Young Ponytail regards me with a grin. ‘I know the story,’ he says. ‘I know what you did.’
How does he know? I’ve never told anybody. I hang my head with shame and my mind goes back seven years.
2
Mrs Hardbristle sniffed. ‘We have to get out of here,’ she said. ‘Fast.’
I was only six at the time but I will never forget it. I was with Mrs Hardbristle and her little Brownie pack. She looked at us all and then at her husband. ‘Mr Hardbristle,’ she said. ‘There is a bushfire. We have to get back to town.’
Mr Hardbristle had come along to ‘look after us’, but that was a bit of a joke really. He was all bent over and weak and could hardly keep up with us. He was much older than Mrs Hardbristle.
Some of the girls started to cry as wisps of smoke drifted through the dry bush. Even though we were young, we could imagine the cruel flames and blinding smoke that would soon engulf the very spot where we were standing.
We set off as fast as we could. ‘Leave me,’ yelled Mr Hardbristle. ‘Get the girls to safety.’ He puffed and wheezed as he followed along behind.
‘Nonsense,’ said his wife. She put one of his arms over her shoulder and dragged him behind her like a sack. She was strong, was Mrs Hardbristle. A strong woman.
Twigs crackled under our feet. The hot sun scorched our backs. A kangaroo bounded away in fright, desperately trying to escape the flames. Before long the air was filled with smoke. We started to cough and cry. ‘Keep going, girls,’ ordered Mrs Hardbristle between gasps. ‘Keep going.’ She was starting to tire. It was too much really, dragging the old man along behind her.
‘Don’t stop, Brownies,’ she shouted.
And we didn’t. Somehow or other we all stumbled through the forest until we reached town. I say town, but it only had six shops and a pub and about twenty houses. I was hoping to see my father there waiting with the car. But there was no one. The dusty street was empty. Not a car. Not a person.
Mrs Hardbristle gently put her husband down in the shade. ‘The fire is going to take out the town,’ she said. ‘Girls, into the middle of the square.’
There was a little grassy patch in the middle of the street with a picnic table there. She ran into the general store and came back with a spade and a large blanket. Without a word she started to dig. Mr Hardbristle tried to help but he was too weak.
Smoke swirled in the air. We could hear the flames now. Crackling in the surrounding forest. The sun was blotted out by smoke. The Brownies’ faces were black except for the little rivers made by their tears.
On dug Mrs Hardbristle. On and on and on. The hole became deeper. Sweat poured down her forehead. Her uniform was filthy with dry soil and smoke. The heat was terrible. Suddenly the fire was upon us. The general store exploded like a bomb. Flames ate into the walls.
Mrs Hardbristle stopped digging. ‘Get in,’ she said. She helped her husband into the hole and I climbed in with the other three Brownies. We felt the blanket placed over our heads. Everything went dark. Suddenly we were wet. She was pouring water over the blanket.
Poor old Mr Hardbristle was worried about his wife. ‘Get in, get in,’ he croaked at her.
‘I’ll be all right,’ we heard Mrs Hardbristle say. ‘You look after the girls.’
We felt the fire roar past. Its heat stifled us. Its smoke choked us. But its flames did not claim us. We survived.
When we climbed out the town had gone. Not a building was left. Smoke drifted slowly up from charred timber and twisted tin. Just by the hole we found Mrs Hardbristle. Stretched out. Not burnt but suffocated by the smoke. She had saved us all. And had lost her own life. Mr Hardbristle knelt over the still body of his wife and let the silent tears melt into his beard. His shoulders shook in wordless grief.
Mrs Hardbristle was a heroine. She had saved us from the flames and given up her own life. Our parents were so grateful. They said that they would never forget her.
The town was rebuilt. And in the hole where we had sheltered, our parents planted a little magnolia tree in memory of that brave woman.
Mr Hardbristle was filled with despair and guilt. ‘I hid in the hole,’ he said. ‘And let my wife die. I’m a coward.’
Of course he wasn’t a coward. He was bent and weak. And anyway, there’s nothing to say that the man has to be the brave one. Why shouldn’t it be a woman?
But he wouldn’t listen. No matter what we said. He wouldn’t leave the little cottage that the people built for him. He just sat there on the porch in his old rocking chair staring at the magnolia tree.
I was only a little girl but I told him something that I heard my mother say to Dad. ‘There’s no need to feel bad. She would want you to be happy.’
He rocked for a long time and then he said, ‘When that magnolia tree flowers, then I will know that she has forgiven me. Then I will be happy. But not until then.’
I ran home and told Mum what he said. Mum smiled sadly. ‘Magnolia trees sometimes don’t flower for seven years,’ she said. ‘I don’t think Mr Hardbristle has seven years left.’
But she was wrong. Seven years passed. And although the magnolia tree didn’t flower, Mr Hardbristle still sat there, watching and waiting. It was a fine tree. Tall, with strong, thin branches.
I was thirteen now. And in the Guides. I wanted that tree to flower more than anything. I wanted Mr Hardbristle to feel forgiven. To know that his wife was smiling upon him.
That’s why, in the middle of another hot summer, I decided to water the tree. Our bucket was too small so I filled a big plastic container with water. It once had some sort of powder in it. ‘Fertiliser,’ I said to myself.
I grasped the wire handle and lugged the water over to the magnolia tree. White powder swirled around in the water. I carefully tipped it out around the roots. Mr Hardbristle sat rocking and watching without saying a word.
In the morning the magnolia tree was dead. Its leaves hung limply, pointing to the ground beneath.
‘I can’t believe it.’ said Dad. He picked up a tiny smudge of white powder on his finger. ‘Somebody’s poisoned it. They’ve put blackberry killer on the magnolia.’
I felt like sinking into the ground. I thought it was fertiliser in the bucket. I had killed the tree. I stared over at Mr Hardbristle. His seat was empty. He was in bed and he wouldn’t get out. And he would never see the magnolia bloom.
Now there were two guilty people. Mr Hardbristle and me.
No one knew what I had done, except Mr Hardbristle. I just couldn’t own up to it. It was too horrible. I felt like going to bed and staying there myself. I could put my head under the blanket and never come out like he was doing.
But I didn’t. I decided to make up for what I had done. I decided to raise money and buy another magnolia tree. A full-grown one. I could even get one that was flowering. Then Mr Hardbristle would feel good again.
‘A thousand dollars,’ said Mum. ‘That’s what a full-grown one in a tub would cost. But it wouldn’t be the same really, would it?’
I couldn’t believe it. A thousand dollars just for a tree. I had no money at all. Not a cent. I picked up my guitar and went down to the magnolia tree. I put my hat on the ground and started to play.
3
Young Ponytail is looking at me with a sort of a smile. He hands over his battered old mouth organ. ‘This might help,’ he says.
I look at the worn mouth organ and shrug my shoulders. ‘I can’t play that,’ I say. ‘Only guitars.’ I pat the guitar that my father gave me. Nothing will make me part with it.
The young man puts the mouth organ to his lips and starts to play. Oh, that music. It is beautiful. At times it swells and falls. Then it changes and seems to flitter round inside my head like a flock of bell-birds calling. It is the sound of soft mountain streams. It is the call of the whispering gums. It is the taste of honey on fresh bread. I have never heard music like it. My eyes brim with tears. A burst of sunshine breaks through the clouds.
I take the
mouth organ from his outstretched hand.
‘Play your own tune,’ he says. ‘Not other people’s. You’ve got your own melodies, use them.’ His smile seems to look into my soul. ‘I’ll be back for it tomorrow,’ he says. ‘At twelve o’clock.’
‘There’s school tomorrow,’ I say. ‘Meet me at the front gate. I’ll be there. Don’t worry about that.’
‘Make sure you are,’ he says. ‘Make sure you are. I have to be movin’ on.’
I lean my guitar against the tree and watch him disappear down the street towards the river. I guess he is camping out there.
The mouth organ is chipped and worn. It has played many melodies from long-forgotten lives. I can see that. I am just about to hold it to my lips when a tourist bus pulls up.
Ever since the magnolia tree was planted tourists have been coming to look at it. They stop on their way to Sydney. The story of Mr Hardbristle sitting there waiting for the tree to bloom was in the papers. Everyone hopes that they will be there when the tree blooms.
The tourists jump off the bus. A whole mob of them wearing sunglasses and shorts. They have cameras around their necks. They want to take a photo of the tree. They bustle up and fall silent.
‘It’s dead,’ says the bus driver as he stares at the tree. They all look at the limp leaves. They turn around and start to climb back onto the bus. I will never earn any money this way. I put the mouth organ to my lips and try to think of a tune. ‘Hang down your head, Tom Dooley. Hang down your head and cry.’ It is the only tune I can think of. I start to play it. Mournful, sad notes.
The tourists start to sniff. An American in a big hat takes out his handkerchief and blows his nose. A Japanese lady bursts into tears. The tune is so sad. This mouth organ seems to have a strange power. Soon all the tourists are crying. They are leaning on each other’s shoulders and weeping. They are not putting any money into my hat.
Something has gone wrong. The mouth organ is not having the right result. I try to think of a happy song. Something comes into my mind. The cancan. I play a bright, happy dance. The tourists link arms. They start to kick their legs up into the air, first one way and then the other. On they go. On and on. They can’t throw money into my hat with their arms linked together. I reach the end of the tune and stop. So do they.
They look at each other with wide open eyes. They don’t know what is going on. They rush for the bus. They are leaving without donating anything towards the new magnolia tree. I look over the road at Mr Hardbristle’s empty rocking chair. I have to do something quick.
I play another tune. ‘Kookaburra sits on the old gum tree.’ It is bright and happy. The tourists are bright and happy as they scramble up the re-grown gum trees along the street. They sit on the branches like birds. I try to stop playing but I can’t. Once you start a tune you seem to have to keep going until you reach the end.
I get up to the bit that goes ‘Laugh kookaburra, laugh kookaburra’. They laugh all right – but not the kookaburras. The tourists sit there in the branches with their heads turned up, laughing like jackasses.
Finally I stop. The tourists start to shriek. They are really scared by all this. They scramble down from their perches and head for the bus again. Still they have not given me one cent. I have a last desperate try.
I start to play ‘You can leave your hat on’ – a real wild tune. The tourists stop. They start to dance. A sliding, writhing dance. The Japanese man undoes his buttons slowly. He throws his jacket to the ground. The American is flicking off his shoes. Three others are pulling off their jumpers in slow, rhythmic movements. A fat lady is rolling down her stockings. Oh no. I have chosen striptease music.
I try to stop playing but I can’t. I have to finish the whole tune. Finally it is over. Thirty tourists stand looking at each other. They have nothing on but their underwear. They scream, they shout, they scramble onto the bus. I decide to let them go. This is not working out at all. The bus takes off down the road in a cloud of dust.
4
What happened? This mouth organ is not solving my problem. I will never get another tree for Mr Hardbristle this way. Then I remember Young Ponytail’s words. ‘Play your own tune,’ he said. ‘Not other people’s. You’ve got your own melodies, use them.’
I have never made up a proper tune in my life. What did he mean? I just decide to play about how I feel in my head. I walk over to the shops, throw my hat on the ground and start to blow. From somewhere deep inside me comes the saddest tune. I have never played like this before. I invent it as I go.
The tune is made up of Mr Hardbristle’s sorrow. And the tree that I killed. It is mixed with my tears. It is the unspoken story of a girl who made a mistake and a tree that died. The music is so pure that lovers would embrace forever if they heard it.
Mr Windfall comes out of his new general store. He walks like he is in a dream. He stands and watches without moving. His eyes are glass – they see things that no one knows. I stop playing for a moment. ‘Don’t stop,’ he pleads. ‘Don’t stop.’ He takes out twenty dollars from his wallet and throws it into my hat. I smile and play on.
Others gather. They crowd around. There is Mr Ralph, our teacher. He wears a smile that is as soft as the clouds. Sue Rickets and two other tough kids from Year Seven stop and listen. Sue Rickets hates my guts. But not now. The music has mellowed her. I look around at the people. They are all on a journey. A special journey. The music takes them where usually they cannot go.
In the end I stop playing. I am out of breath. The crowd stands for a bit without moving. Then they suddenly shake themselves. Mr Ralph reminds me of an old dog coming out of a dream. Everyone puts money in the hat. Then they float away on the wings of their memories. I look into my hat. I have taken eighty-four dollars.
If this keeps up I will earn the thousand dollars for a new tree in no time. No time at all. I look at my watch. I have to get home and chop some wood before tea. I run for it.
Tea is over. The dishes are washed. I sit in front of the fire. Mum and Dad like me to play my guitar when the fire is flickering.
But I do not play the guitar. I take out the mouth organ. The tunes I play on the mouth organ have no names. Nor words. Just melodies that speak to the heart. I play a tune about Grandma. It is a jumpy, happy tune. She is tickling me like she used to. I laugh and squirm in my mind as I play. It is almost real. All the pain of loss is gone. There is only happiness.
I look at Mum. Her smile is filled with love. I know that, in her mind, Grandma is holding her in her arms like when she was a baby. In the end we all fall asleep. Me and Mum and Dad. There in front of the fire.
It is morning already. Mum is happier than I have ever seen her. My mouth organ has given her joy. I can’t part with this mouth organ. I wonder if Young Ponytail will swap it for my guitar. But I can’t part with that either. Dad would never forgive me. He gave it to me for Christmas.
I take the eighty-four dollars and wedge it inside my guitar. I put my mouth organ in a deep pocket. Then I head off for school.
This mouth organ can earn me the thousand dollars for a new tree. But can it do it before twelve o’clock?
5
Our school has only one teacher. And twenty kids. We all learn together in the same room. The big kids help the little kids. Mr Ralph helps everyone. He is a quiet teacher. He never shouts. Everybody likes him.
Mr Ralph looks at me. ‘Nicole has hidden talents,’ he says. ‘She can play the mouth organ.’ The kids all look up.
‘Play for us,’ says Mr Ralph.
I pick up my mouth organ and start to blow. Whatever I think of comes out in the music. The kids all put their heads on the desks. They see what I see. They dream my dreams. The music does it all.
I take them sailing on sparkling oceans. I fly them through the clouds. I show them the bottom of the sea and the highest mountain peaks. Places where the air is so crisp it tinkles when you breathe. I shower them in a waterfall. I dust them with moon powder. I rock them in the arms of loved ones
long passed on.
All this I do with my mouth organ. The time blows by as unnoticed as the breeze which comes from the river. Soon it is twelve o’clock. The bell rings. It is lunch time.
The mouth organ trembles in my hand. It wants to return to its owner.
But I only have a mere eighty-four dollars. And I need a thousand. The new magnolia tree has to be seven years old. And they are expensive. I will never be happy until I can look Mr Hardbristle in the eye and see that he is smiling.
I run out of the schoolyard. I hide in the pine plantation nearby.
Young Ponytail arrives at the school gate. I see him from my far-off perch in the branches. I see him looking for me. I see him turn and walk sadly towards the river.
I stay up here in the tree until the bell rings. I feel a bit bad for keeping the mouth organ but it is for a good cause. I am going to use it to get another magnolia tree. Then I will give it back. Maybe.
But something is different. Since I decided to keep the mouth organ things have changed. In class no one looks at me. Mr Ralph doesn’t ask me to play any more.
I decide to give it a go without being asked. I pick up my mouth organ to play it. My mouth organ? It is not my mouth organ. It feels cold in my hand. Hostile. It doesn’t want to play my tune. A little shiver runs up my spine. I grab the mouth organ in trembling fingers and force it up to my lips. I blow strongly. A horrible, blurting sound explodes into the room.
Everyone in the class groans. The noise hurts their ears. I try again and the mouth organ goes crazy in my hands. It twists and turns as if it is alive. It is trying to get away. I grab it even more tightly and try to blow.
Then it happens. Something terrible. I don’t know how. I don’t know why. But the mouth organ is inside my mouth. It is stuck in sideways, as if I have a banana jammed in there. My cheeks are stretched out on either side. It hurts something awful. The pain is terrible. My eyes water. The mouth organ is a mouth organ indeed.
Paul Jenning's Weirdest Stories Page 5