by Paul Collins
Morry picked up a mike, and threw me my guitar.
‘Come on, Robby,’ he said, ‘lets practise the opening again.’
I thought that was the end of it, that it was just one of those strange little things that happens to you every so often. But that night, as I lay in bed, the classical music started playing again. The next day it happened, too. All I had to do was close my eyes and it began. I tried ignoring it. That didn’t work. I tried to blast it out by playing ‘Black Dog’ at full volume. That didn’t work. I tried not to like it. That didn’t work, either. I did like it. I liked it a lot.
After that, when Morry and Cass were away, I’d tune into that station. Later I bought a little radio with earphones. I was listening to classical all the time now - on the school bus, during lunchtime, in bed at night.
What was happening? It had once seemed so straightforward. I loved Led Zep, I loved hard rock, I played electric guitar. I was good at it, it’s what I’d do with my life. Now it wasn’t so straightforward. For a start I was addicted to classical music. Worse than that - I wanted to play it as well. A musician can’t just listen. Sure, Mozart didn’t write a lot for the Telecaster, but I decided to learn another instru ment, to ask somebody to help me.
The music teacher at school was always telling me not to play so loudly, but she was friendly enough. I asked her if she could teach me some classical on the piano. At first she thought I was joking, I was the school guitar hero after all, but then I started mentioning names - composers and pieces I liked. She was impressed. We arranged to have a lesson the next day. After that, it just happened.
At first I kept it secret from Cass and Morry. I was still playing in the band - not very well though. Try playing hard rock when your head’s full of Beethoven. Then one morning Cass found my Chopin scores in my school bag. And didn’t it hit the fan then!
‘What’s this?’ said Morry, throwing the papers on the table. ‘What the hell is this?’ He didn’t even give me a chance to answer.
‘I’ll tell you what this is. This is music written by old farts who died hundreds of years ago. This is music played by bloody robots. Old farts’ music played by bloody robots. That’s what this is.’
I explained the whole thing to him. How I felt des tined to play this music. How my teacher said I had a
‘natural aptitude’, that maybe I could get a scholar ship to attend the Conservatorium if I studied hard.
‘Robby,’ he said after I’d finished. jazz or pop or techno or hip-hop or even rap I could understand, but classical? It’s just not right, Robby. Bad karma. Bad karma.’
He walked out the door, still muttering, ‘Bad karma. Bad karma.’
I suppose he’s more or less accepted it now, weeks later, though things between us aren’t great. Not like they were. We used to be more like mates than father and son. Probably because we played in the same band. It’s hard to think of somebody as your dad when he’s in the middle of a stage, legs wide apart, screaming into a mike about making mamas sweat and groove.
I had to stop playing in the band. He didn’t say anything, not even ‘Bad karma’. I knew he was cut up though. He cancelled the studio booking. I stopped playing in the school band, too. Mandy McCarthy, the spunkiest girl in the school, left a note on my desk - ‘You’re dropped, dork’.
Next week I’m going to play, all by myself, in front of the whole school, parents as well. Apparently somebody from the Conservatorium is coming. Cass says she’ll be there. Dad doesn’t think he can make it, he’s got a really important gig with his new band. In some scungy pub out in the sticks, of course. Somebody from the record company might be turning up.
On the night of the performance my music teacher picks me up. I’m nervous as hell. I never felt like this playing in Dad’s band.
‘I can’t go on,’ I tell the teacher.
‘Yes you can, Robby,’ she says.
‘No I can’t. Morry’s right - it’s old farts’ music played by robots.’
‘What on earth are you talking about, Robby?’ she says, and as my name is announced she gives me an enormous shove and I stumble onto the stage.
When I see the piano I feel okay again. I sit down on the stool and steal a quick glance at the audience. I can’t see Cass, but it’s hard to see anybody with the spotlights glaring in my eyes.
It doesn’t go too badly, I only make a couple of mistakes and they’re not really big ones. The audi ence is really clapping a lot. Maybe there’s something else happening, like once when we played in a pub the audience was going wild and I thought, wow, they really like us, but it was the stripper on the bar they were cheering. (Dad made me look the other way.) There’s no stripper here though, it’s me they’re ap plauding. Then I hear it, no mistaking it - it’s Dad’s whistle. I see him now, about halfway back, standing up. He’s wearing his rock-star wrap-around shades, his best T-shirt and black jeans. He’s stomping on the wooden floorboards with his cowboy boots. My mum’s next to him, in a pink mini-skirt and shiny top. They’re both clapping and yelling, ‘More, more, more!’ just like you do at rock concerts. I can’t believe it. Of course all the kids start doing it too- stomping, clapping, yelling. Then the parents start as well, even these really straight people, stomping on the floor and yelling, ‘More, more, more!’ The noise is incred ible. I play another piece. They all go crazy again. I play something else. More craziness. But that’s it then, because I don’t know anything else.
Mum and Dad come backstage.
‘Great gig,’ says Dad, slapping me on the back,
‘For a robot.’
Mum plants a big kiss on my cheek. Then they go, because Dad still has to play and the pub is miles away. I have to hang around, to talk to the person from the Conservatorium.
I spend ages talking to him. He’s pretty posh, but he’s really friendly. He even knows who Led Zep are. He practically gives me the scholarship there and then.
I go out celebrating with my mates and by the time I get home Mum and Dad are already in bed. I walk over to Dad’s amp, crank it right up. Then I strap his Telecaster on and start playing ‘Stairway to Heaven’. It sounds loud, wild, out of control. The walls are shaking.
‘What the . . .’ Morry yells from the bedroom. Then he comes out in his pyjamas. The ones Mum made for him, with the little guitars all over them. He picks up a mike, cradles it in his hands, throws back his head just like Robert Plant (except the hair doesn’t get in his eyes) and starts singing.
By this time Mum’s out of bed, too. She’s doing her spaced-out hippy dance, the one she always does to ‘Stairway’.
Tell you one thing, I sure wouldn’t want to be our neighbours.
I’m thirteen and I want my name back.
Everyone is used to calling me Freddie. It’s hard for people to change a habit. Boo runs into my arms and calls me Freya. No one notices because he’s too little and they think he doesn’t know how to say Freddie.
Boo looks cute with his red bow tie and navy jacket. He’s dressed for his birthday party. Boo helped me decorate his train cake, although he ate as many of the chocolate buttons as he put on the icing.
My older brother Noah ran around the backyard with him on his shoulders as Boo tooted a train horn. We didn’t have a birthday party for Boo when he was one. We didn’t have a birthday party when he was two. But Boo is three now.
Mum’s eyes shimmer with tears. ‘It’s time for a birthday party for Boo.’
Boo’s sturdy build and strong legs make him look like a great bear when he runs. His dark brown eyes are always smiling and his three-year-old arms are like chubby chocolate. Fat, creamy brown, and deli cious. I know that they are delicious because Mum always kisses them. Once, when Boo was sitting on her lap, I saw her gently bite his chocolate arms. My arms are white, with horrible scabby blobs on my elbows from when I fell off the swing. That really
hurt. Noah was pushing the swing as high as he could and I was screaming for him to stop. But no. He just pushed higher and higher. ‘Freddie fly, Freddie fly.’
Boo saved me. He kicked Noah so hard that he had to stop. But I still fell off. Right into the dirt. There was blood etched on my funny bone. Blood and dirt. I hate Noah sometimes. He said he was sorry, but he still flicks me under the table at dinner, saying under his breath, ‘Freddie, Freddie Krueger.’ He thinks it’s funny.
I never cry in front of Noah, but I pinch him hard under the table. He just laughs and rubs his leg. It’d upset Mum if I complained. I haven’t complained about anything for three years. Noah doesn’t complain either.
Mum always has afternoon tea ready for us after school, even when she’s tired from work. She helps Noah and me with our homework, reads books to Boo and tries to be happy. She is happy sometimes, but at night I hear her cry in her bedroom. I cry too. Noah doesn’t cry. Boo sleeps quietly in his bed nestled in the corner of my bedroom.
Mum is going out with a man. She was nervous when she brought him home for dinner. ‘He’s not replacing your father,’ she whispered anxiously. ‘No one can.’ He brought Mum daffodils and sweet plums for us to share. Daffodils are Mum’s favourite flowers. How did he know that? How did he know that we like sweet plums? I didn’t like him. Noah didn’t like him. When the teacher phoned, Noah let him hang on the other end of the line for ages before he called Mum. The teacher said we could call him Jim. Boo held his hand.
He works with Mum at school. He teaches science.
Mum teaches history. It’s the first time she’s dated in three years.
I remember that day in the hospice. I trusted that Dad would never die because he was my father and fathers don’t die. His head was shaven so you could see the crooked cut across his skull. That’s where they’d cut into his brain and made him into a different person. His brown eyes were too dark. I didn’t want to look at them because I could see he was afraid. He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know who I was. ‘It’s me, Daddy. It’s me.’
I ran as fast as I could out of that ward, down the pathway, running, panting until I was gasping and sobbing, until I crashed into a huge old tree. I hung on, pressing my face against the rough bark. Mum was panting after me with her yellow daffodil dress flapping. She put her arms around me. They were cold. ‘Daddy loves you, Freddie. Don’t cry, Freddie. Don’t cry.’
Daddy died that night.
Boo was born six months afterwards. Noah and I waited at home until Mum arrived with him from the hospital. She said he was born with his lips puckered in surprise, gurgling, ‘Boo’.
I love the name Boo. It means precious. I hate the name Freddie, my baby nickname. But Mum can’t call me anything else now. And I can’t tell her not to. My real name is Freya. Mum and Dad told me that they called me Freya because when I was born I was beautiful and they fell in love with me. Freya is the goddess of love and beauty.
Dad had always been sturdy and strong, fixing everything in the house. He made me a wooden bowl to keep my necklaces and bangles in. My brother fixes everything in the house now, but he’s never made me anything. Mum and Dad named my brother Noah because his birth was long and dif ficult - ‘like weathering a storm’ - but in the end it was safe, a resting place. Dad and Noah were great mates. They’d been working for months on their camping trip. Mum teased them that they were a double take of Indiana Jones. They had organised their two-man tent, sleeping bags, compasses and all the supplies they needed for a one-month trek into the mountains. They’d worked out depot spots to collect new supplies.
That was before. Mterwards, Noah sold all the campmg gear. He doesn’t talk about Dad much. Neither do I.
Now Noah hangs out with other sixteen-year-olds at the beach, checking out girls and watching the surf.
It’s the Easter holidays and there’s no school today.
Mum’s organised a picnic on the hill overlooking the beach. I don’t go to the beach much anymore, but Mum wants me there. Noah’s brought his board, so he can join his mates in the surf afterwards. Jim’s carrying the rugs, the football and the picnic basket. Mum’s wearing her yellow dress. My stomach twists. She’s hasn’t worn it since that day in the hospice.
Boo and I are running up the hill when we see tiny blue flowers hidden in the grass. Their yellow centres sparkle like golden treasure. We peer over the flowers and pick the forget-me-nots. I put them in my bag, then tickle Boo’s tummy and he giggles. He puts his baby soft arms around me and I hold him so long that he starts to squirm away.
Noah checks out the surf, grunts at Jim. Mum’s eyes cloud over. She wants us to like him. I say hello. Noah grabs the football and throws it to Boo who runs after it with his strong brown legs. I run, too, with my pasty white legs. Jim joins in and so does Mum. Her daffodil dress flutters in the wind and we’re chasing the ball in the long green grass under the yellow sun.
Boo tumbles and cries and Jim races to pick him up. ‘You’re safe,’ he says quietly. Tears come to my eyes. I brush them away.
The picnic rug overflows with food- roast chicken, potato salad, tomatoes and olives, bananas and blueberries. Mum’s made my favourite strawberry sponge cake. It’s a feast and we all eat too much. I lie on my back with the sun warming me and I can feel the rays colouring the tops of my legs.
Jim tells us about camping.
‘My dad liked camping in the mountains,’ I tell him.
Noah waits to see his response.
‘I like the mountains, but I prefer the coast. The waves crashing on the sand, stars at night, sleeping in a tent, boiling water for billy tea, watching the wildlife at dusk. Do you like the coast, Noah?’
I see Noah struggle. He then nods. ‘I like the ocean as well.’
I stare at my blotchy legs. Boo wants to go home.
Jim takes Mum out for dinner. He comes over to help
Noah repair the ding in his surfboard.
‘Do you likeJim?’ Mum asks us.
I miss Dad, that’s all. I want him back.
Boo sneaks into my bed. I put my arms around him. He looks up at me with his dark brown eyes. I gasp. I’d never seen it before. His eyes. Suddenly, I feel the rough tree bark under my face and hear my mother’s heartbeat.
I play with the dried petals of the forget-me-nots in the wooden bowl next to my bed.
‘Boo,’ I whisper. ‘Precious,’ I whisper.
‘Freya.’ He puts his hand into mine. Suddenly I feel my father’s hand. I feel him here with me.
I am going to ask my mother and my brother to call me Freya.
I want to be Freya.
If my family were dogs, Mum would be a grey hound. Not one of those sad, dumb, muscle-brains that chase a lure round a racetrack. No, she would be a graceful, leggy Royal Companion like the ones in medieval tapestries. Dad would be a scruffy mongrel of unknown origins (like Scuppers the Sailor Dog - that loveable mutt in the Little Golden Book). My little brother would be a pug because he’s annoying and snot-nosed. And my big sister, well, she wouldn’t be a dog, would she? She’d flatly refuse. She’d be a cat, a ridiculous puffball Persian the colour of pink champagne, with a sulky pushed-in face and a bad temper.
That leaves Pop. Pop would be a Labrador. A lazy, loveable golden lab who sleeps in the sun all day long and only gets up to eat and to chase the odd pigeon.
Pop used to live in a bungalow at the back of our house. He called it ‘The Doghouse’. When Pop’s wife died, Pop built the bungalow and then he gave the house to us. He never came into the main house again. Pop said he hoped we would be kind to the old house - and please could we paint it.
Pop also said that everyone should live in walking distance of a train and a butcher’s shop. When I told Pop I was a vegetarian he frowned. Then he said,
‘It’ll pass.’
W
hen I first brought Tiggy home Pop shook his head and said, ‘Fancy keeping vermin for a pet.’
And I said, ‘Every girl in my class has a pet rabbit, Pop.’
And Pop said, ‘Do those girls know how to skin a rabbit?’
And I said, ‘That’s disgusting! You would never eat Tiggy ... would you?’
And Pop said, ‘Course I’d eat Tiggy. Just because it’s got a fancy name doesn’t mean it doesn’t belong in a stew.’
Pop once told me that if it hadn’t been for rab bits him and his brothers would have starved. He also told me that his family ate a lot of mushrooms, which they found in farm paddocks and around tree stumps.
One time his big sister picked the wrong mush rooms and everyone in the entire family went ‘up the pole’. Pop said he saw terrible things during the war, but none so terrible as when he ate the poison ous mushrooms. (He swore he saw an axe-wielding gumtree striding across the backyard that night, and a headless cattle dog barking at the moon. He said you’ve never heard anything so frightening as the bark of a headless dog.)
Pop’s little brother was the only one who didn’t eat the mushrooms that night, and he had to drag the entire family (every one of them quivering and spewing and hallucinating) onto the back of the fiat bed truck and drive them into town to see the doctor. Pop’s little brother was eleven at the time.
Pop’s bungalow had coloured light bulbs strung across the front. He turned them on at eight o’clock every night - so pretty on these dark winter nights - yellow, red, orange and blue, and every night he turned them off at eleven. That’s how Mum knew something was wrong. When she got up at three o’clock the other morning, Pop’s coloured lights were still shining.
Mum went down the garden path to check on Pop. She found him in his recliner with his feet up and his Western comic spread across his chest. The telly was on, but the sound was turned down. Pop never had the sound on. He said people on the idiot box are not worth listening to - which is why all TVs come with a mute button.