Worry Warts

by Morris Gleitzman

Keith walked over to the reception desk.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said to a woman who was tapping the keys of a computer with fingernails that matched her Hot Sunflower jacket. ‘Could I see the manager please?’

  ‘The manager’s not in till nine,’ said the woman. ‘What was it in connection with?’

  Keith explained it was to do with the fish and chips on their menu.

  ‘Bistro, coffee shop or the Coral Room?’ she asked.

  ‘All of them,’ said Keith.

  ‘We don’t have fish and chips in the Coral Room,’ she said, glancing at a menu. ‘We have Reef Fillets And Deep-Fried Potato Skins In A Basket With Mango-And-Oyster Mayonnaise. Did you want to make a complaint?’

  Keith explained that he didn’t want to make a complaint, he was just wondering if the fish and chips could be taken off the menus. He explained about Mum and Dad’s financial difficulties.

  The receptionist said she’d pass his request on to the manager.

  As he was leaving though, he glanced back and saw her pointing him out to a man with the same colour jacket and a ponytail.

  They were both sniggering.

  Alright for them, thought Keith angrily. They obviously haven’t got depressed parents to look after.

  Keith stared out the classroom window and wished Mr Gerlach would talk a bit more quietly when a person was trying to think.

  He looked down at the list he’d made on the last page of his exercise book.

  Ways For A Fish Shop To Earn Extra Money

  1. Charge for salt.

  2. Sell steamed vegies (not broccoli).

  3. Let people dry their washing over the fryer.

  4. Raffle the really big potato scallops.

  Keith sighed. It wasn’t a lot for a morning’s hard thinking.

  He started to write down the idea he’d just had about letting kids have a go of the chip-cutting machine for five cents a turn. Then he stopped. Even if a hundred kids a week did it, which would totally disrupt Dad’s chip-cutting routine, it would still only bring in five dollars and at least one of the kids was bound to lop off a finger which would cost more than that in medical bills and needles and cotton.

  Keith sighed again.

  There must be other ways to get rich in Australia.

  Only last week in geography Ms O’Connell had been saying that Australia was a vast country full of natural resources. Iron ore was one she’d mentioned a lot.

  Keith was in the middle of wondering whether the Health Department would let a fish shop sell iron ore when Mr Gerlach’s voice burst into his thoughts.

  ‘Keith Shipley,’ said Mr Gerlach, ‘could you see your way clear to sparing us a bit of your attention when I’m talking about your work?’

  Keith looked up.

  Mr Gerlach was holding up a painting that Keith had done in art.

  ‘As I was saying, Mr Shipley, your use of texture around the chin and neck here, giving a sort of warty, rough appearance to the skin, suggests the person is a man and quite an old one, am I right?’

  ‘No sir,’ said Keith, ‘it’s a cane toad.’

  The class howled with laughter.

  ‘It is, sir,’ said Keith indignantly.

  Mr Gerlach glared the class into silence, then took several steps towards Keith.

  ‘You were told,’ said Mr Gerlach angrily, ‘to do a painting of a face.’

  ‘It’s a cane toad’s face,’ said Keith quietly, wishing he’d done Gary Murdoch like he’d first planned to.

  Mr Gerlach sighed loudly and stared out the window.

  ‘Being a teacher,’ he said, ‘is like walking across Australia. It’s lonely, it’s hard going, and every day you stub your toe on exactly the same thing.’

  He turned back and looked at the class.

  ‘Lumps of rock.’

  He looked out the window again.

  ‘Sometimes you think you see something glittering and you stop and pick it up.’

  He turned and looked at Keith.

  ‘But it’s just another lump of rock.’

  He looked at the class.

  ‘You’d think we teachers’d give up, wouldn’t you?’

  The class nodded.

  ‘But we don’t, do you know why?’

  The class shook their heads.

  ‘Because,’ said Mr Gerlach, ‘we dream that one day, somewhere in this great land of ours, we’ll come across a precious stone.’

  There was a pause while Mr Gerlach looked sadly at Keith’s painting and Keith felt excitement rushing through his veins.

  ‘Excuse me sir,’ said Keith. ‘What type of precious stone?’

  5

  ‘Opal,’ said Tracy’s dad, leaning back on his chair on the verandah and swatting at a mosquito.

  ‘See, dummy,’ said Tracy, elbowing Keith in the ribs and almost knocking him off the old vinyl settee, ‘told you there’s no diamonds in Australia.’

  ‘Alright,’ said Keith, ‘it was just an idea.’

  He tried not to show how bitterly disappointed he felt.

  If Mr Gerlach had answered his simple question instead of making the whole class paint cane toads, he wouldn’t have spent the whole afternoon getting excited about starting up a diamond mine and buying Mum and Dad a mansion with fountains and really thick bedroom walls.

  ‘There are a few diamonds around,’ said Tracy’s dad, ‘but they’re scarce as bubble baths in a drought. Opal’s the go in Australia. Worth almost as much as diamonds and twice as good to look at.’

  Keith sat forward on the settee.

  This was what he wanted to hear.

  ‘Have you got any?’ he asked.

  ‘Me?’ laughed Tracy’s dad. ‘If I had any I wouldn’t keep ’em sitting round the house. I’d sell ’em and get that flamin’ suspension on the ute fixed.’

  ‘You rat,’ said Tracy. ‘You’d spend the money on that heap of rust when your own daughter’s never even been to Brisbane. You mean bugger.’

  To Keith’s amazement Tracy’s dad didn’t frown and stop Tracy’s pocket money and send her to her room. He just grinned and threw a thong at Tracy. She ducked and grinned back at him.

  I must remember, thought Keith, to ask Tracy why her parents are so cheerful. Perhaps they drink.

  ‘I knew a bloke once,’ said Tracy’s dad, ‘who hit a boulder and bust an axle. He was ropeable. Miles from anywhere, crook truck, no money for repairs. He gave the boulder an almighty kick . . .’

  Keith could see it, vivid in his imagination. He couldn’t stop himself. ‘And the boulder split open,’ he said, ‘and it was a huge opal.’

  Tracy and her dad rocked with laughter.

  Keith felt his cheeks go hot with embarrassment.

  ‘You should take up writing for the telly,’ said Tracy’s dad, grinning at him. ‘What I was going to say was he kicked the rock, started walking towards town, got a lift with a couple of blokes on their way to the opal fields, went there with them, and in the next week picked up ninety thousand dollars’ worth of opal.’

  Keith’s cheeks were still hot, but now it was with excitement.

  ‘Where exactly are these opal fields?’ he asked.

  Keith and Tracy lay on Tracy’s bedroom floor looking up at the map of Australia stuck to her ceiling.

  ‘See all those little black oval shapes?’ said Tracy. ‘They show where the opal fields are.’

  Keith squinted up. He could see white squiggles (sheep), brown handlebars (cattle) and grey possum poos (iron ore), but he couldn’t see any black ovals.

  Tracy reached under her bed and pulled out a fishing rod. She pointed up with it, touching the map.

  ‘See,’ she said. ‘There’s some.’

  Keith squinted.

  Tracy reached under the bed again and handed Keith a pair of binoculars.

  He focused them on the bit of the map she was pointing to.

  Black ovals.

  Opal fields.

  And they weren’t that far away from Orchid Cove. O
nly about the width of Tracy’s light shade.

  He was so busy picturing Mum and Dad’s delighted faces when they heard the news that he didn’t realise for ages that his shoulder was touching Tracy’s.

  ‘You gunna do your geography assignment about opal instead of iron ore?’ asked Tracy. ‘Ms O’Connell’d have kittens. Even more than Mr Gerlach had today.’

  ‘No,’ said Keith, ‘I’m not. I probably won’t even be doing the geography assignment at all.’

  There was a silence.

  Tracy swivelled her head and looked at him.

  ‘Don’t let it get you down,’ she said quietly. ‘If your mum and dad want to split up there’s bugger all you can do about it.’

  Keith looked at her. I really like you, he thought, but you’ve got some weird ideas.

  Keith ran up the front steps. At the door he stopped and took a deep breath. The tropical smells hit his nose like fruit salad and new shoes and pineapple sherbet lollies all at once.

  And there was another smell, from inside the house.

  Spaghetti bolognaise.

  Nice one, thought Keith. Mum and Dad’s favourite. Just the thing for them to be noshing while I tell them about our trip to the opal fields and the big house we’ll be able to build up on the hill near Gary Murdoch’s. With ninety-three taps. And six washers on each one. And a big verandah with a big table on it so we can sit around and tell jokes and laugh a lot.

  Keith wondered if he should save the news till after dinner. People who broke into huge grins while they had mouths full of spaghetti bolognaise tended to dribble down their fronts.

  Won’t matter, he thought. We’ll have a washing machine soon.

  He went in.

  He couldn’t hear the clatter of forks on plates, which meant they probably hadn’t started. Dad would probably be at the sink doing the salad. Mum would probably be at the cupboard getting out the plates. The spaghetti bolognaise would probably be on the table, steaming.

  He’d tell them straight away and they’d turn to him, eyes shining through the steam.

  He reached the kitchen.

  And stopped.

  Mum wasn’t at the cupboard, she was standing gripping the fridge with both hands, face pale with anger, forehead crisscrossed with furrows.

  Dad wasn’t at the sink, he was standing with his back pressed against the window, face pale with shock, mouth drooping almost past his chin.

  The spaghetti bolognaise wasn’t steaming on the table.

  It was sliding down the wall next to Dad.

  Keith looked at Mum again, then Dad, then the bolognaise.

  A cold lump was sliding down the inside of Keith’s ribs at exactly the same speed as the meat sauce and bits of spaghetti were sliding down the wall.

  Mum stepped forward and picked up the pot from the floor.

  ‘Sorry love,’ she said quietly to Keith. ‘I lost my temper. I’ll do you some sausages.’

  ‘I’ll do them,’ said Dad.

  Keith watched Mum and Dad avoid each other’s eyes.

  The sooner we’re rich the better, he thought.

  Keith told Mum and Dad about the opals after they’d all cleaned up the kitchen and had their sausages.

  They both listened carefully while he repeated Tracy’s dad’s truck story and explained how opals were almost as valuable as diamonds and told them that he’d checked the map and knew where to find some.

  Dad turned the telly off.

  They’re not smiling, thought Keith. Perhaps it’s shock. He’d seen a geezer in a film once who’d won the pools and had just turned grey and fainted into a rice pudding.

  He was glad when Dad was safely sitting down again.

  ‘Look Keith,’ said Dad softly. ‘We’ve got problems, I’m not denying that.’

  ‘Financial problems,’ said Mum.

  ‘But,’ said Dad, ‘we’re not going to solve them with crazy schemes.’

  ‘You’re a good kid,’ said Mum, ‘and we appreciate what you’re trying to do love, but Dad’s right. Now come on, you’ve got school tomorrow, time to hit the sack. Well talk about it some more in the morning.’

  Even before Keith had left the room he knew it was pointless.

  Some people just weren’t capable of solving their own problems.

  Some people had to have everything done for them.

  Keith tapped softly on Tracy’s window.

  He listened.

  All he could hear were the dawn cries of the birds in the forest at the back of Tracy’s place.

  He tapped again.

  Suddenly there was a snuffling and snorting but it wasn’t Tracy waking up, it was her dog Buster sniffing round Keith’s school bag.

  ‘Shhhh,’ said Keith.

  Buster looked as though he was about to bark.

  Keith grabbed him round the mouth.

  That’s probably how you lost the leg and half the ear, thought Keith. Harassing friends of Tracy’s who urgently need to speak to her.

  Buster sneezed and Tracy opened her window.

  She stared at Keith.

  ‘Don’t squeeze his mouth,’ she said, ‘he’s got sore teeth.’

  Once Keith was safely inside and Buster was in the corner contentedly chewing on Tracy’s binoculars, Keith explained to Tracy that he needed to borrow a map showing how to get to the opal fields.

  Tracy grinned. ‘They agreed to go. Ripper.’

  ‘No,’ said Keith, ‘they didn’t. I’m going by myself.’

  She looked at him.

  Please, he thought, don’t try and talk me out of it.

  She didn’t.

  She stood on her bed and unstuck the map from the ceiling. Then she said three things that made Keith wish she was coming with him.

  The first was that she wished she could go with him, but she’d promised her folks she’d never run away again after the time she’d tried to catch a bus to Melbourne when she was seven.

  The second was how he’d need some extra money. She took all the notes and coins out of her cane-toad money box and pressed them into his hand.

  He started to say no, then remembered that all he had left of his own money was two dollars and eleven cents.

  The third thing she whispered very close to his ear while she was holding the window up so he could climb out.

  ‘Be careful you daft bugger.’

  6

  The first bit was easy.

  Keith caught the early bus into Cairns along with an assortment of workers, backpackers and schoolkids.

  The only dodgy moment was when he realised that the woman sitting two seats in front of him was Mrs Newman’s grown-up daughter Gail.

  Don’t turn round, he thought.

  It was the first telepathic message he’d sent for a while, but it worked.

  She hobbled off the bus at the Cairns Hospital bus stop without once glancing back.

  Poor thing, thought Keith. When I’ve struck it rich I’ll send her some money so she can take her family to live somewhere cooler where her feet won’t swell up. That motel in Hobart perhaps.

  At the bus station in Cairns things got more difficult.

  Keith knew that any minute Mum and Dad would be waking up and going into his room and seeing his empty bed and finding his note.

  And even though the note said not to worry because he’d be back soon with the opals and could they start talking to some builders, Keith was pretty sure they’d ring the police.

  He had to move quickly.

  Except there wasn’t a bus that went all the way to the opal fields. Not the ones he wanted to go to, the ones Tracy had circled on the map, the ones where Tracy’s dad’s friend had struck it rich.

  And even if he went as close as he could by bus, which wasn’t very close, he’d use up nearly all his money on the ticket.

  Keith stood back from the ticket window, desperately trying to think what to do.

  If he started hitchhiking this close to home the police would probably pick him up.


  If he went to a bank and asked for a loan the bank manager would probably want to speak to Mum and Dad.

  If he caught a taxi and offered the driver half the opals he was going to find, he’d probably have to hand over the other half to get back.

  Then he saw it.

  Across the road.

  A big double-decker tourist bus with a crowd of tourists clambering aboard.

  The destination window on the front of the bus said Brisbane, which meant it was going south.

  It was a start.

  Keith hurried across the road, waited until the driver had his head in the baggage compartment, and slipped aboard in the middle of a large family.

  He went upstairs and sat near the front so he wouldn’t look as though he was hiding.

  Just as the bus was moving off, three women with white hair and T-shirts came upstairs and one of them sat next to him.

  ‘Hey,’ she said with an American accent, ‘you just join the tour?’

  Keith nodded.

  Please, he thought, please don’t be a retired FBI agent.

  ‘Where are your folks?’ asked the woman.

  ‘Back there,’ said Keith, pointing towards Orchid Cove.

  No point in making up stories, she probably had a lie-detector machine in her overnight bag.

  The woman glanced at the large family at the back of the bus and winked at Keith.

  ‘More fun up the front, right?’ she grinned. ‘Hey, you should have been with us yesterday. We went to . . . what was it called?’

  ‘Orchid Cove,’ said her friend.

  ‘Orchid Cove,’ said the woman. ‘A tropical paradise.’

  Keith nodded politely. You wouldn’t be saying that if you had your parents with you, he thought.

  Then he noticed the plastic shopping bag the woman was holding on her lap.

  Printed on it were the words Ollie’s Opals And Gifts, Duty Free Available.

  ‘Have you got any opals in there?’ asked Keith.

  ‘Sure have,’ said the woman. ‘Wanna peek?’

  She rummaged in the bag, pulled out a wad of tissue paper, unfolded it and held up a thin metal chain. Hanging from it, set in a clasp, was a small black stone.

  ‘Twelve hundred dollars,’ said the woman, ‘but I got it for eleven hundred and fifty.’