by John Marsden
‘Yeah,’ Lee said. ‘You know fun parks, all those rides. People think they’re spitting right in the face of death when they go on those things. They’re not of course, but they think they are.’
‘So you’re saying that we’ve got to do this? To prove we’re immortal?’
‘Well, it’s not that simple. It started off that we had to do it. But even though we were so scared and sick and confused, right from that first day I can remember something else: just a little tingle of I don’t know what… “We’re on our own and this is a massive adventure”. Something like that.’
‘And then it did become a bit of the death-defying stuff,’ Lee said. ‘Along with a lot of other things.’
‘Yeah, I admit I was aware of that at times,’ I said. ‘At Cobbler’s especially. And the airfield. But ninety-nine per cent of the time I was like “I hate this, get me out of here, I want to go home to Mummy and Daddy”.’
Through the window I could see Gavin, who’d given up on this discussion and gone out to the courtyard. He was up on the high wall doing the tightrope walk to the other end. Just like I’d done when I was his age.
‘Oh sure,’ Lee said, ‘we were all “Help, I want out”, most of the time. But you can’t just choose that out of the war and say it’s the whole story. People are always doing that. They announce that teenagers do drugs because they’re bored. Or because of peer-group pressure. Or because, I don’t know, because they get coded messages when they read a magazine in reverse or something. Well, here’s a bit of Asian wisdom for you. It takes many ropes to make a fishing net. And what’s more, if one rope’s missing, you don’t get no fish.’
‘So one of our ropes is that we love danger and we want to defy death?’ I asked.
‘Yeah, I think so,’ Homer said.
‘Hmm, one time I would have laughed at all this. But now… I don’t know. Yesterday I was more aware of this stuff than I was before. I knew I was on a high at the same time as I wanted Superman to fly in and do the job for me.’
‘So do you want to join Liberation?’ Homer asked.
‘But why do you need Liberation? Why can’t the Army or someone do it? What do they do exactly?’
Homer shrugged. ‘That’s easy. There’s no way official Army units or people can go over the border for this stuff. If they were caught and interrogated and it turned out they were in the Army, it’d be a disaster. It’d be obvious the government had condoned it. It’d mean another war. But there are a lot of occasions when people are needed to go over the border, like to get Nick Greene, nice geek, I mean guy, that he is. So there’s actually quite a bit of unofficial encouragement for groups like ours. It’s my guess that we’re getting information from the Army about what’s needed and where to go and how to find people.’
‘I can guess where that would come from,’ I said, thinking of Jeremy Finley. I could imagine a line stretching right across the Tasman, from the Australian military to General Finley in New Zealand, and the line coming all the way back across the water to Stratton or Wirrawee.
Ignoring me, Homer went on: ‘For example, we even knew what hut Nick was in. Usually Liberation’s intelligence is pretty good, although sometimes they make mistakes, or of course things can change between their getting information and us arriving on the scene. I think a lot of it comes from paying people on their side. It all seems pretty corrupt.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, I’m just repeating what I’ve been told really. I’ve only done two of these raids. And the first one was easy. Four of us went and it was tame. See, the thing is, their Army’s kind of slack. That group holding Nick seemed a cut above the average.’
‘They weren’t bad,’ I said, remembering how quickly they’d fallen in when their boss yelled at them. ‘But why do they get young people to do this stuff?’
‘Why not? Plenty of people our age have been involved in wars over the years. But in fact I think most of the other Liberation groups are older people. There are at least five groups in other districts. We’re known by different colours, like Green, Purple. We’re Scarlet, just as a joke, after the book. And our head honcho, the Scarlet Pimple, happens to be a teenager who happens to be in a unique situation to do it. Also, don’t forget what our little group achieved during the war. We did get kind of famous for five minutes, remember. In fact nearly ten minutes. We basically did a better job than any other group operating behind the lines.
‘There’s quite a few people in the Army who’ll tell you that teenagers are especially good for this stuff, because we think more flexibly. We’re faster on our feet. It makes sense. I mean the older you get the more likely you are to be locked into certain ways of doing things, certain patterns of thinking.’
‘God, I hope the day never comes when I’m like that,’ I said.
‘You already are, the way you’re looking after Gavin,’ Lee said.
I thought that was a cheap shot, even though I knew what he meant. I filed it away for future reference.
‘I mean, don’t underestimate yourself,’ Homer said. He was starting to sound like a school counsellor. He sure had changed since the war started. ‘We developed skills doing that guerilla stuff, and we became really good at it. The way you got Nick and me out of there, and that thing with rolling the drums down the hill, and the way you and Lee and Gavin worked together, that was classy. You wouldn’t have been able to do all that a couple of years ago. Anyway, to cut a long story short, Liberation’d be rapt if you joined. They’d be over the moon.’
‘Even Jess?’ I asked.
‘Oh yeah, Jess, once you get to know her — ’
He stopped, realising he’d been sucked in. Now I knew the name of at least one other member of Liberation.
‘Very funny,’ he said. He was furious.
‘I’d hate to see you under interrogation,’ I said cruelly. ‘You’d give them everyone’s names in five minutes.’
There was a yell of pain from outside. Gavin had fallen off the wall.
C HAPTER 15
It was Lee’s last night, definitely his last night. As he said, ‘No matter what happens, I’m out of here tomorrow morning. Come floods, bushfires, locusts or Jehovah’s Witnesses, I’m going home.’
As I served up yet another stir-fry from my very limited repertoire I felt that there was a bit of tension in the air. We hadn’t discussed our relationship again since the day in the paddock. As far as I was concerned we didn’t have a relationship. Well, not counting friendship. But we’d never officially put it to rest and I suppose there was almost a feeling that it was dormant, not dead, that it could be revived given the right conditions. Like, for example, if we were the last two people left in the world.
Maybe Gavin felt it too. Or maybe he was upset that Lee was going home. Maybe he was just tired. Anyway, he was terrible that night. He actually picked up a handful of food and chucked it at me when I told him to hurry up and eat his meal. Both Lee and I stared at him in shock. But he just looked sulky and angry. I didn’t have the energy to deal with this. I sat down opposite him and said, ‘What did you do that for?’
He wouldn’t answer. He dropped his head, and of course it’s hard to talk to a deaf kid when he won’t look up. It must be one of the great things about being deaf. You can sulk so spectacularly.
‘Oh God,’ I said to Lee. ‘You do something. I’m not in the mood.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Well, what do you do with your brothers and sisters when they carry on like this?’
He considered for a moment. ‘If it’s Pang, I’d ban her from the computer for a week. If it’s Phillip, I’d send him to his room. Paul, I’d yell at him and chase him around the house wishing I had an AK-47. If it’s Intira, she’s so good this would never happen.’
‘Great. And you’re the one who tells me I’m too boring and inflexible when it comes to Gavin.’
‘I didn’t say I was any different.’
I laughed. ‘But we shouldn’t have to be doing this. We’re too youn
g. Our biggest worries should be homework and parties and dating.’ I blushed when that word slipped out, and hurried on. ‘A bit of babysitting, OK, fine, but not 24/7.’
‘I guess I’m getting used to it,’ he said. ‘I hated it so much at first. But you look at those photos from Africa and the one thing you always notice is kids looking after their sisters and brothers. I mean, four-year-olds carrying babies, five-year-olds with three smaller kids trailing after them. So in a sense we had it good for a long time.’
‘Oh yeah. I suppose. But it doesn’t actually help much when I have to turn down a cappuccino with friends from school because I’ve got to come home and look after Gavin. Or I have to quit a party early. I can’t leave him here on his own because I’m so scared that the soldiers might come back.’
‘I’ve got good neighbours. They help out. But I don’t like to keep asking them.’
‘Yeah, Homer and his mum and dad are good. And the Sandersons, but Gavin doesn’t like them much for some reason.’ I sighed. ‘I guess I shouldn’t whinge. I’ve only got Gavin to look after; you’ve got four.’
‘Yes and no. You really can’t compare, because everyone’s different and the circumstances are different.’ He paused. ‘I mean, what’s the real story with Gavin? Are there any good things about having him here?’
I opened my mouth to answer and as I did I glanced across the table. Gavin had lifted his head again and was watching me like a sheepdog with a mob in a corner of the paddock. You could never tell how much of a conversation Gavin was following — usually with long conversations he didn’t bother trying after a few minutes — and I didn’t know how long he’d been tuned in to this one, but he’d certainly understood Lee’s last question. I said, ‘Oh yeah.’ I grinned across at Gavin. ‘He’s only smashed up the motorbike three times.’
I knew it was wrong as soon as it was out of my mouth. Gavin pushed back his chair. It fell with a clatter onto the old stone floor. He yelled at me, ‘I hate you,’ and ran down the corridor. A moment later I heard his bedroom door slam so hard that dead moths fell off the light shade in the kitchen.
Lee looked at me and started to say something but when he saw my expression he changed his mind and cleared away the dishes instead.
I’d been psyching up for the last big talk of this visit from Lee. At first I didn’t want it and then I thought perhaps I did, but whatever, I’d been all tense and now that tension was draining away into nothing. It was like getting all passionate with a guy — and that guy could even have been Lee — and then having to stop just as this amazing feeling is spreading right through you. And part of you has been saying all along ‘Bad idea, shouldn’t be doing this,’ but another part is ready to throw everything to the four winds and go for it. As I realised that Gavin had sabotaged any chance of Lee and I talking things through I started to feel flat and depressed. The conversation with Lee got more and more lame. When we were down to a word a minute I chucked some scraps in a bowl for Marmie and went to bed.
Gavin’s door was still shut and I think his light was off. I didn’t bother reading for a while, like I normally do, just turned my light off and lay there feeling defeated by everything. The farm would go broke, I would fail school, Lee was going back to the city leaving me alone again. I couldn’t even do a good job of looking after Gavin.
My door suddenly creaked open and I looked up. My first thought was that it might be Lee. I think I wanted it to be Lee. But in the dim light that came down the corridor from the kitchen I saw a smaller figure. Amazing how someone who was deaf could move so quietly, but Gavin had always had that skill.
I moved over. He burrowed in beside me. After a minute he put out his hand into the cold air and turned on my bedside lamp. Seemed like I was going to have a conversation after all, even if it wasn’t with Lee. I looked at him and waited. His right eye had always drooped a little but now both eyes were half closed. I couldn’t tell if it was because he was sleepy or because he’d been crying. Gavin crying: that was an entry for the Guinness Book. But when I looked closely I thought it was more that his eyes were adjusting to the light of the lamp.
He didn’t say anything. But he’d turned on the lamp. Seemed like I was being given an opportunity to make up for my unfortunate comment in the kitchen. I didn’t know what to say though. It was always so difficult with Gavin. His life was built on no foundations. He stood on a flimsy structure of balsa wood and paper, trying to get as high off the ground as everyone else. Any time you wanted to knock him down you blew on the paper and he crashed all the way to the ground.
‘Why’d you chuck the food at me?’ I asked.
He shrugged. His face started to darken, to close over. He thought he was in for nothing but a nagging.
‘It was a pretty good throw,’ I said, teasing him.
He almost smiled.
‘You’re getting a bit of muscle.’
No reaction.
‘You are quite handy to have around.’
No reaction.
‘You’re good with the stock.’
He frowned. ‘What?’
‘The stock. The cattle.’
‘Oh.’
‘You’re a good fighter. Brave.’
No expression.
‘Not bad on a motorbike. Bit dangerous sometimes.’
‘You can’t talk.’
‘Oh! Excuse me!’
Period of silence. During it I heard something Gavin couldn’t hear. Lee’s footsteps coming softly along the corridor. My bedroom was at the end of the corridor. Already he had passed the other rooms.
I said to Gavin, ‘Are you sad about Lee going?’
He shrugged. Trust Gavin not to admit to anything like feelings or emotions.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t say the truth in the kitchen,’ I said.
Lee’s footsteps stopped outside my door.
‘What truth?’ Gavin asked.
There was a light knock on the door and the handle turned.
‘Well, there’s a bit more to it than smashing up the motorbike,’ I said.
The door opened a little.
‘Ellie?’ Lee asked.
‘Like what?’ Gavin said.
The door closed again and the footsteps went away. Gavin sensed that I’d been distracted. He stiffened a little, lifted himself up on his elbow and looked towards the door. Perhaps he had felt the draught of air. ‘What?’ he asked.
‘Nothing.’
I waited till he’d lain back down. I traced the worry lines on his forehead with the tip of my index finger. I remembered the words on a postcard my grandmother had sent me from Paris once. I think it was by a writer called Gide. ‘To be loved is nothing; it is to be preferred that I desire.’
‘You’re the most important person in my life,’ I said.
He didn’t say anything.
‘You’re my brother,’ I said.
He didn’t say anything.
‘I love you, you little ratbag,’ I said.
He smiled, snuggled down in the bed, and closed his eyes. I think he was asleep within fifteen seconds. I turned off the light.
CHAPTER 16
Two days later came the fortnightly cattle sales on the edge of Wirrawee.
I sat in the kitchen with the bills spread across the table. I jotted down the figures as I turned each new page. Later I’d MYOB all this in the computer but for now I just wanted a rough total so I knew how much I could spend. It was pretty frightening. Electricity, rent on the gas bottles, telephone, bolts for the cattle yards, worming tablets for Marmie, penicillin from the vet, a letter from Gavin’s school wanting the ‘voluntary’ fees, doctor’s bill for Gavin’s earache… By the end of it I figured I could afford about the rear end of one small steer.
But, I went anyway. Before the war there must have been six hundred to a thousand head yarded each fortnight at the Wirrawee cattle sales, now there were usually three hundred to six hundred. Today was a big day, just over eight hundred. I wanted steers and I didn’t care if t
hey were in light condition. It was pretty obvious looking at them that, like most of the cattle in the district, they’d had setbacks but if they were well-boned and had length I thought we could fatten them up OK. I still had plenty of hay and some good feed left in the paddocks. If I got them at 220 to 230 kilos I could double that and sell them off at around 450 or so.
It was good being at the sales again. It made me feel that some things hadn’t changed. Sure the sun still rose every morning and set every night. I knew that. But the sun doing its thing didn’t impress me much. You could be rotting away in a prison cell and the sun would rise and set every day. What I really liked, and what meant the most to me, was that every second Thursday at the Wirrawee Saleyards, Barry Fitzgibbon would be up on the rails slapping his papers into his left hand and yelling, ‘As lovely a selection of yearlings as I’ve ever seen yarded at Wirrawee, ladies and gentlemen,’ and Morrie Cavendish’d be on his haunches smoking a rollie and whingeing about what a pack of dogs had done to his lambs, and Sal Grinaldi would be telling another terrible joke about someone having sex with donkeys or blondes changing light bulbs or an Englishman, a Scotsman and an Irishman playing golf.
The people at the sale were pretty nice to me. I hadn’t seen many of them since the funeral, and I’d been so out of it that day that I wasn’t sure who’d been there and who hadn’t. Before the war if something awful happened, like your parents getting killed, the whole district would rally around and visit every day, and help with everything from fixing your fences to getting in your lucerne. Now, there was plenty of sympathy but not much else, for the simple reason that so many people had suffered similar disasters and there just wasn’t enough lovin’ and carin’ to go around.
So an occasion like this was good because it gave everyone the chance to come up and ask how I was doing and to say they were thinking of me and could they help in any way. This made them feel better and didn’t do me any harm, so everyone was happy. And from some people it was nice, because it was genuine, but from others it didn’t mean an awful lot.