by Various
Then somebody else cried out. It was a short, guttural shout, mixed with a swear word, made by a man in the nature reserve. I saw him at the very last second, just after he sighted me. He was wearing a black beanie, and had big, wide bloodshot eyes. There was no way I was going to miss him.
Whoooooomph!
My legs scissored either side of his head, and my famously ample backside smashed into his shoulders.
Louisa told me later that the landing was graceful. That I looked like an oversized jockey falling from the sky to straddle a collapsing horse.
‘Sorry,’ I said to the man in the beanie who had broken my fall.
The man said nothing. Was he dead? I was relieved to feel his chest moving. I was still sitting on his head with my bum.
‘I’ll get off you now,’ I said.
No reply. The man was out cold.
I started to get up, amazed that not a single part of me was injured.
Then I heard the sirens.
Then I saw a sprinting SWAT team, all in Kevlar vests, guns drawn.
Then I saw the man’s gun in the grass, gleaming in the twilight, just out of reach.
‘Get away from that man!’ one of the police yelled.
‘He’s armed and dangerous!’
I stood bolt upright. I placed my hands in the air, as if I was the one in trouble. Three police sprinted over to the unconscious man and snapped cuffs on him. A policewoman flung her body in front of mine, as if acting as a human shield.
The man didn’t move. He was still knocked out.
The police finally began to relax.
We all stared at the man in the beanie lying unconscious on the ground.
One of the cops looked at me. ‘How the heck did you do that, kid?’
He was a very bad man. I won’t go into details about how bad. All I will say is that he’d already fired his gun that afternoon, and he planned on firing it again.
I was hailed as a hero. The police took me back to the station to take a statement. It was weird watching them type out the rules to ‘One Two Three Bum’. The officer in charge told me that the Backhouse twins had said the game was called ‘One Two Three Sit’. I corrected the record. I said it was definitely ‘One Two Three Bum’, and that Maurice and Mikey had invented the game. The police typed everything up. I hoped the Backwash Twins wouldn’t go to gaol for lying in their statement.
The story of my flight was front page in the newspaper the next day. The headline said ‘CANNON-BOY HERO’. Louisa was interviewed for the article. ‘He steered his way through the air so he could disarm the man,’ Louisa said. ‘Harry had no thoughts for his own safety.’
Mum read the story out loud the next morning over tea and marmalade. She actually started crying when she read the last line: ‘He may only be ten years old, but today Harland Baum is the toast of the nation.’
‘Harland Baum,’ Mum sniffed, as she showed Dad the page. ‘What did I tell you? A name fit for a prime minister or a president!’
Dad ruffled my hair. ‘They won’t be calling you Hairy Bum today, kiddo.’
They didn’t call me Hairy Bum.
They called me Cannon-boy, Cannon-Baum, Baum-trooper, the Bumminator, Bumbo the Bumaphant, Flight of the Bummingbird, The Fall Guy, Bumpty Dumpty, and Hairy Poodini. And those are only the names the Backwash Twins thought up.
I didn’t mind. Those two were almost as excited as I was to have been involved in some backyard trampolining, crime-fighting heroics.
‘Really, I don’t know why you’re gettin’ all the credit,’ one Backwash Twin said. ‘It was me who kinda aimed you at that dude.’
‘No, it was me!’ yelled the other Backwash, and he jumped onto his brother’s back. They wrestled in true Backwash style, and it only ended when Maurice rolled in a melted ice-cream.
I knew it was Maurice because Louisa said, ‘Stand up, Maurice, you’ve rolled in a melted ice cream.’
She also turned to me and said, ‘You were the actual hero, Harry,’ and gave me a pat on the shoulder.
Principal Wheeler said something similar in front of the whole school. We were at Thursday assembly in the gym. Principal Wheeler asked the Backwashes, Louisa and me to stand up. Then she introduced a politician whose name was the Honourable George Gargle. Mr Gargle said some things about civic duty. He then said some things about true courage. He then told a story about his childhood that was very long and very boring, and he kind of lost the audience. Then Mr Gargle said, ‘These four brave children will be honoured next week by the Governor. They will come to Government House to receive a Medal of Honour and a Royal Certificate.’
The Backwash Twins began doing serious high fives.
Principal Wheeler said, ‘That’s enough, boys. Mr Garville might not award those Royal Certificates if you’re not careful.’
That’s when I worked out that he was called Garville, not Gargle.
We sat back down. One of the Backwashes gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. The other one danced in his seat and started singing a little song, ‘We’re getting a cert-if-i-cate! We’re getting a cert-if-i-cate!’
‘You can call me Dame Louisa,’ Louisa whispered, and gave me a high five with that lovely and not at all clammy palm.
‘You can call me Sir Backwash,’ said one of the twins.
‘No, I want to be Sir Backwash,’ said the other.
‘You can be Lord Backwash!’ the first one replied. They started to wrestle, just as Principal Wheeler was awarding the Golden Lunchbox for the class that produces the least rubbish.
The politician formerly known as Gargle stared at the twins. He might have been having second thoughts about inviting the Backwashes to Government House.
‘And I guess I can be Sir Bum,’ I said quietly, and mainly to Louisa.
‘Sir Bum!’ the Backwashes repeated, not quietly. ‘That’s fantastic! You absolutely must be Sir Hairy Bum!’
Assembly was over. The procession music started to play. The Backwash Twins dragged me to my feet and heaved me up onto their shoulders.
‘Arise for Sir Bum!’ one of the Backwash Twins declared to the gymnasium.
‘All hail Sir Bum!’ the other one shouted.
I offered a tentative wave, a bit like the Queen. Hundreds of kids rose to their feet and cheered.
‘Sir Bum! Sir Bum! Sir Bum!’
That’s how we exited. Principal Wheeler and the politician smiling wryly at the head. Followed by Lady Louisa. Then me, chaired by the Backwash Twins, feeling happy and heroic.
‘Sir Bum!’ the whole school chanted as we made our way. ‘Hooray for Sir Bum!’
I waved and acted dignified. All the way out into the sunshine.
My name is Harland Baum, although my friends call me ‘Sir Bum’.
NUTBUSH
by
Meredith
Costain
I dangle the cat treat above Flossy’s tiny nose.
‘Flossy,’ I say. ‘Sit.’
Flossy gives me the stink eye.
‘Come on, Flossy,’ I beg. ‘You love cat treats.’
Flossy doesn’t move. She hasn’t moved the last ten times I asked her to sit, either.
‘You’re doing it all wrong,’ Dev says, grabbing the treat out of my hand.
‘Sit,’ he says, his voice all deep and commanding.
Flossy looks bored.
Jasmine sighs. ‘You two obviously know nothing. Cats are really smart. They’re not going to do something a dumb dog would do.’
‘So what can they do?’ I ask. ‘Play handball? Take a specky? Make me a chocolate milkshake?’
I’m getting a bit desperate. Make that a lot desperate. There are only two weeks to go till the Best-trained Dog Competition. The competition that Boof Finkle wins every year with his dog Crusher.
Boof is in Year Six and thinks he rules the school. Just for once, I want to be up on that stage, accepting the Golden Dog Biscuit trophy from our principal, Mrs Martini.
There’s only one te
ensy tiny problem. I don’t have a dog.
But I’m really hungry for that Dog Biscuit. So I’ve decided to enter Flossy instead. In disguise, of course. My baby sister has this really fluffy poodle onesie that fits Flossy perfectly. All I have to do is zip her into it on the day—Flossy, not my little sister—and show the judges what a well-trained cat . . . er, dog . . . she is.
Jasmine taps my arm. ‘What about a high five?’
I stare at her. ‘What. Now? I haven’t even won yet.’
Jasmine rolls her eyes. ‘I meant Flossy, Sam. You could train Flossy to do a high five.’
‘Oh. Right,’ I say, scratching my head. ‘Sounds . . . great.’
I’m just about to give up on the whole idea when a butterfly flits past my nose and lands on a flowery branch just past my head. Quicker than you can say ‘winners are grinners’, Flossy’s up on her hind legs, batting at it with her paw.
And then I have a brilliant idea. Flossy’s always up on her hind legs. Trying to swipe snacks off the kitchen bench. Fiddling with the pencils on my desk. Staring out the window. It’s like she thinks she’s one of those meerkats you see at the zoo. I could pretend I’ve trained her to stand up tall like that and beg, like you see on those ads on TV for fancy cat food.
I’m all excited now. I grab another treat out of the box and hold it up high above Flossy’s head. Sure enough, she rises up . . . and up . . . and up . . . and swipes at the treat.
Only she misses, and gets my arm instead. (Did I mention that Flossy has very sharp claws? I’m actually thinking of changing her name to Slasher. Or Ripper. Or Razor. Or maybe a combination of all three.)
‘Oww,’ I say. And also, ‘Eww.’ There’s blood. I hate blood. Especially when it’s mine.
Flossy scoots up the front of our fence and over the top into Mrs Pumphrey’s garden. Flossy loves Mrs Pumphrey. She’s always going over there.
She settles down on a chair on her front verandah and gives me another stink eye. Then she lifts one leg and licks at a spot under her tail.
We stand there in silence, thinking about how Flossy has robbed me of the chance to finally win the Golden Dog Biscuit.
Then Jasmine points out a sad pile of fluff a bit further along the verandah.
‘What about her?’ she asks.
‘Zippy?’ I say. Zippy is Mrs Pumphrey’s dog. She’s about 90 years old. And trust me, she grew out of her name a long time ago.
Jasmine nods. ‘Zippy!’ she calls. ‘Here, Zippy!’
Zippy thumps her tail on the verandah boards a few times, then collapses from the effort.
Jasmine waves a cat treat at her. ‘Come to Jazzy.’
I stare at Jasmine. ‘You’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking, are you?’
‘Sure,’ says Jasmine. ‘Why not?’
Dev blinks at us blankly.
‘Haven’t you ever heard that saying, “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks?” Anyway, she can’t see you. She’s blind as.’
‘Well, at least she’s an actual dog,’ Jasmine snorts. ‘Not a giant, razor-clawed cat dressed up in a poodle onesie.’
She’s right. As usual.
‘Flossy!’ I call. ‘Come. Here. Now!’
Flossy arches her back—then yawns.
‘Here, kitty, kitty.’ I rattle the treat box. ‘Look. I’ve got treats.’
Flossy lifts a leg and starts licking her bottom again.
‘Right. That’s it,’ I warn her. ‘No more treats for YOU.’
Flossy jumps down lightly from her comfy chair and pads around to the back of Mrs Pumphrey’s house, like it’s her new home. And we all troop back inside, defeated.
Dev and Jasmine and I are hanging outside the local milk bar on our bikes. And then guess who else turns up?
Boof Finkle and his prize-winning dog, Crusher.
‘What’s this?’ he says. ‘A meeting of the Losers’ Club?’
‘It is now,’ Jasmine fires back. Go, Jaz!
Boof’s eyes narrow, just for a second.
‘I taught Crusher a new trick this morning,’ he tells us. ‘Wanna see?’
‘Sure,’ I say.
Boof tells Crusher to sit.
‘Is that it?’ I snigger. Then instantly regret it.
‘I taught him how to pee on command,’ Boof says. ‘On bikes.’ Then he grins. ‘Which bike would you like him to pee on first?’
Nobody moves. Not even an eyelid.
Boof looks around, then points to Dev’s shiny new BMX Pro Majestic. He loves that bike. It’s taken him a whole year of car-washing to save up for it. ‘This one?’
Crusher turns his head towards the bike, his piggy eyes bulging. His whole body is quivering.
‘B-but I don’t want my bike peed on,’ Dev stammers, looking to us for help. ‘My mum will kill me if I come home with a stinky bike.’
‘Tough,’ says Boof.
He holds up his left hand, his middle finger pointing skyward. ‘Crusher?’
Crusher cocks his leg, ready for action.
‘Pee!’ thunders Boof.
A warm stream of dog pee cascades over the Majestic’s frame, then trickles down from the custom-made pedals to the pavement.
‘Now give Sammy boy a kiss,’ Boof tells his dog.
‘Nooooooo!’ I scream as Crusher lunges at me. ‘Keep him off me!’
But it’s no good. Crusher has me pinned firmly to the ground, right next to the pool of pee. He’s licking my face all over with his stinky, germy tongue.
Boof gives a low whistle and Crusher springs back to his side.
‘See you all on Monday,’ Boof tells Jasmine. Then he and Crusher lope off into the distance.
Crusher’s doggy dribble is making me gag. Dev passes me one of his used tissues.
‘Eww,’ I say, when I see the snot on it. I wipe my face then hand it back.
‘Gross,’ he says, when he sees the dog drool. Then he puts it back into his pocket.
I have to admit, Boof’s actually pretty good at training dogs. Winning that competition is going to be trickier than I thought.
Especially as I still don’t have a dog.
Ten minutes later we’re back on our bikes (after giving Dev’s a good going-over with the milk bar hose) and pedalling off down Main Street. We hang a left onto one of the dirt tracks that runs off it, straight into bushland.
We’re just riding past some ghost gums when Dev suddenly hits the brakes on the Majestic, and I crash into him.
Jasmine stops to help me up.
‘What did you do that for?’ I say to Dev, rubbing my knee.
‘Listen!’ Dev snaps, obviously spooked.
‘To what?’
‘That howling sound. Can’t you hear it?’
‘Nope.’ I look at Jasmine. ‘Can you?’
Jasmine wrinkles her nose. ‘We-ell . . . Maybe a bit.’
And then I hear it too. My good knee starts shaking like a pair of maracas in the school band. Not that I’d ever let on.
‘What do you reckon it is?’ Dev asks.
I swivel my head from side to side. ‘Could be aliens. Old Joe Rossi reckons he saw a spaceship land out here a few months back.’
‘Seriously?’ Dev says, his face pale.
I wave my hands around, alien-style. ‘Oo ee oo ee!’
‘Sssshh,’ Jasmine snaps. ‘Listen!’
We listen. We can still hear the howling. But now there’s a new sound as well.
Jasmine climbs back onto her bike. ‘It’s dogs.’ She tilts her chin to the left. ‘And it’s coming from over that way.’
My ears prick up. Dogs?! I’m there.
We keep riding until we run into a fence, covered with handpainted signs.
‘This must be Old Ma Greevy’s place,’ I say.
‘How did you know that?’ asks Dev, impressed.
‘It’s written on the letterbox.’
I prop my bike against the fence, checking out the gate. It’s big. And covered with rusty padlocks and strips of
barbed wire.
I rattle it. Locked tight.
The howls and barks grow louder.
‘Looks like we’ll have to go over the top,’ I say.
‘B-b-but we can’t go in there,’ Dev stammers.
‘Why not?’ asks Jasmine.
‘Old Ma Greevy. I’ve heard she’s a witch. And she’s got a cupboard full of pointy things. She’ll skin us alive. And then eat us for breakfast.’
I’ve heard those stories too. Then I remember something else. Something important. ‘Danny Vella went missing somewhere around here last summer.’
Jasmine sighs. ‘His family moved up north for his dad’s work, der brain.’
Phew. No problems then. I throw back my shoulders and take a commanding step forward. ‘Team? We’re going in.’
We’re over the top and slinking stealthily towards a creepy-looking old house at the back of the property. Think MAXIMUM creepy. Old vines curling around the verandah posts. Faded paint flaking off ancient wooden shutters. A weathervane with a grinning goblin on top moving slowly back and forth.
Creak . . . Creak . . .
The dogs are going off big time. They must be able to hear us coming.
And if the dogs can hear us . . .
Dev’s rattling on about something again.
‘Ssssssshhhhh,’ I tell him. ‘Keep your voice down.’
‘Smemeevyemwmrboilmmwmoil,’ he whispers.
‘Huh?’ Jasmine says.
‘I also heard Old Ma Greevy boils kids in oil,’ he shouts. Then claps a hand over his mouth.
‘And how exactly is she going to do that?’ asks Jasmine.
‘In . . . th-there,’ says Dev, pointing to a rusty tank attached to the side of the house. There are some old drums stacked next to it. Oil drums. My knee starts shaking again. I’ve heard that story too.
‘That’s a water tank,’ Jasmine sighs. ‘For collecting rain water? From the roof?’
‘So?’ I say. Smarty pants. How come she has to know everything? ‘It’s obviously for cooling down the kids once they’ve been boiled in oil. So she can eat them straightaway.’