I thought about Amanda at home with her angry Dad.
I thought about how her face would light up when she opened the door and saw me standing there.
Then I thought about my first day at school and how people with a temper like mine aren’t cut out to be community service projects because if we crack under the sympathy who knows what we might end up stuffing into someone’s mouth.
Squishy soap.
Smelly socks.
A frill-necked lizard.
‘You’re right, Dad,’ I said.
He nodded and reached into the fridge for a sarsaparilla.
‘But,’ I continued, ‘I’m still gunna do it.’
Dad grinned.
‘Good on you, Tonto,’ he said. ‘I knew you would.’
Like I said, apple farmers are really simple down-to-earth people.
‘I’ve never been to a community service night,’ continued Dad. ‘Hang on while I chuck a clean shirt on.’
My stomach sagged.
I hope they’re also the sort of people who keep promises about behaving themselves in public.
Amanda opened the door and when she saw me standing there, she just stared.
‘Can I get a lift to the community service evening with you?’ I asked. ‘Dad’s gone on ahead.’
Yes, I know, it was a bit theatrical. Runs in the family, I guess.
Amanda’s face lit up.
Mr Cosgrove’s did too.
Well, sort of.
He stopped scowling and by the time we arrived at the RSL club he’d even smiled at me and told me not to be nervous because everybody there would be very sympathetic.
They were.
Amanda took me around the crowded hall and introduced me to people.
‘This is Rowena Batts,’ she said. ‘She’s vocally disadvantaged but she’s coping very well.’
And everyone nodded very sympathetically.
Just before the fifth introduction I stuck a cocktail sausage up my nose to make it look as though I wasn’t coping very well, but the people still nodded sympathetically.
When Amanda saw the sausage she pulled it out and glanced anxiously over at her father, and when she saw he hadn’t seen it, she relaxed.
‘Ro,’ she giggled, ‘stop it.’
‘I will if you do,’ I said.
She frowned and thought about this, and then, because she’s basically a sensitive and intelligent and great person, she realised what I meant.
At the next introduction she just said, ‘This is Ro’, and I said g’day with my hands and left it to the people to work out for themselves whether I’m vocally disadvantaged or an airport runway worker.
Then I realised we’d been there ten minutes and I hadn’t even checked on Dad.
I looked anxiously around the hall for a ruckus, but Dad was over by the refreshments table yakking to an elderly lady. From his arm movements and the uncomfortable expression on her face I decided he was probably describing how codling moth caterpillars do their poos inside apples, but she might just have been finding his orange shirt a bit bright.
Amanda squeezed my arm and pointed to the stage.
Mr Cosgrove was at the microphone.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘welcome to the Progress Association’s first Community Service Night.’
I smiled to myself because his normally gruff voice had gone squeaky with nerves.
‘He’s vocally disadvantaged,’ I said to Amanda, ‘but he’s coping very well.’
Amanda didn’t smile.
I don’t think she understood all the signs.
Then I heard what Mr Cosgrove said next and suddenly I wasn’t smiling either.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘I’m going to ask each of our Helping Hands to bring their Community Service Projectee up onto the stage, and tell us a little about them, so that we, as a community as a whole, can help them to lead fuller and more rewarding lives. First I’d like to call on Miss Amanda Cosgrove.’
I stared at Amanda in horror.
She looked at me apologetically, then took my hand and led me up onto the stage.
Everyone applauded, except for one person who whistled. But then Dad never has grasped the concept of embarrassment.
I stood on the stage and a sea of faces looked up at me.
All sympathetic.
Except for Dad who was beaming with pride.
And except for the other Projects—a bloke with one arm, a young bloke in a wheelchair, an elderly lady with a humpy back, and a kid with callipers on her legs—who all looked as terrified as I felt.
Then a strange thing happened.
As Mr Cosgrove handed the microphone to Amanda and went down into the audience, my terror disappeared.
My guts relaxed and as I looked down at all the sympathetic faces I suddenly knew what I had to do.
I knew I had to do it even if it meant Amanda never spoke to me again.
Amanda coughed and spoke into the microphone in a tiny voice.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is Ro and I’d like to tell you a bit about her.’
I tapped her on the arm and she looked at me, startled.
‘I want to do it,’ I said.
I had to say it twice, but then she understood.
‘Um, Ro wants to tell you about herself,’ she said, looking worried.
I made my hand movements as big and slow as I could.
‘We’re not projects,’ I said, ‘we’re people.’
I looked at Amanda and I could tell she’d understood.
She gripped the microphone nervously.
I looked at her, my heart thumping, and I knew if she was a real friend she’d say it.
‘Ro says,’ said Amanda, and her voice started getting louder, ‘that she and the others aren’t projects, they’re people.’
There was absolute silence in the hall.
‘I’m just like all of you,’ I said. ‘An ordinary person with problems.’
‘Ro’s just like all of us,’ said Amanda. ‘An ordinary person with ditches.’
She looked at me, puzzled.
‘Problems,’ I repeated.
‘Problems,’ she said.
‘I’ve got problems making word sounds,’ I said, ‘perhaps you’ve got problems making a living, or a sponge cake, or number twos.’
Amanda said it all, even the bit about number twos.
The hall was still silent.
‘You can feel sympathy for me if you want,’ I continued, ‘and I can feel sympathy for you if I want. And I do feel sympathy for any of you who haven’t got a true friend.’
I looked over at Amanda.
As she repeated what I’d said, she looked at me, eyes shining.
We stood like that, grinning at each other, for what seemed like months.
Then everyone started clapping.
Well, almost everyone.
Two people were too busy to clap.
Too busy rolling on the floor, scattering the crowd, arms and legs tangled, brown suit and orange satin, rolling over and over, fists flying.
Dad and Mr Cosgrove.
I jumped down from the stage and pushed my way through the crowd.
People were shouting and screaming, and several of the men were pulling Dad and Mr Cosgrove away from each other.
By the time I got through, Dad was sitting on the edge of the refreshments table, gasping for breath, a red trickle running down his face.
I gasped myself when I saw it.
Then I saw the coleslaw in his hair and the piece of lettuce over one ear and I realised the trickle was beetroot juice.
Dad looked up and saw me and spat out what I hoped was a piece of coleslaw and not a tooth.
‘That mongrel’s not only a cheese-brain,’ he said, ‘he’s a rude bugger.’
He scowled across at Mr Cosgrove, who was leaning against the wall on the other side of the room. Various RSL officials were scraping avocado dip off his face and suit.
Amanda and Mrs Cosgrove w
ere there too.
I caught Amanda’s eye. She lifted her hands and rolled her eyes.
Parents.
Exactly.
‘He called you handicapped,’ said Dad. ‘I told him that was bull. I told him a person being handicapped means they can’t do something. I told him when it comes to yakking on you’re probably the biggest blabber mouth in Australia.’
‘Thanks, Dad,’ I said.
‘Then he called you spoiled,’ Dad went on, ‘so I let him have it with the avocado dip.’
Part of me wanted to hug Dad and part of me wanted to let him have it with the avocado dip.
Except it was too late, his shirt was covered in it.
I made a mental note to tell Dad avocado suited him. At least it wasn’t as bright as the orange.
I took one of my socks off and dipped it in the fruit punch and wiped some of the beetroot juice off his face.
‘Are you OK?’ I asked.
‘I’ll live,’ he said, ‘though I feel like I’ve been stabbed in the guts.’
I looked anxiously for knife wounds.
‘Belt buckle,’ explained Dad. ‘I don’t think it’s pierced the skin.’
He was wearing the skeleton on the Harley.
‘I’d better get cleaned up,’ said Dad. He looked down at himself and shook his head wearily. ‘I’ll never get coleslaw out of these boots,’ he said, and squelched off into the Gents.
I wrung my sock out and realised that about a hundred pairs of eyes were staring at me.
As I was one of the attractions of the evening I decided I should try and get things back to normal.
I picked up the bowl of avocado dip and a basket of Jatz and offered them around.
Nobody took any.
After a while I realised why.
In the avocado dip was the impression of Mr Cosgrove’s face.
It wasn’t a pretty sight.
Then I looked up and saw an even less pretty sight.
The real Mr Cosgrove’s face, red and furious, coming towards me.
Mrs Cosgrove and Amanda were trying to restrain him, but he kept on coming.
He stopped with his face so close to mine I could see the veins in his eyeballs and the coleslaw in his ears.
‘I don’t want your family anywhere near my family,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘and that includes you. Stay away from my daughter.’
He turned and grabbed Amanda and headed for the door.
Amanda gave me an anguished look as he pulled her away.
There’s a horrible sick feeling in the guts you get when something awful’s happening and you can’t do anything about it.
I got it the day Erin died.
I got it tonight, watching Amanda being dragged away.
Then I decided that tonight was different, because I could do something about it.
Or at least try to.
I ran round in front of Mr Cosgrove and stood between him and the door.
‘You’re not being fair,’ I said.
He stopped and glared at me.
I said it again.
Then I remembered he couldn’t understand hands.
I looked frantically around for a pen.
You can never find one when you need one.
I’d just decided to go and grab the bowl and write it on the floor in avocado dip, when Amanda spoke up.
‘You’re not being fair,’ she said.
Mr Cosgrove stopped glaring at me and glared at her.
‘Just because you and Dad can’t be friends,’ I said, ‘it doesn’t mean me and Amanda can’t be.’
Amanda was watching my hands closely.
‘Just because you and Mr Batts can’t be friends,’ she said to her father, ‘it doesn’t mean me and Ro can’t be.’
Mr Cosgrove opened his mouth to say something angry to Amanda, but before he could speak, Mr Ricards from the hardware store did.
‘She’s got a point, Doug,’ he said. ‘It’s like Australia and New Zealand and Tasmania and Stewart Island.’
Mr Cosgrove glared at him.
The other people standing nearby looked at each other, confused.
Me and Amanda and Mrs Cosgrove weren’t sure what he was on about either.
‘It’s like Homer and Ned and Bart and Tod,’ said Mr Ricards. ‘In “The Simpsons”.’
The other people nodded.
It was a good point.
Mr Cosgrove obviously didn’t agree, because he glared at Mr Ricards again, and then at me.
‘Stay away from her,’ he ordered, and stormed out.
‘Mum,’ said Amanda, close to tears, ‘it’s not fair.’
‘Don’t worry love,’ said Mrs Cosgrove, ‘he’ll probably calm down in a few days.’
She turned to me.
‘I don’t blame you love,’ she said, ‘but something has to be done about that father of yours.’
She steered Amanda towards the door.
‘It’s tragic,’ Mrs Cosgrove said to the people around her as she went. ‘That poor kid’s got two afflictions and I don’t know which is the worst.’
Me and Amanda waved an unhappy goodbye.
I tried to cheer myself up by thinking that at least I’d be able to see her at school. Unless Mr Cosgrove moved the whole family to Darwin. Or Norway. I didn’t think that was likely, not after he’d spent so many years building up the menswear shop.
After a bit Dad came out of the Gents carrying his boots.
‘Come on, Tonto,’ he said, ‘let’s go. I need to get a hose into these.’
As we headed towards the door I saw how everyone was looking at Dad.
As if they agreed with Mrs Cosgrove.
That he is an affliction.
I felt terrible for him.
We didn’t say anything in the truck on the way home because it was dark.
When we got here Dad made a cup of tea, but I wasn’t really in the mood, so I came to bed.
Dad’s just been in to say goodnight.
He looked pretty depressed.
I thanked him again for standing up for me and offered to buy him a new pair of boots for Christmas.
He still looked pretty depressed.
I don’t blame him.
How’s a bloke meant to have a decent social life when everybody thinks he’s an affliction?
Amanda’s Mum’s right about one thing.
Something will have to be done.
For his sake as well as mine.
I woke up early and was just about to roll over and go back to sleep when I remembered I had some serious thinking to do.
So I did it.
How, I thought, can I get it across to Dad that he’s his own worst enemy, including weeds, mites, fungi, mould and mildews?
I could just go up to him and say, ‘Dad, you’re making both our lives a misery, pull your head in’.
But parents don’t listen to their kids.
Not really.
They try. They nod and go ‘Fair dinkum?’ and ‘Jeez, is that right?’ but you can see in their eyes that what they’re really thinking is ‘Has she cleaned her teeth?’ or ‘I wonder if I switched off the electric curlers in the tractor?’
Who, I thought, would Dad really listen to?
That’s when I decided to write him a letter.
A letter from Carla Tamworth.
It’s the obvious choice.
He worships every song she’s ever written.
He’s always sending her fan letters and pretending he doesn’t mind that she never replies.
He’ll be ecstatic to finally get one.
He’ll frame it.
He’ll read it a hundred times a day.
I grabbed my pen and notepad.
‘Dear Kenny’, I wrote. ‘Thanks for all the fan letters. Sorry I haven’t replied earlier but one of my backup singers has been having heaps of trouble with skin rashes and I’ve had to take him to the doctor a lot. The doctor’s just discovered that the rashes were caused by brightly-colo
ured satin shirts, so if you’ve got any, I’d get rid of them. The whole band are wearing white cotton and polyester ones with ties now and they look very nice. By the way, it’s come to my attention that both you and your daughter are having problems because of your loud behaviour. In the words of my song “Tears In Your Carwash”, pull your head in. Yours sincerely, Carla Tamworth. PS. Sorry I couldn’t send a photo, the dog chewed them all up.’
It’s a pretty good letter even though I say it myself.
I’ll have to type it though, or he’ll recognise my writing.
Amanda’s got a typewriter.
And it’s Saturday morning so her Dad’ll be in the shop.
And when we’ve typed it I’ll copy Carla’s signature off one of her record covers and post it to Dad and make sure I collect the mail next week so I can smudge the postmark.
I’ve never forged anything before. I feel strange.
But it’s OK if there’s an important reason for doing it, eh?
I hope so.
I wonder if fate’ll punish me?
For a minute I thought fate was punishing me straightaway.
I went out to the kitchen with the letter under my T-shirt to tell Dad I was just popping over to Amanda’s for a bit, but he wasn’t there.
Then I heard his voice out on the verandah.
And someone else’s voice.
Ms Dunning’s.
I panicked and stuffed the letter in a cupboard behind some old bottles.
Ms Dunning’s got X-ray vision when it comes to things under T-shirts. Darryn Peck had Mr Fowler’s front numberplate under his on Thursday and she spotted it from the other side of the classroom.
Then I panicked for another reason.
It had suddenly occurred to me what she was doing here.
Word must have got around about the fight last night and Mr Fowler must have sent her over to tell us that the Parents and Teachers Committee had discussed the matter this morning while they
were making kebabs for the barbie and I was banned from the school.
I felt sick.
I had a horrible vision of being sent away to another school and having to sneak out at night to try and see Amanda and hitchhiking in the rain and being run over by a truck.
Ms Dunning gave a loud laugh out on the verandah.
Blabber Mouth Page 5
