‘Oh, that would be great, thanks!’ Elena’s eyes were glowing.
‘Great!’ echoed Hassan, smiling all over his face. Then he glanced at me. ‘Oh, you can come too, Lou.’
I saw that I was only an afterthought, so I said no.
‘We’ll come over to visit tomorrow, though,’ Hassan said quickly. ‘To see Cordelia.’
‘And I’ll bring some eggs and other stuff,’ added Elena.
I went to get a drink at the bubblers, and found Singo there.
‘Guess what, I got in!’ he cried, flicking water at me. ‘The A-team!’ His eyes were so squinched by his huge grin, they almost disappeared. After I’d congratulated him and we’d spat water at each other for a bit, he said he was going for the A-team practice that afternoon.
It was hard to keep up the happy smile on my face. I was glad for Singo, but sad for me. Now there was double maths, and later there’d be another awkward conversation between Cordelia and my Dementor impersonation.
I walked home from the bus stop very slowly. Mrs Livid from Next Door waved at me with her hose. She looked as if she wanted to ask me something, which made me worry that she’d seen Cordelia living in our tent. I waved back enthusiastically and sped up, putting a look of determination on my face as if I was in an enormous hurry.
When I lifted the latch on our gate, it swung open smoothly for the first time ever. I went out and did it again. Perfect. Not even a creak. I did it again. And again. My god, it worked like a normal gate. A normal, efficient, well-functioning gate.
I started to rehearse what I’d say to Cordelia. Because who else would have made this miracle happen? I drooped down the path, kicking a pebble. I knew I had to cross the grass to the tent and thank her, but I stood there outside, hesitating. Somehow, I stirred myself and called out a cheery, ‘Knock, knock!’, grazing the tent with my knuckles, as if it was a door.
No response. I tweaked open the flap. No one there. Just the sleeping bag, neatly rolled up, the torch lying on top. She’s probably just out for a walk or something, I thought. You could go stir-crazy in a tent, ask anyone – ask Captain Scott of the Antarctic Explorers. I just hoped that when she came in, she wouldn’t get spotted.
LATER, as the kitchen filled with shadow, I went to the fridge, thinking about dinner. There was ham and pickles, fresh bread and two big peaches. Quickly I made a sandwich, wrapped it in foil, and put it in a plastic bag with the peaches and a bottle of water. Even if Cordelia wasn’t back yet, this would be a nice snack for later. I could place it up high, on the stack of books, out of all TERRESTRIAL insect range.
I was making my own sandwich when Dad came rushing in. His eyes were wide and strangely bright. He threw down his briefcase on a chair. ‘Louis, you are brilliant!’ he cried. ‘Working away all afternoon, were you? When you decide to do something, you do it well, no doubt about that!’
‘What?’
‘No need to be humble! The gate, Lou, you fixed that gate! It’s beautiful, smooth, a great job!’ He came over and took me by the shoulders, his smile practically splitting his face. All his attention was on me. It had been days since he’d looked me in the eye. He was laughing now, his face like the sun shining, shining on me!
It felt so good. I don’t know what came over me. I just knew I wanted more of it.
‘So how did you find the right bit for the drill?’
I smiled and shrugged in what I hoped was a humble fashion.
‘I’m amazed you remembered how to follow all the steps I told you,’ Dad was looking at me, his mouth open.
Unease prickled my skin. ‘One of Life’s Great Mysteries,’ I said wryly, tapping my nose. Damn, that still hurt.
‘Ha!’ laughed Dad and cuffed me affectionately on the shoulder. He opened the fridge and took a dish from the freezer. As he walked to the sink I found myself standing in front of him. Somehow I was desperate to see that smile of his again.
‘And did you see the lawn, and the flowerbed, and the ivy?’
He rubbed a hand over his face. ‘Can’t believe I didn’t notice . . . oh well, been a bit busy.’ And the shy proud look came again.
Quickly I said, ‘Do you want to come out and have a look?’
‘Okay, sure.’
Oh, but what an idiot, inviting him to examine carefully the very place occupied by our burglar! Maybe Cordelia would choose just this moment to return – maybe she was already back, with the torch shining in the tent and sounds of habitation wafting on the breeze. But it was too late. In his enthusiasm, Dad was already out the door.
I coughed loudly on the path and practically shouted, ‘HERE WE ARE OU TSIDE LOO KING AT THE GARDEN !’ The tent said nothing.
Dad poured over the cropped ivy and tidy flowerbeds. ‘It looks terrific!’ And although dusk was starting to blur sky and earth, he noticed the new flowers. ‘Begonias! And spending your own pocket money too! You even got rid of that wasp nest under the porch.’
‘What wasp nest?’
Dad grinned. ‘I know how scared of those suckers you are. They gave you a nasty sting once. So how did you do it? Damn nest sticks like superglue up there.’
I was about to refer to the Great Mysteries again when Dad shook his head, placing his hand on my shoulder. ‘You found your courage, that’s how you did it. You’re really growing up, Louis.’ And the warmth of his hand suddenly felt too hot, too much, too undeserved.
We heard the gate click then – soft as butter – and Rosie trooped in. She didn’t notice the new latch or the tidy garden or anything above her shoes. Her eyes were fixed on the ground, and she was scowling.
‘Hi there,’ called Dad.
She said ‘hey’, but her face didn’t change. She swept past us, into the house, and we heard her bedroom door bang.
Dad sighed. ‘Oh well, better get that water on to boil for the pasta.’
AFTER the news, Dad served up three steaming plates of spaghetti. Rosie flounced out of her room and slumped down on her chair. She sniffed her plate. ‘Spag bol.’
Hearing her dismissive words, I experienced an inward shudder like an earthquake. ‘That’s so ugly,’ I couldn’t help saying. ‘Spag bol. Imagine what an Italian would make of that? You should hear the way Elena pronounces it – spaghetti bolognais-eh. Italians take their time over the syllables, you know, draw them out, like music. Spag bol – ugh, it’s so . . . lazy.’
Rosie flung down her fork. ‘Is that all you can do, criticise? Drives me mad! You always act so high and mighty with your famous vocabulary. Most people have more important things to worry about than bloody words. Like what me and Miles are going through at the moment . . . But you wouldn’t know anything about it, stuck inside your head! You’re the one who’s lazy!’
‘Now, now,’ Dad said. ‘Steady on, no one’s lazy at this table. Look how much work Louis has done in the garden! Have you seen it, Rosie? And he’s fixed that gate.’ He kept winking at me, taking great forkfuls of spag bol, exclaiming about all my ‘wonderful’ work every time he swallowed a mouthful.
My father’s praise felt hollow, bouncing off the top of my head like light rays. I peeped at Rosie. She was glancing from me to Dad and back, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. I kept my head down. Luckily, then, like a change of subject, the phone rang.
Dad leapt up, even though he was only halfway through his dinner. ‘I’ll take it in my bedroom,’ he called as he raced up the hall.
I cleared my throat. ‘I didn’t mean to criticise you,’ I said to Rosie. ‘I’ve just got a thing about certain words. You know, like you used to hate Dad saying nighty nighty, sleepy tighty when you were little.’
‘Yeah, well, that was just plain embarrassing. I was ten by then, for god’s sake. Whose father says sleepy tighty? What if someone had heard?’
Dad came back, his shoulders slumped.
‘Who was that?’ I said.
‘The End. Wants an early morning appointment for tomorrow.’
‘Hey, did you talk to the lady who works at Mea
ls on Wheels?’ Rosie tapped Dad on the wrist to get his attention. ‘You know that client of yours? Is she still supervising the kitchens?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Dad, his face lighting up. ‘Maisie. She said the Meals on Wheels people could drop in on Agnes during the day and bring lunch to her – at least then we’d know she was eating, and not out getting lost. And Maisie said Agnes can come and help in the kitchens sometimes. Even if it’s just washing up.’ Dad turned to me. ‘You know, Agnes just loves to wash up. She can’t always remember how to cook, but her washing up is perfect. Of course there are dishwashing machines, but Maisie said it doesn’t matter – whatever Agnes washes can always be stacked in there later. So this is a good outcome for the moment, I think – there’ll be an eye on her at home and she’ll be keeping busy too.’ Dad leaned back in his chair. ‘You know, Agnes is a lovely woman. Even when she’s muddled, she’s cheerful. At the slightest kind word, she just blossoms. Like a little kid. You can tell she has a good heart. That’s what Doreen says. It breaks her heart to see what’s happening . . .’
Rosie nodded. ‘Miles too. He loves his grandma. She helped bring him up, really. I guess that’s why he’s in such a bad mood lately, what with his grandma really losing it, and his mother so worried. He won’t talk. Nothing cheers him up. Not even me. ’
Rosie was looking down at her plate. I think I saw a tear splash into her spag bol.
‘Talking of dishes,’ I said, ‘I’ll do them tonight if you want, hey Rosie?’
Rosie gave me a grudging smile. ‘Okay, thanks. Washing up’s not my favourite thing, that’s for sure.’
The phone went again. ‘I’ll get it!’ Dad said, running into the bedroom.
‘If that’s Doreen, ask her if Miles is home,’ called Rosie. ‘And remember to tell her what Maisie said.’
But I don’t think Dad needed to be reminded about the last part. We heard him cry ‘Doreen!’ as if she was an ambulance arriving at his heart attack, and straight away he started in on the last hundred-year history of Meals on Wheels.
I put a hand on Rosie’s shoulder as I picked up her plate. ‘Sorry.’
Rosie shrugged and disappeared into her room. At the sink, I let the warm water run through my fingers. For a moment I could see Agnes’s point of view, I really could. It might be hard to choose the right ingredients for a meal, but washing away whatever had been cooked up was easy, and satisfying.
Washing up was something you could do to perfection, without a word.
13
BESIDE OURSELVES
On the way home from school on Wednesday, Singo and I didn’t say much because it was too hot and humid. Plus we were trying not to listen to the TUMULTUOUS river of talk sweeping Hassan and Elena along in front of us. Their voices got softer and softer as their heads bent together closer and closer.
The heat hung grey and heavy on our shoulders. You wanted to take it off like a jumper. The air tasted of bushfire, stale and gritty. I was carrying the chilled bottle of mineral water we’d bought from the Welcome Mart. I pressed it to my cheek, sliding it up and down my neck, spreading the coolness.
‘Stop doing that,’ said Singo, his face wrinkling in disgust.
‘Why?’ I moved the bottle to the other cheek.
He grabbed it from me. ‘I don’t want to drink from a bottle that’s covered with your neck-sweat germs, that’s why.’
‘Well, before,’ I said in a reasonable tone, ‘it was covered with my hand-sweat germs. So what’s the difference?’
He shrugged. Singo wasn’t big on logic. He just felt things very deeply, and had to express them straight away. This was a good quality, because once he’d finished expressing the things, no matter how illogical they seemed, he tended to move forward, just as a prime minister once recommended.
‘After we’ve seen Cordelia and stuff, I have to go,’ he said now. ‘There’s basketball practice again this arvo.’ He cuffed me on the arm, dodging back and forth, behind and in front, as if I were a challenging member of the opposite team. I nearly fell over his foot.
‘You stop doing that,’ I said wearily as we reached my place. ‘It’s too damn hot. Check this out.’ And I opened the gate.
‘Hey, nice work. Cordelia?’
I nodded. ‘I let Dad think it was me.’ I made a face. ‘What else could I do?’
Hassan and Elena trooped in. They were still caught up in their river of talk, spluttering and waving their arms about. They didn’t notice the gate.
We found Cordelia at the flowerbed, watering the new begonias.
‘Hey,’ said Elena. ‘That looks beautiful!’
‘Whah that’s right sweet of you, honey,’ drawled Cordelia in a rich Southern accent. ‘Now whah don’t y’all come and set yourselves down here a spell, while ah fetch us a pitcher of lemonade.’ Cordelia pushed back the gardening hat she’d found in the garage and put her hand on her hip.
‘Make mah day! Make mah day!’ shouted Singo, pointing a gun at the begonias. But nobody could do it like Cordelia. I noticed she was eyeing the cold bottle in Singo’s hand.
I organised glasses of water for everyone, and we sat around the outside table. Singo whispered, ‘neck sweat’, so I drank his glass for him. Elena produced a package of aluminium foil from her school bag. Inside were little quiches and separately wrapped pastries.
‘Sorry they’re a bit squashed,’ she said.
‘Poor things,’ I whispered.
‘They’ll taste just as good,’ said Hassan, gobbling a quiche whole.
‘Mm,’ murmured Cordelia, her mouth full. ‘Amazing – is that apple inside?’
Elena nodded. ‘I helped Mum make them last night. You simmer the apples first, with a cinnamon stick and cloves.’ Cordelia smacked her lips. ‘Delicious. You sure are lucky, honey chile, havin’ a mamma who cooks up a storm, yessirree!’ Elena rummaged in her bag again, then held out a book to Cordelia. It was a thick paperback with a picture of a red-haired girl with plaits leaning on a picket fence. It looked like something your grandmother might have read when she was a girl.
Cordelia’s eyes widened for a moment. Then she quickly looked away, as if she’d seen something slightly disgusting on the cover, like neck sweat or earwax.
Elena flushed. ‘Anne of Green Gables,’ she said in a high voice. ‘It was my favourite last year – the only place I’ve ever seen the name Cordelia. Have you read it?’ She dropped the book on the table. ‘Stupid of me, it’s too young for you, isn’t it? It’s just that, well, I loved it and I thought . . . It’s about this orphan, Anne, who longed to have real parents and a home of her own. She pretended her name was Cordelia instead of plain old Anne. She pretended lots of things . . .’ Elena finished in a choke of embarrassment and did her laugh-snort.
There was silence around the table. Hassan shifted his feet, Singo scratched his head. Elena fidgeted with her bracelet. Then, like a brave little boat, she headed out again into the ocean of quiet. ‘See, Anne thought Cordelia was such a romantic name, and she used it when she made up happy stories for herself . . . I guess she lived in her imagination. And then, in real life everything did turn out pretty much as she’d hoped, and that felt so good . . .’
‘In the real life of the book, you mean,’ said Cordelia. It was almost a sneer. Her eyes were dull and narrowed. I hadn’t seen her look quite like that before. As if she was very old inside, and mean. She shrugged. ‘But yeah, I read it years ago, didn’t finish it. Thanks anyway.’ Cordelia took a last gulp of her drink and walked back across the garden, towards the gate. She left the book lying on the table.
SINGO left for practice soon after that. Elena helped me clear up, rewrapping the leftovers in foil and putting them in the fridge. ‘Cordelia could have that for supper, maybe . . .’ Her voice tapered off uncertainly.
Hassan touched her arm, just lightly. ‘She’ll like that,’ he said, and her frown cleared. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow,’ he said to me, nodding towards the tent.
After they’d gone, I sat do
wn at the table and picked at the bird poo with a stick. It came off easily, dried to brittle white clumps. I flicked it at the lawn.
How good would it be if you could flick off a mood as easily as that? Sitting there, I felt my mind was wrapped in fog. I tried to pick my way through the afternoon. Obviously Cordelia was bored by Elena’s offering. Cordelia preferred real-life stories, she’d told me so, and maybe the book was too young for her. But knowing Cordelia for these past few days, I’d have expected her to be polite about it. After all, Elena was only trying to be friendly.
Remembering Cordelia’s face as she walked off, I felt myself close against her. In my mind Cordelia detached herself, like cutting a string from a balloon. She floated far away, leaving plenty of air between us. For a moment that made me feel less guilty about her, and it was a relief.
But as I walked back inside, the unease came flooding back. Something else was going on, I knew it. Cordelia didn’t really belong to another species. She was just complicated. That’s what Mr Mainprize said about Bobby when he was sprung for giving his friends small shocks with an electric device hidden in the palm of his hand.
Weren’t we all complicated? Look at Rosie last night, slumped over her spag bol, Dad transforming, Agnes bewildered, me turning into a lie-addict. And where were the words to get to the bottom of it all? There was only fog now where there used to be clear roads of thought, roads with words like little cars zipping along, equipped with efficient GPS systems inside making sure you’d arrive at interesting destinations with a good clear view.
FOR English homework that night I had to edit my speech on prejudice and include a few other books besides Gus Attack, like To Kill a Mockingbird, which is a very cool book. Have you heard of it? It’s about an amazing father, Atticus Finch, who is also a lawyer, who defends an innocent black man in the American South of the 1960s.There was terrible prejudice against Negroes, back then. It took Mr Finch a lot of courage to do that, and also INTEGRITY, which means standing up for what you believe in. That’s what I was planning to say in my speech, plus how Atticus thought words were incredibly important and you should use them with care and flair, which he always did when having dinner with his children and teaching them never to judge someone by their colour or personal appearance.
Louis Beside Himself Page 10