by Stephen Orr
Someone pushed Charlie and he dropped his roll. He ran at the other boy, dragged him onto the ground, stood and placed his foot on his stomach. Then the other boy grabbed his leg and pulled him over.
They wrestled.
Charlie gathered his lunch and tried a final karate kick on the boy as he stood.
William felt completely empty. This wasn’t his world, after all. His world was full of people he didn’t like, who turned on him, daily, drawing blood, saying things to make him remember his unhappiness. His world was an hour wasted trying to requisition stationery he couldn’t properly justify. His world was full of people who walked past him, but pretended to notice other things. Then there were the complaining parents he couldn’t understand, the memos about lights left on and food left too long in the fridge. A world full of Post-it notes raining down on him, reminding him to cook, write, submit, clean, service and deliver.
‘You idiot,’ he whispered, watching the boys, feeling the walls of Lindisfarne closing in around him.
He noticed that the tall, thoughtful, stand-alone boy looked happy. It was his choice—to be there, in the thick of it, but apart from the others.
Charlie looked up, took a moment and then waved to him. He waved back. Charlie picked up his shoes and ran up the hill to him. ‘You’re back?’
‘I just came to see Pete.’
They sat together. Charlie spread his feet on the grass. He stretched out his legs and William could see his long, arching bones. His knees were knobbly, still, and William watched as he wiped a fresh cut on his leg.
‘Having fun?’ he asked.
‘Not really.’
‘Sometimes you actually do kids’ stuff?’
Charlie shrugged. ‘It’s killing time. What are my options? This place is so boring.’
William looked into his eyes. He noticed his cheeks, flushed, and a small, brown freckle he hadn’t noticed before. ‘Boring, but necessary,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘That becomes evident … later. Another four years, then you can start living.’
‘Haven’t I started already?’
‘Perhaps.’
William turned and whispered to him. ‘There are these wonderful things called girls.’
‘Wonderful?’
‘You’ll find yourself staring at them, hanging around them, trying to be funny.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘And then you’ll get in a shit-hot band, make a record and earn millions.’
‘I’ll just join you guys.’
‘We’re just a bunch of old geriatrics. But you …’
Charlie could see a change in his teacher: a stillness, a resignation that had replaced words with smiles, anger with acceptance. But this must have been good, because surely this man couldn’t change? If he could, or did, then everything he’d come to sense and understand would mean nothing. Life would just be discount beans. He smiled and tried to reanimate his best friend. ‘I’ll be the front man, and you geris can be my backing band.’
William stood. ‘And I’m sure you’ll be shit-hot.’
‘Where you going?’
‘Home.’
Charlie stood beside him. ‘I’s gonna say, when you had your next jam, is it okay if I came along?’
William hesitated. ‘There’s nothing organised yet. But I’ll let you know.’
Charlie took a few moments and stared at his favourite teacher. ‘Mr Dutton, you okay?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Did you ask Mr Ordon about getting your job back?’
William almost laughed. ‘He said they’ll have to wait and see.’
‘Maybe next year?’
‘Maybe. See y’ round, Charlie Price.’
‘Mr Dutton … sir.’
They waited, silently, as boys often did, because there was so little, really, that needed to be said.
‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ William said. He took a set of strings from his pocket and handed them to the boy. ‘Fender. Phosphor bronze. Medium gauge.’
Charlie smiled and took them. ‘Where did you get them?’
William indicated the music suite. ‘Dickhead’s office.’
‘Back to your game, please, Mr Price,’ a deep voice said.
William looked up to see John Mosby standing on a rise with his arms crossed. ‘Mr Dutton was just on his way, weren’t you?’
Three weeks went by and Charlie hadn’t heard from him. So, one cool Saturday morning he went to his teacher’s house and knocked on the door.
William answered. ‘Charlie?’
‘G’day … I hadn’t heard from you.’
‘I’ve been busy.’
‘You had a practice yet?’
‘No.’
William bowed his head. He saw that the cracks in the concrete path around the house had widened. Weeds were already coming up. He looked at Charlie and he was still smiling, waiting. ‘Can I come in?’ he asked.
William looked at a fresh scar on the boy’s cheek. He saw that his eyes were moist, and clear, and there was food dried on his chin.
Acknowledgements
‘Dr Singh’s Despair’ (Southerly 68/1, August 2008)
‘The Shot-put’ (Meanjin, December 2008)
‘Guarding the Pageant’ (Small City Tales of Strangeness and Beauty, Wakefield Press anthology, February 2009)
‘The Confirmation’ (Quadrant, September 2009)
Riverland Stories (‘The Photographer’s Son’, ‘The Barmera Drive-in’, ‘The Pyap School’, ‘The Shack’). Published by the National Year of Reading 2012.
‘The Photographer’s Son’ (Quadrant, November 2013)
‘Datsunland’ (Griffith Review 54, Novella Edition ‘Earthly Delights’, November 2016)
‘The Shack’ (Southerly 76/2, Long Paddock, January 2017)
Thanks to Alex Frayne for the cover image, Liz Nicholson for the cover design, as well as Michael Bollen, Michael Deves, Emily Hart and Ayesha Aggarwal at Wakefield Press.
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