by James Roy
'Sorry – it's still here,' Harry said.
The man seemed deflated. 'Darn it! I think I stuffed it up somewhere.'
'I think so too,' Harry replied. 'It doesn't matter, though.'
'I don't get the money, though, do I, since I couldn't make your coin disappear?'
'I guess not.'
The man nodded. 'But I'll tell you what – would you give me that twenty cents to buy your watch back?'
Instinctively, Harry glanced at his wrist. His watch was gone. Even worse, it was now swinging from the man's fingers.
'Hang on – how did you do that?'
'Magic, like I said.' Then, after a moment, he laughed. 'Nah, I'm only screwing around. Here, let me put it back on for you.' Reaching forward, he placed the band around Harry's wrist, and fastened the buckle. 'There you go, sport. So, was that trick worth twenty cents?'
Harry nodded. 'Yeah, I reckon it was. Here you go.' But when he turned his hand over to give the man the coin, it was empty. Both hands, completely empty.
'Looking for this?' the man asked. He was holding up Harry's coin.
'Is that the ...? How did you ...?'
The man winked. 'Thanks, sport,' he said, dropping the coin into his shirt pocket. He patted his chest. 'I guess this is mine now, like we talked about.'
Harry smiled, letting his guard down for a second. 'You're pretty good at that stuff.'
'I'd want to be,' the man replied, with a wicked little smirk.
'Could you teach me how you did that?'
'It might cost you another twenty.'
Harry looked up, saw his train approaching. 'Oh, here's my train. I've got to go.'
The man scratched at his chin, his fingertips deep in his beard. 'I'll tell you what: if you see me around here again, don't be afraid to come and say hello. I'll show you another trick then.'
As the train hissed and came to a stop, Harry turned back. 'What's your name?'
'I'll tell you next time,' the man replied. Then he twisted in his seat and went back to rearranging his bag.
'What do you think you're doing?' Dad asked.
'Just keep looking in my eyes,' Harry ordered.
Dad laughed. 'I can feel what you're doing! Why are you trying to undo my watch band?'
Sighing, Harry slumped back in his chair. 'It's no good. The guy at the station did it heaps better.'
Dad frowned and handed the coin back. 'What guy at the station?'
'At Buckridge, after school. He's just this old guy who's always there. He did exactly the same trick I just tried on you –'
Dad was smirking. 'Yes, exactly the same except for one important detail. He managed to get your watch off without you noticing.'
'Yeah, that's it,' Harry said. 'I honestly didn't even feel him doing it. And I thought he was so useless because he couldn't get the coin out of my hand. But then, once I thought that, he did. He took that coin without me even feeling it.'
Dad nodded slowly. 'Clever. It's a good trick ... when it works.'
'What's a good trick?' Mum asked, coming in from the backyard with a basket full of laundry, fresh off the line.
'Harold reckons he's learnt this amazing trick,' Dad said, wiggling his fingers mysteriously. 'Spooky. Magical.'
'What would be magical would be if you two could fold this washing for me,' Mum said. 'I've got emails to check and invoices to print. Thanks.' Dumping the basket on the kitchen table, she headed into the next room.
'You should let Harold try to pinch your watch,' Dad called after her.
'Dad!'
'What?'
'You've told her what I'm trying to do! Now she'll notice straight away!'
Dad laughed as he tugged a towel from the top of the basket. 'Believe me, Harold, she'd have noticed regardless.'
'Yeah, maybe.' Harry pulled some socks from the pile and began matching them up on the table. 'And I think you're meant to be folding that towel, Dad, not cleaning your glasses on it.'
'I can do both – it's called multi-tasking,' Dad replied, putting his glasses back on. 'So, did you tell Michael you couldn't go to his party?'
'Yes,' Harry muttered. 'He wasn't happy.'
'Sorry, mate.'
'Have you met Frank?'
'Yeah, of course.'
'How many times?'
'A few, I guess. Why?'
'Mum says that he fought in the Vietnam War.'
'That's true.'
'Mum said he can be a bit "prickly". But she doesn't know if that's because of the war or not.'
Dad was struggling to fold a pair of undies. In the end he gave up, and just slapped them down on the table in a bunch. 'They're all prickly, those vets.'
'Vets?'
'Veterans.'
'Come on, Dad – how can you say they're all prickly? Have you met every one of them?'
Dad shook his head. 'No, of course not, but I know what I know. Big chips on a lot of shoulders. They won't talk about it, can't talk about, will only talk about it when it suits them. I worked with a couple of vets one or two years back. I remember this one guy in particular – his name was Mal.'
'And what was wrong with Mal?'
'Apart from being unable to function, you mean? Well, he had a short temper, couldn't carry on a regular conversation, was always convinced that everyone had it in for him. If you so much as touched his coffee mug he'd march around the office demanding to know who'd been using his stuff, and why was it always his gear that was being used, that sort of thing. It gets so exhausting to work with. He lasted about a year.'
'Where did he go?'
'I don't know, to be honest. He was gradually losing it. He'd storm out of meetings or have these huge, pointless fights with anyone. Anyone at all. I remember one day he reduced a work-experience kid to tears because she picked up his jacket from the floor and hung it on the coat hook. It'd just fallen off the back of his chair, so she thought she was helping. But no, not as far as Mal was concerned. He started shouting at her and accused her of trying to steal his wallet or something. Then late one afternoon I was walking through the car park and I saw him sitting in the driver's seat, and he was crying.'
'Crying?'
'Sobbing. Like a baby. So I went over and tapped on the window to see if he was all right.'
'What did he say?'
Dad chuckled. 'I don't think I can repeat it, Harold. He said it was none of my business, who did I think I was, I should leave him alone, how could I even begin to understand what he'd been through, I wasn't even there, all that stuff, on and on and on. In the end I just told him that I thought he should get help. Then I walked to my car and came home. I never saw him again. He resigned by email the next day.'
'So you don't even know if he got help in the end?'
Dad shook his head. 'Not a clue. I hope he did. I mean, no one wants to live their life like that, do they? And it's not even anger – it's just ... just ... I don't know what you'd call it.'
'Prickly,' Harry said.
'Yeah, something like that.'
Mum had come to the kitchen doorway, and was waiting for Dad to finish his story. He looked up at her and smiled. 'What brings thee hither, m'lady?'
'The holiday's booked,' she said, handing him a printed page. 'The Leithmoor Bed and Breakfast. Looks all right, huh?'
Dad read the page, then passed it on to Harry. 'Yeah, looks good.'
'This says they've got alpacas,' Harry said. 'What are they – like, sheep?'
'More like llamas,' Mum said.
'In that case I'm going to call mine Dalai,' Dad announced proudly.
Mum shook her head, very slowly. 'You are an idiot, David, honest to God.'
Dad's eyes met Harry's, and he raised his eyebrows in a quick flicker. 'Your mum's so hot, Harold.'
Six
It was almost a year since Joel died. His bedroom was still his bedroom. Mum would vacuum it whenever she cleaned the rest of the house, but it was mostly the same as he'd left it. The model cars were still in the glass cabin
et under the window, and the model planes still hung from the ceiling, dust gathering like ash on their wings. The motor-racing posters remained on the walls. The PlayStation was still plugged in, although Harry had taken the games, because Joel had told him that after he was gone Harry could have the lot. It took a while to convince Mum of that, but it was true. It was especially hard to convince Mum that Joel had talked at all about what should happen after he died.
The Ferrari quilt cover was still on the bed, with its matching pillow case, and the prancing horse flag hung on the wall above the pillow. Plus there was the cap that the Holden Racing Team driver signed for him, when he came to visit the sick kids in hospital.
It was pretty crowded in Joel's room, but there was an empty space on the floor at the pillow end of his bed. That was where the oxygen cylinder and breathing-mask machine had been. After Joel died, they'd had to be returned to the hospital for someone else to use.
Mum really needed an office. Harry wasn't sure how long she could go on running an international eBay business from a crowded desk in the living room. But that was what she did, and Harry watched it all with a lump high in his chest that wouldn't go away.
Michael and Harry slowly crossed the oval to where Ricky was sitting under a tree chatting with his latest girlfriends. Sometimes it was like that – he'd get sidetracked by some of the girls, and that would be him gone for the day. They wanted to kick the footy with him, which was unlikely to happen now that girls were involved. But they'd figured it was worth a try.
As they walked, Michael bounced his football, with no more than a simple flick of the wrist making it bounce back into his hands.
'I've got a theory,' Harry said.
'Yeah? About what?'
'About this trip I have to go on with my parents. Mum can't bear to leave me behind.'
'I told you, she wouldn't have to. Ricky's coming to stay over, and you can as well. We'd have the best time. We can watch movies, eat crappy food, drink Coke until it comes out our noses. And my mum and dad will be there, somewhere. So you wouldn't be alone.'
'It's not the alone thing she's worried about,' Harry replied. 'It's more about her not being there.'
Michael glanced at Harry and frowned. The ball still bounced up into his hands, even when he wasn't paying attention. It was as if it was tied to a length of elastic. 'What are you talking about, her not being there? How old are you again? Four? Five?'
Harry really didn't want to have to explain it to him, so he tried to be subtle instead. 'Remember when Joel went into hospital that last time? He wasn't alone then, was he?'
He saw Michael swallow. Perhaps he was beginning to understand. 'No, he was with you.'
'Exactly. Being looked after.'
Michael bounced the ball again, caught it, then handballed it to Harry. 'I get you,' he said. 'Your mum's got issues.'
'You could say that. Big ones.'
Even when he was well, Joel had had to take a lot of medicine. 'Pills and potions,' Mum called them. His life was full of pills and potions, and visits to his doctors.
Every few months he'd have to go to hospital for a 'tune-up', as they called it. Joel thought that was a pretty funny name. He called his doctor's appointments 'pit stops', and each of his tune-ups was a 'ten-thousand-k service'. That was when they'd stick a bent needle into the rubber port that lived just under the skin of his chest, so he could be given strong antibiotics three times a day for a couple of weeks. One time Harry had watched Katie put the needle in. Joel bit his lip, and his closed eyes flickered briefly as the point was pushed down.
'Does it hurt?' Harry asked him.
'Only a bit,' he said, wincing. 'I'm trying not to cough.'
But even when he was at home there were vitamins and minerals, antibiotics, capsules, drops, stuff to make his pancreas work properly. He had to take pills and potions before he went to school, before he went to bed, before he ate his meals. And he had to have a nebuliser mask every night, right before he put on his nose-mask and switched on the breathing machine that helped him sleep through the night. Sometimes he forgot. Sometimes he needed someone to help him remember.
And that was the problem.
The man was at Buckridge station again the following morning. He was sitting bolt upright on the same bench as usual, eating a sausage roll from an oil-patchy paper bag.
'Hey,' Harry said, perching on the other end of the bench.
'Gidday, sport.'
'I'm Harry.'
'I'm guessing that's short for Harold?'
'No, I'm actually Harry. My dad does call me Harold sometimes, but it's just what he calls me.'
'I'm Doug. Short for Douglas.'
'Cool,' Harry said. 'Doug what?'
'Just Doug.'
'Fair enough. Hey, you know that trick you showed me? I tried it on my dad.'
'Yeah? And did it work?'
Harry shook his head slowly. 'Nope, not even close. It was heaps hard to do. Where did you learn to do tricks like that, anyway?'
Doug looked to his right, along the tracks, then back the other way, past Harry, at a young woman posting money into the ticket machine. 'It was a long time ago, back in the seventies,' he replied at last.
'Who taught you?'
It was as if Doug's eyes were boring a hole straight through him. 'Who taught me? No one taught me.'
'Someone must have.'
'Couldn't I have taught myself?'
It was a fair point, Harry decided. 'I guess. I just assumed that –'
'Don't ever assume.'
'Yeah, you're right.' Harry glanced at his watch, and was slightly relieved to see that it was still on his arm. 'Well, I've got to get to school. I'll see you later, Doug.'
'All right. See you this afternoon, Harry.'
'Yeah, probably.'
'How do we know that the beaker contains oxygen?' Mr Graves asked, casting his eye over the class. Back and forth he scanned, waiting for someone – anyone – to answer. 'Does anyone know?'
'Um ... because it's got air in it?' Tina Yee replied, a little uncertainly. 'And there's oxygen in air?'
'And how do you know the beaker has air in it?'
Now Tina was stumped. Her mouth was going like a goldfish. 'I don't, really. I kind of assumed, I guess.'
'Ah, you kind of assumed.' Mr Graves nodded. 'Please don't do that, guys. Science isn't made up of assumptions, at least not until we can base those assumptions on something else, such as ... what? Anyone at all?'
'Rules?' Lloyd Bendon suggested.
'Close, Lloyd, but not quite. What is science's currency? Does anyone know? Yes, Dean?'
'Evidence,' Dean Talbot replied.
'That's right – evidence. Curiosity coupled with evidence leads to facts, and that's what science is all about. Don't assume.'
'That's the second time I've heard that today,' Harry told Michael.
'You're assuming I care,' Michael said, and Harry made a mental note to never tell his friend anything ever again.
That afternoon Doug wasn't at the station. Harry sat on his bench anyway. The oil-spotted paper bag was on the ground beneath the bench, and there was a dirty footprint half across it. He picked up the bag and dropped it in the bin.
Seven
Harry was putting the dinner plates in the dishwasher, while Mum and Dad were both in the living room, Dad in his armchair, Mum at her desk in the corner.
'Hey, Harold, listen to this,' Dad called out, amusement brightening his voice.
'Yeah, what?' Harry replied, holding a couple of glasses as he went to the doorway.
'It's a movie review in the paper. I love the way this guy reviews movies, especially the ones he hates. Listen to this – he says –'
'David.' Mum said it in a low, distracted voice. It was a warning noise, like a dog growling behind a gate.
'What?'
'I'm working.'
'Oh, for Pete's ...' Dad stopped. The smile was gone from his face, all the joy gone from the funny moment he was abo
ut to share. 'What are you doing anyway, Sandy?'
Her jaw was set firm, and her eyes hadn't left the screen. 'I told you, I'm working.'
'Doing what?'
Finally she turned her head to look at him, straight and hard. Her voice was icy. 'My job, David, that's what. Invoices, emails, inventory lists, all that stuff I do for my business.'
'Yes, I know, but do you need complete silence to do it?'
'I'm just trying to concentrate.'
Dad sighed. 'And I'm just trying to ... You know what, Sandy? You need your own space.'
She shook her head. 'I've already got my own space, David.'
'No, you need a space where you can close the door. I think it's time.'
'No. No, it's not time.'
Dad stood up and threw his newspaper onto the coffee table. 'It's just a room, Sandy. It's not him.'
Mum was still shaking her head. 'But it represents him. You might be ready, David, but I'm not, so if that makes me a bad person ...'
'Does it make me a bad person that I am ready?' Dad picked his paper up once more and folded it over. 'I'm going to go and watch the telly in the bedroom,' he said. 'Maybe one day we'll be able to watch the one out here without having to use bloody headphones.'
Without saying anything, Harry went back into the kitchen to talk to Daisy. It was safer out there.
Mrs Ransome leaned over Harry's shoulder, tipped her head back and peered through her narrow reading glasses at the computer screen. 'That's the second time this week I've busted you,' she said.
'I'm sorry? Busted me doing what?'
'Trying to learn something. What's the big interest in Vietnam anyway? Are you going over for a holiday?'
'No.'
She sniffed. 'It wouldn't have surprised me if you were. It's all trendy now, which is a big turnaround.'
'From what?'
'Well, a few years ago it was the one place no one wanted to go, because of the war. I remember my family sitting around watching them pulling birthdates out of a big barrel on TV. And if you were male and twenty and your birthday came out, it meant you'd been drafted. I mean, it didn't really affect me – I was only twelve, and my brother was fifteen – but I remember my cousin was the right age, and we used to wait for his birthday to come up.'