by Geoff Palmer
‘I’ll ... I’ll get it,’ Tim stammered. Coral stared at him, horrified. ‘It went behind the desk.’
He pulled away, twisting, pretending to reach for something on the floor. Cakeface eased her grip momentarily and Tim broke free. He lunged across the desk, snatched up the tiny calculator, dropped it in his shirt pocket, then ran like mad. With a quick shove he pushed open the playground door, bounded across the quadrangle, sprinted past Stormin’ Norman Smith and Romany Jones, and charged out into the playing field.
Millicent Millais stood dumbfounded in the doorway, still holding Coral by the wrist. It took the rest of the school less than a second to make the connection between the fleeing figure and the speechless principal. Tim Townsend was at it again!
Lunch break was nearly over and the Thuggut brothers were ambling back from their hideaway. Seeing the direction Tim was heading, Terry Thuggut called out a challenge. Tim didn’t slow. Todd Thuggut stuck out his foot, but Tim leapt it lightly and carried on. Then Tyler Thuggut stepped into his path. Tim didn’t have time to stop or swerve. He was going full pelt and could only throw out a hand to lessen the impact. It caught Tyler on the shoulder, a normally solid enough object, but Tyler had just taken a step towards him and was off balance. The glancing blow sent him spiralling sideways into his pretty step-sister whose stumbles accelerated Tyler’s fall. There were angry cries but Tim’s footsteps didn’t falter. He sprinted round the prefab, found the break in the wire fence, charged straight through and plunged headlong into the gloomy overhang of the Gap.
9 : Storm in a Teacup
The Gap was barely a gap in places. Branches of spiky gorse snaked in from either side and slashed at him as he ran. Some stabbed at his ankles, forcing him to jump while others swung at his face, making him duck and weave.
It was several minutes before he realised he that wasn’t being pursued by either Cakeface or the Thug Brothers. He staggered to a halt at a sharp bend that overlooked an abandoned gravel pit and leaned on the rickety fence to catch his breath, staring at the steep man-made crater that ended in a pool of filthy water twenty metres below.
‘Now what?’ he wondered as the school bell sounded, calling pupils in from lunch. He wasn’t going back. No way. Not now. Cakeface would be waiting for him. He had no choice. He had to go on.
There was a ute in the forecourt of Reihana Motors. One man was leaning on the open bonnet, talking to another whose lower half was buried in the engine bay. Tim gave them a wide berth. In the window of the tearooms an elderly couple sat sipping tea from thick cups and eyeing a suspicious looking bun. The pub was empty, the chemist’s too, and several intervening shops looked like they’d been closed for a hundred years. That just left RAGS and RAM.
The two shops lay opposite each other and no one could remember who’d started it — whether Rata Area Merchants had been first or whether they’d copied the idea from the Rata Area General Store. The merchants’, with a large fading picture of a ram on the side of the building, stocked mainly farming supplies and hardware while across the road the general store carried groceries, fruit, vegetables, fresh bread, Lotto tickets, and also doubled as the local post office.
Tim was parched and licked his lips at the L&P sign perched on the footpath outside RAGS. He searched his pockets for some money, checked the calculator was safe, and ventured in.
A buzzer buzzed and a friendly face called a greeting from behind the counter. Tim helped himself to a drink from the fridge and went to pay for it.
The friendly face glanced at the clock on the back wall. ‘You wagging?’ she asked mildly as she handed him his change.
Tim swallowed.
‘Well,’ she grinned, ‘you’re either wagging or you’re really late back from lunch.’
There was something about her easy, offhand manner that Tim felt he could trust.
‘I’ve run away,’ he said. The words came out croaky and he had to clear his throat and repeat them.
‘School or home?’ she asked.
‘School.’
‘Other kids?’
Tim shook his head.
‘Then it must be either Cakeface or Snotty. You’re a bit old for Doodlebug.’
He blinked, surprised an adult would know his teachers’ nicknames.
The woman laughed. ‘Hell, the Millais’ have been there since Adam was a cowboy. And as for Edna Doodle, well she was getting on a bit when I first started.’ Miss Doodle taught Years One to Four.
‘I can remember when they first arrived. Cakeface was the keen one. He wouldn’t have given you two cents for the town. No one reckoned they’d last more than a few months. But they have. Must be nearly twenty years now.
‘Anyway,’ she added with a jerk of her head, ‘come round and tell me about it. I’ll get you a glass for your drink. And maybe something to nibble on, eh?’
Tim watched her disappear out the back as he walked uncertainly to the end of the counter.
‘Grab a pew,’ she called over her shoulder.
He knew what that meant. It was country talk for ‘take a seat’.
He settled on one of the stools behind the counter and looked around the cluttered shop. It was about as general as a general store could get. In addition to aisles of groceries and household items, one whole corner was given over to rental DVDs and videos, and another to the post office and Kiwibank outlet. Behind him, in an alcove in the back wall half-hidden from the view of casual visitors, was a small cabinet containing a collection of photographs of cars and a dozen shiny trophies.
‘Used to do a bit of rallying in my younger days,’ the woman said as she returned.
‘Are they all yours?’ Tim gestured at the trophies.
‘Yup.’
She set a glass and a plate of home-made brownies on the counter and indicated he should help himself.
She was in her early thirties with a slim figure and an infectious grin. She had an unruly mop of gingery hair and wore jeans, a white T-shirt and a big sloppy bush shirt, unbuttoned like a jacket.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘Tim,’ said Tim.
‘I’m Glad,’ she said.
Tim frowned. What was there to be glad about?
‘That’s what people call me. Glad, short for Gladys. I’m Glad, and I’m glad to meet you.’ She held out her hand. Tim shook it.
‘You’re one of the new kids, aren’t you? From the big smoke?’ Tim reckoned she meant the city and nodded. ‘Yeah, my boy’s told me all about you. And your sister. You must know Norman. He’s about your age.’
Norman. Stormin’ Norman Smith. This must be his mum!
‘We’re in the same class. He’s my friend,’ Tim said.
‘Good,’ Glad beamed at him. ‘Now, what have old Snotty and Cakeface done to get your goat?’
Tim explained he didn’t actually have a goat and she explained the expression meant ‘how had they upset him’, so after a sip of drink and a mouthful of delicious chocolate brownie he began to tell about how he and Coral had been caught using the microscope.
He didn’t go into precisely what they’d been looking at, nor that he’d snatched it back before he ran. He just said that Mrs Millais gave him the creeps and that before he knew what he was doing he’d run away.
‘Don’t blame you,’ Glad said earnestly. ‘The pair of ‘em are a bit creepy. They come in here every week angling for the latest gossip, especially anything on new arrivals. Old Rambob over the road says they do the same to him.’ She gestured at the Rata Area Merchants sign. Its owner, Bob Blessed, was known as Rambob. ‘Every Saturday morning like clockwork. It’s supposed to be something to do with the school roll, but I reckon they’re just plain nosey.’
Tim didn’t know what to make of that so just took another sip of drink.
‘Still, I s’pose I’d better give ‘em a ring and say you’re OK. In case they call out Search and Rescue.’
The drink caught in Tim’s throat.
‘Don’t worry,’ Glad w
inked, ‘I won’t dob you in.’
The phone was right on the counter so Tim couldn’t help overhearing one side of the conversation.
‘Gidday Millicent.’ Mrs Millais must have answered. ‘Glad Smith here at RAGS. How ya goin’... ? Yeah, yeah. Good. Listen, I understand you’ve had a run-away ... No, no, you’re too late.’ She pulled a face and held up two crossed fingers to indicate she was about to tell a white lie. ‘His aunt was over at Rambob’s and they’ve already shot off home. Asked me to give you a bell to say it was all taken care of ...’ She gave Tim a broad wink and added, ‘Well Emma Townsend didn’t look too happy about it. I wouldn’t like to be in that young man’s shoes when she gets him home.’
When she put the phone down she said, ‘Wow! You really got her goat. She was all for driving down here and dragging you back.’
* * *
Escorted to the principal’s office, Coral was asked — in the sweetest, scariest manner imaginable — where Tim might have gone.
‘I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.’
‘Perhaps, then, you might explain what the two of you were up to?’
So Coral explained.
Tim was missing home, she said. Crying in his sleep and stuff. Then last night they’d heard they’d have to stay till the end of term and he’d been really upset. So she decided to try and help him settle in.
He’d found a small flake of stone in the playground and asked her what it was. She didn’t know but since he was so interested she suggested looking at it under the microscope. ‘It’s my fault’, she sighed. ‘Don’t blame Tim. I forgot all about the lunchtime ban.’
‘And what was it, dear?’ Cakeface craned forward. ‘Did you look?’
‘Just a bit of volcanic glass. What’s it called? Obs ... ob-something.’
‘Obsidian?’
‘Yeah, that’s it.’
Cakeface’s mouth hardened a fraction. ‘Are you sure, dear? Are you ab-so-lute-ly sure?’
‘Well ... not absolutely. I’m not a geologist or anything.’
Cakeface considered this for a moment, her eyes seeming to dissect Coral, then she sat back in her swivel chair and turned to survey the scene outside her window.
Coral breathed a silent sigh of relief and looked around at what must have been the pinkest office on the planet. The walls, the ceiling, even the back of the door were painted the oddest, most intense shade of pink she’d ever seen. Not a cutesy pink but a harsh, metallic one that made you think of noxious chemicals or the markings on the backs of deadly insects. Sunlight streaming through the net curtains made the room glow with such intensity that she could almost taste it; bitter and salty like the blood from a bitten lip.
After a moment Cakeface swivelled back towards her, her face expressionless. Then, just as she seemed about to speak, the telephone rang.
Coral listened, first with alarm, then relief. It was obvious what — or who — the call was about. At first it sounded like Tim had made a clean break. Then there was talk of going to collect him. Her heartbeat faltered. But there was some sort of problem with that because a second later Cakeface’s triumphant expression changed and she muttered a quiet, ‘I see ...’
The phone was returned to its cradle and the cord carefully straightened. ‘So,’ Cakeface said in an even voice, ‘you found a stone. A piece of obsidian.’
‘Tim did,’ Coral corrected.
‘When you looked at it under the microscope, what exactly did you see?’
‘Just ... a stone,’ Coral shrugged. ‘There were chips and cracks in it up close. But that was all.’
‘That was all?’ Cakeface repeated.
Coral nodded and held her gaze.
‘Well.’ The principal pursed her lips and took a breath that made her nostrils flare. ‘I think you’d better run along back to class.’
10 : The End of the Beginning
Gladys Smith lowered her outstretched arm as Fitchett’s Flyer wheezed to a halt outside RAGS.
‘You almost missed one, Errol,’ she grinned, bustling Tim forward.
‘Afternoon Glad,’ Errol Fitchett showed off his few remaining teeth. ‘Afternoon Tim.’
On the step, Tim turned and thanked her.
‘No sweat,’ she winked. ‘Call in again sometime.’
Tim boarded the bus and found himself staring at a sea of awed faces. In the course of a single day his reputation as a quiet inoffensive know-nothing city kid had been transformed into that of a wild and unpredictable rebel. He’d called Snotty Millais a moron to his face, thumped a Thuggut brother, and then taken the afternoon off school, apparently spending it with just about the coolest person in town, wildcat and rebel Gladys Smith.
Quite how the owner of RAGS had got such a reputation was unclear. No one on the bus really knew. She just was, and that was that. It had something to do with her age — comparatively young — and that she was a local kid who’d gone off to the ‘big smoke’ and then returned. (Not many did.) It also had something to do with her success as a rally driver, and that she’d given it all up to return to Rata with her infant son.
This early in the return journey it was standing room only on Fitchett’s Flyer, but Tim got a seat. The packed bus melted before him with admiring nods, grins of recognition or, on some of the younger faces, slight trepidation. Marty Martin — wedged on a seat beside Coral halfway down the bus — clambered to his feet.
‘My man!’ he said giving Tim a low-five and offering him the seat. Tim muttered his thanks. Marty Martin bowed graciously then turned Romany Jones out of the seat opposite.
Coral stared at him in disbelief.
‘I thought ... Where’ve you ...?’
‘Tell you later,’ he whispered.
* * *
In his room that night Tim watched and waited for the mice to return. He tried to concentrate on his essay but the words wouldn’t come and he kept tugging open his shirt pocket to check on the tiny calculator. It had caused an awful lot of trouble over the last twenty-four hours.
There was a tap on his door. Coral again. For the twentieth time tonight she popped her head round the jamb and gave him a quizzical look. He shook his head and she disappeared again. It probably wasn’t a good idea for her to wait with him, he’d explained. It might scare the mice off if there were strangers about. But he’d fetch her as soon as they arrived. Promise.
He sharpened another pencil and snapped off the lead. That made three. More than enough. He went back to his essay and tried to concentrate.
Then all of a sudden they were there, scurrying along the top of the old kauri desk. The fawn one paused to rear up on its hind legs and wave before scuttling after its silvery-grey companion. Tim watched, his heart racing, as they clambered down the drawers and cubbyholes at the back of the desk, and skidded to a halt on the blotter.
‘Coral,’ he half-whispered, half-called, unwilling to take his eyes off them for a second in case they disappeared again. ‘Coral!’
Unable to think of any other way of attracting her attention, he took off one slipper and hurled it as hard as he could against the wall that separated their bedrooms. It landed with a dull slap. She probably had her stupid headphones on again. The fawn mouse, who was meanwhile scribbling
Hi frend!
looked up, startled.
‘It’s OK,’ Tim explained. ‘It’s just my sister. She wants to meet you. She helped me get your calculator back.’
The mice exchanged looks.
Is ok? U find?
‘Yeah, here.’ Tim took out the small plastic bag and gently tipped its contents on to the blotter. ‘I hope its all right. It’s been in my pocket all day.’
The grey mouse scurried over, inspected it and flicked some of the tiny switches with its paw. They conversed for a few seconds then the fawn mouse stood up and held out both paws. Tim peered close. Mice don’t have thumbs but fawn was doing the best impression of a double ‘thumbs-up’ it could manage.
‘Cor-ral!’ he called again ove
r his shoulder, hurling his other slipper. That wasn’t such a good shot. It clipped a picture hanging on the adjacent wall making it over-balance. The picture tilted sideways, its lower edge caught an empty china piggy bank on the dresser below and knocked it to the floor. The piggy bank shattered.
Down the passage a door was snatched open and the distant sound from the TV in the lounge suddenly became louder. Someone was coming.
‘Hide!’ Tim hissed, racing for the door.
He snatched it open to find Aunt Em advancing down the hall.
‘What was that?’ he said quickly, beating her to it.
‘I was going to ask you. Are you kids throwing things around?’
‘Not me,’ Tim lied.
Coral’s door was slightly ajar and she was leaning on one elbow at her desk, staring at her homework while nodding her head and tapping her biro to an inaudible beat. Catching movement from the corner of her eye she straightened and pulled out one headphone.
‘What?’
‘What was that crash?’ Em demanded.
‘What crash?
‘Just now. Don’t say you never heard it.’
Coral looked from one to the other. Tim, behind his aunt, gestured wildly.
‘Oh ... um ... that must have been me I think. I ... just knocked my chair over. That was all.’
‘Are they back?’ she demanded when their aunt had gone. Tim nodded and they hurried to his room.
The desk was empty and there was no sign of the mice. But there was another message:
Thank u, thank u, thank u frend!
U big hear-o. Save us. We very great full.
‘Where are they?’ Coral demanded.
‘I don’t know,’ Tim looked around helplessly. ‘They must have run off.’
‘Oh Tim!’ Coral was furious. ‘Now we’ll never know what that was all about!’
With a sinking heart he looked back at his sister, fearing she was right.
‘Idiot!’ she snapped and stomped back to her room.
11 : Tim Townsend: Rebel
Tim’s presentation of his essay on ‘Going to School in the City’ had his audience enthralled. It was partly due to his new status — Tim Townsend: Rebel. Word of his wagging had spread almost as quickly as talk of him calling Mr Millais a moron, and the story had been told and retold so many times it’d become a legend. But if his reputation caught their initial attention, his subject matter sealed it. The idea of sharing a school with more than a thousand other kids was almost unbelievable, let alone the notion of a school with its own swimming pool, gymnasium and library. The Year Sevens and Eights sat open-mouthed. He was even aware of interest from the Year Nines, who were supposed to be doing a geography assignment.
