Brisbane, 20�23 May 1997
�You look very handsome, Danny. Don�t you agree, Regan? Doesn�t your brother look handsome?�
Danny�s top lip curled wryly at his sister. She didn�t answer their mother, slouching deeper into the sofa, her canary-yellow hoodie stretched over her knees. She was intent on the TV screen, watching actors who just seemed to be shouting at each other. The yelling was interrupted every ten seconds or so by a crack of gunfire which was the laugh track. From time to time Regan sniggered. Danny knew the show was called Friends, of course he knew, everyone knew that, but all that shouting and yelling was giving him a headache.
His mother was down on one knee before him. She had pins in her mouth and was turning up the ends of his suit pants. He was impatient to get the thing off him, the new metallic-blue suit that his mum had bought for him from one of the seconds warehouses on Albert Street. It was a good suit, a top Aussie label, and it did look good on him. But the collar of his shirt prickled and the jacket was heavy around his shoulders and he was sick of modelling it.
His mother wanted him to look just right for the opening ceremony. He just wanted to be back in his shorts and sweatshirt. He was packed, ready. Why did she always have to find something else to do?
�Done,� said his mum, satisfied. �You can take it off.�
Danny carefully laid the jacket on the arm of the sofa, undid the tie, started unbuttoning the shirt.
�Don�t!� Regan was scowling. �Don�t strip off in here.�
�Sorry.�
He kept forgetting that Regan was turning into a teenager; unlike him she wasn�t used to bodies in various stages of undress. He never thought of those things. He bundled his sweater and shorts under his arms and went into his room to change. When he came back his mother was sitting in front of the sewing machine on the kitchen table. She had earphones on, connected to the Walkman that sat next to the machine. She didn�t like the shouting either, thought Danny. He knew she would be lost in rock and roll, something old and in mono. He plonked down on the sofa. �Move,� he said, pushing back Regan�s feet.
�No, you move,� and she kicked him. �Go sit on the chair.�
He snickered. She was becoming an adolescent, a mean surly bitch of a teenage girl.
He heard a noise, his ears cocked, it must be him, and Danny bolted from the sofa and was running down the hall. But when he threw open the door it was an old woman standing there, beaming at him, a young woman standing next to her, unsmiling, with a lazy left eye and her arms full of magazines.
�Good morning, young man,� the old woman said cheerfully, in a thick accent but very precise English. �Do you have a moment for us to talk to you about the coming of the Lord?�
They were God-botherers. The cheap acrylic cardigans and the determined defensive politeness were a dead giveaway. Probably Joeys. The Mormons were always men in white shirts and thin black ties. Jehovah�s Witnesses were usually women.
Danny looked past them. Why wasn�t he here yet? They were going to be late.
He would have liked to slam the door in their faces. But he knew he couldn�t, his mother wouldn�t allow it. �Don�t let them in,� she had counselled all her children since they were toddlers. �Don�t let them in, don�t listen to their God-bothering, but be polite to them. You must always ask them if they�d like a drink.�
He was surly as he asked, �Would you like some water?�
The young woman nodded gratefully. �Thank you, that�s very kind.�
The old woman started to walk inside but he raised a hand in warning. �Please stay here.�
His mother stopped her sewing and took off her earphones.
�They�re Joeys,� he said. �I think they�re your lot.�
His mother attempted to flick his behind with her measuring tape. But she was laughing. �I am not a Joey anymore,� she said.
�I haven�t been one for a long time, mister.�
Danny had two glasses of water. �I didn�t mean that,� he called. �I think they�re Greeks.�
The old woman took three small sips and handed back the glass. The young woman gulped down all of hers.
�Have you heard about the Lord?� the old woman began. �Have you heard about Jesus Christ?�
�Yes,� answered Danny shortly, �I have and I�m not interested.�
He kicked shut the door behind him and fell back onto the couch, trying to concentrate on the sitcom.
He couldn�t sit still. He heard a car, he was sure he could hear a car parking outside. This time it had to be him.
�Mum, he�s here.�
She couldn�t hear him. He rushed into the kitchen, pressed the stop button on the Walkman.
�He�s here.�
�Well, go and invite him in.�
It was the first time Frank Torma had been to Danny�s house, the first time the Coach had seen where Danny lived.
Danny was speechless when he opened the door. The Coach was wearing a shirt, a red one that was too snug for his balloon belly; patches of white singlet were visible where the shirt was gaping between the buttons. He was wearing a red shirt and black trousers and held a small box wrapped in white paper. Danny had never seen the Coach in civvies, never out of trackpants. All he could think to do was reach out to accept the gift.
Coach wouldn�t let him have it. �It�s not for you,� he said, but there was a lightness to his voice showing he wasn�t annoyed. �Well, Mr Kelly,� he continued, �are you going to let me in?�
Regan was sitting up straight now, and she nodded to the Coach as Danny introduced them. His mother stepped forward, holding out her hand in greeting, and Coach took it but he also leaned in and kissed her, first on one cheek, then the other. Danny could see that his mother was surprised by the first kiss but that she readily accepted the second.
The Coach handed her the wrapped parcel. �These are some pisk�ta and some kr�mes,� he said diffidently, a little embarrassed. �They are Hungarian sweets.�
Danny�s mother was delighted. She gave the Coach another two quick pecks on his cheeks and he blushed. He seemed taller somehow, larger now that he was in Danny�s house. He seemed too big for their small living room.
�Are you ready, Danny?�
�I�ve just got to pack his suit and we�re done. Please take a seat,� insisted Danny�s mother. �And can I please get you a drink?�
Can I please get you a drink? She was trying too hard, being fake.
Coach shook his head. �Thank you but no. The other boy will be arriving at my house in just under an hour. We must be off as soon as we can.�
Wilco. The other boy was Wilco. Now it was Wilco and Kelly, they were the only ones left. Scooter had started VCE and made the decision he would never be a champion. He was no longer training. And Fraser was at the Australian Institute of Sport, and Morello, well, he had always been useless, he hadn�t come close to qualifying. Nor had Taylor. It was Wilco and Kelly going to Brisbane.
Oh, how he wished it could still be Taylor and Kelly. That was what it should be.
His mother returned with the small black suitcase she had bought especially for the occasion. She was about to hand it to her son but Frank Torma took it from her.
�Thank you so much for coming and picking up Danny. I know it is very much out of your way.�
�It is not a problem at all, Mrs Kelly.�
�Please call me Stephanie. Mrs Kelly makes me sound very old.�
Now she sounded like his mum again. There was an uncomfortable moment of silence, and then the Coach said quickly, �And yes, please, please call me Frank.�
His mother came up to Danny, rested her head on his shoulder. �Oh baby, I wish I could be there.� She smiled up at the Coach. �He looks so handsome in his suit�he�s going to be the most handsome boy in that opening ceremony.�
Danny pulled away from her, mortified. �Just shut up, Mum, don�t say a word.�
&n
bsp; Then the Coach did something unexpected. The Coach winked at him and smiled back at his mother. �Yes, I am sure he will be.�
Danny had to get out of the house right now. He swiftly kissed his mother goodbye and then leaned down to give Regan an awkward squeeze, told her to tell Theo that there would be another medal for his collection when he got back from camp.
The strength of Regan�s responding hug took him by surprise. �Good luck, mate,� she whispered.
She felt lumpy, she was getting fat.
As they walked to the car, he turned to the Coach and said, politely, carefully, �Thank you, Mr Torma, for picking me up.�
Did he sound fake?
�It�s OK,� said Frank. �As I said to your mother, I am happy to do so.�
As soon as the Coach opened the door, Danny rushed past him and straight into the front bedroom�straight to his room. It was really the Coach�s bedroom, but when the squad were staying over it was always Danny�s room. He placed his suitcase on the bed and looked around to make sure nothing had changed since the last time. There was the double bed, the wardrobe with the thin mirrored panel down one side, and the white chest of drawers next to the bed, on top of which sat the one photograph in the room, the one of Coach�s elderly parents, the stern, sad-looking couple. As always, the Coach had vacuumed and dusted the room, had changed the bedding, in preparation for the boy�s visit; it was tidy and immaculately clean. Danny pushed his suitcase aside and lay down on the bed, dangling his feet over the edge so his sneakers wouldn�t dirty the blanket. He stared up at the high ceiling, a sea of pressed iron panels painted white, except for the central plaster rosette in the middle of which hung the red cubed lamp. Danny couldn�t touch the ceiling, even standing on the bed; he tried every time: it was that high. There was space in Frank Torma�s house; he wouldn�t ever feel trapped in that house.
It wasn�t huge or ostentatious like the Taylors� house, the other boys� houses. There was space but it wasn�t extravagant, you didn�t get lost in it.
He heard his name being called. Danny smoothed the creased blanket and rushed down to the kitchen.
The Coach had ordered pizzas and told Danny to wait for Wilco while he went to pick them up. As soon as Coach was gone, Danny opened the fridge and found a salami. He cut five thick slices off it and gobbled them up hungrily. He wandered into the lounge room, flicked through the scattering of CDs. He was sure that the last time he was there Beethoven�s Fifth Symphony was the disc in the player. He turned on the stereo, pressed a button and the CD holder slid out. He read the black lettering on the silver face of the disc. Again, it was Beethoven�s Fifth Symphony. Danny didn�t know if this meant the Coach listened to it all the time or that the Coach hadn�t listened to music since the last time Danny was there. They�d watched television, movies, eaten pizza and played cards at Coach�s house. But they�d never listened to music.
A sharp drilling sound ripped through his reverie. He switched off the stereo, tore down the corridor and opened the door. Wilco was standing there, looking sheepish, holding a full sports bag in one hand, his mother standing behind him.
�Hi, Danny,� he muttered. He�d had his head shaved, with a number one razor, just like Danny had. It made him look older.
�Hi, mate. Hi, Mrs Wilkinson.� He returned the kiss Wilco�s mum planted on his cheek. He liked Mrs Wilkinson. She had a lean, narrow face with deep furrows in her cheeks and forehead. Her hair was thinning, grey and messy, and her teeth protruded a little. But she looked like a real mum and was always kind.
She peered down the corridor. �Is Mr Torma here?�
�He�s picking up pizza.� Danny stood to one side to let Wilco and his mother in. He was enjoying pretending it was his house, that he was welcoming guests to his home. He led them through to the kitchen.
�Oooh,� said Mrs Wilkinson, rubbing her hands, �these old houses are so cold. Where�s the heating?�
Danny was put out, he didn�t want to hear the house criticised. He switched on the small white radiator on the wall behind the kitchen table.
�Good God,� Mrs Wilkinson exclaimed, going over to examine the heater. �I haven�t seen one of these since I was a girl.� She pulled her coat tighter around her body. �That will take ages to heat up.� She smiled at Danny. �Sweetheart, you�ll freeze. Go and grab a jumper.�
�I�m alright.� And he was, he was fine in this house.
Mrs Wilkinson pulled out one of the chairs and sat down. �I don�t think anything has been done to this house for over thirty years. But it is a gorgeous little terrace, and in wonderful condition. It would cost a fortune to buy now.�
Danny warmed to her again. �Would you like a glass of water?�
�You�re right at home here, aren�t you, darling?�
Danny blushed. Wilco gave him a sly grin, then turned to his mother. �You can go.�
�I�m going to wait till Mr Torma returns, John, and then I�ll go. And don�t use that tone of voice with me. I always think you�re bloody channelling your father when you speak like that.� She turned back to Danny. �And yes, darling, I will have some water. Thank you.�
Danny poured water for her and another glass for Wilco. He didn�t look at the boy as he handed him the glass. He knew Wilco�s parents had recently divorced. He could bet that Wilco was furious at his mother, that he just wanted her to get the hell out of there. Then they heard the front door opening, and Coach�s steps coming up the corridor. Danny looked over at Wilco and saw the boy�s relief.
Every time Coach returned with pizzas from the Macedonian shop at the end of the street, he would roar proudly, Boys, these are the best pizzas you will ever have! He said it every time. Every time.
There were four large pizzas, one with a base of roasted eggplant topped with a layer of wafer-thin slices of potato: that was Danny�s favourite. Another was covered with yogurt and mint-flavoured mince. There was a hot salami pizza, and a vegetarian one with anchovies. The boys and the man ate them ravenously. They were the best pizzas Danny had ever had.
After they�d finished eating, Danny and Wilco listened to Frank. Of course, it was all about swimming, all about the Australian Championships; of course it was, that was all that mattered, all that any of them could think about.
�You have to listen to everything I say,� he kept repeating, and they both nodded emphatically that they would.
He pointed to Danny. �You can do it, you can win the two hundred metre butterfly, if you stay focused. If you work, it is yours.� He then pointed to Wilco. �And the two hundred freestyle is yours if you want it. You want it?�
�Yes!� Wilco almost shouted it, pumping his fist.
�Good,� said Frank. �Then it�s yours.�
Danny wanted Coach to say something to him about the one hundred freestyle. They were his, the one hundred freestyle and the two hundred butterfly�they were both his. But Frank didn�t say it.
�I�m going to win the one hundred freestyle as well,� Danny exploded. �I�m going to win them both.�
�Yeah.� Wilco punched the air again. �Go, Barracuda!�
But Frank was sour. �What did I say?�
Danny didn�t know what he meant.
�You promised me that you would listen to exactly everything I said. Focus on the two hundred butterfly, Kelly. That�s your race.�
Danny opened his mouth then took one look at Frank�s face and shut it. But he said to himself, I am going to win them both, I�m going to prove to you that I can win them both. He settled back on the sofa. He didn�t hear the other boy and the man talking, he was thinking of returning home the hero, thinking of the two medals, and qualifying for the Pan Pacific Games. He was going to prove to the Coach that he could win them both.
They played a few quick rounds of gin rummy�not poker, insisted Coach, I don�t want you getting overexcited�and then he announced that it was time for bed.
�One more game?� im
plored Danny.
�No. We wake at four-thirty for training and then it is straight to the airport. No. It is time for bed.�
That was when Wilco asked, �Can I sleep in the front bedroom tonight?�
Frank pointed to Danny. �Kelly is in the front room and you have the spare room. I will sleep here on the sofa.�
Wilco bit his lip. �Why does Danny always get the front room? I�m a year older, I�m in Year Twelve. I think I should have it.�
Danny was frantically trying to think of what to say. That he was there first, that it was his room, that it would always be his room�because he deserved it: he was the strongest, the fastest, the best. He tried to form words, but before he could speak.
The two boys stood side by side at the small bathroom sink, brushing their teeth. The room was freezing and it took an age for the tap to run warm. Wilco spat out the toothpaste, then washed his face and behind his ears. He rinsed one more time, spat, then looked at himself in the mirror. �Mum reckons this haircut makes me look like a hooligan.�
Danny spat into the sink, ran the tap to wash it away. �I think your mum is really nice.� He didn�t know why he said that, except that it was true, Mrs Wilkinson was nice.
Wilco turned and leaned against the sink. His right eyebrow was half-cocked, as if he was sizing Danny up. �You know, Kelly, that shit we used to say about your mum?� His next words came out in a rush. �It was just dumb stupid kid shit�you know that, don�t you? We all reckon your mum is tops, she�s beautiful and really really cool. You know that? It was just dumb shit we were going on with.�
Danny pushed Wilco out of the way to rinse his toothbrush. He didn�t want to be reminded of that time, of that lewd, ugly centrefold. It was a shock how the thought of it still scalded him.
He splashed water on his face, turned off the tap. �Yeah, I know,� he answered.
Wilco surprised Danny again, tapping him on the forehead, not hard, just three soft taps. �Goodnight, Shorty.�
This time Danny didn�t mind the nickname. He knew that Wilco didn�t mean any harm by it at all.