by Scot Gardner
‘I’m not going to Queensland,’ I shouted. ‘Not yet, anyway. And if I do end up going north, I’ll save for it myself. Fanks.’
He shook his head. ‘No, this money is for you. I don’t care what you do with it. It’s not much but it’s a little kick-start. Take it.’
I held my hands up.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’m not trying to patch over all the shit from the past. I couldn’t do that. I just want to let you know that I’m serious. You’re my only bloody grandson and I’ve been a bastard long enough. Take it.’
I dropped my shoulders. I could use it. Who couldn’t?
‘Please,’ he said, and I put it back in my pocket.
I had a cup of tea (with milk and sugar, please) and watched some of the cricket on TV while I drank it.
Aggie phoned my mobile while I was at Grandad’s. From his new mobile. He said Gel’s hearing was the next Monday.
‘You don’t have to go, but I said I’d ask you anyway,’ he said.
‘I’ll be there,’ I said. I was getting the sense that as well as being fucken stupid, Gel had been fucken unlucky.
‘Mate, you’ve got to come down the BMX track,’ he said. ‘It’s an extreme sport extravaganza.’
‘Yeah? You steal a bike?’
‘Nup. Bought one.’
‘Bullshit. I’ve got to see this.’
I rode my bike. If there was going to be some action, I wanted to be able to throw my own wheels around.
Aggie was the extreme action. Aggie and an old red postie’s motorbike. Aggie in his silver pushie helmet, riding an old red postie’s motorbike over the jumps. He was giving it heaps, too. Big broadies under brakes. Mono. Getting some air. Fucken legend. I worked out that there are only a couple of ways to become a true legend. Go apeshit and do something really bizarre, like Ned Kelly or Aggie on his postie’s bike. Or be an awesome person who dies before their time, like that Indian bloke Ghandi or John Lennon. Or Kevin Arthur Daly.
Someone shoved the back of my knee. I almost fell. It was Ash.
I smiled.
She smiled back and did an evil scientist’s laugh.
Silence.
We stood next to each other and watched Aggie. Five minutes passed. Ten.
We broke the silence at the same time. A jumble of words that didn’t make sense. We laughed.
‘What are you doing tomorrow?’ she asked.
‘I was thinking about chucking the kayak in. First thing in the morning.’
‘Kayak? First thing?’
‘Yeah. Seven o’clock. It’s my new ritual.’
‘I’ll have to come down to see that.’
She looked at me and smiled.
We talked over the top of each other again.
‘You go,’ I said.
‘No, you go.’
‘No . . . shit. I’m sorry. Sorry about the other night. It was disgusting. I was disgusting. I’d understand if you thought it was sensible staying outside of my spew zone.’
She put her hand up. ‘Let’s not go there. Okay? Let’s just pretend it never happened. Let’s just be mates.’
She crossed her arms and stared at Aggie.
‘It wasn’t you. I was sick. Eaten too much shit that day. Literally. I just didn’t want it to stop. Didn’t want us to stop.’
She was staring. At me. She looked so hurt and beaten. It was that puppy Ash again. ‘Just forget it. It’s fine. I’m happy to just be mates.’
‘Yes, I understand that and that’s cool, but I’m not so sure I want to just be mates anymore. Something’s changed. It was like I woke up one morning and, hello, Ash is your best mate in the world.’
She looked at the mad bastard on the postie’s bike.
‘It was like, hello, Ash is beautiful.’
She stretched the tail of her shirt over her bum. ‘Yeah, right.’
‘It’s true. You’re hot and the nicest thing about that is you don’t even try.’
‘Oh. Thanks very much.’
‘No, I didn’t mean it like that. I . . . you don’t have to try. You’re naturally hot and the other night was like . . . absolute bliss. Right up until . . . but that had nothing to do with you. You’re the bestest thing in my life. I’d spend every minute of every day with you, given half a chance. Seriously.’
She was staring at me then. ‘Serious?’
‘Deadly fucken serious.’
‘Oh, Gary,’ she said, and punched her thighs. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘What?’
‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’
‘What? You’ve got a boyfriend?’
She nodded.
‘Oh. That’s great. That’s fantastic, Ash, congratulations,’ I said, and swallowed. ‘Is it anyone I know?’
She nodded her head at the legend on the postie bike.
‘Aggie?’
She nodded again. ‘I . . . we . . . we hit it off. We’re really in love. I’m . . . I’m pregnant. I’m going to have Aggie’s baby.’
‘You whaaat? Oh my GOD. That’s incredible. That’s . . .’
Then she was standing in front of me with a satisfied smile on her lips.
‘Pregnant?’ I said. ‘Unreal. You’ve only been going out for a week, that’s . . . that’s . . . amazing work. Some people try for years to . . . ’
And she held her lips against mine. They were warm and pulled tight with a smile. I looked over her shoulder at Aggie. He’d stopped on a flat-topped ramp. He was giving me both thumbs up.
‘You bitch!’ I howled, and she blurted a laugh. ‘You’re not . . . you’re both bitches!’
‘You are so fucken gullible, Gary. I think that’s what I love most about you.’
I chased her and dropped her in the dirt. And I kissed her. And neither of us spewed.
The End Bit
I crept out of the house just before dawn. I carried the green boat on my head to the foreshore, the plastic scratching unkindly at my stubble. The beach was empty. I shoved the kayak in off the sand. The ocean frothed at my ankles like an exploded bottle of blue Pepsi. The waves wouldn’t have thrilled a surfer. Unless she was six. I ended up with a leg on either side, trying to time my launch with flat water. Even the pissiest of the pissy waves looked like they’d tip me out.
I managed to get a wet arse. My board shorts stuck to my thighs and a smile stuck to my lips. I parked my butt in the seat and slapped the paddle at the water like an unco duck with a bullet wound. The water was waist-deep when a fizzing white bulldozer broadsided me. I rocked and paddled and stayed afloat. Then I was cutting my way into the deep. The waves folded over the front of the boat and I just kept paddling until there was a rocking-horse swell and no waves.
Below me, bottomless blue. Above me, forever sky. Awesome.
I thanked the big hairy mongrel who put me there. And cursed him.
He’d helped me find a world bubbling with adventure and new things to understand. Then he checked out before I’d had the chance to pump him for all he knew. Inconsiderate bastard.
Mullet Head was amazing from the water. My home.
People started to appear on the beach. People walking dogs, joggers and surfers. I paddled along in the glory of a golden morning.
The kayak on the ocean was a symbol for life. My life. If my sadness was as big as the ocean (and it sometimes felt that big), I didn’t want to drown in it. I didn’t want it swallowing me. I didn’t want to spend my life struggling to stay afloat, always fighting for air.
Fuck that.
I wanted a boat. A kayak to keep me above the sadness. The sadness would always be there, but with the paddle in my hand it turned into a fun thing. Ride those waves. Feel the spray on your face and keep paddling.
There was a body following me along the beach. I waved with the paddle and she waved back. My guts rumbled with hunger. I turned the boat towards the sand and caught a wave. I had time to lean into the force and punch the air before it crashed on the kayak and flipped me into the shallows. I
came up laughing.
Ash had seen the whole thing. Her eyes were puffy and her hair did its own morning thing. She was smiling.
I bent over to tip the water out of the kayak and felt my boardies falling down.
‘Nice bum crack,’ she said.
MORE BESTSELLING FICTION AVAILABLE FROM PAN MACMILLAN
Scot Gardner
The Other Madonna
Madonna O’Dwyer is not the mother of the Messiah and she’s not a sex-powered pop diva. She’s a hardworking girl with a drama queen for a sister and a dad who sounds Irish when he’s drunk.
The mother who blessed (or cursed) her with her name died when she was young, leaving a hole in Madonna that, at seventeen, has become as raw as a decayed tooth.
Madonna’s friends think she can heal with her hands, but Madonna has her doubts. Her hands make pizzas and wash dishes. Her hands caress the boy and smash down the door. Her hands strangle demons from her past and pray for a spirited future.
The hands of Madonna.
The other Madonna.
A humorous novel about piercing, pizzas and the healing power of love from the highly acclaimed author of One Dead Seagull, White Ute Dreaming and Burning Eddy.
‘Scot Gardner has done such a convincing job . . . Madonna O’Dwyer is unique, enormously likeable and believable. In Gardner’s hands, her story is involving, moving, funny and immensely enjoyable. Highly recommended’
GOOD READING
‘Madonna is drawn with great compassion and sympathy’
THE AGE
Scot Gardner
Burning Eddy
‘Get a life, Fairy.’
In the country, where his fifteenth summer has burned the life from the grass, Daniel Fairbrother is searching. Looking for something that will make tomorrow seem worth the effort. Something that will fix the rot in his family tree. Stop it from falling apart under the weight of a thousand secrets.
Dan’s clues come from the animals. And the Dutch woman.
He works in her garden. Eddy’s eighty-six. She has a tattoo, a history, and can make music with her farts. She pays in cash and can read Dan’s mind.
In a shady corner of Eddy’s garden, Dan finds something growing . . .
Hope.
But something is burning.
‘I feel I could walk right on out the door and encounter Dan, Eddy or Wayne, the hero of Gardner’s first two novels, so fresh and seemingly complete is their creation’
AUSTRALIAN BOOKSELLER & PUBLISHER
‘Exquisite . . . an honest and perceptive account of growing up’
MAGPIES