Belly Flop

by Morris Gleitzman

She said it was for a project, which is almost true.

  Pretty smart thinking, eh Doug?

  Water’s water, even if it is a bit rusty.

  If all the kids are as on the ball as Carla, we’ll have the pool filled in no time.

  OK, not all the kids are as on the ball as Carla.

  Just now going into class Danielle Wicks saw me and tried to walk the other way so I cornered her.

  She showed me what she’d collected.

  Half a bottle.

  Half a bottle from a family of seven.

  ‘What about all the people having showers at your place?’ I asked.

  ‘We don’t get showers on Thursdays,’ said Danielle, ‘just a bath with all of us using the same water.’

  I looked at her half bottle in amazement.

  ‘Seven of you have a bath in that much water?’ I said.

  ‘Don’t be a pin brain,’ she said. ‘We use heaps more than that but Ryan goes last and he lets the dogs drink it.’

  I asked her to keep her voice down. We were pretty close to the offices and Ms Dorrit’s got ears like a council irrigation inspector.

  Quietly I suggested to Danielle that the more she can stop their dogs running around and getting thirsty, the quicker we’ll have the pool filled.

  She scowled.

  ‘Listen, smarty pants,’ she said, ‘don’t get bossy just cause you can pinch crates of bank water. Your dad and his poxy bank are the reason our family’s living in a poxy house in town in the first place with three dogs going mental in the yard.’

  I decided not to get into an argument.

  Life must be pretty tough for the Wicks’s, plus when Danielle gets worked up her voice can be heard for miles.

  I started to quietly explain to her that the bank doesn’t supply its staff with water, just tea and coffee.

  Danielle unscrewed her bottle and tried to tip it over my head.

  With another 499,986 litres still to get we can’t afford to waste water, so I shut up.

  Most of the kids are trying to avoid me.

  Andy Howard reckons trying to fill the pool is a dopey idea and that his mum’s pot plants need the water more cause if her cherry tomatoes die she’ll kill him.

  Matthew Conn hasn’t collected a drop.

  He says his dad goes really crook if anyone in his family has a shower or washes clothes and doesn’t use the water to top up the radiator in the truck.

  I just bailed up Sean Howe in the boys’ dunny.

  He hasn’t collected a drop either.

  He reckons he doesn’t dare cause his mum and dad use all their cooking water for making beer.

  He offered to pee into a bottle, but I said no.

  You’d think, wouldn’t you Doug, that a townful of fairly intelligent kids could do a simple thing like save household water.

  Jeez.

  I can see why Mr Tristos gets so stressed when he has to try and organise everyone for sport. If I had a moustache like Mr Tristos I’d be chewing it right now, I can tell you.

  I’ve just wasted three hours after school waiting for kids to turn up with some water.

  OK, the time wasn’t completely wasted. The first hour I spent clearing rubbish out of the pool changing rooms so we’ve got some-where to stack the full bottles.

  The next hour I spent finding the Stegnjaaics’ old inflatable plastic swimming pool at the dump and dragging empty bottles back in it and hiding them in the pool kiosk.

  But the last hour I just waited.

  And did some thinking.

  I reckon I know now what the problem is, Doug.

  None of those kids believe in you.

  None of them believe you can save them from being sprung by their parents and whacked round the head with wilting pot plants and dried-up home-brewing kits.

  There must be something we can do to change that.

  Sorry to disturb you so late, Doug, but I’ve thought of something.

  I’m not sure if you’re going to like it.

  Or even if it’s possible.

  Oh well, here goes.

  What I’m hoping, Doug, is that angels can stop being invisible for a bit and appear to kids.

  You know, if there’s a really really important reason for them to do it, like saving a town and a dad.

  I’ve been thinking about it for hours since I went to bed and I reckon it is possible.

  I read in the paper once about some kids in Peru who said they saw an angel, and I reckon they were telling the truth. I reckon Dad was wrong about them having fried their brains from sitting too close to their computer screens.

  If their angel could appear to them, I reckon you could appear to a group of kids in this town standing on your head.

  Not actually standing on your head but, though you can if you want.

  In a blaze of light would be better.

  With fireworks in the background.

  And maybe some laser beams or something.

  If I arrange things this end, could you do it tomorrow night?

  Please?

  It’s all set, Doug.

  Wasn’t easy, but.

  None of the kids believed me at first.

  ‘Bull,’ said Matthew Conn.

  ‘As if,’ said Jacquie Chaplin.

  ‘Jeez, you’re a pin brain,’ said Danielle Wicks.

  ‘It’s true,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ sneered Andy Howard. ‘What’s this angel gunna do after he’s appeared, drop into the Gas ‘N’ Gobble for some hot chips and a grease and oil change on his wings?’

  The others all laughed, which just shows how desperate kids in this town are for real entertainment.

  I frantically tried to think of something to take their minds off being pikers.

  ‘It’ll be pretty spectacular,’ I said. ‘Fireworks, probably.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Cathy Saxby. ‘Seeing as there’s been a total fire ban for the last eight years.’

  ‘Pin brain,’ said Danielle Wicks.

  They started to wander off.

  I was losing them.

  Then Carla saved me.

  ‘If Doug does show up,’ she said, ‘where’s he gunna show up at?’

  Her eyes were glittering and I couldn’t tell if she was having a go at me or not.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Troy and Brent Malley walking towards me across the playground with mean faces and that was when I had the idea.

  ‘The Malleys’ place,’ I said loudly. ‘Doug’s gunna appear tonight down by the creek bed at the Malleys’ place.’

  The other kids stopped and turned and looked at Troy and Brent.

  My mouth was dryer than a garden tap, but I made it keep on talking.

  ‘And when the world hears about it,’ I said to Troy and Brent, ‘your place’ll probably become a top tourist attraction and you won’t have to move.’

  Troy and Brent looked at each other.

  Then they looked at me.

  ‘Fair dinkum?’ said Troy.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  The other kids looked at me and then at Troy and Brent again and then at me again.

  Brent put his face close to mine.

  ‘If you’re bulling, we’ll do you,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ I said.

  ‘What time?’ asked Sean Howe.

  I told them about eight.

  Hope that’s OK with you, Doug.

  We’re all here, Doug, and the other kids are getting a bit restless.

  Troy and Brent reckon if you don’t appear in the next minute they’re gunna stab me.

  It’s too dark to see if they’ve got knives, but even if they haven’t there’s heaps of other things they could use out here in the scrub. Dry spinifex, for example. They’ll find sharp bits easily, specially now the other kids are offering to help them look.

  Carla’s trying to calm them down.

  She’s telling them to go easy on me because I’m not a badperson, I’m just a bit of an idiot.

&
nbsp; Sometimes I wish she wouldn’t help quite so much.

  I’ve already told them you’re a bit late cause you’re probably trying to decide what to wear.

  Anything’ll do, Doug.

  Robes, a loincloth, overalls, anything.

  And if the fireworks and lasers are holding things up, forget about them.

  I’ve got a torch.

  I did have a torch.

  Troy and Brent have just taken it.

  I think they’re looking for a snake.

  I think they’re muttering something about my pants.

  I can’t hear exactly cause the other kids are sniggering too loudly.

  Hurry, Doug, please.

  Yes.

  At last.

  You’re here.

  Thank you.

  The others have seen you too.

  That’s a great idea Doug, just having two beams of light instead of anything too flashy.

  They look a bit like headlights coming towards us.

  They are headlights.

  Jeez, you’re clever Doug.

  Other angels would have floated down on a shimmering cloud with blinding special effects going off all over the place, but you’ve turned up in an ordinary old four-wheel drive so as not to scare anyone.

  I can’t believe it, Doug.

  I’ve waited so long to meet you.

  I’m so happy.

  The tears are just cause your headlights are dazzling me a bit.

  I’m over here.

  The one waving.

  You’re waving too, I can see you now.

  Leaning out of the driver’s window.

  Yelling.

  Oh no, you’re angry.

  I must have dragged you away from something important.

  Doug, I’m sorry, but now you’re here you’ll see that this is important too.

  Look, the kids are all gawping.

  Now they can see you with their own eyes they know they’re being looked after by a real live top-quality guardian angel who’ll keep them safe in even the riskiest water-bottling situations and . . .

  Hang on a sec, Doug.

  That’s not you.

  I know that voice.

  I know that face.

  I don’t get it, Doug.

  OK, I know you not turning up tonight must have been because you were flat out.

  Guiding a school bus through a burning carwash, something like that.

  And I know that not being able to answer my call would have probably made you feel pretty crook.

  So sending someone else would have seemed like a good idea at the time.

  But, Doug, why Dad?

  I guess even angels don’t always think straight when they’re in the middle of a major rescue with blazing hoses and melting plastic buckets all around them.

  If you’d had a moment to gather your thoughts you’d have realised that almost anyone would have been a better choice.

  Mum.

  Gran.

  Mr Bullock with burning banknotes sticking out of his bum.

  Anyone but Dad.

  I’ve told you heaps of times how clumsy Dad gets when he’s stressed.

  One of the things that stresses him most is me being out in the bush at night.

  He’s got this thing about it ever since Marija Stegnjaaic got bitten by a scorpion at night and her tongue turned black.

  This evening when Dad turned up at the Malleys’ place he was so stressed he couldn’t even drive properly.

  He was crunching the gears so much he sounded like Gran eating chocolate crackles. That’s why I thought it was you at first, Doug. Angels probably don’t get much practice driving four-wheel drives.

  The other kids weren’t fooled.

  They did stare at the four-wheel drive with their mouths open, but only after Dad had driven into a tree.

  ‘Mitch,’ he yelled after he’d checked for dents. ‘Get in the vehicle.’

  ‘That’s not an angel,’ said Sean Howe. ‘That’s your dad.’

  ‘You’re mental, Mitch Webber,’ hissed Cathy Saxby. ‘You should be living in sheltered accommodation.’

  I got into the car, but only because I could see Troy and Brent in the headlights running over to the house to tell Mr and Mrs Malley about their only tree.

  Dad glared at me, then stuck his head out the window again.

  ‘The rest of you stay here,’ he yelled to the others. ‘Your parents are on the way.’

  The other kids looked at each other, then glared at me.

  I couldn’t hear what they were saying because Dad was revving the engine so much.

  I didn’t need to.

  I’m getting pretty good at lip-reading swear words.

  The four-wheel drive shot backwards.

  And stopped.

  Dad revved the engine even more.

  ‘You can thank your lucky stars,’ he shouted at me while he did it, ‘that Ryan Wicks spilled the beans to his folks about tonight’s little fiasco.’

  Doug, I reckon that’s really low.

  Was that the only way you could get Dad out to the Malleys’ tonight, by using a little kid like Ryan?

  When Danielle finds out he dobbed, she’ll kill him.

  It was low, but not as low as what happened when Dad finally stopped revving the engine and found we were bogged in sand.

  ‘Give us a push,’ he yelled to the other kids. ‘Please.’

  None of them moved.

  And when their parents arrived, none of them helped either.

  They just looked at me and Dad stuffing sticks under the wheels and turned away.

  Some even sniggered.

  Even Carla didn’t help, but that was probably because she was depending on Danielle Wicks’ parents for a lift and she didn’t want to offend them.

  ‘I tried to tell you,’ she said as she walked past. ‘Only dopes believe in guardian angels.’

  She had to say that cause Danielle was with her.

  Me and Dad were there for hours.

  Mr and Mrs Malley threatened to have us arrested for trespassing and soil erosion.

  Finally we got unbogged.

  ‘That Fiami girl, she’s right about guardian angels,’ was all Dad said on the way home.

  I didn’t say anything.

  Carla’s right about a lot of stuff but she’s not right about that.

  She’s not, is she Doug?

  I can’t sleep.

  My eyes keep watering.

  I’ve been telling myself it’s the sand in my undies pricking me, but it’s not.

  It’s what happened tonight.

  First at the Malleys’ and then just now.

  I heard Gran get up and go out to the kitchen so I got up too and went out for a chat.

  ‘Want a chocolate crackle?’ asked Gran.

  She gets pains in her legs at night and chocolate helps.

  I shook my head.

  ‘Gran,’ I said, ‘am I too old to have a guardian angel?’

  Gran looked at me and took a big puff of her cigarette.

  I felt myself flinch, and it wasn’t because I was scared she’d cough chocolate crackle over me.

  It was because I was scared of what her answer would be.

  She blew the smoke out and then did something she hasn’t done for ages.

  Came over and gave me a hug.

  ‘Jeez Mitch,’ she said quietly, ‘if I’d known it was gunna go on this long I’d never have started it.’

  I pulled away from her.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I said.

  My chest felt all tight, and it wasn’t because I’d strained it pushing the car.

  Gran took another mouthful and another puff.

  ‘When I told you that story about Doug,’ she said, ‘you weren’t even knee-high to a tick.’

  My chest suddenly felt like a water bag when people are squeezing it to get the last drops out.

  ‘Story,’ I said. ‘What story?’

  ‘You’d wake up bawling,’ s
aid Gran. ‘When it rained. Used to do that in those days. You were only three and a bit but you had galvanised-iron lungs. Your mum was tuckered out and your dad was hopeless, so I used to come over and tell you a story. About Doug, your guardian angel.’

  She reached over and gripped my arm.

  Her fingers were really strong for a senior citizen.

  ‘Mitch,’ she said quietly, ‘mate, it was just a story.’

  I stared at her and waited for my mouth to stop twitching.

  So I could tell her that she’d got it wrong.

  That you’re not a story, Doug, you’re true.

  She’d said so herself.

  Night after night.

  I clenched my teeth and pointed this out to her and started reminding her of some stuff.

  How you saved me from the Malleys.

  Twice.

  Then I realised she couldn’t hear a word over the coughing fit she was having.

  I slapped her on the back and poured her a beer and I was just about to start again when Mum came in with half-open eyes moaning about the racket and sent us both back to bed.

  ‘If you wake Dad,’ she growled at me, ‘after what you put him through earlier tonight, you’re dingo bait.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I mumbled.

  Gran grabbed me outside my room.

  For a sec, Doug, I thought she was going to tell me she’d been having a lend of me and that you were as real as the yellow stains on her fingers.

  She didn’t.

  She just gave me another hug, which was sweet of her even though it nearly dislocated my ear.

  ‘We don’t need angels, old mate,’ she said. ‘We can look after each other, en?’

  I looked at her crumpled ancient face and realised what’s happened.

  It’s tragic, eh Doug, when old people start to lose their grip.

  I should have spotted it earlier.

  Gran’s been putting her lipstick on wobbly for some time now.

  Jeez, she gave me a scare, but.

  Imagine if you were really just someone she’d made up?

  If you didn’t exist?

  I’d be on my own.

  Just me and dog poo for my birthday and a dad people won’t help even when he’s up to his axles.

  Just thinking about it’s making my eyes go drippy.

  I hate it when brains do this.

  Get flooded with scary thoughts late at night.

  It’s OK, Doug.

  I know you do really exist.

  That’s why I’m just sniffling a bit.