He leans in close, sniffs and looks at me as if he needs approval.
‘It’s organic, free-range and boneless,’ Charlotte says.
‘Eat it, boy,’ I add.
Buster gently takes it in his mouth and carries it away. He trots up to the high ground where he’ll have a good view of anyone approaching to steal his treat.
‘Master of the Universe,’ I say.
Charlotte leans back on her towel and reaches for my hand. I lie beside her and we both stare at a cloud floating in front of the sun.
‘I’ve told you my story,’ she says. ‘Now it’s your turn.’
I don’t know what to say, where to begin.
‘What makes you happy?’ Charlotte asks.
‘This does,’ I answer.
‘You know what I mean.’ She rests my hand on her stomach. Every fibre in my body pings at the thought of her skin through the thin fabric.
‘Tell me a positive story,’ she adds.
I think for a minute, before beginning in a quiet voice. ‘I was thirteen years old and my parents weren’t home.’
‘That’s a good start,’ she says.
‘Dad left his Holden in the driveway,’ I continue. ‘Unlocked, as always.’
‘You didn’t,’ she says.
‘Are you going to interrupt every minute?’
Charlotte makes an elaborate gesture of zipping her mouth.
‘I sat in the driver’s seat and played music on the stereo. It was an old car, but years earlier Dad had replaced the vinyl seats with real leather. Mum was pretty angry. She said, “Leather in the car and canvas in the house” because for years all we had were camping chairs in the living room.’ I laugh to myself. ‘Me and Dad would take the chairs outside and sit in the garden looking at the stars. We’d stay there for hours. Mum would bring her beanbag out and sit between us.’
Charlotte clears her throat to bring me back to the story.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Mum and Dad came home drunk, as usual, after the races. Dad opened the passenger door and hopped in. He didn’t say anything, just sat there rubbing his hands along the leather. Mum yelled from the front door that there was nothing in the fridge to cook for dinner. Dad looked at me and smiled. So I started the car, put it in gear and steered out of the driveway. The fish shop was only a few blocks. I knew the way.’
Charlotte squeezes my hand. ‘He trusted you.’
‘Maybe.’ I shrug. ‘Or he was too drunk to care.’
She leans up on one elbow, bites her lip and looks at me with an intensity that goes beyond the story.
‘No, Luke. He trusted you.’
Buster and I walk Charlotte to her front gate.
‘I’d invite you in,’ she says, ‘but I reckon Mum’s home and …’ She looks at Buster.
‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘I should be getting him back anyway.’
Charlotte leans close and kisses me quickly then drops to her haunches and gives Buster a big hug. ‘Your breath smells of meat,’ she says.
He responds by licking her on the cheek.
‘That’s what you get for giving away food,’ I say.
‘There’s more where that came from.’ She begins walking away, then turns. ‘Are you coming to the recital tonight?’
‘The what?’
‘At the school hall. Everyone from year twelve is doing their exam pieces. I’m playing as well.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
She shuffles from one foot to the other. ‘I don’t want to do it. My father talked Pakula into letting me perform.’ She scoffs. ‘Pakula couldn’t say no, not after Dad’s donation. Ms Gough, the music teacher, is really pissed off.’
‘I’ll be there,’ I say.
‘So will my parents.’ She walks up the winding driveway.
I watch until she reaches the door, then Buster and I turn and head home. He stops and sniffs every few metres, but always catches up when I get too far ahead. He celebrates his day by cocking a leg on a hydrangea.
We walk home past Frank’s Corner Store. It’s been boarded up for years, ever since Frank retired and moved to the central coast. But in the last week, I’ve noticed a middle-aged couple painting the facade and loading the shelves with stock. It means Mum and I won’t have to cross the highway to get bread and milk.
I stand under the awning and admire the lurid purple paint job. The windows are trimmed with vibrant yellow.
A lady brings out a bowl of water for Buster. She doesn’t seem to mind me standing around, taking up space on her footpath.
‘In Vietnam, dogs are very popular,’ she says. ‘It brings good fortune when a dog walks into the house. What’s his name?’
‘Buster,’ I answer.
She puts her hand to her mouth.
‘He’s not mine,’ I add. ‘Just a stray.’
Buster whines.
‘He heard that.’ The woman smiles.
She looks down the street, perhaps hoping for customers.
‘Is your name Frank?’ I joke. The real Frank was a cranky old stronzo.
She laughs. ‘Mrs Tran,’ she says. ‘Betty.’
‘That doesn’t sound Vietnamese,’ I say.
‘I’m from Sydney,’ she says. ‘My father moved to Australia forty years ago. He met my mum and they celebrated by having me.’
Buster slurps the last of the water and Mrs Tran picks up the bowl and walks inside. She returns with another full bowl and hands me a brown paper bag. It contains a sausage roll. I look at her.
‘Think of it as an opening day gift,’ she says.
I carefully break the sausage roll in half and offer Buster the treat.
‘We both say thanks,’ I smile. ‘How come you moved up here?’
She rolls her eyes. ‘Sydney.’ Her tone of voice tells me she couldn’t wait to leave.
‘It’s an interesting paint job,’ I say, pointing at the shop.
‘Purple is very calming. Yellow signifies enlightenment,’ she says.
I look at Buster’s messy fur. ‘What does dirty brown mean?’
Betty laughs and reaches down to pat Buster who licks her hand. ‘Brown is the earth. Stable. Trustworthy.’
‘You hear that, boy? We trust you.’
Buster takes a long slurp of water to acknowledge his new-found aura.
11
I find a pair of Dad’s black trousers at the bottom of the wardrobe and iron a collared shirt before Mum gets home. Canvas shoes are my only choice.
On the kitchen table, I leave a note full of lies involving Blake and hamburgers in town.
As I arrive at the school hall, lights are flashing to alert people to take their seats. Someone really should patrol the exit doors for people like me. I slink into the back row. Charlotte’s parents sit in the front between Mr Pakula and Ms Gough. Her dad is dressed in a suit and Charlotte’s mum wears a cream off-the-shoulder satin dress that probably cost as much as Mum’s entire wardrobe.
The lights dim and the curtains open to reveal Charlotte sitting at the school piano in a shimmering black dress with a red sash around her waist. Someone wolf-whistles from the middle section. Mr Pakula shifts awkwardly in his chair.
Charlotte ignores everyone and begins playing. I close my eyes so I’m not focused on Charlotte, just the music. It begins slowly with a tinker of high notes, like water in a fountain. Someone coughs beside me, but I keep my eyes closed. The music cascades, flowing into a rumbling waterfall of bass notes. I can feel the power vibrating along the floor and up through my chair. It feels like I’m being swept over the edge by the sound. I wonder if everyone else feels the same. And then, all of a sudden, it slows and becomes sparse, just a whisper of sound, as though Charlotte has spent all her energy tumbling over the rocks. It fades away to a final lilt and then silence. The audience doesn’t r
espond for a few seconds. I open my eyes and everyone begins clapping. Charlotte half-heartedly bows while sitting at the piano and then walks quickly offstage.
The school captain strides onstage and replaces Charlotte at the piano. He waits until it’s quiet before beginning to play. I keep my eyes open for the rest of the recital, alternating between listening to the music and staring at the back of Mr Walsh’s head. I kid myself he’s developing a bald spot, just like Pakula.
After the show, everyone funnels out to the foyer by rows, starting with honoured guests at the front and finishing with bogans like me at the rear. The door I came in is now locked, so I have to walk through the crowd.
I keep my head down, but accidentally bump into someone on the way out. The bloke spins around as if I tried to pick his pocket. I don’t want to cause a scene, not among all these suits. I look up. Standing in front of me is Mr Walsh.
‘I believe you’re friends with my daughter,’ he says. What is it with Charlotte’s parents and confronting people in foyers?
I look behind him. Mr Pakula is talking to Charlotte and her mum on the far side of the room, well out of earshot. Charlotte is rubbing her hands together, wanting to be gone.
Mr Walsh holds out his hand. ‘I’m Anthony.’
Do I spit in his hand or shake it? I choose the safe option. Besides, my mouth is dry and my legs are shaking.
‘Charlotte doesn’t have many friends up here.’ He smiles, loosening his tie. ‘You should come over for dinner.’
His aftershave is as assertive as his presence, but I wasn’t expecting him to be so friendly.
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Can … can I bring a doggy bag?’
He laughs. ‘You’re most welcome. My wife, bless her, cooks for an army. There’s always plenty of food left over.’
I remember the story Charlotte told me of dinner thrown against a wall. This is not the man she described. I glance over his shoulder. Charlotte looks at me with worried eyes.
‘It’s tough starting at a new school,’ he continues. ‘I’m pleased she’s made a good friend.’ He steps closer, as if he wants to share a secret. ‘If truth be known, my daughter can be a little,’ he runs his hand through his hair, ‘a little overwrought.’
I think of Charlotte kicking me in her bedroom. The story of the Ice Queen at her previous school.
His hand clasps my shoulder. ‘What she needs is someone who’ll bring her back to reality. Someone with a level head.’ He looks at me and raises an eyebrow, as if expecting an answer.
‘Yes, sir.’ I blush. I don’t call anyone sir, not unless I’m in Pakula’s office, and even then I answer in single words where possible.
‘Anthony, remember.’ He holds out his hand again. ‘I’m pleased we had this chance to meet …’ He looks at me questioningly.
‘Luke. My name’s Luke.’
‘I look forward to our next meeting, Luke,’ he says, before releasing his grip and turning away. He strolls across to Pakula, Charlotte and her mum and puts his arm around his wife’s waist, kissing her on the cheek. She smiles.
Charlotte stares at me as if she wants to kick me again.
I walk home through the underpass where a lone busker has opened his guitar case and is strumming and singing tunelessly, the noise echoing through the tunnel. I look into the case as I walk past: a few silver coins.
In the main street, Rodney walks with his shoulders hunched as he draws on a cigarette. It’s weird how our paths keep crossing. He stops outside Mountain Pizza and looks in the window. He pulls out his wallet and counts the notes. A couple walk out of the restaurant, holding hands. They go past Rodney without knowing he’s there. He turns and watches them stroll arm in arm down the footpath. Even from a distance, I can tell what he’s thinking.
Monday morning at school, Blake and I shoot hoops before the bell rings for class. No matter how many times I sink a basket, Blake goes one better – an extravagant hook, a looping set shot from outside the three-point line, a quick rebound.
‘You’re a natural,’ I say.
‘Yeah, but no-one pays for three pointers,’ he answers. ‘I’m thinking of leaving school at the end of the term.’
‘Bullshit,’ I say.
He bounces the ball. ‘Mum’s wage barely covers the food and rent.’ He loops a hook shot in off the backboard.
‘Do you want to leave?’ I ask.
He nods.
I’ll miss him more than I care to admit.
‘We can play basketball in town.’ He tosses me the ball. ‘You need the practice.’
‘Only problem is,’ I grin, ‘who’d give you a job?’
‘Get stuffed,’ he says.
I attempt a jump shot that falls well short. Blake shakes his head as he collects the ball.
Charlotte and Hayley walk past. I stand on the court looking at Charlotte and get hit by a basketball in the stomach. Blake looks from Charlotte to me.
‘Sorry, mate,’ he grins. ‘I thought we were a team.’
Charlotte sits down opposite and waits.
I pick up the ball and bounce it a few times.
Blake comes in close, shielding me from the basket. ‘You going to drive, or what?’
I look up at the backboard. It’s too far away for a set shot.
He spreads his arms wide.
I bounce the ball and Blake swipes his hand across my body, stealing the ball in one quick motion before driving to the hoop and completing an easy lay-up. He tosses me the ball to start again.
I bounce it back to him. ‘You win,’ I say.
Blake nods. ‘I’m here if you need me.’
He’s not talking about basketball.
I stroll across to where Charlotte sits, plonk down beside her and look to the courts. Hayley has joined Blake. He’s showing her how to do a set shot.
‘Blake has a new teammate,’ Charlotte says.
He walks under the hoop and gestures for Hayley to shoot. She flings the ball as hard as she can. It bounces off the backboard and rolls away to the far side of the court. Blake looks at Hayley, expecting her to get the ball. She doesn’t move.
‘I’ve got good news and bad news,’ Charlotte says.
‘Only good, please,’ I say, thinking of Blake leaving school.
‘My parents have gone away for a few days. You can come over tonight, if you want.’
‘I know, don’t get my hopes up.’ I smile.
Charlotte leads me away. I look behind to the court. Blake has retrieved the ball and is showing Hayley how to bounce it with one hand.
I smile all the way to the lockers, then I remember.
‘You said bad news as well?’
She stares into her locker for a long time before closing the door and turning the key. ‘Dad is feeling guilty,’ she whispers.
I think of Mrs Walsh, confident and serene, at the school hall. Her husband kissing her on the cheek. Mr Walsh: the easygoing bloke who asked me to dinner.
‘He reckons Mum was flirting with Mr Pakula,’ she says.
‘What?!’
She puts the locker key in her bag, wipes a tear from her eye and walks to English.
Ms Childs has moved on to a book about a boy who grows up to become a journalist. The narrator spends three hundred pages writing about his brother, who wants to go off and fight during World War Two. What is it with Ms Childs and war?
Ms Childs tells us it’s her favourite book. She loves it so much she named her son Jack after the brother.
I raise my hand. ‘Why the brother?’ I ask. ‘Why not the hero?’
‘Is the narrator the hero?’ Ms Childs asks.
‘Why do teachers always answer a question with another question?’ I ask.
A few students giggle.
‘It’s true,’ I say. ‘If I knew the answer, I wouldn’t have aske
d in the first place.’
Ms Childs smiles. I like her, even if she does wear brown a little too often. ‘Facing adversity can be heroic,’ she says.
‘Nah, I’d rather run away,’ I say.
A few more students laugh.
‘I’m serious,’ I interrupt. ‘You have a choice. Heroic tragedy. Or staying alive.’
‘The brother survives. And he sticks to his values, no matter what,’ she says. ‘It’s the narrator who admits to being a coward, to avoiding the issues. Sometimes, acknowledging your failure is heroic,’ she adds.
The bell rings for the end of class. Ms Childs holds up the book. ‘We’ll continue adversity and failure tomorrow,’ she says. She looks at me. ‘I won’t accept arguments about failing to do homework as being heroic, even if you cite this book, okay?’
That’s the problem with some teachers. They’re too smart for their own good.
The Mazda is on the footpath when I get home.
‘Mum?’ I call through the screen door.
‘In here,’ she shouts from the kitchen.
I can smell roast lamb. She’s wearing an apron over a new red dress, her shoes are under the table, handbag on the bench.
‘You’re cooking again!’ I say.
‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ she answers.
She opens the oven door and stands aside. ‘Lamb, roast potatoes and I’m making gravy.’
‘But you’re cooking!’ I repeat.
‘I bought a cheesecake for dessert,’ she says. She looks at her reflection in the window.
‘Who’s coming over?’ I ask.
She wipes her hands on the apron and checks her watch. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Is it a man?’
Mum takes off her apron and tosses it on the bench. She walks into her bedroom.
‘I’m going out,’ I call.
‘Oh, Luke, don’t be silly. It’s roast lamb.’
‘A … a friend’s invited me over.’
She’s so involved in doing her hair she doesn’t notice I didn’t say Blake.
‘Roast lamb and gravy,’ she repeats.
I walk into the bathroom and lock the door. Tonight, for Charlotte, I’ll even wash my hair.
‘The guest will be here soon,’ Mum calls.
The Bogan Mondrian Page 8