Cannily, Cannily

by Simon French

  “I wish they’d quit going on about football,” Martin said as the two of them walked along the town’s darkening streets. “I’m getting sick of football, anyway.”

  “Are you?” Trevor was surprised.

  Martin didn’t reply directly. “Anyway,” he said at last, “I’m glad you’re staying at my place tonight. Bit of a change from having to talk to some dumb cousin.”

  The theatre was alive with activity. A blaze of neon lights contrasting brilliantly with the darkness of the evening threw light on to the people that crowded the steps and the foyer. Out on the street, cars drove back and forth, searching for the convenient parking spaces that were fast disappearing. The crowd was mostly the local kids, a few parents, a lot of teenagers and a few strange people that were obviously tourists. A good double feature in the small town always attracted a crowd, and tonight was no exception.

  The team had grouped together in the foyer, and were busy eyeing the tourists, calling out to other kids they knew, and speculating about the evening’s movie.

  “Should be a scary one.”

  “You reckon?”

  “Lots of blood and guts–”

  “Shooting–”

  “… and some dumb cartoon on first.”

  “Who’s got the tickets?”

  “Whose, ours?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Bradley’s got them. He’s in charge of them.”

  “Who said?”

  “Mr Fuller.”

  “Where’s Mr Fuller?”

  “He’s not here, stupid. He never comes along, you know that.”

  “Prob’ly down at the club.”

  “Prob’ly.”

  Trevor meanwhile had ducked off to the theatre kiosk to put the money Buckley had given him to practical use. Presently he returned to the foyer clutching a packet of lollies.

  “Well, c’mon Brad,” Jason said impatiently, “hand the tickets out. They’re not all yours, y’know.”

  “Okay, okay, don’t get your knickers in a knot …”

  Bradley dealt out to the clamouring team with maddening slowness.

  “Where’s mine?” Trevor asked hesitantly, when it seemed that everyone else except him had received a ticket.

  Brad looked at him seriously for a moment. “Hey, the midget reserve’s here,” he said in a loud jesting voice. “Didn’t get a ticket for you, Huon. Guess you’ll have to go home.”

  A few of the kids laughed. Brad mimicked Trevor’s dumbfounded face, before holding a ticket up. “Ha, sucked in again, Huon,” he said, and threw the ticket in the air for Trevor to catch. At that moment, the foyer lights dimmed around them. They stampeded into the black vastness of the theatre with the rest of the crowd.

  The usherette, a fierce woman wielding a powerful waterproof torch, occasionally interrupted the darkness inside the theatre by shining the torch across the audience in search of troublemakers. During the course of the evening she kicked several out, although a couple of these employed commando tactics and successfully crawled back to their seats. And when it seemed the theatre was getting a bit stuffy, the usherette climbed the stairs to the rear of the theatre and opened the louvre windows. Battalions of mosquitoes were carried in on an arctic breeze.

  Protests rang out in the darkness.

  “Who opened the bloody windows?”

  “Yeah, we’re freezing down here in the stalls.”

  The waterproof torch flashed on and scanned the theatre. There was instant quiet, and the movie laboured on. Somebody rolled an empty drink can down the aisle steps into the stalls at the front, and occasionally, paper missiles whizzed through the darkness. A deep voice in the dress circle provided a very uncensored commentary on what the movie stars could have been saying, but weren’t. There were bursts of appreciative laughter, until the usherette’s torchlight silenced the audience once more.

  The team sat in a group in the stalls, along with a multitude of other locals. Apart from Michael O’Leary being threatened with expulsion, the kids managed miraculously to escape the wrath of the usherette, an elderly lady who claimed to know the local children better than their parents did. At a strategic point in the movie, Trevor opened his packet of lollies and greedily ate three or four in one mouthful. It didn’t take long for Martin, who was next to him, to detect the location of the sweets.

  “Hey,” he whispered to Trevor, “how’s about giving us one?”

  Trevor shrugged, and handed him the packet.

  “Only one, but.”

  Martin said loudly, “Who wants a lolly?”

  The response was immediate, and before Trevor could retrieve the packet, it had disappeared down along the row.

  “Jeez, thanks Martin.”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  A few other appreciative voices were heard.

  “They weren’t mine, they were Trevor’s,” said Martin.

  “Gee, thanks, Huon. You’re really generous.”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  The usherette’s torch flashed on, and the kids’ silence resumed.

  “You’re a rat, Martin,” Trevor eventually whispered angrily as the packet was returned to him, empty.

  “What?” Martin whispered back.

  “I said, you’re a rat. That was really low.”

  “Aw, stop being a sook, Huon. Jeez you’re a baby sometimes.”

  On the theatre screen another villain died. The audience cheered appreciatively, the usherette’s torch flashed on yet again, another drink can rolled down the aisle, and someone burped very loudly.

  Trevor meanwhile watched the movie blankly and decided that he wasn’t enjoying it at all. He started thinking instead about how he could avoid staying the night at Martin’s.

  When the lights came on at the interval, before the next movie, he walked outside in the midst of the jostling crowd. He successfully separated himself from the rest of the team, who all seemed intent on getting themselves a prime position at the counter of the theatre kiosk, and stood for a while by himself near the theatre entrance. It was taking a little time to decide just what to do.

  Unnoticed, he slowly moved away from the general crowd and walked further and further from the theatre’s dazzle until he was in the dimmed light of the deserted shopping centre. Then he ran for a short distance, his footsteps echoing hollowly on the cement footpath, past the shop fronts, past the service station into the tranquil chill of the evening. Eventually his run broke to a walk and he made the effort then to walk slowly, ambling along the outlying streets to the caravan park.

  He found walking in the darkness surprisingly pleasant, because the town assumed a completely different mood at night. The Norfolk pines swished eerily in the breeze, the houses cast their light through curtain-covered windows. Looming behind the town was the shadow of the mountains and above, the stars and the gathering mist.

  He worked now over the consequences of arriving unexpectedly at the caravan park, and wondered what Kath and Buckley might say. Whatever their response, he felt almost sure that leaving the theatre had been the right thing for him to do. The day’s football match and Mrs Grace’s comments still rang clearly in his mind.

  Abruptly, the day’s experiences began forming themselves into words and sentences in his mind. He came to the neon-lit entrance of the caravan park, resolving to write it all down, somehow.

  The lights in the caravan were still on, and faintly he could hear Kath and Buckley playing their guitars and singing songs.

  Just then, he remembered that he’d left his shoulder bag back at Martin Grace’s.

  ELEVEN

  “I think an apology’s in order, Trev.”

  “Well, his mother wasn’t very nice. She’s the main reason I didn’t stay.”

  “What do you mean, ‘not very nice’?”

  “Well, she, um … I dunno. Just the way she spoke to me.”

  Kath sighed. “I wasn’t there so I won’t enter into that particular discussion. But apologise to Martin, at least.”
>
  “Oh Mum!”

  “I mean, it’s not very nice leaving your friend in the lurch like that. You were invited to stay, after all.”

  “I’m not sure he is my friend.”

  “Trevor!”

  “All right,” he sighed, “I’ll apologise.”

  He walked off then and sulked for a while, feeling angry, feeling that he was right and that Kath, for once, was wrong. The more he thought about it, the more he felt that not staying at Martin’s had been the only thing to do. Mrs Grace’s hostility was still fresh in his mind, subtly expressed as it might have been. The way she had watched him, the things she had said … or had she really? For a moment he thought he could have imagined it, but then uncomfortably remembered what he had heard Mrs Grace saying about Kath and Buckley at the football match.

  I didn’t imagine it, he thought with some decisiveness, she really thinks we’re no good. Sure of it now, he glared around the caravan park, hating the coloured lights between the trees, dull now, in the morning sunshine, and the untidy clutter of vehicles and buildings. His mind moved to familiar thoughts about being somewhere else.

  “G’day, Trev,” said a voice beside him.

  Trevor frowned, turning to look at Martin.

  “You left your bag behind,” Martin said when Trevor remained silent. “I brought it back for you.” He held up the patchwork shoulder bag.

  “Thanks,” Trevor replied without much enthusiasm.

  “Thought you might need it back, eh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where’re you going?” Martin had to run a few steps to catch up with Trevor, who was striding back to the caravan.

  “Just to put my bag away,” Trevor replied. Once at his own campsite, he ducked into the annexe and threw the bag into the back of the kombi.

  “So this is where you live,” Martin said with some interest, peering about at the caravan, kombi and array of family possessions. “Jeez, is that your surfboard?”

  Trevor walked outside again. “Surprised your mother let you come around here,” he said with some sarcasm.

  “How come you’re in such a bad mood?” Martin asked.

  Trevor shrugged. “I’m not in a bad mood. I just wondered.”

  “Then how come you took off last night?”

  They were standing a short distance from the caravan and kombi now, Trevor with his hands in his jeans pockets and his eyes fixed on the ground, Martin shifting his weight from foot to foot, restlessly trying to make some sense of everything.

  “Well?” Martin asked. “How come you didn’t stay?”

  For a moment, it was hard not to lump Martin in with Mrs Grace, and Trevor was about to launch into his earlier thoughts about unfairness when he heard a rapping noise at one of the caravan windows. He looked up to see Kath’s face behind the glass, frowning and pointing at Martin. This particular sign language Trevor read as meaning, “Apologise!” – as if he needed further reminders.

  “What does your mother want?”

  “Nothing,” Trevor answered and flashed Martin a glance. “I’m sorry about leaving last night.”

  “Then how come you did?” Martin asked belligerently, more interested in explanations than apologies.

  “I just did.”

  “Jeez, you’re slack.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You are. My parents weren’t real pleased.”

  “Well, that’s their bad luck.”

  “See? You’re just slack.”

  “I’m not. There were special reasons.”

  “Huh!”

  Trevor turned and walked away, heading towards the fringe of trees and the steel-framed playground equipment.

  “See?” Martin called after him. “You’re just weak. Can’t take anything anyone says about you. I try to be your friend and this is what I get.” He watched as Trevor sat down on one of the swings and stared stonily into space. “Bloody sissy!” Martin added for good measure, remaining where he’d stopped for a while longer, pondering over the stupidity of some people. But eventually he walked over and sat down on the swing next to Trevor.

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “If you’re trying to be my friend,” Trevor said, kicking one foot in the dust, “how come you give me such a hard time?”

  “I don’t!” Martin protested. “You just can’t take the things I say. Haven’t you ever had friends who have goes at you?”

  “No.”

  Martin sighed. “No wonder you’re so soft. Like Fuller says–”

  “Fuller’s an idiot. Even you said that.”

  “Like Fuller says, one day you’ll turn into a girl.”

  “He’s hung up if he thinks that’s the worst insult. At least the girls don’t go round trying to prove they’re better than each other, like you guys on the footy team do.”

  “You’re on the team, too.”

  “So what?”

  “So how come you wanted to play in the first place?”

  “To prove I wasn’t as stupid as you all thought I was.”

  “Huh.”

  “You think I’m stupid.”

  “I think you’re a nut case,” said Martin, and laughed.

  Trevor knew that he was still being stirred, but decided he was sick of the argument and wanted it over and done with.

  “I dunno why you even bother turning up for training and for games,” Martin said. “Fuller’ll never let you play.”

  “I know that.”

  “He just doesn’t trust you. Especially after finding out you never played before.”

  Trevor nodded.

  “If I were you, I’d give up. Forget about it. You’ve had heaps off everyone already.”

  “I don’t want to give up.”

  Martin rolled his eyes in mild exasperation as Trevor started absently pushing backwards and forwards on the swing.

  “You’ll never get to play a single game,” Martin continued, but with a brooding sort of note to his voice. “Didn’t do any good sticking up for you in the first place.”

  Trevor kept swinging, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Martin said at last.

  Trevor brought the swing to a squeaking halt. “What did you say?”

  “An idea. To get you to play.” Seeing a faint glimmer of mistrust on Trevor’s face, Martin hastily added, “I’m serious.”

  “What sort of idea?”

  “You really want to play, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. I guess so.”

  “Okay. We’ve got three reserves. You, Andrew and Jason. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, if two kids on the field get hurt, two of the reserves go on to replace them. If another kid who’s on the field gets hurt, the third reserve – that’s you – has to go on.”

  “That’s mad,” Trevor grimaced. “What if three kids don’t get hurt?”

  “They don’t get hurt at all,” said Martin with a grin, “because they’ll be pretending.”

  “It won’t work,” said Trevor with finality.

  “Well, you think of a better idea then,” answered Martin.

  As always, Martin was persistent.

  By Tuesday or Wednesday he had seemingly forgotten about arguing with Trevor over the weekend and was now convinced that his scheme was going to work.

  “I’ve talked to some of the other kids,” he told Trevor, “and they said they’ll be in it.”

  “They’d better be good actors, then,” Trevor said with some apprehension. “Pretending they’ve been injured.”

  “You’ll have to be a good actor, too. Pretending you can play.” When Trevor looked offended, Martin added, “Well, we know you can play. But you know what I mean …”

  “Yeah. Sure.” The more Trevor thought about the idea, the more it seemed that it would never work.

  “Your big chance,” Martin kept reminding him.

  Sitting in the classroom, surrounded by the other kids bent over compre
hension exercises, Trevor dwelt on the absurdity of other kids pretending to be injured on a football field, just so that he could go out there and prove to someone that he was capable of chasing after a ball. It was a crazy idea, but slowly he convinced himself that it was going to happen and that it had to work.

  “Stand up, Trevor Huon.”

  Surprised out of daydreaming, Trevor duly pushed his chair back and stood beside his desk.

  Mr Fuller solemnly held up a familiar exercise book.

  “Know what this is, Trevor Huon?”

  “My writing book,” Trevor replied without expression, “sir.”

  “Exactly. And if I were you, I wouldn’t be proud of it.”

  The rest of the class had started to divert their attention from comprehension exercises, but a reprimanding glance from the teacher caused faces to be pointed at desks once more.

  “The writing, as usual, needs improvement,” Mr Fuller continued, “and so does your story. Why is it, Huon, that everyone in the room seems to have imagination, but you don’t?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The teacher’s casual brand of sarcasm showed on his face, which displayed neither anger nor a smile, merely a calculating look that Trevor found uncomfortable to face. Mr Fuller shook the exercise book for emphasis. “I asked everyone in the class to write an imaginary story. Do you know what that means?”

  “Something made up.”

  “Sir!”

  “Sir.”

  “Exactly. Why then did you choose to write an autobiography? Everyone else seemed capable of imagination. They made up their stories. Why not you?”

  “Don’t know, sir.”

  “I don’t particularly want to read about your life story, colourful as it may be.” The teacher paused. “You’ve got less than a week to finish this project. Because you did the wrong thing in the first place, you’re running out of time. By next Monday, I want to see this exercise book with a new story in it. Finished. Understand?”