Girl Underground

by Morris Gleitzman

  Mum and Dad don’t say anything for ages. Just give each other delighted glances. I stare at the damp patch on Dad’s suit and wonder if Menzies would be scared off if I tell him that Dad’s got a bladder problem.

  Before I can work out how to do to it without Dad hearing, Mum remembers how to speak.

  ‘Well, Menzies,’ she says, ‘we’re very glad our daughter’s got you for a friend.’

  ‘That’s right,’ says Dad. ‘It’s my birthday on Saturday. We’re having a bit of a family celebration at our place and Bridget’s coming home for the weekend. We’d be delighted if you could come with her.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Mum. ‘Delighted.’

  I stare at them both in horror.

  Menzies’ eyes are shining behind his glasses.

  ‘Thank you,’ he says to Mum and Dad. ‘That’s very kind. I’d like to very much.’

  ‘You can’t,’ I croak.

  All three of them look at me.

  ‘It’s too dangerous,’ I say to Menzies. ‘The terrorist warnings, remember? Your bodyguard won’t let you.’

  Menzies smiles at me and I can see he’s feeling touched.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he says. ‘I’ll get permission from my parents. They won’t mind. I’m sure there are no terrorists at your place.’

  I snap awake.

  Dream voices are spinning round inside my head like bits of a Mongolian electric toothbrush when it disintegrates in your mouth.

  Dad telling Veuve’s dad he’s a disgrace to the school.

  Me begging Menzies not to come to my place on Saturday.

  Uncle Grub explaining the features of a Russian blender.

  Hang on, that last one isn’t part of a dream. I’m wide awake now and I can hear Uncle Grub’s voice echoing around the courtyard outside.

  Oh no.

  I struggle out of my tangle of sheets, clamber onto Chantelle’s bed, drag the curtains open and stick my head out the window.

  ‘Ow,’ moans Chantelle. ‘You’re standing on my stomach.’

  I know how she feels. My guts are hurting too. In my case it’s because of what I’m looking at.

  Uncle Grub’s black Hi-Ace van is parked by the side door of the dining hall. Uncle Grub is deep in conversation with Dave the bodyguard. They’re both examining a blender.

  ‘Really strong blades,’ Uncle Grub is saying. ‘Made for turnips and beetroot and all that other Russian stuff.’

  I leap off Chantelle’s stomach and start dragging on clothes. The three girls peer sleepily out of the window.

  ‘Oh yuk’, says Veuve. ‘Look at the greasy pony-tail on that delivery man.’

  I fling myself down the stairs and sprint across the courtyard towards the van. Dave the bodyguard is strolling off towards his room with a blender under his arm. I pray he doesn’t decide to check whether import duty’s been paid on it.

  So far nobody else is around.

  ‘Uncle Grub,’ I hiss. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Uncle Grub emerges from the back of the van, a big grin on his face.

  ‘G’day, gorgeous,’ he says. ‘How’s posh school?’

  He kisses me on the head and the scent of his Bosnian aftershave reminds me of so many happy family afternoons in the back yard, with table tennis and Bulgarian chocolate biscuits, that for a moment I forget him being here could ruin us all.

  Then I remember.

  ‘It’s not safe,’ I hiss.

  ‘Relax, darl,’ says Uncle Grub. ‘Just got a little delivery for you. Your dad had the idea driving home from here last night. He’s at the docks this morning, so he asked me to do it.’

  I can’t relax. My guts feel like Chantelle, Antoinette and Veuve are all jumping on them, along with Gandalf, Brad and Muffy.

  The van is stacked to the roof with Russian blenders. Uncle Grub pulls one out of its box, takes it out of its plastic bag and inspects it closely.

  ‘That’s the one thing with Russian blenders,’ he says. ‘Got to check them for rust.’

  ‘What do you mean, a delivery for me?’ I croak.

  ‘To help you settle in,’ says Uncle Grub. ‘Little gift for the teachers. They’ll all love you once they see how these things chop turnips.’

  Around our feet are empty blender boxes and plastic bags. The van is backed up to the open side door of the dining hall. I peer in. At the far end of the hall is the top table where the teachers have their breakfast. No teachers are there yet, but next to each empty cereal bowl stands a Russian blender.

  ‘Quick,’ I say to Uncle Grub. ‘We’ve got about five minutes before the teachers start arriving.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ says Uncle Grub, concerned. ‘Did I miss a rusty one?’

  Before I can rush into the dining hall and start grabbing blenders, a voice rings out across the courtyard.

  ‘Miss White, a moment please.’

  Striding towards us, head cocked quizzically, is Mr Galbraith. I can see he’s wondering who Uncle Grub is.

  ‘It’s the headmaster,’ I hiss at Uncle Grub.

  ‘G’day chief,’ says Uncle Grub, stepping forward and shaking Mr Galbraith’s hand. ‘Sorry about the early visit. George White, Bridget’s uncle.’

  Uncle Grub holds a Russian blender out to Mr Galbraith.

  ‘On behalf of the White family,’ says Uncle Grub, ‘we hope you’ll accept this quality appliance. A little expression of our gratitude for the good care you’re taking of Bridget, and a symbol of her desire to blend in happily with the students and staff at this fine school.’

  Mr Galbraith stares at the blender. Then, slowly, he takes it.

  ‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘This is a bit irregular, but a very nice thought. I’ll donate it to the school kitchen. Glad to see you’re settling in well, Bridget. Good to meet you, Mr White. Goodbye now.’

  Mr Galbraith strolls away across the courtyard, examining the blender.

  ‘See,’ says Uncle Grub, grinning at me. ‘Nothing smooths a path through life like a Russian blender.’

  I glance anxiously into the dining hall. Teachers are starting to arrive now, picking up their blenders and staring at them. Kids are arriving too, staring at the teachers.

  Uncle Grub is picking up the empty boxes and plastic bags and chucking them into the back of the van.

  ‘Can’t be too careful,’ he says. ‘Plastic bags can be dangerous when there are kiddies around.’

  So can uncles, I think miserably.

  ‘Got to be getting back,’ says Uncle Grub, closing the doors of the van. ‘Bloke coming round with an automatic teller machine he needs some help with.’ He kisses me on the head and murmurs into my ear. ‘You don’t have to feel ashamed of your family here, Bridget. Compared to some of the families at this place, we’re angels.’

  ‘I know,’ I say.

  Uncle Grub gets into the van. ‘See you at the weekend,’ he says. ‘Be good.’

  He drives off and the dust from his wheels swirls around me. Inside me, sad feelings do the same.

  I’ll never be ashamed of my family. Dad is a top-notch angel, trying to make things better for me here. But that doesn’t stop me worrying. The people at this school are already getting suspicious about us. The dining hall’s full of teachers and kids talking about the blenders and giving me strange looks. I can’t let any more information about us leak out.

  That’s why I have to tell Menzies he can’t come to Dad’s birthday party.

  I hurry along the corridor to Menzies’ room.

  In my head I rehearse what I’m going to say to him. How Mum and Dad have been called away to Turkmenistan on business. How the birthday party’s been cancelled. How I’m only going home on the weekend to feed the goldfish.

  Look at me. I’ve only been at this school for three days and I’m lying already.

  I hate doing it but I have to.

  As I pass the room next to Menzies’, I hear the sound of a Russian blender going at full speed. No teachers live on this floor, so it must be Dave th
e bodyguard’s room. I hope he’s holding the lid on tight. That’s another thing about Russian blenders. Loose lids.

  I knock on Menzies’ door.

  After a bit he opens it.

  ‘Hello,’ he says, glaring at me.

  I’m confused. Does Menzies know what I’m about to say? How can he?

  ‘Come in,’ he says crossly.

  For a moment I wonder if the kids from class have been back. But when I step into the room I see a breakfast tray that hasn’t been touched, and next to it an envelope, torn open.

  Menzies is holding a crumpled sheet of paper.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I say.

  ‘I’ve had another letter,’ he says.

  ‘From the refugee detention centre?’ I say.

  He stops, giving me a quick glare.

  ‘You probably think it’s all stupid,’ he says. ‘Like everyone else around here.’

  ‘No,’ I say quietly. ‘I don’t.’

  For a second I’m tempted to tell him some of my feelings about jails. You spend a lot of time thinking about them when your brother’s in one. But I decide not to risk it.

  Menzies looks pale and tense. He doesn’t look like someone who’s writing to the refugees to get something out of it for himself. He looks like someone who’s so upset about them that he’s not even eating properly.

  ‘Why don’t you have some breakfast?’ I say.

  Dad reckons everything in the world seems worse without breakfast.

  I take a piece of toast from Menzies’ breakfast tray and offer it to him. He grabs it and chucks it across the room. Either he hates toast or he’s very angry.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ he says. ‘The refugees haven’t done anything wrong. They shouldn’t be locked up. It’s not like they’re thieves or criminals.’

  I don’t know what to say.

  ‘Listen to this,’ says Menzies. He smooths out the letter and reads.

  ‘The Australian government say we are queue jumpers, but it’s not true. In Afghanistan everyone made queues except the people who were shot. In this detention centre we also queue. For soap, for food, for water. People with headaches have to queue for pills. But we don’t complain because if we do the guards shout at us and that’s not good for the people with headaches.’

  ‘That’s awful,’ I say.

  It is. Even Gavin doesn’t have to queue for aspirin. When he has a headache he just bangs on his cell door and yells and a guard brings him some.

  Menzies reads more.

  ‘I am sorry if I get some of these words wrong, Menzies. The kind person here who helps me write this letter in English is very sad. His wife and two daughters drowned on the boat trip to Australia. Sometimes his tears fall on the letter. He says sorry about the wet marks.’

  Menzies’ voice gives a wobble. He stops reading and glares at his porridge. I don’t want him to see I’ve noticed the wobble in case he feels embarrassed, so I say something quickly.

  ‘Is he the same man who sent you the other letter, the one you had in class yesterday?’

  Menzies nods.

  I wonder why a detention centre has to be even worse than a jail.

  ‘Except,’ says Menzies, ‘he’s not a man, he’s a kid.’

  I stare at him. I thought I was shocked before, but now I’m really shocked.

  ‘A kid?’ I say.

  ‘His name’s Jamal,’ says Menzies. ‘He’s the same age as us.’

  ‘But that’s impossible,’ I say. ‘Kids don’t get locked up.’

  ‘There are lots of them in the detention centres,’ says Menzies. ‘Jamal’s got a younger sister, Bibi. She’s had toothache on and off for the last month.’

  My head is spinning.

  Menzies reads more of Jamal’s letter.

  ‘The people who run this detention centre don’t give the guards a present on their birthdays. No wonder the guards are often bitter and cross. So me and Bibi are making presents for them. I’m making soccer balls out of plastic bags and string from my blanket. Bibi is making little mountain lions out of dry grass and dirt and spit. We hope this will give us a happier detention centre and cheer Mum and Dad up. They are very sad because the Australian government won’t tell us how long our prison sentence is.’

  Menzies stops again.

  This time I’m the one who can’t speak.

  I’m thinking about something Gavin has said to me a few times. How the one thing that helps him get through his prison sentence is counting the days. Knowing exactly how much time he’s got left.

  Imagine not knowing when you’re going to be free.

  Imagine not knowing if you ever are.

  Jamal’s right, that’s not fair.

  ‘What did they do?’ I ask. ‘To get locked up like that?’

  Menzies goes to his desk, pulls a bundle of letters out of the drawer and holds them out to me. ‘The government in Afghanistan tried to kill them. Blew up their house.’

  I give a whistle.

  Even the police special branch wouldn’t do that here.

  I don’t take the letters from Menzies. Best to not get involved. But there’s something I have to ask.

  ‘Why did the government blow up their house?’ I say. ‘Are the family really big criminals?’

  Menzies shakes his head. ‘Jamal and Bibi’s parents ran a school in their home.’

  I can’t believe it. The death penalty just for running a school. Gavin stole a really expensive cuckoo clock and confessed to fifty-three similar offenses and he only got six months.

  ‘The family escaped from Afghanistan,’ says Menzies. ‘They wanted to get as far away as they could, so they tried to come to Australia. The Australian government put them in a detention centre, first on an island somewhere, then in the desert here.’

  Suddenly I don’t want to hear any more.

  Suddenly the whole thing’s making me feel ill.

  The one thought that’s kept me going all these years, the piece of good news I tell myself every time I lie awake worrying about Mum and Dad’s profession, is that kids don’t get locked up. So if Mum and Dad ever have to go to jail, I can stay outside and look after things. Take care of the house and pets, plus visit Mum and Dad with cakes.

  ‘It must be a mistake,’ I say. ‘The government must have got the paperwork wrong. Your dad’s a government minister. Can’t he do something? Get the kids parole or something?’

  Menzies gives a big sigh.

  ‘I try,’ he says. ‘I ask him but we just end up arguing. He says I’m too young to understand. I tell him a three year old knows you shouldn’t lock innocent kids up. My mother butts in and tells me not to speak to my father like that. It’s really hard trying to get them to listen over the phone.’

  ‘Why don’t you speak to him in person?’ I say.

  ‘When?’ demands Menzies, getting cross again.

  ‘It was the holidays four days ago,’ I say, puzzled. ‘Why didn’t you ask him then?’

  Menzies doesn’t reply, and I wonder if he’s got secrets about his family after all. Or if eating porridge for breakfast makes you a bit slow.

  Then he does reply. ‘I didn’t actually see my parents these holidays,’ he says. ‘They were overseas on a trade mission.’

  He looks so sad I want to put my arms round him. I don’t because this is the boys’ building and I’m not even meant to be here.

  ‘What did you do?’ I ask. ‘Stay here?’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot,’ says Menzies. ‘Who’d want to be at school in the holidays? I stayed with my uncle and aunt on their farm. They don’t like me much. We argue a lot. They think refugee boats should be sunk. For the last few days Dave went to visit his mum in Canberra. I had to come back to school in a police car.’

  I try to imagine what it would be like, not seeing your mum and dad in the holidays. Just mean rellies and a public servant who’s trained to kill.

  Compared to Menzies I’m lucky. I’ve got Mum and Dad.

  ‘It’s not my pa
rents’ fault,’ says Menzies. ‘They do very important work for Australia. I’m proud of them.’

  I look closely to see if he really is.

  He’s not looking at me any more, he’s staring at his porridge again.

  ‘But I wish they had a bit more free time,’ he says.

  He’s trying to hide it, but I can see his eyes behind his big glasses. I can see how wistful they are.

  Suddenly I know I can’t do it.

  I can’t lie.

  It’ll be a huge risk, but we’ll survive somehow.

  ‘My parents really like you, Menzies,’ I say. ‘They’re really looking forward to seeing you at the party on Saturday.’

  ‘Take that, you lousy cop,’ yells Dad.

  He rolls out from behind the coffee table, aims his gun at Dave the bodyguard, and fires.

  ‘No,’ screams Mum.

  Dad’s shot misses.

  I take cover. So does everyone else in the room.

  Dave dives behind the couch, firing back.

  His shot hits Dad in the head.

  Dad groans and slumps back against the coffee table. I fling myself across the room towards him, but it’s too late. A beer bottle on the coffee table topples onto the carpet. Luckily it’s empty.

  ‘Ow,’ says Dad, rubbing his head. ‘That hurts.’

  Most of us laugh because he does look funny with a small plastic arrow stuck to his forehead.

  ‘You nearly knocked the drinks over,’ says Mum.

  ‘Sorry,’ says Dad.

  My cousins, who are all under six, stare anxiously at Dad’s head. Uncle Ollie, who used to be a male nurse before he was a baggage handler, is staring at it too.

  ‘So, Dave,’ he says. ‘Is that where you guys are trained to put the first shot?’

  Dave, picking himself up from behind the couch, rolls his eyes. ‘Fair go. I’m on duty. We agreed no personal questions, right?’

  ‘That’s right,’ says Dad, giving Uncle Ollie a look. He yanks the plastic arrow off his head. The rubber tip makes a loud pop.

  We all laugh again, Dad and the little cousins included.

  I’m laughing loudest because I’m so nervous. A federal policeman in our house. One mistake and we’ll be having Dad’s birthday party next year in the clink.