by Tim Winton
After half an hour Lockie just sat back and watched her. She was muscly and mobile and she had perfect wave judgement. She surfed like a total natural, for herself, as if no one else in the world existed. He had to admit it; she was even better than him and he was . . . well, excellent.
‘You surf good,’ he said as she paddled past, yet again.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
Then her smooth tanned face split in a smile. Her teeth were white and even her eyes were beautiful. It was a killer smile. It was like a bomb going off. He felt all busted up and confused inside. He wasn’t ready for this. His heart was still hanging together with sticky-tape after Vicki Streeton and all along he knew that after Vicki anyone else would be second best. Lockie just sat there shuddering in the water like a stunned mullet. No. It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t right. That girl paddled off back to business and Lockie Leonard, for the second time in his life, felt himself dragged kicking and screaming into the twilight zone. Aaarrrrghhh! It couldn’t be true. But it was. He was barking-mad, brain-dead leglessly in love.
hat night Lockie ran a bath so deep it was Jacques Cousteau material and the bathroom fogged up like a scene from a detective movie. Moisture ran down the walls. Rats and cockroaches gave up and moved back to the swamp. Lockie rubbed a clear spot in the mirror and looked at himself. Yes, that was the face of a man in trouble. His lonely single banger had moved up into his left nostril, probably in shame.
Lockie climbed into the barbarically hot water and tried to scrub the awful glow of love off himself. He used his mum’s meanest floor-brush and a bottle of Vim and went at it till he looked like a prawn.
He didn’t want any trouble.
Especially not when he’d just found a best mate, a truly best mate.
Besides, his poor, beat-up heart still had Vicki Streeton written all over it in fading red letters.
No, too complicated.
Bad timing.
Nope. Not again. No romance.
Please?
Lockie scrubbed and rubbed. He poked and soaked. He held his breath and lay under the scalding water, refusing to let himself up till he got a grip and changed his ways. But it was no use. He came up gasping and still the sinking torpedo he was.
He stayed so long in the bathroom his parents started to get suspicious and the Sarge called out that he might go blind. There was a lot of laughing out there. He concentrated on shaking this business off. But when he climbed out of that great stewing tub to look at himself in the mirror again, he saw that he was a complete goner.
Towelling himself off, he thought of that smile, that perky set of speedos, that head of hair, that . . . that girl. Hell, Vicki dumped him, didn’t she? She was no lump of perfection. Dropped him before an audience of millions, in front of the whole world. And there at the beach today was this hot grommet smiling at him till he thought his very buns would burst. So where was the problem?
Lockie Leonard came out of that bathroom glowing and steaming like he’d just stepped out of love’s very own microwave.
gg and Lockie decided they had to start somewhere, so they wrote up some handbills for a letter drop and Egg photocopied a thousand of them and blew up his dad’s Xerox machine. Actually, it belonged to the church and didn’t help things for Rev Eggleston that week.
SAVE OUR HARBOUR!
Angelus Harbour, one of the most
excellent natural harbours in
Australia, is poisoned and polluted.
Two years ago the EPA demanded a
clean-up but NOTHING HAS BEEN DONE.
Mussels, crabs, and fish are
poisonous! Our harbour is dangerous!
Our town stinks! Public meeting at
7.30pm, 22 December, 5 Drain Street.
Be there or be a mutant!
Egg hauled them to Lockie’s on his kayak trailer, his ears still ringing. Funny how parents could hurt your ears. Heavy metal never did that.
Lockie lay on his bed with an expression that reminded Egg of a garden gnome.
‘What’s up with you?’
‘Hm?’
‘Lockie? Are you conscious? Are you alive?’
Lockie nodded vaguely. A person in love is a sad sight. They give garden gnomes a bad name.
‘I’ve got the handbills.’
‘Great.’
‘Great? I nearly got kicked out of house and home! What’s the matter with you?’
Lockie just lay on his bed looking at the ceiling. It was disgusting to watch.
‘Are you taking diet pills or something?’
Lockie blinked.
Egg grabbed him by the ears and shook him till his brain rattled like dice in a cup.
‘Earth to Lockie!’
‘Sorry. What were you saying?’
Mrs Leonard came in and stood at the doorway.
‘I’ve seen him like this before. He’s met a girl.’
‘How depressing,’ said Egg.
‘Hm?’ said Lockie.
‘Tomorrow is on pause, I think.’
Out on the streets of Angelus they weaved and wobbled on their bikes, stuffing letterboxes with their handbills. They were chased by dogs and shouted at by suspicious old people, almost flattened by trucks. The awful glow faded on him as the day went on, but his mind was never really on the job. In the main street he put his front wheel down a storm grate and lost two hundred handbills in one white cloudburst that he chased around the streets for half an hour. He copped endless lip from Wacker Newman and Rudi Dudah from his English class. Word was out on him and Egg. Lockie was a traitor, they said. He ignored them best he could, but it hurt getting ragged by second-rate surfers.
Mrs Leonard pushed Blob around the neighbourhood in the pram and Phillip helped her give out four hundred until he got his hand caught in the spring-loaded mouth of a letterbox which the Fire Brigade had to saw open with the Jaws of Life.
At John East’s house Lockie and Egg hacked their way through the rolling savannah grasslands, the vast romantic prairie of his front yard to bang on the door and give him fifty or so to hand out to teachers and neighbours. But for all their knocking they couldn’t raise him so they left them there and did the full Burke and Wills back to the street.
Lockie gave a handbill to the grumpy owner of the milkbar who called him a communist and a trouble maker and several things that made his hair stand on end but he enjoyed the experience anyway.
At the end of the day everybody was sore and fed up but glad to have got the job done. Egg went home to face the music from his dad, and Lockie soaked his saddlesore bum in another hot bath.
Mrs Leonard came in and Lockie grabbed a flannel and camouflaged himself.
‘Getting shy are we?’ she said with a grin.
‘No, I was just reaching for the flannel and dropped it as – ’
‘Calm down, it’s normal enough. You’re in the bathroom a lot, these days. You’re going through puberty, Lockie.’
‘Mum – ’
‘Every boy and girl – ’
‘Mum – ’
‘Begins to feel their body change – ’
‘Mum!’
Lockie wished he could duck dive down the plughole. Couldn’t she leave puberty alone for five minutes?
‘He’d rather not talk about puberty right now, Mum,’ said Phillip, coming in behind her to show off his flash bandage. ‘Anyway, what’s puberty?’
‘Phillip!’ Lockie wailed. ‘Don’t start her off again!’
‘Lockie’s embarrassed by his changing body.’
‘Looks the same to me,’ said Phillip.
‘Phillip, go and check on Blob. She’s probably eating something.’
‘Yeah, the sofa maybe,’ Phillip said heading out.
Lockie lay back in the bath. ‘Anyway, thanks for helping, Mum. It was great.’
‘No problem,’ she murmured. ‘I just hope we can cope with all the people tomorrow night. Your father’s going to have a fit.’
‘Haven’t you told
him?’
‘Well, put it this way: he’s not in possession of all the facts.’
‘Funny, you know. I thought he’d be right behind us.’
‘He’s in a really awkward position, Lockie. Try to understand. Anyway, what are you going to say to this crowd tomorrow night?’
‘Egg said we should wait for inspiration. His dad’s a minister, you know.’
‘That’s what I’d call flying by the seat of your pants.’
‘Don’t remind me. The seat of my pants has got blisters.’
‘Want me to take a look?’
‘Mum, has a chicken got lips?’
ll Friday afternoon Lockie and Egg paced, waiting for inspiration, but all they got was perspiration and sore feet. They carried chairs two at a time from the church hall down the hill to Lockie’s place until Egg’s dad hit the roof and went into a mental meltdown. They arranged the loungeroom at Lockie’s so that forty people could squeeze in and have their feet gnawed and slobbered on by Blob.
Phillip and Mrs Leonard made chocolate crackles and lamingtons and the kitchen slowly turned brown.
The only meeting Lockie had ever spoken at was the night he’d been thrown out of the Angelus Surfriders’ Club of which he was the president. It wasn’t much of a speech and it wasn’t much of a club and it was a shambles of a meeting. Lockie started to shake at four o’clock in the afternoon.
‘Calm down,’ said Egg. ‘It’s just a group of people.’
‘What if we get hecklers?’
‘Hecklers, jecklers, who cares?’
‘Why don’t you do the talking? You’re older.’
‘More people know you,’ said Egg. ‘You went out with Vicki Streeton once, remember.’
‘I don’t wanna put me dad in an awkward position.’
‘Fair go, Lockie! I almost got my old man the sack! I even knocked off the church urn for all the cups of tea!’
Egg had him there. It was down to Lockie.
By six o’clock he could hear his heart beating in his ears. It sounded like Phil Collins on steroids.
At six-thirty he got a dose of Kalahari mouth. He couldn’t get up enough spit to swallow water.
Six forty-five he got a bad case of the trots and wouldn’t come out of the toilet till seven-fifteen.
At seven-fifteen Phillip got the trots but it was probably all the cocoa from the chocolate crackles he’d eaten, so Lockie was hooked out and replaced.
By seven-thirty they were reeling and quaking at the front door. Egg’s face glowed. Lockie’s teeth chattered.
They were still there at eight. And at eight-thirty.
At nine they turned the urn off. At nine-thirty they silently stacked the chairs and the Sarge came home off his shift.
‘Ah, musical chairs,’ he said. ‘My favourite!’
alf the morning Lockie lay in bed feeling outraged, ashamed and depressed, until Egg came round and hooked him out.
‘C’mon, get dressed.’
‘I am dressed. Where are you going?’
‘We are going to have it out with someone.’
‘John East.’
‘You’re a genius, Leonard. Geez, brush your teeth, willya? You smell like you been gargling the harbour.’
As they headed for the door, Mrs Leonard called: ‘Aren’t you going to have something to eat? You can’t start the day on an empty stomach, you know – ’ But they were gone before she got a reply.
As he rode alongside Egg, Lockie looked at the houses of the town. Today they all looked closed-up and sleepy. People’s cars looked stupid and shiny, their lawns suddenly ridiculous in their smoothness.
‘I hate this town.’
‘It’s just a normal town,’ said Egg.
‘I can’t believe no one came.’
‘Bit of a disaster, eh.’
‘We gotta do something.’
‘We keep saying that, Lockie. Who’s gonna listen to two kids?’
Lockie gritted his teeth. He never felt so mad.
At John East’s house they nearly beat the door down. Lockie was sweaty and revved up by now; he was ready to go for the throat. When the door finally opened, his mouth was already in fifth gear.
‘So where were you then, eh? Where did you . . . ’
Lockie’s voice trailed off as he saw who it was opening the door. She wore a Hot Tuna tee-shirt with the sleeves cut out and a pair of boardshorts. Her hair was half wet and Lockie could smell shampoo and conditioner. Her brown skin shone like wood. Her eyes were blue and she looked ready to punch someone’s head in.
‘You? You!’ said Lockie with his jaw sinking so low he had to slouch to make words.
The girl looked at him as if he’d just had his legs waxed and his head sawn off. His heart went into a meltdown; he heard sirens and horns, and red flashing lights went off in front of his eyes.
‘Do I know you?’ she said, looking doubtfully at him.
‘The beach,’ said Lockie. ‘The other day.’
She shrugged. ‘John! There’s a couple of . . . blokes here to see you, I think.’
Egg looked at Lockie and tried to wake him up a bit, but Lockie was glowing like a nuclear beetroot.
‘You don’t remember, then?’ said Lockie.
The girl looked at him again, up and down. Wrinkled shorts and shirt, chewed old thongs, his hair wild and greasy. ‘Oh, yeah. You got pounded. I remember. Here’s John.’
John East came to the door with a mug of coffee in his hand.
‘Ah, it’s Tomorrow and the Day After.’
‘We’re more interested in last night,’ said Egg, ‘You didn’t come.’
‘As you can see, my friends arrived.’
‘You didn’t come,’ said Lockie watching the girl walk back down the hall to the kitchen.
‘How did your meeting go, anyway?’
‘No one came,’ said Lockie.
‘But thanks for asking,’ said Egg, turning to go.
‘Stay for a cuppa.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Egg, stepping off the verandah.
‘A cuppa’d be great,’ said Lockie.
‘What?’ said Egg in disbelief.
‘I could really go a cuppa,’ said Lockie.
‘Right, then, I’ll put the kettle back on.’
Egg scowled at Lockie all the way down the hall. Lockie had that garden gnome look back in his face. It was not a dignified sight.
The kitchen was a mess of dishes and newspapers and bits of bread crust and at the table sat a man and a woman. The bloke was thin and going a bit grey; he had a friendly enough face and looked like he’d just crawled out of bed. The woman was like a grown-up version of surfer-girl: honey-coloured hair, smooth skin, a bit muscular and very pretty.
‘Boys, this is Cleve and this is Queenie. And I gather you’ve already met Dot,’ said John East casually. ‘And these specimens are two reprobates from my school.’
Dot? What kind of a name was that? And what was all this reprobates bollocks?
‘Lockie here, and Egg.’
‘Otherwise known as Tomorrow and the Day After.’
‘Well, we’re the future,’ said Lockie.
‘A bit of it, anyway,’ said Egg, kicking him in the leg.
‘Hi, fellas,’ said Cleve.
‘G’day,’ said Queenie.
Dot said nothing. She stood by the sink with a piece of toast and Lockie stared hopelessly at her, all the fight and fury gone out of him. Egg elbowed him, trying to stir him into speaking, but Lockie had forgotten his speech.
‘We wondered why you didn’t come to the meeting?’ said Egg. ‘We sorta thought you’d be there, you know.’
John East sat down and got stuck into a plate of eggs and bacon. Man, he loved that cholesterol.
‘Oh,’ he said with his mouth full, ‘I had to go out and help these guys.’
Cleve groaned. ‘I did a fan belt about thirty k’s out of town. What a performance.’
‘Oh,’ said Egg.
‘Oh,�
� said Lockie, watching Dot’s beautiful cheeks going in and out on a helpless bit of toast.
‘What sort of meeting did you have?’
Egg rammed Lockie harder this time. ‘What sorta meeting did we have, Lockie?’
‘The sort that no one comes to,’ said Lockie miserably.
‘I think I’ve discovered a couple of real eco-guerillas here,’ John East said to Queenie. ‘You might be able to give them a few tips.’
Queenie rolled her eyes. ‘My protesting days are over, mate.’
‘We heard you closed down the whaling,’ said Lockie politely.
‘Well, I tried,’
‘It worked didn’t it? Eleven years later, there’s whales out there and no whalers.’
‘True. I guess.’ She smiled. Lockie liked her straight out, and not because she was the mother of the hot grommet by the sink, but because she seemed kind of open-hearted or something. Strong, straightforward, free of bulldust. He decided all this in twelve seconds which was a long time by Lockie’s standards.
‘What are you having meetings about?’
‘The harbour.’
‘Aha. So it’s finally happened. Someone’s woken up.’
‘It’s really desperate,’ said Egg. ‘No one’s doing anything, not even the things the law says they have to do.’
‘Sounds normal for around here.’
‘I just don’t get it,’ said Lockie. ‘Why are they letting it get so bad?’
Queenie sighed and put down her cup of tea. She looked out the window a few moments and said,
‘How long have you got?’
‘All day,’ said Egg.
‘I’m going for a surf,’ said Dot. ‘Is that okay?’
Cleve nodded. ‘Be careful. I’ll pick you up in two hours.’
‘I might have to go somewhere too,’ said Lockie. ‘Remember that . . . that thing, Egg?’
‘No,’ said Egg through his teeth. ‘I don’t.’
‘Oh. Okay. Fine.’ Inside he was going Aaarghh! out of sheer frustration and love. He ached. He was completely blitzed. He hardly heard a word that was said. On and on it went in that bombshelter kitchen of John East’s, and all he could think of was Dot. Dot. What a romantic name, he thought. Dot. It had poetry in it. X marks the Dot. Dot! In the name of love! Mate, he was a goner.
