Gift of the Gab

by Morris Gleitzman

  Has any kid in the history of the world had such a completely and totally top dad?

  No way.

  The rest of the day was perfect.

  Well, almost.

  Me and Dad and Claire cooked a fantastic dinner. Claire put chopped onion in the apple fritters and they tasted better than they ever have in my whole life.

  Claire was great the whole evening. It’s only her second anniversary of Mum, and these occasions can be pretty tough for a new wife.

  She handled it brilliantly, even when Dad got a bit carried away and went on about what a great talker Mum was. He told the story about the time he invented an apple-polishing machine and his dad’s pit bull terrier fell in and its face got polished so much it lost most of its fierce looks and Mum persuaded the local RSPCA officers not to prosecute Dad even though Grandad really wanted them to.

  ‘She won ’em over just with words,’ said Dad, misty-eyed. ‘Didn’t need to use beer or apple pies or anything, the Gab didn’t.’

  Mum’s family name was Gable before she was married, and because she was so good at stringing words together, Dad used to call her ‘the Gab’.

  ‘That must be where Ro gets being such a great talker from,’ said Claire, smiling at me. ‘The gift of the Gab!’

  That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me with their mouth. I’m making my pillow damp now, just thinking about it.

  I reckon Mum would be glad that Dad’s got a top person like Claire for a new wife. And a top baby like Erin for a new daughter. She’d reckon he deserves to be happy.

  And I agree with her.

  Which is why I’m so worried about the phone call this evening.

  Dad answered it, and when he’d hung up he turned to us, his face alarmed and a bit disbelieving like he’d just heard someone had invented a tractor that could fly.

  ‘That TV mob that was at the ceremony this morning,’ he said, ‘they want to film me tomorrow for their show.’

  Claire hugged him. She looked concerned too.

  ‘How do you feel about that?’ she said.

  Dad glanced at me. He must have noticed I was feeling anxious too.

  ‘OK,’ said Dad, ‘I s’pose.’ He frowned, then gave a sort of grin. ‘Perhaps I’ll get my own series.’

  Normally if he said something like that, Claire would tickle him till he begged for mercy. This time she just chewed her lip.

  I tried to look on the bright side.

  Sergeant Cleary must have given the TV people Dad’s name as a colourful local personality with a relative who died in World War One and good teeth.

  Which is fine except for one thing.

  Some people can feel really hurt if unkind things are said about them on national TV.

  Things like ‘one of the biggest ratbags in the district’.

  It was worse than I’d feared.

  I tried to keep them away.

  I got up really early and stuck a big sign on our front gatepost. ‘Danger,’ it said. ‘Root Weevil Plague. Keep Out.’

  They ignored it. Their van just roared up the driveway. Perhaps TV people aren’t very good at reading.

  By the time I got up to the house, they were already talking with Dad in the lounge­room.

  I pressed my ear to the door, trying to hear what they were saying. It was no good, I couldn’t catch a word. Erin was crying in her room and she’s loud enough to drown out tractors with holes in their mufflers.

  Then Claire hurried into Erin’s room and the crying stopped.

  I pressed my ear to the door again.

  ‘Cock-eyed,’ I heard Dad say. ‘Totally and completely cock-eyed.’

  Claire appeared, jiggling Erin.

  ‘Ro,’ she said. ‘Fair go. How’s a bloke meant to be his sparkling best in an interview when he’s being eavesdropped on?’

  I lifted my hands to protest, but Claire just grinned.

  ‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘you won’t miss anything. The minute they’ve gone he’ll be dancing around telling us everything he said.’

  I went outside and did some digging.

  Digging’s my best thing for stress. There’s something about shoving a spade into dirt that really takes your mind off tension and worries.

  I’m digging Erin a sandpit. It’s a surprise for when she’s old enough to hold a bucket. Up till today it hasn’t been a very big sandpit because I haven’t been stressed that much lately.

  It’s pretty big now, but.

  And I still couldn’t stop worrying.

  What had Dad meant by ‘cock-eyed’?

  Was he saying he’d rather be described as cock-eyed than a ratbag?

  Or had he just been telling his funny story about when he sang a country and western song at his uncle’s funeral and the congregation just stared at him cock-eyed, mostly because he was at the wrong funeral?

  The more I dug, the more I reckoned it was the funny story.

  Finally I heard the TV people drive off in their van.

  I raced indoors, grabbing my mouth-organ off the verandah in case Dad wanted some music played while he entertained us with the best bits of his interview.

  He didn’t.

  I could tell from the way he was sitting slumped forward. And from the way Claire had her arms round him and her head against his neck.

  My insides went splat like an over-ripe apple.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked.

  Dad had his face in his hands and Claire was staring at the floor, so they didn’t hear me.

  I knelt down in front of them.

  Claire jumped. She seemed alarmed to see me. She gave Dad an anxious nudge.

  ‘Didn’t the filming go well?’ I asked.

  ‘They didn’t do any filming,’ said Claire. ‘They want to do it later in the week.’

  ‘Eh?’ I said, using the special sign me and Dad have worked out for a stunned pit bull terrier staggering out of an apple-polishing machine. ‘Later in the week? But Anzac Day was yesterday. Why are they taking so long to do the segment?’

  ‘Turns out,’ said Dad quietly, ‘the sneaky mongrels didn’t come to town to film an Anzac Day segment. They came to film me.’

  I stared at Dad while I digested this.

  For a sec I hoped his distraught expression was just from the stress of being a star and wondering which belt buckle to wear.

  It wasn’t.

  ‘Or rather what I should say,’ said Dad angrily, ‘is that they came to film a heap of cock-eyed lies and nonsense.’

  He stood up and stormed out of the room.

  His bedroom door slammed.

  I started to go after him. Claire grabbed me.

  ‘Let me talk to him first,’ she said. ‘Please.’

  I didn’t take much persuading because I’ve got something even more important to do.

  I’m on my way to do it now.

  That’s one of the great things about talking with your hands. You can run all the way into town and then yell at someone straight away without having to catch your breath.

  How dare Paige Parker try and get a mean cruel comedy segment out of a great dad just cause he’s a bit eccentric.

  Anyway, why shouldn’t an apple farmer sing country and western songs? Country and western singers are allowed to have apple trees.

  Let’s see what Paige Cheese-Brain Parker has to say about that.

  I know where she’s staying.

  Posh TV people don’t stay in cheap motels or caravan parks, and there’s only one posh motel in town.

  I just wish it wasn’t Mrs Figgis’s.

  I thought I knew the worst thing that could happen at Mrs Figgis’s motel.

  I thought it was if Mrs Figgis caught me and made me hose out Dermot’s car.

  Boy, was I wrong.

  What happened was much worse than that.

  I was scared Mrs Figgis would be at reception, so I didn’t go there to ask which unit Paige Parker was in. Motel owners have to spend long hours at the reception desk in c
ase the guests try and steal the pens.

  As it turned out I didn’t need to ask. I guessed a TV star would be in the Honeymoon Suite cause it’s got a spa and a microwave.

  At least I was right about that.

  I crept across the carpark towards the Honeymoon Suite, ducking down behind the cars so I couldn’t be seen from the office.

  Suddenly a car door opened and almost bashed me in the head.

  A grown-up got out of the car.

  It was Mrs Figgis.

  ‘Rowena Batts,’ she said loudly.

  I froze, wishing there was a very deep sandpit nearby so I could bury myself.

  There wasn’t.

  ‘Um . . .’ I sr’ud. ‘Er . . .’

  My hands flapped helplessly.

  It’s really hard making excuses when the other person doesn’t understand sign and you can’t think of anything to say even if they did.

  ‘You poor kid,’ said Mrs Figgis. Except she didn’t sound very sympathetic. ‘I think what your father did to you is a disgrace.’

  I stared at her.

  What did she mean?

  ‘No wonder you do crazy things,’ said Mrs Figgis, glaring at me angrily. ‘I’d want to kill him if I was you.’

  I started to back away, wondering if the pressure of living alone with Dermot had made her go mental.

  ‘It’s OK,’ she said, ‘I know who you’re here to see. Go on, she’s in 23.’

  I hurried over to the Honeymoon Suite before Mrs Figgis snapped and attacked me with her shopping bag.

  Paige Parker opened the door while I was still bashing on it.

  Her face relaxed and she put her hand on my shoulder. ‘Rowena,’ she said, ‘what a nice surprise. Come in. Come in.’

  I went in.

  ‘Have a seat,’ said Paige Parker.

  I didn’t. I went over to the big mirror on the wall, picked up a lipstick from the clutter of makeup on the bench, and wrote in big letters on the glass, ‘LAY OFF MY DAD.’

  ‘Rowena,’ said Paige Parker, ‘we have to talk.’

  I glared at her. Nobody tells me to talk if I don’t want to.

  I tore a page out of my notebook and handed it to her. The writing wasn’t great because I’d done it while I was running into town, but she could still read it.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ it said. ‘Dad had an unhappy childhood. Now he’s a top dad. Don’t make fun of him.’

  Paige Parker gave a big sigh.

  On the TV next to her a video was playing. On the screen white mice were running around in cages. They were pretty weird mice. Some had no tails. Others didn’t have enough legs. She was probably planning to make fun of them next.

  ‘Rowena,’ said Paige Parker, ‘there’s something I have to tell you.’

  She sat on the settee and patted the cushion next to her.

  I stayed standing.

  ‘This isn’t going to be easy for you to hear,’ said Paige Parker softly, ‘but I sense you’re a person who would rather know the truth.’

  Suddenly the sound of her fake-friendly voice and the smell of her perfume was making me feel a bit queasy.

  What was she going to tell me?

  That Dad once got into a fight with Mr Cosgrove at a community service night and pushed his face into a bowl of avocado dip?

  That Dad once jumped up on stage at a Carla Tamworth concert and sang a song to me even though the whole crowd was chucking stuff at him?

  I knew that.

  I knew everything she could tell me about Dad.

  That’s what I thought.

  Boy, was I wrong.

  ‘Rowena,’ said Paige Parker in a soft voice, the sort of voice people use to speak to very little kids. ‘I’m not doing a story about eccentric dads. I’m doing a story about the chemical sprays that farmers use on their crops.’

  Suddenly I felt better. Dad’s an expert on sprays. He uses heaps. He’s always giving other farmers advice about them. He’d be perfect for a segment on sprays as long as he didn’t try and talk with his scarf over his mouth.

  That’s what I thought.

  ‘To be more exact,’ continued Paige Parker, ‘I’m doing a story on farmers who use sprays in a harmful way.’

  She pointed to the TV screen. The poor mice with bits missing were still scampering around.

  ‘These mice,’ said Paige Parker, ‘were all born with physical problems. All for the same reason. Before they were born their mothers were exposed to large amounts of chemical farm spray.’

  I stared at the TV, my head spinning. It was the most outrageous accusation I’d ever heard.

  ‘My dad’s never hurt mice,’ I said angrily. ‘We haven’t even got mice on our farm.’

  I could tell she didn’t understand me, but that didn’t stop her. She picked up a fat wad of photocopied pages and looked straight at me.

  ‘University tests,’ she said, ‘have shown that sprays can hurt people as well. If their mothers were exposed to lots of spraying, people can be born with physical problems too.’

  Suddenly I was feeling very queasy.

  ‘Your dad,’ she said, ‘does a lot of spraying.’

  Suddenly I couldn’t breathe.

  Then I realised what’s happened.

  This is Mrs Figgis’s revenge for what I did to Dermot’s car. She’s told the TV people a whole lot of made-up lies about Dad and sprays. She’s forged university documents. She’s found a video of mice who’ve been in car accidents. She’s made it look like it was Dad’s fault I was born with bits missing from my throat.

  I tried to explain all this to Paige Parker. I tried to explain that the doctors have always said that my throat was probably a genetic problem I got from Mum or Dad. I tried to explain that me and Dad had our yearly medical check-up only two months ago and the doctors said we were as fit as fleas.

  My hands were shaking so much with rage and indignation I could hardly write.

  Paige Parker made me sit down.

  She told me she’s got some other evidence. ‘Gold-plated’ was how she described it.

  I’m letting her show it to me.

  We’re driving there now in the TV van.

  I’m not worried, but.

  It’ll be as ridiculous as all the other stuff.

  But it’s important I see it. It’s important I see exactly what vicious hurtful lies Mrs Figgis and Paige Parker have cooked up between them so I can get Paige Parker sacked from her job and Mrs Figgis run out of town.

  I don’t want to think.

  I don’t want to remember what I’ve just seen.

  I just want to lie here under this tree and look up at the leaves. If I keep staring at the leaves, I won’t have to remember.

  It’s no good.

  I can’t get the pictures out of my mind.

  I’ve seen some pretty bad paddock damage in my time. From drought. And bushfire. And truck mud-racing. Once at school I saw a photo of what a war can do to an orchard. But I’ve never seen anything like what Paige Parker showed me today.

  When we got out of the TV van I just stared.

  It was a big paddock and once it would have had fruit trees.

  Now it’s just got rows of withered tree skeletons standing in a wasteland of dead grass.

  Not burnt.

  Not drought-affected.

  Not bombed.

  Just dead.

  ‘A few weeks ago,’ said Paige Parker, suddenly using her TV voice, ‘this was a normal healthy orchard. Then we had it sprayed.’

  ‘What with?’ I whispered.

  My hand-movements were so small she couldn’t have understood even if she’d known sign, but she must have seen in my face what I was asking.

  ‘We used a lot of different sprays,’ she said. ‘Including, for purposes of scientific research, sprays now on the danger list. Sprays that farmers were still using in this district up until about ten years ago.’

  I realised Paige Parker had paused, and was staring at me intently.

  �
�Farmers,’ she said, ‘including your father.’

  When I heard this, the tree skeletons started to wobble in front of my eyes and not just because I was standing in the sun.

  Then I had a thought.

  ‘How come,’ I wrote shakily on my notepad, ‘our orchard doesn’t look like this?’

  I held the notepad up so Paige Parker could read it.

  ‘Because,’ she said, ‘we used more chemicals than even the most enthusiastic farmer would use. We wanted to show viewers just what this stuff can do. So they can make up their own minds. About whether these chemical cocktails have the power to tragically ruin the lives of young Australians like you, Rowena.’

  I stared at the paddock. No fruit. No leaves. No birds. Not even any insects.

  I’ve seen Paige Parker do heaps of segments on TV.

  Her facts have always seemed pretty good to me. They’ve never looked to me like she’s cooked them up with a revenge-crazed motel proprietor.

  What if she hasn’t now?

  What if these ones are true?

  Suddenly I felt weak and had to hold on to the fence.

  Then I snatched my hands away in case they’d sprayed that too.

  Paige Parker put her hand on my shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry we had to show you this, Rowena,’ she said, not softly but loud as if she was speaking to several million people. ‘We felt you deserved to know the truth.’

  Even though my eyes were full of tears, I noticed the cameraman was filming me.

  If I could, I would have screamed ‘STOP!’ But I couldn’t, so I ran.

  I dashed across the road and jumped into a gully and sprinted along a dry creek bed so they couldn’t follow me in the van.

  I heard them running after me for a bit. Then the cameraman tripped over something, went sprawling and swore.

  ‘It’s OK, Mike,’ I heard Paige Parker say, ‘we’ve got enough.’

  I kept running for ages until I came to this tree.

  It’s a huge tree and it’s very green, but even several million leaves aren’t enough to distract me.

  My chest’s hurting.

  It’s hurting partly from the run and partly from the awful thought I’m having.

  The thought that if Paige Parker is right, and Dad did use too much spray before I was born, then he could have caused a terrible, terrible thing to happen.