Water Under Water

by Peter Rix

  Hey, Russell, make sure you tell my dad about the good manners.

  Then the cool dude, who had good manners too and that’s why he held the door all the time, pulled a face to make his friends laugh. Hey, did someone leave the gate open at the funny farm?

  Meeting people is good, so Tom said, I went to a farm, last year ago. They had horses there, and chooks too.

  Russell pushed Tom past the entrance and held the door for the cool dude. Funny farm? I haven’t heard that expression since third class, he said. You have a nice day now.

  The cool dude put his hands up like Russell was pointing a gun at him. Kaylee stepped between Russell and the cool dude so the door swung shut. She said to Russell, Do we need a brawl this close to home? I suppose you’d leave Amit to me.

  Yeah, sorry, boss. We’ve still got a long way to go, though, haven’t we?

  Forget it. Let’s get these guys their fix and get back on the road.

  The girls all did their orders. When it was Newton’s turn, he looked at all of the pictures above the counter. He looked for a long time.

  A boy in the queue said, Any day now.

  What do you think you might have, Newton? Russell asked.

  Tom knew that Newton liked burger meals, so he yelled it out. Newton ordered a burger meal.

  Russell told Tom, Listen, any time you’d like to mind your own beeswax and let Newton do his own order would be fine, all right?

  Beeswax, cool, Tom said.

  That’s five seventy-five, said the girl behind the counter.

  Newton gave her a five-dollar note.

  Five seventy-five, the girl said again. She waved the note in front of Newton. Newton fooled everyone.

  Virginia had come back to the counter for straws, and she took a dollar coin out of Newton’s hand. Give her this one, Newton, then you’ll get some change.

  Here is this one, said Newton, then I’ll get some change.

  Good manners were very hard with Newton, so Tom said, Sucked in, Newton. You don’t even know money.

  When Tom had collected his order, he said to Amit, You sit with Russell and Kaylee. I’m going with Newton this time.

  Amit didn’t mind about Tom going with someone else because he ate his lunch at one o’clock and that was all he thought about when it was one o’clock.

  Tom watched Newton eating his special meal. I’m sorry, Newton, he said, about, you know, the money thing.

  Oh, I know you like to do teasing and jokes.

  Tom said, My brother James told me a joke last week ago. Why did the man call his dog Syndrome?

  Tom waited … You have to say, I don’t know.

  I don’t know, said Newton.

  So then it could be down, Syndrome. Down Syndrome, like me. Get it?

  I might get it, said Newton, or I might not get it.

  Tom thought about the joke.

  I do find money difficult sometimes, Newton said.

  Tom stared at his burger. Yeah, money is hard. I can’t do money either. The best is, give them a ten dollar or a twenty dollar. That’s what I do. You get more change money back then. It’s cool.

  Tom grinned and clicked his fingers like his brother when he had a good idea. It took three goes before he could make the clicking noise, but Newton just watched while Tom finished the clicking. Tom took his mobile phone from his pocket and dialled a number.

  Take my advice. My dad knows money. He’s the best at money. He can teach us both.

  Tom was disappointed to get his dad’s voicemail, but he left a message: Dad, this is Tom, your other son. I’m here with my friend Newton at one-o-seven. You met him at my school swimming carnival and my eighteenth party. We want to learn all about money, so when you get to the river can you teach us, please? He did the clicking again: I’ve got it, Dad, I’ve really got it. How about you sleep in our tent and teach us about money in there? I’ve got my special torch. Tom did a thumbs-up to Newton. It’ll be great, Dad. And you know all about water, too, so you can help us with the rafting.

  Tom pressed Call End on his phone and sat grinning at Newton. Newton looked at Tom’s mobile phone, so Tom had to look at his phone too. He dialled his father’s number again: Dad, it’s me again, Tom Campion, your second son, at one-o-nine. I don’t want to get you mad, so you can just teach us about money when you’ve got time. Don’t bother about returning this call.

  Next to Tom, Virginia and Lizzie sat opposite a man and a lady. The man and the lady were like his mum and dad except much fatter. Maybe they really liked burgers, because Tom’s mum said burgers will make you fat if you eat them more than once in a while. It was hard to know when once in a while was right now and when you still had to wait for it. Maybe the man and lady couldn’t do time either. They must have liked ice-cream desserts because they had two each. Two each is greedy. Lizzie stared at the desserts. The man and the lady didn’t look at Virginia or Lizzie. They only looked at their desserts.

  I like strawberry topping best, Lizzie said.

  Do you dear? That’s nice, the lady said. And what about your little friend?

  The lady still didn’t look up like good manners. She just pointed a spoon at Virginia. Virginia ran her finger around the sleeve of her dress so that it sat neatly. Virginia always did things with her hands or her hair or her smile that made the funny feeling come.

  I don’t eat desserts. My mother says sweet things will make me fat.

  The man had a very loud laugh. He sat back in his chair and patted his very fat stomach. Your mother is spot on.

  The man and the lady talked to the girls about the river trip. They spoke very slowly, like mothers do to their really little kids. Tom stood behind them when they put their trays back in the special shelf. The lady said, Weren’t they cute? She liked Lizzie and Virginia now. And wasn’t the little one well turned out? Neat as a pin. I think it makes such a difference if they can keep themselves looking smart.

  Tom went to sit with Amit. Amit put his head down very low near his food so no one could take any.

  We came to a restaurant like this for Tom’s eighth birthday, Amit said.

  Kaylee looked at him like she wanted to say boring, boring. But she just did a big sigh and asked Amit, Are you sure it was his eighth birthday? It was eleven years ago. How can you be sure?

  Yes, I am sure. His eighth. I remember. I remember everything, don’t I?

  All right, what happened at Tom’s thirteenth birthday?

  His thirteenth, we went to Luna Park, and I ate too much and vomited in Mr Campion’s car. I don’t eat too much any more. Not any more?

  Amit liked this game. Kaylee played the game with Amit lots of times, so she must have liked it too.

  His sixth? Russell said, while Kaylee took a bite of her food.

  A barbecue at Tom’s house? His aunty came from Brisbane. We played Pass the Parcel, and Tom wouldn’t pass it, so his father got angry.

  Amit looked around the restaurant like he thought Tom’s father was here right now. You have to pass it, mmm?

  Tom looked too, just in case. You could never tell when his dad would come. It was like his dad was always there, just you couldn’t always see him with your eyes. Like God.

  Seven

  What does God do, Dad?

  Nine-year-old Tom’s voice cut through the noise of the checkouts. He always found an audience: other shoppers in the queue, checkout operators and baggers. It was as if he liked standing out from the crowd, in spite of everything. By this time, there was not so much softness left in the Down Syndrome features, not so much little-boy cute. Tom was an odd-looking kid with a voice like dry gravel in a concrete mixer. If the crowd missed the face, the voice would get them staring. And his tongue. A couple of sizes too big, so when he was in a hurry the words came out twisted and squashed. He wandered around with that tongue hanging out. Pink. Wet. Another label. They reminded him a dozen times a day.

  Tom, tongue.

  Fran had finally given in to the flu she’d been spreading around
all week. Jim had left the office early to get the shopping done, racing around the supermarket aisles; there were still three items on her list not crossed off, but it was never simple with Tom in tow.

  God’s in heaven, Tom. So they say.

  Fran’s writing was indecipherable. What was Vegan nite? Something for her yoga class?

  But what does he do in heaven, Dad? You sit at your desk and do numbers. Mum does shopping except when she’s sick in bed feeling like death warmed up. What does God do for his job?

  Vegemite!

  He and Tom were third in the queue. Jim could have raced back for it, left Tom to keep their place. And come back to a riot? Forget it.

  You must know, Dad. What does God do?

  Come on, mate, give it a rest.

  Now he had the woman ahead involved. She was one of those who got all puffed up, eyes shining. God spends his time looking after all of us, she said, because he made us in his own image, even little …

  Ah, now she got a good look. Fran talked about that expression: part pity, part accusation.

  When Tom sorted her out, you had to see the funny side. I’m nine going on ten, he told her. I’m not stupid. Dad’s going to tell me when we get home. He works in a tall building that goes up into the sky.

  It was Tom’s bedtime before they got back to it.

  Apart from the one on the top floor, Jim told him, I’m not even sure there is a god, mate.

  It doesn’t really matter, Dad, because I’ve got you.

  Jim was working in the study when he heard Tom slip out of bed and creep into James’s room.

  James, can I talk to you about God?

  No, Tom, piss off.

  Tom must have been standing very still, staring, the way he did. There was the sound of James’s doona being kicked back. Tom’s voice. My favourite older brother. Hey, your feet smell funny.

  A week later, Tom put his question to an expert: Hugh Stokes, PhD MA (Divinity) Dip Ed, headmaster of Stambridge House private boys’ college – one of the oldest; layers of respect. The Campions arrived early for the nine-fifteen appointment to confirm the next step in the family tradition: Jim’s old school and his father’s, now to be James’s.

  The head’s office had a deliberate, almost olfactory intensity – oak panelling, massive polished desk, high-backed leather chair, built-in bookshelves along one wall from where hundreds of hardbacked volumes passed silent judgement on those arraigned before them. The room was filled with light from three windows, high and arched, able to frame a tall man. From across the room, Dr Stokes beckoned. They followed his gaze out over the main quadrangle, that huge, familiar, forbidden lawn, criss-crossed by sandstone walkways. The two old jacarandas were in full flower. Their brilliant purple was a surprise; Jim had hardly noticed it all those years ago. The first-period bell sounded. The boys filed past, tramping feet just audible on the flagstones. No one strayed from the paths. Andrew Mayfield, Year Ten, had scored a detention for capering about on that perfect surface.

  Old Stokes seemed transfixed. Only when the last boys cleared the area, leaving an indiscriminate scattering of purple, did he turn to them. After all these years, you know, it still moves me.

  Man or boy, Jim had never felt comfortable with Stokes. Did he mean the pupils, the pulsing life of the school, the potential? It was certainly a different view from up here. Or was it the symmetry he loved, the solid certainty of the quadrangle, the precise order of the ranks passing through, the jacarandas in flower just as they should have been, the whole scene living up to expectations? It had been a dare, Andy’s escapade on the lawns. But when he was led away by a couple of prefects, Jim had stayed hidden behind the jacarandas. Later, he’d wanted to own up to his part in it.

  Don’t be dumb, Andy had said. You’re not detention material.

  The headmaster’s secretary shooed Tom into the office. I found him wandering into one of the science labs, she said.

  The woman let them know she was no stranger to the disappointing behaviour of small boys. And that it was a cross she bore stoically.

  Stokes was a tall man, maybe not quite the giant he’d seemed to Andy and Jim the first day they’d fronted up to Stambridge but still impressive. He must have learnt long before how to use his height. Now, he settled behind the desk.

  Well, Jim, Fran. James has been doing very well at his primary school, I see. A sportsman too, well done. And now he’s going to join us at Stambridge. Excellent.

  He made small talk with James, not that it lessened the distance between them. The boy would learn, Jim thought, like we’d all had to.

  So, James, you have a great deal to live up to, you know. Third generation, eh?

  The headmaster delivered his pep talk on the changes at the school in his twenty-six years. We’ve achieved a great deal, I’m proud to say. Just look at the progress since your day, Jim. New sports grounds, science wing, the arts centre.

  Dr Stokes directed his words to a larger audience; flashbacks to a dozen speech days.

  For all that, Jim, Fran, we have never diverged from our program of a balanced, Christian education.

  After ten minutes, Stokes closed the folder. He was a busy man with important business.

  Until next year then, James.

  Tom hopped off his chair and trotted to Dr Stokes’s side of the desk. The headmaster leant back like most did when Tom came at them.

  Tom asked him confidently, What does God do?

  Not now, Tom.

  But Stokes spread his arms and lowered his frame. He was a teacher, once; suffer the little children. No, no, it’s quite all right. I’m always pleased to help bright, inquiring minds.

  That didn’t come out quite right; old Stokes looked a bit lost. Fran sent the boys off to look at the swimming pool.

  And where will Tom … what will you do about his schooling? Stokes asked.

  We’d like both our sons to attend Stambridge, Fran replied. It seems natural, doesn’t it, Headmaster, Jim being an old boy of the school? His father too. We know Stambridge is proud of how many old boys send their sons here. Besides, it has been good for James to take some responsibility for his brother at primary school. He can do it here, too.

  Stokes pushed back into his chair again. I see. He steepled his fingers, tapped them against his chin. Perhaps that might not be quite so straightforward, Fran.

  He opened his hands in an appeal for understanding. After all … it’s a question of resources, don’t you see?

  Resources, Headmaster? You did say four million to build the arts centre?

  Well, yes, but that’s capital expenditure, Stokes said, almost choking on the phrase like he was writing the cheques himself. A modern arts centre like ours, he said, is an investment in the future.

  With a sigh, he heaved himself up and came to perch on their side of the desk, resting his hands on the polished surface. Most importantly, Mrs Campion, we need to consider what might be best for Tom.

  Dr Stokes arranged his face into an expression of deepest regret. My point is, and I’m sure you’ll agree, none of us would want Tom singled out, would we?

  Back in his chair, he sat at full height, looming at them over the desk. You remember what it’s like here, Jim. It’s tough, very competitive. Schools like Stambridge produce leaders, the young men who will shape our very society.

  Yes, I see, Fran murmured.

  Which is when it hit Jim. She’d known all along. To have had Tom at his old school would have at least been something, but Fran would never have sent him where he wasn’t wanted.

  On the drive home, James fought the tears. He reckoned twelve was too old to cry.

  I don’t like him. It’s a stupid school.

  Jim tried to buck him up. Come on, James, you’ll be all right.

  Tom listened hard. James was his favourite big brother who loved him. You had to love people back who loved you. He put an arm around James’s shoulders, so James dug an elbow into his ribs, which hurt a lot. Big brothers didn’t always l
ike it when you put an arm around their shoulders. Not when they were crying.

  I think he wants to be a nice man. He just doesn’t know how, Tom said. Hey, he didn’t tell me what God does. Maybe he doesn’t know that either.

  It was another year before Tom asked, Will I go to Stambridge, Dad?

  Some people go to different schools, his dad said.

  Fran and other mothers were already lobbying for a special class at the local high school.

  Are you trying to say I’m different? Tom asked.

  I suppose I am.

  Take my advice, Dad. I’m ten, going on eleven. I’m not stupid. Anyway, James has to get up early on Saturday to go to sport. I can watch TV. Sucked in.

  From the study that Saturday, Jim heard the TV being switched off, then James’s bedroom door opening. From the doorway, he watched Tom struggle into his brother’s blazer. He marched around the room like the boys in the quad then stood at the mirror, running his fingers over the badge and the shiny piping stripes.

  I go to school at Stambridge House, Tom announced to his reflection. With my brother.

  Tom didn’t go to Stambridge, but the summer holidays before he started in his special class at high school he did get to go on a family holiday with his big brother.

  Tom slept like a log, that’s what his mum said, and she gave him a big shake under the blankets.

  Time to go, Tom.

  It’s too early, Mum.

  No, it’s not, my big boy. Remember we said five o’clock in the morning? Now it’s nearly six. That’s later, isn’t it? Wake up now and hop into the car.

  I am awake. Only my legs and arms are still sleeping.

  Tom pulled the bedclothes over his head, but then he remembered. Family holiday! Before you could say where’s my hat, he was fully dressed with all his clothes on and his backpack was loaded into the car. Plus his other stuff, like his guitar and his English– French dictionary and his rock collection.

  Tom, do you really have to bring all that rubbish?