by Meg McKinlay
“Bag!” I call as Newt slips past me. Then I sigh as he drops it on the floor and disappears down the hall.
A few seconds later I hear the door to his room close. He’s working on some project in there, the same as always – not that I have any idea what it is. Mum and I have a deal with Newt that we don’t go inside without what he calls “official advance notice”. This is fine with us since his room’s always crammed with weird stuff and you never know what you might step on or tip over or accidentally blow up.
I grab his bag and look through, checking for banana peels and apple cores and early signs of fungus. I check for notes and find yet another “absolutely final” reminder from Mrs Harris, the librarian, that 1001 Spectacular Science Facts for Junior Einsteins is unacceptably overdue. I put that on the fridge at eye level where even Mum shouldn’t be able to miss it.
Mum’s a nurse at the hospital. She was taking time off when Newt was little, but after Dad died she had to go back to work. That was when Newt and I started going to Kat’s. Back then, Mum used to come home so tired she’d fall asleep in her uniform.
She doesn’t do that any more, but she still works hard. Even though she’s meant to finish at four during the week she often ends up staying back, doing a bit extra. Which means I should probably think about dinner. We’ve had baked beans on toast twice already this week. Fish fingers and cheese once too.
If we were at Kat’s, right now we’d be drinking milk and eating freshly baked biscuits. After that we’d watch Gilligan’s Island and Get Smart on their colour TV and no one would have to get up and bang it because the picture kept turning into snow.
But if we were there, I wouldn’t be able to make Newt’s birthday cake. And that means he’d probably have to settle for a Swiss roll from the supermarket again. Mum always has grand plans to make him something special then at the last minute she runs out of time.
That’s why this year I said to leave it to me.
It’s not like I can make anything fancy but I know how to make cupcakes. And I know Newt.
Right now I’m glad that I planned this, because it’s the perfect distraction, something to keep me from thinking about 1980 and high school, about Skylab and Dad.
Only what’s that thing people say – that if you try not to think about a polar bear, the only thing you end up thinking about is a polar bear?
Don’t not think about it, Frankie. Just make the cakes.
I get the flour and the sugar from the cupboard, the milk and butter from the fridge. I sift and crack and pour. I start.
Three
“Blow out the candles!”
On Saturday night we have Newt’s birthday party. Only it isn’t really his birthday and it isn’t really a party. It isn’t his birthday because that’s on Tuesday but Mum’s late so much on weekdays it’s easier to have it now. And it isn’t a party because Newt doesn’t like crowds. So instead of a bunch of kids playing “pass the parcel”, it’s the three of us doing what we always do – cake, then presents, then leave Newt alone to assemble his presents, or take them apart, or maybe both, one after the other.
“Go on,” Mum urges but Newt’s too busy staring at his cakes.
“This is so cool!” he says. “I mean … Mars would probably be more melted. And technically Saturn is made entirely of gas, but otherwise …”
It was a simple idea. I made ten cupcakes in different sizes and icing colours. I wrapped black paper around Mum’s big cutting board, drew some curving lines on it with Hobbytex paints and arranged the cakes in order. I cut out aluminium foil stars and scattered them everywhere, then put one candle on every cake except for the sun, because it makes plenty of light all by itself.
I didn’t have to look anything up – not the order of the planets or which ones were bigger or even what colour they should be. Even though I haven’t thought about space in ages, when I stared down at the cutting board, the whole solar system was there in my head, like a diagram in a book. Or like I was looking through the telescope on a cloudless night.
Clear skies, dark nights.
That’s what Dad always hoped for. And I did too, when I waited for him at the top of the driveway, watching for flashes of our old purple Datsun turning homewards off the highway.
Those nights, everything would be right there in front of us. We’d put an eye to the telescope and the Milky Way would be a shining carpet, the ridges and bumps of the moon’s surface so close I’d catch myself reaching out as if I could touch them.
My stomach twists with remembering. Then twists harder as I try to stop it. It’s Newt’s birthday. It’s time for candles and cake and presents. Don’t think about a polar bear.
I turn towards him, summoning a smile. “I’ll blow them out myself if I have to!”
It takes him three puffs but he eventually covers all the planets. Of course, he refuses to make a wish, same as always, because he’s a scientist and why would anyone believe in that kind of thing?
Mum pinches his cheek. “I can’t believe you’re turning eight. When did you get so big, anyway?”
“Actually,” Newt says, “I’m quite small for my age. The average height for–”
Mum laughs. “You know what I mean.”
We each eat one of the planets and then it’s time for presents.
As Newt unwraps Mum’s, I hold my breath.
Somehow she always seems to get things that aren’t quite Newtish – the sort of beginner things you buy for someone who doesn’t know anything about science. Last year she got a plastic microscope that broke the first time he tried to adjust the focus; the time before it was a book called The Young Scientist’s Guide to Absolutely Everything Worth Knowing, which inexplicably failed to include a single word about quantum physics.
I’m not a hundred per cent sure this is why Newt put together his Big Birthday List but it seems likely. The list, which he’s stuck to the side of the fridge, contains exactly forty-seven items. I don’t know what Mum’s bought but I’m sure of one thing: it won’t be anything from the top ten.
Number one on Newt’s list is a genuine dinosaur bone, preferably from a Tyrannosaurus rex, and number ten is a TRS-80 home computer. Some of the things in-between haven’t even been invented yet.
“Number twenty-eight!” He starts grinning before the wrapping paper’s even half off.
Mum sighs and I realise she’s been holding her breath too.
Luckily, she doesn’t see Newt’s face change a few seconds later. It’s the smallest flash of disappointment before he wipes it off and looks up at Mum.
“It’s perfect!”
It isn’t. What Mum’s bought is a crystal radio, and what Newt wanted was a crystal radio kit, so he could build one himself.
“This is really great. Thanks.” He folds the paper up neatly and studies the box, turning it over and over as if he needs to read every bit of it immediately.
I wait a few minutes, then reach under the table. “My turn!”
It’s a present in four parts, each with its own package.
Since I only get fifty cents pocket money a week, there’s no way I can get anything from Newt’s list. Usually, I get him some comic books but this year I realised something.
That the best present for Newt isn’t a thing – it’s a project.
When he opens the first package he frowns. “Coathangers? Um … thanks.”
When he opens the second his frown gets deeper. “Aluminium foil? Okay.”
He’s trying so hard to act grateful I struggle to keep a straight face.
Then he opens the third one and his mouth opens in a little O.
This one has the instructions I wrote out with help from Mr Despotovski. He’s a relief teacher who takes us sometimes when Mrs Easton’s away. A couple of weeks ago, he told us you can make an antenna yourself with a few simple things. Straightaway I thought about our crackling TV and a few seconds later, I thought about Newt.
When Mr Despotovski saw how excited I was, he spent his whole lunchtime helping
me do the instructions so they’re just right – enough detail that Newt can do it himself, but not so much that it’s too easy.
“Thanks, Frankie.”
“You’ve missed one.” I point at the wrapping paper he’s moved aside. The last thin package has got caught up with the rubbish.
When he opens it his face brightens. “A notebook!”
Mum leans forwards. “What a clever idea.”
Newt’s always scribbling stuff everywhere – ideas he’s had, interesting things he’s seen, anything he might ever want to possibly remember. He writes them on scraps of paper and the backs of envelopes and in his school exercise books when he’s meant to be doing spelling or maths or anything else at all. But when he gets serious, when he decides to really focus on something, it’s different.
That’s when he starts one of his notebooks. He writes a project name on the front and fills the inside with facts and figures and questions about that one thing only. Usually, he uses one of the old notebooks Mum has lying around. They’re flimsy and cheap and they fall apart really quickly. But this is a special one I bought at the newsagent. It was seventy cents but it was worth it. It’s got a sturdy cardboard cover and spiral binding.
On the front, I’ve written: “INVESTIGATIONS INTO THE VIABILITY OF RUDIMENTARY ANTENNA CONSTRUCTION”.
Mr Despotovski helped me with that bit too.
Kat said she wasn’t sure “rudimentary” was a word, but when I checked the dictionary it was right there: involving or limited to basic principles.
Newt’s got that look in his eyes. He grabs one of the coathangers and jumps up. “I’m going to start this now!”
Mum glances out the window. “It looks clear tonight. Hey, why don’t we watch Disneyland? It’ll be like old times.”
“That’s on Sunday,” I say.
And I’m too old for it, I don’t say. Plus Newt’s more of a Doctor Who kid anyway.
Not to mention that the old times you’re thinking of were when he was too little to remember.
“Oh. Well, tomorrow then. I could do a roast as well … how about that?”
“Sure,” I say. “That’d be great.”
I know it won’t happen. Mum’s been promising us a roast for ages and she’s always too late or too busy or too tired. It doesn’t matter, though. Newt and I are fine. I can do four different things on toast and spaghetti bolognaise as well. Sometimes I even put the spaghetti bolognaise on the toast; it’s my very own gourmet creation. I can also fry chops and sausages and pretty soon I’m going to teach myself to make apricot chicken using a packet of French onion soup like they do in The Women’s Weekly. We don’t need roasts, even if I do sometimes miss those crunchy potatoes Mum used to make.
“Hey!” Newt’s twisted some wire around the coathanger and is holding it up, angling it this way and that. He hovers near the TV, trying to get a good look at the screen. “I think it’s better already.”
The news is on. The announcer, who Kat calls “Orange-Tie Man” because no matter what pattern they have, his ties are always the same colour, has his serious face on.
“At this stage,” he says, “Skylab is anticipated to enter the Earth’s atmosphere sometime between 15th June and 2nd July.”
On the screen behind him is a picture of what looks like a huge metal windmill floating through space. I wonder if Kat’s watching this. I wonder if it looks different in colour.
But most of all, I wonder if Mum’s heart is pounding the way mine is, whether she’s remembering that night in the Shack – the blanket and the photo, the sky full of stars.
Whether she’s remembering Dad.
I sneak a glance at her but her face looks normal. Normal for her “News Face” anyway, the one she always makes right before she tells us to turn it off, for goodness sake! because all they ever talk about is doom and gloom and calamities on the other side of the world that have nothing to do with us.
“What is that thing?” As Newt leans forwards, the picture breaks up. Orange-Tie Man, who’s actually Grey-Tie Man on our black-and-white set, dissolves into static.
At least the sound’s okay. We’re all quiet as we listen, as Orange-Tie Man tells us Skylab weighs approximately seventy-seven tonnes and is about the size of a small house. He says NASA doesn’t know where the “wayward space giant” is going to come down but that the chances of anyone being hit are remote.
“Remote! Is that supposed to be reassuring?” Mum glances at Newt, as if she’s suddenly remembered he’s just a little kid. “There’s nothing for us to worry about, of course.”
Newt isn’t worried. He’s staring at the static-filled screen, his eyes shining.
“Space giant!” he breathes. “This is the best birthday present ever.”
Four
The thing is, Skylab actually was Newt’s birthday present, in a way.
Dad was so excited when he found out the date it was launching. “America’s first space station!” he said. “Smack bang on his birthday!”
Right away, he decided it was going to be their special thing together. He’d start a Skylab scrapbook and when Newt got older, they’d track it and study it and learn everything there was to know about it.
“Isn’t that a great idea?” he said, and I nodded, even though the idea of Dad and Newt doing special space things together made me feel a bit funny. My birthday was in February and nothing had launched then. But maybe there’d be something next year and even if there wasn’t, Dad said not to worry.
“We’ll still do our special things, short-for-nothing. And you can help with Skylab too, if you want.”
I never did decide if I wanted to help. Newt was only two. He’d be doing little-kid stuff with Dad, not official real future astronomer things like me. I was going to think about it later. There was plenty of time.
“Space giant!” Mum’s voice cuts across my thoughts. “Good grief, what next?” She goes over to the TV and presses the button. Orange-Tie Man snaps into focus for a second, as if he’s teasing us, then dwindles to a fine point and disappears.
“Hey,” Newt protests. “I was watching that!”
Mum stands in front of the screen, her arms folded. “We don’t need all that doom and gloom tonight. It’s meant to be a celebration! How about we check out the radio instead?”
Newt gets up and follows her back to the table. They sit opposite me and flick through the instruction booklet. Mum points things out and Newt pretends it’s interesting and I stare past their heads at the spot where Orange-Tie Man was. Mum’s words echo in my mind:
Doom and gloom. Nothing for us to worry about.
Hearing about Skylab – even seeing it – didn’t mean anything to her. It’s like she has no memory of that night at all.
Maybe it’s better that way. Easier.
That’s what she’d say, I reckon. It’s what she said a few years ago when she took our family photos off the mantelpiece and tucked them away inside an album. It’ll be easier for all of us, love. It wasn’t like they were gone, she said. They just weren’t right in front of us the whole time. We could get the album out whenever we wanted and look at them together.
I can’t remember the last time we did that.
I get up and go over to the mantelpiece. There are other knick-knacks here now – vases and bits of pottery and craft projects from school that have taken up the space as if nothing else was ever there.
I look away, down towards the potbelly stove. Apart from the hot water bottles we take to bed at night, this old wood-fired stove is what keeps us warm over winter. There’s a box next to it where we store kindling and newspapers. Mum doesn’t buy the papers – because of the doom and gloom and all that – but she usually brings a pile home from work when they’re too old for the waiting room. And seeing them now makes me think … maybe we’ve got that article Jeremy was talking about.
I reach into the box and flick through. The headlines are yelling about the usual stuff – about Arms Race Peril and Crisis Talks at the K
remlin! Sometimes they mix things up a bit with US Bases Shock! or Fuel Shortage Looms!
Doom and gloom and calamities that have nothing to do with us. I suppose Mum’s right about most of that stuff. None of it really touches us down here on the south coast of nowhere. What people mostly talk about is whether there’s been enough rain, or too much, or the right amount of rain but at the wrong time, or …
Wait. A word jumps out at me – a headline, if you can call it that. I stop flicking and peer closer.
Re-entry for Skylab.
It’s hardly even an article. It’s just a few short paragraphs, each little more than a line. And instead of being up front with Crisis Talks! and Arms Race!, it’s a few pages further back.
It’s basically what Orange-Tie Man said, about how NASA has no idea about anything but there’s no reason to worry. Which is pretty pointless, if you ask me. If that’s the best you can say, why say anything at all?
I suppose they’ll know more later. The last line says NASA will be constantly updating predictions on when Skylab will tumble out of orbit.
Something about the word “tumble” makes me smile. It makes Skylab sound like it’s a cartoon character, a cheerful space thing that’s dropping by for a visit. For a second I picture it with chubby cheeks and a cheesy grin.
And isn’t “re-entry” kind of strange too? It makes things sound all neat and tidy, like Skylab’s going to knock and ask for permission. Excuse me, but I seem to be falling and I was wondering … would you mind terribly much if I landed in your general vicinity?
I suppose it’s because they don’t want people to be afraid. The papers are always like that. They can make things sound however they want.
I remember when Dad was in the paper, when they said Local Man Missing and it sounded like he could have been anyone. When they said Radio contact lost and it sounded like all you needed to do was adjust an antenna and he’d be back again, right as rain.
Later, they said Search abandoned. Hope lost.
And even the full stops were loud then, like someone was slamming a door in my face, over and over.
