing was their fault. Maybe I fell off the board because they bounced on it while I was trying to get the gnome. Maybe it was them who kicked it off afterwards. Maybe I’m just being paranoid.
Maybe.
I’m lying in bed.
The night is still and hot.
I can’t sleep.
I hear the high-pitched whine of an approaching mosquito. I wait until it gets really loud. It stops. I can feel it on my forehead. I bring my hand up slowly. I whack my head with my open palm. The whining starts up again as the mosquito retreats to the roof. Just like the other forty times.
I can’t stop thinking about the gnome.
Before I went to bed I wrapped him in a plastic bag and fastened it with fat rubber bands. I buried him down the bottom of my case under all my clothes. I locked the case and pushed it under the bed.
He would have to be Houdini to get out of there.
But I’m still scared.
He tried to kill me this afternoon. I think. In fact I’m positive. Sort of.
I hear a noise.
It sounds like somebody knocking.
‘Come in,’ I call.
But nobody comes.
I hear the knocking again. I get out of bed and open the door. Nobody there. Am I going mad?
I get back into bed.
More knocking.
It’s not the door at all.
It’s coming from under the bed.
I hear the locks of the suitcase click open.
I can’t believe it.
This is crazy.
A concrete garden gnome wrapped in plastic secured by fat rubber bands cannot open a suitcase. Especially not from the inside.
I close my eyes and try to go back to sleep.
But I can’t sleep.
I hear rustling.
This is ridiculous.
I grab my torch and jump out of bed. I shine the torch under the bed at my case. It’s locked. I knew I was imagining it. I just had to check.
I switch off the torch and get back into bed.
I turn onto my side and try to relax.
I’m just on the edge of falling asleep when I hear the mosquito.
I swipe at it. Miss. It returns. I swipe again. The back of my hand hits something hard under the sheet. I pull the sheet back. It’s the gnome. Lying on his side. Staring at me.
I grab him and throw him against the wall with super-human strength.
The gnome bounces off the wall and lands back on the bed.
I pick him up again and throw him even harder.
This time he doesn’t return.
I grab my torch and shine it at the floor.
The gnome is broken in two. His head has come off his body. I pick up the two pieces. I take them to the back door and throw them as far away from the house as I can.
I go back to bed.
The nightmare is over.
The next morning I get up and go to the kitchen.
Grandpa is sitting at the kitchen table with his back to me.
‘Morning, Grandpa,’ I call.
‘Good morning, Andy,’ he says. ‘I found your friend in the backyard.’
‘Huh?’ I say.
Grandpa turns around.
In his hand is the gnome. He has glued the head back onto the body.
A huge jagged crack runs from shoulder to shoulder. He looks even uglier than before.
‘Gee, thanks, Grandpa.’
‘That’s alright, son,’ he says. Have an accident, did ya?’
‘Ah, yeah, you could say that.’
‘You must be really attached to that gnome,’ says Grandpa, ‘to bring him all this way.’
‘Ah, yeah, you could say that, too,’ I say. It’s late afternoon. Grandma and Grandpa have gone out. I’m home alone. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for.
I pick up the gnome by his hat, hold him at arm’s length and take him out to the backyard.
I’ve got a little job for Grandpa’s mulcher.
I flick the switch. The engine roars. The mulcher is hungry—ready for action.
I pause.
What am I doing?! I am about to throw a garden gnome into a garden mulcher. The gnome is not smiling now. He’s looking up at me with big pleading eyes like an innocent child. But this is just part of his evil magic. He is not a child. And he is definitely not innocent.
I push him into the mulcher.
He flies straight back out. The gnome is lying on the ground grinning at me. His two painted eyes are cold and black.
There is no doubt. The gnome is a killer. It’s either him or me. I pick him up again.
‘Say your prayers,’ I tell him.
I drop him into the top and use a tree branch to force him into the blades.
The blades whine. Or is that the gnome screaming?
The mulcher coughs out an enormous wad of dust and propels coloured shrapnel into the air.
I flick the switch off.
All is silent.
I lean on the mulcher. Panting. Waiting. Half expecting the gnome dust to reassemble itself and come at me.
But nothing happens.
I have saved the world from the evil gnome. Not that anybody will ever know. I hate that. You do this brave heroic thing and you can’t tell anybody because if you do they’ll think you’re crazy.
I go back inside.
Grandma and Grandpa are home.
‘Are you feeling alright?’ says Granny. ‘You look a bit pale.’
‘I’m okay,’ I say. ‘Just a bit tired—I’m going to lie down.’
I push open the door of my bedroom.
I scream.
The gnome is lying on top of the bed. Staring straight at me. Grinning. He has reassembled himself. Payback time. The room starts spinning and I fall to the floor.
Grandma and Grandpa rush in.
‘Andy!’ says Granny. ‘What’s the matter?’
I’m trying to tell them, but nothing is coming out. I just open and shut my mouth like a fish out of water. I point at the gnome. My hand is shaking.
‘The gnome,’ I whisper. ‘The gnome . . .’
‘Do you like it?’ says Grandpa, helping me up. ‘We found it at the market. It’s exactly the same as your other one—only without a broken neck. Thought it might cheer you up.’
‘It’s not the same gnome?’
‘No, of course not,’ says Granny. ‘But it’s almost identical. We thought you’d like it.’
‘I do! I do!’ I say. ‘I love it!’
I pick it up, cuddle it and give it a big kiss.
Granny and Grandpa smile, pleased with their work. They leave.
I place the gnome back on the bed. I’m not taking my eyes off him for a m
oment. But nothing happens.
I kneel down and put my face close to his.
‘Any funny stuff and it’s Grandpa’s mulcher . . . just like your friend. Got it?’
The gnome just stares.
And smiles.
Well, it could be a smile. It could be a grimace. It’s hard to tell.
omorrow is our school sports carnival. I don’t want to go. Not because I’m not good at sport. I can run faster, jump higher and throw stuff further than anybody in the school, but I don’t like to do it. It would be boring with me just winning everything all day long. I like to give the other kids a chance. That’s just the sort of thoughtful person I am.
But try telling that to my Mum. She has this crazy idea that I don’t like sport and that I try to get out of it whenever I can.
That’s why I’ve brought Fred home. Fred’s my imaginary friend. I’m going to tell Mum he’s sick and that I have to stay home from school to look after him. It can’t fail. Either she’ll think that I’m going crazy and keep me home from school, or she’ll be sucked in and let me stay home to look after Fred. I can’t lose.
I open the back door and drop my bag on the laundry floor.
‘Mum?’ I call.
I’m in here,’ she says.
I find her in the kitchen. She’s chopping onions.
‘Mum, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine. His name is Fred.’
‘But there’s nobody there,’ says Mum.
‘Don’t be like that,’ I say. ‘You’ll hurt his feelings.’
Mum frowns.
‘Are you feeling alright?’
‘Who are you asking,’ I say. ‘Me or Fred?’
‘You,’ she says.
‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘It’s Fred who is not feeling so good. He’s got a stomach ache. He wants to know if I can stay home from school tomorrow to look after him.’
I pretend to help Fred over to a chair. I go to the sink, run a sponge under cold water and then mop Fred’s brow with it. Mum is watching me with a frown.
Just Annoying! Page 3