by Tamara Gray
‘Good idea,’ said Jake, doing the same thing.
Theo hastily covered over the gap with a loose piece of pastry, and they pushed each other towards the outstretched arms of the guests.
They all sat down to lunch.
The cutlery clinked, wine was poured and the voices rose. Theo and Jake, who had Sabina’s lipstick kisses imprinted on their cheeks and forehead like pink butterflies, smiled up politely at the Binswangers as instructed. Occasionally either Frazer or Sabina would grab the end of one or other boy’s nose, as if they were public property, and give them a sudden hard twist. This was their way of being friendly, which the boys knew they had to bear if they were to be invited to France on holiday.
Meanwhile the boys were kicking one another under the table. They knew they had to do something about the ladybirds, who were suffocating inside the pie. Theo whispered to Jake that they had to try and release them.
But as Theo leant over to grab the pie, his mother tapped him on the wrist:
‘Wait a minute,’ she scolded. ‘Guests first!’
‘But mum—’
How could he explain?
‘Mum!’ echoed Jake, as she cut into it.
It was too late. A moment later a piece of the pie was on Frazer Binswanger’s plate.
‘Yum, yum,’ he said, licking his lips. ‘I’m very hungry.’ He looked at mother. ‘Everyone says your food is wonderful.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, with a happy smile, thinking of her new job.
Soon the pie would be in Mr Binswanger’s mouth. Theo and Jake could only look on in dismay.
Now Frazer Binswanger was a man of such sophistication and importance that he was allowed to have bad manners. Theo and Jake watched as he picked up the pie with both hands, put it to his mouth and took such a large bite that they thought he might swallow the whole world.
‘This is delicious,’ he said, spitting out bits of pastry, one of which struck Jake above the eye.
Jake removed the pastry from his eyebrow and looked at Theo. They knew ladybirds were rather crunchy but soft inside, like tiny prawns. With sauce they might be tasty: but it was not a good idea to eat them alive, particularly if you were unprepared for the experience.
‘Delicious!’ said Frazer Binswanger.
As Mr Binswanger’s teeth champed into the crust again, the ladybirds hurried out of the pie, rushing away like dodgem cars propelled by silent electricity. Some of them flew into the air, but many others, drawn by the heat of Mr Binswanger’s face, merely crawled over his soft, sticky cheeks and settled down in a swoon, having swallowed the alcohol he was sweating. Others ran about in a panic, not knowing where they were.
Jake and Theo saw their father notice this first. His eyes widened and he glanced fearfully at mother. Looking at Frazer Binswanger’s face she almost fell backwards off her chair in horror. She would never work again!
Then Sabina Binswanger, with her fork at her mouth, glanced up to see a whole company of ladybirds moving across her husband’s face.
Mr Binswanger so loved to talk that he failed to realise the pink surface of his face was spotted with moving dots. In fact, several were already swinging from the dark hairs that stuck out of the top of his nose like wires (it was said they could pick up foreign TV and radio stations, like aerials). Everyone watched in fascination as one of these ladybirds then trotted up his nostril like an explorer in the rain forest. Other ladybirds lined up to run into the mysterious and winding caverns of his ears, clambering over bits of old potato and carrot lodged there, until a battalion of them entered the spacious living room of his mind.
Jake looked at Sabina Binswanger in amazement. She had stuffed her napkin into her mouth. Theo wondered if she was so hungry that she wanted to eat it. But he realised she was trying to stop herself laughing.
When Mr Binswanger saw the astonished faces of his friends around the table and felt what was happening to him, his red face turned the colour of a peeled potato. Soon he was aware that the living room of his mind was alive with ladybirds. He threw down his knife and fork, pushed away his plate and began to knock himself on the side of the head with his fist. He began to wave around in his chair like a tree in a strong wind.
‘Something not nice has happened to me!’ he moaned in disbelief. ‘I’ve been invaded by aliens!’
It was true. Theo and Jake knew ladybirds loved parties and that by now they would be making themselves comfortable inside Mr Binswanger’s mind. Soon they might be swinging from the light fittings, playing records and videos, smoking cigarettes and even dancing.
But it was also obvious to the twins that banging yourself above the ear, was no way to extract insects from inside your head. The thudding noise would only frighten the ladybirds and they would scuttle deeper and deeper into the interior, perhaps into the memory area, so that every dream of the past that Bingswanger now had, would be sprinkled with ladybirds, like pepper on an omelette.
What could the boys do? It was an emergency.
Usually their mother rid the garden of ants by pouring boiling water over them. But the twins knew their chances of going on holiday to France wouldn’t improve if they shot hot water up Frazer Binswanger’s nose or into his ears.
Without saying anything, the same thought occurred to the boys simultaneously.
Theo threw back his chair and dashed into the house to fetch his tambourine and a pan and spoon. Jake jumped up and raced indoors for his battery-operated keyboard. They sprinted out into the garden and began to play a cool bossa nova. They had rehearsed this song many times. It was one of their favourites. But still Jake and Theo were nervous. Mother and father were glaring at them with very serious ‘I’ll-get-you-for-this-later’ looks on their faces.
Theo and Jake knew that all insects, like all children, could be moved by music. The boys’ sweet voices rose like doves into the air, and across West London the ears of shoppers pricked up. People dropped their bags to feel the delicious rhythm working through them.
As the music swung, even Sabina Binswanger’s foot bounced and she clapped her hands. But Mr Binswanger, who had gone rigid with distress and annoyance, remained perfectly still as the ladybirds frolicked on the levers and wheels of his mind.
After a few moments everyone saw, pushing through the opening of one of his hairy nostrils, the black and white head of a ladybird. But they could also see that Mr Binswanger, with a cruel and vengeful expression on his face, was about to crush it into jam between his thumb and finger.
Jake shook his head wildly and Theo banged furiously on the pan. Squashing a ladybird wouldn’t encourage the others to come out. Surely Frazer Binswanger understood that? Adults could be very stupid at times.
Fortunately, heeding Jake and Theo’s warning, Mr Binswanger refrained from his murderous action. And as the rhythm of the music built, the ladybirds began to emerge from his ears and nose into the sunshine, shaking their bottoms and waving their legs. Some of them looked a little dazed, as anyone would, had they spent time within the foggy labyrinth of Mr Binswanger’s brain. But most were dancing, and many gathered on Mr Binswanger’s forehead, where they hopped and capered like a line of animated billiard balls.
Soon they were all out and Mr Binswanger’s face returned to its natural Ribena colour. Once more Sabrina was laughing and drinking. Mother and father were so relieved they even smiled at one another. The boys, settled under the table, played a calm Moroccan tune that they were perfecting.
‘Those boys can certainly play,’ said Sabrina, clicking her fingers and resisting her desire to twist their noses.
‘But they are often quiet too,’ father explained firmly. ‘Sometimes for hours... and hours... and hours on end.’
‘Yes!’ confirmed mother.
‘Not too quiet, I hope,’ said Sabrina. ‘For they’ll certainly entertain the other guests on holiday in France—if they bring their instruments!’
‘But we’re always telling them to shut up,’ said mother.
‘I
wouldn’t do that,’ said Sabrina. ‘Those boys have talent!’
‘Talent!’ murmured Frazer. He lit a big cigar and relaxed after his disturbing experience. Talent was his favourite word. He loved to say it, but most of all he loved to find it, particularly in his own neighbourhood, and during lunch. ‘I’m going to put those boys on a television show. They really helped me out. Those ladybirds were tickling my brain so much I thought I’d go insane!’
‘I wonder, though,’ murmured Sabina, ‘How they got in that pie in the first place?’
‘I don’t know,’ said father, looking uneasily at the innocent faces of his identical sons, ‘But people say that ladybirds always follow the talent!’
‘Like me,’ said Frazer Binswanger, sipping his drink, and patting the boys on the head. ‘Jake and Theo—play on please!’
And they picked up their instruments and sang.
The Schoolbag
by Kate Thompson
Where the dust road crossed the creek, the boy stopped. The brindle shade of the redgums often tricked him there, but this time there really was something unusual among the rock-rubble of the empty river bed. A large animal was sitting there, watching him.
He dropped his schoolbag at his feet. It made the wrong sort of noise as it hit the ground, but only a small and ignored part of his mind noticed this. Most of his attention was taken by the animal. It was so still and so silent, and it blended so well into the shadows that he had difficulty in making out exactly what it was.
‘Hello,’ said the boy.
The animal opened its mouth twice, but no sound came out. Its eyes were soft and brown. It was a dog, surely.
‘Where did you come from?’ the boy said. There were no dogs in the area apart from his own one, which never strayed far from the house. There were no other houses for a wandering dog to come from. It was fifteen kilometres to the next station, and twenty to the town.
A yellow tailed black cockatoo soared in from the bush beyond the creek and settled on a high branch. The dog stood, and as it did so he saw that it wasn’t like any dog he had ever seen. Its tail was too long and too fat. Its hind legs were the wrong shape. He was intrigued, and he was afraid it was getting up to leave, disturbed by the arrival of the cockatoo. But when it moved, it came towards him, padding softly on massive paws.
The boy took a step backwards. His foot hit the bag, which made the wrong noise again. Books don’t rattle. But then, why would he be carrying books? He could hardly remember the last time the school bus had come to bring him into town. What had made him think he would be carrying books?
Stripes. The dog that wasn’t a dog had stripes across its back. He had seen that before. There was a picture of it in his mind. He knew he ought to remember what it was, but he didn’t. And it was still padding towards him. He lifted the bag by its shoulder strap, ready to swing. It was the only weapon he had, but it was too light to be of any use.
And in any case, he didn’t need it. The dog thing stopped at the edge of the road and sat down again, quite calm and not remotely threatening. They were both in full sunlight now. The heat was intense, but the boy noticed with pleasure that it wasn’t bothering him at all. His father was like that. He would work all day in the fields, winter or summer, hardy and rugged as a lizard. It was his mother who fussed about sunnies and hats and sunblock. He was surprised she had let him out of the house at all, with the sun so high and strong.
He held out a hand to the animal and rubbed his fingertips together. ‘Here boy. Here, funny dog.’
‘Not a dog,’ the animal said.
‘No?’ said the boy. ‘What are you, then? A wolf?’
‘Did you ever see a wolf with stripes?’ said the dogwolf thing, twisting slightly to give the boy a better view of its back.
‘No,’ said the boy. ‘Tigers have stripes. Are you a tiger?’
The dogwolftiger thing gave a humorous snort and sat up on its hind legs. It put a broad paw on its midriff. ‘Did you ever see a tiger with a pouch?’
‘No,’ said the boy. There were no baby dogwolftiger things in there, but it was definitely a pouch, just like the roos and wallabies had. That picture was in his thoughts again. A photograph somewhere. But the knowledge of what this creature was had got locked away in the depths of his mind, along with the memory of what he was carrying in the bag, and of where he was coming from and going to. And since he ought to know, it seemed to him that it would have been bad manners to ask the animal what its name was. Instead he said, ‘So tell me this. What are you doing here?’
‘I’m returning,’ said the dogwolftigerroo. ‘Just like you.’
A green rosella and a brilliant blue wren joined the cockatoo in the gum tree. They all sat on the same branch, looking down like the audience at a theatre.
‘Returning?’ said the boy.
The dogwolftigerroo stood up and stretched itself, then opened its long jaws impossibly wide. Its teeth were formidable, but somehow the boy knew that this behaviour was not threatening; something more along the lines of a limbering-up exercise. When it had once again settled itself on its powerful haunches, the dogwolftigerroo began its story.
‘I used to live here,’ it said. ‘I lived here for a long, long, long time. I had no friends because I was inclined to eat anything that came close enough to talk to, but I had no enemies either, because I was the biggest beast in the bush and had by far the most dangerous bite. There were good years and bad years, but on the whole this was a fine place to live and hunt and bring up my children.’
The boy loved stories, and he wanted to sit down so he could relax while he listened. A schoolbag full of books would have made a comfortable seat, but just in time he remembered the rattle, so he sat down on the road instead.
‘Then the blackfella came,’ the dogwolftigerroo went on. ‘He gave me a fright, that blackfella did, with his fires and his spears and his sneaking about in the bush. He became my enemy; my first one. I had to learn a whole new set of tricks to keep out of his way and the way of his fires and his spears. I did learn them and I stayed out of his reach. Once I got used to the new ways, I had to admit that this was still a pretty good place to live and hunt and bring up my children. And so it continued to be for a long, long, long time.’
The boy stretched himself full length on the road beneath the white glare of the sun. His mother would complain about the dust on his shirt. Not enough water for washing any more. But he never got as dusty and dirty as his father did, out on the land. When he thought of his father, a blink of a memory returned to him. The growling and complaining of heavy machinery. That was all.
‘Anyway,’ the dogwolftigerroo was saying, ‘as it turned out, the blackfella was a friend compared to what came next.’ It stopped and gazed, with a melancholy expression, into the middle distance.
‘What?’ said the boy. ‘What did come next?’
‘Mmm,’ said the dogwolftigerroo. ‘Sheep. What came next was sheep.’ It fell silent, musing, and a brief image visited the boy. Dirty heaps of something, scattered everywhere across the farm. It was connected to what his father was doing, the machines, the dust. While he waited for the story to continue, he rested his cheek on his elbow and looked up into the gum tree. A pair of possums had draped themselves comfortably there, long tails dangling. From the unseen bush beyond he could hear the glassy warbling of a magpie, and for some reason the sound unsettled him. It was as familiar to him as the sound of his own breath, but he hadn’t heard it for ages, and there was a reason for that. He just couldn’t remember what it was.
The dogwolftigerroo took up the story again, and the boy was glad, because he wasn’t at all sure he wanted to pursue those particular thoughts any further.
‘The thing about sheep,’ it said, ‘is that they’re not very smart. There are a lot of good things about sheep. They are very slow and very tasty. And, compared to most of the edible things in this land, they are very large. But they are not strong on ideas, or the execution of them. If it had been left
to the sheep, there would have been no problem. They wouldn’t have been any threat to me at all.
‘But it wasn’t left to them. It wasn’t the sheep that came up with this ‘either them or me’ idea. It was the whitefella. And it was the whitefella who carried it out, right to the bitter end.’
The magpie had stopped singing, but the boy’s sense of unease was still there. Sheep. Those dirty heaps in the dust. Fleeces torn and flapping.
‘It wasn’t enough for the whitefella to take a share from the forests like the blackfella did,’ said the dogwolftigerroo. ‘No. He had to cut them down and burn them, and make fields for his millions of fat, delicious sheep. And he had no intention of sharing anything with anyone, least of all with me.’
The magpie flew low over the boy’s head and swooped up into the gum tree. It shouldn’t be there. It couldn’t be there.
‘I ran and I raced and I sped and I slunk and I fled and I crouched and I crept and I hid and I went far, far into the deepest depths and creeks and hollows and shadows and dens. But there was nowhere in the length and breadth of my world where the whitefella wouldn’t follow. He trapped me and put me in a cage and sent me across the sea. He killed me for sport and he killed me for money and he killed me for glory. He killed me when it was lawful and he killed me when it was unlawful. He killed me until he couldn’t kill me any more, because I wasn’t there for him to kill. He had wiped me out entirely.’
The boy was still looking into the tree. It wasn’t only the magpie that shouldn’t be there. None of those creatures should be there. The tree itself shouldn’t be there. It couldn’t be. It had dropped those branches, one by one, in a useless attempt to save itself from the drought that didn’t end. The drought that killed the sheep and had his father digging huge holes with the backhoe to bury them in, while all around him, and all across the whole country, the birds dropped dead and dying from the sky.