The the Elephant

by Peter Carnavas

  It made a soft crackling sound as it landed on the record, then moments later – music.

  Beautiful sounds filled Grandad’s little room: violins, clarinets, a tinkling piano.

  The melodies floated and swam around Olive, and the room felt brighter and more colourful. The tiny needle followed its path along the spinning record and soon a voice joined the music. A woman’s voice, sweet and smooth.

  Olive sat cross-legged in front of the record player, watching the needle and listening to the words that poured out of the speakers.

  Suddenly, her face beamed and she met Grandad’s gaze.

  His eyes twinkled.

  ‘I know this song!’ she announced. ‘It’s “Side by Side”!’

  And it was. It was slower than when she and Grandad sang it, but the words were the same. She hummed along, and when the song finished, she asked him to play the record again. And again. And again.

  Upside Down

  Olive and Arthur were on the monkey bars in the playground, hanging upside down.

  ‘When’s it your turn to bring something to school?’ Arthur’s arms and curly hair were falling towards the ground.

  ‘In a few days,’ she said, dangling her arms.

  ‘The bike—’ Arthur said. ‘Has your dad—’

  He didn’t need to finish. Even upside down, her face answered everything.

  ‘What will you bring?’ he said. ‘Do you have anything else?’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘my grandad has lots of things – an old record player.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A record player,’ she said. ‘It plays music. And he has a typewriter.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A typewriter. You use it to type letters or stories or whatever.’

  Arthur nodded, which was a bit difficult, being upside down.

  ‘So, which one?’ he said. ‘The record player or the typewriter?’

  Olive shrugged, which was even harder than nodding.

  ‘Neither,’ she said. ‘They’re more special to Grandad. I want to bring something special to me.’

  Arthur reached for the monkey bars and heaved himself up to sit on top. Olive did the same. Above them, giant shade trees swayed, their leaves and branches waving and overlapping. Small specks of the bright sky appeared and disappeared among the leaves. They looked like tiny stars in the daytime.

  ‘There’s a big tree in our backyard,’ said Olive. ‘Maybe that could be my old and wonderful thing.’

  Arthur stared at her then he burst into laughter. ‘A tree?’ he squealed. ‘How are you going to bring that to school?’

  Olive laughed, too. He was right. How could she bring the jacaranda to school?

  But then she had an idea.

  The Camera

  There was only one camera in the house. It belonged to Olive’s father. There were strict rules about it, but Olive was running out of time for rules. So, that afternoon, she waited until Grandad had lost himself in a crossword, then tiptoed into her father’s bedroom.

  She crept over to the shelf that held the camera. As she reached for it, the small collection of other things on the shelf caught her eye.

  An old book, with crumbly, yellowed pages.

  A handful of silver coins.

  And two photos. Both of her mother.

  In the first one, her mother sat at an outdoor table with a coffee cup in her hand, laughing at the camera.

  The other one was her mother holding Olive as a baby, much the same way Arthur had held his squeeze box before the class.

  That was all.

  There were no pictures of Olive in her school uniform, or jumping on the trampoline, or riding her bike.

  It was as if her father only wanted to remember the things that she couldn’t remember at all – her mother and the ocean full of secrets. He was trapped in that time, and since then life had just become one big elephant.

  She grabbed the camera and slipped out of the room. Freddie followed her, wagging that long tail of his.

  ‘Grandad,’ she called. ‘Just going out to the backyard.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But be careful. It’s a bit windy out there. And take your helmet if you’re going to climb the—’

  The back door slammed. She was gone.

  The Tree

  Olive stood on the grass and aimed the camera at the jacaranda. If she couldn’t take the tree to school, this would be the next best thing. She pressed the button and snapped a photo. Then another. She checked the pictures.

  The tree only just fitted into the frame. It was beautiful, of course, but it looked so small, so far away in that little rectangle on the display screen.

  She took more photos, close-up shots of the flowers and the speckled trunk. She craned her neck back, looked up, and took pictures of the twisted branches stretching to the sky.

  She pointed the camera down and captured the gnarly roots that wormed and buckled in the grass, creeping away from the trunk. The colours leapt back at her through the little screen – the green grass, pale brownish trunk, the soft lavender of the flowers.

  Her face was full of colour, too, as she danced around with the camera, capturing the different parts of the great hulking tree, all the beautiful pieces that combined to form this huge thing that towered over the yard.

  Then she started to climb.

  If she wanted to show Ms March and the class how big and old and wonderful this tree really was, she would not only have to show them what it looked like, but what it felt like, too – to sit in its highest branches and get lost in those velvety clouds of jacaranda flowers.

  She reached her thinking spot and looked down at the yard. She freed her arms from the branches and held the camera in front of her.

  A breeze whipped by.

  The branches shook.

  And Olive fell.

  Black

  She landed with a thump on the grass.

  Coughed and gasped like a broken-down car.

  The sky reeled above her.

  The branches warped.

  Freddie whimpered and licked her face.

  A Voice

  ‘Olive. Are you awake?’

  It was a deep, croaky voice.

  ‘Olive.’

  A slow, tired voice.

  Olive opened her eyes.

  Blurry shapes.

  Fuzzy blobs of colour.

  Was she under water?

  She blinked and her eyes started to clear. She was in her room. In bed. But everything was swirling around her – the walls, windows.

  ‘Olive,’ said the tired old voice. ‘It’s me.’

  She turned to the voice and saw someone, or something.

  She ignored the swaying wallpaper and focused on the thing in front of her, the owner of the voice.

  Then she saw it. A tortoise. An enormous grey tortoise, blinking sad, watery eyes.

  ‘Olive,’ it said. ‘Can you hear me?’

  Then she closed her eyes and went back to sleep.

  Awake

  There was the smell of toast, the soft song of a distant bird, and Olive woke up.

  Morning sunlight leaked through the curtains, warming the foot of her bed.

  How long had it been since she fell? A day? A week?

  She pushed herself up onto her elbows and looked around her bedroom. The walls were no longer moving. Everything was still.

  And there was the tortoise, a withered look on its ancient, grey face. Beside it sat Grandad, a coffee cup in one hand, a piece of toast in the other. In the morning light, he suddenly looked very, very old. He dropped his toast and rushed to her, wrapping her up in his scarecrow arms.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. That old voice belonged to him and not the tortoise. Olive felt him shudder as he spoke through small
sobs.

  ‘It was too windy. I should have given you the helmet. I should have stopped you.’

  They held each other tight.

  ‘I’m okay, Grandad,’ she said. ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘It’s just,’ he sniffed, ‘when I found you – on the ground – I thought—’ He gulped for air. ‘It felt like losing your mum all over again.’

  Olive held him tighter than she had ever held anything before. She glared at the big, grey tortoise in the corner of her room and understood perfectly.

  Grandad had a heavy sadness all his own.

  A sadness as heavy as a tortoise.

  And it was all her fault.

  Crumpled Paper

  When Dad arrived home he poked his head into Olive’s room and found her sitting on the floor, surrounded by crumpled balls of paper.

  ‘You’re awake,’ he said. ‘How are you feeling?’

  Olive forced a smile. ‘I wish I could remember how to make a paper plane.’

  He sat on the floor beside her. The elephant squashed itself into the room, too.

  ‘The doctor came,’ he said. ‘You’ve got concussion. Just have to rest some more and you’ll be fine.’

  ‘Okay.’ She nodded.

  ‘Can I have some paper?’ Dad said.

  She handed him a piece and watched him fold it this way. And that way. And this way again.

  But all he made was a folded mess.

  ‘Grandad’s really sad, isn’t he?’ said Olive.

  Her father nodded.

  ‘I know it’s because of me,’ she said. ‘Because I fell out of the tree. It reminded him of Mum.’

  Her father turned his folded paper over and over in his hands. It looked so small in those big hands. They were used to fixing cars, not folding paper.

  ‘The main thing is that you’re okay,’ he said. ‘And don’t worry about Grandad. He’ll be fine.’

  Olive tossed and caught a ball of paper. She tossed it again, but this time it landed on Freddie and woke him up. ‘Well, he can’t walk around with that big tortoise for the rest of his life.’

  Wait.

  Did she say that out loud?

  Her father shot her a puzzled look.

  She had said it out loud.

  ‘Tortoise?’ he said. ‘What tortoise? You feeling okay?’

  Olive blushed. ‘Um, I think so.’ She wished she could swallow up her words. ‘It’s just— I think – I wish there was something I could do.’

  Her father stood up. He seemed to have forgotten about the tortoise.

  ‘I know you want to help,’ he said, ‘but it’s hard to change the way people feel.’

  She knew that. Of course she did. She’d watched her father drag that miserable elephant around for so long and nothing was going to change that. But Grandad was different. Grandad threw paper planes onto the cricket oval. He found beautiful birds hiding in the forest. Grandad filled her days with colour.

  ‘He’s the best scarecrow in the world.’ Oh no. Words had slipped out again.

  Her father looked at her as if there was something wrong.

  ‘You’d better hop back into bed,’ he said.

  Olive climbed in and slid under the sheets.

  ‘And remember,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about Grandad.’

  But Olive was worried. He wasn’t supposed to be tied to a tortoise.

  She had to think of something.

  The Picture

  ‘James brought in a sewing machine,’ Arthur whispered during Quiet Reading Time.

  His words tumbled out so fast, it was as if they were chasing each other out of his mouth.

  ‘Reyna brought her dad’s old watch. Somebody brought in a school bag from about a hundred years ago. I think it was Ella. Except it wasn’t actually a bag – it was more like a suitcase. Imagine bringing a suitcase to school every day.’

  It was Olive’s first day back at school since her accident. She had been away for a whole week, so Arthur was telling her about all the old and wonderful things she had missed.

  ‘The best was Sam’s – he brought in a mandolin. It was like a tiny guitar with eight strings. And his uncle actually came in and played it. I wish I’d brought Grandma in to play the squeeze box.’

  When Quiet Reading Time had finished, Ms March skipped to the front of the room. It was time to share some more things that were old and wonderful.

  ‘Olive,’ she said. ‘Lovely to have you back. Feeling better, I hope?’

  ‘Yes, Ms March,’ squeaked Olive, sinking into her chair. At least thoughts weren’t slipping out anymore.

  ‘You were going to bring an old bike. Is it here?’

  Olive watched the teacher’s orange curls coil in and out. Her hula-hoop earrings danced about and her necklace clinked softly.

  ‘No,’ she said, picking at a fingernail. ‘My dad hasn’t fixed it. I was going to share my tree, but—’

  Ms March’s face became quite still. It all came to rest – the hair, the jewellery – and her voice was gentle and direct when she spoke, as if Olive was the only other person in the room.

  ‘That’s fine,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you’ll have something ready for the party.’

  Olive sat a bit straighter and nodded. Arthur flashed her a best-friend smile and his eyes shone.

  He had The Big Book of Elephants on his desk, still there from Quiet Reading Time. Olive could see a photo of a giant elephant plodding along a dusty track, with a baby by its side. Their shadows were long and dark, but they didn’t seem sad. There was something perfect and peaceful about the picture. It was lopsided but beautiful at the same time. One elephant weary and wise; the other young and full of trust.

  When the rest of the class packed up, Olive didn’t move. Her gaze was still fixed on the picture.

  An Idea

  Later that day, Olive and Arthur were upside down on the monkey bars again. Olive let her hands hang loose so they nearly touched the ground. She closed her eyes. Her thoughts somersaulted in her head, bumping and rolling into each other: the elephant, the tortoise, and the photo in Arthur’s big book.

  Like soft pieces of clay, these thoughts rolled around, then merged together to form an idea, big and bold and exciting.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said.

  ‘Uh-oh.’

  ‘It’s about my old and wonderful thing. I didn’t have one today, but I still need to bring something to the school’s birthday party.’

  ‘You’re not going to bring that tree, are you?’

  She laughed. ‘No. I’ve thought of something else. But I need your help.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Well – mainly your grandma’s help.’

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘My grandma?’

  ‘I need her at the party.’ Olive folded her arms and nodded. ‘You did say she hadn’t been to a party for a while.’

  Arthur scratched his curly hair and grinned.

  ‘Does this have something to do with the squeeze box?’ he said.

  She gave him a thumbs-up, which looked like a thumbs-down when you were upside down, but he knew what she meant.

  Happy Birthday

  The night of the party arrived.

  As the sun dipped away from the town and the stars opened in the sky, hundreds of children and their families funnelled into Cedar Hills Primary School. Balloons bounced from the classrooms, streamers flapped around the buildings, and fairy lights sparkled along every path. There were enormous HAPPY BIRTHDAY signs lining the walls and many of the teachers and children were dressed in old-fashioned clothes – bonnets and top hats and shiny bow ties.

  Olive trotted through the gate with Grandad and his tortoise. Her father was working late and wouldn’t be coming. She pointed at the decorations as they walked, but Grandad looked up only once or
twice. The tortoise was slowing him down. The colours and lights passed him by.

  They entered the hall, where the school concert band honked out a few tunes while everybody found their seats. Grandad folded himself down into one of the small plastic chairs. The tortoise plonked beside him. Olive hugged Grandad and then joined her class near the front of the hall. She sat beside Arthur.

  ‘Does anybody else know what you’re going to do?’ he said, his dark, brown eyes very wide.

  She tried to hide a smile.

  ‘Not even Ms March,’ she said. ‘Is your grandma ready?’

  Arthur pointed to a lady sitting in the shadows beside the stage, a squeeze box on her lap.

  ‘I’ve never seen her so excited,’ he said.

  The evening began with a line-up of important-looking people saying important-sounding things. Some of them spoke too close to the microphone, so the children cupped their ears. Some of them forgot to turn the microphone on at all.

  The important-looking people sat down and it was time for the class performances. The younger children went first, stomping and fumbling around the stage to the crowd’s delight.

  Then Olive’s class was called up.

  Her heart thumped inside her chest.

  An Old and Wonderful Thing