A Little Wanting Song (9 page)

The singer spins the chorus one last time.

Sunny notes from an open window wake me Christmas Eve. That and a couple of dead women yelling at me to get Grandpa and go pick out a tree.

That’s not so easy. Mostly he sleeps till late afternoon. He gets up and sleeps some more in front of the television. The curtains stay closed, and the light from the box throws this eerie blue glow over him. If I wrote a sound track to the life we’re living now, it would be a slow note echoing from a saxophone.

He’s asleep when I look into his room late this morning. I shake his shoulder but he doesn’t wake up, so I get close to his face and check that he’s breathing.

“Is there something you want, Charlie?”

“Shit, Grandpa. You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“It’s strange, but that’s almost exactly what I was about to say. What is it?”

Now that I’ve woken him, it doesn’t seem so important. “It’s Christmas tree time.”

“There’s an old plastic one in the cupboard under the stairs. We’ll use that this year.” He closes his eyes, and that dusty note rises again.

I let him sleep. I know a few things about ghosts. The only way to stop them getting inside you is to spend every second of the day thinking about something else. Fighting like that makes you tired, and it doesn’t matter how hard you fight anyway. They chip till they make a crack, and before you know it there’s a ghost squatter in your living room. It’s hard to get them out. Hard because they settle in. Hard because you like the company. If Grandpa’s too tired to get a tree, then I’ll go and bring one back for him. Someone in this family has to make contact with the Christmas spirit. “That’s funny, Charlie,” Mum says. I’m a funny kind of girl.

Dad’s working in the shop. I walk in and tell him in a way that’s meaningful, “Our family needs tinsel.” He looks at me and says there’s some in the third aisle. I go for the tree on my own.

It’d be a great plan if it included a map and a mobile phone. I left both at home. I’m about halfway to nowhere, taking a break under a tree and singing a punk version of “White Christmas” to distract myself from the heat of my nowhere-near-white Australian Christmas, when Mrs. Robbie’s car pulls up.

Dave leans out of the passenger window. “What are you doing?”

It’s a Christmas miracle. My words are back from vacation. “I’m just out enjoying the burning heat of the day.” He grins, and I walk over to the car. “How’d you know it was me from the road?”

He doesn’t answer my question, just flicks his eyes over Grandpa’s old yellow rain boots, my short dress, and this hat that Gus says makes me look like the revolution’s coming. I see his point. “You need a lift somewhere?” he asks.

“I’m going to the pine plantations for a tree.”

“This road doesn’t lead to the plantations. It doesn’t really lead to anywhere.”

I open the car door. “In that case, I’m going wherever it is you’re going.”

“Hi, love,” Mrs. Robbie says. “Come to our place. You can have one of ours.”

On the way to Dave’s, we drive past the skeleton tree. There still aren’t any leaves. But there’s one bird sitting on a branch.

“So which one do you want?” Dave asks. The back section of the side paddock is covered in pine trees about the size of me. “Dad thought we could make some extra money at Christmas.”

“I want that one.” The tree I pick is breaking all the Christmas rules. It’s lopsided, and one of its branches is longer than the rest. “It looks like it’s giving us the finger.”

“I’d be fairly pissed, too, if someone was about to hack me off, stick me in a living room, and throw me out come New Year’s,” Dave says.

“I’ll decorate it.”

“Then it should think itself lucky.” He starts chopping. “Mum says she’ll drive you back after lunch. You can ring home when we get to the house.”

I watch the tree falling. “Dad and Grandpa won’t notice I’m gone.”

We carry it slowly up the hill, Dave leading the way. “So what’s with the rain boots in summer? Is that some city thing?”

“Yeah, Dave. Plastic yellow rain boots are very in at the moment.”

“Really?”

“Not really. I hate snakes.”

“They’re more scared of you than you are of them,” he says.

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

“In those boots, it’s possible.”

“Don’t make me laugh. I’ll drop the tree.”

“This tree could only look better if you dropped it. You picked a shit tree,” he says. It’s not even that funny but we’re laughing and I’ve got that crazy rubber hand thing happening so I can’t grip the trunk. “Wait, wait. I need to stop.”

We sit in the shade and catch our breath. “So, Rose says you’re making her some music mixes.” He leans back on his elbows. “Can you make one for me?”

“What sort of music do you like? Thrash, heavy metal, grunge?”

“Rose said you gave her some girls playing guitars. That sounds like something I’d like.”

It feels like maybe we’re talking in code, so I say, “I really love girls playing guitars.” I lean back like he’s leaning. Cool. Relaxed. But then I realize if we are talking in code, then I just told Dave I really love myself. He’s not acting like I’ve said anything stupid, though. He’s smiling.

“You ready?”

“I’m ready.” I’m changing my name legally to Ready Duskin.

“What are you thinking?” Dave asks. “You’ve got a weird look on your face.”

“But weird good, right?” I ask, picking up the tree.

“Right. Of course.”

“I was thinking about changing my name. What would you change yours to?”

“I’m kind of comfortable with Dave.”

“But if you needed a stage name, to give yourself some kick. Like Flea from the Red Hot Chili Peppers.”

“He changed it to Flea?”

“I guess. I always figured his mum didn’t name him Flea at birth.” Bold move if she did. “I’d be Charlie Arabella Bird Duskin.”

“Bird because you sing,” he says. “Is your middle name really Arabella?”

“Yep. My mum’s name is Arabella Charlie. I’m Charlie Arabella. She used to say I’m her turned inside out.”

“I could be Dave Rolling Robbie.”

“No you couldn’t. That’s a bad name. I can’t let you have that name.”

His dad walks out of the house. “You left the gate open. The cows could have been all over the road, you idiot.”

Dave goes quiet. I put the tree down and stare at him. “Idiot doesn’t really suit you, either,” I say, and he’s laughing as he walks into the house.

At Rose’s place, dinner was this concert of laughter and noise and mess. Lunch at Dave’s is quiet. Every time I clink my knife against the plate, it sounds as loud as if I’ve dropped it on the floor. “They didn’t get out,” Dave says when his dad goes on about the cows. He keeps going on, though, until Mrs. Robbie looks at him with concrete eyes and says, “They didn’t get out.”

Everyone eats quickly. His dad talks about work and the things that need to be done, about the snakes in the back paddock. It’s not until he leaves that I realize I’ve been holding my breath.

“So, Charlie,” Mrs. Robbie says while Dave clears the plates and puts on the kettle. “You look exactly like your mother. God, she was gorgeous.” She pats my hand away from my face. “Stop that. Your smile’s beautiful.”

Mrs. Robbie waits in the car while Dave carries the tree into our living room. He spends ages putting it in a bucket, steadying it with bricks. “That should stay now.”

“Thanks, Dave.”

“So we’re all going camping on the thirtieth. We’ll be back on New Year’s Eve.” He waves and walks out the door.

I watch him go and try to remember the exact tune of his song.
So
we’re all going camping. So
we’re
all going camping. So we’re
all
going camping. He could have meant a million things. He could have meant nothing at all. “Maybe he was asking you to go with them,” Mum says.

“Maybe he needed a line to get out of the house,” I say.

“Maybe if you worried less, you’d have more than two ghosts for friends,” Gran says. Harsh, sure. But not entirely untrue. I start in with the tinsel.

I watch Dave heaving and dragging a Christmas tree into Charlie’s house. Looks like he’s finally working on something other than cars.

“Hi,” I call as he walks out.

“Hi, Rosie. I told Charlie we were camping before New Year’s.”

I think about that for a second. “You told her we were going, or you invited her to come?”

“Shit,” he says, and makes a sign to his mum that he’ll be a minute. He goes back to her door, rehearsing what he’s going to say. Charlie opens it before he knocks. Both of them look surprised. Dave laughs and walks inside. I sit on my
front step waiting for the outcome. He walks out a while later, grinning.

“Happy Christmas,” I tell him.

“Not Christmas till tomorrow, Rosie,” he says.

Sure it isn’t. Looks like New Year’s won’t be half so boring this year after all.

I open the door to let in some breeze, and Dave’s standing there. Both of us jump.

“Sorry. I was about to knock. Can I see the tree?”

“Sure. But it’s only been five minutes. It pretty much looks the same except for one bit of tinsel.” I walk down the corridor, and he follows.

“That piece of tinsel makes a big difference,” he says.

“It’s because it’s expertly arranged. It’s still a bit lopsided,” I say, and lean my head over so the tree’s not crooked.

“I like lopsided,” he says, and keeps looking at it straight on. “So, before, when I said we were going camping, I meant you should come.”

“Will there be snakes?”

“There are always snakes in the bush. You won’t see them, though.”

“That’s comforting.”

“Just make some noise to scare them off. You can wear those stylish boots, too,” he says.

“Yeah. Okay. I’ll come.” I smile. I show him to the door. I close it.

And then I put on a Spiderbait CD and turn it up loud. “You’re fucken awesome,” I sing, and throw tinsel. “You’re fucken awesome.” Mum and Gran are dancing right here with me. We bounce down the hall. I’m about to go on the only date I’ve ever been asked on, and that calls for some kitchen moves. I’m yelling out lyrics and making toast when Dad walks in. “Good,” he says. “You’ve got dinner.”

At least I think that’s what he says, because even though he walked through the living room, he didn’t turn down the music. “I was thinking of this more as a predinner snack,” I say.

“What?”

“I could go for some of your pasta,” I yell.

He walks to the freezer and pulls out a container. “Not exactly what I had in mind, Dad.”

“Sorry, Charlotte?”

“Hang on. I’ll turn the music off.”

He waves. “Don’t worry. I’m going out. This doesn’t wake Grandpa?”

“A truck speeding through his bedroom probably wouldn’t wake Grandpa.”

I don’t know if Dad heard over the music. He checks that the buttons on his shirt are done up, which is the sign that he’s not so happy with me. We don’t say words like “truck” or “dead” or “cemetery.” Apart from the funeral, we haven’t been back there.

He leans in to kiss the top of my head but misses. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says.

“Of course you’ll see me tomorrow. It’s Christmas.” He looks surprised. The lopsided tree flipping you the finger didn’t give it away?