The the Elephant

by Peter Carnavas

  For Bron, Sophie and Elizabeth

  The Elephant

  When Olive walked into the kitchen, she found an elephant sitting beside her father at the small wooden table. They both wore the same weary expression and stared out the window, as if it were a painting they had never seen before. The elephant’s shadow filled the room with darkness and it wore a small black hat.

  ‘Hi, Dad,’ said Olive.

  Her father swung his head away from the window and looked at her with raincloud eyes.

  ‘Hi, honey.’

  A frown fell upon his face. ‘Why are you wearing your bike helmet?’ he said. ‘I haven’t fixed your bike yet.’

  Olive smiled, hoping the smile might be contagious.

  ‘Well, it’s only a bike helmet when I’m riding a bike,’ she said. ‘I’m going to climb my tree, so today it’s a tree helmet.’

  Her father nodded and turned back to the window. The elephant sighed.

  Olive left them cocooned in the kitchen. She opened the back door and stepped outside.

  Grandad

  Olive’s backyard was a neat rectangle of grass, with flowers and vegetables hugging the edges. A thin concrete path stretched towards a rusty clothesline and a giant jacaranda tree stood near the back fence, covering half the yard with slow, dancing shadows. A tyre swing hung from one of its branches and a round trampoline stood nearby.

  Olive loved the yard, though it hadn’t always looked like this. Once it had been a mess of knee-high weeds, and the jacaranda had barely flowered.

  That was before Grandad moved in.

  He was in the garden now, hunched down in the pumpkin patch as Olive skipped across the grass towards the tree.

  ‘Heya, Olive!’ he called.

  He straightened up and Olive thought he looked like a skinny scarecrow, his old straw hat full of holes.

  ‘Hi, Grandad,’ she said. ‘How are the pumpkins?’

  He wiped the sweat from his forehead with a dirty hand.

  ‘You could ask them yourself,’ he said.

  Grandad was always telling Olive to talk to plants.

  ‘You’ve got your helmet on,’ he said. ‘Has your dad fixed your bike?’

  Olive shook her head. She felt something brush her legs and she looked down.

  It was Freddie.

  He was a small grey dog with short legs and an extra-long tail.

  She bent down and scratched him behind the ears.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘He hasn’t fixed it yet.’

  Then she ran to the tree.

  The Thinking Spot

  Olive started to climb.

  She needed to wear her helmet today because she was going to one of the higher branches, to her thinking spot. Hand over hand, foot over foot, she scrambled up and nestled into a comfy nook.

  She looked up.

  There was a tiny speck in the sky, high above the town. It was a bird in the shape of the letter V, like a fine pencil mark in the sky.

  How might the town look from up there, from the wings of that bird? It would be something like a storybook town, a toy village. Olive pictured it all as a tiny patchwork quilt, the roofs of the houses like coloured squares stitched loosely together. She imagined the thin, grey roads weaving between the blocks of houses like fine cracks in eggshell. The trees would billow and breathe like tiny puffs of deep-green cloud and the backyards would look no bigger than the fingernails on her hands.

  She watched the bird until it became smaller and smaller, a dot in the sky, and then so tiny that it seemed to disappear, as if it had become part of the air itself.

  How could something be so light? Olive’s gaze drifted back down, down to her own backyard. Her eyes settled on her house and the kitchen window.

  All the lightness fell away as she thought about the elephant.

  The big grey elephant that shadowed her father.

  It hung over him at breakfast.

  It trudged beside him when he left for work.

  At night, it lay by his side, weighing everything down.

  Every day she saw that elephant.

  And, every day, she wished it would go.

  Just then, there was a sharp yap. Olive snapped awake from her thoughts and looked down to the bottom of the tree. There was Freddie, his long tail standing tall, his watery eyes gazing up at her.

  Arthur

  The next day was the beginning of a new school term. Olive sat at her desk beside Arthur. He was a small boy with curly hair and dark, brown eyes. Those eyes were usually focused on the pages of an enormous book – Amazing Facts About Frogs, or Everything You Need to Know That You Don’t Know Already – but sometimes Arthur’s eyes would sparkle and dance, when he told a story or flipped around the playground.

  Olive liked Arthur most of all because she could tell him anything. Anything at all.

  ‘An elephant?’ he gasped. ‘In your house?’

  She nodded.

  ‘But— How? What?’ Arthur blinked hard. ‘What do you mean?’

  Olive’s eyes swept around the classroom as the children sharpened pencils and rummaged through their desks.

  ‘It’s a bit hard to explain,’ she said. ‘It follows my dad around. Whenever he looks sad, I see the elephant there.’

  ‘Doing what?’ said Arthur.

  ‘Not much,’ said Olive. ‘Just there, making everything really heavy and really hard for my dad.’

  The other students had settled into their desks and their conversations softened to a gentle hum around the room.

  ‘How long has it been there?’ said Arthur.

  ‘As long as I can remember.’

  ‘And you’ve never told me?’

  ‘I’m telling you now. Besides, I wasn’t sure if you would believe me.’

  Arthur shook his head. His eyebrows bunched together. He spoke between blinks.

  ‘I believe you, but— Well, is it real?’

  Olive leant a little closer to Arthur and lowered her voice.

  ‘Well, that’s the thing,’ she whispered, but she couldn’t say any more for Ms March had started talking to the class.

  Ms March

  ‘Good morning, children,’ said Ms March. ‘I hope you all had a lovely break.’

  Ms March was a thin, cheery woman who seemed to move whichever way the breeze blew. A clutter of jewellery hung around her neck and plastic earrings like small hula hoops dangled from her ears. Her hair was a delightful mess, an orange nest of tangled twirls and curls, with ribbons and clips and flowers springing out, as if trying to escape the knotted jungle.

  Her desk was much the same.

  It was piled high with books, folders and stacks of paper, pencils and pens, calculators and counting blocks. There was probably a tennis ball under there somewhere, a floppy sun hat that she would fish out for playground duty, and a jar of wilted flowers balanced on top of it all. She could never find anything she wanted, and this amused the children endlessly.

  ‘This term, we’re going to share some very important things with each other. But first – does anybody know how old our school is?’

  Olive and Arthur looked at each other and shrugged.

  ‘Anybody?’ said Ms March.

  A tall boy with big ears edged his hand into the air.

  ‘Um, I don’t know how old it is, but I know it’s really old,’ he said.

  ‘How do you know that, Kyle?’ said Ms March.

  ‘Because Mr Briggs has been teaching here his whole life and he’s about a hundred years old.’

  The students broke into laughter until they s
aw Ms March wearing her unimpressed face, though Olive spotted a smirk curling at the edge of her mouth.

  ‘Cedar Hills Primary School – not Mr Briggs – is turning one hundred years old this year,’ said Ms March.

  The children smiled and raised their eyebrows at the mention of such a big number.

  ‘Therefore,’ she took a deep breath, ‘we will be having a school birthday party at the end of term.’

  This time, cheers and applause filled the room. Ms March waited for silence.

  ‘As the school is now very old, we will be studying old things – the old things in our own lives and in our own homes. At the end of term, at the birthday party, we will present them to the school community.’

  She fluttered to the side of the room.

  ‘Now, I’ve brought something to get us started.’ Her eyes were wide and her voice soft, as if she was sharing a secret. ‘It’s old – and it’s wonderful.’

  The children lifted themselves just slightly off their chairs to watch as Ms March stood beside something that was leaning against the wall, covered in a blanket. Olive hadn’t even noticed it was there.

  The teacher clutched the blanket, ready to whip it off and unveil the surprise.

  ‘This is something from a long, long time ago,’ she said. And as she lifted the blanket, the children gasped and whispered through their smiles.

  ‘It’s a bike!’ one of them declared, as if the others hadn’t figured it out.

  But it wasn’t an ordinary bike. Just as Ms March had said, it was old and wonderful.

  ‘This was given to me by my father,’ she said, ‘and it was given to him by his father. That means it’s very, very old.’

  The children were invited to take a closer look, to trace their fingers along the cracked paint on its frame and pluck the rusted spokes as if they were harp strings.

  ‘We’ll all be sharing things like this in the next few weeks.’ Ms March tapped the handlebars and she gazed at the bike with glassy eyes. ‘I want you to start thinking about the things your own families have, the old and wonderful things that make up the stories in your lives.’

  Looking at the broken old bike, Olive knew exactly what she wanted to bring.

  Lunch

  At lunchtime, Olive and Arthur sat beside the handball courts. Arthur frowned at his jam sandwich, then peered into Olive’s lunch box. She had a stack of colourful containers, each hiding something delicious: fruit salad, swirly yoghurt and homemade butter biscuits.

  ‘I wish your grandad made my lunch,’ Arthur grumbled.

  Olive smiled and spooned some yoghurt into her mouth.

  Arthur nibbled the crust of his sandwich.

  ‘Do you know what old thing I’m going to bring?’ he said. ‘My dad has this really old instrument. You squeeze it in and out and it plays funny sounds. I’m going to bring that.’

  A sparrow bounced before them, pecked at a crumb and flew away.

  ‘I want to bring my bike,’ Olive said. Her face was still, her eyes far away. ‘If my dad ever fixes it.’

  ‘Doesn’t your dad fix cars?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He’s good at fixing things for everyone else. But not me.’

  Arthur dropped his sandwich back into his lunch box. He started picking at the bruises on his apple.

  ‘Um, Olive,’ he said, edging his words out carefully. ‘Can you tell me more about the elephant?’

  She faced him and looked at his big brown eyes.

  ‘Can anybody else see it?’ he said.

  She held her spoon still in the air.

  ‘No. Only me.’ Her voice was full of quiet wonder as she spoke. ‘See, my dad has this really big sadness. He’s had it for a long time. And I imagine the sadness is like a big grey elephant following him around. That’s what I see.’

  ‘Like an imaginary friend?’

  ‘An imaginary enemy,’ she said.

  Arthur took a bite from his apple. ‘And, is it there every day?’

  ‘All the time,’ she said, and then she couldn’t stop. ‘He can’t do anything when the elephant’s there. That’s why he doesn’t pack my lunch. That’s why he doesn’t mow the yard. And that’s why he’ll never fix my bike.’

  The two friends sat silently after that. Most of the other children had snapped their lunch boxes shut and scurried off to the playgrounds and the oval, like a flock of birds suddenly taking flight.

  At last, Arthur stood up.

  ‘Do you know what I think?’ He held his half-eaten apple like a microphone. ‘Your dad won’t fix your bike – until you fix your dad.’

  Olive scrunched up her nose. ‘How do I do that?’

  ‘Easy,’ said Arthur, crunching another bite from his apple. ‘Get rid of the elephant.’

  She laughed, because she suddenly realised three important things.

  Arthur was weird.

  Arthur was right.

  Arthur was the best friend in the world.

  The Bicycle

  Later, at home time, Olive lingered outside the classroom when the other children had gone. She knocked on the door and stepped carefully towards Ms March’s desk. It was so quiet without any children in the room.

  ‘Hello, Olive.’ Ms March shuffled through the mess on her desk. ‘I’m looking for— Have you seen that— Oh, never mind.’

  ‘Ms March,’ said Olive, ‘could I look at the bike one more time before I go?’

  Ms March stopped shuffling papers and smiled. ‘Of course.’

  Olive crouched before the old bike. The chain was clogged with rust. The stitching had come away from the seat. The paint had flaked off most of the frame, but she could see that it had once been a beautiful burnt orange. It was certainly old and broken, but it must have been something wonderful when it was young, when it was alive. It was like looking at a fossil and imagining the marvellous creature it had been.

  Best of all, it was just like her own bike.

  Side by Side

  Grandad waited for Olive at the school gate. He wore his old scarecrow hat and his purple backpack was slung over his shoulder. Olive knew what that meant. She walked faster.

  ‘Hi, Grandad,’ she said, throwing her arms around him.

  ‘Hello, love.’

  ‘Where to, today?’ she said.

  Grandad leant his whiskery face close to hers. ‘Secret.’

  Ever since Grandad moved in, he had taken over all of the ordinary, everyday jobs like packing lunch and cooking dinner. Things like that. He seemed to enjoy it and, anyway, Olive’s father was always too busy at work or looking out the kitchen window. The best part about having Grandad around was that he sometimes did unordinary, not-so-everyday things. Like today. That’s what the purple backpack was for. Whenever Olive saw it, she knew Grandad had something exciting planned.

  ‘Can you give me a clue?’ she said, skipping beside him along the footpath.

  ‘Nope,’ he said.

  For every loping step he took, she took four of her own.

  ‘Can you tell me how far it is?’ she said.

  ‘Not far.’

  Then Olive remembered the old song that she and Grandad loved. It was called ‘Side by Side’ and they often sang it when they walked home from school. ‘How many “Side by Sides” will it be till we get there?’ she said.

  Grandad thought for a moment. ‘About five, I think.’

  They started singing as they walked. Each time they finished the song all the way through, Olive counted on her fingers. After once through, they were a block and a half away from school. After twice through, they were passing the corner store that sold their favourite milkshakes. And when they had sung it five times, they reached the cricket oval.

  ‘Ah,’ said Grandad. ‘Here we are. Five times through. Just as I thought.’

  Olive’s face went bla
nk as she looked at the empty field. ‘Cricket?’ she said. ‘We’re going to play cricket?’

  Grandad fanned himself with his scarecrow hat.

  ‘Not quite,’ he said.

  They walked across the oval, climbed over a metal railing and made their way up a grassy hill.

  Then they sat down.

  From here, they could look down on the oval and see the whole town stretching away before them. Olive wasn’t quite flying on the wings of a bird, but everything still looked very small.

  ‘I used to bring your mum here when she was your age,’ said Grandad.

  Olive swallowed hard. Her throat always went lumpy when Grandad talked about Mum. ‘I didn’t know Mum played cricket,’ she said.

  ‘She didn’t,’ said Grandad. ‘We did this instead.’

  He pulled a piece of paper out of the backpack. He folded it this way. And that. Until he held in his weathered hands a perfect paper plane. He stood up and threw the plane. It glided over the railing towards the centre of the oval, slicing a straight line through the air, like a fish shooting through the sea. It flew on and on, so still and so swift at the same time, until it finally landed near the middle of the cricket pitch.

  Olive’s mouth had fallen open into a smile.

  ‘It just kept going and going,’ she sighed.

  Grandad smiled and rested a hand on her head. ‘Your turn,’ he said.

  Together, they folded a piece of paper this way. And that. And, at last, Olive held the beautiful white plane in her hand.

  ‘Go on, then,’ said Grandad. ‘Fly away!’

  Olive stood and sent it soaring across the oval. It sailed a smooth arc over the grass, finally resting just a few metres from the first plane.

  She laughed a bit at the simple beauty of it all – the white paper, the elegant arc, the soft green grass; and beside her, the purple backpack, Grandad’s golden-straw hat, the sky a pale-blue umbrella embracing the whole town.