‘I’m sure your delicate skin can handle thirty-odd seconds of chlorine exposure,’ Simmons said. ‘There’ll be a medical officer present if you have a reaction.’
Nads drew the relay team aside and said to me, ‘Your bullshit scam to get out of training doesn’t cut it. If you don’t show on Wednesday, I guarantee your life won’t be worth living.’
‘Nothing like boosting team morale.’
‘WHAT!?’ He slammed my shoulder with his palm. But instead of intimidating me, it gave me a measure of stupid courage.
‘Look at you three bald clowns. I bet Simmons would be interested to find out what really gives you the edge.’
‘Who do you think supplies them to us, arsehole?’
Deb Gelber came over carrying a pile of blue-and-gold kits. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘Nothing, miss. We’re just firing each other up.’ Nads grabbed Mullows’ shoulders and shook him roughly, then slapped his face like a boxing trainer would. ‘C’mon, c’mon, C’MOOON!’
‘Enough of that,’ Gelber said. ‘I want full focus. No shenanigans on Wednesday. Remember, you’re representing the school.’ She handed each of us a Crestfield tracksuit and a pair of Speedos that were blue at the front and yellow at the back. The perfect colour for making the tail really pop. No way could I wear them.
During Art on Tuesday, Isa asked what was bothering me. I wasn’t about to confess that I was terrified of being humiliated by a crowd of people seeing a lump in the wrong side of my Speedos, so I told her I was worried about Bert – which was true. She kept probing until I revealed the Starkey–Barnsdale connection and my suspicion about what was going on.
‘Oh my God!’ she said. ‘That’s seriously heavy. Do you realise they’ve committed a criminal offence?’
‘Maybe – but I don’t know what to do about it.’
‘Tell. The. Police,’ she said, tapping the table with each word.
‘Can you even imagine the trouble that would cause? The damage has already been done. Bert’s sold his place and they’ve backed off.’
‘What about that Barnsdale creep?’
‘There’s no way of proving he got them to harass Bert.’
She gave me a look that suggested I hadn’t explored all my options.
After school I tried on the official Crestfield Speedos and the exposure of the tail was worse than feared. The single thin yellow nylon layer failed to hide the tail’s dark hair even with the costume dry – wet, it looked obscene. If I shaved it again tonight, the spikes would be sticking through by morning and the bulge would still be visible, and if I nicked myself shaving tomorrow it could be disastrous. I tried wearing a second blue pair underneath, but it made the yellow look green. So I went into the city and bought a pair of baggy blue-and-yellow board shorts from Lowes, hoping they’d do the trick.
I woke early on Wednesday and had three-and-a-half bouts of exceptionally violent diarrhoea before breakfast. Only the dread of further retribution from Nads stopped me from calling the school to say I couldn’t swim.
On the bus to the Eastside Aquatic Centre, Nads began a chant:
‘WHO IS THE SCHOOL THAT RULES THE POOL?
‘CRESTFIELD! CRESTFIELD! CRESTFIELD!’
It got louder and louder till Starkey, possessed by hysteria, leapt from his seat and performed a dance down the aisle.
‘WHO IS THE SCHOOL THAT RULES THE POOL?
‘CRESTFIELD! CRESTFIELD! CRESTFIELD!’
A car cut in front of our bus and Jespersen stamped the brake pedal, slamming Starkey onto the front windscreen. ‘Sit down, you stupid little bastard!’ Jespersen shouted. ‘You almost killed us all.’
The individual events were swam in the morning. Nads and Mullows won their races convincingly and got out of the pool without showing any sort of excitement – as if coming first was the only possible outcome. In the hundred-metre fly, Pericles led all the way but was pipped at the finish by a guy from St Eugene’s with massive lats and feet like flippers. Oddly, Pez didn’t seem too disappointed when he got back to the stands.
‘It’s all about steady progress,’ he said philosophically.
The medleys and long-distance events were scheduled after lunch. As each race was contested and the medley relay drew closer, the knots in my stomach tightened. The plan to protect my modesty with board shorts was far from foolproof.
At 2 pm all competitors in relay events were called to the marshalling area.
‘That’s you,’ Pericles said. ‘Get down there and show those bastards what you’re really made of. Smash it, bro.’
We fist-bumped. We man-hugged.
Simmons rallied the team before our race. My brain, buzzing with thoughts of impending humiliation, scrambled his pep talk. The goons peeled off their Crestfield tracksuits while I removed only the top. Nads and Starkey followed a marshal to the other end of the pool, and I stayed with Mullows.
‘Good luck, mate,’ he said, with a pat and a glint of something approximating camaraderie in his eyes. He dropped into the pool, adjusted his reflective goggles and gripped the bar. The whistle blew and he steadied himself.
‘On your mark!’
The photograph from the Hallway of Champions – Mullows the snarling backstroker – came into my mind.
>BEEP!<
He catapulted backwards and surged down the pool.
I peeled off my pants and left the board shorts on, hoping Simmons and Gelber had their gaze fixed on Starkey. Evan Starkey, teen reprobate, was now breaststroking towards me – his movements lopsided from hurting his shoulder when he hit the bus windscreen – trailing the competition. I mounted the block and shook myself out. Starkey was swimming through treacle. Time divided into milliseconds – nanoseconds. Starkey was close – closer – so close – almost there – only a metre away – a reach – two hands. GO!
I was a submarine.
Homunculus was my captain, controlling every limb and digit, every fibre of every muscle. ‘Rigid, rigid and release!’ he commanded.
My black metal hull dissolved.
I morphed to amphibian, exhaled and surfaced.
‘Ignite the furnace!’ Homunculus commanded. Fire blazed across my back, chest and arms. Energy rippled through my entire body as I rose and plunged, driven by my tiny extension – guided like a ship by a rudder.
There was no drag at all.
‘Have I lost my shorts?’
‘Focus on the end of the line.’
‘What if they’ve slipped off?’
‘Finish butt-naked.’
‘God, please no!’
>FWOOSHKA!<
>FWOOSHKA!<
>FWOOSHKA!<
I slammed the pad with both hands.
Nads dived over the top of me. The other freestylers followed.
We were in the lead. I felt for my board shorts. Still on, thank God.
Nads was overtaken by a guy from Clovelly College and we were beaten by 0.34 seconds. My time was a personal best, Starkey’s probably his worst, but Simmons directed his anger at me when he met us poolside.
‘What the hell are you wearing those for?’ he shouted. I wrapped my towel around my waist. ‘You were issued with regulation Crestfield Speedos.’
‘But these are the right colours still, sir.’
‘Don’t be a smartarse, Locke. Just tell me why.’
‘I couldn’t find my swimmers this morning. I left them at Avalon, sir.’
‘We have spares. You should’ve told us.’
‘You cost us the relay,’ Nads said. With veins pulsing in his shiny bullet-head he’d never looked more menacing.
‘Naylor’s right. You cost us the relay and the points we might need to win the meet.’
‘But I took us into the lead.’
‘You would’ve dropped three or four seconds without the drag of those shorts.’
‘But—’
‘Don’t “but” me. You have piss-all regard for the team and you won’t be swimming at zones. As of this m
oment you can consider yourself thrown out of squad.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Oh, don’t thank me. Because you won’t be swapping to another sport. You’ll be on garbage patrol for the rest of term under Mr Jespersen’s constant supervision, and you’ll do whatever he requires. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Now get out of my sight, worm!’
Being thrown out of squad was the best thing that could’ve happened, and if that meant being asked to leave Crestfield altogether, then bring it on. The idea of Simmons supplying his star swimmers with human-growth boosters, which Nads had implied, was hardcore fraudulent.
I should’ve learnt by now that reading the book would provide no form of escape from my troubles, but tonight as I read in my bedroom, the distance between Edwin’s past and my present was obliterated as our stories came crashing together.
Driven by financial necessity, my mother uprooted us from the fragrant gardens and bushland of Ambleside to replant us in the industrial centre of Sydney. Pyrmont was two short ferry rides from Mosman but could’ve been on the other side of the world for all its stark differences. Towering chimney stacks outnumbered trees, puffing their smoke into an atmosphere redolent of the abattoir and tanneries. The ubiquitous woolstores had a distinct odour, greasy and oppressive, but tolerable compared to the constant stench emanating from the cesspits. Our dark-brick terrace was squeezed like a narrow book between six others on Harris Street. Bereft of distinguishing features, their façades gave no indication of the stories held inside.
On arrival, our family was treated with a mix of curiosity and suspicion by the locals, who must’ve wondered what grim circumstance had blown us into their midst. My mother had retained some of her favourite pieces of furniture, which arrived on three carts, drawing urchins as to a circus parade. The carters scattered pennies to stop the grubby children pawing the fine upholstery. Thomas, Loula and I watched from the top window as the penny-scramble evolved into an all-out brawl. My mother called us away, drew the moth-eaten curtains and reminded us of how fortunate we were to be sleeping in our own beds. The next morning, we woke covered in rashes. She investigated our mattresses and bedclothes to no avail then, examining the walls, discovered a colony of bed bugs beneath the peeling paper. Ignoring our pleas, she sent us off to our new schools, stripped the wallpaper and had the dwelling fumigated.
The newcomer always faces challenges, and being covered head-to-toe in an angry rash certainly didn’t win me any friends on that first day. But as the weeks rolled on, we three children proved our resilience and found ourselves enveloped by a tight-knit community that always looked out for one another. Whenever my mother was held back late working for Pemberton, Mrs Budd next door would send her daughter Deidre over with a pot of stew. And as Pemberton had promised, there was ample work for my mother to create hybrid mounts for his Cabinet of Curiosities. She toiled on those strange little monsters till the bones in her hands ached. It seemed patently unfair that I should continue at school while she struggled alone under an insurmountable burden of debt, so at thirteen I left to join Sampson’s Sawdust Company. Initially my mother was vexed by my decision, but later came to appreciate the relief an extra source of income brought – as meagre as it was.
My job entailed helping old Neville Sampson and his arthritic horse Thunder collect sawdust from the timber mills for delivery to butchers and furniture-packers across town. The prospect of advancement was commensurate with the level of skill required to perform the job – nil – but it paid slightly more than streetsweeping.
My one respite every other day was picking Thomas up after work for a swim at the baths. Men’s days were ruled by Sid Whitfield, a barrel-chested lifeguard who kept watch from a wooden throne, blowing his whistle at the first sign of horseplay. But the moment he abandoned his post to relieve his notoriously weak bladder, cannonballs, dunking and wrestling always broke out. Sometimes we ventured outside the baths to catch a yabbie or squid, which we’d trade for a piece of Mrs Stefanides’ exotic syrup cake at the corner store. It’s funny now to think that my greatest achievement back in those days was swimming two full lengths of the baths underwater – a feat that won the respect of all the lads except Reg McGuffin, whose record I’d broken.
Older than the other boys, McGuffin’s physique had guaranteed his position as their leader. In the middle of my sixteenth year, my body went through a series of changes that had quite the opposite effect. I became unusually hirsute, which caused a degree of self-consciousness I’d not known before. Then one month shy of my sixteenth birthday, a strange protuberance developed at the end of my spine. I expected it to go away on its own, but instead it grew and sprouted coarse dark hair. Desperate to keep this strange and ugly affliction a secret, I stopped swimming at the Pyrmont Baths – bad news for Thomas. And after young Arthur Carter dived into a submerged rock and suffered a fatal spinal injury, my mother forbade Thomas from swimming alone. She resisted his pleading till late in February when the city, gripped by a heatwave, hit one hundred and thirteen degrees. At her wit’s end she ordered me to take him to the baths, whether I wanted to join him in the water or not.
I’d read many books where I felt a strong connection to the author, but nothing like this – this mingling of lives with somebody who was no longer around. The revelation felt heavy and incomprehensible. I dozed off and dreamt.
I was standing by the edge of a tidal pool. Two boys were trying to climb from the murky water but a group of scrawny thugs were blocking their exit. The boys swam to the other ladder but the ruffians followed and kicked them back into the water. A whistle lacerated the air. I turned and saw a sunburnt, white-haired guy in a singlet.
‘That’s enough from you, Reg McGuffin!’ he yelled at the only boy with well-developed muscles. ‘Let them out.’ The two boys emerged in old-fashioned swimsuits, their short-and-singlet combinations sagging with water. The taller one was holding his hands behind his lower back.
‘Watch out!’ McGuffin said. ‘He’s got a jelly!’ He and another punk tugged the boy’s arms away, but there was nothing in his hands. The boy threw wild punches at McGuffin that failed to make contact.
The lifeguard whistled again. ‘There’ll be no fisticuffs on my watch!’ he yelled. ‘Not like you to be causing trouble, Edwin Stroud. Get out of here and don’t come back until you’ve learnt to control that temper.’
As the boys walked away, I felt the kid’s pain – the dead weight of injustice. And then, still dreaming, I remembered the photograph from the exhibition. The boy sitting on the edge of the pool, apart from the others. Edwin Stroud. I watched the two brothers walk up the hot road with their heads low. The younger one, Thomas, put his arm around Edwin’s shoulders. Edwin shook it off.
Then I saw the small protrusion at the base of his spine. The thing we share. The tail. The shock woke me up in a cold sweat, my pulse racing from panic that had gripped me like a fever. And I read on.
One chilly April morning I woke with such pain in my lower back I was barely able to move. Against my wishes, Thomas was sent to request Dr Fletcher visit me on his afternoon rounds. At midday, Diddy Budd rapped on the back door and let herself in. ‘Edwin, poor lamb, it’s me!’ she called on her way up the stairs. She opened the bedroom door and poked her head in. ‘Your mother said you might be running a fever, and judging by your trembling I think she’s right. Here, I’ve brought a damp cloth to lay on your forehead.’
‘Please don’t touch me,’ I said. ‘Stay back!’
‘Oh dear. The fever’s gripped your mind.’
‘Get out! I’m begging you.’ I pulled the sheet over my head.
‘I brought some vegetable-and-barley soup to heat up later if you’re able to eat. I’ll be downstairs praying for you until the doctor arrives.’
‘No prayers! No doctor! Please don’t let him see me this way.’
‘Your fevered state demands his urgent attention.’
Diddy left me alone, bu
t every half-hour she returned to observe me and I pretended to be asleep. Later, she sent the doctor up. He had plastered-down black hair and a defiantly ginger moustache that hardly inspired confidence.
‘Awfully stuffy in here,’ he said, forcing the sash window up with a screech. ‘The most important ingredient for a speedy recovery is fresh air, a rare commodity in this neighbourhood.’ He checked my vital signs then palpated the glands in my neck and under my arms. ‘Everything normal,’ he said, sounding annoyed that it was. ‘Your brother told me you were suffering a fever that had rendered you immobile.’
‘My back was crook. That’s all.’
‘Playing possum, were we? Idle hands are the devil’s workshop, young fellow.’ Without warning he ripped away my sheet and blanket. ‘Turn yourself over.’
Deserved or not, the physician carries an authority above the average mortal’s. And so I turned over, exposing the protuberance. After an interval of hemming and hawing, Dr Fletcher said, ‘I now see your reason for wanting to keep that thing hidden. I’ve read of similar cases but never seen anything quite like it.’ He seemed fascinated and repelled in equal measure, but thankfully didn’t resort to touching the thing. Instead he fired a barrage of questions. Was I eating fresh fruit and vegetables, or meat only? Did I recall any disturbing experiences involving an animal when I was a child? Had I recently acquired any unsavoury habits that may have caused the thing to develop? The humiliating enquiry finally came to an end with the restoration of my bedclothes.
‘Never fear, young man. I have exactly what you need to eradicate or at least diminish your unfortunate growth.’ From his enormous black bag he pulled a small ceramic pot labelled ‘Centaur Embrocation’ and gave me instructions for its application. As soon as he left, I opened the jar and smelt the unguent. The camphorous assault to my nostrils seemed a promising sign. I applied a small dab to the protuberance and felt nothing, so I scooped two fingerfuls and smothered the thing. When the ointment penetrated my skin, the sensation was so exquisitely painful I chewed through two knuckles to stop myself howling.
The Origin of Me Page 26
