A Morris Gleitzman Collection

by Morris Gleitzman

  Keith glanced at his watch.

  Six minutes past six.

  Where were they?

  Perhaps they were still at the shop arguing and they hadn’t noticed the time.

  Keith tried to force that awful thought out of his mind.

  He still hadn’t managed to when Mum and Dad came round the corner.

  Keith took a deep breath.

  ‘Happy wedding anniversary,’ he shouted, squinting into the camera.

  He wanted to get their faces the moment they broke into huge glowing grins.

  Through the viewfinder he could see them moving towards him, eyes wide and mouths open.

  Come on, thought Keith, let’s have the delighted smiles.

  ‘Happy wedding anniversary,’ he shouted again.

  Mum and Dad were very close now, eyes still wide and mouths still open.

  Come on, thought Keith, smile or you’ll be out of focus.

  He pressed the button anyway, just as Mum started to cry.

  After Dad had taken Mum into the house, Keith stared at the car for a long while, trying to think.

  Why hadn’t they said anything about the paint job?

  Because they hadn’t needed to, probably. Tears from Mum and a mouth drooping almost to the ground from Dad had said it all.

  They didn’t like it.

  Keith felt his eyes getting hot.

  Pull yourself together, he thought. Be positive. Why don’t they like it?

  The colours?

  The unpainted bumper bars?

  The fact that I only put one ‘n’ in ‘anniversary’?

  No problem, he said to himself.

  If they’re worried about my spelling I’ll do extra homework.

  If they’re upset about the bumper bars I’ll paint them.

  If they don’t like Tropical Parrot and Hot Sunflower I’ll have the whole car another colour by tomorrow night. Off-white if they want.

  Suddenly he felt much better.

  Trust Mum and Dad to make a big drama out of such a simple problem, whichever one it was.

  Keith went into the house, working out how many kids he’d have to borrow a dollar from to buy two litres of off-white paint.

  Mum and Dad were in their bedroom, talking.

  Keith didn’t mean to listen, but their voices came clearly through the thin wall.

  ‘We can’t carry on like this,’ said Mum’s voice tearfully.

  ‘What about Keith?’ said Dad’s voice.

  Keith was shocked. Dad’s voice sounded like he’d been crying too.

  ‘Plenty of kids’ parents split up,’ said Mum’s shaking voice, ‘it’s not the end of the world.’

  Keith stood in the narrow, hot hallway and the blood pounded in his ears so loudly that he thought for a few seconds another cyclone had hit.

  Then he ran out of the house.

  3

  Keith didn’t stop running till he got to the beach. He threw himself down on the sand under a palm tree and squeezed his eyes shut.

  He wished he could open them and find himself back in England—even somewhere boring like Watford or Lancashire—just so long as things were back to normal and there was a fish-and-chip shop with Mum and Dad in it with only slightly miserable faces, together, as usual.

  Or France. Or Russia.

  Anywhere, he thought bitterly, except this poxy so-called tropical paradise.

  He stared up at the sunset. The sky was rippled with pink and orange and purple. It looked like the time Ryan Garner pinched nine packets of lollies and threw up on the monkey bars.

  The darkening air was loud with the screech of insects. Cicadas being negative. Mosquitoes being defeatist. Grasshoppers lying to their kids about the state of their marriage.

  Keith felt hot tears.

  ‘Shut up,’ he shouted at the grasshoppers.

  He took a deep breath. The tropical evening smells made him feel sick. He could smell rotting fruit and squashed cane toads and poisonous flowers that paralysed their victims with squirts of rancid liquid. Probably their kids too.

  For the hundredth time since running out of the house he tried to think of something else that Mum could have been saying.

  Something other than split up.

  He couldn’t.

  He stared at the ocean. The waves were pink and frothy and looked like toothpaste that had been spat out by someone with a bleeding gum.

  He thought about what was probably going on under the water. Stonefish not talking to each other. Pufferfish having arguments and getting migraines. Killer jellyfish splitting up and emotionally neglecting their kids.

  The hot tears wouldn’t stop.

  I wish, thought Keith, I’d never brought Mum and Dad to this poxy, stinking, rat-hole of a dump.

  They were OK in England. Misery guts, yes, but a holiday would have fixed that.

  Wait a sec.

  A holiday.

  Suddenly his mind was racing.

  He tried to remember the last time Mum and Dad had been on holiday.

  Five years ago?

  Ten?

  Being in this dump didn’t count. All they were doing here was what they used to do in England—slaving over a fryer and a bowl of batter and being miserable.

  Except here it was worse because they were in a poxy, overheated, so-called tropical paradise.

  No wonder they were getting irritable and stressed and imagining they didn’t want to be together any more.

  A holiday, that’s what they needed.

  Keith scrambled to his feet, tears gone, heart pounding with excitement.

  He needed some holiday details fast and he knew just where to get them.

  ‘There you go,’ said Tracy. ‘Take your pick.’

  She dropped the last bundle of brochures onto her bed.

  Keith stared.

  There were thousands.

  He’d seen bits of Tracy’s travel brochure collection before, but never the whole lot at once.

  ‘OK,’ said Tracy, ‘this bundle is adventure holidays, this one is mountain ranges, this is old cities, this is modern cities, this is campsites with views, this is campsites without views, this is relics of ancient civilizations, this is cruises, this is traditional villages in remote valleys untouched by the modern world, this is places that are flat but interesting, and this is tropical paradises, except you probably won’t want that one.’

  Dead right, thought Keith as he dropped to his knees and grabbed the first bundle.

  A thought hit him. Probably better to stick to this end of the world. That way Mum and Dad won’t feel they’ve wasted their money coming all the way down here.

  He told Tracy this and she explained that the Australia and New Zealand brochures were at the back of each bundle.

  He started pulling out brochures.

  ‘You’re sure she said split up?’ asked Tracy, kneeling down next to him. ‘Mr Gambaso in the milk bar sold my dad a hamburger once with a bit of bone in it and dad broke a filling and said he’d kill him. I was on the roof chasing cane toads and I freaked and hid his fish-gutting knife. Turned out he’d said he’d bill him.’

  ‘Mum said it,’ replied Keith, ‘but she didn’t mean it. She’s under stress.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ said Tracy. ‘I told my mum I was gunna be a nun once just cause she wouldn’t let me watch Bugs Bunny.’

  Keith moved on to the next bundle.

  ‘If they do split up,’ said Tracy, ‘which one’ll you live with?’

  Sometimes, thought Keith, even mates say the wrong thing.

  ‘Or is that why you want the brochures,’ continued Tracy, ‘so you can choose the one who’s planning to take the most interesting holidays? I’d pick the one who wants to go to Venice. I’d eat bricks to go to Venice. Or Peru. Or Melbourne.’

  She slumped back against the bed and stared dreamily at a poster of the Victorian Arts Centre on the wall.

  ‘Melbourne sounds great,’ she said. ‘Anywhere sounds great when you’ve
never been further than Proserpine.’

  Before Keith could explain that the brochures were for a second honeymoon for Mum and Dad so they could rediscover how deeply in love they were and never think about splitting up ever again, Tracy’s mum came in with two cans of lemonade.

  ‘Tracy earbashing you about her travel dreams, is she?’ grinned Tracy’s mum to Keith. She winked at Tracy.

  ‘If you and Dad split up,’ said Tracy, ‘I’d pick Dad cause at least he’d go to Venice for the fishing.’

  Keith nearly choked on a mouthful of lemonade. He wished Tracy would change the subject.

  ‘I want to travel,’ said Tracy’s mum indignantly ‘When we’ve got a new roof and had the house restumped and saved up for an air conditioner for the lounge, I’ll be off for a week in Proserpine like a shot.’

  ‘Rack off, you boring old chook,’ said Tracy. Even though she and her mum were both grinning, Keith was shocked.

  Dad called out the moment Keith stepped in through the fly-screen door.

  ‘Keith, in here.’

  Mum and Dad were in the lounge, Mum on the settee next to the fan and Dad standing in the corner.

  ‘Keith,’ said Dad, ‘we’re very angry about the car.’

  Keith looked at them.

  They didn’t look angry, they looked sad.

  Mum’s eyes were red and she’d rolled the TV guide into a tight tube and was gripping it with both hands. Her forehead was more corrugated than the dirt road out to Meninga.

  Both corners of Dad’s mouth were pointing to the floor and so were both his shoulders.

  ‘We’re very angry and disappointed,’ said Dad.

  ‘Is it the colours or the bumper bars or the spelling?’ asked Keith in a small voice.

  Dad’s eyebrows went lower and now he did look angry.

  ‘It’s because you didn’t discuss it with us first,’ he said, his voice suddenly louder.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Keith miserably, ‘I wanted to surprise you.’

  ‘We know you did, love,’ said Mum, ’ and it was a lovely thought, but you should have talked to us about it first.’

  ‘I can fix it up,’ said Keith. ‘If it’s the Tropical Parrot and Hot Sunflower you don’t like, I can fix that. Have a look at these, and I’ll have it repainted any colour you like by the time you get back.’

  He thrust a wad of holiday brochures at each of them.

  ‘There’s a great motel in Hobart,’ he said as Mum and Dad stared at the brochures. ‘It’s on a hill and at this time of the year the winds down there have already started. It’ll be freezing. You’ll love it.’

  Now they were both staring at him, mouths open.

  ‘How about Adelaide?’ said Keith. ‘The Barossa Valley’s great for bushwalks and crosswords and they get heaps of rain at this time of year.’

  Dad stared at the brochures again and then at Keith again. ‘For God’s sake,’ he said, ‘we can’t think about holidays, we’ve got a shop to run.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Keith, ‘I’ve worked it out. I’ll take a couple of weeks off school and Tracy can help during the tea-time rush. She knows her way round a fish from going snorkelling with her dad. And Gino Morelli can help too, his dad used to run the aquarium in . . .’

  ‘Keith,’ Dad broke in, ‘we are not going on any holiday.’

  ‘It’s a nice idea,’ said Mum, ‘but it’s just not possible.’

  ‘You’ve got to,’ said Keith. ‘How about a hang-gliding holiday in New Zealand? You go up to the snowfields in a helicopter and you can bungy-jump too if you want.’

  ‘We are not,’ thundered Dad, ‘going on holiday.’

  ‘But you’ve got to,’ pleaded Keith.

  ‘Why have we?’ asked Mum.

  Keith took a deep breath. He had to say it.

  ‘So you can stop talking about splitting up.’

  There was a long silence.

  Mum and Dad exchanged a look.

  Keith’s insides felt like they were in a spin-dryer.

  Then Dad stepped forward and put his hands on Keith’s shoulders and spoke slowly and softly.

  ‘If you’ve heard us saying anything about splitting up, it’s not what you think. We’ve been talking about splitting up in the shop, that’s all.’

  There was another long silence.

  Keith struggled to work out what Dad meant, but his head felt like it was full of uncooked batter.

  ‘What Dad’s saying,’ said Mum softly, ‘is that the shop isn’t making enough money so we’ve been talking about me getting a job outside the shop.’

  Keith stared at her.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Dad. ‘Me and Mum don’t like the idea, but the shop just isn’t pulling in the trade, what with the new resort, and the new snack bar in the pub.’

  ‘We should have told you,’ said Mum, ‘but we were worried about how you’d feel because we know how much you like us working together.’

  Suddenly Keith felt weak with relief. It was like having ninety kilos of ungutted cod lifted from his shoulders.

  All the long faces and headaches and arguments and corrugated foreheads and droopy mouths hadn’t been because anyone had stopped loving anyone.

  They’d been because of a totally different problem.

  A much easier one to solve.

  Money.

  4

  Keith put the coins into the slot and dialled.

  ‘G’day,’ said the wholesaler on the other end of the phone.

  ‘This is Keith Shipley from the Paradise Fish Bar in Orchid Cove,’ said Keith, ‘and I’m in a phone box so I can’t talk for long.’

  ‘Do you want to place an order?’ asked the wholesaler.

  ‘No,’ said Keith, ‘I want to ask a favour.’

  ‘I’m listening,’ said the wholesaler.

  ‘Well,’ said Keith, ‘our shop’s operating in a pretty cut-throat business environment up here at the moment what with the new resort up the road and the new snack bar in the pub and it’s really hard to make enough profit which is putting a serious strain on Mum and Dad plus we’re living in a small house with really thin walls so they can’t even have sex that much so I was wondering if you could lower the price of your flour and oil a bit.’

  There was a long pause at the other end.

  ‘Is this a joke?’ asked the wholesaler finally.

  Don’t be ridiculous, thought Keith. How could it be a joke? It’s not even funny.

  ‘It’s an emergency,’ said Keith, ‘honest.’

  ‘Look,’ said the wholesaler, ‘I’m operating in a pretty cut-throat business environment down here too. How would you like it if I rang you up at eight o’clock in the morning and went on about my financial problems?’

  ‘You did,’ said Keith. ‘Last month.’

  ‘Do your parents know you’re doing this?’ asked the wholesaler crossly.

  ‘Sorry to bother you,’ said Keith, and hung up.

  He looked at the piece of paper with the phone numbers on it that he’d borrowed from the wall in the shop, and dialled again.

  The potato distributor was even grumpier than the flour and oil wholesaler.

  ‘Get nicked,’ he said. ‘Who do you think I am—Santa Claus?’

  No chance of that, thought Keith, the only thing you’ve got in common with Santa Claus is a big bum.

  He told the potato distributor that even a small price-cut would help and that he himself had slashed his charge for peeling potatoes from five cents a potato to two cents, and the only reason he was charging Mum and Dad anything was that he had a car to repaint.

  The potato wholesaler hung up.

  Keith decided to try a different approach with the fish co-op.

  At first it worked well.

  Keith explained what he had in mind and the fish co-op man at the other end listened patiently even though Keith could hear people in the background yelling something about getting a move on and shifting some squid.

  But when Keith had fi
nished, the co-op man wasn’t much help either. He explained that there wasn’t any point in Keith getting up at three in the morning and coming down to the coop with Tracy’s dad’s fish-gutting knife as all the fish were gutted on the boat. And anyway the co-op weren’t allowed to give their fish-gutters cut-price fish as all the catch had to be sold at auction.

  Keith asked if there was anything at the fish co-op that needed a paint job.

  The man said ’fraid not.

  Keith thanked him and hung up.

  He felt panic bubbling up inside him.

  It wasn’t working.

  Calm down, he told himself. Stop being a worry wart.

  He took another deep breath.

  It was time to tackle the problem face to face.

  Keith found the pub owner in the bottle department, hosing down the drive-through section.

  ‘G’day young fella,’ said the pub owner, hitching up his pyjama shorts, ‘you’ve come to replace the compressor in my coolroom, have you?’

  Keith remembered that the pub owner was famous throughout Orchid Cove for his sense of humour, which included putting blackcurrant syrup in blokes’ beers when they weren’t looking.

  ‘I want to ask you a favour,’ said Keith.

  ‘Fire away,’ said the pub owner.

  Keith explained how it would really improve the quality of Mum and Dad’s lives if the pub owner could leave fish and chips off the menu in his new snack bar and replace them with liver and onions, say, or rissoles.

  The pub owner laughed so hard he hosed himself on the leg.

  What’s so funny? thought Keith. I didn’t mention blackcurrant syrup.

  ‘Nice try, young fella,’ said the pub owner. ‘If you’re passing the new resort could you drop in and tell them how much they’d improve the quality of my life if they’d stop selling beer. Replace it with tea, say, or flavoured milk.’

  He started laughing again.

  As Keith walked away he noticed the girder with the off-white paint on it where Mum had hit it with the car door.

  Keith wished she’d hit it harder.

  The foyer of the new resort was as big as a soccer pitch and the carpet smelled like underarm deodorant.