Danny was nudged clumsily from behind. He teetered and heard someone mumbling. He noticed a strange and distinctive odour. His nose twitched and he turned to face a bedraggled old woman.
She shuffled past, brushing him, shoulder to shoulder, then raised her bowed head. Their eyes met.
Danny felt the hair at the back of his neck bristle. A weird prickling sensation ran down his spine. Danny swayed away from the old woman, but, mesmerised, couldn’t drag his gaze from hers. She looked into Danny’s deep brown eyes, chocolate drops his mum called them. Her hazel eyes glinted with expectation.
She wore a little woollen beanie that was bottle green and she was towing a small, beige, two-wheeled shopping trolley covered in grease, grime and tar. It was filthy, like Danny Allen’s car. Her frizzy grey hair, teased by the tossing of restless sleep, fell to drape her small sharp shoulders. Clear, crystal, teardrop earrings swung gently. She stared at Danny as if waiting for him to say something. Her head tilted and she raised her eyebrows a little.
Danny wanted to say sorry, but swallowed the word away when he began to choke on it.
The crusty old woman, her eyes glinting, smiled a crooked smile (Yuck! No teeth!), then nodded and ambled rhythmically on her way. She was singing softly to herself, something about paradise and a parking lot. She whistled between words. Danny couldn’t make sense of it.
Danny kept an eye on her. Her hunched back, rising to her shoulders, hid any sign of a neck. She shuffled toward the old theatre. She glanced back at Danny, before melting into the darkness of the narrow laneway next to the theatre, giving the mysterious illusion of walking through a black wall.
Danny rolled his shoulders to rid himself of the uncomfortable chill still prickling his spine and looked around. No one had noticed his encounter.
Vicki was holding centre stage. She was dancing on the top step making her dress twirl. ‘Come on, Danny,’ she called. ‘I’ll race you to the top!’ And off she ran to get a head start.
Danny didn’t feel like racing. If he didn’t race there was nothing to win; Sam had taught him that. He walked from the street and stood for the first time at the base of the dull stairwell. He looked up. The stairs made him think of frustrating games of Snakes and Ladders. He hated Snakes and Ladders: Sam always beat him. He could beat Vicki, but that didn’t count.
Danny set off up the steps. The stairwell was cold and gloomy.
At the top he stopped to look down. His mum, dad and Mr Thompson were struggling to get to the top. Their boxes were heavy.
Vicki had left the door to the apartment open. Danny’s mum had called it ‘the apartment’ when she was speaking to friends in Mundowie. It sounded good and even Danny had been impressed . . . until now. He walked in. This was not what he had imagined an apartment to be. He’d seen movies where apartments were bigger than houses.
This wasn’t the movies. His puppy, Billy, had a nicer apartment in the boarding kennel! Danny missed Billy. He worried about him being alone and frightened in a strange place crowded with unfamiliar dogs snarling and barking. Poor Billy, Danny knew how he felt. Danny didn’t know what was going to happen to Billy. He wasn’t allowed to live in Unit 3, Waterford Towers. Huh! thought Danny, He doesn’t know how lucky he is!
Danny turned in a slow circle. He now knew what his dad meant when he called the apartment the ‘dog box’.
There wasn’t any furniture, but even empty the apartment looked crowded. The walls were close and confining, giving a jail-like feeling. Danny estimated that the whole place would just about fit into the lounge room back in Mundowie.
The small kitchen and squishy lounge room had no wall separating them and when she first saw it, Danny’s mum must’ve hated the sight of that tiny kitchen.
There were only two bedrooms. Danny would be sharing with Sam and Vicki.
He pondered the possibilities of a tumultuous future. There was no space, no sanctuary, no tree hide-out that was his and his alone. Where would he go when Vicki was at her most annoying?
Danny felt as empty as the apartment.
All he wanted to do was snuggle into his bed, to feel safe and warm and to sleep, but the apartment didn’t have beds, yet. The Fogartys were bringing them the next day. Danny hoped to see Eddie again. They could talk about Mundowie and the day at Howler’s Tunnel.
Like Mr Thompson, the Fogartys had kindly offered to help the Allen family move. That’s what people were like in Mundowie.
When the time came to sleep Danny was too tired to bother about the hardness of the floor.
As he lay down, his mum brushed a hand across his forehead. ‘You rest, Danny, and I’ll have something warm and delicious for you to eat when you wake up.’
‘Thanks, Mum,’ Danny said wearily.
Danny hoped, but didn’t ask, for fresh bread, soft and warm, stained golden by melted butter and smothered with honey, or maybe jam. Apricot . . . no, strawberry would be best, but that was too much to ask for. Where would his mum cook bread in this kitchen?
Danny went to bed early but was restless, tossing and turning. He could hear the constant scream of sirens and soon found he was taking little notice of them. He dozed to the sounds of Vicki and Sam arguing. Sam had Vicki’s pillow, apparently.
‘Sam, give it back! Right now, or else!’
‘Huh, or else what?’
‘Muuuuuuuuum!’
A pillow flew across the room. It hit Vicki with force . . . phooof! And sent her tumbling backwards, legs in the air.
Sam laughed.
Vicki sat up, hair frizzed across her face, trying not to cry. Her bottom lip quivered. ‘You’re a big, fat, smelly, stupid idiot, Sam!’ she sulked.
Danny rolled over.
At least the arguing was the same. He was all tangled inside, oblivious to the turmoil unfolding in the velvet darkness on the Mundowie road.
Flashing lights and shouting people were swarming around an accident near Howler’s Tunnel. The twisted wreck of an old truck was being towed from the cliff ’s edge at Arbon’s Gorge. Steam rose in ribbons across the windscreen. The sorrowful scream of an ambulance howled away from the scene and raced along the highway, city bound. Mr Thompson never made it back to Mundowie that night.
News of Mr Thompson’s accident reached Danny when the Fogartys arrived at seven-thirty the next morning. The Fogartys’ arrival was noisy. The whole tribe didn’t come, just Eddie’s parents, Eddie and little Finley, the three-toothed toddler.
Danny loved that name: Finley Fogarty. Brilliant! Sam reckoned that Mr Fogarty had the idea when pushing the fast forward button on his remote control. The double ‘F’ was something he couldn’t resist.
Danny walked in, rubbing his eyes. Mr Fogarty was driving a margarine container between the sauce bottle and a jar of honey and explaining what had happened. ‘He missed two large rocks and then it must have dropped into a ditch before rolling.’ He sent the margarine container tumbling. The lid fell to the floor and landed margarine-side down, of course. Mr Fogarty scooped it up and slapped it straight back on the container. ‘The truck is a mess,’ he said.
Eddie smiled when Danny appeared. ‘Hey, Danny Allen,’ he chirped.
‘Hey, Eddie, what’s happening?’
‘The truck had an accident.’
Danny felt suddenly awake. ‘What accident? What truck?’ he asked, quickly picking up on the concern etched on his parents’ faces. ‘What happened?’
Danny’s mum rose from her chair and moved to him. Danny felt unsettled by the worried look on her face. Something was wrong, very wrong, he could tell.
‘There’s been an accident,’ she said. ‘It’s Mr Thompson.’
Danny’s heart sank. He liked Mr Thompson a lot. He liked his huge cowboy hat, big hands, broad smile, terrible taste in music and infectious laugh.
Then he thought of Thommo. Poor Thommo, he couldn’t live without his dad, he just couldn’t. They were mates. Danny couldn’t bear to think of being in Thommo’s shoes. He glanced at his dad. Don�
�t ever die, Dad. Don’t ever die, ever.
Danny’s mum continued. ‘On his way home last night Mr Thompson . . .’
‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ Danny interrupted.
Mr Fogarty broke the tension. ‘Dead?’ he chortled loudly (he did everything loudly). ‘No, he’s not dead! His truck is, though. She’s had it at last, the old girl. Apparently the only thing still working was his radio. It was blaring “On the Road Again” by Willie Nelson when they found him.’
Danny moved forward to look at the buckled margarine container. ‘Is Mr Thompson okay?’
‘Fine, just fine,’ said Mr Fogarty. ‘He’s here in the city hospital. He’s got a few cuts and bruises and a broken leg. That’s all.’
‘He’s fine, Danny,’ said Danny’s mum. ‘I spoke to Mrs Thompson a few minutes ago on the phone.’
Mr Fogarty took the margarine container in his big hands and drove it across the table again. Finley helped by making soft and very effective broom broom noises.
‘He’s lucky, though. If he’d hit those rocks,’ explained Mr Fogarty as he steered the margarine container into the honey jar, ‘smash! He would have been a goner.’
‘Yeah, a goner, eh, Dad?’ said Eddie.
Danny thought of Thommo. His stomach groaned. The sickly feeling made his face scrunch. He felt sick for lots of reasons. For Thommo, Mr Thompson and the crashed truck, and because he was so far away from home.
‘He’ll never drive that truck again,’ said Mr Fogarty.
‘No, never, eh, Dad?’ added Eddie.
Mr Thompson never driving his truck again? Danny couldn’t imagine it. His stomach churned.
The fabric of all that was familiar to Danny was being torn to shreds.
Danny was glad that the Fogartys stayed for a while. It was good to see Eddie and talk about Mundowie. The apartment felt better with them in it. They were a jolly bunch. Mr Fogarty chuckled a lot and smelt like the fields he worked every day. He was a round little man with no hair, and teeth like a chipmunk. His chin looked like a potato and was often mapped with the small islands of silver whiskers he’d missed when shaving. Danny’s dad often joked that he ploughed his fields the same way, leaving little islands of scratchy yellow grasses on the hillside.
Mrs Fogarty looked very much like her husband, only she had hair that was always rolled into a tight bun and no whiskery islands on her chin.
It wasn’t only the familiar faces that Danny was happy to have around him. He was also happy to have familiar things, especially his bed. Eddie bounced on it trampoline style to check that it had been put up properly. The Fogartys had brought a few important things, including an old freezer that Mr Fogarty had kept in his shed. ‘She rattles a bit,’ he chuckled, ‘but she’ll freeze the ba . . .’
‘Thank you, Ted!’ interrupted Mrs Fogarty curtly.
Much to Danny’s delight, Mr Fogarty also delivered a tower of four large tins full of Anzac biscuits, meringues and cakes from Aunty Jean. Danny shared them with Eddie. He had a hearty appetite for a little guy. Danny ended up having to put the tins away to save some for later.
By the time the Fogartys left, everything had been set up. In the children’s bedroom there were three beds squeezed in a row – like the scene Danny imagined Goldilocks saw when she ventured into the cottage of the three bears. Perhaps, he thought, this apartment should have been called a cottage apartment.
There was also an old two-door wardrobe squeezed into the room. It stood sentinel at the foot of the beds. With the beds so close, the wardrobe doors only opened a little way, enough for Vicki to squeeze through and rumble about inside.
‘If you want anything from the wardrobe, boys,’ she announced proudly, ‘I can get it for you. Watch.’ She squeezed through the wardrobe door. Once inside, she poked her head out. ‘See?’
Seizing an irresistible opportunity to tease, Sam rushed at her, pushed her back in and shut the door forcefully with his feet. ‘I need jocks,’ he called, laughing. ‘And I left my old ones in there. Bring them out and I’ll put them in the wash. They’re the ones with the skid marks. If it’s too dark just use your nose! You’ll find ’em.’
Vicki thumped on the door. ‘Saaaam! Let me oooouuut!’
Sam leaned hard. ‘Have you got my jocks?’ he laughed, looking at Danny and expecting him to join in the torment.
Danny wasn’t interested.
‘Sam!’ Vicki cried. ‘I’ll tell! Let me out!’
Sam suddenly sprung to his feet and leapt across the beds – one, two, three – and he flew, laughing, out the door.
Vicki scrambled from the wardrobe and scampered, whining, from the room. ‘Muuuuum!’
Danny sat on his bed next to the window. The glass was cold. From his bed he could see into the street below.
He had drawn himself a map of the street just like Thommo’s map of Howler’s Tunnel. There were still a few gaps to fill, but Danny thought he had the biggest landmarks down.
The huge park with the entrance gates across the street was awesome. It seemed to completely cover the heart of the city. The large sign at the gates said that there were bike tracks, walking trails and tennis courts.
A short walk from the gates there was a pond crowded with ducks and a playground with a rope bridge. It wasn’t as high as Sam’s rope bridge hanging between the pepper trees near the tractor shed in Mundowie, but still, it was better than nothing.
The smell of warm bread lured Danny from his room. He stopped at the bedroom doorway. It was like walking into a weird dream. Bits of his Mundowie life had been taken and dropped into a new world.
He walked out to see his mum, her brow streaked with flour, slicing warm bread. Steam rose to her face in ribbons. Amazingly, she had found a way to bake bread in the tiny kitchen.
Danny’s dad was sitting in a corner in his favourite chair, just as he always did after a day in the fields of Mundowie. He was mumbling to himself and shaking his head as he pored over the newspaper circling suitable job vacancies with a pen.
Danny’s mum offered Danny a plate full of thickly sliced, warm buttered bread smothered with strawberry jam.
She put the plate down and knelt to Danny’s level.
She clasped his shoulders. ‘How would you like to see Billy tomorrow?’ she asked.
‘Oh yeah!’ cried Danny. ‘Can I?’
‘Yes,’ his mum nodded cheerily. ‘Tomorrow we’re going to get Billy and he can come to visit for the day. Dad will be out looking for work so we’ll spend the day in the park. Billy would love that, wouldn’t he? And tomorrow, after Dad gets a job, we can start looking for a house.’
‘Then Billy can live with us, can’t he?’
‘Of course.’
Danny smiled broadly. His mum winked at him and gently twisted his nose with her slender fingers. Danny smiled back. She made it all sound so simple, as if everything would fall nicely into place. No problem. He felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He felt as if he had a future that wasn’t all dark and gloomy like the city streets. He loved Billy. He loved his mum.
He didn’t dive straight into his warm bread. Instead, he buried himself in his mum’s warm arms. She smelt like the bread.
‘I bet Billy hates that boarding kennel, Mum,’ he said.
‘Hmm,’ she agreed quietly.
The news that Billy was coming made Danny impatient for the day to pass quickly, but it didn’t. Time dragged. Danny tried to coax Sam to do something, but Sam was poring over the TV guide, circling things.
‘I’ve always dreamed of being able to watch these shows.’
Sam sat and watched TV all day. He didn’t want to draw, or build, or invent, or anything. The TV, with all its amazing channels, had taken control of him. As for Vicki, well, she was too busy spinning, twirling and singing ‘Tra la la la.’
It was late in the evening, on the very edge of nightfall, and Danny had sought sanctuary in his parents’ room. Vicki was in the other bedroom bouncing from bed to bed. Bed h
opscotch, she called it. ‘Weeeeeeee!’ Boing! ‘Come and play, Danny!’ Boing! ‘Come and play!’ Boing!
Danny ignored her and was surprised that his mum did too. Then again, she was busy talking to his dad. He hadn’t had much luck job hunting. They wouldn’t be looking for a house just yet.
With the blanket of darkness thickening, Danny hoped there wouldn’t be a power blackout. He remembered Thommo’s story about being in the city during a blackout. He had said it was as scary as Howler’s Tunnel . . . or did he say it was even scarier? Whatever the case, Danny didn’t fancy it much.
Rain was teeming down, pouring from fat clouds that rumbled louder than the roar of trucks, vans, cars and motorbikes. Danny thought of Mundowie. He spoke to the clouds in a grumpy voice inside his head. ‘If only you’d rumbled and rained hard over Mundowie,’ he scowled bitterly, ‘I wouldn’t be here now.’
Danny’s peace didn’t last long. Vicki came twirling through the doorway. A gap between the boxes on their parents’ bed became her stage. The springs of the old bed twanged as she bounced and danced. ‘Hey, Dan, whatcha doin’?’ she chirped.
Danny ignored her in the hope that she would go away.
Vicki bounced a few times and then sprung from the bed, trampoline-style. Twang.
Her feet hit the floor. Thump!
An open box full of clothes yet to be unpacked tumbled over. The contents spewed out onto the floor, but Vicki took little notice.
She skipped to kneel next to Danny at the window. Looking deceptively angelic she gazed up at him and said, ‘Hey, Dan, I said, whatcha doin’?’
‘Nothing. Go away.’
She suddenly nudged him and pointed out the window.
‘Hey, look there!’ she cried. ‘It’s him!’
Take it Easy, Danny Allen Page 4