Give Peas a Chance

by Morris Gleitzman

  I pause, out of breath.

  All around me the calm surface of the sea shimmers in the sunlight like a massively large plasma telly lying on its back. I used that description in my history project, but I only got six out of twenty.

  I stare at the water.

  I’m looking for bubbles.

  Grandpa had fried tomatoes for breakfast as usual. When he goes snorkelling in the ocean after breakfast you can sometimes spot his gas bubbles. You have to make sure they’re his bubbles, though. Once I tried to tell a big jellyfish it was morning nap time.

  ‘Grandpa,’ I yell again. ‘Dad said to remind you that this is the proudest day in the entire history of our town, so try not to blow off at the ceremony.’

  I peer at the sea.

  ‘I’ll try not to, young Dougie,’ says a voice behind me. ‘But my botty wind is the least of our worries.’

  I turn round.

  Grandpa is hanging onto the other side of the boat, treading water and pushing his snorkel mask up from his face.

  ‘I wish you hadn’t found me,’ he says quietly.

  I nod.

  I know what he means.

  I wish I hadn’t found him either, not yet. I wish I could stay out here for another few hours looking for him. I wouldn’t even mind chatting with a jellyfish or two. That way me and Grandpa could both miss the ceremony.

  Grandpa drags himself into the boat.

  Sadly I help him.

  We don’t have to look at each other to know we’re both feeling the same thing.

  We don’t want to be Australians Of The Year.

  I row the boat towards the jetty.

  ‘Careful, Dougie,’ says Grandpa as we get into shallow water.

  He always says that. It’s because of the barbed wire fences just below the surface. This part of the sea used to be all sheep paddocks.

  ‘It’s OK, Grandpa,’ I say quietly as I steer us past the roof of a submerged shearing shed. ‘You can trust me.’

  I always say that.

  Grandpa usually smiles to himself and says ‘yeah, I know’, but today he doesn’t.

  He’s frowning and concentrating on picking a bit of seaweed out of his ear. I can tell he’s thinking about things.

  I know how he feels.

  I’m thinking about things too.

  ‘We’ll have to own up,’ says Grandpa. ‘Tell them we don’t deserve to be Australians Of The Year.’

  My guts go tighter than a sheep fence when a shark swims into it.

  But I know Grandpa’s right. If we accept these honours we’ll spend the rest of our lives feeling guilty.

  ‘If we confess,’ I say, ‘what’ll happen to us?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ says Grandpa.

  Nor do I.

  I don’t want to think about it. Instead I concentrate on helping Grandpa tie the boat to the jetty.

  ‘We’d better hurry,’ I say. ‘Mum’s having a meltdown.’

  I point over towards the house.

  Mum’s on the verandah, waving to us like an octopus stuck on a windmill. I used that description in my English assignment, but I only got seven out of twenty.

  ‘Three cheers for Noel and Dougie Webber, the tomato heroes of Australia,’ says the woman from the government.

  There’s a big crowd in front of the stage next to the surf club and they all give big cheers. Including my teachers, who still don’t understand how a person who’s never got more than eight out of twenty can be Young Australian Of The Year.

  They don’t have to worry.

  I can’t be.

  I wish I could sneak off this stage and creep out of town and never come back. But I wouldn’t make it. Hundreds of friends and neighbours are watching, and thousands of city folk from the caravan park.

  Anyway, I can’t leave Grandpa here to confess on his own.

  The cheers die down, almost. Then Mum and Dad realise they’re the only people still cheering and stop too. It’s not their fault. They’re just so proud. When they heard somebody was coming down from Federal Parliament House in Alice Springs to give us our prizes, they nearly cacked themselves.

  I wish I didn’t have to do this to them, but I do.

  Grandpa, who’s standing next to me, squeezes my hand.

  ‘You OK?’ he whispers.

  ‘I think so,’ I say.

  The woman from the government is speaking into the microphone again.

  ‘We may have lost the battle against global warming and melting ice-caps and rising sea levels,’ she says. ‘We may have lost our big cities, but thanks to Noel and Dougie Webber, we haven’t lost the battle to feed ourselves.’

  The crowd cheers again.

  From up here I can see that heaps of people are having picnics and doing their cheering with their mouths full. I can see tomato pizzas and tomato sandwiches and lots of sun-dried-tomato burgers dripping with tomato sauce.

  As the cheering dies down, I can also hear the faint sound of thousands of puffs of gas escaping from thousands of bottoms. It’s what happens these days when crowds get excited.

  And, to be honest, even when they don’t.

  ‘Five years ago,’ says the government woman, ‘a very clever little boy found something very special in his dad’s paddock. A native Australian tomato plant that had never been discovered before. The boy’s grandfather put its seeds into pots and, thanks to his skill as a gardener, got them to grow. And did they ever grow. They produced ten times more tomatoes per plant than any other type of tomato anywhere. And the rest, as we know, is history.’

  I can feel myself blushing, partly because the whole crowd is clapping me and Grandpa, and partly because in a moment I’m going to have to confess to a very big lie.

  ‘Last year,’ continues the woman from the government, ‘Australia exported nearly a million tonnes of tomatoes to help feed the world.’

  More cheering.

  More gas escaping from well-fed tummies.

  As usual, nobody even notices. That’s the thing about botty gas. People start off being polite and pretending it’s not happening, and then after years of ignoring it they don’t even notice it any more. Not even when it’s erupting all around them.

  Me and Grandpa notice it.

  We notice it a lot.

  Mum and Dad do as well, probably because Grandpa goes on about it when he’s had a few glasses of tomato wine.

  ‘It gives me great pleasure,’ says the woman from the government, ‘to unveil this monument to two very special Australians.’

  Her assistant puts down his briefcase and grabs hold of the ropes attached to the big tarpaulin. He pulls on them and the tarpaulin slides down and ends up in a heap at his feet.

  A bit like my insides.

  That’s what it feels like.

  We all stare up at the Big Tomato. It’s the tallest man-made structure in town except for the surf lifesaving tower, and it’s definitely the brightest. Ken Bullock in the hardware store was mixing red paint for days.

  When the crowd quietens down, as much as any crowd these days can, the woman from the government steps closer to Grandpa.

  ‘And now,’ she says, ‘please welcome this year’s Australian Of The Year, Noel Webber.’

  She holds the microphone out to Grandpa, who doesn’t even see it.

  He’s staring over at the shimmering ocean with a smile on his face, which is what he spends most of his time doing when he’s not actually swimming or snorkelling. Mum reckons his brain might be a bit waterlogged, but I know that’s not it.

  Think about it. For the first sixty years of Grandpa’s life, this town was hundreds of kilometres inland. Grandpa only ever saw the sea on telly. Now, thanks to melting ice and rising sea levels, we’re a coastal resort.

  Grandpa can’t believe his luck.

  None of us can.

  We’re happier than wallabies in wellies, which is a description I included in my science essay, but I only got four out of twenty.

  I give Grandpa a nudge. He
sees the microphone and takes it. We look at each other. Neither of us feels very happy right at this moment.

  In front of the stage, lots of media cameras are pointed at us.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ says Grandpa. ‘Thank you for your kindness, but I can’t accept this honour. I don’t deserve to be Australian Of The Year.’

  People are gasping.

  Bits of tomato sandwich are dropping from open mouths.

  ‘We told a lie about where the new tomatoes came from,’ says Grandpa. ‘My grandson didn’t really find a tomato plant in a paddock. What really happened was that I took an ordinary everyday tomato plant and did a bit of cross-pollinating in my greenhouse. Then I made up the paddock story so people would think the new tomato was natural and just as nature intended.’

  The crowd has gone dead silent. All I can hear is the sound of the sea and the gulls and the gas escaping from multiple bottoms.

  ‘We’re sorry,’ says Grandpa.

  I nod to show I am too.

  The woman from the government is looking a bit shocked. She pulls herself together and puts her hand on Grandpa’s shoulder.

  ‘We accept your apology,’ she says into the microphone. ‘The fact remains, you created a wonder tomato for the benefit of the world, and we want to honour you for that.’

  The crowd applauds and whistles.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Grandpa. ‘But there’s another reason we can’t accept this reward. It’s hard to put into words, but every time somebody eats one of our tomatoes somewhere in the world, that’s reward enough for us.’

  I nod to show I agree.

  The crowd is looking sort of puzzled. You know, like the eskimos when their igloos started melting and they knew they hadn’t left the oven on. In social studies I wrote a letter to Iceland to say sorry, but when I showed it to Grandpa he made me tear it up, which meant I got nought out of twenty.

  ‘I hope you understand,’ Grandpa says to the crowd.

  They just stare back at him.

  I don’t think they do.

  Grandpa has been controlling himself very well so far, but now he stops clenching his buttocks and blows off big time.

  I know what he’s doing. Trying to give everyone a clue to help them understand.

  The woman from the government is looking totally confused.

  ‘Please,’ she says. ‘Just accept the honour.’

  ‘Sorry,’ says Grandpa. ‘I’d rather not.’

  ‘Me neither,’ I say. ‘It wouldn’t be right.’

  ‘But I don’t understand,’ says the woman, putting her hand over the microphone. ‘You don’t get any money from the tomatoes. What reward are you talking about?’

  The crowd, which is frowning and muttering and giving off a lot of gas, obviously doesn’t understand either.

  I feel sick with nerves, but I take the microphone to explain to them.

  ‘Our reward,’ I say, ‘is that our tomatoes make people fart.’

  Some people in the crowd look shocked. But only because I used a rude word. They still don’t get it.

  Before I can continue, Grandpa takes the microphone from me and switches it off.

  ‘Careful, Dougie,’ he murmurs.

  At first I think Grandpa means the rude word too. Then I realise what he’s saying. We’ve done the right thing and confessed. No point getting ourselves in extra trouble.

  ‘It’s OK, Grandpa,’ I reply quietly. ‘You can trust me.’

  I bite into a big red juicy tomato and sit back in my favourite chair, the cane one in Grandpa’s greenhouse with the view out to sea.

  I blow off, a long slow one that fills the greenhouse with a sweet tomatoey smell.

  Grandpa doesn’t mind. He’s sitting next to me in his favourite chair doing the same.

  He points down the hill towards the surf club.

  ‘They’re nearly finished,’ he says.

  He’s right. The painters working on the Big Tomato have nearly finished painting it white.

  ‘That was a clever idea of your mum and dad’s,’ says Grandpa. ‘Turning it into the Big Golf Ball. When you’ve got the biggest caravan park in Australia, adding a beachside golf course is a top idea.’

  Grandpa is right, it was a top idea. And a kind one.

  A lot of the city folk in the caravan park need cheering up. It can’t be easy, living in your four-wheel drive and spending all your time staring miserably at the sea and thinking about the place you used to live in that’s now under water. Perhaps a bit of golf will help them feel better.

  I hope so.

  Grandpa has stood up and is pottering about up the other end of the greenhouse, watering his special plants. The onion weed and the kelp and the soy bean bushes and all the others. The ones he cross-pollinated with the tomato plants to get the side-effect he was after.

  Grandpa’s quite old and old people like to keep things for nostalgia. I’m young, but I know how he feels. We owe a lot to those plants.

  Grandpa sits back down.

  ‘Talking of clever ideas,’ he says. ‘Remember five years ago when the sea was still a hundred kilometres away and it didn’t look like it’d ever reach us and all we had here was a drought-struck town full of dead sheep and unemployed people?’

  I nod.

  I’ll never forget it.

  Mum and Dad didn’t have a job for the first six years of my life.

  Grandpa’s getting that misty far-away look in his eyes that old people get when they’re having happy memories.

  ‘Remember the day you asked me why the sea wasn’t coming here any more?’ says Grandpa. ‘And I explained the ice had stopped melting because global warming was slowing down. Coal was running out and petrol was scarce and electricity was very expensive and people weren’t making so much greenhouse gas and… what was it you said?’

  When Grandpa’s having these memories he likes me to say exactly the same words I said five years ago.

  I don’t mind. I know them off by heart.

  ‘You’ve got a greenhouse, Grandpa,’ I recite. ‘Why don’t you make some greenhouse gas?’

  Grandpa stares out to sea with a big smile on his face and I know what he’s thinking.

  About the millions of people all over the world who’ve been eating our tomatoes for the last five years and blowing off.

  I smile too because I know what he’s going to say next and it always makes me feel happy. Even being Young Australian Of The Year wouldn’t make me feel happier. The only time I feel happier is when I see Mum and Dad busy and content in their caravan park by the sea.

  ‘That greenhouse gas idea was brilliant, Dougie,’ says Grandpa. ‘Twenty out of twenty.’

  Think Big

  MY SCIENCE PROJECT

  BY

  TRACY SPICER

  6W, ORCHID COVE PUBLIC SCHOOL,

  NORTH QUEENSLAND, AUSTRALIA, THE WORLD,

  THE SOLAR SYSTEM, THE MILKY WAY GALAXY,

  THE VIRGO SUPERCLUSTER, POSTCODE 4879.

  PURPOSE

  The purpose of this science project is to collect data, do research, carry out an experiment, and with a bit of luck get Mum off that dopey diet Aunty Bev has got her on.

  INTRODUCTION

  Things are really crook. Mum’s gone mental about food. She reckons everything goes to her thighs. Even fish fingers. I tried to explain scientifically that’s bull. Food goes to your tummy, then your bum tube. But Mum won’t listen and I’m desperate. I haven’t had chips for weeks. Mum steams everything. Even fish fingers.

  I asked Dad to help me with the project. But he reckons getting people to do your homework is dishonest and could lead to a life of crime. It’s OK for him, he goes fishing every night after work, then has a fry-up in the shed. He does offer to share his fish with me, but I can’t eat them because of the tiny bones. Is there a biological reason why fish can’t have drumsticks?

  Anyway, I kept on at Dad about helping me. I read somewhere that a good scientist never takes no for an answer. Finally Dad
blew his top and told me the scientific reason why he doesn’t want to help. He hates taking sides between me and Mum. He reckons he’d rather suck snake venom out of Doug Walcott’s big toe. Which he did once, so I suppose he knows what he’s talking about.

  DATA COLLECTED SO FAR

  1. When your Dad calms down and gives you a hug, it feels really good. Even when he’s on the way to the shed and he’s got a coral trout inside his shirt.

  2. Mum will never be as thin as Aunty Bev. It’s not scientifically possible. Aunty Bev has worn skin-tight pink jeans all her life and they’ve stopped her leg flesh from spreading. Plus she does that trick supermodels do. You know, wears really big dangly plastic earrings to make her body look smaller.

  3. Aunty Bev has started a local Weightwatchers group. Except Weightwatchers won’t let her use their name because she swore at them on the phone. So she’s calling her group Think Small. It meets at our place on Thursday nights after that show on telly about fat people.

  4. Mum doesn’t want to be on a diet. Most of the time these days her face is longer than a school term. Plus she’s got chocolate fingers hidden in her bra drawer. Aunty Bev is making Mum starve herself. She’s Mum’s big sister measured in years, but she’s always nagging Mum about Mum being the one who’s bigger measured in fat globules.

  5. I hate seeing Mum unhappy.

  6. I’m also worried that Mum might want us to move away. Up here in the tropics 99.999% of people wear shorts and t-shirts so your body can breathe. (The other 0.001% of people wear skin-tight pink jeans.) Now that Mum thinks she’s fat she’ll probably want us all to move to some cold place where people cover up with heaps of clothes. My friend Keith lives in England and some days it’s so cold there he wears three pairs of jeans. Under his school pants.

  7. Dad reckons Mum’s fatness is all in her head and I think he’s right. Mum is actually quite small if you compare her to the average height for a human. And her average weight is definitely not heavier than average. It’s not Mum’s fault she’s deluded and obsessed. Aunty Bev can be harder to shake off than stringy snot. Which is why I’m using science to help Mum see the truth.