This sets Lambert thinking.
‘What if I was to pretend I’m, like, dead,’ he says. He makes an urking noise and pretends to slump. ‘You know, flop on the pavement, then along she comes and says, “Uh, poor Lambert’s dead!” Gives me mouth-to-mouth or something.’
‘Sticks her tongue down your throat?’ I share his enthusiasm.
‘Dead guys don’t get dates.’ Mitch tosses a wet blanket over him. I too see flies in the medicated cream.
‘Yeah, Lambert, and what if a bunch of boy scouts get there first?’ I shake my head. ‘Have you in splints before you can say dib, dib, dib.’
‘Or she might just step over you. Leave you lying there,’ Mitch tells him. ‘But you’re thinking in the right direction. The sympathy vote.’
Lambert sucks his teeth. It’s a poser. On top of that, as we go past the fortress next door, Rodney is already home from St Swanksville, taking out his teenage angst and rage on the drum kit. All three of us wince before going our separate ways. Musically we’ve not really heard ourselves play as a band, but we know bad when we hear it.
At home, Mum gives me the usual after-school third degree. Did I keep my mouth shut? How many enemies did I make? When can we expect the first half-brick through the front window, that sort of thing. Our chat is interrupted when Senga enters with a colourful piece of sculpture balanced on her head. It’s a hairstyle.
‘What do you think, Mum?’
‘Ye-es,’ Mum says. I can only stare, thankful that the heat’s off me for a while. Senga’s hair is piled high and has been stiffened into loops and whorls then painted green and blue with flecks of white.
‘It’s called “Seascape with breakers”,’ she tells us proudly. ‘See, it’s even got a little boat.’ She tilts her head and sure enough there are red sails in the sunset.
‘Why has the boat got a Dutch flag?’ I want to know.
‘It’s the only one they had.’ Senga is so pleased with her new look she forgets to snarl at me. ‘The deli next door did Dutch Cheese Week, so afterwards, we got the flags.’
‘And you walked through the streets like that?’ Mum asks.
‘Well, I couldn’t afford a taxi.’
‘Couldn’t get in one,’ I offer helpfully.
‘A trainee did it,’ Senga explains.
‘Not Mister Snippy?’ Mum asks. Senga gives a wan smile and shakes her head.
‘You’ll have to sleep standing up,’ I tell her.
‘What would you know?’ Senga snaps back to her old self just as Dad enters with the air of a man who has made a decision.
‘I’m going to carry out a few alterations here,’ he announces. ‘Give us a bit more living space.’ Then he claps eyes on Senga’s hairdo and becomes slack- jawed with awe.
‘Plus more headroom, Dad,’ I advise. Senga’s eyes narrow and she rises to her full height. With those rolling waves swirling above her head, my sister looks impressive in a grand and striking sort of way. Stupid too, but you can’t have everything.
Later, after dinner and some television, I put my homework aside and ponder Mitch’s wise words. A strategy is easier to say than achieve. I write several scenarios but end up abandoning the lot. Lambert’s crazy notion of feigning death is better than any of them. But I’m not telling him that!
Overnight there’s been a cool change - not exactly icebergian but nippy all the same. I can’t get used to the way the temperature swings down here. In Queensland, you know where you stand, heat-wise. We meet up on the way to school and one look at Lambert tells me he’s stumped for an idea too. But clever-nappy Mitch has a scheme.
‘This idea might work,’ he says. We are too desperate to scoff so we give Mitch a hearing. ‘The elections for year ten captain are coming up.’
‘True,’ Lambert concedes. Mitch explains.
‘So, Lambert gets himself elected then Angela will have to speak to him.’
With election candidates, the words you think of are, ‘popular’, ‘charismatic’, ‘outgoing’ and so on. For the short few days I’ve known Lambert, not one of those words has sprung to mind. But I keep the negative thoughts to myself.
‘So, when will she speak to me?’ Lambert asks.
‘Whenever she’s got a problem,’ Mitch goes on. ‘You’re the one she’ll come to.’
‘She might not have any,’ Lambert objects.
‘She’s bound to,’ Mitch assures him. ‘Never met a girl who didn’t have problems. I’ve got sisters. They start life with problems. Born naked, don’t have a thing to wear. You should hear them.’
I am about to consign Mitch’s idea to the wheelie bin of hopeless strategies when a wild notion takes hold of me - if I become Lambert’s campaign manager, Sophie Bartolemeo will see me in action, the caring, supportive me, not one who dobs in thoughtless, litter-bugging girls and not one who forces small, asthmatic boys to carry impossibly heavy loads of plastic-wrapped books. Fergus McPhail will take on a genuinely lost cause. Now that’s got to be noble, or something. Selfless.
‘Oh, Fergus, we’ve wasted so much time,’ she says in my dream. ‘I had you all wrong. I mean, working on behalf of a kid with no chance.’
‘Democracy’s not just for the rich and powerful, Soph,’ l tell her. (We’ve got to the Soph stage by this time.) ‘The ordinary kid must have a chance too, the kid who’s shy, retiring, a bit sad-sack, a no-hoper-’
‘Oh, Fergus, Fergus.’ Sophie takes my arm and rests her head on my shoulder. I smell the freshness of her hair. The wind blows one of Lambert’s redundant election posters against my leg. I stoop to peel it off and look at my friend’s cheerful, airbrushed face. Not a zit in sight.
‘He’s still a great kid,’ I say. ‘Pity he didn’t make it. ’ Together Sophie and I walk into the sunset.
‘I could be your campaign manager,’ I tell Lambert when I come back to reality.
‘You?’ Lambert raises an objection. ‘I thought you were keeping a low profile.’
‘A low-profile campaign manager?’ Mitch ponders. ‘Fergus McPhail, you have hidden depths.’
‘The low profile’s only for the teachers,’ I tell them. 'And Mum.’
In class, Ms Sampson announces the election for class captain. She tells us we’re to run the election ourselves and make it a learning experience.
‘So you need an electoral committee to organise the election,’ she goes on. ‘But you can’t be part of the electoral committee if you want to be a candidate.’
‘Vote One for Lambert,’ I say loudly. Might as well make an early start on my new duties. Richmond sneers and Sophie rolls her eyes.
‘Didn’t you listen?’ she says. ‘The electoral committee comes first.’ Oops! My entire head turns crimson then sinks slowly into the collar of my shirt. But Sophie swings into top gear. She leads a class discussion - we don’t want the electoral committee to be too big, do we?
‘No, Sophie,’ the boys say dutifully.
‘So let’s keep it about six, okay?’
‘Yes, Sophie,’ the boys agree. Maybe they’re all in love with her.
‘Nominations?’
In no time at all, we have an electoral committee of six members. They’ll meet this afternoon and announce the election tomorrow. With its facial colour restored, my head pops out again.
‘Good,’ Ms Sampson approves. ‘Now nick off to your first class.’ The kids surge towards the door but Richmond has more sneering to do. Up close, he towers over me.
‘So, sad-sack’s going to run for class captain?’
‘If you mean Lambert,’ I say stiffly, ‘then the answer is yes. And what’s more, I’m his campaign manager.’
Richmond makes a choking noise in his throat.
Friday morning, Sophie announces the election details. Nominations close today, candidates announced Monday morning, election on Wednesday. Only a couple of days to campaign. But what inspiring days they will be!
It is to be a two-horse race, Sophie tells us on the first day of the week. Richm
ond versus Lambert.
‘One horse, one donkey,’ Richmond qualifies the description. ‘A contest between el Sensationale, that’s me, and in the wimp’s corner, el Pathetico.’
‘What would you know about it anyway?’ I borrow a line which always works for my sisters. It’s all I can think of at the moment. Kids cough and move away. ‘Vote for Lambert,’ I call after them. ‘The man for our time.’ But being against such a powerful opponent has unsettled Lambert.
‘Do you think I should jack it in?’ he asks.
‘You mean withdraw?’ I shake my head loftily. ‘That’s only another word for quitting.’
‘Well, do you reckon I should quit?’
‘Lambert,’ I say kindly, ‘let’s work out some votewinning policies.’ We put our heads together. I’m getting desperate too; my grand gesture hasn’t rung any bells with Sophie.
Lambert’s election promises include setting up a suggestion box and a hotline for kids with puberty problems plus getting the canteen to wrap the lunch rolls in plastic.
‘That’s all I can think of,’ he says. ‘So what now?’
‘You need to put your ideas to the voters,’ I tell him.
Lambert delivers his policy speech on the grassy bit where kids like to play soccer. I look but Sophie is not around to hear him.
‘Friends,’ Lambert raises his voice, ‘I offer myself as your candidate for class captain.’ The kids ignore him as they boot a ball around. Lambert whispers, ‘Fergus, they’re not listening.’ I cup a hand to my ear.
‘Eh? What was that? Oh, yeah.’ This is a setback. Not only that, Sophie still hasn’t come to hear Lambert. ‘Say something arresting,’ I advise.
‘I ask not what my class can do for me,’ Lambert intones with one finger held in the air, statesman-style. ‘But what can I do for you?’
‘You can start by shifting,’ says an unfeeling soccer player. ‘You’re standing in the goal mouth.’
When the counting takes place, Sophie announces that Richmond received thirty-seven votes while Lambert got three.
‘That means three people voted for me,’ he says.
‘It really means you and two others,’ I point out.
‘No, it’s three,’ Lambert insists. ‘I voted for Richmond. Didn’t think I had a chance, see.’
‘Maybe you went into this thing with the wrong attitude,’ I chide him. ‘That’s why you lost.’ That and a few thousand other reasons. But Lambert isn’t disheartened.
‘Maybe Angela voted for me,’ he says. ‘Think about that.’
‘Then you’ll never know, Lambert. It was a secret ballot.’
For the next two days, I see very little of my friend. Later I find Lambert has collected his three ballot papers from the rubbish bin and shows them off in clear plastic folders. He handles them with latex gloves.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask reasonably.
‘I’ve dug out my Little Detective Kit from when I was a kid,’ he tells me.
‘So you’re going to check the papers for fingerprints?’
‘Yep.’ Lambert gives a conspiratorial wink. ‘Got all the evidence I need. Right here.’
‘Gee.’ I experience a moment of doubt.
‘Plus, the fingerprint dusting powder.’ He produces a small box of the stuff. ‘Mind you, it used to give me hay fever like you never saw. Sneezed like a walrus.’
I nod sympathetically but find myself hoping the dusting powder has lost all of its potency. Okay, I was busy at the time, which is why I forgot to vote. But old Lambert need never know that!
Secret Admirer
There is good news and bad news. First the good: Sophie and Angela have stopped making litter and rubbish references whenever I come near. Supplementary good news: they appear to have forgotten about my part in Lambert’s election defeat and Lambert never managed to find out who voted for him, or didn’t vote for him. His fingerprint powder went solid on him so he put it in the coffee grinder where it got mixed up with some Kenya Mocha, ruining it for detective work. Also his father got a black mouth and had to stay off work for two days in case the other guys laughed at him.
Now the bad news: Sophie and Angela continue to ignore me but I can’t say which one ignores me most. I hope it’s Angela because I’m definitely warming to Sophie although if Sophie is too tough a nut to crack, romance-wise, then I might go for Angela after all. If you find that scenario complicated then draw a little diagram with stick figures. (Angela is the blonde one.)
But as I say, Sophie, the dream of my dreams, remains aloof and hard to approach. She’s got a whole bucketful of disdain all ready to slosh in my direction. Meanwhile Richmond is getting closer by the second, so this relationship stuff is easier said than done. I can see why guys become hermits or concentrate on their skateboards. It’s just too hard cracking it with women. Yet the human race goes on. Babies are born all the time so some guys are breaking the code. Unless it’s the girl who sizes a bloke up and says, ‘You’ll do. Better than nothing,’ then drags him home to meet mother.
‘Mother; this is Jeremy. ’
‘Hell’s bells!’
So there I am, full of gloomy philosophical concerns, wandering listlessly down by the playing fields where some kids boot a ball around. Soccer, I sneer, who’d play a game like that? In Brisbane I managed to avoid all games, although I enjoyed chess. Then someone kicks the ball in my direction and it bumps against my legs.
‘Hey, back here,’ says a girl’s voice from the pitch. My heart gives a leap. It is Sophie, dressed in soccer kit and boots, standing perspiring, hands on hips, flushed and grubby, her twin lungs heaving magnificently, waiting for me to kick the ball back. Somehow I manage it left-footed without making an idiot of myself. She runs, traps the ball then turns, scoops it up and gracefully throws it back into play from the sideline. Then she’s off down the wing.
What a noble game is soccer, what grace, I think as I watch my Sophie out there, dazzling the opposition. Did you know that soccer is actually the most popular game in the world? Played by thousands, watched by millions. But better still, there is a notice on the sideline:
Fancy a game? Sign on here.
I am a McPhail and our family motto is Sic Transit Gloria Mundi which Dad translated from the original Latin as: Go for it, son. It’ll be glorious by Monday.
As I look for the place to add my name, I have a fantasy vision. It is me, in the proper soccer kit, ball at my feet, trotting along towards the goal with Sophie a few metres to my right. A quick flick from that highly skilled, heavily insured left foot of mine and the ball sails to her, we run together, she’s tackled but gets it back to me at the goal mouth. Then, wap! There it goes, through the baffled goalie’s legs into the back of the net. Sophie and I rush to hug each other. We’re a great team. The goalie is Richmond. Delicious!
There’s a queue to sign on. With Sophie playing, every guy in the school is panting keen for a game, and sex-mad with it. By the time I get to the book my name is number seventy-three, but there’s an ace up my sleeve. The other seventy-two guys stand on the sideline, transfixed by Sophie, leaving me to seek out the coach.
He’s a forty-year-old grumpy bald guy with an uneven moustache, deeply into brooding and scowling. Life has passed him by and left him limp and bitter. He stands watching the game, wringing his floppy hat and at times stuffing it into his mouth. Sophie’s team is already three goals ahead but that’s not enough for him. He demands a cricket score.
‘Just signed up,’ I tell the coach, conversationally. ‘Dead keen. Fergus McPhail.’
‘Yeah,’ he growls absently then shouts at some guy on the field. ‘Tackle him! Don’t hang back! What are you? A chihuahua?’
‘So when do I get a game?’
‘Depends.’
‘On what?’
‘If you’re any good.’
‘Good? Me? Huh,’ I say modestly.
‘You got the kit? You got boots?’
‘Yup and yup,’ I lie.
‘
Give you a try-out tomorrow, after school.’ Then he’s off down the sideline, berating some guy for not having a jet engine up his bottom. ‘Faster, you loon!
‘What are you? A statue?’ He doesn’t scold Sophie. Well, he wouldn’t, would he?
The strip and boots are a problem. Two problems: nutshell-wise -I don’t have either. But I see old Lambert, wandering along, following Angela who doesn’t know he is there. Or maybe she doesn’t care.
‘Lambert,’ I greet him. ‘Old buddy.’
‘No,’ he says automatically. But after two minutes of adroit questioning, I find out that Lambert has the kit and he has the boots. What he doesn’t have are soccer skills and attitude, so he hasn’t made the team. Two minutes more hard bargaining and I am, as they say, kitted up and ready to take the field. Well, nearly, because Lambert tells me I’m to collect the gear from his place.
Pity, I’d liked to have had my try-out there and then but it is not to be. The ref blows a final whistle and the players troop off, hugging and back-slapping. I’ll be good at that aspect of the game. Richmond walks off with Sophie and she even smiles at something he says. I wonder who writes his jokes, but okay, Richmond old buddy. Enjoy it while you can. That’s all I say. There’s a new player on the scene.
Newsflash 1: Senga announces to Mum and Dad that she has found a real job. She’s to be a hairdresser at Mr Snippy’s Hair Salon.
‘The big time already?’ Dad asks. ‘That was quick. Thought you had to do an apprenticeship or something.’
‘Well, everyone adored me as a model,’ Senga explains. ‘Only my hair got sort of damaged so I’m resting it. Mr Snippy says it’s hirsute frizz with clenched roots.’
‘And I bet he sells a lotion for it,’ Mum sniffs.
‘I get a staff discount,’ Senga smoothly consoles my mother then changes the subject. ‘But you should have seen the amount of hair I removed.’
Fergus McPhail Page 4