Henry Hamlet's Heart

by Rhiannon Wilde

  ‘Mum, no. She hasn’t got a clue.’

  ‘I don’t know. Your dad and I have been talking about this. I think it might be time for me to take a step back for a bit, to be here more. While Ham’s still young.’

  My brow knits. ‘What does Dad say?’

  Mum smiles, but it’s faint. ‘That he’s happy being a kept man and he won’t stand for it.’

  ‘I can help with Ham,’ I tell her.

  ‘No, Hen, I don’t want you worrying about anything. Year twelve is enough to worry about. I’m just venting.’

  ‘I want to help, though.’

  Mum pinches my cheek. ‘I know, love. But sometimes shit just happens.’ She stands up and takes her plate to the sink to rinse off the evidence, then turns around. ‘Actually, there is one thing – can you help me draft an email to Ms Arse?’

  ‘Yes! What tone are we going for?’

  Mum pretends to deliberate. ‘Hmm. I think passive-aggressive but with the barest hint of real threat.’

  ‘Consider it done.’

  Two hours later, we’ve crafted a response with enough bite to chew through plaster. Mum proofreads over my shoulder, bending down occasionally to squeeze me hard.

  Emails are one of my specialties – writing and rewriting, backspacing and switching out words until they’re shiny-perfect. You don’t get redos like that in real time.

  5

  The weekend starts with the big football game. St Sebastian’s have stolen our honour, apparently, and it’s the team’s job to get it back by brute force.

  I’ve never understood what it is that makes people’s eyes light up when they see a ball flying through the air. Our school is huge on football though, and so I dutifully gather with the two hundred other students and parents at nine on Saturday morning.

  It’s so cold, a thick cover of grey blocking the sun. The air hangs with anticipation – of rain, of winning, of going home early enough to get a decent coffee (but maybe that’s just me).

  Len and Ged are both jittery. Ged only has two sausage sandwiches and a Sprite from the tuckshop, a sure sign the pre-match nerves are intensifying.

  ‘Australia is such a sports-obsessed culture,’ I complain, gesturing around me with my bacon and egg roll. ‘Why is it necessary for guys to validate themselves by kicking a ball around a field?’

  ‘You’re only saying that because you can’t catch, throw, kick or walk without falling A over T,’ Ged says.

  I look at him, stung – mostly because he’s right. ‘I’m just saying,’ I argue, while Len rapidly pulls apart a piece of plain toast, ‘you shouldn’t have to stress this much in the biggest term of your lives.’

  ‘We won’t be stressed when we win!’ Ged says through his teeth, chucking his half-chewed sandwich away and taking savage sips from his drink.

  When it’s time for the game, Len and Ged jog down to the field while I go to sit on the bleachers with Harrison and Vince, who never gets up this early on a weekend and is so sour about it that I almost laugh.

  ‘All right?’ Vince asks.

  I bump fists with him. ‘I never know the correct response to that. Do I tell you how I am, or just say it back?’

  ‘In your case, the response is “I’m a wanker”.’ He scowls into his cup of tuckshop tea. ‘Tastes like piss.’

  The teams are assembling on the field. The North boys stand out in their bright red jerseys while St Sebastian’s are flat grey, yet more reason to dislike them.

  I don’t know much about footy positions, but Ged is something important that involves pulling St Sebs boys to the ground every few minutes, and he’s super competitive. Ten minutes into the game he holds a guy down for a moment too long, shoving his face into the grass, and has to be yelled at by the ref.

  ‘He’s going to get carded again,’ Harrison predicts.

  ‘Cousin telepathy?’ I ask.

  ‘Just the knowledge that he’s a dickhead.’

  Len, from what I’ve observed over the years, mostly runs long distances with the ball. It’s rare that anyone catches him.

  The first half passes without further Ged-related incidents, with North in the lead.

  Len’s dad, John, makes a rare appearance, probably because it’s the first game of term. He’s in a white polo shirt and white sneakers; starkly clean and beardless compared to most of the other dads.

  He strides along the fence line at the edge of the field, staring intently and cupping long hands around his mouth to shout play advice.

  ‘Pick it up!’

  ‘Just throw the ball!’

  ‘Stay on him, Lennon! On him!’

  A few seconds before half-time, Len kicks the ball in a giant arc across almost the entire field. I join in with the raucous cheering and follow the crowd down to where the team are gathering near the fence.

  ‘Good job, boiyss!’ Coach Jamieson says.

  ‘Yeah, boiyss,’ Harrison mimics softly.

  Ged’s dad comes over and flicks Harrison on the back of the head, then greets Vince and me warmly.

  ‘Little bloody rascal,’ he reprimands Ged, grinning. ‘What’ve I told you about holding people down?’

  Ged rolls his eyes. ‘Don’t –’ he gulps water ‘– be an animal.’

  His dad laughs, and clasps Ged’s shoulder to steer him towards the towel station. ‘You’re definitely my son, but you don’t want to hand them easy points.’

  Len’s jogging over, sweaty and red-faced. John heads towards him at the same time as me – he’s carrying a water bottle.

  When I’m a few metres from them, John puts the bottle behind his back, holding it with both hands.

  ‘Guess which hand, or you can’t have any,’ he jokes, juggling the water back and forth. At least, I think he’s joking.

  Len shakes out his sticky hair and rubs his eyes.

  ‘Not that you deserve it, really,’ John continues. ‘Relying on flukes like that. Luck isn’t skill – anyone could’ve done it.’

  John’s voice is so suddenly sharp that I look around to see if anyone else heard him, but it’s just me, hovering uncertainly.

  ‘Whatever,’ Len says tonelessly.

  John pulls the water out from behind his back and tosses it without warning. It hits Len in the chest, but he still catches it.

  ‘It’s not all kicking and running away like a pussy. You can’t just coast forever – you’ve got to take control. Be a man. Coasting’s for no-hopers.’

  Len looks like he’s about to say something. Then another dad calls, ‘Mad-dog Cane! How are you, mate?’ and John spins away.

  Len’s eyes find mine. He stares at me brightly for a second, then unscrews the top of the water bottle with his teeth. He tilts his head back and tips the water over his face. Rivulets snake down his eyebrows and over his collarbones, staining his NGS jersey a darker blood red.

  The buzzer sounds the end of half-time.

  ‘COME ON, BOIYSS!’ Coach Jamieson shouts, and the guys jog back onto the field. ‘HUSTLE! WE’VE ALMOST GOT ’EM!’

  We do have them, until fifteen minutes into the second half when Len gets smashed to the ground. It’s a straightforward tackle – the kind he usually sees coming and dodges a mile off.

  ‘What the hell?’ Vince says.

  Len rolls onto his side. I lurch forward, squinting down at the field. Coach blows his whistle and a circle of suddenly compassionate burly football players gather around, blocking him from view.

  Eventually he stands up slowly, the sight of his gold head reassuring. Ged’s beside him and loops one of Len’s arms around his shoulder. Together they limp to the bench.

  I try to catch Len’s eye, but his gaze is fixed on his boots. He stays that way until the end of the game.

  I’m jittery waiting for the horn to finally sound. North wins, 12–3. The Sniffer looks li
ke he might cry real tears.

  Len’s still weird when we meet up after.

  ‘Slashed ’em! Nice game, Canester,’ Ged says in an obvious attempt to lighten the mood, cuffing Len’s shoulder. ‘You absolute menace.’

  ‘Hardly,’ Len says flatly, shaking him off. ‘I was sitting for most of it.’

  Silence blows over us, an icy wind. Harrison and I exchange glances.

  ‘Do you wanna do something now?’ I ask. ‘Vince said he needs real tea or he’ll die.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Leave it, Hamlet,’ he snaps. ‘I’m gonna go home and crash.’

  Even Ged looks unconvinced. There’s no arguing with Len, though. No choice but to watch him limp away.

  Gran summons us all to New Farm Park the next day with a text marked URGENT. Dad tries to get permission to shower first, but Mum just blearily bundles us all into the car, without even stopping for coffee on the way.

  It’s one of those perfect blue winter-Brisbane days – bright grass, sun-ruffled trees and wind on the river – of which we only get about three each year. Gran’s sitting on a giant picnic blanket at the far end of the park, beside rose bushes that match her hair.

  Ham immediately runs off to chase a bird.

  ‘Hamish, don’t lick …’ Mum trails off, and Dad rushes after him.

  ‘Family!’ Gran calls when we reach her blanket. She stands up to hug us. ‘My beloved family.’

  ‘What’s up?’ I ask. ‘You said it was urgent.’

  ‘I have news.’

  ‘Oh, Lord,’ Mum says, pushing her sun visor back tiredly. ‘You can’t come out twice, Mum. You know that, right?’

  ‘Yes, dear. Thank you. However, Marigold and I …’ Gran takes a deep breath. ‘Have decided to get married.’

  Mum blinks at her for a second, searching for the least inflammatory protest. ‘But … you said you’d never get married again.’

  ‘Did I?’ Gran says airily. ‘When?’

  ‘My entire life.’ Mum grits her teeth. ‘You always said your first wedding was such a headache that you’d never bother doing it again. You tried to talk me out of my wedding, the morning of. Remember?’

  Gran waves a hand. ‘Well anyway, obviously it won’t be legal,’ she continues. ‘But we love each other, and we’re going to throw a tremendous party to celebrate.’

  ‘That’s great, Gran,’ I tell her.

  She winks at me. ‘Thank you, my sweet. You, at least, appear to have remembered your manners.’ She shifts her eyes pointedly towards Mum.

  ‘Of course I’m happy for you!’ Mum snaps. ‘It’s just a change of tack, that’s all.’

  ‘Billie, if nobody ever changed tack in their lives, the world would be boring indeed.’

  ‘I guess you’re right.’

  Gran smiles self-satisfactorily.

  ‘It just would have been nice if you’d had this change of heart on the subject of matrimony before you almost convinced me to leave Reuben at the altar,’ Mum says.

  ‘Speaking of altars!’ Gran hijacks. ‘We’re going to have it at that old church, St Andrews. You know the one …’

  My mind starts to wander for a bit and I stare at the mansions across the water while Gran outlines her vision for the day (including a three-course reception meal at a ritzy restaurant on the river).

  When I come back, Mum’s widening her eyes at me.

  Caffeine, she mouths.

  ‘Right!’ I stand up. ‘On it.’

  I walk along the path to a coffee van, order three cappuccinos and wait.

  Then I see him.

  Len is crouched by a yellow rose bush, taking pictures with his long lens. He looks blank. Whether it’s just the photo-taking kind or not, I can’t tell.

  I think about yesterday, him crashing down onto the muddy field, and then I’m walking over.

  He looks up, shielding his eyes from the sun. ‘What’re you doing here?’

  I inspect his face. There’s still something off.

  ‘Family time,’ I explain. ‘How come you’re not at work?’

  ‘Took the day off.’

  I think again about the football game. About that guy smashing into him. About John. But directly bringing it up isn’t going to get me anywhere.

  ‘Guess what? Gran’s getting married.’

  Len’s face animates a little, eyebrows raising. ‘To Marigold?’

  ‘No, to her plumber – yes, to Marigold. They want to have some sort of commitment ceremony, at St Andrews.’

  ‘Will the church even do that?’

  ‘Apparently Gran has dirt on the priest. He owes her one.’

  He laughs softly. ‘She’s a force of nature, I’ll give her that. How’s Billie taking it?’

  ‘So well.’

  ‘She’ll come around.’

  ‘You should come say hey,’ I suggest, turning back towards the river side of the park. ‘Actually, you don’t have a choice – they’ve seen us.’

  I collect my drinks from the cart and drag him to Gran’s mat. Dad’s back and looking exactly like he spent the night with his sculptures, paint all over his face and clay clumped in his hair. I give him my coffee.

  Ham launches himself at Len with a muted shriek. ‘Len! I failed my maths test this week!’

  ‘Really, darling?’ Gran coos. ‘That’s marvellous. Stick it to the man.’

  Mum makes a sound like a cat hissing.

  Ham swivels around to stare into Len’s eyes. ‘Did you fail maths in year one?’

  Len looks back at him seriously. ‘I don’t remember, mate. But Henry’s failed every year of mandatory PE.’

  I mouth a very not-Ham-appropriate word at him.

  Ham giggles. ‘You’re too old to fail, Henry!’

  ‘Never too old for that!’ Dad booms, patting my shoulder with his clay-stained hand.

  ‘Can we leave off my failures, please?’ I interject. ‘We’re meant to be celebrating.’

  ‘Yes!’ Gran claps her hands together. ‘Let’s eat! Help me with this, Henry.’

  ‘Help you with what?’

  She flips open the lid of her picnic basket to reveal that the inside is taken up, almost entirely, by one thing.

  ‘Cut it up for me, will you, love? We can have it with crackers.’

  ‘But … It’s a monster!’

  ‘It’s an eggplant.’

  ‘That is the Hulk of eggplants. Where did you even get it from?’

  ‘My fruit man!’ Gran says testily. ‘Stop being so dramatic and get it out.’

  Len perks up. ‘Yeah, go on. Get it out.’

  I heave my best put-upon sigh, and slide my hands under its mushy wine-coloured skin uncertainly. Then I drop it and Gran screams.

  ‘Oh, honestly!’ Mum grabs Gran’s picnic knife and neatly divides up the Hulk.

  We dine on coffee and warm eggplant for a while, until Dad starts staring into space and Ham stands up, Hamlet-bored with the silence.

  ‘Guess which movie I’m acting out!’ he demands with his mouth full.

  He commences flapping his arms wildly; Mum and Dad look at him blankly. Then he claps both hands together above his head and squawks.

  ‘Ooh!’ Gran shouts suddenly, and several other families look up in alarm. ‘I know, darling! It’s that Harry Potter and the phoenix … the order … The phoenix he ordered!’

  Len tips his head slowly towards me behind Mum’s back. ‘I love Harry Potter and the Phoenix He Ordered,’ he murmurs, deadpan.

  I bite down on my lip. ‘Why did he order it, in the end?’ I whisper back.

  ‘No-one knows.’

  Gran’s face darkens. She flicks gooey eggplant seeds in our direction.

  ‘Mum!’ Mum says. ‘You can’t throw food in a public sp
ace!’

  ‘Seeds aren’t food, Billie.’

  ‘Hey, Hamlet,’ Len says. ‘Do you think you could maybe help me take some more photos this arvo?’

  (Thank God.)

  ‘Yes!’ I say, a bit too enthusiastically. ‘Absolutely. And we should probably leave soon too, because the … sun.’

  ‘Oh, bugger off, then,’ says Gran. ‘Search for the muse.’

  ‘Congrats again!’ I tell her. ‘Mean it.’

  We escape quickly, Len leading the way to where his car’s parked, towards the silvery towering buildings of the Valley in the distance.

  ‘Where are we going? Please say far.’

  ‘I was gonna head to Sandgate.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  He winds northwards through red-bricked Teneriffe.

  I watch him drive for a while before I crack. ‘So.’

  ‘So, what?’

  ‘So … how are you?’

  ‘How am I?’ He rolls his eyes, but keeps them on the road. ‘Who are you, Doctor Phil?’

  ‘You know,’ I drop my voice, ‘after yesterday.’

  His face hardens and he rubs his forehead. ‘How many times do I have to say I was fine?’

  ‘You weren’t, though,’ I press quickly as we fly past factory buildings. ‘You were down. You never go down.’

  ‘That’s not true; I do it all the time. Ask anyone.’

  ‘Be serious, please.’

  ‘Why? I got tackled. It happens.’

  ‘Not to you.’

  ‘Well, maybe I was having an off day. I’m entitled to at least one of those in my lifetime, surely?’

  I picture John. Polo shirts and pussy. My mouth opens and closes again.

  Len’s eyes go harder still, as if he’s reading my mind.

  When we get to Sandgate, we walk along the seafront (if you can call it that – compared to The Place We Go it’s decidedly suburban, the water churlish and brown).

  I’m always the designated companion on these expeditions – it’s just sort of happened that way, over the years. I guess because I’m used to it, having grown up with Dad. I know a tiny bit about composition, so am somewhat useful (in a technical sense).

  Len has both his film and digital cameras, so I settle in for the long haul, tight-roping along the edge of the promenade while he takes shot after shot. There’s seagulls swooping lazily overhead, but other than that we’re completely alone.