No Worries (3 page)

7

We got rid of the first rush of vendors and Norm disappeared into the tunnel for his break. Superstud and Eric perched on stools in the office. I sat outside on a milk crate to escape the cigarette smoke.

‘You watching the rugby test tomorrow, Rattlehead?' asked Bob.

‘Not me, Supers. I'm gunna tape it.'

‘You must have a few tapes stacked away by now — you're always taping stuff. When do you get around to watching them?'

‘I don't. They're for me retirement; got everything marked up and dated. It's all under control. When I retire from this joint, I'm gunna sit down in me favourite chair, have a coldie or two, and watch every one of me shows. How's that for a plan, Superstud?'

‘You're one of a kind, Rattlehead, one of a kind.'

A beefy bloke appeared. Bald except for some last-gasp hair clinging to the sides of his scalp, he wore glasses, a red sweater and black pants and looked like he was all set for a round of golf.

‘I'm Ron, the nightshift supervisor. You're the new starter, are you?'

‘That's me … Bri.'

I wondered if I should put out my hand for him to shake, but his attention had already drifted elsewhere.

He poked his head inside the office door.

‘How's it going, boys?'

Bob plucked the cigarette from his mouth and gave the question a moment's polite consideration, before replying, ‘Good as gold.'

‘That's the way,' said Ron. A sly grin at Eric. ‘How's it hangin', Ek?'

‘You know me, Ronny — hangin' like a horse.'

‘Rocking horse,' said Bob without hesitation.

Ron slapped Eric on the back. ‘I think he's having a shot at you, old son.'

‘Never,' said Bob.

Eric shrugged it all away and got back to looking at the Personal columns in the paper.

‘You never know, I might write to one of these sheilas one day,' he muttered.

‘Wouldn't know what to do with ‘em,' Bob muttered back.

Ron did his golf-course stroll into the coolroom and returned sipping an orange juice.

‘You blokes don't know anyone on the council, do you? One of the aldermen?'

Bob shook his head.

‘Ek?'

‘Nah. Can't help yer there. Havin' council trouble, are yer, Ronny?'

‘Not me, a lady friend of mine.'

‘Lady friend?'

‘Beautiful blonde, mate.'

‘Hello! Is she just a friend or are you givin' her one?'

‘No comment.'

‘You sly bastard, Ronny. Here's me goin' through the Personals every day with me tongue hangin' out, and all the time you're gettin' a bit on the side and not sayin' a word about it.'

‘Sometimes it doesn't pay to advertise, Ek. The wife might not understand.'

Eric's laugh was like applause to Ron. He smiled to himself. He glowed.

Bob shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘So what's her problem with Council?' he asked.

It was all about a tree. The beautiful blonde — who seemingly didn't have a name — was afraid the tree was going to fall on her house. Ron offered to cut it down for her, but before he could …

‘The silly bitch goes to Council and asks for permission, doesn't she? I knew they'd knock her back — there's nothing wrong with the tree, she's just got a bee in her bonnet. So now big-mouth me's gone and told her I'll get Council to change its mind.'

‘A few brownie points, eh?'

‘You got it, Ek.'

‘Newspaper's your best bet,' said Bob. ‘They always want stories. Council'll be around with a chainsaw quick-smart if it starts getting bad-mouthed in the paper.'

‘Or she could write a letter to the editor,' suggested Eric.

‘Her English is crap. Hasn't been in the country long.'

‘Then you can write it for her, Ronny.'

‘Not me. The last time I wrote a letter I was about five.' Ron shook his head. ‘To Santa Claus. The mongrel didn't reply so I never wrote another one.'

Bob half turned my way. ‘Dreamy'll do you a letter — won't yer, Dreamy?'

I hadn't expected that and didn't know where to look.

‘It's up to you, of course.' Bob faced me full-on. ‘Thought that you being fresh out of school and that, you could do a half-decent letter.'

I would never have had the guts to volunteer to write the letter, but since Bob had made it easy for me …

‘I suppose.'

Eric rummaged around under the desk and came up with a notepad and pen. He slapped them down in front of me.

‘What are you waitin' for then?'

I looked at Ron. ‘Is it all right with you?'

‘You can have a crack at it if you like.'

He gave me all the details I'd need.

‘Now all you have to do is fill in the dots,' he said.

But it needed more than that. If he wanted a result, the letter had to have some punch, some emotion. Mostly I kept my own feelings nailed down — less complicated. But I pulled out the nails when I wrote. Emotion … yeah, I could do that.

‘I'll do my best,' I told him. ‘I'll try to have it ready for you tomorrow night.'

‘Righto. What was your name again, son?'

‘Bri.'

‘Okay then, Bri. Tomorrow it is.'

He shook my hand. At the same moment he winked at Bob and Eric, as if to say, ‘Hey, I'm only humouring the village idiot'.

That made me determined. Ron was going to get the best letter he'd ever seen.

‘I'll be off then, boys. Don't go knocking yourselves out now, will you.'

‘Try not to,' said Bob.

‘See ya, Ronny,' called Eric.

Ron reminded me of a relic from some old-fashioned black and white English movie — a pipe-smoking colonel out inspecting his troops on the battlefield, keeping their spirits up as the bombs blasted all around. I almost saluted as he nodded to me on his way past.

The cleaners got stuck into their work as he approached, only raising their heads long enough to acknowledge his ‘How's it going, boys?' The moment he vanished around a corner all work ceased.

8

Mum picking me up was a blur. I tumbled into the car and went to sleep. When we got home she was quiet. No questions at all. She told me she was having the day off work. Something about an appointment with a psychiatrist. I didn't take much notice. There'd been a lot of shrinks. At first they used to get her to talk about her past. That only made it worse. For the last few years she'd been on pills. At her worst she'd be so low she wouldn't get out of bed. At other times she'd be so high she wouldn't
go
to bed. In between all that she could be grumpy and angry, pathetic and sad, or excited and wildly happy. Sometimes she could be all of those things within a couple of hours. The only thing I could count on was that she never stayed the same for very long. Every time I walked into the house there'd be someone different waiting for me. Lately I didn't like any of them much.

I woke up around two. I microwaved a frozen pie and then slobbered tomato sauce all down my shorts as I ate it. It'd dry. In the meantime I had to write that letter to the editor.

I'd found out the woman did have a name after all. Jana. She was a nervy type, Ron said, a worrier. After many stops and starts the letter gradually took shape …

‘I love trees as much as anyone, but not when they are towering above my house and threatening not only to fall on my roof but to bring down power lines. Yet Council has flatly refused my request to have this particular tree removed. If it was only myself at risk I would probably accept that decision. But this is not the case.

I live in a densely populated area with many young children nearby. There is a park next to my house where children play every day. I love to see them running and having fun. But though I try to block it out, in my head I sometimes see a very different picture — that of a child trapped and lifeless beneath a huge fallen branch.

I hope with all my heart that this never happens, but who is to say it will not? This is a very old, very large tree. One strong wind is all it will take to find out if Council is right or wrong. But does anyone have the right to take such a risk with people's lives?

I felt a twinge of guilt about writing the letter. I wasn't sure if it was because I might be helping to get a perfectly healthy tree chopped down, or because I was helping Ron cheat on his wife. Probably both. But the guilt didn't stick around for long. My ego wouldn't let it.

‘It's not a bad letter,' I told myself. ‘Not bad at all.'

I peeked out the back window to see if the curtains were open in the shed. They were, which meant Dad had finished his run. He was a postie, one of the old breed who still rode a pushbike. He reckoned they'd never get him on one of those little chug-a-chug motorbikes — ‘chook chasers', he called them. He prided himself on the fact that he'd never fallen off his bike. But then Dad's memory wasn't too reliable.

I ambled out to the shed.

‘You said you'd give me a driving lesson today, Dad. I'm going for my licence this week. Remember?'

He was propped up on the couch, a can in his hand, the radio blaring. The table was covered with empties. He squinted as if he was struggling to recognise me.

‘So is it okay … Dad?'

‘Yeah!' Suddenly he was back to his cheerful self. ‘Why wouldn't it be?' He thumped down the can and beer erupted over the top. ‘I'm ready to rock and roll!'

He staggered backwards as he stood.

‘Maybe if I let you have a rest for a while. Come back in an hour or so.'

‘You been listenin' to yer mother again, have yer? You seen me car keys? She been tellin' yer I'm a pisspot, has she? There they are. Catch!'

He threw them wide of me.

‘Never mind her, Bri. We're all right, me and you. Aren't we?'

His drinking never bothered me. He never took it too far. Anyway, I was used to it.

‘Yes, Dad. We're fine.'

‘Because if there was any problem, I could sort you out quick-smart. Yer know that, don't yer?'

He shaped up like a boxer and pranced around me, throwing air-punches.

‘Or do yer reckon yer could take yer old man. Eh? Do yer?'

‘You're an easy-beat, Dad.'

‘Come on then, have a go.'

He pretended to land an uppercut, then another, complete with whooshing sound effects. I air-punched him on the jaw. He staggered backwards and down, his tongue hanging out as he hit the ground. Straightaway he was up again, his arm draped over my shoulder, both of us laughing as we walked outside.

‘Yer mother, she don't understand us,' he said. ‘Never will, mate, never will.'

Dad called his car Goldie. Short for Golden Holden. He only ever owned Holdens and every one of them was golden — to him at least. The current one was a 1970s job. He said it was Spanish — ‘Because it's a manual'. The more I told him how old and corny that joke was, the more he smiled. To Dad the most important feature of a car was the radio. If it could pick up the racing station and play some of those ancient songs he liked, nothing else mattered. In Goldie the gears crunched even if you slotted them into place perfectly. The whole car creaked and croaked like it was about to cark it. Tackling hills was murder. I'd kangaroo hop my way up and hope like hell I didn't have to stop on a steep grade, because the handbrake wasn't much use and I'd be dead scared of rolling back into the car behind us. Dad always made sure to take me up a hill.

Mum had an automatic, only a few years old. She said she'd teach me in that but it wasn't worth the hassle. I didn't want her on my back, criticising all the time. It didn't matter if I scratched Goldie. If I'd got a speck of dust on Mum's car she would have thrown a fit. Besides, she was too nervy to be any good as a teacher.

Dad sang old songs from the sixties and seventies most of the time when he was giving me a lesson. If he was worried about my driving, he didn't show it. Like he said, I knew when I made a mistake so there was no point in making me feel worse.

When he stopped singing it was usually to have some fun, like at traffic lights.

‘Get up beside that sports car when it gets the red, Bri. This is what them drivin' schools don't teach yer. I'll show yer how to burn it off. Works every time. Make out yer not interested, see. Look bored. Yawn. Know what I mean? But keep watchin' for the orange on the other side … Wait, wait — there it is! Floor it, floor it!'

I'd floor it and Goldie would respond with an asthmatic groan. Dad always made out that he was shocked and speechless as if it had never happened before. I'd shake my head and say, ‘Dad, you gotta get some new material', but I loved every second of it and he knew it.

This day we'd gone through our regular routine: reverse park, hill start, crawling in the thick of traffic, curling round some tight bends, ending up with a straight and easy run back home. Dad had been dozing towards the end of it, only waking up as I bumped us too fast over a speed-hump.

He woke in time to see Emma.

I'd driven the long way home, down her street. I'd often walk around there hoping to accidentally bump into her yet at the same time dreading it because I knew I wouldn't be able to put two words together. Now there she was, leading her horse along the side of the road near the speed-hump. And she'd seen me.

‘Pull over,' said Dad.

‘Huh? Why?'

‘The lass with the horse — she gave you the eye.'

I lightly touched the brake.

‘I don't think so, Dad.'

‘Jeez, you young blokes are slow. She smiled at yer. Pull over. You don't have to worry about anything. I'll do the talkin'.'

I stopped the car, covering my face and cringing at the thought of him doing the talking.

‘No. Don't, Dad. It's not a good idea. Let's go home.'

But he was already out the door and walking unsteadily back to Emma. ‘Come on, Bri,' he yelled, so all the world could hear. ‘This is yer chance!'

I wanted to hide under the seat.

‘How yer goin', darlin'?'

‘Fine, thanks.'

‘Briii-an! Get over here, mate. Don't be shy.'

I wanted to kill him but the damage was done. There was no escape.

‘Yeah, I'm coming,' I said, silently begging my face not to change colour.

Emma looked amused by it all: a drunken matchmaker and a woeful would-be Romeo who'd just realised his shorts had a tomato sauce stain directly over the crotch.

‘Hi,' I said. ‘This is my father. Dad, this is Emma Freeman. She goes to my old school.'

‘He's a bit of a dark horse, this lad. Never mentioned you once, Emma. Me friends call me an old bastard, but you can call me Mick.'

‘Nice to meet you, Mick.'

Dad's only reply was an extremely stupid grin. He had a glazed look on his face as if the grog was fast shutting down large sections of his brain.

The silence roared around us. I had to say something.

‘This is tomato sauce,' I said, pointing at my crotch.

‘Is it?' she replied.

The word ‘dumb' entered my brain and tolled like a huge bell — DUMB, DUMB, DUMB — and for the first time I knew what a girl could do to me by not doing anything. But not just any girl.

‘What I mean is — um, ah …'

She watched me squirm, the faintest hint of amusement in her eyes.

Finally I spluttered, ‘Nice horse.'

She rubbed its nose. ‘His name is Zeb.'

‘Like zebra,' said Dad, springing back to life.

‘Zebra?' Emma raised her eyebrows.

I hated to think what she might have been thinking about us.

‘Well, come on, Dad. We'd better be getting back.'

‘Nooooooo.'

Dad let the word run out so it sounded like a moaning cat.

‘Youse two have a natter. Take yer time. I'll have a snooze while I'm waitin'. In fact, better still, I'll drive Goldie home and you can walk back when yer finished. Problem solved.'

I screamed inwardly, ‘No! No!', but all Dad heard was a vague and mumbled protest. Then he was gone. And we were alone.