‘His ghost told me,’ he said.
Before Tracy had a chance to laugh, Keith marched up to Mr Mellish’s front door and pressed his ear to it.
In the distance, faint but unmistakable, he could hear the wailing.
‘Listen for yourself,’ he said to Tracy.
She hesitated, then came over and put her ear to the door.
‘That’s the neighbour’s vacuum cleaner,’ she said.
Keith closed his eyes.
He didn’t care what she thought any more.
He concentrated on the mournful wailing.
‘Don’t give up,’ it seemed to be saying. ‘You’ve still got Aunty Bev.’
That’s right, Keith thought, I have.
9
Keith looked at Dad standing at the stove in a cloud of smoke, bottom wobbling as he jiggled the frying pan.
He noted the damp strands of hair plastered across Dad’s bald patch.
He took in the grease-stained Simpsons T-shirt that only just covered Dad’s tummy bulge.
He stared at the baked bean sitting on Dad’s left shoe.
He sighed with disappointment.
Come on Aunty Bev, thought Keith, you’re meant to be Dad’s personal grooming and fashion adviser. What have you been doing all day? You could at least have made a start on the ear hairs.
‘Hello Keith,’ said Dad. ‘Where are the others?’
Keith explained that Aunty Bev and Tracy were coming over from Mum’s shortly.
‘You alright Keith?’ asked Dad, concerned. ‘You seem a bit in the dumps.’
‘I’m OK,’ said Keith, trying hard not to look like someone who’d spent part of the day being let down by his best friend and the other part lying on his bed staring at the stack of tinned pineapple and trying to imagine what it’d be like going through life only four boxes high.
Being the only motorist in South London who couldn’t reach the pedals of the car.
Being sent to bed early at business conferences.
Being pushed around by big pensioners at the senior citizens club.
No point depressing Dad with all that.
Keith managed to give Dad half a smile.
Dad ruffled Keith’s hair.
Suddenly Keith wanted to give himself a boot up the bum for being so self-centred.
What was being vertically challenged compared to being lonely and depressed and headed for an early grave?
Mum and Dad were the ones he should be worrying about.
‘Righty-ho,’ said Dad with a wink, ‘well if you’re feeling tip-top, perhaps you wouldn’t mind whizzing Mr K’s dinner over to him.’
He handed Keith a plate of liver and onions.
On his way over to Mr Kristos’s table, Keith wondered why Dad sounded so cheerful.
For a fleeting moment he thought Tracy might have changed her mind and been round and perked Dad up.
Then he remembered Mum had said on the phone that Tracy and Aunty Bev had been at her place all afternoon.
Oh well, thought Keith, Len Tufnell must have been on time with the pork chops.
At least someone was trying to help.
Just as he reached Mr Kristos’s table, Keith heard the door behind him swing open.
‘G’day,’ said Aunty Bev’s voice. ‘Sorry we’re late.’
‘Aha,’ said Dad’s voice, ‘the guests of honour.’
Keith decided not to turn round.
He decided instead to have a long chat with Mr Kristos, and a long chat with each of the other customers, and with a bit of luck he wouldn’t have to talk to Tracy all evening.
He might never have to talk to her again.
‘G’day Keith,’ said Tracy’s voice softly.
Keith stopped in the middle of handing the plate to Mr Kristos.
He’d never heard Tracy so sad.
He turned round.
He’d never seen her so sad.
She stared at him, biting her lip.
He stared back helplessly, concern tugging at his insides.
‘Do you want a piece of liver,’ he said, holding out the plate.
‘No thanks,’ said Tracy quietly.
‘’Ere,’ said Mr Kristos from his table, ‘that’s mine.’
While Keith handed over the liver to Mr Kristos, and Dad struggled to help Aunty Bev out of her skintight leather jacket, Keith’s mind raced.
What had happened?
Had someone died?
Had Tracy’s travel brochure collection been lost in a cyclone?
Why wasn’t she saying anything?
Then he realised from her expression she needed to talk to him in private.
On the way up the stairs Keith tried desperately to think what to say.
‘Has your Dad’s ligament gone septic and killed him?’ seemed a bit blunt, specially if it had.
‘If your travel brochures have been blown away in a cyclone I can get you some more from Mrs Nottage in the travel agents’ sounded better.
But what if the cyclone had also blown away something that couldn’t be replaced? Like her parents or Buster the dog?
Keith still hadn’t decided what to say by the time they got to his room.
Then he looked at Tracy’s sad face again and the words just came out.
‘What’s up?’ he said anxiously.
Tracy sighed.
‘Aunty Bev’s giving me a bit of a hard time, that’s all,’ she said. ‘Carries on like a cracked record.’
Keith opened his mouth to say something about grown-ups who thought they were born aerobics or yoga or washing-up teachers, but before he could Tracy reached out and touched his arm.
‘Keith,’ she said, ‘sorry I acted like a prawn this morning.’
Keith felt relief rush through him.
‘That’s OK,’ he said, ‘you were probably just a bit jet-lagged.’
Tracy thought about this and nodded.
‘I can see you’re really worried about your mum and dad,’ she continued, ‘and I’m gunna try and cheer them up.’
Keith felt like four boxes of tinned pineapple had been lifted from his shoulders.
He resisted the temptation to stick his head out of the window and yodel.
He didn’t even give in to the urge to do cartwheels round the room.
He just touched Tracy on the arm.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
He realised she wasn’t listening.
She was gawking at the stacks of boxes.
‘Jeez,’ she said, ‘do you get a bit hungry at night?’
Keith and Tracy walked back into the cafe.
They stopped and stared.
A tall, sophisticated figure was standing at the stove in a cloud of smoke jiggling a frying pan.
For a sec Keith thought Dad had gone off to watch telly and been replaced by a nightclub playboy in a tropical shirt who liked to cook his own sausages.
Then the figure stepped out of the smoke and Keith saw it was Dad.
‘What do you think?’ grinned Dad, modelling the shirt. ‘Bit of all right, eh?’
Even the parrots on the shirt looked impressed with how smart they were.
Keith tingled with excitement.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘brilliant.’
‘And,’ said Dad, ‘smell.’
He bent over and Keith sniffed his neck. A sweet spicy aroma of tropical fruit and seaweed and air freshener filled Keith’s nostrils.
‘Barrier Reef For Men,’ said Dad. ‘The real stuff.’
Keith felt dizzy, partly from the amount of Barrier Reef Dad was wearing, and partly from happiness.
‘Couple of little prezzies,’ said Aunty Bev, ‘to say thanks for your dad’s hospitality.’ She gave Keith a big wink.
Keith beamed at her and wondered if people who wore really tight clothes could be nominated as saints.
‘OK,’ said Dad, ‘let’s eat.’
He led them all over to the stove and Keith saw what was on the benchtop.
A
bowl of creamy batter.
Pieces of cod in matzo flour.
Hand-cut potatoes.
‘Fish and chips!’ yelled Keith in delight.
Just like the old days.
It was working.
Dad really was perking up.
‘Yum,’ said Tracy, ‘I’m starving.’
While Dad slid the fish through the batter and dropped them into a big pan of foaming oil, Keith glanced around the cafe.
The customers were taking notice of the new Dad too.
A couple of women over by the window couldn’t take their eyes off him, and they were both over seventy.
As Keith and Tracy and Aunty Bev and Dad ate the fish and chips, Keith decided it was the best meal he’d had since Mum and Dad split up.
Even though Aunty Bev only ate three mouthfuls of fish and no chips.
‘Would you prefer sausages?’ Keith asked her. ‘Or a burger?’
Aunty Bev just smiled and shook her head.
What a trooper, thought Keith. Doesn’t want to off end Dad.
Then Tracy told them about her second cousin Glennys who made fish sausages once and nearly choked the cat because she forgot to take the bones out.
Dad chuckled.
Aunty Bev added that she wasn’t surprised as Glennys always ate prawns with the shells on.
Dad roared.
It continued to be Keith’s best meal right up to the point where Dad offered Tracy seconds.
‘Yes please,’ said Tracy, ‘this fish is tops.’
Before Dad could put a couple more pieces on Tracy’s plate, Aunty Bev raised an arm. Keith sent her an urgent message.
Leave it out.
The message didn’t get through.
Aunty Bev began tweaking.
Tracy’s face fell.
‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I won’t have any more, thanks.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Dad.
‘I’m feeling a bit tired,’ said Tracy. ‘I think I’ll go and lie down for a bit.’
Keith watched her go with concern.
‘Is she OK?’ said Dad.
‘Just a bit highly-strung,’ said Aunty Bev. ‘Always has been.’
Funny, thought Keith, I’ve never noticed that.
He resisted the temptation to tell Aunty Bev how too much aerobics could be damaging for kids whose bones were still growing.
After all, Aunty Bev was almost a saint.
But as soon as he’d eaten Tracy’s bits offish, he went up to see how she was.
The first thing Keith saw as he got to the top of the stairs were the tins lying on his bedroom floor.
Corned beef.
Apricot halves.
Both empty.
Then, as he reached the doorway, he saw Tracy.
She was sitting on his bed reading one of his video game magazines and spooning baked beans into her mouth with the fold-out spoon on her Swiss Army knife.
Poor thing, thought Keith. Her body clock’s all haywire. One minute she wants to go to bed, the next she wants to have breakfast.
‘Tracy,’ he said softly, ‘why don’t you ask Aunty Bev to leave the aerobics till you’ve got over your jet lag? She’s a reasonable woman, she’ll understand.’
Tracy stared at him, startled.
He waited for her to say something.
She tried to, but Keith could see she couldn’t find the right words.
He was glad he hadn’t had jet lag this bad when he went to Australia.
Suddenly Tracy jumped up and dropped the tin and pushed past him and ran down the stairs.
Keith stood there for a second, stunned, watching the baked beans make a puddle on the floor.
Then he realised what was going on.
‘Wait,’ he shouted as he hurried down after her. ‘It’s OK. They’re for you.’
10
Sometimes, thought Keith, as his feet pounded the dark pavement and his lungs burned, it can be a real pain having a best friend who can run faster than you.
He didn’t catch up with Tracy till they were almost at Mum’s block of flats.
She was standing under a street light looking lost and tearful.
‘It’s OK,’ he gasped, collapsing against the light pole, ‘you can eat as much of that stuff as you like. Mr Kristos doesn’t mind.’
She didn’t seem to hear.
She was glaring up at the tower blocks looming all around them.
‘I’ve forgotten which one’s your mum’s,’ she said angrily, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand. ‘Pretty dumb, eh?’
Keith was shocked.
Tracy’s sense of direction was legendary in Orchid Cove. Mr Gambaso in the milk bar reckoned you could blindfold her anywhere in North Queensland and she’d find her way to his hamburger counter without help.
‘Come on,’ said Keith gently, ‘this way.’
On the way over to Mum’s block Keith composed a letter to the airlines suggesting they put a notice in their inflight magazines warning that jet lag could play greater havoc with people’s bedtimes and sense of direction than was generally believed.
As they climbed the stairs to Mum’s floor, Keith took Tracy’s hand to show her he understood.
After a few seconds she pulled her hand away.
‘I’m alright,’ she said quietly.
While he let her into the flat, he tried to think of something else he could do to help.
‘Would you like a sandwich?’ he asked. ‘I’ve got some Vegemite and tinned beetroot.’
‘No thanks,’ she said. ‘I just want to go to bed.’
She went into the bedroom and closed the door.
Keith sighed.
Poor old Tracy, he thought. She’s probably homesick as well.
He decided to make the Vegemite and beetroot sandwich anyway. Even if she didn’t feel like eating it, just looking at it would probably make her feel better.
He was on his way to the kitchen when someone came out of the bathroom.
Keith blinked.
For a fleeting second he thought they were being burgled by someone with attractive hair and good posture.
Then he realised it was Mum.
She was wearing a lilac tracksuit that hugged her body.
Her hair was curly and bounced as she walked.
Her face was smooth and her eyelashes were thick and her lips were red.
Keith knew, heart pounding with excitement, that it wasn’t because she’d been eating beetroot sandwiches.
‘Mum,’ he said, ‘you look great.’
‘Bev needed a guinea pig to try out some new beauty products on,’ she said with an embarrassed grin. ‘And to say thank you she insisted I borrow this outfit. I can only just squeeze into it.’
Keith could see what she meant.
Think positive, he told himself. It’s meant to be skintight. Mum’s just got a bit more skin than Aunty Bev, that’s all. At least she’s holding her tummy in and keeping her shoulders back.
‘It’s a knockout,’ he said happily.
‘I’m glad you’re home early,’ said Mum. ‘I was about to ring you at the cafe to let you know I’ve just been invited away for the weekend.’
Keith stared at her in delight.
‘It’s only for two nights,’ she said quickly, ‘with some people from work. They’ve got a caravan at Bognor.’
Keith wanted to throw his arms round her and give her a hug, but was afraid she’d smudge.
You’re a wonder Aunty Bev, he thought joyfully, a blinking marvel.
It was working.
Everything was going to be OK.
‘They’re picking me up in half an hour,’ said Mum. ‘I know it’s very short notice, what with Tracy and Bev being here . . .’
‘Mum,’ said Keith, struggling to keep his voice from wobbling, ‘I want you to go.’
Keith crept into the bedroom.
As his eyes got used to the gloom he saw Tracy lying on the bed, eyes closed.
Carefully he put
the Vegemite and beetroot sandwich on the chest of drawers next to her.
He sent her a quiet message.
When you wake up, I hope the jet lag’s gone and I hope seeing something familiar makes being in a strange country a bit less stressful.
Tracy opened her eyes.
‘Keith,’ she said, ‘I reckon what you’re doing to your mum and dad sucks.’
Keith opened his mouth but nothing came out.
‘You’re trying to make them into something they’re not,’ she said, ‘and I reckon that’s crook.’
Keith tried to stay calm.
She can’t help it, he reminded himself, she’s just having a relapse.
It was no good.
He felt his face getting hot.
‘I’m trying to save them from being alone,’ he said.
Tracy sat up.
‘Perhaps they want to be alone,’ she said.
Sometimes, thought Keith with an exasperated sigh, best mates can be really thick.
‘Nobody wants to be alone,’ he said. ‘Look at Mr Mellish. Being alone killed him.’
‘How do you know?’ said Tracy.
Keith decided that all long-distance planes should have a health warning printed on them.
FLYING CAN INJURE YOUR BRAIN.
‘Because,’ said Keith, ‘he told me. And he told me it could happen to Mum and Dad. He came back from the dead to tell me.’
Tracy swung her legs off the bed and pulled her shoes on.
‘Prove it,’ she said.
Keith crouched by Mr Mellish’s back steps, his heart thumping, partly from the sprint across the garden, partly because he was worried the neighbours had heard and were at that moment rummaging around for torches and kitchen knives, but mostly because he couldn’t hear a single mournful wail.
He strained his ears.
Nothing.
‘Well,’ said Tracy, ‘what now?’
Keith thought frantically.
He needed something to keep her occupied while he tried to make contact with Mr Mellish.
Keith turned to her dark shape crouched next to him.
‘See if you can find a key,’ he whispered. ‘Mind out for glass, I broke a milk bottle last time.’
While Tracy shone her torch around the steps, Keith sent an urgent message to Mr Mellish.
Sorry about this, I know it’s rude disturbing you this late, but if you could explain the situation to Tracy it would be a huge help. Thanks.
He strained his ears again.