‘A five-hundred-to-one long shot,’ his dad says, before opening another beer.
The boy has been waiting ages for this moment.
‘You just got lucky,’ he says.
‘Luck!’ his father roars. ‘Rubbish. I know a winner when I see one.’ He stuffs half a slice of pizza into his mouth.
‘Nothing but luck,’ the boy repeats.
The man takes a long swig and wipes his mouth. ‘I’m a genius,’ he says, before starting on the rest of the pizza.
The boy goes to the lounge room and switches on the television. Horses line up behind the barrier. The boy calls his dad into the room.
‘I bet I can pick the winner,’ the boy says.
His father laughs and sits down on the lounge, his interest already focused on the list of horses on the screen. The boy sees his dad calculating their odds.
‘I bet you all the money you won today, I can pick the winner,’ the boy repeats.
‘Mighty Torrent will win,’ the dad announces.
‘Jezebel,’ the boy says.
‘Not a chance,’ the dad answers.
The boy stands in front of the television. His dad tries to lean around to watch the screen.
‘Two thousand dollars on Jezebel,’ the boys says, ‘and if she doesn’t win, I’ll do the cooking and cleaning for a month. I promise.’
‘Mighty Torrent is a cert,’ the dad repeats. He waves his hand for the boy to move away.
The boy holds out his hand. ‘Jezebel. Do you want to bet?’
He knows his father won’t be able to resist that magical word. They shake. The boy steps aside. The barrier lifts and the horses jump ahead. The boy doesn’t even bother to watch. He goes to the table for another slice of pizza. He sees the money and picks it up, counting off two thousand dollars and hiding it in a sugar jar in the kitchen. He leaves the remaining notes under an empty beer bottle. He carries the pizza into the lounge to sit beside his father.
Jezebel wins by a nose. Mighty Torrent comes second last.
His father doesn’t notice the HD recorder is on, replaying a race in Queensland that finished two hours ago. The boy offers his father the last slice of pizza and turns off the television.
In my story, they both win. The boy keeps the money and spends it on feeding his dad proper food for the next few months.
The father doesn’t know how lucky he is.
Ms Childs asks if anyone would like to read their story aloud to the class. She looks at me and smiles again.
In her dreams.
On the way home from school, I take a detour past Mr Rosetti’s place. When he sees me walking down the street, he comes to the fence, shielding his eyes from the sun. His fingers are covered in rich soil.
‘Cretino!’ he shouts.
Even I know what that means.
‘A fanabla,’ I answer.
‘I never taught you that insult,’ he says.
‘Googled it,’ I answer.
‘Bravo!’
I reach into my bag and take out my short story, folded so only the title and the mark are visible.
Mr Rosetti whistles, impressed. ‘You are not stupido,’ he says.
I lean against the fence, not sure how to ask him a question I’ve been thinking about all the way home. I stuff the essay back in my bag.
‘My dad told me you used to be a journalist,’ I say.
I wonder what it must be like to be able to speak and write in different languages, to be capable of more than just wagging school and swimming at the reservoir or sleepwalking through Maths and Science.
Mr Rosetti wipes his hands on his pants and waits.
‘I could use help with my essays. Just to let me know if they make sense or not.’
He puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘It would be a pleasure, son.’
‘I’ll take another series of photos of you in the garden,’ I say. ‘Better than last time.’
He nods and I sense he’s a little choked up that I asked. I reach across the fence and hug him.
He pats my back and lets me go.
‘A fanabla,’ he repeats.
‘Go to hell,’ I say.
He smiles and walks back to his garden.
‘Ciao,’ I call.
He waves his hand goodbye.
24
On Saturday evening, I’m sitting on the log beside the reservoir, snapping photos of the ducks swimming in the shallows when I hear a bark from behind me. I don’t bother to turn around, sure it’s my memory playing tricks on me. I think of Buster every time I come down here.
A flight of swallows swoop low across the surface of the water, the sun sinks behind the trees and insects buzz.
I hear the bark again, louder this time.
I turn around to check I’m not going crazy. Running down the track is a small dog with mottled brown fur and a patch of white on its chest. He sees me sitting on the log and stops a few metres away.
I kneel down. ‘Here, pup,’ I say.
The dog barks and looks back up the path before rushing forwards and wagging its tail frantically. I hold out my hand and he comes close and sniffs. I pat his side. He doesn’t have a collar.
‘His name’s Booster,’ a voice says.
I flinch. Buster. Booster.
Rodney stands a few metres away. He’s smiling and, for once, not wearing overalls but jeans and a Metallica t-shirt.
Booster hears his name and runs back to Rodney, jumping up and wagging his tail.
‘I’m teaching him to be a lookout,’ Rodney says.
‘You never know where there’ll be hidden cameras,’ I say.
‘Nah,’ he taps the side of his head, ‘I’ve got a photographic memory. It’s people we should worry about.’
Booster whines and runs into the bushes, following a scent which I imagine is Buster’s. I take a sharp breath, remembering. I reach into my bag and pull out a sausage roll I bought from Betty on the way here and offer it to Rodney.
He steps forwards, takes it and holds it to his nose.
‘I owe you,’ I say.
He takes a bite. ‘A few more of these,’ he says, with his mouth half-full, ‘and we’ll call it even.’
‘Have you ever thought of getting a proper job?’
‘Ever thought of minding your own business, kid?’
Rodney cracks a smile. He breaks the sausage roll in half and passes it to me. We sit together on the log.
‘Do you know that if a sailor drowns,’ I say, pointing at the birds swooping low, ‘swallows carry the soul to heaven.’
‘Do you reckon there’s a bird for car thieves?’
‘Sure,’ I answer. ‘A kookaburra, laughing his head off.’
Booster runs down the path and nestles in close to Rodney.
‘Looks like you’ll have to share the sausage roll three ways,’ I say.
A freight train rumbles from up near the highway.
Rodney coughs and wipes his mouth. He looks as if he wants to tell me something.
‘What have you done?’ I ask.
He shakes his head and spends a long time scratching Booster under the chin.
‘I didn’t know you were Bruce Saunders’ son,’ Rodney says.
‘How do you know that?’
‘A mate from the Railway Hotel saw us talking outside the pub,’ he answers, before taking another bite. He chews slowly and stares across the reservoir.
‘I couldn’t make it to the funeral. I was,’ he looks at me, ‘otherwise engaged.’
‘In the clink.’
‘The cops got lucky.’ He shrugs. ‘Bruce was a top bloke.’
‘I know.’
‘The last time I saw him, I was buying a sixpack,’ Rodney says. ‘There was a bunch of blokes at the counter. Bruce was holding court
on the latest at Doomben. I gave him twenty bucks and he leant forwards, put his hand on my shoulder and said, “I’ve got a sure-fire tip for you, Rodney.”’
Rodney laughs to himself.
‘I assumed it was a dead cert nag at long odds.’ He looks at me. ‘I never took his tips seriously. I wasn’t that stupid. Anyway, I leant in close, playing along, and Bruce whispered, “My tip is … don’t steal stuff!” Then he laughed himself sick.’
I picture Dad behind the counter, joking with the regulars.
‘A week later I got caught red-handed trying to boost a Peugeot. Bloody French cars!’
‘You should have listened to Dad.’
Booster whines and Rodney offers him the final piece of sausage roll.
‘It’s time I moved on,’ Rodney says. ‘Things are getting a little tight around here.’
He stands and steps towards me, holding out his hand.
We shake. Booster jumps up and licks my hand.
‘You look like Bruce,’ Rodney says. ‘I should have made the connection when you gave me a hard time about smoking.’
I shrug. It seems so long ago now.
He turns and leads Booster up the track.
‘Hey, Rodney, do you know the Italian word for “Go fuck yourself”?’ I call.
He grins and shakes his head.
‘Vaffanculo,’ I shout.
‘Thanks, kid,’ he says. ‘It’ll come in handy if we meet again.’
25
Early on Sunday morning, Mum answers a knock at the door. Charlotte is standing at the entrance in a pair of tattered baggy trousers and a black singlet. At her feet are tins of paint and paintbrushes. She holds out her hand to Mum.
‘I’m Charlotte,’ she says. ‘Luke and I are—’
‘Going to paint my room, if that’s okay, Mum?’ I interrupt.
Mum looks a little flustered. I should have warned her.
She opens the door wide and helps me and Charlotte carry everything into my bedroom. I’ve already packed away most of my stuff in case the paint splatters. A ladder stands in the centre of the room.
‘Just the ceiling, Mum?’ I ask.
She looks from me to Charlotte. ‘I’m too scared to ask which colour,’ she says.
‘Colours,’ Charlotte answers.
Mum raises an eyebrow.
‘Trust me, Mum,’ I say.
She holds up her hands. ‘I’ll be watching television.’
She closes the door behind her.
Charlotte kisses me, then walks to the ladder.
‘We had a visitor last night,’ she says. ‘We heard the Audi in the driveway. He always ruins dinner.’ She tries to smile. ‘Mum told me to get my phone and open my email, ready.’
I take a deep breath, afraid of what’s coming next.
‘He knocked,’ Charlotte says. ‘We looked through the curtains and he’d stepped back into the driveway, looking up at the bedroom.’
Charlotte leans against the ladder.
‘Mum opened the door and we stood together, looking at him through the security screen. She told him if he took one step closer, I’d press send. She was shaking even though her voice sounded normal.’
My fists clench.
‘He said he’d made an appointment with a counsellor.’
I reach for her hand.
‘Mum told him it was too late.’ Charlotte brushes the tears from her eyes. ‘Then the three of us stood there, not saying a word.’
She looks out the window.
‘Mum told him not to visit again and closed the door. We heard him swear and then a crash.’ She attempts to smile. ‘He’d kicked a gnome in the garden.’
She leans down to pick up a paintbrush. ‘Mum and I slept together. She cried and I hugged her.’
‘I’m so sorry, Charlotte.’ I hold her close and feel the rise and fall of her breathing. The wind rattles the windowpane and in the distance I hear the sound of a car engine starting.
Eventually, Charlotte steps back.
‘I’ve brought leftover tins of yellow, blue, red, white and black. And masking tape for the straight lines,’ she says.
‘Did you paint your room?’ I ask.
‘No way,’ she smiles. ‘But last night I searched “painting your bedroom the Mondrian way”.’
‘There’s a website for that?’
‘Nah, but there should be.’ She leans down to pick up a tin of paint. ‘Come on, Luke, how difficult can it be? It’s just blocks of colour.’
We spend the next thirty minutes opening cans, stirring paint, debating how it should be done. I’m not sure we’re going to get a lot of painting done today. Finally, Charlotte grabs a piece of paper and draws a Mondrian-inspired set of blocks in a square. She points to one.
‘Pick a colour.’
‘Red,’ I answer.
She scribbles the letter R in the block before pointing to another.
‘Yellow.’
The letter Y.
And another.
‘Pink.’
She actually writes P before realising we don’t have pink.
I’m grinning like a fool. She throws the pencil at me. I duck.
‘I thought you’d overcome your violent tendencies,’ I say.
She leaps into my arms and we kiss, then she leans back, her expression serious.
‘I didn’t mean …’ I begin.
She kisses me again.
‘You’re not like him,’ I add.
She frowns. ‘I know,’ she says.
Mum knocks quietly on the door and calls out, ‘Lunchtime.’
‘Don’t come in,’ I answer.
Charlotte giggles. Mum’s going to love that.
We walk into the kitchen and Mum’s sitting at the table with three plates of food on a light green tablecloth.
‘I didn’t know we owned a tablecloth,’ I say.
‘Don’t be a smart-arse,’ she says.
On each plate is a bread roll bursting with cuts of meat, diced carrot, sprigs of coriander, slices of cucumber and flecks of chilli. I open my roll.
‘It’s like …’
‘While you two were making a mess in your bedroom,’ Mum says, ‘I went to Frank’s for bánh mì.’
She pronounces it ‘ban me’.
‘It’s bánh mì,’ I say.
Mum laughs. ‘Betty is a huge improvement on Frank.’
She pours herself a glass of rosé and hesitates before looking at Charlotte and me.
‘We’re almost eighteen,’ I say.
‘You’re seventeen,’ she says. She pours us each half a glass.
Charlotte takes a large bite of her roll and chews. ‘Thanks, Mrs Saunders.’
‘You should call my mum Louise.’
‘Charlotte can call me what she bloody well likes,’ Mum says. ‘It’s nice to have someone with manners in the house for a change.’
I can tell Mum is pleased I’ve invited someone other than Blake. He tends to grunt in answer to most questions.
‘I’m looking forward to seeing your ceiling,’ Mum says.
‘Do you know the Sistine Chapel, Mrs Saunders?’ Charlotte asks.
Mum shakes her head.
‘There’s a famous painting by Michelangelo on the ceiling,’ I say.
‘Yeah,’ Charlotte says, ‘What we’re doing is—’
‘Nothing at all like that,’ I interrupt. ‘People won’t be lining up to see the ceiling of my bedroom.’
Charlotte smiles. Please don’t say anything about wanting to be in my bedroom.
‘I—’ she begins.
‘I reckon you’ll be surprised, Mum,’ I interrupt, looking meaningfully at Charlotte.
She gets the message.
It takes us most of the afternoo
n to finish painting. Charlotte has a freckle of blue on her nose. She climbs down from the ladder and I lean in close to gently scratch it away. We look up at red, yellow, blue and white blocks of colour.
‘The black lines are really straight,’ I say, admiring my own handiwork.
On the bedroom side of the door, we’ve hung the empty frames from Mrs Walsh, waiting to be filled with photos of me and Charlotte, Blake and Hayley, Mr Rosetti and Mum.
I pick up my camera and snap one more photo, a selfie of the two of us and the Mondrian ceiling.
Charlotte flops down on my bed and opens her arms.
I lie beside her and we kiss. I roll on my back so I can see our masterpiece.
‘It is soothing,’ I say.
I reach under the bed and take out the photo of my dad leaning against his Holden. I stand it on the bedside table, so he can see what we’ve done. I used to think the smile on his face was one of embarrassment. I study the photo again. I was wrong. He looks content.
First published 2018 by University of Queensland Press
PO Box 6042, St Lucia, Queensland 4067 Australia
uqp.com.au
[email protected]
Copyright © Steven Herrick 2018
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
This book is copyright. Except for private study, research, criticism or reviews, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.
Cover design and illustration by Jo Hunt
Typeset in 12/16 pt Bembo Std by Post Pre-press Group, Brisbane
The University of Queensland Press is supported by the Queensland Government through Arts Queensland.
The University of Queensland Press is assisted by the Australian Government through the Australia Council, its arts funding and advisory body.
ISBN 978 0 7022 5998 2 (pbk)
ISBN 978 0 7022 6109 1 (pdf)
ISBN 978 0 7022 6110 7 (epub)
ISBN 978 0 7022 6111 4 (kindle)
The Bogan Mondrian Page 15