‘Number 21 hasn’t got red and purple windows,’ yelled Dennis Baldwin.
‘They will have,’ said Rami Smith, ‘after the F-l11 fires its heat-seeking missiles and splatters the whole street with blood and guts.’
Keith sighed again.
‘Nice,’ said Mr Dodd. ‘Very nice. That Custard Yellow on number 23’s front fence looks a treat. And that’s a knockout idea, giving number 25 Mediterranean Blue and Atlantic Green striped guttering.’
‘Thanks,’ said Keith.
He didn’t look down, partly because he didn’t want to get giddy again and partly because he needed all his concentration for the Tropical Mango TV aerial he was giving number 27. TV aerials were always fiddly, even on a painting as huge as this one.
‘Keith,’ said Mr Dodd, ‘don’t forget to use some Suntan Gold. I overordered on Suntan Gold and I want to try and shift it before stocktaking.’
‘Don’t worry Mr Dodd,’ said Keith, waving his brush, ‘I’ll be using plenty of Suntan Gold.’
‘Good one,’ said Mr Dodd. ‘I’m closing for lunch now. Why don’t you take a break? You’ve been up that ladder for hours. You must be exhausted.’
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ said Keith, hoping his aching arm didn’t drop off there and then in front of Mr Dodd. ‘I want to get this finished before dark.’
Keith almost had second thoughts as he heard Mr Dodd locking up the shop.
A fried egg sandwich would be nice.
But he gritted his teeth and carried on.
Bet the great painters of history didn’t knock off for lunch, he thought. Specially not when they’d almost got to the most important part of a picture.
He sent a message to his aching arms and his aching neck and his aching back and his aching legs.
Stop aching.
Then he finished number 27’s aerial, gave them a Tropical Mango front door, wiped some drips off number 23’s front fence, and touched up a couple of places he’d missed on the road.
And then it was time.
At last.
For the part he’d been waiting for.
Mum and Dad.
Suddenly he was so excited he hardly felt his aching bits at all as he climbed down the ladder to get the tin of Suntan Gold.
‘Mmmm,’ said Mr Browning. ‘Interesting.’
Keith waited anxiously for him to say more. Can’t be easy being an art teacher, thought Keith. You pop out for some groceries in the school holidays, come round a corner with your shopping bags, and there’s one of your pupils finishing off a twenty foot painting.
‘Title?’ asked Mr Browning.
‘Dazzle The Buggers,’ said Keith.
Mr Browning gave him a look, then crossed the road, stared at the mural from a distance and came back over.
‘Excellent use of colour,’ said Mr Browning.
‘Thanks,’ said Keith. ‘Mr Dodd actually chose the colours.’
‘And very good brushwork,’ continued Mr Browning, gazing up at the wall, ‘specially on the two people standing in the middle of the road in their underwear.’
‘Thanks,’ said Keith. ‘Actually they’re Swimming costumes.’
He watched proudly as Mr Browning studied Dad’s muscular Suntan Gold legs, non-saggy Suntan Gold lower buttocks, flat Suntan Gold stomach, broad Suntan Gold chest and smiling Suntan Gold face, and Mum’s cascading Goddess Blonde ringlets with Suntan Gold highlights, erect Suntan Gold shoulders, non-droopy Suntan Gold hips, smooth Suntan Gold legs and bunion-free Suntan Gold feet.
‘A superbly-balanced composition,’ said Mr Browning, ‘particularly the way the frying pan full of sausages in the man’s hand is exactly the same size as the Monopoly board under the woman’s arm.’
‘Thanks,’ said Keith.
‘Next term,’ said Mr Browning, ‘remind me to show you a book about the French artist Magritte. He did a lot of paintings like this.’
Keith opened his mouth to ask if Magritte had any luck saving his mum and dad’s lives.
Then he decided he’d rather not know.
‘Keith,’ said Mr Browning, ‘do your parents know you’ve done this?’
‘No,’ said Keith, ‘not yet.’
‘Amazing,’ said Mum.
‘Incredible,’ said Dad.
‘You did all this by yourself?’ said Mum.
Keith nodded.
He couldn’t understand why he was feeling so giddy.
He wasn’t up the ladder, he was standing on the pavement with Mum and Dad and Mr Dodd.
Then he realised he was holding his breath.
He took a lungful of air without taking his eyes off Mum and Dad, and his ears tingled, partly from the oxygen and partly from the excitement.
It was working.
Mum and Dad were fascinated by themselves as big tanned fit handsome happy people.
Mum’s shoulders were already looking straighter inside her parking inspector’s uniform, and Dad’s bottom, sticking out through the back of his cafe apron, was already looking firmer.
Keith could see the thoughts going through their minds.
Exercise, Dad was thinking. Hair transplant. Sun-tan lamp.
Perm, Mum was thinking. New swimsuit. Get my feet done.
‘Great houses,’ said Dad. ‘Who are those weird people?’
Keith looked over his shoulder.
There was no one there.
He realised Dad meant the people III the mural.
‘Those,’ said Mr Dodd, ‘are people who’ve discovered that repainting the house cuts down on maintenance so much they’re left with bags of time for a holiday in Spain. Isn’t that right, Keith?’
Suddenly Keith was having trouble breathing.
‘It’s a joke,’ said Mum. ‘Keith’s making fun of all those ads for cars and chocolate bars and perfume that are full of people the rest of us couldn’t ever possibly hope to look like. It’s very funny, Keith. I like it.’
Keith was suddenly feeling so giddy he had to hold on to a lamppost.
Why couldn’t they recognise themselves?
They weren’t that different in the mural.
Their faces were the same.
And their hands.
Plus they had their phone numbers written on their tummies in blockout cream.
Stay calm, he told himself.
All that’s happened is that Mum and Dad’s eyesight is going.
‘Lovely brushwork,’ said Dad, ‘but why didn’t you take it right into the corners?’ He pointed up at the brickwork still showing at the top corners of the wall.
Forget that idea, thought Keith miserably.
There couldn’t be anything wrong with Dad’s eyesight if he could see the tiny bits Keith hadn’t been able to reach without falling off the ladder and being killed.
‘That’s a very imaginative way of signing your painting, love,’ said Mum, pointing up at the tummies. ‘Putting your phone numbers instead of your name.’
Keith sent a frantic message to his tear ducts.
Stay closed.
‘I think it’s great,’ said Mum, ruffling his hair.
Keith noticed sadly that her shoulders weren’t that straight after all.
‘So do I,’ said Dad, his bottom wobbling inside his trousers while he shook Keith by the hand.
Keith took a deep breath and started clearing away the paint tins while Mr Dodd took Mum and Dad inside to show them a new paint for toilets that had a built-in air freshener.
Tragic, thought Keith.
They’re so used to being saggy and wobbly they can’t even recognise their real selves.
He took another deep breath.
It’ll be fine, he told himself.
As soon as passers-by start seeing the mural, Mum and Dad’s phones will be ringing hot with invitations to the pub and the pictures and they’ll have to start thinking about suntan lamps and hairdos then.
Keith looked up at the mural.
Mum and Dad’s Suntan Gold faces grinned down at him f
rom the wall.
Good one, Keith said to them.
Think positive.
5
Keith sent an urgent message to Mum’s phone.
Ring.
The phone sat on the sideboard and ignored him.
Keith gave it a pleading look.
Please.
The phone stayed silent.
Keith stood up and paced around the room. It was a small room so after only six paces he was back on the settee.
This is ridiculous, he thought.
Nearly half a day that mural’s been up and not a single call.
The phone must be broken.
He went over and picked up the hand piece. The dial tone buzzed in his ear. He put it down quickly in case someone was trying to call.
They weren’t.
After another pace around the room, it hit him.
Of course.
Must be a fault at the exchange.
Someone down at the exchange must have plugged an electric kettle and a three-bar heater into the same double adaptor and blown all the circuits.
At this very moment in every phone box within a two mile radius of the mural there was probably a mature-age single person frantically trying to ring Mum or Dad, not realising the phones in the whole area were out.
Keith grabbed his jacket.
He’d go round all the phone boxes and be back here with a pile of invitations for Mum before she got home from work.
At the front door his stomach gave a rumble and he realised he was starving.
It’s all this nervous tension, he thought, it’s burning up my breakfast at a faster than usual rate. Must be careful to keep my energy levels up.
He went into the kitchen and pulled open the chocolate finger drawer.
It was empty.
Strange, he thought.
He rummaged through the cupboard where Mum kept all the new groceries.
No chocolate fingers there either.
Or in the cereal cupboard.
Or in any of the jars.
Or in the oven.
Keith’s guts suddenly felt even emptier than before.
Time was running out.
When a person lost her taste for chocolate fingers, the end couldn’t be far away.
‘Thursday,’ Dad shouted as Keith walked into the cafe.
Keith stared.
A jab of excitement ran through him.
Dad was at the stove in a haze of blue smoke, with a pan of sausages in one hand and the phone in the other.
‘Thursday at the latest,’ shouted Dad.
At last, thought Keith. A woman enquiring how long Dad’ll need to get his body into shape.
‘Not too much fat,’ Dad yelled above the sizzling of the sausages.
That’s right, thought Keith, be positive.
Dad hung up.
‘If that Len Tufnell doesn’t start delivering my pork chops on time,’ he said, ‘I’m getting a new butcher.’
Keith suddenly felt very weary.
‘You look pooped,’ said Dad. ‘What have you been doing with yourself?’
‘Nothing much,’ said Keith.
He didn’t feel like going into detail about how he’d just been to every phone box this side of Woolwich and how they’d all been empty except one and how the person inside it had told him to get lost or she’d set her dog on him.
‘Dad,’ said Keith hopefully, ‘have you had any other phone calls this morning?’
Dad thought while he made a sausage sandwich.
‘Just the wholesaler,’ he said, handing the sandwich to Keith, ‘and an order for six takeaway egg and bacon rolls. Why, were you trying to ring?’
Keith shook his head and sat down at a table and stared at the sandwich. He wasn’t hungry any more.
Why wasn’t the mural working?
He’d made sure all the paint was waterproof so it wouldn’t run in the rain.
The phone numbers were right, he’d double-checked.
Keith sighed.
I should have given Mum a bigger chest and Dad bigger leg muscles, he thought gloomily.
Then Mr Kristos, the owner of the cafe, came in for his liver and onions.
Keith noticed that as Dad served them up he didn’t pop a bit of onion into his mouth like he usually did.
That’s it, thought Keith.
Dad’s a goner too.
When a person loses interest in fried onions, he’s pretty much lost interest in life.
‘Keith,’ said Mr Kristos, coming and sitting at Keith’s table, ‘that painting you done on that wall. Exquisite.’
‘Thanks,’ said Keith sadly.
‘A masterpiece,’ continued Mr Kristos through a mouthful of liver. ‘Just one thing puzzles me. Why did you put your mum and dad’s phone numbers on the stomachs of two bodybuilders?’
Keith opened his mouth to explain, but he felt too weary.
‘Don’t take offence,’ said Mr Kristos. ‘If it’s art, just say so.’
‘It’s art,’ said Keith, wondering if a person’s eyesight could be damaged by eating too much liver.
What other explanation could there be for Mr Kristos not recognising Dad in the mural, a man he saw every day at least once and sometimes up to eight times if the stove was playing up?
Unless . . .
Keith stared at Mr Kristos.
Suddenly it all made sense.
Of course.
That’s why the mural wasn’t working.
Mr Kristos and everyone else in the district were so used to Mum and Dad being wobbly and saggy they couldn’t recognise Mum and Dad’s real selves either. To them Dad was just the quiet bloke with the unfortunate bottom who cooked their bacon rolls and Mum was just the poor soul with the tragic legs who gave their cars parking tickets.
But not for much longer, thought Keith happily.
It’ll all change once Tracy arrives.
Once she starts perking Mum and Dad up and they get a grip on themselves and suck their tummies in and pull their shoulders back and start smiling, people will start recognising them in the mural and the invitations will come flooding in.
‘No offence?’ said Mr Kristos anxiously.
‘None taken,’ said Keith with a grin.
He bit hungrily into his sandwich.
‘Oops,’ said Dad from behind the counter, ‘just remembered. There was another call this morning. Mrs Smith from the newsagents. She’s got a fax for you from Tracy.’
Keith stood in the newsagents and read the fax for the third time.
Perhaps he’d got it wrong the first two times.
Perhaps he’d missed out some words.
Perhaps it wasn’t terrible news after all and the brick he could feel in his guts would vanish.
Dear Keith, he read.
Something real crook’s happened. A squall hit Dad’s boat and turned it over and Dad tore half his ligaments. They sewed him up but now he’s in bed and Mum doesn’t want to leave him cause he’s already hurt himself once reaching for the comfort bucket.
So we can’t come next week.
Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop.
Life can be a real mongrel, eh? First German measles, now this. Mum reckons we can come at Chrissie. That’s another four months! I’ll go mental. At this rate we’ll be fifty before I get there. You’ll be fat and bald and I won’t recognise you.
Write soon, love Tracy.
PS. The prognosis for Dad is a complete recovery except for the boat.
There should be a law, thought Keith bitterly, to stop people taking small fishing boats out into North Queensland waters when the weather was changeable and their daughters were about to make important overseas trips to see best friends who were counting on them.
Keith realised Mrs Smith and Rami were staring at him from behind the counter.
‘Are you alright, Keith?’ asked Mrs Smith, concerned, twisting her sari anxiously in her fingers.
Keith nodded and tried to smile.
&nbs
p; No point in upsetting her.
Rami held out Keith’s change.
Keith took it.
‘What does prognosis mean?’ asked Rami.
Mrs Smith gave him a clip round the ear.
‘It’s when doctors tell you you’re going to be OK,’ said Keith. ‘Or dead in a couple of months.’
He hurried out of the shop before Mrs Smith could ask him how Mum and Dad were.
Keith peered into the darkness.
The street lamp he was standing under was broken and the moon was behind a cloud and he couldn’t see for sure if it was the right place or not.
He sent an urgent message to his eyes.
Please.
Try harder.
I don’t want to break into the wrong house.
Keith took a couple of steps closer to the dark windows looming in front of him and suddenly a pain shot through his right hand.
Something had stabbed him in the knuckle.
He couldn’t see if his hand was bleeding so he gave it a suck just in case. His tongue felt the sharp end of a splinter. He crouched down and pulled it out.
In front of his face was a gate post.
Keith could just make out a jagged slash of new wood where the paint had been scraped off.
He remembered how two days ago he and Mitch Wilson had seen the ambulance men accidentally give the gatepost a thump with the stretcher as they carried the body out to the ambulance.
This was it.
The dead man’s house.
Keith hurried along the street, counting the houses all the way to the corner. Then he ran round the corner and along the back alley, counting the houses again till he got to the dead man’s back gate.
He leant against the gate and closed his eyes and sent an urgent message.
Sorry about this Mr . . . urn . . .
He realised he couldn’t remember the dead mans name.
Mr Milton?
Mr Stannish?
Mr Mellish, that was it.
Sorry about this Mr Mellish, said Keith silently, but I’m desperate. Tracy can’t come now and this is the only other thing I can think of Sorry.
He took a deep breath and clambered over the gate.
He hit the ground on the other side, slipped on the cold damp grass, picked himself up and ran towards the house.
He crouched at the back door, panting.
The windows at the back of the house were dark too.
Keith strained to hear if any sounds were coming from inside.