Four fingers.
‘Getting beaten up in front of you – there’s nothing manly in that, is there?’
Five fingers.
‘Mahatma Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Nelson Mandela, Darcy Walker – all non-violent revolutionaries!’
Audrey smiles with those perfectly crooked teeth. She steps closer and punches me, just lightly, on the arm.
‘You big coward.’
‘Call me Amoeba Man!’
Audrey steps in front of me, holding her arms wide in mock protection.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll stand between you and Braith. Just in case he attacks.’
‘Audrey, you’re the man of my dreams.’
The English essay
I wrote about him because he’s dead. You can write what you like about the dead and you won’t get in trouble until you meet again in heaven, or hell – if you believe in that stuff. And what are they going to do? Kill you? Or send you back to earth, so they can ... kill you?
He was my grandfather. Dad’s dad. Grandpa Stan. We visited him every Sunday morning when I was young. Only Dad and me went. Mum had work to catch up on. She always made me wear my best clothes – a neat white shirt with dark-blue stitching and the same trousers I’d worn to Aunt Alma’s third wedding. Dad kept mentioning the word ‘third’ throughout the reception until Mum kicked him under the table, twice on the shin. He showed me the bruise when we got home. He was really drunk. He rolled up his trouser leg and asked me to take a photo. We were both giggling. Dad said, ‘I’m going to frame it and give it to your mother on our next anniversary.’
Mum told me to hug Grandpa Stan when I arrived and before I left. To talk really loudly because he’s deaf. To sit close and tell him all about school. To say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ whenever he offered me a biscuit or a cordial. To keep my hands in my lap and not touch all the mementos in his house. My head was spinning trying to remember everything.
Me and Dad drove down the coast. I was excited because I got to sit in the front seat, watching Dad change gear, listening to him swear under his breath whenever another driver did something wrong. There was a plague of bad drivers on Sunday.
Grandpa lived near a freshwater lake, where he fished most days. His house was a tumbledown fibro shack. There was a sign over the front door, Emoh Ruo. When we knocked, Grandpa would yell from the lounge room, ‘Come in if ya good looking.’
Dad would call back, ‘It’s me.’
Grandpa would scratch his chin and say, ‘Don’t know anyone of that name.’
He’d take one long look at me and say, ‘Have you been standing in fertiliser, my boy?’
I’d check the soles of my shoes.
He’d laugh, fit to burst.
‘You’ve grown, young man.’ Then he’d offer me chocolate biscuits on a tray. ‘Here, have a dozen of these. They’re good for your teeth.’
Dad would say, ‘Don’t listen to Grandpa, son. He’s the world’s best bull– Grandpa.’
‘Thanks, Dave,’ Grandpa would say. ‘Now make yourself useful and get me a cup of tea, will you.’
Grandpa would wink at me. ‘And get your son a cordial to wash down all these biscuits he’s going to eat.’
Grandpa sat on a lounge chair in the corner of the room.
The chair had frayed edges, like a cat had been scratching.
The only other furniture was a coffee table, an old stereo and a long sideboard cluttered with photos, medals and ribbons that I was too scared to look at because I’d be tempted to touch them.
There was no television.
Grandpa had a sun-beaten, lined face with chins that jiggled when he laughed. His eyes were vivid pale blue and he winked constantly, as if letting you in on a joke, even when there wasn’t one. His teeth grinned from a jar of water on the coffee table. He was always dressed in grey overalls with a flannelette shirt underneath. He wore tartan slippers and no socks.
He had a bald head, as shiny as a marble. I sat on the floor watching the light and shadows move across Grandpa’s skull, wanting to touch it. After a while, I stopped listening to the conversation, focusing only on his head, mesmerised.
When he showered every night, did he wash it with extra-special soap?
Did he polish it with Vaseline, sewing-machine oil, clear boot polish?
Did it feel smooth and oily? Or soft?
When Grandpa wore a hat, did it blow off easily in the breeze?
When it was time to leave, I hugged Grandpa. His skin was soft. He smelt of eucalyptus and old leather. He said, ‘You can touch my skull, young-un. No worries. As smooth as silk.’
He was right.
He’d give Dad a big hug and offer him a parcel wrapped in newspaper, ‘a present for the missus.’ When we got home, I’d unwrap it and find a whole freshwater bream, or prawns, or a crab.
Sunday dinner was my favourite.
Ms Hopkins wrote at the end of my essay that it was ‘a wonderful portrait of a well-loved family member’.
Grandpa died years ago.
I wore the same clothes to his funeral.
On the first Sunday of every month, at daybreak, Dad drives to Grandpa’s grave. He picks daisies from our garden and packs a broom to sweep the gravestone.
Once I followed him on my pushbike.
I hid behind a fig tree.
Dad stood at the foot of the grave.
It looked like he was talking – telling Grandpa about his week?
Occasionally, he’d reach up and brush away a fly from his face.
He stood very still for a long time.
Before leaving, he walked to the headstone and lightly touched the words. I leant against the tree and didn’t move for ages. When I was sure no-one was around, I walked down to Grandpa’s grave. His middle name was Darcy.
The marble was cool and smooth to touch. Just like Grandpa’s bald head.
I didn’t put that in the essay.
The school
It’s the closest high school to my house. My parents are rich enough to send me to a private school, but they’re still hippies at heart.
Mum said, ‘We want you to have access to the full range of what society has to offer.’ Dad almost choked on his tofu burger, then nodded his head in agreement.
Our uniform is grey pants, shirt and jumper. How’s that for colour co-ordination! There’s an unspoken competition among the boys to see who can wear their pants the lowest without getting sent to the principal. So far, Tim is winning. The top of his pants are somewhere between his waist and his knees. He has to walk in very small steps to keep them from falling around his ankles. There’s a daily increasing gap between shirt and trousers.
The underpant gap.
It’s not a pretty sight.
Tim walks like a duck trying to be a homie! A duck with attitude! A duck pretending he’s from the slums of New York. A football swaggering duck.
But still a duck...
The school motto is written in Latin: Aliquando et insanire iucundum est.
In English class, we tried guessing what it could mean.
Stacey suggested, ‘To strive is a waste’.
Miranda, ‘At lunchtime to sleep’.
Noah, ‘All struggle in vain’.
Marcus, ‘No paper in the toilets’!
My suggestion?
‘Together whatever’.
Ms Hopkins knew, of course, but refused to divulge. At Assembly after lunch, a local member of parliament visits to address the school. He wears a dark blue suit, his shoes are shined to perfection and his skin looks like he’s spent too long under a sunlamp. He blathers on about modern technology and the value of a well-rounded education. Obviously, a speech he’s delivered a thousand times without any changes.
Until the last line.
He flourishes his notes, turns towards the school motto above the stage curtain, and says, ‘Young men and women, never forget your school motto...’ He stumbles over the pronunciation, coughs once, turns bright red and gestures
for Mrs Archer to step forward and tell us what it means in English.
Eight hundred and ten students all lean forward, eager.
At last!
The meaning.
Mrs Archer strides across stage, shakes his hand vigorously and leads him away. They disappear through the curtain. The Deputy Principal, Mr Sloane, is left alone on stage, his hands behind his back, waiting. Praying, no doubt.
After a full two minutes of silence, he steps forward and says, ‘Assembly dismissed.’
We file out of the hall.
Stacey says, ‘Maybe that’s what it means? Assembly dismissed.’
Miranda giggles.
During Information Technology class, I do the obvious and search the internet for Latin quotes, phrases and mottos.
Aliquando et insanire iucundum est means ‘it is sometimes pleasant to act like a madman’.
My classmates
Stacey sits in the common room, chewing gum and texting. She rests her feet on the chair in front, her legs crossed at the ankles.
‘Stacey?’
‘No.’
‘I haven’t asked you anything!’
‘No, I’m not having a party this weekend. Mum and Dad are home. And yelling at each other. I’m staying at Miranda’s.’
She puts the mobile in her bag. ‘I got in trouble because of all the vomit in the garden.’
‘It wasn’t me!’
Stacey rolls her eyes. As if I need reminding.
‘Stacey, I’m doing some research for Society and Culture, on teenagers.’
‘You mean us. Why do you need to research yourself?’
‘Not just me. Other people.’
‘Girls?’
‘In one word, yes. So can I ask you some questions? All the data will be kept secret. Anonymous. Trust me.’
Stacey looks at her watch, but can’t think of a good excuse to leave.
‘Five questions only, Stacey. How’s that?’
‘Okay. But I’m not telling secrets. I promised Miranda.’
I try to ignore the obvious.
‘Fair enough, let’s start with school.’
Stacey groans and reaches for her mobile.
‘Okay, forget school. How about food?’
‘Easy. If it’s green, it’s good. If it’s yellow, it’s fattening.’
‘And if it’s black?’
‘It’s Coca-Cola, stupid.’
‘Fair enough. How about drugs?’
Stacey looks quickly towards the door.
‘How much?’
‘What?’
‘I’ll need to take something to Miranda’s. How much are you charging?’
‘No. I mean, what is your view on drugs?’
‘Oh.’ She giggles. ‘Just say no!’
‘Come on, Stacey, it’s anonymous, okay.’
She shrugs. ‘Drugs are okay, I guess. Better than alcohol. Cheaper. Quicker.’
Stacey leans forward, takes the gum out of her mouth and sticks it to the strap of her schoolbag. It’s pink in colour.
‘Drugs are...’ She searches the ceiling for the right word.
I offer, ‘Cool?’
She keeps looking up, ‘Much cheaper if you steal from your brother’s stash.’
Stacey’s brother is a gun athlete at university. I’m shocked he allows such impurities into his body. Whatever happened to the Olympian ideal? Drugs, of course.
‘Stacey, what’s your favourite music?’
She giggles, ‘Loud. House. Dance. Electric folk. You name it.’
‘Okay. What about sex?’
Stacey frowns. ‘You want me to tell you about sex?’
She looks at me as if I’ve got a nasty disease.
‘Your “attitude” to sex, Stacey. Love, if you prefer.’
‘No thanks.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means I ain’t telling anybody that stuff. Especially not for an assignment.’
‘Okay, forget it. How about parents? Are they off-limits?’
Stacey grimaces. ‘My parents should be locked away in a cage where they can happily tear each other apart.’
Noah Hennessy walks into the room, carrying his chess board. He sees us chatting and sits in the opposite corner, arranging the pieces carefully, waiting for me to finish with Stacey.
Stacey looks at Noah as if he’s an exhibit in a zoo she can’t quite identify.
She returns to her parents ripping each other to shreds. ‘Pour them wine at night and listen to the battle.’ She shivers at the thought.
‘I gotta go, Darcy.’ She stands and straightens her skirt.
‘Definitely anonymous?’
I cross my heart and pretend to spit.
Stacey rolls her eyes again.
She’s just spent lunchtime with a boy scout.
‘Hey, Noah, what do you think of drugs?’
Noah shrugs. ‘Drugs are for people who can’t play chess.’
He moves the white pawn and offers me a chair behind the black pieces.
The value of poetry
‘All Romantic poets deserve to drown, or die slowly of tuberculosis in a garret.’
I’m standing at the front of class, waiting for universal acclaim from my fellow students.
Audrey smiles.
The others stare blankly.
Marcus Guyotus scribbles hurriedly in his workbook. Perhaps he’s going to quote me in an assignment?
Ms Hopkins leans against the side window, frowning. Today’s red T-shirt reads ‘Corporate Crime’ in the Coca-Cola font, complete with the dynamic ribbon. Underneath is the slogan, ‘Capitalised profit, socialised debt’.
I add, ‘Actually, die quickly, not slowly. If it’s too slow, they’ll have time to write more tortured verse.’
Audrey chips in, ‘That we’ll have to study two hundred years after they’re dead and buried!’
I volunteered for this.
Earlier, Ms Hopkins offered each student five minutes to rant about whatever we liked. We had thirty minutes to compose a speech on any subject. Shelley and the Romantics came instantly to mind.
Ms Hopkins walks to the front of the classroom and nods for me to take a seat. Audrey gives me the thumbs-up as I walk past. Ms Hopkins leans against her desk.
‘Does anyone here like the Romantics?’
No-one raises their hand. We all wriggle uncomfortably in our chairs. Except Marcus, he starts picking his nose.
Ms Hopkins sighs, scanning the room.
‘Anyone?’
Marcus begins cleaning his ears.
Ms Hopkins theatrically lowers her head into her hands. I’m not sure if it’s genuine anguish or if she’s joking. Marcus places his hands in his pockets and wipes his fingers inside.
Ms Hopkins lifts her head. ‘Does anyone here like any poetry?’
I’m the only one who raises a hand.
‘Yes, Darcy, we know about Shakespeare.’ Ms Hopkins smiles. ‘Does anyone like music?’
Twelve hands shoot up, Marcus a little behind everyone else.
‘And movies?’
Twelve hands stay up.
‘Books?’
Marcus begins to lower his hand, then thinks better of it and raises it even higher, in case Ms Hopkins is marking our response.
Ms Hopkins walks over to the bookshelf beside the whiteboard and stares at it. A long, uncomfortable silence. We slowly lower our hands. She reaches up to the middle shelf and selects a volume and walks back to face us, holding the book, cover out. The Selected Poems of Percy Bysshe Shelley.
She’s going to read a beautiful lilting ballad of lost love, charity and hope, full of words such as ‘splendour’ and ‘majesty’. She’ll recite it in a strong voice with perfect rhythm and metre. We’ll all be swept along by the narrative.
She is going to prove how wrong I am.
Ms Hopkins opens the book, flipping through the pages. She settles on a poem. I wriggle nervously in my seat, hoping it’s not a eight-page elegy. Ms Hopkins
clears her throat and walks slowly across the room to the open window where the light is strong. Maybe she needs glasses? She looks at me. ‘“Ozymandias”; “Ode to the West Wind”; Prometheus Unbound; classic poems ... all as dead as the poet who wrote them?’
Marcus raises his hand. ‘Ms, how do you spell Ozymandias?’
‘Marcus, this is not for an assignment. We’re discussing poetry.’
Marcus puts down his pen and closes his workbook.
Ms Hopkins continues, ‘Who wants to hear a poem?’
A collective sigh fills the room.
She adds, ‘Think of it as a song without the music.’
Stacey says, ‘That’s like coffee without the caffeine. Pointless.’
Miranda, ‘Yeah, or scotch and soda, without the scotch.’
Marcus, ‘Or an Xbox without...’ His voice trails off, ‘the box.’
Ms Hopkins shakes her head, holds the book aloft, her fist curling around the spine. ‘A world without poetry...’ She tugs at her shirt, ‘... is greed and money and avarice.’
In one swift movement, she flings the book out the window. I watch it spin crazily through the air, a mess of pages flapping in vain. It bounces in the dirt, skidding to a halt under a thorny rose bush. A boy from Year Seven walking along the path jumps in fright. He looks up quickly, fearing an airborne assault.
Ms Hopkins calls out, ‘Sorry.’
The boy looks under the rose bush to check the carcass.
Ms Hopkins waves at him. ‘Leave it there, will you?’
The pages of the book flutter and then die.
We all stand at the window, open-mouthed.
Ms Hopkins walks back to her desk and sits down.
We shuffle our feet like drunk mourners at a wake, not sure who to approach to offer sympathy.
We slowly return to our seats.
Everyone looks at Ms Hopkins, then me, as if I’m to blame?
Marcus raises his hand, tentatively and coughs, to get attention.
‘Would you like me to get the book, Ms?’
‘No, it’s okay, Marcus. It’s just a–’ She looks at me, ‘poetry book.’
What? Am I supposed to feel bad? I didn’t force her to throw it out the window. Everyone stares at me.