The Never Boys (13 page)

‘Why don't you go to bed, then?'

‘Ask Stephen Dyson.'

Shifting against the wall, he fell silent again and watched a group of girls dancing together. Every single one of them was gorgeous. But none of them attracted him. He wanted Zara. If only they hadn't been interrupted.

A humming grew louder beside him. Sucking on forkfuls of chocolate cake, Michelle was dancing on the spot while singing along to the stereo. Why was she still bugging him? Either she had no friends at the party or worse — she was trying to cheer him up. He didn't brush her off, though. Having no one to
talk to would only make him look like a bigger loser.

‘So did the baker use premium rat poison like we ordered?'

She smiled. ‘They must have misheard you. It's premium
chocolate
and cheap rat poison.'

‘Premium, eh? It'd be a shame to let someone else eat my slice, wouldn't it?'

‘Well,' she grinned from behind the fudged fork, ‘it might be too late for that.'

The first taste was magnificent. The second — better than amnesia. When the world was against you, there was always chocolate.

Not to mention music.

Which inspired her next crazy idea to cheer him up.

‘The General will love it. It'll be the best gift she gets tonight.'

‘I can't. My guitar's back in my quarters.'

‘Borrow one of the band's.'

‘It wouldn't be right. One guy's guitar —'

But she was already making her way through the crowd. She found the lead guitarist, explained her idea, then came back. ‘He said yes.'

Dean's nerves prickled.

‘C'mon. It's your big debut,' she said, dragging him.

‘What if I suck?'

‘Then I'll take over and make you look good.'

He stood dumbly among the instruments as she picked up an electric guitar from its stand and looped the strap over his head. He felt its polished surface in his hands and felt the familiar yearning to play. Maybe if he did so soft enough, two — maybe three — people would pretend they were interested before politely clapping him off. But he was soon aware of the sudden drop in noise. Glancing up, he saw the hundreds of guests corralled in pens looking right back at him!

Ah — excuse me. Who ordered the audience?

Feeling the heat rise in his cheeks, his fingers picked the first note. Nothing. Everyone laughed. He died. Oh yeah. The amp. Electric guitar, stupid! He turned on the power, curled his toes then swallowed. He singled out Michelle. She better have that plectrum ready.

One, two, three —

Notes warbling, the crowd quickly picked up the tune and sang “Happy Birthday”.

‘Hip —'

‘Hurray!'

Three times. And a toast. ‘To the General!'

The old girl raised her own beer and yelled, ‘To
me!' inspiring more cheers. It provided the perfect opportunity to sneak away.

‘No you don't,' Michelle said, placing a stool behind him. ‘Even I can play “Happy Birthday”. This is your big chance. Don't waste it.'

‘Big chance for what?'

‘To prove your old school mates wrong.'

She stepped away as he froze. How'd she —?

But there was no time. Once again, the crowd was waiting.

‘You sure the generator's working, Deano?' the Aboriginal rousie, Adam, yelled from the bench he stood on. A couple of women shooshed, tugged at his legs and told him to get down.

Dean smiled nervously and shifted on the stool. Just before he started, he spotted Zara — standing beside Michelle in the doorway. Beautiful as always and eager to hear him. He knew what to play now. A ballad. It was the rawest song he knew. So when he finished to the crowd's loudest praise, he didn't hear any of it. She was gone. She'd deserted him during her own tribute.

Dozens of hands clapped him on the back as he fought through the guests to catch her outside. He ran across to the homestead, up to his quarters, then back down to the paddocks. There, among the
parked cars. The Subaru leaving for the highway. Two people sat inside: Stephen at the wheel; Zara snug against his shoulder.

Kissing him.

Kissing the wrong guy.

Blue. The sea was blue. A perfect breaking blue that roared and crashed with surfers. Standing alone and fully dressed, Dean felt the waves drag across his boots and the sand erode under his soles. He stared, just stared, waiting to be washed out to sea.

This beach had been his healing place and refuge. So why did he still hurt? Why so much pain?

Zara. The image of her lips on another's was lightning to his brain: flash-burned, quick and fatal.

He'd waited for her all night. Paced by the highway, pleading for her to come home. Maybe it was just a friendly kiss, a goodbye. Purely platonic. But the only footsteps dusting that dawn were his own.

Zara came back at midday. She'd shuddered open her bedroom window to the snores of the General's hangover when he'd pounced. His question was blunt. ‘Did you sleep with him?' At first she was
shocked, then dismissive with an embarrassed laugh. ‘Well, did you?'

Finally, she reddened with anger. ‘None of your business!'

But he wouldn't let go. Zara lost patience and screamed some more until he left.

That ocean. So deep. So lulling and destructive. Always revered for being filled with life only because it buried its dead.

Blue. The sea was blue.

Two surfers hooked him out and dropped his body on the shore. They only abandoned him when they were too hoarse to shout and swear at him anymore. Breathe, man! Breathe!

Finally, heaving on all fours, he coughed the cold from his lungs then collapsed. He tried not to cry.

Hunched forward and drained, Dean waited at a bus stop in Nuriootpa, a ticket limp between his fingers and a bag of unwashed clothes between his feet. To the left of him sat a young woman eating a foul egg curry and to the right a bearded man still glowing with his wife's goodbye kiss. Both made him sick. He looked across the road as a payphone started ringing. It was the third time straight it had tortured him. And as before, every pedestrian strolled past it, ignoring the call as if it was someone else's problem. But who was he to complain? He'd let it ring too. Enough. He jacked up the sound on his Walkman to full and let the drums monster his ears. It helped deafen the voice inside his head. The one caught on replay.
Loser. She never loved you. It was all in your mind.

The phone kept ringing. His brain still hurt.

He thumbed STOP and rubbed his temples. He was exhausted. One week had passed since the birthday
party, but feelings of rejection, betrayal and anger still browbeat him. He couldn't eat, sleep or get out of bed. All his thoughts were stuck on Zara and that kiss. He wished he'd never seen it. He wished he'd never met her. He wished he'd never fallen in love.

Again, that phone.

A bus headed his way. He stood, then flopped down as he realised it was a local charter full of teens, slippery with sunscreen and all exploring hands on the back seat. Bitterly, he wondered if Stephen was one of them, bragging to his mates that he'd scored another Barossa chick. ‘Not as good as those city girls though, eh?' He knew exactly what would be said. He'd told the same stories himself plenty of times. There would be wolfish cheers, payouts and a shove to the shoulder. Oh yeah. He knew. Pity his were never real.

‘You've got the wrong number okay!' He slammed the phone down and skulked back to the shelter.

‘Well? Are you going to tell me what's wrong?'

Zara's words still threatened him even though they'd been spoken that morning behind the shearers' quarters. The tone had overpowered the wide-jawed harvester filling the last grain bin too.

‘Nothing. Nothing's wrong.'

She'd hoped for honesty at least and sighed.
Looking across to the General shaking hands with the caretaker, she had decided that what was still unspoken needed to be said. ‘Did I ever tell you I once had this mate?' she'd started. ‘He was a great friend who I cared about very much. Problem was, after a while he liked me. At first I thought it was a silly crush that would eventually go away but it quickly grew into something more serious. I dropped hints that I wasn't interested, but he kept trying to impress me. When he found out I never liked him that way, he got all male on me. He shut me out and didn't want to be friends anymore.'

‘So? What's that got to do with me?'

She turned to him. ‘I'm not the one who fell in love with a dream. But I'm definitely the one being punished.'

He stood. Tried shrugging off the pain. Where was that bus?

But the longer he waited, the lonelier he felt. He found himself shaking, leaning forward and balling the ticket. Who was he kidding? This was home.

The chocolate shop was deliciously indulgent. A green sign ribboned with gold writing introduced it as der Schokoladenhersteller. Inside, it was cool — almost reverent — with the seductive sweetness of peppermint, dark chocolate and everything wicked. Pralines, truffles, nougat, rocky road, marshmallow bars, fudges, cherry liqueurs, fondant creams, almond clusters and dipped macadamias lined mirror shelves beside bells, baskets and reindeers. Huge wine barrels squatted in the middle of the walnut-furnished room, while behind the counter —
cha-ching
! — an old-fashioned cash register rang with old world charm.

‘Can I help you, sir?' one of the gloved counter ladies asked, rearranging a tray of blueberry bonbons with the same care she would silver.

‘I found this stuck to my door this morning,' he said, handing her the note. ‘There's no name signed. It could be a prank.'

She was just as confused. ‘Jules, do you know anything about guitar lessons?'

Cha-ching
! ‘Not me,' the second counter lady replied.

He thought as much. He thanked them both, then headed for the door.

‘Oh, hold on. Young man! Why don't you try Michelle. She might be still around.'

Mystery solved. He found her in the backroom, behind the chocolate moulds and mixing vats, changing into her home clothes. ‘Hello?' he knocked.

‘Hey! Dean!' she said, lacing up a boot. ‘Good to see you finally.'

‘I like the shirt,' he said, noticing it straightaway.

An anti-red circle bled over the latest pop princess. ‘Someone forgot to tell her that Barbie dolls aren't real,' she explained. ‘But how have you been, stranger?'

He leaned against the doorway and watched her re-knot the other boot; scores of beads and shells jingling from her wrists. ‘Lying low,' he said.

‘Yes, I heard. What's wrong? I rang Michelangelo's and they said you were sick. I called your place but it was always engaged. And I asked Zara, but —'

‘I'm fine. Just a summer flu. I'm pretty much over it now.' Then, quickly, ‘So, did
you
leave this note on my door?'

‘Yes. Sorry. My pen ran out — is that okay?'

‘Are you sure you want
me
to teach you?'

She shouldered her bag and led him down the back steps. ‘You're the best, aren't you?'

He grimaced. Best all right. Best at screwing up.

‘If you don't want to, I'll understand —'

‘No, I'm happy to do it. I'm just surprised — that's all. No one's asked me before. Most people think flamenco's too old-school.'

‘Then I'll just have to be four equal sides.'

‘Four —?'

‘Square,' she winked. ‘Just like you.'

He smiled. ‘Okay. Deal. Just don't bring your horse, okay?' They stepped into the main street, where more cyclists zipped. ‘When do you want to start?'

She readjusted her bag. ‘What are you doing now?'

Her home was on the outskirts of Angaston. It was a single-storey brick veneer with an old thumping border collie on the front step and a wild olive grove next door. Inside, it smelt of fruit bowls, cloves and masking tape. Dozens of cardboard boxes blocked the hallway and dining room — some marked GARAGE SALE.

‘Are you moving?'

‘Renting,' she answered, patting the yawning
border collie. ‘Mum and Dad still don't know if they can afford to buy a new house.'

‘You used to live on a farm, right?'

‘Until we were forced to sell up.'

‘Because of the drought?'

‘No, they got caught in a huge property scam.'

‘A scam?'

‘They borrowed against the farm to invest in a hotel chain. Three months later, the developers bolted for Argentina with everyone's money, including ours.'

‘You can't get it back?'

‘Not for years. Even then, the lawyers don't hold much hope.'

‘So who owns your farm now? The bank?'

She paused next to the hat stand. ‘You don't know?'

‘Know what?'

‘They didn't tell you?'

‘Who?'

‘The Kaeslers. They bought us out.'

‘The General?'

She flicked on the ceiling fan and waited until it blurred. ‘She's the biggest landowner in the district now. She even makes the wineries look small.'

He felt dumb. The stables, the horses, the lawyer, the visits — so many clues. He felt selfish for knowing so little about his friend.

‘Did you want something to drink?' she asked.

Left alone in the living room, he found a set of family portraits. They were a collage of nannas, teddies, zoo trips, embarrassing bath times, Easter bonnet parades, visiting relatives and spot-the-dork class line-ups. The funniest picture showed a younger Michelle asleep on the back of Jiffy, her arms and legs dangling down his flanks. Lots of good memories that turned him away.

She came back with a glass of apple juice to find him kneeling in front of her parents' ancient stereo system. At least twenty LP records were stacked on the carpet and an equal number were being flipped through on his lap.

‘Make yourself at home,' she said.

‘Can I put a record on? I've never heard one before.'

She slotted a large, black, plate-sized disc on the turntable then lowered the needle. A scratchy wait was followed by the Lovin' Spoonful's “Summer in the City”. When the song faded, his interest didn't. He wanted to hear more.

‘Try this one,' she said. ‘I keep all my favourites down this end.' She played him a collection of classics, which fascinated him as much as the old-style radio marked with dozens of stations that no longer existed.

‘Listen to those lyrics,' he said. ‘Nothing mass manufactured.'

‘You had to have real talent back then — not just big boobs.'

After one more record, he realised he was indulging himself at his friend's expense. She had invited him to her house for a music lesson.

‘Take my guitar and that stool,' she said. ‘I'll meet you in the lot next door. I'm going to see if our neighbour will lend us his instrument.'

A peppery aroma hung low across the olive grove like the late afternoon heat. From its bruised middle, the bouncy notes of a bulerias silenced the blackbirds raiding the crotchety trees. When the impromptu concert ended, several people clapped.

‘Not so shy anymore, hey?' she said, pointing with her eyes. The neighbours sank below their fences after being spotted and left Michelle to pull up a stool.

‘No thanks to you,' he half-smiled. ‘Now, let's start with your sitting position and hands, then we'll try some scales.'

She was an eager student. It helped that she'd studied guitar previously, although without much success. The first hour went so quickly, they didn't realise it until they were deep into their second.

‘Good. Now slow it down. Flamenco is about
feeling and rhythm, not speed. And move your thumb under a bit more.'

‘Like this?'

He guided her hands with his. ‘Just move that finger up one string — that's it. Now remember: downstroke, downstroke, E7, downstroke, lift the second finger then upstroke, down, up —'

As he watched his friend struggle with the notes, memories of his father came back. His old man had first taught him this song, standing behind him, smelling of Brazilian rosewood and spacing boyish fingers along the frets with hands covered in chiselled curls. It hadn't always been like that. For years, with eyes barely above the benchtop, Dean had only been allowed to watch his father sculpt, curse and tune these magnificent instruments. Touching was always forbidden and snapped upon with the one-word warning of his name.

His father was a loving man but a born-again disciplinarian as all luthiers had to be. The only times he seemed to relax was when a new guitar was finished and it was time to pick its virgin note. ‘Creating it is only half my skill,' he'd whisper to his son, as if the instrument was asleep. ‘I also have to teach it to sing.' Then he'd play for hours, reminisce and talk of Spain. Dean would hear
the melodies, learn their stories and most importantly absorb their
aire
.

One brave night, all of seven years old and awake hours after his bedtime, he had been sprung by his father in his backyard workshop, juggling a ten thousand dollar guitar that was ready to be shipped to an American buyer. But just before the old man was about to grab it and send him bawling inside with a smacked bum, he listened as his son played his very first few bars of flamenco. Sure, his small fingers struggled with the size and power of the instrument, but the passion was there.

Pride softened his father's hand and the next day he was given his own six-string: a terrible, slapped together alley cat of a shop model that had seen more garage sales than players. It became a true childhood friend. Later, as he was fast becoming an accomplished musician, he had been given on his fifteenth birthday an exquisite guitar of perfect tone, shaped by his old man from wood one hundred years old. The greatest honour came when his dad allowed him to pick the first note. ‘It's your guitar,' he'd said, sawdust caught in wrinkles and hair now greying. ‘Let the first note catch a little part of your soul.'

And now he saw that passion in Michelle.

‘Excellent. Okay, play it again.'

She did and within eight beats he joined in, infusing it with a background melody. The two rhythms dipped and rose, countering then complementing each other. Building up to a big ending, both finished on a heavy downstroke and a laugh.

‘I can play!'

‘Sure can.'

The next day she was so keen for another lesson, she rang him before work. They arranged to meet at Michelangelo's on his lunchbreak. He brought his guitar. She brought cake.

The stone cellar was their concert hall; the tortoise shell of French oak barrels their backdrop. They played together until the chief winemaker asked them to quieten down with the same soft assertion as a Catholic priest.

‘I better get back upstairs anyway.'

‘Where have they put you this afternoon?'

‘Tastings. Which reminds me, can you help me find this bottle?'

He led her towards the racks, where they searched either side of one, while she asked through the openings about spiders.

‘Merlot. 1998,' he announced, looking up.

‘Can you reach it?'

‘I can try.'

He burrowed his hand into the cobwebbed hole when —
pounce
— he freaked and she laughed as she withdrew her “spidery” hand from the other end.

‘See you tomorrow?'

‘I'll bring the bug spray.'

By the third day, she had perfected everything he'd taught her. They repeated the same song, adding new bars until nightfall. Shadows, they stood in the olive grove again, buckling up their cases.

‘My parents will be home shortly. Did you want to stay for dinner?'

‘Thanks, but I really should be going.'

‘Well, come inside for a sec anyway. I've got a couple of CDs you might be interested in.'

Walking into a girl's bedroom was always a strange experience. It was almost forbidden. An expression of trust. Back home, he rarely let anyone inside his — especially his mum! It was an orphanage for the lost and unwashed: twisted sheets, stinking shoes, unread English texts, albums,
Rolling Stone
back issues, clothes that never lived in their drawers and that hormonal boy pong. Michelle's was a whole different world. She lived in an aquarium.

On her shelves, three fish tanks hummed and bubbled with tiger barbs, cardinal tetras, silver sharks, angels, blue diamond discuses and a clown loach that
swam through plants, skulls and a giant shipwreck. Along her windowsill sat stuffed toys collected from shops or theme parks: mainly dolphins, with a few octopi, whales and crabs. Rock posters and textbooks filled the gaps, while DVDs, video tapes, mobiles, shells, dried starfish, coral and photographs scissored from magazines cluttered her desk. Even her blue bedspread was splashed with sea creatures.

‘Let me guess: you want to be an accountant?'

She half-grinned. ‘I might have to to calculate how to pay for their food and electricity.'

‘A marine biologist, then?'

‘That, or an underwater documentary maker for
National Geographic
.'

A tiger barb fascinated him. ‘I can imagine you chasing fish at the Great Barrier Reef.'

‘Maybe — but I'm more interested in the extreme adventure side: deep water exploring of shipwrecks like the
Britannic
or sunken galleons.'

‘Cool.'

She coaxed several independent label CDs from her collection as he stood under a spinning mobile of sea creatures stirred by their entry. Luckily, no stingrays.

(“Don't you die on me or Dad'll kill us both!”)

‘Do you scuba dive?' he asked, accepting the CDs.

‘Yes and no. I've had lessons in a pool, but never done a shore dive.'

‘Why's that?'

‘Because — no, it's embarrassing. You'll only laugh.'

‘C'mon. Tell me.'

‘No, I can't.'

‘I promise I won't laugh.'

She checked his sincerity, then breathed. ‘I'm afraid of the sea.'

‘The sea?'

‘Well, not exactly. More what's in it: sharks.'

‘You want to be a marine biologist, but you're afraid of the sea?!'

‘You promised not to laugh!'

A stuffed dolphin hit his shoulder. ‘Sorry, mate. But that
is
kinda funny.'

‘Great. Now I'm going to get a complex about it, too.'

He put the toy back on the sill. ‘I should take you surfing one day,' he offered. ‘You'll be too busy having fun to worry about sharks.'

‘Grey ones with fins, or the boy kind?'

They grinned.