Nirmolini’s mum had asked him to tea: he remembered the chocolate cake, and Nirmolini sitting beside him at the table, and Mrs Grace asking him about his name, like people often did. They always thought it had to do with birds.
‘It’s Gulliver, really, ’ he’d explained.
‘Gulliver? Like the book?’
He’d nodded. ‘It’s because Mum had me on her travels.’
‘Oh, ’ Mrs Grace had murmured. A bit shocked, Gull thought now, though he hadn’t realised that, back when he was six. And he remembered how Nirmolini, sitting beside him, had said, ‘It’s a good name, Gulliver.’
And all that had been seven whole years ago. Wasn’t seven a magic number? And there was something magical about meeting a girl you’d last seen when she was five, who’d changed like a princess in a fairytale, so that approaching her house Gull had expected it would be Nirmolini standing in that lighted window, like Rapunzel in her tower, or Sleeping Beauty in her silent castle.
But the face he’d seen there, though he fancied it had a tiny look of Nirmolini, had been very, very old. Her gran, Gull supposed as he swirled into his driveway, where his mum was waiting at the door.
‘I wish you wouldn’t go out skating late at night, ’ she grumbled.
‘Late? It’s only nine-thirty, ’ he told her. ‘A perfectly respectable hour.’
‘Still–’
‘Mum, it’s magic skating at night along those empty streets. You feel the whole world might be yours!’
‘The whole world!’ But her lips curved into a smile.
‘And it gives you these really amazing dreams! You should try it, Mum.’
‘Oh, come on!’ She punched him lightly on the shoulder. ‘Look at me!’ She patted her big fat front. ‘I’d break your precious board in two!’
‘Though perhaps, ’ she added dreamily, ‘one day . . .’
‘One day, ’ echoed Gull. ‘I’ll take you up on that. You’ve made a promise, Mum.’
12
A Spot of Writing
Blocky Stevenson was about to do a spot of writing. He wanted to get that thing of Ms Dallimore’s off his mind, where it hung like a drab black curtain over the better things of life. He wanted it out of the way by Saturday, so he could watch the footy game in peace. Out of the way and done. Kate Sullivan had hers all done, and if Kate Sullivan could do it, so could he. Then he’d be free.
First Blocky arranged his desk. He cleared everything off it: footy mags and crumpled sports pages, socks and jumpers, two mugs that had once held milk and now held mould, a plate with flaky crumbs of pastry and a smear of tomato sauce – and chucked the lot into the bottom of his wardrobe.
Then he took a clean sheet of paper from his work folder and lined it up on the desk: nudging the edges with his big blunt fingers, getting them exactly straight.
Something was missing.
A pen.
Blocky rooted through his school bag, turning up odds and ends he hadn’t seen for months. No pen. He took a bite from a battered old pear and wiped his fingers down his t-shirt.
‘Mum!’ he roared towards the lounge room, where his parents were watching TV. ‘Mum!’
‘Yeah?’ Mrs Stevenson roared back.
‘Do youse know where there’s a pen?’
‘A pen?’ Mrs Stevenson’s roar was muted by surprise.
‘Yeah!’
‘There’s one near the phone!’
Mrs Stevenson turned to her husband. ‘He’s looking for a pen. I think he might be going to do some homework.’
Mr Stevenson grunted. He thought there might be other uses for a pen, at least in Blocky’s case. ‘Probably wants to clean his ears.’
Blocky thumped down the hall towards the telephone. He grabbed the pen and took it to his room.
The sheet of paper had got skewed; Blocky lined up the edges again, smearing them with pear.
‘Geez!’ He crumpled the paper and wiped his fingers more thoroughly down his front; then he took a new sheet, lined it up, and settled down.
WHO AM I? he began to print, but the ink ran out before he reached the ‘M’.
‘Mum!’
‘Yeah?’
‘This pen doesn’t work!’
‘Find another one, then!’
‘Where?’
‘Kitchen drawer!’
‘Which one?’
‘I don’t know, love. Just look around. Your dad and me are trying to watch this cooking show.’
Cooking show! That was a laugh, thought Blocky, as he headed down the hall. Some clown must be showing the pair of them a new way to open tins . . .
There were lots of drawers in the kitchen and Blocky tried them all.
No pens.
Just a couple of old topless textas, all dried up.
The back door banged open and his sister Ivy burst into the room. ‘What are you up to?’ she greeted him.
‘Looking for a pen.’
‘A pen?’
‘Yeah. What’s so funny about that? I can write, you know. Hey, can you lend us one?’
‘No way. You ruined the last one.’
‘Go on.’
‘You’re not mucking up another pen of mine.’
‘Have a heart!’
‘No! They’re all at school, anyway.’
‘Bet they’re not, ’ said Blocky, and in his chest, beneath the grubby pear-stained t-shirt, he felt a pang of hurt, the same kind of pang he got when Mr Crombie called him ‘leatherbrain’. ‘I’ve got feelings, you know, ’ he muttered, but Ivy didn’t seem to hear him; she simply pointed to the cupboard under the sink and said, ‘There might be one in there.’ Then she left the room.
‘Is that you, Ivy?’ yelled her mother, as Ivy’s boots passed loudly by the lounge.
‘Yeah.’
‘How was the Girls’ Friendly Society?’
‘Friendly.’
Mrs Stevenson didn’t know quite what to make of that. She had a niggling feeling that Ivy hadn’t gone to the old church hall.
But Ivy had gone there. She’d walked in the front door, past those losers in their unbelievable blue skirts and blouses, out the back and down the path to the reserve, and Danny. They’d talked about Danny’s secret romantic place, the beach down below the zoo. They were going there next Friday week, when Wentworth had a half holiday. They’d talked for ages, and well . . . now Ivy’s curls were mussed and her new top was on back to front. Blocky hadn’t noticed, but her mother would. Ivy hurried to her room and slammed the door.
Blocky opened the cupboard underneath the sink. It was full of old ice-cream containers and plastic bags, but right at the back, in a very dark corner, Blocky’s sharp eyes found something else. Not a pen, but –
‘Yeah!’ Blocky punched his fist in the air. His old Junior football, the one Pops had given him when he was six! Blocky reached in a long arm and grabbed it, scattering plastic bags. He hadn’t seen it for years yet it was still firm and filled with air, almost as good as new.
Ms Dallimore’s essay lost its hold on him. She mightn’t even be at Wentworth when the thing was due – Ms Dallimore was heading for a fall, for sure. All the kids in Year Eight said that guy who picked her up from school in the big black car was Count Dracula.
Cradling the ball gently in his hands, Blocky lunged out through the door. He switched the floodlight on; light poured out over the yard, and through the windows of the lounge room.
Mrs Stevenson got up and drew the curtains.
‘What’s he up to now?’
‘Kicking a ball around, ’ sighed Mrs Stevenson.
‘Looks like the homework didn’t last.’
Again Mrs Stevenson sighed.
‘He’ll be right, ’ promised Mr Stevenson. ‘Blocky will. He’s a good kid, and he’s got – feelings.’
The last word came out muffled, and Mrs Stevenson turned to him with horror on her face. ‘FEELERS? He’s grown FEELERS?’
‘Nah, ’ Mr Stevenson chortled. ‘Feelings, that’s what I s
aid. Block’s got feelings.’
‘Oh.’ Mrs Stevenson considered this. ‘Yeah, ’ she said at last. ‘Yeah, he has.’
Outside in the yard, Blocky drew one huge foot back and aimed the ball against the wall. It bounced, he kicked it back, it bounced, he kicked again. Thud. Thud. Thud.
The house juddered. His mum and dad hardly noticed, they were so used to it.
13
Mum’s Going Loopy
Neema’s mum stood outside the Indian video store, waiting for Nani to change her film. No, not change, renew, because Nani watched the same film over and over – an ancient crackly Hindi movie, a tale of love lost, and found, and lost again. And Priya felt obliged to watch it with her, so many times that the plaintive theme song had burned into her brain, quite drowning out little Miss Dabke’s heavenly mathematical music of the spheres.
She stared down at the shopping slumped against her feet: more pickles and spices from the Indian grocery, and a five kilo bag of potatoes, because Nani was planning to make khatta alu for dinner.
Khatta alu! Priya shuddered. She’d hated that dish since she was a child: great chunks of potatoes, fried in oil with aniseed. Neema and Ignatius would wolf it down enthusiastically; they loved Nani’s cooking. While she, the Indian member of the family, would push it round and round her plate, Nani hovering over her, urging her to eat. ‘Eat, little one. You are too thin! Eat! Eat!’
Next to the potatoes sat a brimming bag of Priya’s least favourite vegetable: aubergine. ‘Ugh! Yuk!’ Priya groaned aloud, and a stern-faced man passing on the footpath stared at her in alarm.
Priya blushed. What was happening to her? Two short weeks ago, she’d been Professor Priya Grace, Head of Mathematics at the university. Now, she was like one of those squalling little kids you saw in Safeway, tugging at their mothers, bawling to go home. But she did want to go home. They’d spent hours in that Indian grocery, where Nani roamed contentedly, reading lists of ingredients from the backs of pickle jars.
‘Nani!’ she called.
Nani came out from the shop, beaming, the same old video tucked beneath her arm. She sang its theme song softly as they walked on up the street, and Priya sang along with her: ‘Beloved! After so long, to see your dear face once more–’
Why did such a sad song sound so oddly joyous? wondered Priya. ‘Beloved! After so long–’ she warbled, and realised suddenly that she was singing by herself; Nani wasn’t there beside her any more. Priya whirled around and peered back down the street: Nani had come to a standstill outside the window of the sports store. Priya clicked her tongue irritably. What on earth could possibly interest her in there?
‘What are you looking at?’ she asked, coming up beside her grandmother. ‘Those runners? Do you want to buy a present? For your nephews?’
But Nani’s nephews would be grandfathers by now.
‘Grand-nephews? Great grand-nephews?’
Nani was silent.
Priya thought this was because Nani hadn’t understood her awful Hindi. ‘A present for your great grandnephews?’ she repeated carefully.
Kalpana was silent because she was too embarrassed to tell her granddaughter how she wanted a pair of those young peoples’ shoes for herself – and a pair for Sumati, of course. ‘Flying shoes’, she called them, because she’d seen how people walked when they wore them: effortlessly, bouncily, as if they were floating on air. For young people, she’d thought, but then, yesterday, outside the grocery, she’d noticed an old woman – surely as old as herself – wearing the flying shoes.
‘I am only looking, ’ Kalpana told her granddaughter. And then she looked a little longer, while Priya tapped her foot and sighed. Kalpana looked long enough to choose the ones she liked best: white with blue triangles on their sides, like the ones her own Nirmolini wore. And the purple ones with orange laces for Sumati; Sumati would love those colours.
Priya grabbed her arm. ‘Come on, Nani, let’s go home.’
Always in a hurry, poor girl, thought Kalpana, as she followed her granddaughter along the street towards the carpark. She was exactly like her mother Usha: always fussing, always bossing, always rush rush rush.
‘Mum’s going loopy, ’ Neema told Kate.
Kate nodded. Her mum went loopy sometimes too: when she worked late and came home to find no-one had taken the meat from the freezer to thaw. Or when Lucy did something really drastic . . .
‘Little loopy or big?’ she asked Neema.
‘Getting big.’
‘How come?’
‘It’s Nani–’
‘But your Nani’s lovely.’ Kate had met her, and thought she’d never seen anyone so romantic-looking, even though she was so old. That floaty white sari! And those big dark shining eyes! Nani had given Kate an Indian sweet she’d made, called ras malai – it had tasted heavenly.
‘I know she’s lovely, ’ Neema sighed. ‘But it’s as if – oh, I don’t know. Like she and Mum are these really different kinds of people, and Mum can’t figure out how to entertain her.’
Kate frowned. ‘Entertain her? How do you mean?’
‘Oh, you know – keeping her company, finding things to do.’
‘What?’ Kate’s voice sounded almost cross. ‘But Nani’s not a baby! It’s only babies who have to be entertained! She’s really . . .’
‘Clever’ Kate had been about to say, only ‘clever’ didn’t seem quite the right word. Jessaline O’Harris was clever, lots of people were, but Kate had glimpsed something more than cleverness in Neema’s great-grandmother’s eyes, a quality for which she couldn’t find the word. ‘She’s special, she’s got . . .’ Kate paused again.
‘Imagination, ’ supplied Neema. Only last night her dad had told her this was the meaning of Kalpana, Nani’s name.
‘Yes, ’ agreed Kate. ‘Like she’d be really interesting to talk to, if you only could. How come you don’t know any Hindi? How come you didn’t learn it from your mum?’
‘Mum always speaks English at home, and when she wanted me to learn, well, I–’ Neema was saved from further uncomfortable explanation because Kate wasn’t listening any more; she was waving to someone on the other side of the road.
Neema turned to look. And then to stare. She could feel her eyes grow big and round, and her mouth dropping open, just a tiny bit.
It couldn’t be!
But it was: the boy on the skateboard, the flying boy, her flying boy.
‘Hi!’ Kate was calling, and ‘Hi!’ the boy called back. And for a second, before he sailed away, Neema thought he smiled at her. But why should he? Of course the smile had been for Kate.
‘Who’s that?’ she asked, trying to keep a tremble from her voice.
‘Gull Oliver, ’ replied Kate coolly. ‘He lives down the bottom of our street. You know him.’
‘Me?’ Neema felt her face grow hot. ‘No I don’t. I didn’t even know his name.’
‘You’ve forgotten, ’ said Kate. ‘Though I suppose he looked different back then.’
‘Back then?’
‘At Short Street, when we were in Prep. Gull was in Grade One, then his dad got this job in Germany and they all went overseas. They only came back this year. Don’t you remember him a little bit, though? You should.’
‘Why should I?’
‘Remember Mrs Flannery? The infants’ headmistress up at Short Street? And how she used to call the kids in Prep “new lambs”?’
‘New lambs!’
‘Soppy, eh? But she was nice, Mrs Flannery. And remember how she had this programme for the first week where every kid in Prep had a special friend from Grade One, to show them round, and stuff?’
‘And they were called shepherds!’
‘That’s right. Well, I had that awful Rosie Turner, but you–’
‘Had Gull Oliver!’
‘That’s right. He was your shepherd.’ Kate grinned. ‘And you were his little new lamb.’
14
Knobbly Knees
Of course! Gull Oliver had
been her ‘shepherd’ when she started primary school! Neema had been one of those weepy little kids who cried on their first day. She’d been standing at the window, all red and hot and teary, watching Mum walk away – down the path, through the gate and round the corner, out of sight, away – when a voice said cheerfully, ‘Don’t worry, she’ll come back.’ She’d turned and found a bigger boy with curly hair, whose eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled.
‘When it’s your first day you think they won’t come back, but they do, ’ he’d gone on calmly, handing her a crumpled tissue to dry her eyes. ‘I cried too, when I was new.’
She remembered the cool dry touch of his hand as he steered her along the corridors, pointing out the places she should know. ‘That’s the art room, see? And the library. And the girls’ – well, you know what – are over there. People say they’re heaps cleaner than the boys’ ones, but l wouldn’t know ’cause I’ve never been in there.’
He’d found Kate for her. ‘See that girl over there? The one with the frizzy hair? She looks nice, don’t you think? I reckon she might make a really good friend for you.’
Did Gull Oliver remember her from then? All red and hot and weepy, sticky . . .
Neema jumped up and went to look at herself in the big mirror on the wardrobe door. The mirror showed a slender, long-legged girl, whose perfect oval face, with its large lustrous eyes, was framed by a cloud of soft dark shining hair.
Neema didn’t see these lovely things. Her eyes were focused on what she hated most: her big knobbly ugly grotty sticking-out knees, so big they were like nasty bony faces, jeering out at her. Dad said they weren’t ugly, of course; and Mum kept on saying her legs would grow into them, very soon. Neema didn’t believe them . . .
‘Neema?’ Her mum peered round the door. ‘Can you help Nani with the washing-up?’
‘I’ve got all this homework. I’ve got this essay, Mum.’
And that was true. Ms Dallimore’s essay – or was it Count Dracula’s? – still lay untouched on the furthest corner of Neema’s desk.
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