Henry Hoey Hobson

by Christine Bongers

  He kissed his fingertips at my enthralled mother, then pinched together the thumb and index finger of his huge paw and tilted, as if pouring from a tiny imaginary jug. ‘I serve it with just a drizzle of mango and lime coulis–’

  Mum clapped her hands. ‘Chilli chocolate ice-cream in sweet and sour sauce. You should be on MasterChef, Manny. I can’t wait to try it.’

  For a moment, he looked poised to rush off and make her some, then he deflated with an audible sigh. ‘Not tonight, I’m afraid, dear lady. Simple fare only after today’s arduous move. Speaking of which – is it time, do you think, Caleb?’

  ‘It is.’ He stepped forward, fanning out his fabulous cloak, a magician about to introduce the next act. ‘If you please, Ladies and Gentlemen ... It is time to feed the beast.’

  The round mahogany table was set for six with a crystal chandelier candelabra and old-fashioned silver cutlery. The serving spoons had bone handles, like the butter knifes used by some of the Nanna-substitutes Mum had rustled up over the years.

  Manny plonked down his goblet, claiming the place nearest the kitchen, then disappeared to organise the food. Vee pulled out the next two chairs, seating herself in the one next to Manny and motioning me in next to her. Mum drew up a chair on my left, then excused herself to visit the toilet that Vee had pointed to at the end of the hall.

  ‘Are we expecting someone else?’ I asked, eyeing the sixth place setting.

  ‘Our friend Anders changed his mind about eating with us,’ said Caleb, gliding onto the seat next to Mum’s empty chair. ‘He has his own loft elsewhere and tends to come and go at odd intervals. Perhaps he wishes to work tonight.’

  Vee frowned. ‘He doesn’t normally work at night. He needs daylight for his paintings. What on earth could he possibly be working on at this hour?’

  ‘Not our business, Vee.’ At her sharp look, he shrugged and forced a smile. ‘Perhaps he’s painting moonlight.’

  ‘He’s definitely moonlighting at something,’ said Manny, coming back in with a steaming bowl of pasta in one hand and tray of rough-cut bread in the other. ‘Never known him to be so secretive. And that’s saying something; the man’s a closed book at the best of times.’

  ‘Are you talking about that man who helped you move in?’ He’d freaked me out this morning; he’d been so silent and intense. Somehow I couldn’t see him painting moonlight. Or anything else for that matter. Pretty scary artist if you asked me.

  My stomach chose that very moment to growl, loud enough for everyone to hear it.

  ‘Pardon me,’ said Manny. ‘I’m being derelict in my duty.’ He winked at me and moved the food closer. ‘Better feed the beast before the neighbours complain about the noise.’

  I piled pasta onto my plate and passed it on to Vee. ‘I would never have picked that bloke from the truck as an artist,’ I said.

  Those strong arms, the sureness of his movements, belonged to someone used to working with his hands, like a builder or a mechanic.

  ‘Anders is an artist/illustrator, a particularly fine one, I think.’ Vee delicately twirled her fork in to the pasta. ‘That is how we all met. He did the cover art for Caleb’s fantasy series and for my gothic romances. Actually, he found this house for us. He is lonely, I think–’

  ‘Did you say that you’re writers?’ Mum had trotted back in, her smile freshly lipsticked into position. She slotted into the seat beside me. ‘That’s so exciting, isn’t it, Henry?’

  She didn’t wait for an answer and started shovelling food onto her plate. ‘Henry has the most amazing imagination, you wouldn’t believe the stories he comes up with–’

  Vee’s eyebrows shot up at Mum’s enthusiastic attack on the pasta bowl. Her size was deceptive; she could eat her own body weight when someone else was cooking.

  Mum pointed a red-tipped nail at Manny. ‘You said Henry would fit right in, round here, didn’t you Manny? Are you a writer too?’

  He bowed from the waist. ‘Guilty as charged, dear Lydia. Perhaps I should formally introduce you to our little coven ... On your left, the talented Caleb Moore, writer of dark speculative fiction. Vampires, the undead, witches and their grimoire. And on Henry’s right, our gothic romance queen, Violet Winter–’

  Mum’s squeal nearly burst my left eardrum. ‘Omygod, you’rethe reclusive Violet Winter! I loved Bones of My Heart. And I’ve just bought The Castle of Montero Moor... I can’t believe I live next door to a famous author!’

  Vee’s black lips stretched in a grin. ‘Ah, a fan. Excellent news. I must tell my Australian publisher; she will be thrilled that I have found another one. The other is exhausted from carrying the full burden of my fandom on her own. But first–’ She held up her hand for silence. ‘We must complete our introductions. On my right, Lydia, is the soon-to-be-published–’

  ‘That might be laying it on a bit thick.’ Manny shifted in his seat. ‘I’m actually still in the world-building phase of the writing cycle–’

  Vee carried on as though he hadn’t spoken. ‘–and soon-to-be- famousauthor of a door-stopper of a fantasy set in Chilli-Chocolate-Land–’

  ‘You are an evil witch,’ Manny said, pointing his knife at her heart. ‘My manuscript is set in a parallel universe in which South America’s Mayan civilisation actually survived to the present day and–’

  ‘That’s what I just said.’ Vee peered into her goblet. ‘Oh, I’m running on empty. Caleb, could you do the honours, please?’

  ‘Of course.’ He stood. ‘The least I can do, Vee, seeing that you were good enough to fill the coffin.’

  My mother’s eyes widened. ‘I beg your pardon, but did you say–?’

  ‘Coffin?’ He walked over to the heavy curtains hanging across a two-metre span at one end of the dining room. ‘As in sarcophagus ... tomb ... or casket?’ He grasped the edge of the curtain and pulled it with him as he continued walking. ‘The final repository for our flesh when the spirit has fled. The cradle for our bones when eternal night falls...’

  Behind the curtain, he unveiled an alcove created by the bay window that jutted out from the front of the house. A long window seat ran under the casements, and resting on top was the burnished timbers of the coffin that I’d helped them unload that morning.

  ‘Every home should have one.’ He unclipped the silver clasps holding the lid shut and raised the lid. ‘How do you like your poison, Lydia? Red? White? I’m afraid the only bubbly I can offer you now is Manny’s chilli fizz.’

  Mum and I scrambled over for a closer look. The inside of the coffin was filled with polystyrene containers holding crushed ice and drinks. A bowl of Manny’s chilli punch nestled in ice at the wider part, with a few bottles of red neatly stacked in racks at the other end.

  A laugh bubbled up out of Mum; a sound I hadn’t heard for too long. ‘You have a coffin esky? That’s priceless.’

  ‘We prefer to think of it as a cellar,’ Caleb corrected her solemnly. ‘Now, if you will choose your poison, I think it is time for a toast.’

  Mum and I each had another chilli fizz and waited while the others charged their glasses with red wine poured from a crystal decanter.

  ‘To new neighbours,’ said Caleb.

  ‘New friends,’ corrected Manny.

  ‘New fans,’ insisted Vee, tilting her glass at Mum. ‘Let us thank the high heavens that I have finally found another one.’

  Mum smiled at me. ‘And to family,’ she said, clinking her glass against mine.

  The others turned expectantly, their glasses raised, waiting for my contribution.

  I stared round the arc of faces in front of the coffin. Mum, radiant at being out and having fun for a change. Caleb, his soft brown eyes no longer hidden behind the mirrored lenses that he wore during daylight hours. Manny, his broken and reassembled face, no longer threatening. Vee, amused and amusing behind the black lipstick and eyeliner.

  I raised my glass. ‘To the unexpected,’ I said.

  Because tonight had turned out a whole lot better than the fo
ot-long meatball sub that I originally had planned.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  There was a note on the kitchen bench when I hauled myself out of bed next morning.

  I’ll do dinner. CU at 6.30. xx

  I’d left her next door at nine-thirty the previous night, laughing and dazzling the neighbours. She had been drinking water, so I wasn’t worried about her tripping over her stilettos on the way home. And let’s face it, it wasn’t that far anyway. I could hear them laughing and talking as I got ready for bed. I’d drifted off trying to remember the last time my mother had been out at night without me.

  Halfway through my cereal, a thought hit me like a slap in the head.

  My swimming times.

  I hadn’t told Mum that she needed to come to the pool to time my races.

  I’d been so swept up in the crazy night at Caleb’s that I hadn’t talked to her about anything normal at all. The evening was like a dream, peopled with characters who had nothing in common with my everyday existence. Now, back in the stark light of day, all the humdrum bits of my life were coming back to haunt me.

  I called Mum’s mobile and blurted out what I needed to tell her. What I should have told her last night.

  The pause on the other end of the line warned me this wasn’t going to work out well for me.

  ‘Honey-bun, I have an Open for Inspection from four to six. There’s no way I can make it to the pool this afternoon. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You have to be there, Mum.’ Desperation was making me whine. ‘Mr Paulson and the old lady who runs the pool said that youhave to sign off on my times and she won’t even give me the time sheet unless you’re there. They go towards Districts, Mum. Don’t make me miss it again this year.’

  The hum of traffic in the background told me she was still on the line. I pictured her frowning while she manoeuvred her little Getz through peak-hour traffic, trying to make the mismatched jigsaw pieces of our lives fit the functional-family picture that was on the cover of everyone else’s box.

  ‘OK, OK, I’m on it, honey-bun. Don’t fret. I’ll see you tonight. Love you.’

  A groan burbled up from somewhere deep inside me and echoed down the disconnected line.

  If she’d just said I’ll see you this afternoon, I could have gone to school happy. But, I’m on it? That was going to eat at me all day, gnawing a great pit in my stomach, while I wondered what the hell was going on in my own life.

  I considered my options. I could make another visit to the principal’s office. Mr Paulson wasn’t such a bad bloke; he’d probably hear me out. Maybe together we could work round my mother’s absence at all the critical points in my life.

  It wasn’t such a bad idea. But I just couldn’t see myself bagging my own mother to the princi pal. I also didn’t want to cut across any deal she might be working out that I didn’t know about yet.

  If there was one thing I knew about my mother, it was that she was capable of surprising everyone with her complicated responses to routine requests. Any other mother would simply have taken her child to the pool, slipped Ma Mallory’s last time sheet into a clipboard and jotted down his times.

  I shuddered to think what loopy scheme she’d concoct to cover her inability to do what other mothers managed with boring regularity.

  My spoon scraped the bottom of my empty cereal bowl. I’d finished the lot, but it hadn’t made any difference. The pit in my stomach yawned deeper and wider than ever.

  ‘Surprise, surprise. Look who’s last to arrive. Again.’

  It was Angelica. Ambushing me at the front gate, her posse lined up behind her. It was a trap, it had to be, but short of turning on my heel and heading back home, there was little I could do but walk straight into it.

  ‘Hi.’ My unreliable voice came out basso profundo, which is as low as a human voice can get.

  A giggle, quickly smothered, burst out from the other side of the gate. I couldn’t blame whoever it was; even I hadn’t expected to rumble first thing in the morning.

  I cursed Mum, once again, under my breath. If she stuck around in the mornings, I would be able to practise speaking before I had to go to school. Then my voice wouldn’t be rusty after lying around doing nothing all night. A little conversation might oil my creaky vocal cords and get them working in a relatively normal fashion by the time I got to school.

  I pushed open the gate and kept on walking. I’d said hi,satisfying the minimum requirements for politeness that my mother had drilled into me all of my life. But I couldn’t risk letting them drag another syllable out of me, in case I inadvertently rumbled or squeaked.

  Angelica skipped round in front of me, walking backwards, her face intent.

  ‘I saw you last night. With your own personal vampire and the Skeletor guy. And that woman–’ her exaggerated shudder was all for show ‘–she looked like Morticia off The Addams Family. What were you all doing there with that little blonde girl? Live sacrifices? Devil worship? Is that what you do at night, Henry Hoey Hobson?’

  She had planted herself in the centre of the path, hands on hips, eyes blazing. She’d worked herself up into a state. For a moment she reminded me of Mum, fearless in the face of a challenge.

  My mother’s usual advice in times of trouble popped into my head: Never back down, never give in and remember: the best defence is always a good offence.

  I stopped and met her gaze without flinching.

  ‘Are you stalking me, Angelica?’ For once my voice stayed low. ‘Because that would be a clear breach of Mr Paulson’s anti-bullying policy, wouldn’t it?’

  She opened her mouth and shut it with a snap. I thanked my lucky stars I’d remembered something from the Perpetual Sucker induction kit we had brought home from our first meeting with Mr Paulson.

  I stepped round her just as the clanging of the morning bell jolted the playground into action. I dived into the sea of green-checked uniforms surging towards the classrooms, leaving Angelica and her pack in my wake.

  I’d timed my escape perfectly.

  Hero was already at the port racks with BB and Joey Castellaro when I made my way up the stairs.

  He caught sight of me and turned, the beginnings of a smile working its way round those teeth. Joey saw the look and grabbed the back of Hero’s shirt, bunching it into his fist and frog-marching him into the classroom.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Angelica and her posse clustered at the top of the stairs, straight-legged like cats who’d found a strange dog blocking their path.

  I hung up my bag and took a deep breath, steeling myself to enter the classroom. In the distance I could see that someone had changed the school sign.

  OLPS

  A LITTLE SCHOOL

  WITH A BIG HEART

  Not big enough for me, apparently.

  I pushed open the door, ready to tough out another day.

  ‘Henry, you’re getting to be a regular up here. A veritable bright spot in my morning.’ Mr Paulson’s jovial tone was the first friendly sound of my day.

  Even Ms Sanders had ignored me. The word had gone round that the regular Six/Seven teacher had had a ‘setback’ after breaking her ankle skiing in Japan in January.

  Apparently Ms Sanders was getting the nod as her replacement till the end of term, so she was concentrating on just two things: getting up to speed and surviving till Easter.

  ‘Ms Sanders said you wanted to see me.’

  His green eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘Don’t worry, this won’t take long. Your mum phoned and explained that she won’t be able to make it to the pool this afternoon.’

  I didn’t say anything. I needed to hear what Mum had planned before blundering in with any plans of my own. I had to be careful what I said round Mr Paulson; those green eyes didn’t miss much.

  ‘She has organised a replacement and I’ve told Mrs Mallory at the pool to expect you both this afternoon.’

  ‘Did she say who?’ I asked.

  He flicked through the papers on his desk. ‘It
was one of the people she nominated as your emergency contacts ... ah, here it is ... Caleb Moore, that’s the one. She said he would take you to swimming this afternoon and sign off on your times.’ He looked up. ‘Is that all right with you, Henry? You look a bit pale.’

  I swallowed and managed an unconvincing nod.

  My own personal vampire was going to sign off on my swimming times in broad daylight at the local pool.

  Thank the high heavens, as Vee would say, that Angelica wasn’t going to be there to witness it.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The postman’s motorcycle had cut a bald strip in the dry grass leading up to Caleb’s front gate. It veered in towards the letterbox and out again, as though it couldn’t get away from the place fast enough.

  Heat-frazzled grass crunched underfoot as I stepped off the footpath, pushed through the squawking gate, and made my way down the cobbled path to the front door.

  The bright, spangled afternoon sun had stripped away last night’s illusions, revealing the candle-lit corridor into the house as nothing more magical than cheap tea-light candles, protected from the breeze in brown paper lunch bags weighed down with handfuls of sand.

  Pools of congealed wax at the front door were the only evidence of the giant candelabra that had stood sentry the night before. Today the front door was shut up tight, an ornate brass knocker hanging like a lion’s paw at eye level. I hefted it and rapped sharply, twice for luck, and stepped back.

  The latch snicked open and the door swung inwards.

  Caleb flinched at the bright day. ‘I’ll need sunglasses,’ he muttered. ‘You better come in.’

  I followed him into the cool dark living area, the scent of candle wax still heavy in the air.

  ‘It still hot outside? Of course it is. It’s Brisbane and February. I’ll need a hat and sunblock.’ He waved a hand at a plate of food on a corner of the dining room table. ‘Eat something – Manny said you’d be hungry – now where is that blessed hat...?’