by James Roy
'Is that oxygen even on?' Harry had asked, checking that the tube was actually in Joel's nostrils. 'Make sure it's in there properly.'
'It's fine,' Joel answered, adjusting the tube's positioning with a stubby finger. 'But I don't know ... if I want a shower any more.'
'We'll be quick,' Harry had said. 'Katie's right – you will feel better.'
He'd got the shower temperature just right, then helped Joel get his undies off. If he was embarrassed, he didn't show it.
'Do you want to wash your hair as well?' Harry had asked, and Joel had just nodded and stuck his head under the stream of water. It took too much effort to breathe, let alone answer.
That had been the moment when Harry finally, truly knew that his little brother was going to die. That all the medications in the cabinet at home, all the clinic visits, the two-week stays in hospital, all of it hadn't saved his life, only prolonged it.
'You drowning in there, Harold?' Dad asked, knocking on the bathroom door. The sound of his voice jolted Harry out of his thoughts. He'd been holding the shower head for his brother, but suddenly he was back in the bathroom at home, alone.
'It's OK, I'm getting out,' he said. 'I was a bit muddy, that's all.'
'Yeah, well, Sydney Water just called – Warragamba Dam's about to run out.' He heard Dad snort at his own joke.
That was his dad.
'Seriously, though, we're on water restrictions, mate. Get on with it, hey?'
He told his parents about the caving experience in the kitchen, over a mug of hot chocolate, while his dog Daisy curled up on his feet. He got the distinct impression that they thought he was exaggerating, just to make the whole thing seem more dramatic.
'I'm sure they wouldn't have put any of the kids in danger,' Mum said. 'Certainly not on purpose.'
'That's right – schools these days have serious rules about that kind of thing,' Dad said, his glasses fogging up as he sipped his tea. 'Still, it sounds pretty frightening.'
'It was so frightening,' Harry said. 'Honestly, I've never been so scared.'
'Oh, I hear you, Harold,' Dad agreed. 'You'd never get me crawling into one of those things.'
'Really?'
Dad shuddered and put down his cup. 'Absolutely not! Tight spaces creep me out. There wouldn't even have to be water to crawl through. Just ... just any tight spot at all. When I was at uni I went out for a few days with a girl who drove a Mini. In the end I had to break up with her because of her car.'
Mum rolled her eyes and shook her head. 'Idiot.'
'Is that true?' Harry asked.
Dad stared at him, his face completely straight. 'No. But I do hate confined spaces. I like my feet firmly on top of the soil, not deep beneath it.'
'I'm just like you, then.'
'Apparently. I'm glad you're OK, Harold. And I think we've each learned a valuable lesson from this.'
'Like what?'
Dad's eyes narrowed as he had a bit of a think. 'Well, that sometimes taking your helmet off is safer than leaving it on, for a start.' Satisfied with that answer, he smiled and drank some more tea.
Mum was frowning at him. 'That's it, David? That's the lesson you think our son should have gleaned from this terrifying ordeal?'
He put his cup back down and raised one finger, sternly. 'Not just that. Additionally, don't climb into holes smaller than you are, especially when they're filled with water. That's a very useful thing to remember.'
Harry shook his head. 'OK, if that's my lesson from all this, what's yours?'
'Oh, I didn't really learn anything. I just said that to make you feel better.' Dad chuckled. 'Well, I've got a breakfast meeting in the morning, so I'm off to bed. I'm glad you enjoyed the abseiling at least, Mr Argonaut.'
'Terranaut, actually.'
'Is it?'
'I believe so.'
Dad raised his eyebrows. 'Oh. Well then ...'
'Indeed.' Mum watched Dad go, her eyelids heavy. She was so convincing – it was as if she really did think he was an idiot.
They were so different, those two. Mum was stressed a lot, especially after Joel got really sick. Dad was stressed by Joel's illness as well, but somehow he managed to keep joking. It was some kind of gift, that ability to lighten the mood. Except sometimes it seemed as if Mum didn't want her mood lightened.
'You all right?' Mum was asking.
'What? Oh, yeah, I'm fine.'
'I'm glad you're OK, Harry.'
'I wasn't joking before. It really was scary, Mum.'
'I'm sure.'
'I thought I was going to ... Never mind.'
'It's all right, Harry. You're not Joel.'
'I know ...'
'You'll never be Joel.'
'I thought I was going to meet him. You know ...'
'You will, one day. But not yet.'
It was like she'd been reading his thoughts. She could do that.
Dad had been shopping. Now he stood in the doorway to Harry's room and held out a long paper tube like a relay baton.
'What is it?' Harry asked. 'Is it a poster?'
Dad shrugged. 'Open it and have a look.'
Harry slipped the rubber band off and flattened out the poster. It was a good one, made up of a whole bunch of smaller pictures of Ford V8 supercars, with Gordon Howard's bright yellow beast right in the middle, front wheel lifted as it hit the apex of the fast left-hander at Sandown.
'That's cool, Dad. Thanks.'
'Got a spot for it?'
'Yeah, I've got a good place over there,' he said, pointing at a bare expanse on his wardrobe door.
Dad nodded. 'Yeah, good choice, Harold. Are you going to put it up now?'
'I can't. I don't have any Blu Tack.'
'Hang on – your mum'll have some. Sandy,' Dad called. 'Hey, you got any Blu Tack?'
Mum's reply drifted back from the living room.
'What did she say?' Harry asked.
'She said there's some in Joel's room. She's coming to get it.'
Harry stood up. 'I can get it – I know where he kept it.'
'Why don't you let her get it, mate?'
'But I know where it –'
Dad's answer was firm, and it made Harry stop in his tracks. 'No, Harry. Let her get it.'
Mum's footsteps were in the hallway, and were followed by the sound of Joel's bedroom door being opened. Then Mum was there, beside Dad, tossing Harry a strip of Blu Tack.
'Mum, Dad got me a new Ford poster.'
'Nice,' she said, but she was already heading back down the hall.
Dad bit his bottom lip for a moment. 'So, you right to put that up?'
'Yeah, I'll be fine.'
Three
Harry's Great-uncle Frank was getting married. Again, Mum announced as she read the email. She rolled her eyes and sighed. 'It's his fourth time, for crying out loud. When will he realise that maybe he's not perfect either? I love him to bits, but ... Oh, it makes me a bit sad, really.'
'Well, Sandy, you can't begrudge him happiness,' Dad said, but there was a good chance he wasn't paying that much attention, since he was stuck well into a fairly thick book.
Mum shook her head sadly. 'It's not him I'm sad for, David. Oh, that poor girl.'
Now he looked up. 'Girl? Girl? Come on, Sandy, she'd hardly be a girl! Frank's what – sixty-something? So she'd have to be –'
'Mid-forties, by the look of her,' Mum said.
'Oh, are there pictures? Excellent!' Dad slapped his book shut and practically bounded across the room. Then he crouched down behind Mum's chair, tipping his head back to read through the bottom half of his bifocals.
'David, must you read over my shoulder?'
'Sorry, but I had to see. Oh, wow, she's not bad! Go Uncle Frank!'
Harry couldn't resist it any more. He had to see what the fuss was about, so he put down his pen, left his homework and went to check out this mystery woman. From her basket in the corner, Daisy lifted her head, saw there was no food involved, and went back to sleep.
In the photo, Great-uncle Frank's girlfriend was standing beside a car at a lookout somewhere, with coastline behind her. She had longish dark curly hair, and sad eyes. But she was smiling. Harry thought she looked nice. Like she had plenty to think about.
'What do you reckon, Harold?' Dad asked.
'She's all right, I guess. Not as pretty as you, though, Mum.'
'Or as old,' Mum replied. 'I wonder how he met her? Maybe he was her driving instructor.'
'Oh, come on! Give her a break – she's not all that young,' said Dad.
Mum looked at Dad, and held him in her glare for a long moment. 'David. Are you, in fact, serious?'
Dad shrugged. 'What?'
Mum's reply was to shake her head and begin typing her reply, while Dad headed back to the couch and his book.
'What's her name?' Harry asked.
'Greta,' said Mum, still tapping away. 'And apparently he's never been happier.'
'Good for him.' Dad made a fist and punched the air in slow motion. 'Go, Frank, you old fox!'
'David. Enough.'
'I'm just delighted for him.'
'Yes, well my mother would be outraged if she was still alive, bless her sainted soul,' Mum replied. 'Her little brother getting remarried to someone who could in fact be his daughter. What happened to the last one again?'
'She went running back to her ex-husband in Hobart, remember?'
'Oh, that's right. He's like Henry the Eighth,' Mum muttered. 'I've told him that we'll happily come, by the way.'
'For the beheading?'
'No, just the wedding.'
'Fair enough. When is it?'
'Four weeks.'
'Aha,' said Dad. 'I knew it – it's a shotgun wedding. She's pregnant.'
'Do you have to be so crass, David?'
'Just stating facts, dear.'
'Do we all have to go?' Harry asked. 'I don't want to go to the wedding of some old relative I've never even –'
'Yes, all of us,' said Mum, cutting him off.
'Any idea where this wondrous event will be?' Dad asked.
'Out on the farm, apparently.'
'You'd better find out what they want for a gift. Maybe some frankincense.'
Mum sniffed. 'Or maybe a dummy for her.'
Harry could have predicted Dad's response before he even opened his mouth to say it. 'She's already got a dummy. It's called Frank.'
Boom boom, thought Harry.
'What's that, Harry?'
'What's what?'
'You sighed. Just then. It was a big sigh.'
'Did I? I didn't mean to.'
'So, would you like me to pass on a message to Frank?' Mum's fingers were hovering above the keyboard, ready to type.
Harry shook his head. 'Not really. Congratulations, maybe? Oh, and may I please be excused from the wedding?'
'The congratulations part is already done,' she said, clicking on the Send button.
Sometimes Harry still liked to be tucked in. It wasn't something he ever talked about. Michael and Ricky were good friends, but what they'd have done with that kind of information could end their friendship, permanently. So Harry kept that secret to himself.
It wasn't even every night, and he wasn't prone to crying himself to sleep if he missed out. It was just that sometimes, when he was in bed and trying to go to sleep, he'd hear Mum coming along the hallway from her room, and he'd call out. That was when she'd stop in the doorway, then come to tuck him in.
She seemed to enjoy pulling up his blanket, high under his chin, and tucking it around his shoulders. There was something about the soft smile that crossed her face while she did it, and the slight tilt of her head. And yes, Harry liked it too. As long as his friends didn't ever find out.
Mum leaned down to kiss his forehead. A few strands of her hair tickled his cheek, and with a soft puff of breath he blew them away.
'So, tell me about Frank,' he said.
Mum sat on the edge of the bed. 'What do you want to know?'
'Whatever. Have I even met him?'
She shook her head. 'Not really. Once, when you were about three, I think.'
'He didn't come to Joel's funeral, did he?'
'No, he was on a cruise at the time. He sent a huge bunch of flowers, though.'
'That was nice.'
'Yeah, he's a good man. He was my favourite uncle when I was a little girl. He always had motorbikes, and I'd sit on the tank in front of him, and he'd drive me around the back streets of Toowoomba, where we were all living at the time. I mean, he seemed lovely to me back then, but my parents used to talk about how much he'd changed after he came back from the Vietnam War. He got funny about it. Still is, a bit.'
'The war was what – forty years ago?'
While Mum was doing the maths in her head, a truck growled by on the street. It was probably the little tip-truck from three doors down. That guy was always coming home late. And leaving early.
'Yeah, about thirty-five, forty years. Before Frank's fiancee was out of nappies,' Mum added, smiling wryly.
'And he's still funny about it?'
'Well, I don't know if it's that exactly that makes him the way he is – I don't really remember what he was like before he went off to fight – but I do know that he can be a bit hard to get along with sometimes. Stand-offish. A bit prickly, I guess.'
'But we're going to see him get married to this ... what was her name again?'
'Greta. Well, that's the plan, yes.'
'Did we go to his last wedding?'
'No, he married Margaret in Bali, I think. That was a bit of a surprise for everyone. So I don't want to miss this one.'
Harry sighed. 'Why do I have to come?'
'Because it's family, Harry. And family's important.'
'Even family I hardly know? Extended family?'
'Even them. It's a good chance to get to know them.'
He figured it was time to drop the subject, for now. 'What sort of farm does he have?'
'Farm?' Mum chuckled. 'He calls it a farm, but I think it's more like a big rectangle of bush and dry grass with a heap of kangaroos wandering around on it. And snakes.'
'That bit sounds mad.'
'Totally. I think that when he bought it he had these grand ideas of farming organic olives or macadamias or something. As far as I know it's still roos and snakes.' Mum kissed Harry's forehead again and stood up. 'Are you OK?'
'Yeah, I'm fine,' Harry replied, maybe a little too forcefully, judging by the way it made her wince slightly. 'Why do you keep asking?'
'I'm just checking, that's all. Being a mum.' She flicked off the lamp beside his bed. 'Night, Harry.'
'Night, Mum.'
He was glad to roll over and search for sleep, with the sound of the night in his ears. These days it was almost always a relief to close his eyes and get away.
Houses slipped by the train window. There was no horizon to be seen – just houses. The backs of houses, and their yards. Barbecues, and trampolines, cubby-houses and swing-sets, overgrown vegetable patches, the occasional pool. Backyards full of family stuff.
Married in four weeks. That was very fast. And this Greta looked like she was in her forties. As the train took him towards school, Harry thought about that morning's conversation. Dad had developed a couple of theories overnight, theories about the suddenness of the wedding. Sometimes Harry wondered what his father even needed a brain for, if that was the kind of thing he wasted his nights thinking about.
'Definitely pregnant,' he'd said.
'Come on, David, you can't assume that,' Mum had replied, a little distracted by her emails.
'I'm not assuming – I know. Why else would it happen so fast? Either that or she wants to be pregnant, and there's no time to waste.'
'Maybe they're just in love.'
'Oh, come on, Sandy, don't be naive! Someone's pregnant, that's for sure, and I bet it's not Frank.'
'Yeah, and someone's going to be late for their breakfast meeting if they don't get moving, and I bet
it's not me. Plus I've got to get through all these overnight emails from the US, so if you could ... like ...'
'Go? Sure.' He kissed Mum on the top of her head. 'But don't act all surprised when you find out that this Gretchen –'
'Greta.'
'– sorry, this Greta girl is heavy with child.'
'Idiot,' Mum muttered, and on this occasion Harry was tempted to agree with her.
'You're an unusual boy, Harry,' Mrs Ransome said, as he handed her a pile of books to check out.
'Am I?' He glanced towards the door of the library. Michael and Ricky would be there soon, ready for a kick around.
'A little, yes.'
So, she thought he was unusual. Maybe it was the books he'd chosen. A book about the Industrial Revolution for a history assignment, and a novel full of dwarves and elves, just because he'd always thought that he really should give fantasy a decent go. Nothing too weird or peculiar there. Plus a book about the Vietnam War. Preliminary wedding research, he'd decided. If he had to go along, he was determined to be prepared.
'Why am I unusual?' he asked.
'Because you actually borrow books.' She nodded towards some of the other boys, gathered around the computers like flies on a cupcake. 'They only come in here at lunchtime to surf the net and play games. I'd be surprised if half of them even knew what an apostrophe looked like. What are you reading here, anyway?' She looked at the front covers, one at a time. 'An eclectic mix, Harry. War, industry and magic. Interesting. How very William Gibson of you.'
'Well, like you say, I'm unusual,' Harry replied, making a mental note to find out who William Gibson was, just as soon as possible.
Most afternoons the train came through about ten minutes after Harry had reached the platform. There were a few other kids from his school standing or sitting around, but he wasn't friends with any of them. He did much of his reading on Platform Two of Buckridge station.
There were a lot of pictures in the book about the Vietnam War, most in black-and-white, but some in colour, with a kind of washed-out yellow-green tint to them.
'What'cha got there?' a gruff voice asked.