Tigers on the Beach (8 page)

‘I'm sorry, I didn't mean –'

‘How would you feel if
I
died?'

‘Georgia, don't be silly.'

‘How would you feel, Ken?'

‘I'd be devastated. You know I would.'

‘For how long?'

‘For the rest of my life. But I wouldn't upset people.'

‘Mum isn't upsetting people.'

‘But those hanging teddy bears –'

‘Oh, for heaven's sake. Will you stop going on about that?'

‘It's just an example.'

I stay awake long after their arguing finishes.

There is a rustling noise outside. I look out of the window. The Ponderosa is still, the cabins bathed in pale moonlight. Then I see movement. Grandma is walking away from cabin number two and down the driveway. As quietly as I can, so as not to wake Xander, I climb into my clothes and creep outside to follow her.

Grandma walks out of The Ponderosa, crosses the road then paces along the path that cuts through to the beach. She is moving quickly, as if she's been this way before. I tail her. A twig snaps behind me. I turn and see Xander in his pyjamas. The moonlight makes his long tousled hair look white.

‘What are you doing?' I whisper.

‘Sleepwalking,' says Xander.

‘Don't be stupid.'

‘I'm following you.'

‘Go home,' I say. ‘You'll walk into a tree.'

‘Where are you going?' he asks.

‘Keep your voice down. I'm tracking Grandma. She's heading for the beach.'

‘Why is she going to the beach at night?'

‘I'm hoping to find out.'

‘I'll come too.'

‘No.'

‘I want to come too.'

‘All right, but you have to promise you won't walk into a tree.'

‘I promise,' says Xander.

‘You'd better hold my hand, just in case. It's dark.'

‘Poofter, poofter, poofter, poofter, poofter,' he says. ‘You are a titanic poofter.'

‘Stop!' I cry.

Xander stops. He is about to walk into a tree. I force him to hold my hand. We continue along the track through the tea-tree, then trudge into the sand dunes. The sand is soft. We hear the waves lapping ahead. The moon shines through some clouds.

‘Do you see Grandma?' I whisper.

‘No,' says Xander. ‘Maybe she walked to the moon?'

‘We've lost her. It's your fault for holding me up.'

‘I think there's someone sitting on the beach,' says Xander.

‘Where?'

‘Over there.'

‘Don't just say, “Over there”. Point.'

‘That isn't my pointing hand.'

‘Live dangerously.'

‘But you're holding my hand.'

‘Point with your other one.'

Xander points. He's right. There's a dark shape about a hundred metres away. Someone is sitting and looking out to sea.

‘Is it Grandma?' whispers Xander.

We venture a little closer. It
is
Grandma.

‘Time to go back,' I say. ‘Before she sees us.'

‘Why is Grandma sitting on the beach in the middle of the night?'

‘I don't know, Xander. Come on, let's go home.'

We leave Grandma alone on the beach. I'm fairly sure she has Grandpa's urn with her.

I wake up at 5.30 a.m., which means I've had only a few hours sleep. I tell Mum and Dad about what Xander and I saw.

‘Does she know you followed her?' Mum asks.

‘I don't think so.'

‘I'll have to speak with her,' says Mum. ‘She mustn't go wandering at night.'

‘Provided she's not disturbing the guests, I really don't mind what she does,' says Dad.

‘Could you please show a little more concern?' says Mum, giving Dad one of her glares. A fly plummets to the counter, dead. Dad brushes it away and says nothing.

‘Thank you for telling me, Adam,' says Mum.

‘When are you seeing Sam again?' Dad asks me.

‘Oh, I don't know.' I pretend to be uninterested. ‘She said she'd ring me. But if she doesn't, that's okay.'

Dad realises that I'm being untruthful. A blind parrot would. An amoeba would, and they are the lowest form of life, except for real-estate agents.

‘Did I ever tell you about how your mother and I met?' Dad says.

‘Yes, Dad,' I say.

‘When I first saw your mother we were both in year eight. She was the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen.'

‘Yes, Dad.'

‘I adored her but I didn't have the guts to tell her till we were in year ten. And do you know why?'

‘Yes, Dad.'

‘I had pimples in year eight and I thought your mother was just too beautiful for me. But in year ten she developed pimples too so I figured that made us even. Our pimples brought us together.'

Dad tells this story often. I guess it is sort of sweet. And when Mum hears it, she always smiles.

But not today.

Dad and I no longer run along the beach in the morning. He's always too tired. It's probably because he stays up late arguing with Mum. This bothers me. But the fact that he and Mum haven't laughed in days bothers me more.

Purple Haze is different from any other shop in the Port Argus region. There are no postcards. You can't buy board shorts. But there is a wide range of gags, bizarre jewellery and just plain weird stuff. Today the customers are mainly teenagers. Two of them wear goth make-up and black clothes. It must be hard for goths who live in beach areas. The seaside and everlasting despair just don't go together.

I browse amongst the little statues of monsters, the rubber masks, the bongs and the trading cards. Some of the practical jokes are on sale, such as the laughing toilet seats, itching powder, joy-buzzers and squirt-flowers. Xander has always liked the laughing toilet seat. He would.

The guy who runs Purple Haze is bearded, balding and round. He could be anything from thirty to fifty. He sells hundreds of practical jokes and promises customers a refund if they are not fully satisfied. We are talking about a
serious
comedy expert.

‘What can I do for you?' the guy asks. Today he's wearing a T-shirt with a skull that probably glows in the dark.

‘I need something really funny,' I say.

‘You've come to the right place.'

‘It has to be funny enough to make my parents laugh.'

‘Oh. That might be a tall order.'

‘Mine laugh at plenty of things,' I say. ‘Well, they used to. But they don't anymore. Not lately. What would you recommend? Not a bong, please.'

The man pinches at his beard. ‘I've seen you here before. What's your name?'

‘Adam Cartwright.'

‘No kidding? Just like the cowboy in
Bonanza
.'

I'm surprised he knows.
Bonanza
is such an ancient show.

‘I'm named after him,' I say.

‘I'm Zebulon,' says the guy.

It can't be his real name. He's obviously stolen it from
Battlestar Galactica
or something.

‘Zebulon?' I laugh because the name is so unusual. ‘
That's
your real name?'

Zebulon looks unamused. ‘It's Hebrew.'

I'm instantly solemn, because I don't want to be mistaken for a fascist. ‘Right. Hebrew. Sorry.'

‘I like my name,' says Zebulon.

‘It's a fantastic name,' I agree.

‘How much money do you have to spend?'

‘Thirty dollars.'

‘
That
much?' Zebulon is being sarcastic.

‘What do you reckon would make my parents laugh for thirty dollars?'

‘I'd have to know more about your parents,' says Zebulon. ‘What can you tell me about them?'

‘Well, they're just . . . normal.'

‘What do they do?'

‘They run some holiday cabins.'

‘In their spare time, I mean.'

‘They don't really have that much spare time.'

‘What TV shows do they watch?'

‘Dad watched
Bonanza
when he was a kid.'

‘Me too. What about
now
? What shows do they like?'

‘Sometimes they watch nature documentaries.'

‘Hmm. That doesn't give me much to go on. Do they like reading?' Zebulon persists.

‘They don't read much either,' I say. ‘Though they keep telling me how important it is. Hey, maybe you could watch them for a little while and work out what would be the best joke for them?'

‘You want me to spy on your parents?'

‘It wouldn't really be spying.'

‘What else would you call it? Market research?'

‘Yeah, that sounds right.'

‘Adam, I have scruples. I'm not going to do market research on your parents. Not unless you pay me a lot of money.'

‘I don't have a lot of money.'

‘You've already made that obvious.'

I look at the various practical jokes on display. ‘Do you reckon they'd like the wind-up false teeth?' I ask.

Zebulon leans forward as though he is about to reveal something of great importance. ‘I'll let you in on a secret, Adam. There isn't a single person in the whole world who has
ever
laughed at the wind-up false teeth. Not even the man who invented them. And especially not his parents.'

‘Then how come you sell them?'

‘I sell lots of things, not all funny.'

‘Whoopee cushions?'

‘They're certainly funnier than the wind-up teeth. But the trouble is, they never sound like proper farts. They sound like a horse breathing out. Somebody sits on one, they make a horsey noise, and that's it: “Good heavens! Grandma has just sat on a horse. How embarrassing!” '

‘I once downloaded a ring tone,' I say. ‘That sounded
exactly
like a fart.'

‘Did your parents laugh?'

‘No. Dad said it wasn't appropriate for the assistant manager of a tourist resort to have a farting phone.'

‘He's probably right. And you would be the assistant manager, I presume?'

I nod. ‘I bought a poster here that made them both laugh. It had monkeys and a funny caption:

‘YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE CRAZY TO WORK HERE. BUT IT HELPS.'

Zebulon leaves his beard alone. ‘You bought that from
me
?'

‘Sure.'

‘I don't remember ever stocking a poster like that.'

‘You recommended it.'

Zebulon looks nonplussed. ‘I must have been having an off day.'

‘But you were right. When I gave it to Mum and Dad they were laughing all over the place.'

‘Maybe they just wanted to please you? It's not that great a joke.'

‘No, they hung it up where everyone can see it, so they must think it's extra funny.'

Zebulon allows himself a moment of pride. ‘Well, I'm glad I sold you something that made your parents laugh. Laughter is a wonderful thing.'

‘So, you don't have any suggestions?'

Zebulon picks at his beard again, then brightens. ‘Why don't you give them a tiger?'

‘A tiger?'

‘You know. Those big stripey cats that roam around Africa.'

‘I know what a tiger is, I just don't know if a tiger would make them laugh. It would probably terrify them or even kill them.'

‘Not a real tiger, you muppet,' says Zebulon. He tells me to wait a moment while he goes to the storeroom. He returns with two toy tigers. They are quite large and barely fit on the counter. I have to admit, they are the most impressive toy tigers I have ever seen.

‘They're on special today,' says Zebulon. ‘You can have them both for thirty dollars.'

‘But what's funny about tigers?'

Zebulon presses down on both of them. They make a roaring sound.

‘Pretty cool, eh?' says Zebulon. ‘Could even be funny to some people. And you can keep your pyjamas in them. Do you reckon your parents would like them?'

I shake my head. ‘I feel weird about giving toy tigers to my mum and dad.'

‘Thirty dollars a pair is a bargain. I must be bonkers for selling them so cheaply.'

‘But I don't think my parents
like
tigers all that much,' I say. ‘And even though your tigers can roar, that doesn't make them funny.'

Zebulon is still keen to make a sale. ‘Didn't you say that your parents watch nature documentaries?'

‘Yeah, but only because Grandma does. She's staying with us.'

‘Maybe your
grandma
would like a roaring tiger?'

‘No. My grandma doesn't like
anything
.'

Zebulon looks startled. ‘I'm sure you're wrong about that.'

‘Seriously. She's bad-tempered and she's a cow and she's driving us all crazy.'

I look down at the various pieces of jewellery that are on display under the counter, and wonder which might appeal to Sam.

‘Please leave the store,' says Zebulon quietly.

I look up and see him looking stony-faced.

‘Just because I won't buy the tigers?' I say.

Zebulon's whole manner has changed, as if I have uttered something terrible. ‘You can't buy anything in this store. Your money isn't good here.'

‘What are you talking about?'

‘You called your grandmother a cow. We do not speak ill of grandmothers on these premises.'

Some nearby customers nod in agreement. This is obviously a rule of Purple Haze that I wasn't aware of.

I back away slowly. ‘Okay.'

‘Love your grandma,' Zebulon says. ‘That's an order.'

‘I'll try,' I say.

‘You'll have to do better than that.'

Zebulon removes the tigers from the counter and returns them to the storeroom. I look around at the customers, hoping to find one who is on my side. The Goths are looking at a deck of tarot cards. I make eye contact with the girl, which isn't hard because her eyes are so big. She must go through a whole stick of eyeliner every time she puts her face on.

‘He tries to sell everyone those tigers,' the girl says. I relax. She seems friendly, or at least fairly normal, for a goth. She doesn't seem to be sinking into eternal despair. She's more like a human panda. ‘But you'd better go,' she adds. ‘You really blew it when you dissed your grandma to Zebulon.'

I leave the store empty-handed, wondering if I am the last sane person on planet earth.

That night I wait for a phone call from Sam, but it doesn't come. All I get is an email from Ben Beacham. It's one of those chain emails that I am meant to forward to ten people, and which will bring me luck. If I don't do it, there is a dire warning that my brain will explode. I decide to risk it and not forward the email to anyone.

I go to bed early, but remain awake in the darkness.

‘What are you thinking about?' Xander asks.

‘Nothing,' I say. ‘I'm just waiting for my brain to explode.'

At midnight we hear a screeching noise outside. It's bloodcurdling, like the cry of a witch. At first we think it might be Grandma, then we realise there is nothing human about this noise. Xander and I nervously pull on our shorts and go out to investigate.

Everyone has left their cabins, including Mr Panozzo, our most recent guest. He's a writer who has come here for peace and quiet. The screeching continues. Scared parents reassure their scared children that there is nothing to be scared of. Nathan locates the source of the noise. Grandma's possum trap has been set up behind the pine trees, where no one has noticed. The trap has snared a koala, which we see in the light of Dad's torch. I didn't know that koalas could screech so loudly and terribly.

Nathan tells everyone to stand back as he tries to calm the koala by making soft cooing sounds. Then he lifts up the cage and takes it to the nearest eucalyptus tree. We all follow him.

Mum tries to reassure the guests. ‘It's just a koala. See? Nothing to worry about.'

Nathan's theory is that if he opens the cage at the base of the tree, the koala will climb up the trunk, as this is its natural habitat. There is authority in his voice. It's hard to recognise him as the shy Nathan that sweeps up after the possums. He's good with animals. People relax when they realise that an expert is in control. But when the koala is released, it doesn't climb the tree. Instead it climbs Mr Panozzo. The koala clutches at his striped pyjama pants. They begin to slip. Desperately, Mr Panozzo grasps the top of his pyjama pants with one hand and tries to shoo away the koala with the other. It maintains its grip.