‘Not this time, son.’ He gives me a significant look. ‘This is a nostalgia thing, when a man needs to be alone with his memories.’
‘So you’re checking out the pub?’ Mum challenges. Dad looks hurt.
After my father’s gone, I too sally forth to investigate the neighbourhood. I notice the other places in Ryan Road are older, of mixed styles, some totally unkempt, others reasonably kempt but the residence right next door is heavily fortified - huge high hedge, tall front gates of corrugated grey painted steel, security lights and other hi-tech gear so that nobody in the street can see the actual house.
But coming from the place is the sound of someone playing drums, very loudly and very badly. There seems to be a guitarist in there too, but it’s hard to hear over the mad drummer. Now, I’m a keen guitarist myself, with the occasional song on my lips. I also tried yodelling but Dad said it was not for me, not a Fergus sound. Jennifer called it RSPCA yodelling. Keep it up and they’ll come to find who’s taunting a cat.
Anyway, hearing musical sounds from next door, my ears start to flap. Back home in Brisbane, me and another two guys nearly got our own band started. The Tantivy, we called ourselves. (A word I used during a game of Scrabble.) I started doing the band’s name on black T-shirts, using Mum’s embroidery sewing machine but stitched ‘e’ instead of ‘a’, which is why we became known as The Tentatives.
The other guys hated me for a week and were so peed off they didn’t spot that I’d also stitched the front of their T-shirts to the back. Then Great Aunt Bronwyn upped and died so none of it mattered any more.
Anyway, from the house next door there comes a grateful lull in the drumming and I hear the guitarist get stuck into whoever’s making the noise.
‘Listen, Rodney, we need to work on our balance,’ says the first voice.
‘What balance?’ Rodney’s louder voice comes back.
‘Our balance - like, the audience has to hear both of us. Not just you.’
‘So buy a bigger guitar.’
‘Be cheaper if you didn’t bang so loud.’
‘Banging, eh? Is that what you call my drumming? Okay, so whose garage is it?’
It is the age-old argument. It’s my ball, so I get more kicks than you. Stands to reason. Even worse is the kid who picks up his new ball after every kick to see if you’ve scuffed it. I’ve met him too!
I move off through streets wide and narrow, taking note of their names so I can find my way back to Great Aunt Bronwyn’s place. Notice that I don’t call it home; that’ll take time.
There’s a freeway for me to cross but it’s so wide I can see the curvature of the earth. I press a button and after a while, thousands of baleful cars stop in a line, flashing their smug Victorian number plates as I make it to the far side before the DON’T WALK sign starts blinking. Then Voom - the traffic’s off with angry growls as if it’s all my fault. I find a sort of tranquil park with grass, shrubs and trees, a bicycle track, skateboard ramp, artificial hillock, swings, playground equipment and so on. There is no one there, so I enter to see what’s what.
It is not long before I spot two visions coming from another direction - a pair of girls about my age. They are both beautiful but huddled in more clothes than girls in Brisbane ever wear. Even so, I like them. One is a blonde who wears sort of smart gear - a dress with bomber jacket and high-heeled shoes. Quaint, I reckon, but her legs are okay. The other one has dark hair and wears jeans and clunky boots with a tracksuit top. She is scruffy in an endearing way. ‘Endearing’ is a word that came up in a crossword puzzle Mum was doing. Only, when the results came out, the correct word was ‘endeavour’. But ‘endearing’ stuck in my mind because I suggested it and it seemed right at the time. And it fitted all the little squares so you can’t argue with that. I love words. Can’t help it. Always have, always will.
The girls walk along and don’t see me. Okay, being ignored is what you have to accept. I’ve come to terms with it. It’s nothing personal. They are having a chic and sophisticated conversation about a magazine the blonde one holds in her hand. They sit at a park bench and because for the time being I am invisible, I park on the nearest seat, which is only a couple of metres away.
If you are to form a successful relationship, you need to know how to keep up a conversation with a girl. Lesson one. Find out what girls talk about amongst themselves. I eavesdrop.
The magazine is Sally, I can see that now. It’s for female teenagers. Fact filed away for future reference.
‘What’s the special offer this month?’ The blonde one riffles through the pages.
‘It’s only lipstick,’ the other one sniffs, but the blonde has found it.
‘Fluorescent lipstick. Makes your lips glow in the dark.’
‘Boys don’t need that to find my lips!’
‘Sophie, we’ve got to keep up with the times. I mean, we’re going to be left behind.’
Sophie; the name registers. She’s the dark-haired scruffy one with the clunky boots. Fact filed away. I like Sophie. She’s a sensible lass. My mind gets ahead of itself.
‘Mother; this is Sophie.’
‘Hello, Sophie. Fergus has told me so much about you.’
‘I’m sure fifty per-cent of it’s rubbish.’
At this stage, a hundred per-cent of it’s made up, but time will tell. As I am absorbed in that flight of fancy, a playful gust of wind plucks the magazine from the blonde one’s fingers. It flutters past me to lie at my feet with its pages flickering over in the breeze. I speed read. Tampon ads, more tampon ads. Special feature: How to attract the boy of your dreams. Make your bust stand out, Try our Quiz: Do you have a personality? Star signs, Special offer, but before I can pick up those bright, feminine pages of conversational topics, the wind takes over again. Whoosh! It’s off!
This magazine is an icebreaker if ever I saw one! I will be engaged by next Christmas. If not, I’m sure to get my first serious kiss.
Sophie is on her feet looking at the magazine as it dances away from us.
‘Oh, Angela -’ she says and makes a tutting sound. Blonde girl’s name filed away. But already, I am on my gallant little feet pelting after Sally.
That errant zephyr is in a whimsical mood so I have my work cut out. The magazine flies high and I jump for it then it evades me and swoops low so I make a grab. A page comes loose. Bummer! But it’s only the glow-in-the-dark lipstick offer and Angela’s going to tear that out anyway. It feels good being on first-name terms with my girls.
To corner the magazine I have to tramp on it with my runners. A teenage model gets the Adidas trade mark stamped on her face. Then like a faithful dog, I trot back to find Sophie and Angela have moved off! Didn’t they see my eager chase after the stupid thing?
But I’m a lad who likes a quest so I find a high vantage point and eventually spot the girls. It’s downhill all the way and as I gasp to a stop a few metres from them, I realise they’re having a sort of argument.
‘You’ll just have to give him the heave.’ Angela jerks her thumb. ‘Hoi, you! Drop off!’
‘I don’t want to hurt his feelings.’ Sophie seems unhappy. Angela almost explodes.
‘Sophie Carter, you need to -’
‘It’s Bartolemeo,’ Sophie snaps. ‘Get it, Bartolemeo! Bartolemeo! Carter’s my stepfather’s name, not mine!’
‘All right, keep your T-shirt on.’ Both girls simmer gently as they head for the gates and I judge it a good time to return their magazine.
‘Excuse me,’ I pant. ‘You dropped this.’ But I judged badly. There’s an old guy nearby, officiously checking inside the rubbish bins. He overhears my words and weighs in.
‘That’s right, girlies, just toss your garbage on the ground when you’re done,’ he says to Sophie and Angela. ‘What do you think the bins are for? Eh? Eh?’
‘The wind blew it away,’ Angela tells the old guy. But Sophie Bartolemeo snatches the magazine from my hands.
‘So what are you?’ she snaps at me. ‘A do-gooder
?’
My icebreaker sinks beneath the Antarctic waves. I watch the girls walk out of the park gates, muttering between themselves. With them goes my chance of sampling Angela’s erotically appealing lipstick that will guide me to the spot through the darkest of nights. The old guy also watches the girls sourly but he has a fellow feeling for me.
‘If it wasn’t for people like you and me,’ he growls, ‘the whole world would be a rubbish tip.’ He wants to say more but I don’t wait to hear it.
It’s stock-taking time. Day one of my new life and I’ve become a marked man! I can see me at 103 years of age, being wheel-chaired into a television studio.
‘Fell me, Mr McPhail, ’ says the bright-eyed snip of a girl who is to interview me for a lifestyle program. ‘You didn’t actually set out to be the world’s oldest male virgin, did you?’
‘It was the fault of the wind,’ I wheeze enigmatically.
“Have you still got it?’ She moves to stand behind a big guy with headphones. He starts fanning the air with a clipboard.
Outside the park, I walk along, resolving not to interfere again. No matter what life throws in my direction, I will turn the other cheek.
But I round a corner to see a little kid who’s being menaced by a couple of bigger guys wearing chains, tight black jeans and enormous screw-on boots. When I say menaced, I mean the big guys have their lower jaws stuck out and their eyes are narrowed while one of them says, ‘Yeah, so how about it?’ After my recent Sophie and Angela experience, I decide not to get involved.
Tiptoeing in reverse is an art I perfected back in Brisbane. I used to spend hours doing it in the garden, knowing that one day it would come in handy. This time it works and I am almost out of the scene except that I bump into a wheelie bin. It makes a loud grunting noise as it moves on the pavement. Big One and Big Two swing their attention to me.
‘So what do you want, Fairy Floss?’ Big One says.
‘Sticking your bib in,’ Big Two adds.
They move towards me. I employ another Brisbane-based skill - going like a greyhound. This place is full of dangers!
But in the next street, I almost barge into the kid who was being menaced by Big One and Big Two. He must have gone round the block the other way.
‘Hey, thanks.’ He’s out of breath, takes his specs off and gives them a quick wipe and puts them back on. ‘You saved my life.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Diversion. Let me get away.’
‘It was nothing,’ I tell the kid but he’s not listening. In his bespectacled eyes, I’m a hero. Pity he’s not Sophie but you can’t have everything. He’s about twelve, this kid, chest-high to me and wearing a red beanie, grey jumper and baggy pants. He tells me his name is Mitch then makes it plain he wants to hang around. I give him my name.
‘Fergus?’ He looks at me the way most kids do when they hear it for the first time.
‘My dad’s idea,’ I explain. ‘In our family, the deal was Mum named the girls.’
‘Fergus,’ he tries it again. ‘Everyone’ll call you “fungus”.’
‘They already did. Back in Brisbane. Glad to get away from it.’
‘Never mind,’ Mitch consoles me. We walk along together. ‘Thanks again,’ he says. ‘For saving me.’
‘Yeah, okay. Now, I’m going that way, Mitch.’ I point towards Great Aunt Bronwyn’s place. ‘Ryan Road.’
‘So am I. This guy called Rodney lives there. He just got a new drum kit -’
‘Drums, eh?’ This rings a bell. We walk. Mitch shows me shortcuts: down a couple of cobbled alleys then through an underpass, the walls so thick with graffiti there’s barely room to walk. We go in single file and Mitch fills me in on this Rodney character.
‘His mum and dad are super-rich. Like filthy. Anyway, I’m to have a go at the drums. He promised.’ Things are looking up. Mitch is my ticket into the big house next door. Then who knows? I dream a dream.
Playing tonight!!!
Fergus McPhail & The Lonely Boys
Hear their hit singles ‘Oh, Sophie, Sophie’ and ‘Lips that glow in the dark’
Mitch speaks into the intercom at the gate and in seconds we are inside the garage. Rodney has stopped punishing the drums and gone off somewhere, giving the sad-looking kid on the guitar a chance to play a lonely chord or two. Mitch introduces him as Lambert.
‘Peace,’ says Lambert, who is about my age, his face filled with melancholy and freckles. Lambert wears his shirt firmly tucked into his jeans, obviously dressed by his mother. His short red hair is neatly combed so I guess she goes with him to the barber, watching every snip.
‘I’m Fergus,’ I tell Lambert. ‘Have you guys got a band together?’
‘Nope,’ Lambert says. ‘We just fool around.’ Mitch props himself in front of the drums, takes up the sticks then he and Lambert play together, a soft, slow piece that one of them must have written. Mitch is good on the drums, Lambert so-so on the guitar. He sings a bit too. Okay sort of voice. (Actually, they’re better than the Tentatives ever were back in Brisbane.)
As they play, I have a look around the garage, which is like something else. For a start it’s got wall- to-wall carpet and oil paintings hanging everywhere but Lambert tells me they’re only reproductions. Laughing Mona Lisa confirms this by giving me a wink and holding up one thumb. Then, as Lambert and Mitch play on, an idea forms.
‘Listen, guys,’ I cut in. ‘What say we get a band together? The three of us.’ They need some encouragement. ‘I play the guitar, sing a bit, write songs, you guys are the goods. We’ve got everything we need right here. We can do gigs and stuff.’
‘Hang on -’ Mitch starts to say but my lips are already sprinting away with my mouth, as Mum would say.
‘This Rodney guy, I heard him play. Face it, he’s a bit el-crappo on the drums -’
‘He just got them,’ Lambert tells me. ‘He loves his drums.’
‘We can find a way around that.’ I make an elbowing motion and give them a wink but the looks on their faces tell me that maybe I said too much already. I spin about. From the doorway, super-rich and superior Rodney has been taking all of this in and he’s not impressed, especially not with me.
‘Who’s this dork?’ There’s a silence. Mitch speaks up.
‘He’s with me, Rodney. Name’s Fergus. Moved in next door.’
‘Yeah, I’m your new neighbour,’ I tell Rodney. He stares down at me. Mum always says it’s rude to stare but rich people never worry about politeness. Rodney is casually dressed and looks like he’s fallen out of an up-market catalogue. He wears real leather, Italian cotton, hand stitched linen, gets a clean hanky every day.
‘We don’t talk to the neighbours,’ Rodney says. He ambles over to his drum kit. Mitch obligingly moves out to make room. Rodney sits. ‘So, you want to get up a band?’
‘Yeah, we’d be great.’ My enthusiasm has come back. ‘Look, we call ourselves Rodney’s Rebels.’ The Lonely Boys can wait a few more weeks. So far, so good. Rodney seems to be going for it.
‘Yeah?’ He nods, considering. Mitch and Lambert make faces to warn me I should back-pedal. Rodney goes on. ‘And who’s going to be the drummer?’
‘You don’t want to play drums, do you, Rod?’
‘Rodney.’
‘Yeah, Rodney,’ I correct my oversight. ‘Mitch is okay and I bet you write brilliant songs.’
‘Tell you what,’ Rodney says. ‘I know a sidelining when I see one. And I tell you something else. How about you lot piss off out of my garage?’
Outside in the front street, the big security gate clangs shut behind us.
‘Where did you learn your negotiating skills?’ Lambert asks me. ‘Mitch and me were hanging about waiting to score Rodney’s drums when he gets sick of them.’
‘Well, Fergus just brought it out in the open,’ Mitch says loyally.
‘Yeah,’ Lambert growls. ‘Out in the open and out the gate!’
‘But he’s really good at rescuing people,’
Mitch adds.
‘Guys, guys!’ I whip up some enthusiasm. ‘We’re all thinking the same way. I’m good on the guitar - so we three get up a band. Yeah?’
‘And what about drums?’ Mitch asks.
‘We save up and buy them - do odd-jobs, part- time work, wash cars, recycle bottles and aluminium cans, and, and -’ More ideas will come to me. But Lambert can see pitfalls.
‘Zillions of kids do that already. For every odd-job there’s a hundred kids.’
And then, and then! Along the street appear Angela and Sophie, coming this way. Time to make amends, I think, to gather the cat from among the pigeons, to repair fences, to wipe my tears and mop up the hundred litres of milk I spilled. Better still, Mitch and Lambert already know these women. And the women recognise me!
‘Well, look who it is,’ Angela sneers me up and down. ‘Leo the litter-lover.’
‘Collected any more garbage?’ Sophie sniffs. I notice that Lambert has gone bright pink. He starts to shuffle his feet and look at Angela with adoration in his sad eyes.
‘Hello, Angela,’ he says. She ignores him.
‘Look, it was a mistake -’ I try to explain about the Sally magazine but my words are snapped off at the stem and trampled in the dust.
‘I’ve got some news for you,’ Angela growls in my direction. ‘We saw a huge pile of rubbish down the street just waiting for a do-gooder like you.’
‘And when you’ve cleaned it up, jump in the bin after it!’ Sophie adds. ‘And shut the lid!’ They move on.
‘Yeah, bye Angela,’ Lambert calls after her. ‘See you in school, okay?’
‘It takes time,’ I say after we spend a full minute gazing at the girls’ departing backs.
‘Look on the bright side,’ Mitch cheers me up. ‘At least they noticed you.’ With a nod he indicates lovesick Lambert who still sighs hopelessly after Angela.
I know how Lambert feels. It’s happening all over again, the way I used to get off on the wrong foot with girls back in Brisbane. Coming to this place has not changed a thing. I’m doomed to be the kind of guy who lands in trouble - even when I’m not moving!
Fergus McPhail Page 2