Fergus McPhail

by David McRobbie

  ‘Cutting on your first day?’ Dad is impressed.

  ‘Well - not cutting,’ Senga admits. ‘More sort of- brushing.’

  Mum and Dad fall silent. They know what they know.

  ‘You’re starting at the bottom, then?’ Dad asks.

  ‘From the floor up,’ I add and receive a glare for my insensitivity.

  Newsflash 2: Jennifer says they do a different kind of writing down here and she’s not going to change just to make them happy so there and another thing she hates the uniform and won’t wear it plus she has to sit with a boy who smells and stole her ruler and wrote his name on it. And the goldfish died before she got a chance to be monitor. It’s unfair and she hates it.

  ‘Well,’ Dad says in his cheer-up voice. ‘Have you made any friends?’

  ‘No, because I abhor them all!’

  ‘Learning lots of big words then, so that’s gotta be a plus.’ Dad is a trier. The rest of us just ignore her.

  One item at a time, Lambert produces the soccer kit for me - shorts, a jersey, stockings, shin pads and one boot, after which he stops trudging back and forward between me and his bedroom. I can tell at a glance that everything will fit me and when I try on the boot, it too feels as if it had been made for my left foot.

  ‘Great,’ I enthuse and try a few one-booted steps on Lambert’s back lawn.

  ‘Yeah,’ he agrees but I can see my friend is not happy. It’s a very delicate situation. Here’s a guy letting you borrow his nearly new soccer strip, less one boot. Okay, he’s been generous so you can’t just demand the other one. As Mum would say, Never look a gift horse in the mouth. There’s got to be a reason behind the withheld boot. I bide my time and concentrate on being grateful.

  ‘I’ll really cut it in this gear, Lambert,’ I tell him as I do a bit of a dribble with a pine cone then pretend to shoot. ‘Oh, yes!’ I run round the yard with my arms out. But still Lambert refuses to cheer up.

  ‘Well, that’s you all right, isn’t it?’ he mumbles. ‘What about me?’

  ‘What about you what?’

  ‘You’re only joining the team to get close to Soph.’

  ‘Sophie,’ I correct him. ‘And that’s not true. I’m doing it because I like soccer.’ And since we’re now talking man-to-man, I raise the subject of the remaining boot but he ignores my question, asking one of his own.

  ‘So how can I get closer to Angela?’

  ‘Aha. That’s what this is about? You want help? My help?’

  ‘It would help,’ Lambert agrees.

  ‘Lambert.’ I put a friendly arm about his shoulder. ‘That’s what mates are for. Helping each other. Now, can we have my foot in the other boot?’

  ‘I’ll go and get it,’ Lambert says.

  ‘Don’t forget the laces.’

  As I go home with Lambert’s soccer kit in a plastic bag, I ponder. How am I to bring Lambert and Angela together? Easier bringing the Sydney Harbour Bridge down the highway to Melbourne.

  ‘You’re not bringing that through Albury- Wodonga!’

  But when I pass CCC, which is in a cluster of shops and boutiques on Harmon Street, a brainwave forms. CCC stands for Coffee, Cake and Chat. It’s a teenage hangout which has a computer terminal at every table. The computers are permanently logged on to an in-house bulletin board so that’s where the chat comes from - and it’s free! I pause at the window of CCC to see Sophie and Angela hunched over a screen, eagerly pointing to something. They are excited and laugh together, then Sophie types some sort of reply. But I notice that Angela has her eye on one of the waiters, a dark and handsome guy who wears a white singlet which shows off his muscular chest. Sophie gives her a nudge and Angela turns back to the screen again and laughs.

  This is it! This is how Lambert will make contact with Angela - he’ll leave a message for her on the bulletin board. Brilliant! But it can’t be any old message. If he just writes, Hi, Angela. I’ve got the hots for you, signed Lambert, then it’ll all be over. But if he leads up to it gradually, mysteriously and anonymously, at the same time demonstrating his level of coolness, she’ll be driven mad with curiosity, wondering who this witty and tantalising guy is - and when she finds out it’s Lambert, she’ll look at him in a new light, or not look at him at all.

  So much for the theory. I drift away from the window of CCC, pleased that I’ll be able to report progress to Lambert.

  Next afternoon, at sign-on time, I turn up in my borrowed soccer kit, wearing Lambert’s boots and kit. Sophie is already on the field with the other players, idly hoofing the ball about. Hang on, Soph, I think. I’ll be out there soon and together we’ll score goals. Lambert turns up as I wait in the queue to see the coach.

  ‘How’d you go?’ Lambert asks.

  ‘I’ve got to talk strategy with coach,’ I tell him.

  ‘I mean with The Plan.’ That’s what he started calling it from the moment I offered to help. It’s The Plan this and The Plan that. Oh, boy. I just can’t wait to see The Plan!

  ‘All in hand, Lambert,’ I answer. ‘Take about two days. Three, tops.’

  ‘Fair dinkum?’ Lambert is pleased. ‘I’ve waited all my life. I can go three days, a week if need be.’ Which is just as well because I’ve got my own romantic situation to sort out - which means getting a game on Sophie’s team.

  When it comes my turn in the queue, the coach is even grumpier.

  ‘D Reserve,’ he says without looking up. He points.

  ‘But I bought the right strip,’ I lie. ‘Can’t you do better than that?’

  ‘Okay, C Reserve.’

  C Reserve is made up of a bunch of guys who look like Losers Anonymous on their annual I’d-Prefer-Not-To-Be-Here outing. They mooch around, kicking the turf, glowering darkly at each other. Not making friends with him! Easy to see they’ve been ordered by their parents to get active, the old When- I-Was-Your-Age routine.

  Meanwhile, on the field, Richmond trots out, dribbling a ball. He passes to Sophie who lobs it back. He traps it, gives a little tap to bounce it then before it hits the ground he shoots and beats the goalie who complains he wasn’t ready.

  ‘Too good,’ Sophie applauds. Richmond laughs.

  ‘Easy!’

  ‘Come on you boys.' It is Ms Rolla who will take us for Tips on Tackling. Her first name is Bunty and she’s a very competent, forty-five-year-old outdoor type, which is why she’s called Bunty. Bunties are the capable ones you find up a ladder, enthusiastically hanging wallpaper, while the guys loll about down below waiting for her to shin down and make a pot of tea. (But for the Bunties of this world males would die of thirst.)

  Back to the field of play.

  ‘When do we get to do the hugging?’ a boy asks Bunty Rolla.

  ‘Yeah, and who do we hug?’ Another one adds.

  ‘Don’t be gross,’ Bunty says. (Bunties are easily offended but never miss a staff meeting.)

  At last, after several mind-numbing minutes, I break away from Losers Anonymous and wander back to the big field where Sophie’s game still goes on. Lambert is there.

  ‘Tell me more about The Plan,’ he orders.

  ‘Later,’ I say.

  ‘I see.’ Lambert is huffy. ‘So how are the boots, then? Shin-pads okay?’ I tell him about The Plan. He is doubtful but I assure him it will work. But just at that moment, Sophie scores a goal. Kids on the sideline go wild, Richmond runs to hug her and since I am wearing the team strip, a crazy scheme develops. I will pretend I’m on the team and go for a hug!

  The plan works but Sophie is taken aback and doesn’t return my enthusiasm.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Great goal, Soph,’ I say. Richmond sneers and shakes his head, Sophie flounces angrily away. The referee comes to me.

  ‘You! Off!’

  ‘Only showing a bit of support,’ I say.

  ‘Off, or I’ll report your team for playing twelve men!’

  Stupid rule!

  At home, Dad has made a compromise with some of the surplus
furniture. It is now out in the backyard wrapped in yellow plastic. These days he draws up plans for building an extension on the house so that all the furniture can fit in i.e. as well as people.

  ‘I know where it can fit in,’ Mum threatens. ‘The junk shop, St Vinnie’s, Lifeline, the dump -’

  ‘Morag, Morag, some of it’s cedar,’ Dad cuts Mum off and gazes around the room. ‘Now, the thing is, when it comes to expanding, do I go upwards or outwards?’

  ‘Wish I had a choice,’ Mum responds. ‘In my condition there’s only one way to go.’

  Condition? There’s another clue. But if I ignore it, it might go away.

  It is time for The Plan. After school, as arranged, I meet Lambert outside CCC. Fortunately, neither Sophie nor Angela is there.

  ‘Okay,’ I tell Lambert. ‘We whip in, write a message then ooze out again before she comes.’ ‘What do we write?’ Lambert asks.

  ‘Trust me,’ I say as we move inside. There’s an empty table and a glowing screen. The instructions are to key in your nickname then the address and after that, you write the message. ‘Lambert, for this exercise, your nickname is Secret Admirer.’

  ‘In year five they called me Klanger,’ he confesses. ‘I dropped things.’

  ‘Klanger’s not cool.’ I type Secret Admirer. ‘Now, what’s going to grab her attention?’ But there’s an interruption. It’s the muscled waiter who wears a badge on his singlet saying he is Angelo.

  ‘What can I get you gentlemen?’ Angelo says. ‘Nothing thanks,’ I tell him. ‘We’re just leaving a message.’'

  ‘Not in here, you’re not.’

  ‘It says it’s free,’ I remind him.

  ‘For customers.’ Angelo is smug. ‘Once you order, by definition you become a customer. Then it’s free.’

  A major drawback. Seconds later, we are out on the pavement.

  ‘How far did we get?’ Lambert asks with a sceptical snarl in his voice. But wonder of wonders, we see Mitch coming our way. He carries a small step-ladder and a plastic bucket which has been gravely crushed.

  ‘I’m in trouble,’ he announces. ‘Look at my mother’s bucket.’

  ‘So tell Uncle Fergus,’ I say kindly and Mitch unfolds his tale.

  It seems he took seriously our plans to make money for buying our own drum kit. His scheme was to wash cars in the supermarket car park - Slogan: You shop, I wash. He took his mother’s bucket, chamois and sponge, which is where Snag 1 became evident. The nearest water tap was many metres from the car so every time Mitch went to refill the bucket, he had a long, heavily laden, ankle-wetting walk back.

  He washed a blue Mini then went for fresh water only to come back and find a red Lantra in the parking spot. Annoyed and dispirited, Mitch tossed the bucket of water at the car but there was no splash. Oops - the front window was open. He collected his gear and beat a retreat, where he met Snag 2.

  Being too short to reach the roof of another car, Mitch could only do the sides the back, the front and the bonnet. Instead of specialising in motor bikes, he raced home for a step-ladder, sprinted back to the half-washed car, climbed up and was about to sponge the roof when the driver took off leaving him up a ladder in the middle of a car park.

  ‘I felt stupid,’ Mitch says.

  ‘Well, you would.’ I nod sympathetically.

  ‘Plus she ran over my mother’s bucket.’

  ‘Never mind,’ I say. ‘How much did you make?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Put it another way,’ Lambert says. ‘How much have you got?’ I’ll say this for Lambert. He’s got his teeth right into The Plan.

  With a dollar-fifty borrowed from Mitch, we become customers of CCC, purchase a jammy doughnut and post Secret Admirer’s message for Angela. I type her name then the enigmatic message: I like what I see.

  ‘Okay.’ I finish my half of the doughnut. ‘Now let’s get out of here.’

  ‘Sure that’ll work?’ Lambert asks as we reach the street.

  ‘Lambert,’ I plead, ‘what if some girl fronted up to you and said, “I like what I see?” What would you think?’ Lambert considers for a second or two.

  ‘She fancies my windcheater?’

  ‘Trust me,’ I tell him. ‘Read those words, she’ll be eaten with curiosity.’ But on the way home, Lambert raises another objection.

  ‘How are you going to make sure Angela sees the message?’

  ‘She’s bound to,’ I tell him. ‘She haunts that place.’

  ‘But there might be another Angela, or two or three of them.’

  ‘Look, don’t be negative, Lambert. If Adam had been negative with Eve, where would we be?’ That shuts him up. Nothing like a bit of Old-Testament theology to settle an argument.

  Next soccer training day, kitted out in Lambert’s strip, I turn out with Losers Anonymous to take part in Trapping and Getting Rid of the Ball exercises. Meanwhile, on the big field, Sophie has assembled with the rest of her team, which is where I’d rather be, but you know that bit.

  The ball slowly dribbles to me. I trap then boot it away.

  ‘McPhail,’ Bunty Rolia snaps as the ball sails off. ‘When I say “get rid of it”, I don’t mean permanently!’

  ‘That means you got to go and get it,’ says a lumpy boy who has a headache. ‘And take your time.’ He flops gratefully on the grass as I trot over to the big field which is where it happens . . .

  The game hasn’t started. Sophie and the other players are milling about in a helpless sort of way, looking anxiously off-field as if waiting for someone. The coach spots me.

  ‘Hey, you!’ He means me. ‘On the field! You’re playing left back.’ I knew someone had to witness that mighty kick.

  ‘Yeah, pretty impressive, eh?’ My chest swells with pride.

  ‘Impressive nothing. We’re a player short and if we don’t field a team, we forfeit,’ the coach growls. ‘And you’ve got the gear, so get out there and behave yourself.’ Luckily, Sophie doesn’t hear the coach’s non-supportive words of encouragement. I take my position and a friendly player from the other team has a word.

  ‘Listen, son,’ he says. ‘Basic rule. If the ball comes your way, take your time, look around then decide where to pass it, okay?’ He gives me a satisfied wink and trots off.

  ‘What did he say?’ It is Sophie, hissing at my side.

  ‘Only gave me a bit of advice -’

  ‘You knuckle-head!’ she almost spits. ‘Don’t take advice from him! She goes off, shaking her head. The other members of my own team give me dark looks. Then the ref blows his whistle and we begin.

  What can I say? It’s a good first half, apart from me handling the ball twice, kicking Richmond in the shins and in the general groin area, but he had it coming, also shutting my eyes and cringing fearfully with hands across my head when I get tackled. The goalie peels my hands away from my eyes and tells me they’ve gone so I can come out now. Then of course, when Sophie scores, I rush to give her the traditional hug.

  ‘Oh, piss off.’ she snarls. ‘Groper!’

  Before half-time, the coach calls me off.

  ‘Important job,’ he says. ‘And you’re the man. Cut this in ten equal sections.’ He gives me a lemon.

  ‘Shouldn’t that be eleven?’ I ask, but his pitying look tells me he means ten. For the second half, they continue with only ten players and me on the sideline. I ask to get in amongst the action but the coach says, ‘Not yet, son. I’m keeping you where I keep my elbow.’ Even without me, we sneak a win and at full-time, Sophie clatters past in her boots but only shakes her head. (By this time I have faced up to the fact that my contribution wasn’t completely useful, apart from the lemon. You never saw such equal portions.)

  ‘I’ve got a bit of work to do,’ I confess to Sophie.

  ‘A bit,’ she agrees. It’s make-amends time. Some grovelling is in order. Play the sympathy card.

  ‘I’m sorry I let you down, Sophie,’ I mumble. ‘It’s just that my enthusiasm gets in the way of my ball skills -�
�� It works.

  ‘It wasn’t all your fault,’ she softens. ‘We shouldn’t have tossed you in at the deep end.’

  ‘I’ll be better next time,’ I vow.

  ‘Sure,’ she says generously. ‘Now I’ve got to shower. Then I’m off to CCC.’

  ‘Me too,’ I tell her. ‘Look, what say I buy you a doughnut?’ Sophie considers.

  ‘Okay,’ she smiles. ‘And a cappuccino.’ It’s on! So how’s that for opportunism?

  Bunty Rolla grabs me just as I take my shirt off.

  ‘Listen, McPhail. About that ball you went to fetch . . .’

  At CCC, I follow Sophie in and we find a table. The computer screen glows invitingly. It’s killing-two- birds-with-one-stone time - draw Sophie’s attention to Lambert’s love-sick message for Angela and notch up a point or two on my own behalf. Angelo the waiter is on hand with his order pad and comes to our table.

  ‘Hi, Soph,’ he says. (Soph, eh?)

  ‘Hi, Angelo.’

  ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘I’m having a cappuccino,’ Sophie says. ‘And one of your doughnuts.’

  ‘And you?’ Angelo turns to me.

  ‘Um - glass of water,’ I say. ‘I’m in training. And caffeine keeps me awake at night.’

  Sophie’s look tells me it’s a weak pair of excuses.

  ‘Anything else?’ Angelo waits with pencil poised.

  ‘A bit of lemon in the water.’

  ‘That’s axiomatic,’ Angelo says and departs.

  ‘He’s doing first year English at Uni,’ Sophie explains. Then she turns serious. ‘Look, there’s one thing we need to get straight - between you and me.’

  ‘Yeah?’ My hopes rise. Sophie is about to lay out the ground rules for our relationship. But no.

  ‘This hugging stuff’s really, really infantile,’ she tells me. ‘I hate it. So if you ever get another game and if I happen to score, it’s hands to yourself. Okay?’

  ‘Yes, Sophie.’

  ‘If you have to congratulate me, send a card.’

  ‘Yes, Sophie.’ If our association gets off the ground it’s going to cost me a packet. Cappuccinos, doughnuts, cards and postage. It all adds up. Angelo returns with Sophie’s coffee and doughnut plus my glass of water and slice of axiomatic lemon floating in it. Angelo goes, Sophie sips and I turn my attention to the computer screen. ‘You can leave messages here.’