Rhyming Boy

a novel Steven Herrick was born in Brisbane, the youngest of seven children. At school his favourite subject was socce...

Author: Herrick Steven

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a novel

Steven Herrick was born in Brisbane, the youngest of seven children. At school his favourite subject was soccer, and he dreamed of football glory while he worked at various jobs. For the past twenty years he’s been a full-time writer and regularly performs his work in schools thoughout the world. He lives in the Blue Mountains with his partner Cathie, a belly dance teacher, and their two sons, Jack and Joe. www.acay.com.au/~sherrick

Also by Steven Herrick Young Adult Water Bombs Love, ghosts and nose hair A place like this The simple gift By the river Lonesome Howl Cold Skin Children The Place Where the Planes Take Off My life, my love, my lasagne Poetry to the rescue Love poems and leg-spinners Tom Jones Saves the world Do-wrong Ron Naked Bunyip Dancing

steven herrick a novel

First published 2008 by University of Queensland Press PO Box 6042, St Lucia, Queensland 4067 Australia www.uqp.com.au © Steven Herrick 2008

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. Typeset in 11/16 pt Stempel Garamond by Post Pre-press Group, Brisbane Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

Cataloguing-in-Publication Data National Library of Australia Herrick, Steven 1958–. Rhyming boy. ISBN 978 0 7022 3673 0 (pbk) ISBN 978 0 7022 3749 2 (ebook) For primary-school age. A823.3

This project has been assisted by the Commonwealth Government through the Australia Council, its arts funding and advisory body.

In the street of silly names

I turn the page, quickly. Riley Willis, firefighter, smashes down the heavy wooden door with his axe and leaps through the flames, lifting Henry Tumbleton onto his broad shoulders and carrying the overweight octogenarian from the blazing fury of his scorching lounge room. Never leave chips on the stove when you’re watching The Price Is Right! ‘Jayden, what’s the score, darl?’ Mum’s in the kitchen, doing some cooking of her own. ‘I’m reading, Mum.’

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She appears, wearing a blue and white butcher’s apron and the lilac ugg boots I gave her for her thirtyfifth birthday. Hanging loosely around her shoulders is a striped football scarf. She’s holding a spoon full of a mysterious dark-red liquid. She runs her finger along the spoon and tastes it, smacking her lips loudly. ‘Keep an eye on the game, darl! Whistle if the hunk scores again. I’m not wearing this blessed scarf for fashion, you know.’ The hunk is Jayden Finch, in his farewell season for Souths. He’s so famous people name their children after him. Like Mum, who’s searching for the television remote. She picks up my books scattered on the couch. ‘It’s like a plague of books in here.’ ‘I was reading and checking the score, Mum.’ She walks to the spare room, opens the door and throws the books inside. ‘Jayden, a wise mouth gathers no foot. You can’t do two things at once. Either watch footy or spend all day with your head stuck in those pages like a toucan.’ ‘Haven’t you heard of multi-tasking, Mum.’ It’s my word for the day. Every morning at precisely seven-fifteen, I close my eyes, open my dictionary at a random page and point to a word. I study its meaning, then try to fit it into a conversation.

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The only word to stump me this year was precipitant – to rush headlong, hastily. Something Mum’s pretty good at. ‘Multi-task my eye! Watch the telly, darl. Some things are more important than books.’ Mum looks at the spoon in her hand, trying to remember what she’s been doing. ‘Blood, Mum. Mixing blood in the kitchen.’ She holds the wooden spoon close to her nose and sniffs. ‘Don’t be silly. You’d need a metal spoon for blood. It’s raspberry coulis.’ Jayden Finch, megastar, scores a goal just before the whistle to complete a total rout for the Blues. I call out the news. Mum dances from the kitchen, waving her scarf victoriously over her head. She pirouettes (yesterday’s word!) past the phone, lifting it off the hook and pushing speed-dial. She skips across the room and gracefully bows, before flopping onto the lounge. ‘Gail? Wasn’t he brilliant! And so handsome! He can park his shoes outside my door . . .’ She points at the spare room, putting her hand over the phone and whispering to me. ‘Get your books, darl . . . Yeah, Gail. A home game next week. Wild possums couldn’t keep me away. It’ll be more fun than a . . .’

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I carry the books to my bedroom and shut the door. More fun than a rat with a ping-pong ball? A pizza in a blender? A horse with hiccups? ‘Hurry up, Dad. It’s getting dark.’ Next door, Tony Thompson stands in his backyard impatiently tossing the ball from hand to hand. His brother Timmy is crouching between the two frangipani trees along the back fence. Drawn on the timber palings behind him are hundreds of smiling moon faces with jug ears and bright red hair. An instant crowd. I open the window and lean out to get a better view of Mr Thompson half-way up a ladder, placing a floodlight over a hook on the verandah. He calls to his wife, ‘Switch it on, Agnes.’ An intense beam fizzes and crackles, filling the backyard with a warm glow. ‘There you go, boys. Better than Aussie Stadium.’ Mr Thompson climbs down and leans over the railing as Tony carefully places the ball on the penalty spot. He pulls up both socks before slowly pacing back, eyes never leaving the ball. Timmy, in goal, smacks his two gloves together and bends his knees ready to spring. Mr Thompson’s deep voice booms, ‘It’s one-all with twenty seconds remaining in the Cup Final. Will

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United’s Tony Thompson score the winner and become the hero of all of Jackson Street?’ Timmy stops slapping his gloves and looks up at his dad. Mr Thompson continues, ‘Or will Timmy the Cat save the day for the Wanderers? The tension is so thick you could cut it with a chainsaw.’ Mrs Thompson interrupts, ‘A bread knife, dear. Cut it with a bread knife.’ Mr Thompson scratches his head. ‘That’s not very exciting, Agnes?’ ‘It’s too violent, dear.’ ‘The tension is so thick you could cut it with . . .’ ‘Dad!’ ‘Sorry, boys.’ Tony runs in and slams the ball hard to Timmy’s right. Timmy dives but can’t quite get his fingers to the ball and it smacks into the fence. The faces in the crowd splinter. Tony runs around the yard, his shirt pulled over his face, arms spread wide. Mr Thompson skips down the stairs whistling and clapping. He jogs to Timmy and helps him to his feet. ‘Great effort, son. You gave one hundred and fifty percent!’ He lifts Timmy onto his shoulders and the three of them run in crazy circles around the backyard cheering and laughing.

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Rhyming Boy

Tony Thompson. Timmy Thompson. I live in a street of silly names. Two doors down is Mrs Bent who walks with the help of a pusher. Every afternoon she trundles to the corner shop stopping every few minutes to rest. She has a sip of water from the sports bottle she keeps in the basket on the pusher. Then she slowly keeps walking. Her back is shaped like the letter C. Next door to her lives Mr Hardy who wears shabby clothes and spends all day digging in the garden or walking his dog, Deefer. Whenever Deefer scampers ahead, Mr Hardy clicks his fingers loudly and Deefer sits, panting, waiting for him to catch up. Every morning when I go past his house to school, Mr Hardy stretches his arms wide and chuckles, ‘Beautiful day to be alive, young fellow.’ Even if it’s blowing a gale or blistering hot, he looks up at the sky and says, ‘God’s mighty canvas. A work of art.’ Opposite Mr Hardy lives the Sweet family. Mr Sweet drives a cement truck which he washes every afternoon. Mrs Sweet stands beside him, talking. She points to a dirty spot he’s missed. Mr Sweet nods and keeps scrubbing. When he’s finished, Mrs Sweet gets him a cool drink and they sit on fold-away beach chairs on the front lawn, holding hands and admiring the shiny truck. Mr Hardy says God gave them their name. Sweet.

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But the silliest, stupidest, strangest, most surprising name for anyone in the street, in the suburb, in the state, in the world is reserved for the boy at number eighty-eight. My name is Jayden. Jayden Hayden. Stop laughing! At the age of nineteen, Jayden Finch scored the winning goal in the 1996 Grand Final. The day before I was born. Mum said it was destiny. It’s my father’s fault. If he’d been there, he would have called me Ben or Andrew or Simon. Anything but Jayden. Dad wasn’t there. I close the window to the laughter of the Thompsons and pull the note from my pocket. Boys and Books and Breakfast The school Principal, Mr Bartog, is holding a sausage sizzle before class in two weeks time inviting every dad, grandpa, uncle or big brother of a boy in Upper Primary to bring their favourite book to school where they would, Share Salubrious Stories and Succulent Sausages with Siblings. I’ve got heaps of favourite books. One hundred and forty-nine, last count. It’s the other part I’m having trouble with.

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Rhyming Boy

After school yesterday, I gave Mum the note. The long wrinkle across her forehead grew deeper as she read. She handed it back without saying a word. I could hear the grinding of teeth as she reached for her apron. She went to the cupboard and took out the aluminium flour tin. She scooped two cups of flour onto the wax paper, slowly added cold water and kneaded it roughly into a firm consistency. With a scone cutter, she sliced the dough and placed it on a baking tray, all the time talking loudly to herself. ‘Fifteen minutes at one hundred and eighty degrees should do just fine. Books! They don’t put food on the table!’ She slammed the oven door so hard the hinges rattled. ‘Strawberry jam . . . check. Cream . . . check. Whipping spoon . . . Jayden have you seen my . . . there it is. Boys and books and breakfast! I’d give that Principal a good whipping if I had the time!’ It was hard not to giggle. ‘Mr Bartog likes alliteration, Mum.’ Mum beat the cream even harder. The scones gently steamed under a Souths 1996 Premiership tea-towel. Mum leaned in close. ‘I’m sorry, darl.’ The wrinkle

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became a furrow. She reached out and took my hand. ‘Adults are different, son.’ Yes, they bake a whole tray of delicious scones and then let them go cold. ‘Your father and me. We were like square socks on round feet.’ Square socks? Mum fingered the white crocheted tablecloth. ‘We were never close, darl.’ ‘But . . .’ Mum went redder than the strawberry jam. ‘Well, close enough to have you. But, fatherhood wasn’t for him.’ I imagine a man returning his socks to CheapMart. He holds them, dangling between thumb and finger, shaking his head, ‘I’m sorry. These won’t do. Can I get a refund?’ Mum brushes the hair from her eyes. ‘We agreed to let it be. He . . . moved on.’ Maybe my dad found socks that fitted him perfectly? How many pairs does he own? When they get holes in them, does he toss them out? Straight into the bin, brushing his hands as he drops them among the fish bones and soggy pieces of lettuce. Mum pushed the plate of scones towards me. ‘I’ve told you this before, darl. You were all I ever wanted.’

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She lifted the cloth from the scones, steam rose like a sweet mist. She spooned extra cream on the biggest scone and offered it to me. ‘Maybe you could go with Mr Thompson, darl?’ I took a large bite and wiped the cream from my nose. ‘Nah. He’s got two socks of his own.’ ‘Two what?’ ‘Two sons, two sons of his own.’

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The darkest hair in the world

Do you know that right now there are one million four hundred thousand bacteria hitching a free ride on your skin? Don’t bother looking. They’re infinitesimally tiny. That’s why I’m scrubbing behind my ears with this brush lathered in spearmint-scented soap. There goes half a million, straight down the plug-hole. I lean in close to the mirror, checking my teeth. Pigs have forty-four teeth, dogs forty-two. Humans have thirty-two. At least mine will be clean and white. I brush them again just to be sure. Can’t be too careful with personal hygiene.

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Rhyming Boy

The new girl in class wouldn’t like bad breath drifting across her desk. She has the darkest hair in the world. True. We met in the canteen line today. I wished I’d kept my mouth shut. ‘You should ring The Guinness Book of Records.’ She turned, her thick locks shining. ‘Pardon?’ ‘The Guinness Book of Records. It’s a book . . .’ ‘Yes. I know. It’s called the BOOK of records, isn’t it?’ ‘Well, they keep incredible facts. The world’s fattest man. The longest fingernail. The lady with the thickest moustache. I was just thinking you should contact them.’ The new girl touched her top lip, feeling for facial hair. ‘No! Not moustaches. You haven’t got one. I’m sure.’ Everyone in line giggled, waiting for the next morsel. Far more interesting than school food. The new girl squinted at me. ‘You’re in my class, aren’t you?’ I nodded, afraid to open my mouth. She held out her hand. ‘My name is Saskia Devine.’

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I shook her hand and said my name quietly hoping she wouldn’t laugh. ‘Do you want to eat young lady or hold hands?’ The canteen co-ordinator wiped her hands on her apron. Saskia bought a vegetarian lasagne. (Note: Don’t mention meat!) ‘See ya, Jayden.’ She walked across the parade ground and the sun made her hair shine even more. Like in the shampoo commercials where women fling their hair about for no reason and handsome men in black sweaters swoon. I like the word ‘swoon’. My teacher, Mrs Casey, told us all about onomatopoeic words – like buzz, boom, crash, bang. They sound like their meaning. Swoooooooooonnnnnn! Maybe Saskia could ring an advertising agency instead of The Guinness Book of Records? There’s more money in commercials than in being unique. ‘Anytime in the next few hours is fine by me, young man.’ The canteen co-ordinator flicked a crumb from the counter and waited. ‘I’ll have what she had.’ ‘Very original. One pre-heated, vegetarian lasagne with raw mince sauce coming up.’ ‘Pardon?’ The co-ordinator winked, ‘It’s called humour.’ Saskia. What a beautiful name.

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‘jayden! Are you still in the toilet?’ My teeth are almost bright enough for their own television commercial. Maybe Saskia and me have something in common? ‘Jayden!’ I open the door. Mum’s wearing her CheapMart uniform, the manager badge pinned to her heart. She has rollers in her hair. ‘Are you going to work, Mum?’ ‘No, son. I’m off to the opera.’ ‘It looks nice. You’ll definitely stand out.’ ‘Jayden, you’re as funny as a turtle in a fruit shop today.’ She closes the door, murmuring to herself. I imagine a turtle, its neck peeking out above the tomatoes and carrots and eggplants. Is the shop open? What does the owner think of a turtle wandering in from the ocean? Does he feed it, or offer it to his cousin the chef for turtle soup? I expect Mum will remove the rollers before she goes to CheapMart. ‘See you, Mum. Have fun at work.’ Can anyone have fun at a place called CheapMart? ‘And where pray tell are we off to this afternoon, laddie?’

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Mr Hardy gets up slowly from the garden bed rubbing his back with hands the colour of dirt. ‘The library, to do some investigating.’ ‘A cure for old age, perhaps? Or how to stop weeds growing?’ ‘Actually, I want to find out where someone lives . . .’ If there’s one person in Jackson Street I can trust, it’s Mr Hardy. ‘. . . a girl. To help me with homework.’ Mr Hardy raises a bushy eyebrow. ‘Homework, is it? Well, good luck, laddie. If you need assistance with such things, a girl is a wise place to start. A pretty girl perhaps?’ I try very hard not to blush. ‘Mr Hardy, how do I ask a girl to help . . . with study? You know, so she doesn’t think I’m . . . meaning something else?’ Mr Hardy reaches down to scratch behind Deefer’s ear. Deefer closes his eyes and dribbles. ‘I see your problem, laddie. Mustn’t appear too fresh, as it were.’ Mr Hardy scratches behind his own ear now. He doesn’t dribble. ‘The answer, laddie, is detail. Don’t just ask her for help with English. Too vague. Say something like, “What’s the difference between a simile and a metaphor?’’ ’

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Rhyming Boy

‘Thanks, Mr Hardy. Similes and metaphors. See ya.’ The librarian wears black-rimmed glasses and an inquistive expression. ‘Could you be more specific, please?’ I can hardly say, ‘I want to find the address of a girl in my class.’ The librarian removes her glasses, polishes them on her pink knit cardigan and waits. ‘I . . . I want to be a spy! When I’m older. And I want to practise now. By researching . . .’ Researching what? Girls! Bacteria! Football! ‘. . . by researching names and addresses of people in our area.’ The librarian holds her glasses up to the light, checking for smudges. She hooks the wire frame over each ear and points with a bright red fingernail to the long stack of shelves across the aisle. ‘Simple, James Bond. You need the electoral roll. In the reference section. Second shelf from the top, halfway along.’ She goes back to typing on the computer at her desk. She needs a stronger light. Librarians should protect their eyes. I sit at the desk and open the huge book. The man in the over-sized jacket sitting opposite starts snoring. The sound floats across the room to the librarian who

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looks up, frowning. Please don’t disturb us. The old man looks like he needs sleep. His hair is matted and grey. A scrunched handkerchief hangs out of his jacket pocket like a wilting flower. Half asleep, he reaches for it and noisily blows his nose. He tries to put it back but it misses the pocket and drifts to the floor. It’s Wednesday afternoon and everyone else is at work, or the beach, or kicking a ball in the park. Except old men. And spies. I move my finger down the page. Devie, Alan. Devinullo, Luigi. Devin, Archibald. Devine, Peter. Devine, Sarah. Saskia’s parents? I commit the address to memory. Like a spy should. No paper. No evidence. I know the street where they live. It’s on the way home from the library. If I take a slight two-kilometre detour. I close the book quietly so as to not disturb Mr Slumber. I reach down for his handkerchief and gently place it on the table in front of him so he’ll see

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it when he wakes. I wave at Miss Librarian on the way out. Next to the library is Chaser Mall where Mum is two hours into her shift at CheapMart.

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Pardon to ponto

Cross Street has beautiful swaying trees down each side. A million leaves are all whispering to each other in their secret language. Every breath they take is good for the planet. Photosynthesis. I jump when a dog barks from behind a fence. A dachshund wags its tail. Most definitely harmless. I lean over and rub its soft fur. He whimpers quietly and puts one paw on my hand, wanting to shake. ‘Pleased to meet you . . .’ I flip the tag on his collar, ‘. . . Brutus!’ His tail wags faster at the sound of his name. ‘Who’d call their dog, Brutus?’ A voice answers from behind me. ‘Mr Jakes, that’s

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who!’ I turn quickly. ‘Saskia!’ ‘What are you doing here, Jayden?’ Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail. ‘I’m . . . I’m patting the dog.’ Saskia giggles. ‘You came all this way to pat Brutus?’ ‘He’s a friendly dog! And . . . I’m looking for . . . someone.’ Saskia glances up and down the street. ‘Who?’ All I can think of is food. Scones with jam and cream. And Mum slamming the oven door. The school note is scrunched in my pocket. ‘I’m looking for my dad.’ Saskia smiles. ‘Have you lost him?’ She has perfect white teeth. A great partner for the toothpaste commercial! ‘I . . . I’ve never met him. I was just wandering, hoping . . .’ I try really hard to look sincere. And miss by a fraction, looking stupid instead. Saskia leans against the fence. She moves to say something, then stops, deep in thought. I wish I could run away. ‘Well, Mr Jakes and Brutus live here. And my house is next door. How long have you been looking?’ Saskia asks. ‘Only today. I started at the library. With the electoral roll. It was easier than I thought.’

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Pardon to ponto

‘Great! What’s his address?’ ‘My dad’s? Oh, um, today was a . . . test run.’ ‘A what?’ Say something sensible! Don’t just blurt out the first thing that comes to mind! ‘I was practising my sleuthing skills. I looked up your parents’ names. As an experiment! If I could find where somebody, anybody lived, then I might be able to find my dad. You were my guinea pig. I don’t mean you look like . . . it’s . . . it’s a metaphor! Poetry. You remember? Mrs Casey, in class . . .’ My face goes beetroot red. A lovely pink flower falls from the tree above and floats slowly towards us. It lands on my laces. I flick my shoe and it gently flutters close to Saskia. She picks it up. ‘Do you really want to find your dad?’ I close my eyes. Every morning I look in the mirror. My hair is dark brown and so curly it’s impossible to comb. I pull a long strand to straighten it. When I let go, it pops back like a tight spring. This mass of curls makes me the tallest kid in school. Even if it’s just air and hair! Mum has blond hair. Strawberry blonde, she calls it. And blue eyes. My eyes are brown. Mum is short and . . . plumpish. Well-rounded, she says.

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I’m so skinny I could disappear behind a street post. I’ve never met my dad. Maybe I look at him every day in the mirror. If I found my dad, he could come to the breakfast at school. Would Mum mind? Would she stop making scones? Or bake even more? Would we have a heart-to-heart every afternoon? Saskia taps me gently on the elbow. ‘I could help. If you want?’ ‘Really?’ ‘Sure, why not. It can’t be that hard, can it?’ Saskia twirls the flower between her fingers. She holds it under her nose. ‘It smells like spearmint.’ Maybe I should go easy on scrubbing behind the ears. Give the bacteria somewhere to live for a while. Saskia looks at me. ‘Do ya reckon sleuthing is a word?’ ‘Sure! Anything’s a word if you want it to be.’ Saskia giggles, ‘So you can just make up any word you want!’ ‘Yep.’ Saskia threads the flower into the top button hole of her denim jacket and says, ‘Ponto!’ ‘Pardon?’ ‘Not pardon, ponto!’

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Pardon to ponto

‘What does that mean?’ Saskia punches me lightly on the shoulder. ‘It means, I agree.’ ‘Ponto!’ ‘Ponto!’

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Asleep in the sauce

‘Any luck with your quest, laddie?’ Mr Hardy spreads thick straw between the rose bushes, bending carefully under the thorny branches. No wonder he has a bad back. ‘Heaps!’ He grins and I think of including him as a ‘before’ in the toothpaste commercial. That’s the problem with thoughts – they come into your brain before you’ve had a chance to invite them. Sometimes they’re embarrassing. Mr Hardy reaches for the ball Deefer has dropped at his feet and tosses it across the yard. Deefer scampers after it, jumping over the stack of weeds

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Asleep in the sauce

piled high in the middle of the yard. He grabs the ball in his mouth just before it lands in the herb garden and runs back to us. He drops it and barks loudly. Mr Hardy says, ‘I need a machine that throws balls. Or an old dog that doesn’t want to chase them all day.’ Deefer whines. I pick up the ball, wet with dog slobber, and throw it. Deefer doesn’t move. He doesn’t even look at the ball as it bounces against the fence and rolls slowly along the driveway. He rests his head on his front paws and closes his eyes. ‘Well I’ll be, laddie.’ Mr Hardy leans on his shovel and adjusts the braces stretched over his work shirt. ‘Try again, Jayden.’ I run across the yard to get the ball. Deefer doesn’t move. I lean down and hold it under his nose. ‘Here, boy.’ Deefer opens one eye and yawns. I toss the ball across the yard. ‘Fetch!’ Deefer closes his eyes and rolls on his side. ‘Fetch, Deefer!’ Mr Hardy slaps his knee. ‘The answer to my prayers! Whenever I want a rest, I get someone else to throw the ball. Brilliant! Let’s have a drink to celebrate.’

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Mr Hardy pours tall glasses of pineapple cordial clinking with ice. We sit together on the front steps admiring the orange sunset bouncing off the corrugated iron roof of the Sweet house while Deefer snaps at a buzzing fly in his sleep. ‘One good turn deserves another, Jayden. If there’s anything I can help you with, don’t hesitate to ask.’ A few doors down, Mr Thompson unloads long wooden posts from the roof of his truck. Timmy holds one of the posts nervously in both hands. Tony climbs onto the back of the truck. ‘Are you really gunna build a goal, Dad?’ ‘Sure, why not. Nuts, bolts, a bit of elbow grease.’ The brothers carry the beams around the back of the house. ‘Mr Hardy?’ ‘Yes, laddie?’ ‘Do you have any really nice clothes?’ ‘Sure do, my boy. Hardly ever worn. No point in gardening in a double-breasted pinstriped suit.’ Mr Hardy fills Deefer’s bowl with water. ‘But, I doubt it will fit you, laddie.’ Twelve days until the school breakfast. Every boy with his dad, or grandpa, scoffing sausages rolled in soft white bread with heaps of tomato sauce. The Thompsons talking non-stop about the football field

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Asleep in the sauce

in their backyard. ‘Do you like books, Mr Hardy?’ ‘I love books. With a good story you’re never lonely. That’s what my father used to say. Come on laddie, spill the beans. What do you want to borrow? Books or my suit?’ I feel like giggling. ‘Both. And one more thing?’ Deefer raises his head to snap at another blowfly. ‘Not Deefer?’ ‘No, Mr Hardy. You.’ ‘Me!’ I nod, hoping against hope he’ll agree. ‘Me in a suit with a box of books?’ ‘Well, just one book will do.’ ‘But still in a suit? Do I have to shave?’ Mr Hardy rubs his chin and answers himself, ‘Why not! I’ve often wondered what’s under all this stubble. Probably a very handsome old man.’ Deefer whines. Mr Hardy chuckles. ‘Even my own dog makes fun of me.’ There’s a note from Mum on the kitchen table.

Spaghetti Bolognaise in the fridge. Reheat at medium for one minute in the microwave. Raspberry slice in 27

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the cake tray to follow. Home at 7. Love Mum. Mum’s the best cook in the world. Her best friend, Gail, says Mum could make an old boot taste like prime rib. Dinner is so delicious I’m tempted to lick the plate. I get a second helping instead and open my book at page one hundred and forty-two. Four pages to go. I wake with a start and lift my head off the plate. It feels sticky and heavy. Mum stands at the sink, holding a cup of tea and smiling. ‘I wondered when you’d wake. You’ve been sleeping like a unicorn.’ I wipe the bolognaise from my forehead, blinking at the light. My book is closed on the table. ‘Why didn’t you wake me, Mum?’ ‘I’m sorry, love. I was just enjoying the quiet. We had more customers than a platoon of soldiers today.’ Soldiers don’t have customers. Just enemies and comrades. People they shoot at or people they play practical jokes on. An army that stays open all night and sells potato crisps, soft drinks and chocolate bars would be worth joining. Mum tips the rest of her tea in the sink and reaches for my plate.

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‘I’ll clean up here, darling. You go to bed. And no reading until morning, okay?’ ‘Thanks for the spaghetti, Mum. It was really tasty.’ And quite nice to sleep in.

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White shoes, with yellow laces

I wake to the sound of hammering. I scramble out of bed and see Mr Thompson, balancing on his ladder, nailing the crossbeam into place. Mr Hardy, arms held high, is holding the other end, doing his best to keep the beam steady. He sees me and smiles. Mr Thompson’s voice is bright and breezy, ‘Won’t be long now, Arthur. Another six-inch nail and she’ll be cyclone proof!’ I wave to Mr Hardy and walk to my bookcase. I close my eyes and open the dictionary. My finger hovers over the page. Please don’t come down on mediastinum. Or xenogensis. ‘One . . . two . . . three . . . sixty-five!’

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Open eyes. Today’s word is chagrin. Shah-grin. I love the sound. But the meaning? An extreme feeling of disappointment and humiliation. Over breakfast, I unwrap the box on the table. Mum watches eagerly from the sink. I take out the new shoes. White shoes. With day-glo yellow laces. They’re so bright it hurts my eyes. ‘From the fair-trade shop, Jayden. I couldn’t resist.’ Mum often uses the word ‘resist’, but has never learnt how to practise it. ‘You shouldn’t have, Mum.’ She starts loading the new dishwasher. ‘I’m as busy as a bull ant today.’ She looks at each of the buttons on the dishwasher. ‘Technology! More confusing than a pig in a chook house.’ She closes her eyes and pushes every button. The machine springs to life with a blaze of lights and whooshing sounds. I pick up my shoes, the laces dangling. ‘I’ll just put these in my room, Mum. Until my old shoes are worn out.’ ‘Oh those! I gave them to the Salvos, darl.’ I put them on, with chagrin. I walk slowly along Jackson Street, wondering if shoelaces can cause partial blindness. I’m careful not

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to bang into the overhanging branches of the oak trees lining the footpath. At the end of my street is Dunsmore Swamp. It’s boggy, sandy and thick with creeper vines. No one walks through there without being eaten alive by mosquitoes or losing a shoe in the muddy, sucking ground. It’s tempting. The swamp is full of lizards and fish and snakes. On summer holidays I pretend it’s deepest darkest Africa. Deefer’s barking is the call of wild hyenas. The bellowing laugh of Mr Sweet at number seventy-five could be a rampaging herd of elephants. And the stray cat everyone calls Barney looks lion-like if viewed from a distance. A great distance. Stretch Maybury, the tall gangly kid from the corner house, could pass as a giraffe. He even has spots! ‘You’re not serious, Rhyming Boy!’ Hamilton Rufus stands outside his front gate, staring at my shoes. Speaking of a hyena? ‘No one would be caught dead in those.’ ‘It’s a favour for my mum. She bought them from a lady selling for charity.’ Hamilton grins. ‘Yeah. One charity case to the other, hey?’ I adjust the bag on my back and keep walking. Hamilton follows. ‘On Sunday, I saw a possum in the swamp. He was

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up a tree, dangling by his tail, like a bat or somethin’. And Dad reckons foxes prowl at night. I’m gunna catch one. Set up a trap with a dead frog in a cage . . .’ ‘Foxes don’t eat frogs, Hamilton.’ ‘How would you know, Rhyming Boy?’ ‘They eat chickens and lambs. And sometimes they bury their kill for a few days before eating it.’ Hamilton scratches his head, ‘Okay, so I’ll put KFC in the cage. Easy!’ We walk along Jackson Street, both thinking of a fast-food fox. ‘You know, Rhyming Boy. I’d be happy to help you. With your fashion problem.’ ‘Rhyming Boy’ is Hamilton’s idea of a joke. Between me and you, I prefer it to my real name. ‘What do you mean?’ Hamilton glances across to the people waiting at the bus stop, keeping his voice low. ‘I’ll loan you my shoes. For the day.’ Hamilton has black skate shoes. ‘What would you wear?’ Hamilton steps closer and puts his big smelly arm around my shoulder. ‘I’d wear your shoes. I’ll get laughed at. But, that’s okay. For a friend.’ ‘And?’ ‘And five dollars.’ ‘Five dollars!’

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Hamilton saunters along, whistling. ‘Worth it not to get laughed at, Rhyming Boy.’ Hamilton’s body seems to stick out at odd angles when he walks. His knees jut forward; his elbows are always bent and cocked, like he’s ready to fend off opponents in football. His hair is a mess of black strands, permanently knotted and dirty. He has a scar across his chin that he boasts came from fighting. Truth is he fell over when he was young and hit his face on the footpath. ‘What’s it gunna be? Five dollars? Or jokes about albino feet?’ I look down at my shoes. Scientists believe the colour white can cause headaches in some people if they stare at it too long. I agree! A finger snaps near my ear. ‘Hey, Rhyming Boy. I’m offering you . . .’ Hamilton scratches his chin, trying to think of what he’s offering. ‘The chance of a lifetime?’ Hamilton grins. ‘Yeah, that’s right. And you wouldn’t want to refuse it, would you?’ I hate my shoes. But no way am I giving him five dollars. ‘Gee, I’d really like to, Hamilton. But . . . have you heard of a skin condition called ponto . . . pontoplasta?’

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Hamilton squints, concentrating. Or trying to look like he’s concentrating. ‘Maybe.’ ‘Well, you know it turns your feet purple. If it gets really bad, your toes drop off. It’s contagious.’ Hamilton shrugs. ‘So? As long as other kids can’t get it, why should I worry?’ ‘Contagious means other kids can get it, Hamilton. It’s caused by sharing shoes.’ He quickly steps back. ‘Are you saying you’ve got . . .’ Hamilton’s mouth drops open and he takes a last look at my shoes before waving and jumping the school fence, ‘Deal’s off, Rhyming Boy.’ I’ve just saved five dollars. But I’m still wearing white shoes. With yellow laces. Saskia sits against the school fence with her eyes closed. Her hands limp on her knees. She looks to be meditating. I sit beside her without saying a word, trying to let my mind go blank. Instead, fifty pairs of white shoes with yellow laces tap-dance around my kitchen chased by an out-of-control dishwasher. I glance at Saskia. ‘Hi Jayden.’ Her eyes are still closed. ‘How did you know it was me?’

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Saskia smiles. ‘I have a gift.’ ‘What? Like . . . telepathy?’ I’ve been wanting to use that word for weeks! ‘I call it magic powers.’ ‘You’re kidding?’ Saskia opens her eyes and faces me. ‘Okay, a special trick, just for you.’ She closes her eyes again and whispers, ‘Think of a number between one and twenty.’ Saskia holds out her hands, palms facing up. A silver bracelet dangles from her wrist. ‘Now put your hands in mine.’ I place my hands on Saskia’s. She hums lightly for a few seconds. ‘Now say the number out loud.’ ‘Eighteen.’ She opens her eyes and grips my fingers, tightly. ‘That’s what I was thinking of!’ ‘But . . . how do I know you’re not . . . lying?’ She winks. ‘Part of my magic powers.’ ‘That’s the worse trick I’ve ever seen in my life.’ I can’t wait to get home and try it on Mum.

36

Saturday morning at Thompson Stadium

Timmy and Tony are arguing in their backyard. From my window I can see the ball lying precariously in the roof gutter. Next to it are two football boots. Tony is wearing boots. Timmy has socks on. Tony is smiling. Timmy isn’t. Timmy jumps on Tony’s back and wrestles him to the ground, grappling for his boots. He pushes his brother’s face into the soft grass. Tony yells, ‘Release the bats! Release the bats!’ At least that’s what it sounds like with a mouthful of grass. I don’t think a bat, even a cloud of bats, can get the ball off the roof or his brother off his back. If I want

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a quiet breakfast planning my day of sleuthing with Saskia, I’d better help retrieve the ball. Timmy is sitting on Tony’s back, trying to hold his brother’s arms on the ground. Tony spits grass and mumbles, ‘Tell Mung Beans on you!’ That should help. I say ‘hello’ in a quiet voice. It’s a trick I learnt from Mr Beggs, my year three teacher. The louder the class, the quieter he spoke. Timmy and Tony stop mid-grapple, arms tangled like a human jigsaw. Together they say, ‘What?’ I pause for dramatic effect and ask, ‘Do you have a hose?’ Timmy looks at Tony. Tony looks at me and no one speaks. ‘A hose. It’s a long green object made of rubber that carries water . . .’ I remember a word from last week. ‘. . . a conduit.’ ‘We know what a hose is, ya moron.’ Tony tries to free himself from his brother’s grasp. It takes a while. ‘Haven’t you got a hose? You’re not getting ours. No way!’ I give up and walk under our back stairs, unravelling Mum’s hose and pulling it towards the fence. I close the

38


nozzle and walk back to turn the tap on, full force. The hose quivers with the power of the water. Timmy and Tony lean over the fence. Tony says, ‘There’s no water!’ I aim the hose up to where the football peeks out over the gutter. I hope I’m a good shot. I open the nozzle and water shoots straight up the side of the house spraying against the football. It bobbles against the gutter. I adjust the nozzle. The water splashes against the football and pushes it out of sight. Tony looks at me, ‘What now, moron!’ The football rolls off the gutter and falls towards them, missing Tony by centimetres. Timmy stares at the ball resting near his socked feet, poking at it with a toe like it’s an alien fallen from the sky. He looks at Tony, then back at the ball. I slowly wind up Mum’s hose. Tony leans over the fence. ‘Hey, smarty pants. Ya wet our ball!’ ‘If the ball is a little damp, imagine how soaked Timmy’s boots are.’ Tony laughs, without thinking. Timmy jumps on his back, pulling him to the ground. It’s going to be a long day at Thompson Stadium.

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‘I’m off now, Mum.’ She stands in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom. She’s wearing a Blues jersey pulled low over dark blue leggings. She fiddles with the football scarf in her hands. ‘Do I wrap it around my shoulders, darl? Or over my hair, in case it rains.’ ‘It’s very hot today, Mum.’ ‘But I’ve got to take the scarf, darl. They can’t win without it!’ ‘Do you really think Jayden Finch will notice who’s wearing a scarf and who isn’t, Mum.’ She flings the scarf loosely over her shoulders. ‘Of course not. But I will!’ She reaches for her car keys and mobile phone. ‘Where are you off to, darl?’ ‘I’m meeting a friend at the library.’ Silence. Here come the questions! ‘What’s his name?’ I walk to the bathroom and close the door, pretending I didn’t hear. I look closely at my teeth in the mirror. I brush them again just to be safe, practising how I’d hold the toothbrush in a television commercial, Saskia smiling beside me. What’s a suitable catch phrase? ‘Nutrodent. Whiter than white.’ A little boring. ‘Nutrodent. A snow festival in your mouth!’

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That probably isn’t the most pleasant sensation. ‘Nutrodent. Even polar bears use it!’ A computeranimated polar bear could clean his teeth on screen, right behind Saskia and me. I open the door to the bathroom. Mum is waiting. ‘Name, please?’ ‘Jayden Hayden. You should know that Mum.’ Mum doesn’t even blink. ‘As funny as a hatful of salami. Your friend’s name?’ ‘What does it matter, Mum.’ When I was eight years old, I invented an imaginary friend called Horace Micklethwaite. I thought it would divert attention from my own name. The phone rings. That’ll be Gail. Mum doesn’t move. ‘Jayden?’ The phone keeps ringing. She won’t answer it until I tell her. ‘Saskia.’ Mum smiles broadly. ‘A girl!’ She puts her hand up to her mouth, ‘She is real, isn’t she Jayden? It’s not another Hor . . .’ ‘Mum!’ I rush past her and head to the door, ‘I’ll be home this afternoon. Late.’

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Sleuthing with Saskia

Saskia is sitting on the top step of the library. She’s wearing black trousers and a black top to match her hair. ‘Hi, Saskia. Nice outfit.’ Saskia smiles. ‘It’s for undercover sleuthing. We’ll find your dad, for sure!’ My grey trousers and green shirt make me look like an arthritic pensioner out for a stroll. ‘I’ve been planning, Jayden. I hope that’s okay? My mum’s a lawyer. She knows everything about everything. And then some.’ Saskia offers me her mobile phone. ‘She told me about the office of Births, Deaths and Marriages. The number’s already logged in.’

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Sleuthing with saskia

My hands are shaking as I take the phone. ‘But we don’t have his name. I’d sound pretty foolish asking if they know where my dad lives.’ Saskia smiles again. She really does have perfect teeth. With teeth that bright, who’d look at the polar bear? ‘We don’t need his name. We have yours. If we find your birth certificate the parents’ names will be on it.’ I imagine the certificate in my hands. Looking down at my father’s name. Black typed letters that tell me what I’m dying to know. One step away from finding him. My hands shake. ‘But what do I say?’ Saskia gently reaches across and takes the phone. ‘I can do it, if you want?’ She dials the number. When someone answers, she coughs once and fakes a much older voice, ‘Good morning. I wish to locate the birth certificate of my dear brother.’ She looks at me and winks. I try to wink back but I’m so nervous I close both eyes at the same time. Saskia grips the phone tightly and frowns. ‘How much?’ Dollar signs flash before my eyes. We’d need to appear in quite a few television commercials before I can afford this. ‘Can’t you just tell me the details over the phone?

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Or can I visit your website?’ Saskia pleads in her normal twelve-year-old voice. I hope the person on the line hasn’t noticed. There’s probably a law against impersonating an adult for clandestine purposes. Impersonating and clandestine in one sentence! Saskia closes the mobile and puts it in her pocket. ‘We need one hundred and twenty-five dollars and a letter from your Mum to get the birth certificate.’ She wraps her arms tightly around her legs as we sit together on the step. I imagine my dad is tall and thin, with curly hair. He has a big friendly smile with crooked teeth. His voice is quiet and reassuring and no matter what question you ask him, about science and nature or astronomy or geology, he knows the answer. Just like that. And when he laughs, lines wrinkle around his eyes. That’s my dad . . . a million miles away. Saskia says, ‘I don’t suppose your mum . . . ?’ Saskia looks even sadder than me. I speak, without thinking. ‘You’re a much better friend than Horace.’ ‘Who’s Horace?’ ‘Oh . . . just someone . . . he was always going on about rocket ships. And mobile phones. He once took a phone apart and put it back together for a science experiment. He was a genius. He’d know what to do.’

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Sleuthing with saskia

‘Why don’t you phone him?’ Saskia hands me the mobile. ‘I can’t! His phone is broken. Ever since he put it back together he keeps getting calls from Mongolia. Horace doesn’t know anyone in Mongolia. His mum took it off him.’ We sit on the steps without saying a word. For ages. That’s the thing about silence. The longer it goes on, the louder it gets. I count twenty-two women, sixteen men and four children walking past. One little boy holds up a Chupa Chup and waves. I wave back. ‘Hello, laddie.’ Mr Hardy stands on the footpath, Deefer sits by his feet, tongue hanging out, dribbling onto the footpath. ‘Hi, Mr Hardy. This is Saskia.’ Mr Hardy raises his hand to his cap and touches it. ‘Good morning, young lady. Perfect day for a walk, or some investigating perhaps?’ Mr Hardy looks meaningfully at me. I don’t know what to say. He holds up a plastic bag. ‘Just taking this old suit to the dry-cleaners. It’s pure wool. Very spiffy! Well, it was twenty years ago.’ Deefer spies a dog across the road and strains at the leash. Mr Hardy hangs on tightly.

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‘Looks like Deefer wants to make a friend.’ Mr Hardy bows slightly to Saskia and touches his cap again. He walks off down the street, Deefer pulling him along. Me and Saskia walk across to the park opposite the library. The leaves on the trees are a thousand shades of yellow and orange and gold and green. And not one of these leaves can tell me what I should say to Saskia. Or help me find my dad. We sit together on the park bench, listening to the hundreds of silvereyes darting through the trees. A lady beetle lands on my arm. It crawls along my wrist, tickling my skin. I hold my arm close to Saskia. ‘Do you know why they have such colourful markings, Saskia?’ ‘Sure. For fashion!’ The lady beetle flutters her wings, but doesn’t fly away. ‘It’s so predators won’t eat them. The bright colours mean they’ll taste bad.’ Saskia leans closer. ‘Who’d eat a cute lady beetle anyway?’ She holds out her hand and the beetle crawls into her palm. I say, ‘If they get really scared, they give off a smell worse than rotten eggs.’ Saskia giggles, ‘Then let’s call her Hamilton, shall we?’

46

Top Five special days

I walk home from Saskia’s listing the Top Five special days in my life. I could have made ten, easily, but it’s not nice to be greedy. Number One Easy! Today. Saskia and I sat on her back verandah drinking ginger beer. Every room in Saskia’s house has books piled high on tables, in bookcases, on desks, on chairs. There was even a stack in the bathroom! Saskia had read most of them, ‘Except Mum’s legal books. Now that is the definition of boring.’ From the verandah we watched parrots fighting

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over the seed Saskia’s dad left out every morning. The biggest, brightest parrot kept leaping up from the feeder whenever another bird flew near. When he did this, another parrot would come from his blind side and steal some seed. The smaller parrots took it in turns to distract the big bird. That way they all got fed. Except the big bird who spent all his time arguing. Saskia said, ‘Brains win every time.’ I had another sip of ginger beer and felt my whole body singing inside. Number Two Also easy and, until today, number one! On my tenth birthday, Mum got up early and cooked my favourite breakfast. Pancakes with strawberries, icing sugar and maple syrup. As she stacked them on my plate, I said, ‘The pancakes are the flat ground. The strawberries are huge red mountains. And the icing sugar is snow fluttering on top.’ Mum poured extra maple syrup dribbling over the landscape. ‘And the syrup, Jayden?’ What would a poet say? ‘Rivers!’ Mum laughed. Do I want to be a poet? Just because Hamilton calls

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me Rhyming Boy? Aren’t poets bald guys who never shave and wear scruffy clothes? They live alone in garrets and sit at their desks for hours trying to think of a word that rhymes with orange. They cough a lot and throw half-finished poems out the loft window to float away on the afternoon breeze. They become famous twenty years after they die. If I do become a poet I’m going to write about truly beautiful things – like a pancake breakfast. The rest of the day we spent at the beach. Another place old poets never go. Scared of sunburn. Number Three My earliest memory. I was four years old and Mum had taken me to the local library. I walked down aisles forest-tall with books. I opened a picture book. Monkeys swung from tree to tree; tigers prowled through tall grass; baby elephants stamped dust and chased each other around a waterhole. I cried when we had to leave. I screamed loudly, over and over, until the nice lady behind the counter let me choose five books to take home. I could keep them for two weeks. I hugged the lady around the legs. She smelt of musk. From that day, I’ve loved the smell of musk. And books.

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Number Four The first day of school. A new class. New teacher. New kids. The first day is one of my favourite days and one of my least favourite all at the same time. It has everything to do with one word. The best word in the English language. Hope. Every year I hope to meet a new friend who won’t laugh at my name; who likes books, including the complete contents of The Guinness Book of Records. I hope for a teacher who won’t mind being interrupted and corrected during science. Who sees me as an assistant, not a geeky know-it-all. I hope for a playground where the oval isn’t overrun with ball games and big boys pushing their way through the crowds of little kids collecting red ants in glass bug-catchers. I hope to fit in. Instead I run smack bang into Tony Thompson passing a football across to his brother Timmy. ‘Hey, watch where you’re going, will ya? I could have dropped my football.’ I pick myself up. ‘Better than dropping your bundle, I guess.’ ‘What bundle? Whose bundle?’ ‘Sorry. It’s just a figure of speech.’

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Tony looks at Timmy. ‘Just watch it, okay? Next time, I’ll give you a knuckle sandwich. That’s a figure of speech too.’ He laughs at his own joke. ‘Sure. It’s a good one. Knuckle sandwich. Knuckle head.’ Tony moves menacingly towards me. The bell rings for class and two teachers step out from the staff room just down the corridor. I love the word hope. But I’m not sure it loves me back. Number Five The last Sunday in September three years ago. I’d spent the day reading and playing with Deefer at Mr Hardy’s house. Mum, dressed in her Blues jersey, arrived home late in the afternoon with Gail. They were singing. Mum kept hugging me. ‘We won! We won!’ I was pretty sure she meant the football, not Lotto. For the rest of the afternoon, Mum and Gail relived every move Jayden Finch made to single-handedly win another premiership. They laughed and danced, sidestepping, feinting, cheering each other on. After Gail left we ordered pizza and watched the replay on television, Mum commentating. I’d never seen her so happy.

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I reckon it’s all right to include Mum’s best ever day as one of my own. When I get home Mum is asleep on the lounge in her CheapMart uniform. She scratches her nose, whispers ‘marceny’ in her sleep and then rolls over sighing quietly. I tip-toe to the kitchen and sit down with a book. There are chicken fillets on the sink beside a packet of breadcrumbs and two empty bowls. My favourite dinner – chicken schnitzel with mashed potato. A perfect day became even perfecter. Perfecter? The day deserved a word all it’s own. I scoop mashed potato on my fork and smell the faint trace of garlic Mum mixed in at the last moment. ‘Mum, where did you meet my dad?’ Mum stops, a slice of schnitzel and potato balancing on her fork. ‘Why?’ ‘Because.’ Mum chews slowly, staring intently at me, ‘I met him at the football.’ Progress! ‘Was he a supporter?’ Maybe he still goes to games? Mum places the knife and fork on her unfinished plate and stands up.

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‘Let’s have fresh fruit for dessert. I bought some mangoes on the way home. They’re as big as an ostrich.’ There’s only one person who can change the subject so well. ‘Once you start supporting a team, it’s pretty hard to stop isn’t it, Mum? I mean, some people follow a team their whole life. Like you.’ Mum rummages at the bottom of the fridge. ‘Where are the mangoes for Pete’s sake?’ I walk to the shopping basket unpacked on the bench and pick two ripe mangoes. ‘Here’re the ostriches, Mum.’ Mum takes a big bite and smacks her lips. ‘It’s as sweet as a mango.’ ‘It is a mango, Mum.’ I wash my hands in the kitchen sink. And go to bed. That night I dream I’m on a lonely beach sitting under a palm tree, reading a book, the gentle waves lapping the golden sand, dolphins leaping through the water. I ask Saskia if she’s hungry. We walk into the dense jungle, into the cool and damp shade and pick two perfectly ripe mangoes from a tree heavy with fruit. We eat them in the sunshine and then dive into the warm water. We swim out to the dolphins chattering away in dolphin-speak.

53

The worst actress in the world

Me and Saskia sit at the computer in the Library, googling ‘how to find a missing person’. We scan websites showing pictures of men in business suits with serious expressions. They all have names like Ken Drake or Ralph Bancroft. And their companies are called ‘Security Incorporated’, ‘Private Eagle Security’ or ‘Trust Watch’. The librarian clears her throat and points to her watch. ‘It’s no use, Saskia. Without Mum’s help we’re nowhere.’ We walk across the park to sit under the wattle tree. A young couple are lying together on the grass. The

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woman is tickling the man’s face with a long stalk of grass. He’s laughing, trying to grab it. The woman waves the stalk just out of his reach. Suddenly, Saskia grips my arm. ‘I’ve got it, Jayden.’ ‘What? Got what?’ ‘We’ve been looking at it backwards.’ ‘I haven’t been looking at it any way. Just thousands of stupid sites on the computer.’ Saskia shakes her head. ‘Your Mum can help us.’ ‘How? ‘ ‘She must have liked, loved, your dad once. You know, if they had you.’ I look quickly across the park. The man is playing with the woman’s hair, twirling it in his fingers. Bees drone in the tree above our seat. ‘What . . . what are you saying?’ Please don’t say sex! Not in public. ‘Simple. We look for someone she likes. Liked.’ The man and woman start to kiss. ‘So, who does she like, Jayden?’ The sun shines briefly from behind a cloud. ‘That’s easy! Jayden Finch. She likes him so much she named me . . . you don’t mean . . .’ Saskia smiles, ‘Trust me, women think differently than men. I know. My mum says so.’ In the far corner of the park a little boy chases after a

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football. His dad runs beside him, clapping his hands. The boy keeps falling over on the thick grass, struggles to his feet and chases the ball again. His dad encourages him. Saskia leans close. ‘Plan B is to find Jayden Finch.’ ‘But if Mum did . . . you know . . . like Jayden Finch, why aren’t they together?’ Saskia rolls her eyes. ‘They’re adults, Jayden. Nothing they do makes sense! Sometimes, my mum and dad go for days without talking. Then on Saturday night they’ll light candles, drink too much and sing songs to each other!’ Saskia grabs my hand and walks back to the library. ‘Come on. I’ve got it all worked out.’ That’s what I’m afraid of. We dodge between the ladies with shopping trolleys and the men playing giant chess on the forecourt of the library. Saskia runs up the stairs, two at a time. We reach the front desk, hearts pounding. The librarian points to the phone books. Saskia starts flicking through the White Pages. I whisper, ‘What are you looking for?’ Saskia puts her fingers to her lips. The librarian is watching. Saskia is more caught up in this search than me. I want to find my dad. Of course I do. But not necessarily today. Not before dinner. Not with the eagle-eyed librarian ready to shush us again. I don’t

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like the word shush. It sounds like gas leaking. Shuuuusssshhhhhh. Another onomatopoeia! I remember Mrs Casey’s joke. If you put a mat on a pier it would get wet. I was the only one in class who laughed. I glance at the librarian. One more gas leak could lead to an explosion. Saskia points to the name and number in the directory. Souths Football Club. We both memorise the number. Saskia calmly whistles a tune as we walk past the librarian. Outside she sprints across the forecourt to the park. I stagger behind, puffing heavily. She takes out her mobile and dials the number. ‘9-5-3-8-5-4-1-4’ ‘No, Saskia. It’s 9-5-4-8-5-4-1-4.’ She smiles. ‘Trust me. I’m wearing black. It’s 9-5-3-8-5-4-1-4.’ It rings a few times and a deep voice answers. Saskia tries the adult voice again. ‘Good afternoon. I’d like to arrange an interview with one of your players, please?’ She clears her throat and continues. ‘Who am I? Saskia Devine . . . uto, Saskia Devinuto, sports reporter, Daily Sun!’

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The local paper is the Daily Telegraph. She hangs up and sniffs. ‘The man said if we want autographs we can see the team after training tomorrow at four o’clock. They sign for kids if they’re in a good mood.’ Saskia stares at the phone, shaking her head. ‘What’s up, Saskia?’ She tucks the phone into her jacket pocket. ‘Why would he think I was a kid? I’m a reporter for the Sun!’ ‘Maybe they have an exclusive deal with the Telegraph?’

58

You can’t have too many sausage sizzles

Mr Bartog, the Principal, stands on the school verandah. He loosens his tie and taps the microphone. Mrs Casey, the Deputy, stands beside him and quietly raises her right arm. Every student does the same. She bends her elbow and touches her shoulder with her hand. We follow. She drops her arm by her side and stands straight. We stand straight. Mr Bartog nods. ‘Good news, children. Television is coming to our school.’ He steps back, waiting for the applause. Silence. Mrs Casey whispers into his ear. He nods.

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‘Hands up, who wants to be on television?’ Everyone raises their hands, even Mr Spence the year four teacher. Mr Bartog smiles and motions for us to drop our hands. ‘The Channel Eight news team will be here to cover the “Boys and Books Breakfast”.’ He chuckles. ‘So, boys, tell your dads to dress neatly.’ Mrs Casey whispers again. ‘Or grandpas and uncles.’ Mr Bartog glances at Mrs Casey. ‘Or big brothers. Look, everyone dress neatly, please.’ Saskia leans forward at the end of the line giving me the thumbs up. She says something, but the noise of Mr Bartog reading the spelling awards drowns her out. I point to my ear. Saskia leans further forward and yells, ‘One week to go!’ Everyone turns to look at Saskia. Mr Bartog coughs meaningfully into the microphone. ‘Saskia Devine and Jayden Hayden will meet me outside my office after assembly.’ He adjusts his glasses and keeps reading the awards. Hamilton whispers, ‘Oooohhh, Jayden and Saskia.’ I’d poke my tongue at him, but I’m not childish.

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We stand outside the office looking at the trophy cabinet. Netball. Football. Basketball. Cricket. Soon there’ll be no space left in the cabinet. Pride of place is a picture of Hamilton Rufus holding the inter-schools football trophy under a banner that reads ‘Swampy Plains Rule!’ Mr Bartog calls us into his office. He’s sitting behind a desk piled with papers and books. A photo of two young boys is in a frame on his desk. Both boys wear glasses. ‘Who’d like to start?’ I look at Saskia. She looks at me. Mr Bartog looks at both of us and sighs. ‘Saskia?’ ‘Sorry, Sir. I was just excited about the breakfast.’ Mr Bartog removes his glasses and wipes them on his handkerchief. ‘It is a boys and books breakfast, you understand.’ ‘Yes Sir. But . . .’ Saskia glances quickly at me. I interrupt. ‘Sir! It’s about your great idea, Sir.’ Mr Bartog puts his glasses back on, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. He waits. And waits. ‘Yes, come on Jayden. What about my great . . . my idea.’ I look at Saskia. Her eyes are pleading. ‘Your idea, Sir. It’s wonderful. But, if you don’t

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mind me saying, it’s only for boys.’ Mr Bartog sits up stiffly. ‘Yes, I’m aware of that, young man. What’s your point?’ ‘Saskia and me . . . Saskia and I have come up with something for girls.’ Mr Bartog holds up his hand. ‘I’ve been having long conversations with Mrs Casey about equity. I hardly need reminding . . .’ ‘Girls, Gizmos and Grills.’ Mr Bartog looks up. ‘Pardon?’ ‘It’s Saskia’s idea, Sir. You wanted to help boys with reading. Girls are already okay with that. But, they don’t know much about gizmos . . . you know science stuff and experiments and . . . things that get you in The Guinness Book of Records.’ I’m making this up as I go. ‘The school could have a sausage sizzle . . .’ Saskia interrupts. ‘A vegetarian sizzle, Sir. With lentil burgers and tofu. And we could do lots of science experiments with teachers. Not on teachers! With female teachers.’ Mr Bartog opens his top drawer and takes out a big, blue diary. He leafs through the pages. His fingers roam across the dates. ‘Yes, we have a space. In precisely one month. Mrs Casey will be very pleased.’ He looks up and smiles. ‘What was the name again?’

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Saskia and I speak together. ‘Girls, Gizmos and Grills.’ Saskia leans forward. ‘Vegetarian, Sir.’ Mr Bartog closes the diary. ‘Well, we’ll see about that aspect. We won’t put it in the title, though. It starts with a V.’ ‘Girls, Gizmos and Grills. It’s alliteration, Sir.’ Mr Bartog stands up and walks around his desk to open the door, ‘Thank you, for your poetic suggestion.’ He looks at Saskia. ‘Next time, let’s not make it in the middle of assembly, shall we?’

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The big wind

It’s a night game at Thompson Stadium. At one end of the yard is the full-size goal with a net. I sit at my desk and watch Timmy and Tony take turns playing goalkeeper. Mr Thompson stands on the verandah, drinking from a beer bottle stuck in a bright orange stubby holder. Timmy places the ball near our fence. Between him and Tony in goal is a small Banksia shrub a metre high. He points at it and calls to his dad, ‘It’s a defensive wall. Watch me curl the ball around it, Dad.’ Tony scoffs. Mr Thompson leans over the railing. ‘You can do it, Son. Bend it like Posh Spice, hey!’ ‘Bend it like Beckham, Dad.’

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The big wind

‘Yeah, that’s what I meant.’ Timmy runs in and kicks it with all his might. The ball shoots straight through the shrub, scattering leaves everywhere before bouncing into the goal. Tony dives the wrong way. Mr Thompson raises his arms, clasps his hands above his head and runs cheering down the stairs. He high-fives Timmy before falling, coughing and spluttering, on the grass. I can’t help smiling. Tomorrow, I’m going to see Jayden Finch with Saskia. The Thompsons would be jealous if they knew. Mr Finch couldn’t be my dad, could he? He’s a genius at football. I can’t kick a ball. I’m not even sure if I’ll recognise Mr Finch. With his second shot, Timmy kicks the ball over the fence into Mrs Garibaldi’s vegetable garden. The ball lands beside a silverbeet. Tony looks at Timmy. Timmy looks at his dad. Mr Thompson shrugs. ‘Well, I didn’t kick it!’ He laughs and tiptoes to the fence, puts both hands on the rail and heaves himself over. He steps lightly over the rows of lettuce and carrots and silverbeet and glances around the shed before picking up the ball and tossing it back over the fence. He calls to the boys, ‘Don’t tell ya mother, okay!’ They all laugh in the same high-pitched infectious way.

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What if Mr Finch really is my dad? And he talks about football all day? Or he’s never read a book in his life and thinks poetry is something to do with chickens? Or he reckons The Guinness Book of Records is about beer and drunken Irishmen? Maybe I should ring Saskia and call it off. I’m happy to go to the breakfast with Mr Hardy. Searching for my dad is a big mistake. I hear a shout from next door. Mr Thompson is carrying Timmy around on his shoulders. Timmy is swaying from side to side and punching the air in celebration. Mr Thompson runs the length of the yard, his face red with exhaustion. Tony runs in front twirling his footy jersey over his head. He’s so excited he flings it as high as he can. It lands on top of the banana tree and hangs there. All three stop running and look up, scratching their heads. Mr Thompson gently bends his knees to let Timmy jump from his shoulders. He walks across to his shirtless son and puts his arm around Tony’s shoulder. ‘Well, it looks like we’ll have to wait for a big wind.’ Then he farts. Loudly. The three of them fall to the ground clutching their stomachs, laughing. Maybe I’ll wait and see what Mr Finch is like.

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A jam of Jaydens

Saskia and I sit at the back of the bus on the way to the football ground. I’m not sure what’s making the most noise – my stomach rumbling or the sound of the motor lumbering up the hill. ‘Saskia. Can I tell you a secret?’ ‘Sure. Does it have anything to do with “Girls and Gizmos and Grills”?’ We both giggle. I keep my voice low, hoping the two men with Souths scarves sitting in front won’t hear. One of them has a shock of bright red hair sprouting from under a club beanie that doesn’t quite fit. ‘I can’t kick a ball to save my life. A few weeks ago,

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during sports, they were picking teams on the oval.’ Saskia smiles. ‘And you were the last picked. I understand.’ ‘Worse than that. I just stood there while they argued over not picking me.’ ‘It’s okay, Jayden. My dad says it’s the things we can’t do well that make us special.’ I remember Saskia trying to act like an adult on the phone yesterday. ‘That’s for sure.’ I look at Saskia meaningfully. She turns in her seat quickly. ‘What? What are you saying?’ ‘Oh nothing.’ ‘Come on! You looked at me funny.’ I shift closer to the window. The bus slows for a traffic light. The old lady sitting at the front talks to the driver. When he doesn’t answer she leans across and taps her walking stick on his seat. The driver ignores her. ‘Jayden!’ ‘Well, don’t get upset.’ Saskia wriggles uncomfortably in her seat. I breathe deeply, keeping my voice soft. And gentle. Kind. Nice. Friendly. Not insulting. ‘Your acting. You know, the voice on the phone.’ ‘What about my acting!’ The bus stops suddenly at the lights and we all lurch

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A jam of Jaydens

forward. The driver checks everyone is all right in his mirror. The lady taps even harder on his seat with the cane. ‘Well . . . you’re a . . . really . . . really . . . good actor! The best! That voice. It was just like an adult.’ Saskia looks at me slyly and crosses her arms. ‘And you, Jayden, are the worst actor in the world. And the worst liar.’ The grandstand of Souths stadium looms large beside the bus throwing a shadow over our faces. I stand to ring the bell, eager to get away from Saskia’s gaze. ‘Don’t worry, Jayden. I won’t be a reporter when we meet him. I’ll be Saskia the football fan. Okay?’ We hop off the bus and walk slowly along the footpath to the car park. Saskia absent-mindedly kicks a rock on the footpath. ‘Was I really that bad?’ I nod my head up and down, but say, ‘No.’ ‘Very funny. I wouldn’t pick you for my football team either.’ ‘Same here.’ Every day before school, I arrange all my exercise books and pens and notepads on my bed. I slowly pack my schoolbag – the heaviest items at the bottom, the pens in the zipper pocket. My uniform is folded neatly in the top drawer of my bedside cupboard. Shoes under the

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wardrobe. When I go to the kitchen for breakfast, my bowl and cereal are placed neatly beside each other in the cupboard. Mum’s work schedule is stuck to the fridge door so I know where she’ll be. I’ve written the phone numbers of everyone I’d need to call in an emergency on a thin strip of paper that hangs beside the calendar on the wall. I leave home at eight-thirty every morning. It takes fifteen minutes to walk to school. School starts at eight-fifty. I’m never late. I like to plan. But here I am, standing beside Saskia near the players’ entrance to the stadium, waiting to see the man who may be my dad. I have no idea what to say. A tiny bead of sweat trickles down my cheek and runs into the corner of my mouth. I taste its saltiness. My dad. My father. My blood is his blood. A few minutes away. Can it be true? Saskia steps nervously from one foot to the other looking at the other people waiting. Everyone is wearing a Blues jersey and holding an autograph book. Except me and Saskia. The two men from the bus are inching their way closer to the gate. A big bloke in a jersey, three sizes too small, stands at the front. He spreads his arms wide, facing the fans, ‘It won’t be long now. Everyone just be patient.’

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A jam of Jaydens

He glances eagerly into the stadium trying to catch a glimpse of the players. A little boy tries to squeeze through the gate. His dad calls from the back of the line, ‘Jayden! Come here this minute.’ Saskia giggles. I poke her in the ribs which only makes it worse. The man calls again, ‘Jayden, if you’re not back here in ten seconds we’ll be going straight home. There’ll be no autographs, no ice-creams.’ The little boy pushes back through the fence and runs to his dad. Saskia turns crimson red trying not to laugh. ‘Such a popular name!’ I count the cars in the parking lot. Twenty, all painted black or red. Why doesn’t the club make them drive blue cars? For the publicity. There are eight Range Rovers; six BMWs; three Mazda coupes; two Mercedes Sports and a Holden. The Mercedes Sports only has two doors. Where do they put their kids? Maybe footballers are too rich for children? Mr Finch probably owns a mansion by the river. Or at the beach. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t live in Swampy Plains. There’s a scrambling in the line as the players start

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funnelling through the entrance. Everyone thrusts an autograph book at each player, standing in their way so they can’t walk past them. I quietly move away, scared of what’s going to happen next. Scared I won’t even recognise my own father. Saskia grabs my hand and holds on tight. ‘Which one?’ I look at the footballers. They all wear tight T-shirts stretched over rippling muscles. They have short hair. Most have a tattoo on their bicep. Maybe it’s the team logo? Like a dog collar, if they get lost? My knees are shaking so much, I’m sure everyone can hear them knocking together. Saskia whispers again. ‘Which one, Jayden?’ I look from player to player, trying to recognise . . . trying to recognise what? I don’t know what Jayden Finch looks like! I never paid any attention to the games on television. If he’s really my dad, he’ll be tall, skinny, with curly hair and brown eyes. All the footballers have shaved heads. Would my dad shave his head? The crowd, clutching their autograph books, starts leaving. The players, each carrying a blue and white striped kitbag, walk to their cars. I’m feeling woozy. My dad is walking out of my life before he’s walked in. Saskia whispers, ‘Here goes nothing!’

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A jam of Jaydens

She turns, cups her hands around her mouth and yells, ‘Jayden! Hey, Jayden!’ The little boy turns around and waves. His dad grabs his hand and they hurry off. A voice comes from behind us. ‘G’day.’ The man is holding a kitbag slung loosely over his shoulder. He’s grinning. He has all his own teeth. They aren’t particularly white but they look real. No dentures. His hair is cut so close to his head it’s hard to tell whether it’s curly or not. It could be? He’s very tall. He has brown eyes. I take off my cap. ‘Hi.’ The man takes my cap and waits. Why did he steal my cap? Surely he has enough money to buy his own hat. He speaks. ‘A pen?’ Now he wants to steal a pen as well! I’m about to snatch my cap back when Saskia hands him a pen. The man signs his name on the cap and hands it back to me. ‘There you go, son.’ He steps past us both and walks to the only remaining car in the park. The Holden. Saskia yells, ‘Wait!’ Mr Finch turns and puts down his bag. It’s probably

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full of smelly jerseys and shorts. He’s taking them home for his housekeeper to wash. They get ironed and folded, ready for him to wear tomorrow. What a life. Just for playing football. ‘Yes?’ Saskia says, ‘My friend’s name is Jayden, too.’ Mr Finch smiles. ‘It’s a good name, hey?’ ‘Yeah, I guess. Except my last name is Hayden. Jayden Hayden.’ ‘Oh. That’s a bit of a bugger, mate.’ He doesn’t even remember Mum’s name! How could he forget her! He reaches down to pick up his bag. ‘Do you have any kids, sir?’ Mr Finch grins. ‘Sure do. Two boys. Willow and Darcy. One year apart.’ Who’d call their kid Willow? ‘They’re pretty old now. My wife and I were only seventeen when we started. Too young for kids. But they’re good blokes. Willow can be a handful but what fourteen-year-old isn’t, hey?’ He has two boys older than me. It doesn’t make sense. Saskia asks, ‘Are you still married, sir?’ ‘Sure am. Why?’ ‘Oh nothing.’ Mr Finch isn’t my dad. He can’t be. Unless? It’s way

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too complicated to think about. He walks to the car and presses the remote to open the boot. I’ve come too far to stop now. Taking a deep breath, I stride across the car park. ‘I’m sorry, sir . . . but, my Mum . . . she’s your biggest fan. Huge. She even named me after you. Even though I don’t like football. I prefer books and science.’ I look around. Saskia is standing close beside me. ‘Saskia and I, we came to find my dad. We know it’s someone Mum really liked. I mean really, really liked.’ Mr Finch closes the boot and folds his arms, listening intently and frowning. ‘So, we came here to see if you knew, well, if you knew anything about . . .’ Saskia jumps in. ‘Are you Jayden’s dad?’ Crows fall out of the sky and lay twitching in the dirt. The traffic lights flash red. A million car alarms start screeching. Two old men sitting at the bus shelter faint. A lady walking her baby in a stroller raises her hand to her mouth in shock. The baby sits up in the stroller and gasps, clenching both little fists over his ears. Two clouds collide, a once-in-a-century storm. And I wish I was invisible. ‘What?’ Please, Saskia. Don’t repeat it. ‘Are you Jayden’s dad?’ Mr Finch looks from Saskia to me and back again.

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‘Is this . . . are you from some current affairs show?’ He moves quickly to the driver’s door, cursing under his breath. He points a finger at us and shouts, ‘I’ve been happily married for fifteen years. Cheryl and I had a misunderstanding a few years ago, but it’s nobody’s business. We’re back together. We’ve been right as rain ever since. And I never slept . . .’ He stops and looks around the car park. Not even a scrap of paper or a leaf dares move. ‘You’re not a plant, are you?’ We shake our heads, not even sure what ‘a plant’ is. ‘You’re just two kids. Right?’ We nod vigorously. I’m sure glad Saskia didn’t pretend to be a reporter from the Daily Sun. ‘Sorry, Sir. We didn’t have any clues, apart from Mum’s favourite footballer.’ It all seems shallow and stupid when I say it aloud. I turn to walk away, hoping Saskia will follow. She stands with her hands on her hips. ‘My mum’s a lawyer!’ Mr Finch says, ‘So?’ ‘She tells me about fathers and mothers and divorce. It never sounds very nice. She says adults lie all the time. Even in court. After swearing on the Bible.’ Mr Finch looks like he’s about to do some swearing of his own. ‘She’s not saying you’d lie, Mr Finch.’

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He shakes his head and opens the car door, then stops and stares at the ground for a long time. He points to the passenger door. ‘Get in. Both of you.’ Me and Saskia back away. Mr Finch smiles. ‘Yeah, I know you’ve been taught stranger danger. But, I’m not a stranger am I? I’m Jayden Finch, captain of the Blues. And this boy’s long-lost father. Only I’m not.’ He gets into the car and opens the back door. ‘There you go, you can both sit in the back. There’s only one way to prove I’m not your dad. I’ll take you home. To meet your mum. If I am your dad, I’m pretty sure she’ll have a few words to say. Don’t ya reckon?’ It makes sense. We get into the car. Mr Finch guns the engine and does a screeching u-turn in the car park. We quickly fasten our seat belts. Mr Finch glances in the rear-mirror and immediately slows down. ‘Sorry, kids. I wasn’t thinking. So, where do you live, Jayden?’ I give him the address. What will happen when Mum meets Mr Finch?

77

A periwinkle left out in the sun

Stretch Maybury is sitting on his fence when we drive by. He waves at Saskia and me in the back seat. His mouth slowly drops open as he sees who’s driving. I remember laughing clowns at the fair. Dropping ping pong balls into their wide, open mouths. Stretch is doing a perfect imitation. He’s going to have a thousand questions for me at school on Monday. If I live that long. Please let Mum be at CheapMart. ‘Mr Finch, Mum doesn’t know I was looking for you. I mean, my dad. You can just let us off here and we’ll walk home. Won’t we Saskia?’ Saskia sees the pleading in my eyes and bites her lip.

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‘No way, mate. We’ve come this far. No turning back now. And remember, your friend’s a lawyer. Next thing I know I’ll have a writ in the mail asking for a blood test to check paternity.’ It must be pretty annoying to be confronted by some kid with a National Geographic cap claiming to be your son. Particularly when you’ve got two already. I slump back in the seat. Saskia reaches for my hand. She whispers, ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got an idea.’ I slump even lower. Saskia smiles as we walk up the front stairs. Please don’t come to the door with your rollers in, Mum. Not today. Mr Finch knocks loudly. The sound echoes through the house. A voice bellows from inside. ‘Who is it?’ ‘It’s me, Mum.’ ‘Use your key!’ ‘I can’t find it. And I have a friend.’ Mum opens the door. ‘I was in the middle of . . .’ She stands at the entrance, a towel wrapped around her hair, a stain leaking from underneath it, staring at Mr Finch. ‘Aren’t you . . .’ Saskia steps forward. ‘Hello, Mrs Hayden. My name is Saskia. Let me

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introduce you to Jayden Finch, the best footballer to ever play for the Blues.’ Mum doesn’t move. She’s wearing a lilac dressing gown tied tightly at the waist with the Blues scarf. Saskia reaches across, takes Mum’s hand and leads her inside. I gently nudge them both towards the kitchen. Mr Finch waits at the door. He can’t take his eyes off Mum’s matching dressing gown and ugg boots. Saskia quickly walks back and grabs his hand. ‘Jayden, can you make a cup of tea? Mr Finch would love one after all that running around, chasing, tossing, whacking, bashing a ball. Wouldn’t you, Mr Finch?’ ‘Kicking,’ says Mum. ‘Mr Finch kicks a ball.’ Everyone sits at the kitchen table. Saskia keeps talking. ‘Kicking, yeah. Well! What a surprise, Mrs Hayden? This is all Jayden’s doing.’ Saskia leans close to Mum. ‘Jayden’s been planning this for ages. We begged Mr Finch to visit his number one fan and, being such a wonderful man, he said yes!’ Saskia sits back, pleased with herself. I stand at the sink holding the empty tea pot, looking quickly from Mum to Mr Finch. No one says a word. Saskia doesn’t need prompting. ‘Every player loves to meet their fans. In their own homes. Away from all that yelling and sweating and running and scrambling and bumping and tripping and . . .’

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Saskia’s a little lost with football. I interrupt. ‘I hope you don’t mind, Mum.’ Mr Finch looks from me to Saskia and then to Mum. He’s about to argue, but shakes his head. ‘Yeah. I have a hectic schedule but . . . they had an interesting way of getting me to visit.’ Mum slowly smiles. ‘Well, I’m as thrilled as a horse at Easter, Jayden. You don’t mind me calling you Jayden, do you Mr Finch? I’m sorry to sit here like a stuffed pillow. It’s an honour to meet you. I’ve been a Blues fan longer than a dog chases a butterfly. I come to every home match unless I’m working. Then I keep a little radio under the counter to hear the score. When I’m called away from my workstation with a few minutes left in the game, well, I’m like a snail without a shell. And the semi-final last year, I cried. I cried for days. It was like . . .’ I’m not sure Mr Finch can take another simile from hell. ‘Mum named me after you, Mr Finch. Didn’t you Mum?’ Mum turns a bright shade of red although it may be the hair dye leaking from under her towel. Saskia says, ‘It’s strange to name your son after someone you’ve never met.’ Mum sits up, stiffly. ‘What do you mean?’

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‘Well, sometimes children are named after relatives. You know, grandparents or uncles, or even . . . dads.’ Saskia looks meaningfully at Mr Finch. I wait for the kettle to boil and Mum to boil over. Mum narrows her eyes. ‘What did you say your name was, dear?’ ‘Saskia. Saskia Devine.’ ‘Saskia. That’s lovely. Is that your mother’s name?’ ‘No way. Mum’s name is Sarah.’ ‘Your grandmother’s?’ ‘No. Mum and Dad looked up a baby name book and argued for two days between Olivia and Allegra. In the end, they put twenty names in a hat and drew out Saskia.’ Mum looks at Mr Finch. ‘Jayden, you don’t mind parents naming their kids after you? It’s a compliment, really.’ ‘It is, Mrs Hayden. But Jayden tells me he’s not into footy. He likes books instead.’ ‘He reads books more often than I dye my hair.’ Mum touches her hair. And feels the wet towel. She looks down at her dressing gown and ugg boots. ‘Oh no! I look like an overdressed turkey on Christmas Day.’ She jumps up quickly and runs to the bathroom, calling over her shoulder, ‘I’ll be quicker than a flea on a dog.’ I pour the tea and Saskia offers Mr Finch a biscuit. He

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glances through the doorway and keeps his voice quiet. ‘I take it we can stop thinking of me as your dad now, Jayden?’ ‘Thanks for, you know, not telling her about . . .’ Mum sweeps into the room, her rust-red locks immaculately styled. She’s wearing a long black dress and has a necklace of fake pearls hanging low around her neck. ‘Dear me, fancy meeting a guest in such a state. I feel like a periwinkle left out in the sun.’ Saskia giggles and I cough quickly. Mr Finch winks at Mum. ‘I know exactly what you mean. After a game, reporters come into our dressing room asking questions and sticking microphones under our noses before we’ve even had a chance to dry our hair.’ He touches his scalp. ‘Of course, I haven’t got enough to wrap in a towel but I can just imagine being on the sports news wrapped up like a . . .’ ‘A birthday present?’ I suggest. ‘A bandaged bear,’ Saskia offers. Mr Finch looks at each of us and smiles. ‘Like a periwinkle left out in the sun. That was the line, wasn’t it, Mrs Hayden?’ Mum blushes again. ‘Sandra, call me Sandra.’ She touches her hair just to make sure the towel isn’t still there.

83

On vegetarians and cyclones

I sit up in bed looking at my cap. Mr Finch stayed for two cups of tea yesterday and I’d never seen Mum so happy. She sang as she washed the dishes and then rang Gail. When I called her for Summer Beach, she smiled. ‘Sorry, darl, I’ve just got to tell Gail one more thing.’ She talked for another thirty minutes. I could hear her laughter from the lounge room. The stupid school breakfast, with or without a dad, lasts a few hours. Mum, excited and glowing and giggling – that lasts forever.

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There’s a light knock on my door. ‘I’ve cooked you breakfast, darl. Don’t let it go cold.’ Outside, it’s pouring with rain. Why always on a Sunday? In the kitchen, there’s a huge plate of scrambled eggs and bacon on the table and Mum pours me a tumbler of freshly-squeezed orange juice. I look at the calendar on the fridge. ‘What’s the special occasion?’ ‘Can’t I give my son a treat now and then?’ I slurp the juice and begin on the pile of scrambled eggs after adding extra pepper. Mum sits opposite and butters her single piece of toast. She cuts it into long fingers just like she used to do when I was really young. I’d sit in the highchair and dip each slice into a runny egg. Mum called them soldiers, even though they just looked like thin strips of toast. ‘It was very nice, Jayden.’ ‘Have you already had some Mum? Why didn’t you wait?’ ‘Not the brekkie! Yesterday. What you did, you silly pawpaw.’ I remember afternoon tea and Mum bringing out cupcakes she’d baked earlier in the day. With blue icing. I don’t know who laughed the most – Mum or Mr Finch. Mr Finch even signed Mum’s jersey.

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‘No one has done anything so lovely for me in such a long time.’ ‘Yeah. It was nice of Mr Finch to sign your jersey. He signed my hat as well before I even asked him too.’ ‘Not Jayden. You! That was special, what you did, darl. I’m trying to thank you. Gee, you’re as vague as a moose with a cold.’ I picture a moose towering over me, long nose running, eyes itching as it tries to stop sneezing. Can a moose bellow with a stuffed nose or just sniff in a threatening manner? And why was a moose with a cold more vague than a healthy animal? Was it taking flu tablets? ‘Saskia seems very nice.’ Mum smiles and smooths the tablecloth that’s already perfectly straight. She pours herself another cup of tea, stretching the Blues tea-cosy across the pot to keep it warm. ‘If you want to invite her over for dinner one night I’ll cook roast lamb.’ ‘She’s a vegetarian, Mum.’ ‘No! What does she eat then? Bean sprouts and tofu? That’s not enough for a growing girl. If she’s not careful she’ll float away like a leaf.’ Leaves fell to the ground. And got wet and soggy and then disappeared into mulch. I don’t often walk down the street watching leaves floating along beside

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me. Unless I’m in a cyclone. I wouldn’t like to be out in wind that strong. There’d be roofing iron and advertising signs flying everywhere. A person could get blown away, whether they ate meat or not. If I was ever walking down the street with Saskia in a strong wind I’d hold her hand. Just in case. ‘I could cook a spinach pie, I guess. That’d be okay, wouldn’t it, darl?’ ‘Sure, Mum. We both need to eat lots in case of cyclones.’ I start clearing the table. ‘No, darl. I’ll do that. You go off and read.’ She really is in a good mood.

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A world record in your own backyard

It’s stopped raining. I put on my cap and walk downstairs to sit on the garden seat under the jacaranda tree. A bright blue finch with black markings around his eyes lands just above my head. ‘Hello, Zorro bird.’ He hops quickly from one branch to another. Do you know the heart beat of a bird in flight is over one thousand beats per minute? Tony Thompson leans over the fence and points at my book. ‘What’s that?’ Do I dare say, ‘It’s a book, silly!’

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Tony scratches his nose. ‘What’s it about?’ I walk to the fence. ‘It’s The Guinness Book of Records. Everything from the world’s fastest turkey-plucker to the heaviest weight dangled from a swallowed sword.’ Tony Thompson narrows his eyes and sneers. ‘You’re kidding me?’ ‘You want to bet?’ Tony looks around nervously. He has nothing to wager – except his football. ‘Don’t worry, Tony. I’ll tell you anyway. The world record holder for weight-dangling sword swallowing is held by an Australian.’ ‘No way. It’s got to be a Russian. They’re the best weightlifters. Dad says it’s because they pull farm carts full of cabbages.’ I flip through the book to find the details and hold it up to Tony. ‘See? Matthew Henshaw. A twenty kilo sack of potatoes dangling from his sword.’ Tony leans over the fence to get a better look. He reads the page, open-mouthed, squinting. ‘That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever read in my life. He’s got to be crazy.’ ‘He’s in the book. In black and white . . .’ I check the photo, ‘. . . and colour.’ Tony says, ‘I’d like to be in that book.’

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‘Well, all you’ve got to do is something unusual. Something unique.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Sure. I guess.’ Tony looks around my backyard, then his own, searching . . . He points at the tallest gum tree by the back fence. ‘How high do you reckon that is?’ I step back to estimate. ‘Twenty-five metres.’ ‘Nah. I reckon closer to thirty.’ Tony nods at my book. ‘Do you think there’s something in there about climbing trees? Or swinging from the tallest tree? Something, anything to do with trees?’ I can already hear the ambulance sirens, the running parents, the screams, the evening news cameras, the pointing fingers. ‘He told my son to jump. He knew the rope wouldn’t hold.’ ‘It was all in that stupid book. Tony wouldn’t do this alone.’ Tony says, ‘We could fix a rope to the highest branch. No worries. And I could tie it around my waist. Like a bungee jump!’ ‘It’s . . . it’s very high, Tony. Very high!’ ‘We’ll tie it around Timmy’s waist then. Yeah. It’s only fair my brother gets in the book first, hey?’

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Timmy sticks his head out the bedroom window. ‘Someone call me?’ Tony answers, ‘How would you like to be famous? And get your name in this record book what’s-his-face is holding.’ ‘Jayden.’ ‘Yeah. It’s called The Beginner’s Book of Records.’ Timmy grins. ‘I’ll be right down.’ I have sixty seconds to avoid disaster. Timmy skips down the back stairs and runs to the fence. His hair is neatly combed and slicked down with water. He grins again. ‘I want to look good if I’m going in a record book.’ Fifty-five seconds and counting. I say, ‘There’s a form you have to sign. And your parents have to sign it as well. It’s called a waiver. In case something goes wrong.’ Tony sneers, ‘What’s going to go wrong? We’re just swinging from a tree.’ Timmy stops grinning. ‘Which tree? Who’s swinging?’ Tony points to my book. ‘Look, do you want to be in the book or not? It’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance.’ Timmy looks from me to Tony to the glossy book.

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‘Do you get your photo as well? Not just your name?’ Fifty seconds . . . Tony says, ‘Sure. Just imagine. T. Thompson. There for all the world to see.’ Timmy high-fives the fence in his excitement. ‘Hang on. “T. Thompson?” Nah. It’s got to be Timmy Thompson. And a photo.’ ‘Hang on, fellas. Remember the waiver. Your parents.’ Tony clicks his fingers. ‘I got it! I can sign Dad’s name. Easy. It’s just a scrawl. Let’s get the form. Timmy, grab a pen.’ Timmy turns and runs towards the house. Thirty seconds, counting down. ‘Stop! You need a witness.’ Tony points straight back at me. ‘You got the book. You’d be a good witness.’ Twenty seconds. ‘I can’t be a witness.’ ‘Why not? You scared?’ Fifteen seconds. ‘No. It’s . . . it’s . . . got to be an adult.’ Tony says, ‘Your Mum. She’s an adult.’ Ten seconds, nine, eight, seven . . . ‘She’s out. She won’t be home till tonight.’ Tony looks in the garage. ‘No, she’s not. There’s her car.’

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Six, five, four . . . Tony turns to Timmy, ‘Timmy, go and get Dad’s rope from the shed.’ Three, two . . . ‘Wait. There’s something I haven’t told you.’ I feel a drop of sweat roll down my cheek and plop onto the book. ‘Do you know anything about Certification Rights?’ Tony looks at Timmy and shrugs. Timmy slowly shakes his head. How big a lie can I tell? ‘Listen closely. Certification Rights are . . . when you get the attempt . . . certified.’ I rack my memory for the dictionary meaning. To get something approved, accepted. ‘You have to apply before the attempt. So no one else will steal your idea and try it before you do. It means the idea is all yours.’ Tony smiles. ‘Cool. I’ve never had an idea before.’ Clock stopped. ‘It’s great. You get a certificate. In a frame. With your idea. The only problem is the cost.’ ‘What cost?’ ‘Two thousand, five hundred and fifty-two dollars.’ ‘what!’ ‘And forty-eight cents.’ That should do it. But just to make sure.

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‘Plus GST.’ Tony and Timmy slump down. I wipe my forehead with the cap. That was close. Tony looks at me, curiously. ‘Hey. What’s that on your face?’ He moves closer. ‘Have you been writing on your face?’ I touch my forehead with a finger and feel something sticky. There’s a black smudge. Timmy leans in to look as well. I feel like a goldfish in a bowl. A very small bowl, with two cats staring at it, licking their lips. I wipe my forehead furiously trying to remove the stain. What is it? Tony laughs. ‘You should write on paper. Not your own face. How uncool is that?’ I look down at the cap in my hands and see the smudged signature. I’ve wiped my face with the cap and Mr Finch’s autograph. I twirl the cap in front of Timmy and Tony and say two words. ‘Jayden Finch.’ ‘That’s not his cap. No way!’ I keep twirling the cap, hoping the signature isn’t too smudged. Tony sneers. ‘He’d have a Blues cap. That’s a boring old National Geological cap.’ ‘National Geographic. But, look what’s on it?’ The boys look at the spinning cap. They’re crosseyed, trying to focus.

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‘Hold the cap steady, will you?’ ‘Oh, sorry.’ I hold the cap, peak facing the brothers. ‘See that. Guess whose autograph it is?’ Tony almost dribbles when he makes out the scrawl. ‘No chance! You wrote that yourself.’ I can’t resist gloating, just a little. ‘He signed the cap. And gave Mum a jersey. Yesterday, when he visited.’ Tony grabs me by the arm. ‘You’re kidding! Jayden Finch visited you? You don’t even like footy.’ ‘Yeah, but my Mum does. I wanted to surprise her so I asked Mr Finch to visit. And he did.’ I look at the cap in my hands. ‘Anyway, Mr Finch signed my hat. But, seeing I’m not a fan, well, I thought maybe . . .’ Tony snatches the cap from my hand. ‘I’d be pleased to have it, thanks Jayden. Mate.’ Timmy grabs it off Tony. ‘Hang on. I’m younger than you.’ ‘So?’ ‘So it’s mine!’ And to seal it, Timmy turns and yells thanks. Tony yells thanks as well and jumps on his brother’s back, wrestling for the cap. I quietly sneak away determined not to set foot in my backyard again for a long time.

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Tiffany, Kirk and a herd of wildebeests

I walk slowly across town to Saskia’s thinking about what Mum said over breakfast – no one has done anything nice for her in a long time. Was she admitting to wanting a boyfriend? I shiver. In Summer Beach, the boyfriend never has a job, wears smelly T-shirts, puts his feet up on the coffee table, smacks the girlfriend’s children and eventually steals all the money and disappears. The poor woman cries for at least five episodes and then moves to Tasmania. I’ve never been to Tasmania. I picture kids walking to school getting blown sideways by Antarctic winds and sheep huddled under trees, spindly legs shaking.

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There’s only one solution. To be even nicer to Mum. I don’t have enough warm clothes for Tasmania. Or enough handkerchiefs for a sad mother. I quicken my pace determined to become the world’s best son. Starting tonight. I tell Saskia everything over the largest plate of sandwiches I’ve ever seen. (Note: Check The Guinness Book of Records’ food section when I get home.) Saskia’s dad, Pete, spent hours in the kitchen preparing them. I hear Pete, in his study, talking to himself. His voice keeps changing tone, like he’s acting. ‘Tiffany, I must go. For the sake of our future.’ Saskia shifts uncomfortably in her chair. Pete’s voice goes really high and breathy. ‘Oh Kirk. I don’t know if I can live without . . .’ The voice deepens. ‘You must, it’s all we have . . .’ I reach for another sandwich. Saskia picks up the plate. ‘Let’s go out to the verandah.’ We lounge in the swinging seat, the sun through the trees along the back fence warming us. The door slides open and Pete brings out a huge jug of orange juice with sprigs of mint floating on top. He winks at Saskia, ‘I’ll be in my study, Sass. Love beckons.’

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I hope my dad, wherever he may be, is a little like Pete. ‘Doesn’t your dad have a job?’ I whisper. Saskia looks a little embarrassed. ‘Sort of.’ ‘What do you mean, sort of?’ Maybe Pete is a house-husband? Or an actor? That would explain the voices. ‘He’s a writer.’ ‘Really! Not poetry?’ That would be too good to be true. Saskia blushes. ‘No.’ ‘Kids books? Adventure books?’ Saskia stands and calls out to her dad. ‘We’re off. I’ll be home in a few hours. Thanks for lunch, Dad.’ Pete pokes his head around the corner and waves. ‘Maybe I’ve read one of his books, Saskia?’ ‘I doubt it.’ ‘Come on, what does he write?’ Saskia mumbles. ‘Pardon?’ ‘romance novels! Okay? My dad writes romance novels. About people called Tiffany and Kirk. The books have pink covers. In every story, Tiffany lives alone in some trendy house with marble floors and a spa bath.’ I smirk. ‘Until Kirk comes along.’

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Mum has a few of those books. ‘Sometimes he lets me think of names for the characters. I’ve come up with Beatrice, Charity and Brock. Charity and Brock got engaged.’ ‘What happened to Beatrice?’ Saskia giggles. ‘She died. Dad had never killed anyone in his books before. He was really sad.’ ‘It must be great having a dad who lets you help him.’ ‘It’s okay. Sometimes he locks himself away for days. And he gets really grumpy when his characters aren’t doing what they’re supposed to.’ ‘Like fall in love?’ ‘Yeah. And he talks to himself. In their voices. You should have heard Beatrice’s dying words. It sounded awful. She had leukaemia. But she made it to the altar with Trent. They went to Africa on their honeymoon.’ I can guess the rest. ‘And she died in his arms, watching the sun set over the plains.’ ‘No. Crushed to death by a stampede of wildebeests. Trent escaped.’ Saskia giggles. ‘Beatrice has a twin sister Trent doesn’t know about. Dad’s planning a sequel.’

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Dinner with Charlie

I stand on the kitchen bench, looking through the recipe books on the top shelf of the cupboard. The biggest book has a picture of a roast chicken on the cover. ‘Twenty ways to stuff a bird!’ Perfect! The easiest recipe is on page thirtytwo – Golden Brown Chicken with Tarragon Stuffing. Stuffing really means what it says. I have to squeeze things into the bird. Through its legs into where the stomach used to be. I have to put my hand inside. No wonder Saskia is a vegetarian. Mum will be home in exactly two hours. I place the cold and clammy chicken on a tray

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and concentrate on the stuffing. There are hundreds of packets and bottles and jars in the cupboards. Everything from ginger to ginseng. Has Mum ever used ginseng? There should be warning labels. Careful, this meal contains ginseng. What is ginseng anyway? It sounds like it’s good for you. I carefully add breadcrumbs, thyme, tarragon, parsley, butter, a chopped onion and milk to the blender. The herbs float in the soupy mush. I count to three and switch it on. The blades spin wildly. Oops! Spices spit in every direction. Gloopy milk drenches my shirt. One soggy mess of breadcrumbs flies past my nose and sticks to the ceiling where it hangs for a few seconds before peeling away and landing, plop, on my head! The blender whines. I switch it off and the blades groan to a slow stop. I run into the bathroom and plunge my head under the shower turning the tap full blast. I can smell the milk souring on my shirt. I trudge back to the kitchen after drying my hair and changing my shirt and start mixing up a new batch of stuffing. This time, I hold the lid down tightly, count to three, close my eyes and turn it on. Success! I plop it all out into a bowl. Now for the difficult part. I scoop up a handful of

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stuffing and with my free hand spread the chicken’s legs and reach inside, pushing the mixture into the bird. ‘Sorry Charlie chicken. I know it must be pretty embarrassing sitting here with your legs stuck in the air. Think of this as an operation to give you back your stomach.’ I had a good stomach in the first place! Full of pellets of grain and grass and even the odd insect. ‘I didn’t know chickens ate grass?’ I did! Remember your dark-haired friend told you to buy a free-range bird at the supermarket? Well, until last week I was happily clucking around the paddock. I had heaps of space to share with my friends. And a warm shed to sleep in at night. The only things I had to worry about were snakes. I dare not ask Charlie about his mum and dad. Now that you mention it. ‘I didn’t say a word!’ At least I knew my dad! Not for long. They took him when I was just a chick. ‘Sorry to hear that. And I apologise about this. It’s for my mum.’ The cuckoo clock on the wall strikes five. Ninety minutes until Mum gets home. I put the chicken into the oven and start on the potatoes, garlic and pumpkin. I hope Mum appreciates

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what I’m going through to make her happy and not go looking for a boyfriend. I cover the table with her best crocheted tablecloth. Plates. Cutlery. Salt. Pepper. I start to place two beeswax candles in the centre of the table and then think better of it. Candles mean romance and boyfriends. I don’t want her to think of that! I want her to be happy with me. Just me. And going to the footy with Gail. The front door slams. ‘Hi, Mum. How was your day?’ My plan includes lots of questions. Did you have a nice lunch? Were the customers friendly? Did any man ask you on a date? Would you like to tell me where my dad lives? ‘Hi, Jayden. I’m just getting changed. Today was like a buffalo.’ I imagine lots of angry customers stamping their feet. Or breaking things and Mum having to clean it up. A good day would be like a pussycat. Everything purring along, the customers content to sit around drinking milk and sleeping. Good for the staff but the store wouldn’t make much money with all those dozing shoppers.

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‘What’s that smell?’ ‘It’s dinner, Mum. Roast Charlie . . . I mean roast chicken. Your favourite.’ Mum stands in the doorway looking at the neatly set table. Wearing the Souths centenary oven mitts, I open the oven door and slowly lift the chicken out, placing the tray in the centre of the table. I put the potatoes and roast garlic and pumpkin beside the chicken and wait for Mum to sit. She’s sniffling. ‘It’s okay, Mum. I followed the recipe.’ The bird looks golden brown and smells delicious. Mum wipes the tears on her sleeve and sits down. She looks at me, trying really hard to smile. ‘With stuffing, Mum. It took a while.’ I look up at the stain on the ceiling. ‘Jayden. It’s like a . . . like a . . .’ I don’t believe it! Mum’s lost for words. I finish the sentence for her, ‘. . . like a holiday?’ Mum winks as she reaches for the carving knife and fork. ‘Better than a holiday, darl. Much better.’ Maybe I can teach my dad how to cook. We can share things. Like Saskia and her dad thinking of names for characters in his books. I wonder what my dad does for a job. Surgeon? No, thanks. Too much blood. Fireman? Too much excitement! Teacher? Too many children!

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Saskia is lucky. Very lucky. After dinner, I begin to clear the table. ‘Jayden, I’ll do it. Go and read a book, darl.’ Mum squeezes my cheeks and tells me she loves me. She hugs me twice. ‘I’ll make a special dessert, darl. One better than a blimp on a bullfrog!’ My cheeks burn with embarrassment and the pain from Mum’s fingers! I dial Saskia’s number and take the phone to my room. ‘Hi, Saskia. Mum loved the chicken.’ Oops. I can imagine Saskia screwing up her face at the thought of the dead bird. ‘Mum loved my cooking. Great plan.’ ‘Next time, I’ll teach you roast tofu with Chinese vegetables. And rice.’ I try to picture a plate of roast tofu. The colour? The smell? Do you add gravy? Ginseng gravy? What is a tofu anyway? Does it grow on a tofu tree? I can hear Saskia’s Mum calling her. ‘Sorry, Jayden. I’ve gotta go. Dad’s shut himself in the study all afternoon. I heard crying when I got home. Another character is in trouble. I hope it’s not Charity.’

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‘Well, thanks Saskia. Mum will never want a boyfriend if I keep this up. She might even tell me where my dad lives!’ I jump out of bed to return the phone and run straight into Mum, holding a bowl of apple crumble heaped with ice-cream. Our eyes meet. I know lots of words for what I see. Hurt. Sadness. Anxiety. Woe. Gloom. Too many words. She places the bowl on my desk, gives me a big hug and kisses me good night, her hands lightly caress my face. She quietly closes the door. She’s made the crumble with just the right amount of cinnamon and butter. She’s added ice-cream while the crumble was steaming hot, letting it melt into a delicious creamy pool. Just the way I like it. I eat it slowly, but can’t taste a bite. Mum heard every word.

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I see the note as soon as I walk into the kitchen. Mum left early this morning after giving me another very long hug. She’d been crying. Written on pink paper with green ink were the words, Dear Jayden, Come home straight after school please. We have to talk. Love, Mum. At the bottom of the page she’d drawn little stick figures of children in short pants and curly hair running between the margins. A jungle of sunflowers, taller than the children, grow from every space. Mum had probably spent hours at the table thinking of what she’d heard last night. Doodling. I put two pieces of bread in the toaster and run to

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my room while they cook. I grab my pencil case full of highlighters and felt-tip pens. Back in the kitchen, I spread Vegemite thickly over the toast and eat it, counting twenty chews per mouthful. My word for today is mastication – to chew and grind food. Twenty chews for proper digestion. I colour in each of the sunflowers with a highlighter. I draw ears and noses on the faces of each of the children. Then I draw a figure standing under a giant sunflower. She wears Jayden Finch’s number eight blue jersey. Her hair is long and pale red. She’s smiling. Hamilton slings his schoolbag over one shoulder and walks just ahead of me. He keeps stroking his chin as if he’s old enough to grow stubble. He’s the same age as me. ‘My dad and granddad will be at the breakfast.’ I know what’s coming next. Best not to say a word. The school gate is two blocks away. ‘Maybe even Uncle George. He’s a rally driver. He’ll probably come in one of his souped-up cars. With a roll cage and fat tyres.’ Hamilton has lots of interesting uncles. There’s Arnie, the jumbo pilot; Jerry, who works at the zoo and often wanders around Dunsmore Swamp looking for injured animals; and Tobias, who lives on a boat and

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has a long grey beard and never wears shoes. Hamilton swaggers ahead of me. ‘My dad is definitely coming. He wouldn’t miss it for nothing.’ I can see the playground. Lots of primary kids wave at the trucks going by, hoping the driver will blow his horn. ‘Who’s coming with you, Rhyming Boy?’ There’re four days until the breakfast. Hamilton saunters backwards to face me. ‘Don’t ya have anyone?’ I don’t want to tell Hamilton about Mr Hardy. He’ll just laugh. ‘Why don’t ya just bring a photo then? If ya can’t find anyone real.’ Hamilton skips backwards. There’s a lamp post in the middle of the footpath. Hamilton is looking at me and smirking. In exactly twenty seconds he’s going to walk backwards into the pole. He’ll fall over in front of everyone. He’ll land on his school bag and squash the sandwiches inside. Squelched peanut paste will be smeared across his homework; the water bottle will crack and leak. The water will mix with the peanut paste and soak his Jetman comic in a suspicious brown goo. When he gets home his mum will make him clean the bag instead of watching cartoons on Channel Eight. The paste will be

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hard and flaky after baking all day in the sun on the school verandah. Hamilton will need a wire brush and lots of damp rags. No matter how much he scrubs, the bag will smell of stale peanuts and wet paper. Hamilton is getting closer and closer to the pole. ‘There must be someone who’ll go with you, Rhyming Boy.’ ‘Hamilton.’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘You’re about to walk into a lamp post.’ Hamilton stops, the smile frozen on his face. He looks around. The post towers over him. ‘I knew that! I’m not stupid, ya know.’ He steps around the post and swaggers through the gate. I run my hand along the grain of the lamp post. Heavy solid wood. When I get home there’s a plate of scones on the kitchen table with two jars of jam – strawberry and apricot. There’s cream in a glass bowl. This morning’s drawing is stuck to the fridge. Mum sits at the table, pouring a cup of tea. A full bottle of Coke is beside my glass. Mum never buys Coke. She pours a tall glass. ‘Let’s both have a treat, love.’ I watch the brown froth slowly rise to the rim, waiting

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to see if it fizzes over and runs down the side of the glass. It stops a centimetre from the top. Bubbling. Mum shakes her head. ‘I don’t know where to start, darl.’ Steam rises from the dark yellow scones on top of the pile. Pumpkin! ‘I rang your dad today.’ My fingers grip tightly on the glass. I feel the tingle of the fizz spray. ‘My dad?’ Mum shifts in her chair. She keeps glancing at the phone on the wall. ‘Yes. I thought . . .’ She looks at the ceiling, searching for words. All she sees is a suspicious stain that wasn’t there last week. I wonder how deep the crease on Mum’s forehead can go. ‘I thought it was about time he became . . .’ she frowns at the ceiling, ‘. . . became involved. A boy needs a dad. At least, sometimes.’ A fly buzzes in circles over the sink. ‘What? I mean, pardon?’ The fly looks to be stuck in a perfect holding pattern, waiting to land on the stainless steel runway of the sink. Mum closes her eyes. ‘He said he’d meet you, if you want. Soon.’ I gulp and feel my mouth go all twisted and blubbery.

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The fly goes round and round in perfect circles. ‘When? How? Where?’ Mum sighs. ‘That’s up to you, darl.’ She runs her hands along the tablecloth, fingering the intricate patterns. ‘I could take you to his house, if you want? I won’t come in. Or you could invite him here? Cook him one of your special dinners. That would impress anyone!’ I couldn’t cook and talk to my dad at the same time. Mum leans across the table and takes my hand. ‘Or you could meet him at a café. Just for a little while to begin with.’ My voice is lost somewhere in the churning of my stomach so I nod quickly. A café, with lots of people. I don’t want to be alone with my dad. Not yet. Me and my dad. The fly is circling faster with excitement. ‘I’m sorry, Jayden. I should have done this earlier.’ I jump up from the chair and run to hug Mum. I bury my face deep in the warmth of her cardigan. She slowly strokes my hair. I feel like giggling and crying at the same time. ‘How will I know what he looks like, Mum?’ She tousles my hair. ‘If I’m not mistaken, he’ll be wearing a suit. He’s got curly hair, just like you. I’m

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sure he’ll recognise you.’ Mum frowns and begins to say something else, but stops. ‘What, Mum?’ She shakes her head and stands, disturbing the fly while she gets a glass of water from the sink. The insect moves higher, maintaining his circle just like pilots do in bad weather. ‘When do you want to meet him?’ I should plan, so nothing can go wrong. ‘Tomorrow? At the café in the park. I’ll go shopping and then wait in the car. Okay?’ I have a thousand questions. Time to make a list.

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The obscure facts of Jayden Hayden

I open the curtains on the one hundred and fifty-second Thompson Cup Final. Timmy, in goal, is wearing my cap. Tony is lining up another penalty. Mrs Thompson is pruning the hedge on the far side of the garden. Shower steam and Mr Thompson’s flat off-key singing billows through the open window of the Thompson’s bathroom. I draw two columns on a sheet of paper. In the first column I’ll list stuff about myself Dad won’t know. Which is everything! I’ll list the most interesting things. In the second column I’ll list all my questions. I’ll study them all night and tomorrow morning. That’ll leave nothing to chance.

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Column one: five simple things my dad might find interesting. 1. Obscure facts I know stuff other kids don’t. Like the number of times you chew food before swallowing – that would be suitable for a conversation in a café. Twenty times each mouthful. Only it’s best not to count out loud. You’re likely to spit on someone. And did you know there are over fifty billion galaxies in the universe? Imagine that! 2. Favourite words I’ll drop my favourite words into the conversation and wait for Dad’s reaction. Fitting schizoid and efficacious into a sentence will be a challenge! 3. The Guinness Book of Records Maybe I should take it to the café and show Dad the man who pulled a jumbo jet ninety-one metres along the tarmac. I’ll promise him I won’t try it. He’d worry about the doctors’ bills. 4. Poetry I’ll whisper the word just in case anyone else hears. I hope it doesn’t frighten Dad. Poetry isn’t something ordinary people know much about. Not like building houses and sewing clothes and driving cars and baking

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cakes and paddling down the Murray River. Poetry! You might just as well say you like Madagascan radish peeling.

5. Saskia Dad will definitely want to hear about my best friend! I wish Saskia could come tomorrow. She’d know what to say. It’s all because of Saskia that I’m meeting my dad. I would never have had the nerve to search alone. One day, I’ll write a poem to Saskia. I won’t show it to anyone. Except Saskia. I look out my window. The floodlight streams across the backyard, making the dew on the grass sparkle. Mr Thompson is standing at the barbeque on the verandah, cooking sausages. He’s wearing a bright pink apron with the words I’m the cook, okay! scrawled across it in black cartoon letters. In one hand he holds a can of beer; in the other, long, shiny, silver barbeque tongs. He waves them around in time to the music coming from their kitchen. I sharpen my pencil and dig the point into my thumb. It leaves a tiny dent.

Column two: questions for Dad. There’s so much to ask.

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1. What’s your name? I swallow hard and my eyes start to blink with tears. I don’t even know my own father’s name. I’ll practise shaking hands before meeting Dad. To make a good impression. Mr Hardy will help with that. 2. What do you do for a job? Dad wears a suit. Maybe he’s the manager of a company? I hope he’s a friendly boss who gives his workers lots of holidays. And holds a big party for everyone at Christmas with presents and tables full of finger food. 3. Where do you live? Someone who wears a suit would live in a big house close to the water. He might own a boat and a swimming pool. Bosses need swimming pools to have drinks around when their guests come to sign multimillion dollar deals. You can’t sign those contracts in an office. It has to be beside a pool. The adults won’t swim. They all sit around with cocktails watching the kids dive-bomb. I’ll need a new pair of swimmers. I look out the window. Tony has the football now and is wearing my cap. Maybe they’re taking it in turns. Get the ball, get the cap. Mrs Thompson is hanging clothes on the verandah line and I think of a really awkward question.

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4. Are you married? Do I have a step-mum? Do I have step-brothers? There’s a knock on my door. I quickly put the paper in the top drawer. ‘You’re as quiet as a peacock with laryngitis, Jayden.’ Mum comes to my desk and touches my shoulder. ‘Are you okay?’ ‘Sure, Mum. I was just watching the football.’ Timmy is sitting on his brother pinning his arms to the ground with his knees and grabbing at the cap. ‘Doesn’t look like football to me!’ ‘I think it’s half-time entertainment. World Championship Wrestling.’ Mum walks to the door. ‘Mum, how would a peacock lose his voice?’ ‘Too much singing and showing off.’ I don’t want a step-mum. She’ll be really loud and unfriendly and a bit snobbish. And she won’t even use similes!

118

Never trust a dictionary

I scramble out of bed as soon as I wake and grab the dictionary from my bookcase. I close my eyes, open the book, and point. Bafflement! To confuse, bewilder, perplex. What sort of word is that? Today of all days! Stupid dictionary. I close my eyes, turn the pages quickly and point again. Linger. To remain in one place longer than usual. To dwell in thought, or enjoyment. That’s better! I’m so nervous at breakfast, I accidentally pour apple juice over my Weet-Bix, not milk. I eat it anyway. It

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tastes sweet and chewy. I should write to the Sanitarium Health Food Company with my serving suggestion. Call it, ‘Weet-Bix Surprise’. I stop at Mr Hardy’s house on the way to school. He’s sitting on the step lost in a book. Deefer is asleep at his feet. ‘Come in, laddie. I was on the high seas with an old fisherman reeling in the catch of a lifetime.’ ‘Will he eat it?’ Mr Hardy weighs the book in his hands and pats its battered hard cover. ‘He has to get it on the boat first, laddie. But he’s caught this old man.’ ‘Can I borrow it when you’re finished?’ Mr Hardy laughs and puts the book on the table. ‘Most certainly, laddie.’ ‘Mr Hardy. Can you tell me whether I’m a good handshaker?’ ‘You’re a little young for a job interview, aren’t you?’ ‘I’ve got to meet someone important.’ Mr Hardy smiles. ‘The Queen, perhaps?’ ‘I want to leave a good impression. It’s my dad. I’ve never met him.’ Mr Hardy scratches his chin. ‘Never ever? My, that is an important meeting.’ He stands and holds out his hand.

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‘The trick isn’t only a firm grip. Look the person in the eye. Like this.’ I stand and grip Mr Hardy’s hand. We look at each other and both smile. ‘Perfect, laddie. Not too hard, not too soft. And remember, eye contact. It means you’re equal.’ We sit down. I want to show Dad how mature I am. So he’ll be impressed with Mum for raising me so well. ‘Well, this calls for a celebration. What say we share some teacake, laddie? Before school.’ Mr Hardy goes into the house and returns carrying a tray with two slices of cake and a jug of iced water. ‘Are you nervous, laddie? About meeting your dad? Not the cake. Lovely Mrs Sweet from across the road baked it. It’s delicious. Not even Deefer would eat a cake that I make.’ Deefer opens one eye, whines quietly and then goes straight back to sleep. I take a small bite of the cake and nod. ‘Do you know how I beat nerves, laddie?’ Mr Hardy leans closer. ‘I say their name a few times after meeting them. In conversation. It makes everyone feel comfortable. Don’t just say “How are you?” Say, “How are you, Dad?’’ ’ Mr Hardy takes a bite of the cake and, satisfied, wipes his mouth. He mumbles through the crumbs. ‘Works every time. Trust me.’

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At lunch, Saskia and I sit under the wattle tree. Saskia reaches into her schoolbag and hands me a piece of paper. It has a soft texture and smells of ink. Saskia watches the kindy kids chasing each other around the sand pit. ‘I’m going to show it to Mr Bartog. If you think it’s good enough.’ It’s a fine-line drawing of five girls. One girl is pouring a bright liquid into a beaker over a flame; one has taken the back off a computer and is tinkering with the insides; another girl is operating a remote control model plane – it swoops low over their heads; one girl is changing the tyre of a car – she has smudges of dirt all over her clothes; the last girl is riding a unicycle, her arms spread wide, balancing. She has jet black hair. Saskia giggles. ‘I’ve always wanted to ride one of those.’ Written in big letters across the top of the page are the words, Girls and Gizmos and Grills. The girl with the unicycle has her hair tied in a bright red scrunchie. I look at Saskia. There it is! ‘It’s a work of art, Saskia.’ ‘Mrs Casey said I should show Mr Bartog today.’ There’s so much I want to tell Saskia about this afternoon. She’d laugh and punch my arm and say

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things like, ‘We did it!’ She’d be as excited as I am! She’d read my lists and help with the questions. She’d even offer to wait with Mum in the car park until afterwards, eager to hear how it goes. But I can’t tell her. Not yet. All morning I watched the clock in class ticking over the minutes. I watched Matthew Wynn doing the equations in maths, finishing well before everyone else. Did Matthew’s dad help him every evening with homework as they sat together in his room poring over the problems and giggling at how easy they all were. What would my dad be good at? If he’s the boss of a company, he’s probably an expert at . . . at bossing? Is that something I want to learn? I hand the illustration back to Saskia who rolls it carefully. ‘I’m going to show Mr Bartog after school. Do ya want to come?’ ‘I can’t. I’ve got to meet my Mum. Sorry. She said it’s important.’ Saskia smiles. ‘Mr Bartog can’t say “No.” If he does, I reckon, Mrs Casey will have a fit.’

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A hundred questions and only one answer

My hands fiddle with the seat belt as I look out the window. We’re parked opposite the café. The list is in my pocket, even though I remember every question off by heart. At sports this afternoon, I stood at deep fine leg playing ‘what if . . .’ over and over. What if Dad’s a millionaire? Who cares about money! Mr Hardy says, ‘Money doesn’t talk. It swears.’ Hamilton screamed, ‘How’s that?’ from the slips. Mr Bartog shook his head. What if he’s a genius who invented the world’s smallest personal submarine? I checked this when I got

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home. Pierre Poulin from Canada did it in 2005. What if Dad wanted me to live with him? No. Only every second weekend and for overnight visits to Science Fairs and Exhibitions. What if he says bad things about Mum? Simple. I’d say good things! Over and over, until he believed me. Hamilton shouted ‘catch it’. I looked up to see the hard red ball coming straight for me. I dived sideways, just in time. It bounced and rolled to the boundary for four runs. Hamilton ran over to pick it up, ‘You’re not supposed to jump out of the way, Rhyming Boy!’ I mumbled, ‘Sorry.’ Cricket is a silly game. I look at Mum and feel a nervous twitch start in my tummy and wriggle down each leg. I grip my knees to stop the shaking. Can I walk into the café without falling down? Mum slowly winds down her window and sighs. ‘Well, darl. Here we are. Right on time.’ She sniffles a little. I lean over, kiss her and try to smile. It comes out all crooked and flabby. ‘I’ll be okay, Mum. Don’t worry.’ Outside the café, I take long slow deep breaths and practise my questions. I close my eyes, mouthing the words.

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‘Excuse me, are you alright?’ A man in a chef’s uniform is looking at me. His hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail and he has very thick glasses. ‘Are you talking to me?’ He’s holding a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. A smoking chef with glasses. I make a mental note to check my food for ash. ‘Sorry, I was practising asking questions. To my dad.’ The chef chuckles, ‘The only question a boy need ask his dad is “Where’s my pocket money?’’ ’ I quickly calculate that, averaging pocket money at one dollar a week, I’m owed over six hundred dollars. I’m certainly not asking Dad for that. I step into the café and look around. There’s a noisy group laughing and drinking at the long centre table. The men have draped their suit coats over the back of their chairs. One man is standing slowly and clinking his glass with a spoon to get everyone’s attention. At the next table sit two old ladies, both wearing white bowls uniforms. They’re sipping tea and sharing a cake with cream. Resting on the table are their bowls hats, white with a wide maroon band around the top. In the far corner is a young couple, sitting very close, their elbows resting on the table as they hold hands and

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lean together. The man seems to be whispering. The woman moves closer. I see a man at the window table reading a newspaper. He has curly dark hair and a long nose. I touch my nose. He has a narrow face and sunken cheeks. He needs a good feed. The man looks up. I try to smile. He folds the newspaper and gets up to walk towards me. He’s wearing a suit with a white shirt and bright yellow tie. I quickly rush forward. My throat is dry. My legs feel stiff and awkward. I’m sure I’ll trip over before I reach him. Inside, my stomach does tumble rolls, twists, turns and belly flops. I want to jump into his arms and feel them lift me high in the air, even if I’m too old for that stuff. He holds out his hand. I reach out to grab it and look at him. His eyes dart from me to the waiter to the table to the newspaper in his other hand. That’s not how you do it! ‘I’m . . . Jayden.’ ‘I know.’ We both look quickly out the window. A dog, tied

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to a stop sign, keeps looking up whenever someone passes by, expecting his owner. ‘What’s your name?’ ‘Oh, sorry. Robert. Call me, Robert.’ He reaches for a glass of water and finishes it in one gulp. ‘How are you, Da . . . I mean, Robert?’ ‘Well. And you?’ ‘Good. Real good.’ He fiddles with a napkin, folding it into a neat triangle. He places it back down on the table and reaches for his glass of water. It’s empty. He pulls his hand back and folds his arms as if to stop himself from doing it again. I try to think of something to say. I feel the folded paper in my pocket. A few minutes ago I knew every question off by heart. Now, my mind is blank. I can’t remember one single question! What do I say? Anything will do to break the silence. He has shiny cufflinks glinting at the end of each shirt-sleeve. They’re gold with a black circular clasp. What should I ask? Our eyes meet and we quickly look away. I’ve got to say something. ‘Are you a millionaire?’ He looks up sharply. ‘I beg your pardon!’

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He stiffens in his chair and adjusts his already tight yellow tie. I want to run back to the entrance and start this all over again. A firmer handshake, meet each other’s eyes. No stupid questions. Maybe even a quick hug. I wonder if Mum is still in the car park, sitting in the driver’s seat, crying. A waiter hands us both a menu. I try to smile at Dad but he looks away. ‘Just another coffee for me.’ The waiter looks at me. ‘Can I have a juice, please?’ ‘Orange or Apple?’ ‘Yes, please.’ The waiter stands, staring at me. What? What have I done now? Why are they both staring at me? The waiter leans down. ‘Which one?’ Which one what? Mum or Dad? That’s a pretty rude question. But if I have to answer – definitely, Mum. ‘Which juice would you like, orange or apple?’ ‘Oh! Orange, please.’ Robert hands both menus back to the waiter and brushes some invisible crumbs from his dark suit. I reach into my pocket and take out the crumpled paper.

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‘I had a list of questions.’ I hold it out. ‘See. I didn’t want to forget anything.’ I place the paper on the table and push it towards him. ‘Read them. Please. There’s nothing bad.’ As soon as he takes the paper, I remember each question. ‘It’s just stuff I wanted to know. Where you live. Are you married? Do you have other kids? Nothing about money. See?’ He reads the list and sighs. We both look at the dog sitting by the post. A pedestrian reaches down and pats the dog. The dog wags his tail until the patting stops then keeps watching for his owner. Robert says, ‘I’m sorry. This is very hard for me.’ Very hard for you! I bet you knew your dad. I bet you didn’t wait twelve years to meet him! I bite my lip and try very hard not to say anything. I’m like that dog, sitting around waiting, hoping for the best. What if the owner returns and drags the dog along the footpath by the leash? Or doesn’t feed him enough and makes him sleep outside in the rain? And throws things at him if he barks? Still the dog waits, wagging his tail. Better to expect nothing after so long. ‘I’m not married, Jayden.’ He spoons two sugars into his coffee and stirs the cup very noisily.

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‘I live on the other side of town, on Spencer Street. Alone.’ That last word hangs in the air. He sips his coffee and pulls a face. He adds another teaspoon of sugar. Three teaspoons! Maybe he needs all the energy he can muster. Being so thin. That’s it! Maybe he’s really sick and has stayed away because he doesn’t want to burden me? A slow, serious illness. ‘Are you in remission, Robert?’ ‘What?’ ‘Have you been really sick? And you didn’t want to worry me. But, I can help. I can make you happy. They say laughter helps sick people. Truly. And my neighbours . . . these two boys – well, their dad actually – he knows thousands of jokes. I could get some off them and tell you a new one every day. We could raise money for a cure. Run a garage sale and I’ll sell all my old copies of The Guinness Book of Records. They’d be worth a lot. I don’t need all those books. We could send you overseas where they have special doctors who can cure anything. Even leprosy.’ I hope he doesn’t have leprosy. I’ve read about patients having limbs amputated. I don’t want to be losing bits of my dad so soon after finding him.

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‘If it’s contagious, I’ll wear a mask. You’ll still be able to hear me. I’ll yell really loud.’ I raise my voice, just to prove it. The two old ladies at the next table seem to be leaning away from us. Maybe they’re worried about catching the disease? ‘We’ll get you lots of masks. But I guess it’s not too contagious, not if you’re in a café.’ The ladies are picking up their hats and cups of tea and moving to the far corner of the café. ‘Mum’s a really good cook and if I ask nicely she might make extra for you. I can freeze it and drop it around your place every afternoon after school. I have a friend who’s a vegetarian. She could give you recipes for super healthy diets. Mum has these Chinese herbs. Maybe ginseng could cure you? It’s got to be good for something.’ I lean back, exhausted. I whisper, ‘It’s okay to be sick. It’s not your fault.’ I look out the window. A man is scratching under the dog’s chin. He unties the leash and they both walk down the street. The dog is jumping up at the man and wagging his tail furiously. The owner is smiling and talking to his dog. ‘We could get you a dog. My friend, Mr Hardy, has a dog and he’s never lonely. He’s the happiest man I know. I visit him every day. I could visit you too?’

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‘I’m not sick!’ He almost shouts the words. He looks around the café and hangs his head, shaking it from side to side. ‘I’m sorry, Jayden. I came here because your Mum pleaded with me. I haven’t heard from her in years. It’s too hard to explain.’ His voice trails off. The long table of diners are all standing and singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to the bald man sitting in front of a huge chocolate cake with lots of candles. The couple in the corner are sharing a bottle of wine, the man is stroking the woman’s hair. She smiles. Maybe they’re going to get married. And have children. Children they’ll be with forever. ‘Why did you leave me?’ There. I’ve said it. The only question I want to ask. The only answer I want to hear. I look at Dad. He shakes his head slowly and sighs. ‘I was never with you to leave you.’ All the air rushes from my lungs. I start to shake. My vision blurs and my bottom lip quivers uncontrollably. I’m giddy and light-headed. I can feel myself falling. I reach out to grab the table but knock the glass onto the floor splashing water everywhere. I slip from the chair and put my hands out to break the fall. I hear a voice, far away, calling.

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The leper beside the river

The longest known sleep ever recorded was by Albert Dutton – twenty-eight days, three hours and fifteen minutes. In the time he was asleep he grew a beard and his fingernails got so long he scratched himself whenever he had an itch. When he was asked what he wanted after such a long nap, he replied, ‘A cup of tea and two biscuits. To calm my nerves.’ Am I awake or having a dream about breaking the record? Not that I care about a stupid record. I just don’t want to wake up. Not for another month or two. I keep my eyes closed and reach under the sheet, touching both my legs. I bend my knees and feel my

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feet. I touch my face with one hand – two ears, two eyes, a nose, a mouth. All intact. No leprosy. I open my eyes. Mum is sitting beside my bed, asleep. Her head keeps dropping forward and then jerking back as she tries to balance on the hard wooden chair. It’s dark outside. ‘Hi, Mum.’ Mum springs awake and leans forward to hug me tightly. If she squeezes too much, one of my limbs might fall off with early-onset leprosy. Then I remember. Dad isn’t sick. Dad isn’t lonely. He isn’t married. He doesn’t have children. Apart from me. ‘How are you, darl? You looked as pale as a bedpost when we brought you home.’ ‘Where is he?’ She gently touches my forehead. ‘He’s gone home, darl. He’ll ring tomorrow to see how you are.’ I’ve waited years to meet Dad and after ten minutes I faint and miss everything. ‘He was worried for you, love. Robert doesn’t know much about children, I guess.’ That’s for sure. And he’s not going to learn the way he’s going. I pull the sheets tight around my neck. Mum touches my forehead again. ‘I don’t have a temperature, Mum. I have a dad. And there’s no cure.’

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‘I’m so sorry, darl. It’s hard to explain.’ She looks out the window and takes a deep breath. ‘We were together only a few months. Before you were born. We weren’t right for each other.’ She brushes the hair from in front of her eyes. ‘We drifted apart. Deliberately.’ I want to go back to sleep. No more talk about square socks. I wish I could close my ears as easily as my eyes. ‘I didn’t try to contact him, Jayden. It’s just as much my fault as his. I was selfish. I wanted you all to myself. I should have come into the café with you.’ I shout at Mum, ‘You should have said he lived in Africa! Or Mongolia! Or had leprosy in a colony beside the Amazon River. You should have lied! People lie to children all the time!’ I pull the sheet over my head to hide from Mum’s tears. I just want to be left alone. Mum gently closes the door. I move the sheet down. It’s hot under there. I look out the window and see hundreds of stars. Maybe Mr Thompson has hung fairy lights all over the verandah. I scramble out of bed. No. They’re real stars. It’s a perfect full-moon night. I imagine a leper sitting by the wide fast-flowing Amazon River looking up at the moon and wishing

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that he wasn’t sick. The leper can feel the sweat on every pore of his skin as his feet dangle in the mighty river. He’s been isolated for years on a tiny island in the middle of the forest. He sits by the river waving to his parents on the far side. They visit him every week and call across the water. Although they can’t get any closer, they spend all day together, talking. Every night before bed they each pray for a cure. They speak each other’s names.

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Balancing on a branch

The phone rings. ‘Hello. Is that Jayden?’ No. It’s Horace, Jayden’s imaginary friend and receptionist. Hold on a second, I’m putting you through. ‘Yeah. Hi, Da . . . Robert.’ ‘How are you feeling? Nothing broken?’ Now you mention it. Two arms, two legs and my nose looks a little crooked. I should be out of bed in three months. ‘No. I’m fine.’ ‘Good. I was a little worried.’ A little worried? Wouldn’t want a damaged son, so soon after finding him.

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Silence. I can picture him, alone in the kitchen. Maybe he’s reading the newspaper, checking the share price of his company. ‘Are you reading the paper?’ I hold the receiver close, listening for the rustle of paper. ‘No. I was just thinking how much you look like your Mum.’ I touch my curly hair. ‘Mum says I look like you.’ He laughs, then stops abruptly. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh. Maybe we see what we want to see.’ ‘And hear what we want to hear.’ I wince. I don’t mean to be quite so rude. He sighs. ‘Jayden. I’d like to try again. It’ll take . . .’ He sucks in a deep breath. ‘. . . I’ve got your list of questions from yesterday. Remember?’ Stupid list. ‘I’d like to have the chance to answer your questions. Whenever you want.’ Another meeting? Not at the café. I never want to go there again. I can hear the static hum of the phone line. I don’t know what to say. ‘Maybe you need some time, Jayden. I’ll wait.’ I grip the phone tightly.

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‘Sorry, I gotta go.’ ‘Oh, all right. I’ll see you soon, I hope.’ ‘Okay.’ ‘Jayden, before you go. Page one hundred and sixty-two.’ ‘What?’ ‘Page one hundred and sixty-two. It might explain. Just a little.’ We hang up. Page one hundred and sixty-two? Of which book? I walk across my room to the shelves and slowly scan the book spines. The Macquarie Dictionary. Egyptian Archeology of the Early Ages. One Hundred Wonders of the Modern World. The Children’s Bible. I lift the heavy book from the shelf and flick through the pages. They smell clean and crisp. Page one hundred and sixty-two. Drink no longer water, but use a little wine for thy stomach’s sake. I giggle. Thy thinkst thou father did not meanst thy Bible. I open the book again, at random. For a living dog is better than a dead lion. Mum calls from the kitchen, ‘Jayden, what are you doing?’ ‘I’m reading the Bible, Mum.’ There’s a clatter of pans on the kitchen floor. Mum’s hurried footsteps run through the lounge room.

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‘Pardon, darl? Did you say you were reading the Bible?’ I hold up the book. Mum stands in the doorway, a saucepan in one hand, tea-towel in the other. She’s tied her hair up in a tight bun with a chopstick stuck through at the back to hold it all in place. She looks anxiously around the room. ‘That’s nice, darl. It’s a good book, I believe.’ ‘It’s the Good Book, Mum. It says it here, on the cover.’ I giggle. ‘Do you know a living dog is better than a dead lion?’ Mum smiles. She polishes the saucepan with the cloth. ‘And a clean saucepan is better than salmonella.’ Her face turns serious. ‘Are you okay, darl? About . . . you know.’ ‘Robert? You can say his name, Mum.’ I smile. ‘He’s given me a riddle . . . well, a kind of a riddle to solve.’ And I know just who to ask for help. Saskia’s dad opens the door. Pete’s unshaven and his long cream shirt hangs wrinkled over his trousers. His shoelaces are undone and he scratches his head distractedly. He points to the backyard. ‘She’s outside, Brock.’ ‘Jayden.’ Pete looks back to his study, ‘Jayden. That’s right.

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Sorry.’ He walks to his study, smiles quickly at me and closes the door. He’s in the middle of a book. Saskia giggles from high up in the tree. Her voice drifts through the leaves. ‘I can see Mrs Beattie. Come and watch.’ I grip the lowest branch and pull myself up. I swing precariously (exposed to or involving danger) for a few seconds, then climb slowly, using each branch as a foothold. Saskia’s hair tumbles in front of her face as she looks down. She pulls it back and ties it in a thick knot. I sit in the crook of two branches next to her. She points through the leaves. Mrs Beattie is singing and folding the washing on the back verandah. Whenever she reaches a crescendo she leaps in the air holding an imaginary microphone, closes her eyes and lets rip with a perfect note. Saskia whispers, ‘She’s been doing it all morning.’ Mrs Beattie bows at her reflection in the window. Saskia touches my elbow. ‘Your Mum rang me yesterday, Jayden. I wanted to visit. But it was too late.’ I look at Saskia and want to hug her. I don’t. She’d get such a surprise we’d both fall out of the tree. It’s a long way down. I grip the branch a little tighter. Saskia leans closer. ‘I’m sorry, Jayden. All dads are a little strange.’

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I look at Mrs Beattie. ‘Mums are pretty weird too.’ Saskia giggles. ‘Imagine if her kids saw? Her voice could shatter glass!’ ‘That’s a pretty neat trick. Maybe we should tell her about The Guinness Book of Records?’ Saskia grips my arm. ‘That’s right! I’ve been meaning to ask you for ages.’ ‘What?’ ‘Remember in the canteen line. You said something about me and The Guinness Book of Records. You’ve never told me what you meant.’ I blush. ‘It was nothing.’ ‘Come on, Jayden. We’re friends. I won’t laugh. Well, not too loudly.’ I look at Saskia’s thick shiny hair, tied in a knot. She sees me looking. ‘What?’ ‘I said something . . . something about your hair. I wasn’t being rude!’ Saskia touches her hair. ‘Dad says I have the darkest hair he’s ever seen. Dads always say embarrassing things.’ Saskia looks quickly at me. ‘Sorry.’ I smile. ‘That’s what I meant! You should contact The Guinness Book of Records for the darkest hair in the world.’

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Saskia goes bright red. We both try not to look at each other. The Guinness Book of Records . . . ‘That’s it!’ ‘What’s it, Jayden?’ ‘My Dad! The Guinness Book of Records! It’s got to be.’ I’m only a little way down the tree when Saskia giggles from just above me, pointing to Mrs Beattie. Now she’s waltzing along the verandah, holding Mr Beattie’s overalls, singing a slow love song. She’s so involved in straining for the right note, she flings the overalls over the railing and they float gently down to the grass below. Saskia and me look at each other and smile. ‘I’ll ring you tonight. And tell you all about it.’

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Words

I run along the footpath, feeling the breeze in my hair, watching the ground bouncing at strange angles as I tread in the soft sponginess of the grass. Mrs Bent leans on her pusher and offers me her sports bottle of water. I puff loudly, ‘No time Mrs Bent, sorry!’ Mr Sweet stops cleaning his truck to watch as I sprint down Jackson Street. ‘In training for a marathon, Jayden?’ Not such a bad idea. I never run, except in races at school. And then I jog, happy to come last and let Hamilton Rufus win all the glory. Hamilton has a way of dancing around the playground, celebrating. It looks like he’s treading on

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hot coals and being stung by a swarm of bees all at the same time. If you can run faster than anyone else you should be allowed to celebrate any way you wish. If I ever won anything I’d do somersaults and handstands just for the heck of it. If it wasn’t for the pounding in my ears, the shortness of breath, the thumping of my heart and the sweat pouring from every part of my body I could get used to this running. I’m struggling so hard for breath, I bend over at my front gate sucking in big gulps of air. My eyes are tightly closed, a bead of sweat trickles down my cheek. Maybe I’ll leave running to Hamilton. Don’t want to steal all his glory. I scramble through the back door, slip on the welcome mat at the entrance and skid on my knees. Mum rushes from the kitchen with a heavy rolling pin in her hands. ‘Oh Jayden, it’s you. You gave me the fright of my life!’ ‘Sorry, Mum. In a bit of hurry.’ ‘Well, you know what they say about people in a hurry.’ ‘No. What?’ Mum smiles, ‘He in a hurry hastens the hour.’ ‘What does that mean?’ ‘Don’t know. I just made it up!’

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Words

I giggle and race through the kitchen grabbing a cupcake Mum has put on the bench to cool. Blue icing. Of course. The Guinness Book of Records is open at a picture of the world’s largest truck. Its wheels are as tall as our house. It carries enough coal to fill Thompson Stadium. And weighs as much as two blue whales. How do you weigh a whale? I flick through the book looking for page one hundred and sixty-two, stopping briefly to discover that the largest gathering of people dressed as gorillas involved six hundred and thirty-seven participants in the Great Gorilla Fun Run to raise money for charity. Forget that! Page one hundred and sixty-two . . . here we are. I take a long, slow, deep breath. And look at a picture of a man standing on one leg. Arulanantham Suresh Joachim from Sri Lanka balanced on one foot for seventy-six hours and forty minutes. What does that mean? Was Dad really suffering from leprosy after all and this was his way of breaking the news gently. But he would have told me in the café? And he can get an artificial leg. He wouldn’t have to hop around all day. I stare at the page. I almost burst a lung running home. For this! Standing on one leg! Sword swallowing!

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Dressing up as a gorilla! Pulling jumbo jets! I slam the book shut and toss it on the floor. It lands with a thump skidding across the floor and hitting my bookcase. Stupid book! My brain is crammed with facts and figures and achievements . . . and . . . and nonsense! Trivia! Flimflam! Ephemera! Frivolous trifles! Words. I’ve got a million words and none of them, not a single one, can explain how I feel about my father. Nothing can! Nobody can.

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Mothballs and after-shave

‘Mr Hardy! You look . . .’, I almost say clean. ‘. . . Handsome.’ Mr Hardy is wearing a dark grey pinstripe suit with a waistcoat and a bright red tie. From one pocket dangles a silver chain with a heavy clasp. Mr Hardy flips the lid to expose the round face of an old watch. ‘A family heirloom, my boy. Much older than I am.’ Deefer whines. ‘Okay, almost as old as I am.’ Deefer sits at Mr Hardy’s feet and licks his shiny black leather shoes. Then he rolls over and rubs his back along the floor and Mr Hardy’s shoes.

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Mr Hardy reaches for his walking cane from the hook behind the front door. ‘Come on, laddie, let’s go before Deefer falls asleep on my shoes.’ Mr Hardy has slicked his hair down with oil. He’s taken care to get the part perfectly straight. He’s shaved and I can see faint sunspots on his cheeks from all those hours in the garden. But there’s something else . . . We walk along Jackson Street and I try to work out what’s different. He looks . . . Mr Hardy stops and leans on his cane. ‘It’s called fine detail, my lad.’ I feel the blush rise to my own stubble-free cheeks. ‘Ear hair – removed! Nose hair – plucked! Most importantly, eyebrows – rearranged! I’ve given myself a make-over, laddie. Don’t want to scare the teachers so early in the morning, do we?’ ‘Mr Hardy, you look like a gentleman. A lord. A baron.’ Mr Hardy twirls his cane and tips his imaginary hat. ‘Thank you, Jayden.’ He taps his heart with the palm of his hand. ‘It’s what’s in here that counts, though.’ I giggle. ‘Your wallet!’ Mr Hardy puts his arm around my shoulder and laughs, ‘Sometimes, in this world, I wonder, laddie.’

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There are brightly coloured balloons tied to the school fence, and signs announcing the breakfast point towards the library. As I close the gate, one red balloon snaps free and drifts slowly into the air. I jump to catch it but I’m too late. We watch it float above the school hall and get blown towards town by the wind. At the front door of the library Mr Bartog and Mrs Casey shake hands with everyone as they arrive. Most of the dads are dressed in suits. In the far corner, Hamilton Rufus is surrounded by four men. One is wearing racing overalls, another a pilot’s uniform. The tallest man is wearing khaki shorts and shirt, with black socks rolled down over steelcapped boots. Hamilton’s dad is wearing a suit. When Hamilton sees me, he rushes across. ‘Hey, Rhyming Boy.’ Hamilton looks at Mr Hardy. ‘Hi, Hamilton. You know Mr Hardy, don’t you?’ Hamilton nods. ‘Is he ya uncle, or something?’ Mr Hardy laughs and puts his arm around me. ‘I’d be honoured, young man. But we’re related in spirit only.’ Hamilton grins. ‘So ya dad didn’t make it, Rhyming Boy?’ Sure, he’s outside parking the helicopter. No, he has an important meeting with the moon . . . being an astronaut. He’s wearing a disguise . . . look closely at Mrs Casey. Heck! I knew I forgot something!

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I could have answered that way. I smile. ‘No. I brought my best friend instead.’ Hamilton sneers, ‘He’s a bit old . . .’ He glances quickly around at his family. His dad is checking his watch and impatiently glancing at the door. He starts shaking hands with Hamilton’s uncles as he prepares to leave. Hamilton waves at us and rushes across to his father. Mr Hardy puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘Let’s make a dent in that sandwich pile over yonder. Before the sausages get cold. And boys with big mouths eat more than their share.’ Mr Bartog stands beside the front desk, holding a microphone. He taps it a few times, making loud clunky sounds through the speakers. His voice booms. ‘is this on . . .’ He lowers his voice. ‘I guess it is. Um . . . Welcome, gentlemen to the Swampy Plains Boys and Books and Breakfast. It’s good to see so many adults here. All with a book, I hope! I’d encourage you to take a seat with your child somewhere in our fine library or outside in the sun if you wish, and spend some time together reading. That’s what we’re here for – the pleasure of reading.’ Stretch Maybury’s dad shouts from the back of the library, ‘And the sausages!’ Mr Bartog forces a smile. ‘Yes. Brekkie first. Then books.’

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Mr Hardy and I walk outside and sit on the wooden seat against the library wall. It’s quiet here in the shade. Mr Hardy takes the book from his jacket pocket. ‘Laddie, I know Mr Bartog said we’re supposed to read, but can I tell you a wee secret about this book first?’ ‘Sure, Mr Hardy.’ I hold up both hands, fingers outstretched. Mr Hardy looks confused. ‘What does that mean?’ ‘My fingers aren’t crossed. If you tell someone a secret and they cross their fingers, they don’t have to keep it.’ Mr Hardy chuckles. ‘In my day, we crossed our hearts and spat on the ground three times.’ I elaborately cross my heart and spit three times, careful to miss Mr Hardy’s shiny black shoes. ‘That’s much more fun!’ He holds the hard cover in his hands, smoothing down a frayed edge with his fingers. ‘This was my father’s favourite book.’ Mr Hardy coughs quietly, clearing his throat. ‘When I was thirteen years old, my dad got very sick. I used to rush home from school to be with him.’ He sighs, remembering every detail. ‘He’d sit up in bed and I’d read this adventure to him. I’d get so involved in the tale I wouldn’t notice him slowly drifting off to sleep.’ Mr Hardy chuckles. ‘Until he snored. Then I’d close the book and place

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it beside his bed. I’d watch him sleep. I’d look at his shiny grey hair.’ He runs his hand through his own hair. ‘Sometimes, I’d lean in really close to feel his breath on my cheek. I was a little nervous I’d scare him awake! I’d count the lines on his face, watch how they grew fainter as he slept. I believed with all my heart that his dreams were making him younger. Sometimes his hands would shake and I’d reach out and hold them. He had the softest hands for an old bloke who’d worked all his life. And, do you know what, laddie?’ I look at my friend and notice the sparkle in his eyes. ‘I’d give anything, anything at all, to sit beside that bed again. To look at his face. To read him a book.’ He offers me the book. ‘I want you to have it, laddie. It’s a fine story. A cracking adventure.’ I fling my arms around Mr Hardy and squeeze him tight, pressing my face into his chest. The fabric is soft and warm against my cheek. He wraps his arms around me. ‘Come on, son. You read it to me, hey? From the beginning.’

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Lights, camera, action

Mr Bartog is being interviewed in front of a row of books by a young lady with shiny blonde hair. The television camera is filming from behind her left shoulder. She’s wearing a dark red suit and very high heels. She’s much taller than Mr Bartog. Standing beside the Principal are Tony and Timmy Thompson. Mr Thompson is behind them, smiling for the camera. The boys hold their favourite book – Jayden Finch: A football life. I should buy that for Mum and make another trip to the car park to get it signed. Authors love signing books. The lady turns and motions for the cameraman and Mr Bartog to follow her. She walks slowly across the

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library, holding the microphone close to her chest. Her heels click on the polished wooden floor. She’s searching for someone to interview. She’s walking towards Mr Hardy and me! Her eyes roam from boy to boy, looking for a suitable candidate. Please . . . not me . . . anyone but . . . Hamilton runs across from the far side of the library and stands directly in front of the lady. He holds up a glossy book. Mr Bartog scowls. Hamilton sees the book is upside down and quickly turns it over. ‘It’s got the best jokes. I could read one if ya want?’ Mr Bartog gulps at the sound of the word joke and steers the lady away from Hamilton. Hamilton opens the book and thrusts it in front of the camera. ‘It’s got pictures too!’ The woman quickly glances at the cameraman and makes a cutting motion with her hand. She stares over Hamilton and sees me. I close my eyes. Please . . . no. Mr Hardy reaches for my hand. Please not me. Choose Hamilton. He’s got an answer for everything! The library is very quiet. I open my eyes. The lights of the camera shine on me. I’m standing near the exit and my mind is screaming at my legs to

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turn and run. I stand very still gripping Mr Hardy’s hand with all my energy. Mr Bartog is behind the lady with the microphone, looking very anxious. I see the wide grin of the cameraman as he zooms in on my face. Someone giggles nervously. Mr Bartog coughs. The lady steps forward, ‘Good morning young man. What’s your name?’ I stare at the camera trying to remember. ‘Jay . . . Jayden.’ Hamilton calls out, ‘Jayden Hayden, Rhyming Boy.’ A few people giggle. ‘And what is the name of your favourite book, Jayden?’ The lady has eyeshadow that matches the colour of her dress. I lean in close to the microphone. ‘I love all books.’ I feel Mr Hardy smiling beside me. ‘My best friend says with a book you’re never lonely.’ My voice grows louder. ‘With a book, it doesn’t matter how many friends you’ve got. Or how many uncles, aunts, dads and mums. It only matters that you’ve got an . . .’ I try to think of the right word. ‘. . . an imagination.’ From behind the cameraman, Mr Bartog gives me the thumbs up.

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The blonde lady smiles and says, ‘Thank you.’ She turns to the cameraman. ‘We’ll use that last bit, Doug. For the evening news.’ Mr Thompson walks across and shakes my hand. ‘Well said, young fella. If ya ever want to come over and have a kick with me and the boys just give us a yell, hey.’ Mr Hardy and I walk to the school gate. All the kids in lower primary and kindy are arriving and running straight to the school hall. The blonde lady is surrounded by girls offering her Saskia’s brochures about the Girls and Gizmos breakfast in two weeks’ time. ‘Well, I hope you have the video ready for tonight’s news, laddie. It’s not every day a young man gets on television.’ ‘I probably looked stupid, Mr Hardy.’ ‘You were marvellous, laddie. What you said was perfect. Your mum and dad will be very proud.’ ‘My dad?’ ‘Certainly. Why not?’ Mr Hardy puts his arm around my shoulder and leads me away from the gate. ‘Let’s stop here for a moment, laddie.’ We lean against the wire fence. I can see Saskia talking to the television reporter. The lady will be back in a fortnight. Mr Hardy says, ‘My dad used to say “You get one

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chance at things, laddie. Don’t waste it!” Like today, with all those lights and the camera on you. You had a few seconds to decide what to do, what to say.’ Mr Hardy pats me on the back. ‘You did grand, laddie. It’s worth sharing with everyone. Me. Your mum.’ He looks at me, meaningfully. ‘And my dad?’ Mr Hardy smiles, ‘That’s right, laddie. And your dad.’

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Dictionary Boy

Saskia told me about her dad’s latest manuscript. Charity is kayaking down the Amazon. She sent a pleading text message to Brock just before her kayak smashed to pieces on the rapids. Now she’s alone, surrounded by creeping jungle. I wonder why a New York fashion designer is floating down the Amazon and how she can get a mobile signal to text Brock who’s car racing in the south of France. She was lucky not to get bitten by piranhas! How did she paddle the kayak over the waterfalls? And will she visit any leper colonies beside the river? She didn’t really fly her own plane to Brazil, did she?

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I’m very impressed she’s a fashion designer and a pilot and only twenty-four years old. And engaged to a world champion Formula One driver. I suspect Pete is using poetic licence. Mrs Casey told us it’s where the author can just make stuff up and everyone is supposed to believe it. Hamilton laughed and said he’d like to buy one of those licences! Trouble is, Pete’s stuck. Writer’s block. Much worse than poetic licence. He can’t think of what to write next. Charity, and Pete, are both lost in the jungle! Pete’s spent days in his study trying to describe the Amazon rainforest. He’s taped a big sheet of white cardboard on his wall and listed every word that he can think of to describe what it’s like to be lost in the cruel jungle. Saskia asked me over to help. We sit together on the swing seat. Saskia holds a pen and paper. ‘Every word you can think of, Jayden.’ Once I start I can’t stop. ‘Scary. Lonely. Creepy. Bloodcurdling.’ Holding Charity’s hand, I wander through the metaphorical jungle. ‘Eerie. Vaporous. Spine-chilling. Macabre.’ Saskia turns the page over, smiling. ‘We should call you, “dictionary boy’’!’ I’m running out of words. From now on I’ll learn two new words every day. Just in case Pete needs more help. ‘Ghastly. Horrid. Forbidding. Menacing.’

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I’m struggling . . . Saskia looks up from the page, her pen poised. My mind is as barren as the Atacama Desert in Chile – the driest place on earth. ‘Come on Jayden. You can do it.’ I take a deep breath. ‘Babulous. Thugominta. Guntharoyd . . .’ Saskia giggles. ‘What! Babul . . . what? Thugo . . . who? And . . .’ I try very hard not to laugh, ‘Guntharoyd.’ Saskia points her pen at me, ‘You’re making it up!’ I shake my head, quickly. ‘Guntharoyd, to be in a state of guntha. That’s it! Guntha means . . . petrified.’ ‘And Jayden means liar! Right?’ Once I start giggling it’s very hard to stop. I try holding my breath but that only makes it worse. Saskia writes the last three words in big letters at the bottom of the page. She jumps up from the seat, puts her finger to her lips and motions for me to follow. We creep slowly up to Pete’s study door. We can hear him muttering to himself. He’s talking in a high voice. Saskia whispers, ‘He’s Charity. Still lost.’ ‘He sounds almost . . . babulous!’ Saskia digs a finger into my ribs. She leans down quietly and slips the sheet of paper under his door. We run back down the stairs. ‘If he uses guntharoyd in the story, one of us is going to be in big trouble.’

162

Dunsmore Swamp

Saturday morning. Saskia and I sit on the park bench, looking over Dunsmore Swamp. Saskia takes off her shoes and socks. She wriggles her feet back into her shoes, ties the laces tight and pulls her long white socks over her hands like thick gloves. She waves two sock puppets in front of me. ‘No way am I getting bitten by mosquitoes!’ I quickly do the same, pulling my warm black socks up to my elbows.‘What about our faces?’ Saskia giggles, ‘You can try pulling a sock over your head, but I don’t think it’ll fit!’ ‘I’d look like a bank robber.’

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‘Or a ghost.’ ‘And the smell!’ We walk down the track through the swamp. From deep in the bush I hear the mournful cry of the curlew. Sometimes, at night, I sit at my desk and listen to them, imagining a mother bird scurrying among the undergrowth. Her cry sends shivers down my spine. She’s calling the male bird home. Calling him back to the safety of the nest and the baby birds squawking for food. I look at my white shoes and smile. They won’t be clean for long! I can already hear Mum’s voice, ‘Jayden, you’re as filthy as a . . .’ What would she say? ‘As a miner?’ Too obvious. ‘As a tar pit?’ Too sinister. ‘As a rhinoceros!’ That’s more like it! Saskia walks ahead, gingerly picking her way along the track, underneath the creeper vines and the heavy branches of the swamp gums. ‘Tell me again why we’re doing this, Saskia?’ She waits for me to catch up, then takes a camera out of her jacket and, aiming it up into the forest canopy, snaps a few quick photos. ‘For Dad. It’s a surprise.’ I fall over a moss-covered log jutting out from the dark soupy pools of swamp water. ‘It’ll be a surprise if we don’t get lost!’ Saskia stands with socked hands on her hips. ‘There’s

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Dunsmore Swamp

one track that leads all the way through and comes out on the other side near the shops. Right? So we keep to the track. And I take as many photos of duckweed and waterlilies and ferns and mossy tree trunks as I can. When Dad looks at the photos he can pretend he’s lost in the Amazon!’ ‘The Amazon is in South America. Not Swampy Plains.’ Saskia rolls her eyes. ‘I know that, silly. But, there’s mud and sandflies and mosquitoes and –’ ‘Foxes and curlews and possums –’ ‘And piranhas and leopards and man-eating anacondas . . . Well, maybe not.’ Saskia giggles. ‘Dad will be sad for weeks if he doesn’t save Charity.’ I can’t do much about my own dad, but helping Pete is easy. We plunge further into the swamp. A flap of wings overhead is a kookaburra landing on a scribbly branch. He lets out a joyful laugh that echoes through the trees. Saskia winks at me. ‘See! Even the birds think it’s a good idea!’ Do you know jungle comes from a Sanskrit word jangala, meaning ‘wilderness’. After wandering for an hour through the Swampy Plains wilderness and taking exactly eighty-five photos

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to help Pete, Saskia and I sit together on the grass at the far end of the track. I look down at my mud-dripping shoes. Mission accomplished! Saskia tucks the camera back into her jacket pocket. ‘Did your Mum video you on the news?’ I smile. ‘She’s watched it every night this week.’ Saskia laughs. ‘Television boy!’ I think of Mum watching the video, over and over. She’s already shown Gail and Mrs Bent and the Sweets. She’s shown it to Mr Hardy three times even though he was there! Tomorrow she’s taking it to CheapMart. I see the pride in her eyes. Television boy. Dictionary boy. Rhyming Boy. No. My name is Jayden Hayden. I think of Mum’s crazy unexpected impossible weird similes, her obsession with football, her dancing through the lounge room whenever she’s happy, baking scones whenever she’s upset. And Saskia’s dad sitting in his study lost in the jungle, scrawling a thousand words on a piece of cardboard, imitating female voices. And Mr Thompson building a full-size goal in the

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Dunsmore Swamp

backyard and rigging up lights so his boys can play all night. And my dad, alone in his house on Spencer Street all those years and his cryptic page one hundred and sixty-two. I’ll never understand adults. It’s impossible. They’re as strange and unpredictable and confusing and eccentric and fickle and erratic as . . . I smile. As I am. Saskia taps me lightly on the elbow. ‘Are you still with me, Jayden? You had a funny look on your face.’ Saskia has the tiniest gap between her two front teeth. It makes her smile seem wider, happier. ‘Sorry. I was thinking about parents.’ Saskia shakes her head. ‘Tell me about it. We’d better get the camera home so Dad can load the photos on his computer.’ I look down at Dunsmore Swamp. It’s just a few acres of water and bush and trees and birds and mosquitoes. Hardly the Amazon. ‘Do you really think it’ll help?’ Saskia shrugs. ‘Dad says writers get their ideas from the silliest places.’ She laughs. ‘And we can’t let Charity die!’

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I grab Saskia’s hand and pull her up. ‘Especially when she’s engaged to Brock!’

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A sunny Sunday soy and sausage smoky barbeque

Saskia and me scatter the last of the mulch from the wheelbarrow onto Mr Hardy’s roses. I’m careful not to let it get too close to the roots in case it burns them. Just like Mr Hardy taught me. Saskia scrunches her nose at the rich smell. She says, ‘Dad whistled for hours last night in his study. And I don’t think he was imitating a scarlet macaw.’ I lift the wheelbarrow. ‘What did the trick? The photos or guntharoyd?’ Saskia giggles. ‘Dunno. I reckon Brock arrived just in time.’ ‘Or Charity made it back to the plane.’ I picture a woman dressed in an elegant safari suit

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battling through the undergrowth. Her satin blonde hair is tied beneath a polka-dot scarf. Her long thin hands with pink painted fingernails swing a machete as she strides confidently through the swamp in her kneehigh leather boots. Saskia says, ‘Dad woke really early. He brought me breakfast in bed. And made scrambled eggs for Mum.’ She smiles. ‘He didn’t go near his study all morning.’ ‘What does that mean?’ Saskia blushes. ‘There’s a marriage coming up in the next chapter!’ Deefer is stretched out in the sun, his head resting on his front legs. He’s sleeping and snoring. Mum is setting the table on the verandah with cutlery, plates and glasses. Mr Hardy waves the smoke from his face as the food sizzles on the barbeque. ‘What are these things called, Saskia?’ ‘Tofu burgers. Made from soy and they’re good for you.’ Mr Hardy looks sideways at Mum and smiles. ‘At my age I want taste. Not health!’ Saskia walks to the verandah and stands beside the grill. ‘They taste nice as well.’

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Mum arranges salad on everyone’s plate and gives each of us a stack of crispy brown and smoky potatoes from the grill. ‘I’m as hungry as a barnacle. Let’s eat.’ Mum’s wearing her Blues jersey, the one signed by Jayden Finch. Next week is the Grand Final and we got two free tickets in the mail. When Mum opened the envelope she screamed with joy. I rushed from the bathroom where I’d been checking the length of my nose. I’d even measured it with a ruler and compared it to ‘the longest nose in the world’ (page sixteen). It was no shorter, fatter, longer or beakier than average. Mum was kissing the two tickets and waltzing solo around the kitchen table. I checked the back of the envelope. Spencer Street. Mum rushed over and hugged me tightly. ‘I’ll have to get time off work. There’s no way I’m missing the game. Wild donkeys couldn’t keep me away. Say you’ll come with me, darl. Just this once!’ I smiled. ‘I couldn’t miss Mr Finch’s last game, could I?’ After coming home from Dunsmore Swamp yesterday, I’d spent all afternoon writing a letter to Dad. It took twenty-four attempts before I gave up. I sat at my desk looking at Timmy and Tony painting the goalpost.

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Rhyming Boy

Mr Thompson was setting up the video camera on his verandah to record the next game. I looked at the book on my bed open at page one hundred and sixty-two. A man standing on one leg. Alone . . . Then I knew just what to do. It took hours of searching through all my books to find just the right entry. Page four hundred and twentyeight in an old book Mum bought for me in a charity sale. Winston James was father to thirty-two children. In the picture, he sits in an old rocking chair surrounded by his sons and daughters. He has a long beard and a walking stick rests on his lap. He has outlived his three wives. His children are named after biblical characters. He’s sixty-three years of age. He looks much older. I reached for pen and paper.

Dear Dad, Page four hundred and twenty-eight. If there’s anything sillier than standing on one leg for seventy-six hours, it’s having thirty-two children! How could a father cope? Much better to have just one child. Someone to share things with. A son. Who likes science, poetry, humungous words and food. 172


I hope to see you soon. Love, Jayden Last night, Mum and I drove to Dad’s place. It was a small timber house painted pale lemon. The front hedge was neatly trimmed and the cobblestone path leading to the verandah was swept clear of leaves. I could smell the rich scent of freshly-mown grass as I stood on the footpath. There was a dull light from behind the curtains and the flicker of a television. I opened the letterbox. There was no way the old book and my letter would fit inside! I took a deep breath and stepped lightly over the gate. I walked on the grass, not the path, silently. On the verandah was a table and two chairs. I placed the package on the table, sure Dad would see it when he opened the front door in the morning. As we drove off, Mum said, ‘You were as quiet as a plank of timber, darl.’ ‘Quiet as a mouse, Mum.’ Mum shivered, ‘Mice. Yuk. With their twitchy noses and wriggly tails. I’ll have nightmares!’ We turned the corner onto the main road. Mum put her hand on my knee. ‘What say I bake something nice when we get home? A late-night treat.’

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I looked out the window at the fingernail moon rising over all the houses. It seemed to be smiling. ‘Great, Mum. Anything but scones! Please!’ Mr Hardy places a sausage on Deefer’s plate and fills his water bowl. ‘There you go, boy. The ideal Sunday lunch. It’s a little burnt, but tasty and definitely no soy!’ Deefer leans forward, takes the sausage in his mouth and gulps it down quickly. Mr Hardy smiles. ‘He hasn’t lost his appetite. Just like me!’ Mum leans across with a plate of sausages and steaks, offering it first to Mr Hardy and then me. I smile and shake my head. ‘No thanks, Mum. I’m going to try some of Saskia’s tofu.’ Mr Hardy chuckles. ‘Great. All the more for me and you, Sandra.’ I look across the table at Saskia. She smiles and winks. I wink back. Mum hands me the plate of tofu burgers and says, ‘Well, this is better than a safari!’ I look around for lions, tigers, elephants. I see Deefer. Asleep. And dreaming.

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Rhyming Boy

Boy

Boy

Boy

Boy

Boy

Boy Meets Boy

Boy

Boy Meets Boy

Boy Meets Boy

Boy 2 Boy Meets Girl

My Book of Rhyming Words: Long Vowels

Schirmer's Complete Rhyming Dictionary For Songwriters

Sonny Boy

Farmer Boy

Boy soldier

Boy Toy

Bad Boy

Bat Boy

Boy soldier

Mean Boy

Burger Boy

Danny Boy

Oh, Boy!

Lawn Boy

Bad Boy

Lucky Boy

Money Boy

Drummer Boy

Witch Boy

Rhyming Boy

Boy

Boy

Boy

Boy

Boy

Boy Meets Boy

Boy

Boy Meets Boy

Boy Meets Boy

Boy 2 Boy Meets Girl

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Sonny Boy

Farmer Boy

Boy soldier

Boy Toy

Bad Boy

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Mean Boy

Burger Boy

Danny Boy

Oh, Boy!

Lawn Boy

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Lucky Boy

Money Boy

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