Blabber Mouth

  When we got back here the sun was going down but Dad let me drive the tractor round the orchard a few times while he stood up on the engine cover waving a branch to keep the mozzies off us.

  I was feeling so good by then I didn’t even mind his singing.

  We came inside and made fried eggs and apple fritters, which everyone thinks sounds yukky but that’s only because they don’t know how to make it. You’ve got to leave the eggs runny.

  After dinner we watched telly, then I went to bed.

  Dad came in and gave me a hug.

  I switched the lamp on so he could hear me.

  ‘If you ever get really depressed about anything,’ I said, ‘feel free to use the school stationery cupboard, but take a peg for your nose.’

  Dad grinned.

  ‘Thanks, Tonto,’ he said. ‘Anyone who doesn’t want to be your mate has got bubbles in the brain. Or frogs in the mouth.’

  I hugged him again and thought how lucky I am to have such a great Dad.

  It’s true, I am.

  He’s a completely and totally great Dad.

  Except for one little thing.

  But I don’t want to think about that tonight because I’m feeling too happy.

  I love talking in my head.

  For a start you can yak on for hours and your hands don’t get tired. Plus, while you’re yakking, you can use your hands for other things like making apple fritters or driving tractors or squeezing pimples.

  Pretty yukky, I know, but sometimes Dad gets one on his back and can’t reach it so I have to help him out.

  Another good thing about conversations in your head is you can talk to whoever you like. I talk to Kylie Minogue and the federal Minister for Health and Lisa from ‘The Simpsons’ and all sorts of people. You can save a fortune in phone bills.

  And, if you want to, you can talk to people who’ve died, like Mum or Erin my best friend from my last school.

  I don’t do that too much, but, because it gets pretty depressing.

  It’s depressing me now so I’m going to stop thinking about it.

  The best thing about talking in your head is you can have exactly the conversation you want.

  ‘G’day Dad,’ you say.

  ‘G’day Ro,’ he answers.

  ‘Dad,’ you say, ‘do you think you could back off a bit when you meet people from my new school cause I’m really worried that even if they get over the frog incident none of them’ll want to be friends with the daughter of an apple cowboy who sings at them and even if they do their parents won’t let them.’

  ‘Right-o,’ he says, ‘no problem.’

  People pay attention when you talk to them in your head.

  Not like in real life.

  In real life, even if you’re really careful not to hurt their feelings, and you just say something like ‘Dad, could you wear a dull shirt and not sing today please’, people just roll their eyes and grin and nudge you in the ribs and say ‘loosen up, Tonto’ and ‘the world’d be a crook place without a bit of colour and movement’.

  He’s yelling at me now to get out of the shower because I’ll be late for school and the soap’ll go squishy and the water always sprays over the top of the curtain when I stand here and think.

  How come he knows when a shower’s going over the top, but he doesn’t know when he is?

  I wish I hadn’t mentioned Erin because now I’m feeling squishy myself.

  It’s the soap that’s doing it.

  It’s making me think of the time Erin and me put soap in the carrot soup at our school and watched everyone dribble it down their fronts, even the kids who didn’t normally dribble.

  This is dumb, it’s over one year and two months since she died, I shouldn’t be feeling like this.

  I tell you what, if I ever have another best friend I’m going to make sure she wasn’t born with a dicky heart and lungs.

  If I ever have another best friend I’m going to make her take a medical before we start.

  If I ever have one.

  Dad said today’d be better than yesterday because he reckons second days at new schools are always better than first days.

  He was right.

  Just.

  It started off worse, but.

  When I walked through the gate, all the kids stared and backed away, even the ones from other classes.

  Then I had to go and see the principal, Mr Fowler, in his office.

  He seemed quite tense. The skin on the top of his head was pink and when he stood up to take the tube of antiseptic cream out of his shorts pocket his knees were fairly pink too, which I’ve read is a danger sign for blood pressure if you’re not sunburnt.

  ‘Rowena,’ he began, rubbing some of the cream onto his grazed knuckles, ‘Ms Dunning has told me what happened in class yesterday and Darryn Peck has been spoken to. I know this move to a normal school isn’t easy for you, but that does not excuse your behaviour yesterday and I do not want a repeat of it, do you understand?’

  I nodded. I wanted to tell him you shouldn’t use too much cream, Dad reckons it’s better to let the air get to a graze and dry it out, but I didn’t in case he’d studied antiseptic creams at university or something.

  ‘Rowena,’ Mr Fowler went on, examining the graze closely, ‘if there are any problems with your father, such as, for example, him drinking too much, you know you can tell me or Ms Dunning about it, don’t you?’

  I got my pen and pad out of my school bag and wrote Mr Fowler a short note explaining that Dad gave up drinking four years ago after he’d had one too many and accidentally spilled seventy cases of Granny Smiths in the main street of our last town.

  Mr Fowler read the note twice, and I thought he was going to criticise my spelling, but he just nodded and said, ‘That’s all, Rowena’.

  He still seemed pretty tense.

  Perhaps he’d discovered his graze was going soggy.

  In class everyone stared when I walked in, except Ms Dunning who smiled.

  ‘Ah, Rowena,’ she said, ‘you’re just in time.’

  I went over to her desk and wrote a note on my pad asking if I could say something to the class.

  She looked surprised, but said yes.

  My hands were shaking so much I could hardly pick up the chalk, but I managed.

  ‘Sorry about yesterday,’ I wrote on the board. “I’ll pay for the frog.’

  My hands were still shaking when I turned back to the class.

  I was relieved to see none of the kids were backing away, and some were even smiling.

  ‘It’s OK, Rowena,’ said Ms Dunning, ‘the frog survived.’

  The class laughed. Except Darryn Peck up the back who scowled at me.

  ‘Thank you for that, Rowena,’ said Ms Dunning.

  I turned back to the board and wrote ‘My friends call me Ro’, and went back to my seat.

  The girl next to me smiled, and suddenly I felt really good. Then I realised she was smiling at somebody over my left shoulder.

  ‘OK, Ro,’ said Ms Dunning, ‘you’re just in time for the sports carnival nominations.’

  She explained about tomorrow being the school sports carnival and, because it’s a small school, everyone having to take part.

  ‘Right,’ she said, ‘who wants to be in the javelin?’

  I didn’t put my hand up for anything because I didn’t want to seem too pushy and aggressive, not so soon after the frog. Plus you never win friends at sports carnivals. If you come first people think you’re a show-off, if you come last they think you’re a dork, and if you come in the middle they don’t notice you.

  ‘One hundred metres, boys,’ said Ms Dunning and just about every boy in the class stuck his hand up. When she’d finished writing down all the names, she said ‘One hundred metres, girls’.

  No one moved.

  Then the whole class turned and looked at a girl sitting on the other side of the room.

  I don’t know why I hadn’t noticed her before because she’s got the
most ringlets I’ve ever seen on one human head in my life. The colour’s fairly ordinary, barbecue-sauce-brown, but the curls are amazing. She must keep a whole hairdressing salon in business just by herself.

  Everyone watched as she looked embarrassed and raised her hand.

  ‘Amanda Cosgrove,’ smiled Ms Dunning, writing on her list. ‘Who else?’

  No one moved.

  ‘Come on,’ said Ms Dunning, ‘Amanda can’t run the race by herself.’

  Amanda was looking even more embarrassed now.

  Must be another new kid, I thought. I wondered what she’d done to make everyone not want to race with her, and whether it had involved jamming something in Darryn Peck’s mouth.

  She was looking so uncomfortable I found myself feeling sorry for her.

  Which must have been why I put my hand up.

  ‘Rowena Batts,’ said Ms Dunning, writing down my name. ‘Good on you, Ro. Now, who’s going to follow Ro’s example?’

  No one moved.

  ‘OK,’ sighed Ms Dunning, ‘I’ll have to choose some volunteers.’

  While she did, and the people she chose groaned and rolled their eyes, the girl next to me scribbled a note and passed it over.

  I thought for a moment she’d got it wrong and thought I was deaf, but then I remembered that you’re not meant to talk in class in normal schools.

  I read the note.

  ‘Amanda Cosgrove,’ it said, ‘is the 100 metres champion of the whole school.’

  I smiled to myself. At least tomorrow people won’t be thinking I’m a show-off. And as the rest of the people were dragged into the race, and it’s really hard to sulk and run at the same time, I can probably manage not to come last.

  My heart didn’t sink until several minutes later.

  When Ms Dunning reminded everyone that sports carnivals are family events, and she’s hoping to see as many parents there as possible.

  Since then I’ve been feeling a bit tense. Nothing serious, my knees aren’t pink or anything, but I’ve got a bit of a knot in the guts. Not Tasmania or anything, but Lord Howe Island.

  The other kids keep looking at me a bit strangely, so it must be showing.

  Ms Dunning even asked if I’m feeling OK.

  I reached for my notepad, then had second thoughts and just smiled and nodded.

  I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the truth.

  That I keep having horrible visions of Dad in the middle of the oval singing to everyone, and everyone backing away.

  I thought about not telling him.

  I didn’t tell him all the way home in the truck.

  By the time we got home I felt terrible.

  Here’s Dad busting a gut moving us here and fixing up the house and knocking the new orchard into shape, all so I can go to a proper school and live at home, and here’s me not even inviting him to the first chance he’s really had to meet people in our new town.

  OK, second chance if you count the conversation he had with the man in the milk bar about how if the man didn’t want people to cheer and thump the wall he shouldn’t have got a video game in the first place.

  I mean, Dad gets lonely too.

  He doesn’t talk about it, but he must do.

  He’s left all his friends behind as well, including girlfriends.

  All for me.

  Even before we left he always put me first. He never invited his girlfriends to stay the night at our place when I was home on weekends because he reckoned it wasn’t fair for me to get used to someone when I’d probably never see them again. That was a really thoughtful gesture because I never did see them again. His girlfriends always leave him after a couple of weeks. They’re probably married to someone else and just having a fling.

  All the things he’s done for me, and here’s me having unkind thoughts about him.

  I mean, who am I to have visions about him scaring people away?

  Me, who can clear a classroom in three seconds.

  Two if I’ve got a frog in my hand.

  Dad’s just a slightly unusual bloke with slightly unusual clothes and a slightly unusual way with people.

  I’m the psychopathic frog torturer.

  Plus if he found out I hadn’t told him he’d be incredibly hurt.

  So I told him.

  I went down to the orchard where he was spraying and jumped on the front of the tractor.

  ‘Tomorrow’s our sports carnival,’ I said, ‘and parents are invited. If they’re not too busy. But if they are it’s OK, the school understands, and us kids do too.’

  The good thing about talking with your hands is people hear you even when there’s a tractor roaring away and a compressor thumping and spray hissing.

  The bad thing is people hear you even when, deep down, you don’t want them to.

  Dad stopped the tractor, tilted his hat back and his face creased with thought.

  ‘Well, amigo,’ he said, holding his thumb in the position we invented for when we want to speak with a Mexican accent, ‘it’s a frontier out here. Enemies all around us.’

  He dropped the Mexican accent and used some of the signs we invented last week.

  ‘Weevils,’ he said, eyes darting around the orchard like a wary gunfighter. ‘Weeds. Mites. Fungi. Moulds. Mildews.’

  He spun round and shot a blast of spray at a clump of couch grass. The last people to run this orchard were very slack.

  ‘On the frontier, a bloke can never rest,’ he said.

  I realised I was holding my breath.

  Was he saying he was too busy?

  ‘Except,’ he continued, ‘when it’s his daughter’s sports carnival. Then you couldn’t keep him away even if a ten foot lump of blue mould had tied him to a railway track. What time does it start, Tonto?’

  It’ll be fine.

  I know it will.

  If I keep telling myself that, I’ll get to sleep soon.

  Tomorrow’s just an ordinary old sports carnival and he’s my dad and it’s the most normal thing in the world for him to go.

  It’ll be fine.

  It was fine.

  Mostly.

  Sort of.

  At least Dad didn’t sing.

  And when he put his hand down the front of Mrs Cosgrove’s dress, he was just trying to be helpful.

  I’d better start at the beginning.

  I got up really early and ironed Dad a shirt. One without tassels. Or pictures of cowgirls riding horses at rodeos. It had metal corners on the collar, but I hoped people would think Dad was just careful about his shirts fraying.

  While he was getting dressed, Dad announced he was going to wear a special belt buckle to bring me luck in the race. I was worried for a moment, but when he came into the kitchen he was wearing one I hadn’t seen before—a kangaroo in mid-hop.

  I gave him a hug, partly because it was a kind thought, and partly because I was relieved he wasn’t wearing the grinning skeleton riding the Harley Davidson.

  In the truck on the way into town he played me one of his Carla Tamworth tapes. It was the song about the marathon runner who realises at the end of the race he’s left his sweetheart’s photo in the motel room so he runs all the way back to get it.

  I could see Dad was trying to inspire me.

  I wished he’d stop.

  ‘Dad,’ I said, ‘I’m only in the hundred metres. And I’m up against an ace runner.’

  Dad grinned and played the song again.

  ‘What it’s saying, Tonto,’ he said, ‘is that we can do all kinds of stuff even when we think we can’t.’

  If it was saying that, I thought, it’d be about a girl at a sports carnival who manages to persuade her dad not to upset the other spectators.

  When we got to the school oval, the first event was just about to start. Kids and parents were standing around talking quietly, teachers were hurrying about with stopwatches and clipboards, and Ms Dunning was telling Darryn Peck off for throwing a javelin in the boys’ toilet.

  ‘Well, Tont
o,’ asked Dad, ‘are we going to stand here all day like stunned fungi or are you going to introduce me to some of your classmates?’

  I tried to explain that it wasn’t a good time as the sack race was about to start and everyone was very tense.

  ‘You’re the only one who looks tense, Tonto,’ said Dad. ‘You can’t win a race with your guts in a knot. Come on, lie down and we’ll do some breathing exercises.’

  Dad took his hat off, stretched out on the ground on his back, and started taking deep breaths through his nose.

  I saw other parents glancing over with puzzled expressions, and other kids smirking.

  ‘Dad,’ I said, ‘if you don’t get up I’m going to drop a heavy metal ball on your head.’

  Dad shrugged and got up.

  As he did, Ms Dunning came over to us.

  ‘G’day Ro,’ she said. ‘G’day Mr Batts.’

  I explained to Dad who she was.

  ‘G’day,’ said Dad. ‘Kenny Batts.’ He grinned and shook her hand for about two months. ‘Ro’s told me what a top teacher you are.’

  Ms Dunning grinned modestly and Dad turned to me and winked and asked me if Ms Dunning was married.

  For the millionth time in my life I was grateful that Dad talks to me with his hands.

  But I still wanted to go and bury myself in the long-jump pit.

  ‘I can see I’m going to have to learn some sign-language,’ grinned Ms Dunning. Then she excused herself and hurried away because she’d just seen Darryn Peck holding a starting pistol to another kid’s head.

  ‘Nice teacher,’ said Dad. ‘OK, let’s mingle.’

  As usual I was torn between going off and sitting in the toilets so no one could see I was with him, and sticking with him to try and keep him out of trouble.

  As usual I stuck with him.

  He walked over to some parents talking to their kid.

  He’d already said ‘G’day, nice day for it’, and stuck out his hand when I realised the kid was Amanda Cosgrove, the hundred metres champion.

  And Mr Cosgrove had already shaken Dad’s hand and was already looking Dad up and down with a sour expression on his face when I recognised his brown suit and realised he was the bloke who’d glared at us as we were being chucked out of the milk bar.