If I was really on my own I’d be sobbing much harder than this.
My tears’d probably fill the town pool.
Yes!
Yes!
Yes!
Yes!
Yes!
Go Doug!
Yes!!!!!
I deserve to be tied down in the scrub with jam on my big toes and heaps of signposts so the ants can find me.
No, Doug, I do.
It’s what I deserve.
For not having more faith in you.
For doubting the double-best guardian angel in the whole universe.
Give us a D!
Give us an O!
Give us a U!
Give us a G!
What does it spell?
GENIUS!
I dunno how you did it, Doug, but thanks. If God ever retires, I reckon you should get the job, no argument.
When the shouting woke me up my heart nearly dived out of my chest.
We don’t usually get big crowds in town that early on a Saturday, so for an awful sec I thought it was farmers with guns coming after Dad.
I think Dad did too.
When I came out of my room he was crouched behind the kitchen table.
Though that might just have been because he’d stubbed his toe on the fridge again.
‘Don’t worry, Dad,’ I said, ‘I’ll check it out.’
I peered out the front door ready to duck bullets.
Then I realised the shouting wasn’t angry and murderous, it was happy and excited.
When I got down to the main street, half the town was milling around.
There were plenty of farmers, and I could tell they’d just driven in fast because their dogs were still in the back of their utes. A dog won’t go onto a bonnet till the engine’s cooled a bit.
The farmers weren’t loading guns and muttering things about Dad, they were yelling questions at each other and pointing out along the highway.
For a sec I thought it was you, Doug.
Making your appearance a bit late and in slightly the wrong place.
Which would have been fine.
Even geniuses with super powers beyond the reach of mere mortals can’t be expected to read maps right every time.
When the cloud of dust everyone was pointing at got a bit closer and I saw it wasn’t you, I wasn’t too disappointed.
Not when I saw what it was.
‘Jeez,’ yelled a farmer next to me, ‘look at the size of them.’
Actually, as road tankers go, I don’t reckon they were that much bigger than the one that brings petrol to the Gas ‘N’ Gobble on the first Wednesday of each month.
They were shinier, that’s all.
And they didn’t have Shell written on the side.
Or black smears all over them like the one that delivers the council water. The one that everybody reckons used to carry road tar.
People just thought your tankers were bigger, Doug, because they were so gleaming and mysterious.
And there were three of them.
We don’t get many mysteries in these parts.
Not ones that don’t involve banks or governments.
That’s why everyone ran along the main street next to your tankers yelling and hollering even before they knew where the tankers were going.
I knew where they were going.
That’s why I yelled and hollered louder than anyone.
Because I was so happy.
When the tankers stopped at the pool and the first one backed up to the gate and the driver connected a huge hose to the rear, everyone else got pretty happy too.
Except Mr Bullock.
He must be the most depressed mayor in Australia, I reckon.
‘You can’t fill this pool without council permission,’ he said to the driver.
The driver hesitated.
The rest of us ignored him and jumped into the pool and started clearing out the rubbish.
Mr Bullock knew he was beaten.
‘Alright,’ he said, ‘but the council’s not paying for this water.’
‘It’s taken care of,’ said the driver.
For a heart-stopping sec I thought he was you, Doug.
He didn’t have wings, but if crumb-trays on toasters can be detachable, I don’t see why wings can’t be too.
Then Matthew Conn tried to turn the big tap at the back of the tanker and the driver gave him a slap on the head.
So I knew it wasn’t you, Doug, cause you’d never hit a kid.
When the driver turned the tap and the jet of water hit the wall of the pool, I held my breath in case the tired old concrete exploded.
It didn’t.
All that exploded was the loudest cheer I’ve ever heard in this town, including the day we got satellite TV and Mr Conkey sold Mars Bars at half price.
Mr Bullock had one last try for the tide of Australia’s Grumpiest Mayor.
‘No swimming,’ he yelled at a couple of kids who were about to jump in. ‘Council health regulations. No swimming without pool chemicals in the water. It’s unsanitary.’
When the drivers opened the storage compartments under the tankers and started dragging out the drums of pool chlorine, the cheer that went up was almost as loud as the first one.
Would have been louder, probably, if some of the farmers hadn’t been using their energy to chuck Mr Bullock into the pool.
Thanks, Doug.
I’d hug you if I could.
I’m hugging my wardrobe and pretending it’s you.
When I’m a champion diver I’ll mention you in all my interviews.
Plus, when the pool opens for swimming this afternoon, I’m gunna tell everyone who provided the water.
They’ll want to name the pool after you, no risk.
Have angels got second names?
Don’t worry if you haven’t, Doug.
You can use mine.
I hope you can see this, Doug.
The view from up here on this diving board is incredible.
I can see the whole town, and the abattoir, and the Gas ‘N’ Gobble who need to repaint their roof pretty soon, and every property Dad’s ever dobbed on.
Well, almost every property.
I can’t actually tell them apart cause they all look the same from up here.
Brown.
Sorry Doug, I’m forgetting you’d be used to panoramic views.
So I don’t have to tell you how much smaller a swimming pool seems when you’re looking down on it.
Specially when half the town’s in it trying to learn how to swim.
There hasn’t been this much splashing in these parts since Danielle Wicks’ mum tried to wash six dogs in the one bath.
Nobody’s drowned yet, so swimming can’t be that hard.
I reckon once I’m in the water I’ll grasp the basics pretty quickly.
With a bit of help from you, Doug.
I had lots of Rice Bubbles for breakfast, so at least I’ll float.
That was a good thought, Doug, only half-filling the pool.
Sergeant Crean reckons the water’s too shallow for diving into from up here, which has stopped everyone else from having a crack at being a world-champion diver.
Boy, it’s a long way down.
It’s OK, Doug, I’m not scared.
This isn’t me trembling, it’s just me shivering a bit in the breeze. We’re not used to breezes around here.
Plus my blood’s pounding a bit.
From excitement.
My first real dive.
I can’t wait.
Well actually I can wait cause if I dive now I’ll land on Mr Saxby.
And Mrs Saxby who’s holding his neck brace while he practises butterfly.
And Gavin Sims who keeps sinking to the bottom cause he’s using his dad’s cricket bat as a kick-board.
And Jacquie Chaplin who can feel something uncomfortable in her swimmers.
And Hazel Gillies who’s telling her it’s Gavin’s foot
.
And . . .
I know, Doug, I know.
I’ve got to wait for a patch of water and go for it.
It’s the same as waiting for the right moment to tell everyone why they should put up a big sign saying DOUG WEBBER SWIMMING POOL.
While I’m waiting I’ll just focus my mind.
That’s the most important thing for a diver, focussing the mind.
All the telly commentators say so.
First I think arms.
Now I think legs.
Now I think what if Mr Saxby has a neck spasm and flops into my patch of water while I’m on my way down.
Now I think stop being such a worry wart.
Now I think Doug wouldn’t let it happen.
Now I think he’s already done something today that proves he’s the most super-powerful and clever angel in the entire known stratosphere i.e. half-filled a pool in thirteen minutes without using a single plastic bottle.
Now I think if he can do that he can do anything.
Move mountains.
Move tired sheep.
End droughts.
Stop me flattening Mr Saxby or any member of his . . .
Hang on a sec.
Jeez.
Doug.
I’m so slow.
Of course.
You could.
After this morning I know you could.
Now I am trembling.
And not just cause Sergeant Crean’s climbing up and yelling at me that the diving board’s a prohibited area.
Don’t worry about him, Doug.
Don’t waste time giving him vertigo or leg cramps.
Listen to what I’m saying.
I’m going to ask you the most important thing I’ve ever asked you.
Ever.
Including when I begged you to save me from that killer spider in first year.
Doug, I’m asking you to end the drought.
Make it rain, Doug.
You can do it, I know.
It’s just like what you did today only with more water.
Doug, ignore Sergeant Crean even though he is grabbing me a bit roughly.
Focus your mind, Doug.
End the drought.
Please.
Doug?
Are you there?
Ignore me if you’ve started focussing your mind on ending the drought, OK?
I know it’s a huge job and the last thing you want is me yakking away at you. That’s why I haven’t been in touch for the last twenty minutes.
But if you haven’t started yet, this is important.
I’m a bit worried you might be having problems.
You know, because weather’s not really your department.
So I just want to say that if there is a heap of extra interdepartmental paperwork involved, I’ll help you with it.
I can do really neat writing if I have to.
If Matthew Conn’s not flicking dust balls at me.
So if you’re bogged down with forms and reports, get some of them to me somehow, OK?
Also, you might be having doubts about whether it’s OK to change the weather pattern of an entire district just cause one kid asks you to.
Don’t worry.
Everyone round here wants the drought to end.
They’re desperate for it.
I’ll give you an example.
When Sergeant Crean chucked me out of the pool just now I tried to explain why he had to let me back in.
‘My guardian angel supplied the water,’ said, ‘but he’s busy now on an even bigger project so I’ve got to help him out and keep an eye on people and make sure they don’t drown.’
Sergeant Crean wasn’t convinced.
‘Cathy Saxby’s right,’ he said. ‘You are mental.’
He went back in.
I was about to follow him and tell him about my training programme and how once I’ve won lots of gold diving trophies it’ll be his responsibility to guard them at our place and he’ll probably get promoted to inspector.
Then something hit me on the back of the head.
I felt it splatter against the top of my neck and when I looked down there were red bits on my shoulders.
It was a tomato.
I turned round.
Carla was standing there scowling at me.
‘That’s for Enid,’ she said.
Or something like that.
It was a bit hard to understand because she had a can opener in her mouth.
Before I could ask her to speak more clearly she chucked another one.
‘And this is for Roald.’
That’s what it sounded like.
The tomato hit me in the chest.
Bits of it splashed up under my chin and the rest slid down my front.
I was numb with shock.
‘Fair go,’ I said. ‘I don’t even know these people.’
Carla glared at me through her curls and suddenly I realised why her eyes were glinting so much.
They had tears in them.
She took another tomato from the can she was holding and got ready to chuck it.
My T-shirt was sodden and I could feel tomato juice soaking into my swimmers. I hate canned tomatoes. That’s the trouble with living in a drought-affected area, fresh vegies are so expensive.
I had to get the can away from Carla.
Before I could move, Carla’s mum pulled up in their ute.
‘Carla,’ said Mrs Fiami sharply, ‘get in the car and stop wasting food.’
Then she saw me.
Her eyes narrowed.
‘Sorry,’ she said to Carla, ‘I thought you were wasting it. I didn’t realise you were putting it to good use.’
Carla threw the whole can of tomatoes at me.
I ducked and they splattered against the side of the pool kiosk.
That’s for Paul, Judy, Gillian, R.L., Emily, A.A., Lewis, Anna and Louisa May,’ shouted Carla tearfully.
I think those were the names.
I stared at her, desperately trying to think of a big family that had been chucked off their land lately.
They’re all gunna die,’ yelled Carla, ‘thanks to your dad.’
Mrs Fiami revved the ute and as they drove off I caught a glimpse of a big box of ammo in the back.
For a gut-churning sec I thought that Carla had persuaded a whole lot of her rellies to help the Malleys shoot Dad, then turn their guns on themselves.
Dopey, I know, but the shock I was feeling must have been stopping the blood getting to my brain.
Then the blood must have started flowing again because I suddenly remembered something I’d heard about Carla.
How she gives names to all the sheep at her place.
Then I understood.
My guts stopped churning and just lay there, still and sad.
There’s something farmers have to do in droughts, Doug, when they can’t afford feed for their animals. It saves the animals suffering hunger and starvation.
No wonder Carla was so upset.
The Fiamis are going to shoot their sheep.
‘Stop,’ I yelled, running after the ute, ‘you don’t have to, the drought’s gunna be over soon.’
They were too far away to hear.
That’s why I’m hurrying out to their place.
To try and let them know.
I just wish their place wasn’t so far away on foot.
Anyway, Doug, you can see how relieved they’ll be when you end the drought.
If I can get there in time.
And even if I can’t there are heaps of other families like them.
So if you’re having doubts, don’t.
As soon as I got to the Fiamis’ fence, I saw them.
Sheep.
Skinny and dusty and not in a very good mood, but alive.
Yes, I thought, I’m in time.
And even though my feet hurt and my face was burning and I had dried tomato sludge on my neck, I jumped over the fence with a who
op of joy.
The sheep took a few steps back.
‘G’day,’ I said to the sheep.
They took a few more steps back.
Then a thought hit me.
What if these were only some of the sheep?
Sent over here so they wouldn’t be mentally scarred by the awful violence taking place on the other side of the property.
‘Is there an Enid here?’ I asked.
The sheep looked at me blankly.
‘How about Roald?’
No one put up their hoof.
‘Paul?’ I said, ‘R.L.? Lousia May?’
The sheep nearest me did a poo and for a sec I thought she’d recognised the name, but she hadn’t.
I listened carefully for distant gunfire, but all I could hear was my heart pounding.
I hurried over to the house.
Luckily it was quite close to the fence, only about two kilometres, so I was there in about fifteen minutes.
There didn’t seem to be anybody around.
I still couldn’t hear any gunfire, so I crept round to the back of the house hoping I wouldn’t run into anything bad.
Like dead sheep.
Or Mrs Fiami pointing a gun at me.
Or Carla with a giant can of tomatoes.
I didn’t run into any of those.
What I ran into made me stare and blink to make sure my eyes were working properly.
It was a boat.
The first boat I’d ever seen in real life apart from on telly.
I went over to it.
It was pretty big, longer than Dad’s four-wheel drive probably, with yellow and blue paint that was peeling off and a cabin with a window and a windscreen wiper.
And it was propped up on bricks.
‘Don’t touch that!’ yelled a voice.
Carla came out of the house scowling.
I was relieved to see she didn’t have any vegetables with her.
That’s my Dad’s,’ she said. ‘Get away from it.’
I got away from it and remembered why I was there.
‘Have you done it yet?’ I asked anxiously.
My mouth was drier than a garden hose.
‘Done what?’ said Carla.
‘Shot the sheep,’ I said.
Carla didn’t blink behind her curls.
‘We’re waiting a couple of days,’ she said. ‘Mum’s gunna plead with the bank one more time to lend us more money for sheep feed.’
‘You don’t have to,’ I said. ‘The drought’ll be over any day. Doug’s fixing it.’
Carla stared at me, still not blinking.