Jellicoe Road

by Melina Marchetta

  Raffy looks at him confused. “She’s a genius? I’m lost.”

  “What he means is that we’re not giving in without a shit fight,” I tell them. “Literally.”

  Strategies come in all shapes and sizes and as juvenile as this one is, it keeps me amused.

  They come calling again late the next afternoon. Griggs is first. Territory war aside, he is a pleasure to observe, like he was built for flying through the air.

  He picks himself up from his landing, inspecting his fatigues. Then he looks up to where I’m sitting on Hannah’s verandah, my legs dangling over the edge. He sloshes towards me and I can tell it’s not easy.

  A war cry is heard from the other side and before he has time to warn them, at least six Cadets come flying over the river and land around him. They looked shocked, and I actually feel like giggling at their horror.

  “We’re an Ag college,” I explain to them. “Not as good as the one in Yanco but we have livestock.”

  “Cows?” Anson Choi asks, covering his nose.

  “Pigs, too. And horses. Great for growing tomatoes.”

  The Cadets are wanna-be soldiers. City people. They may know how to street fight but they don’t know how to wade through manure.

  “I’m going to throw up,” one of the guys says.

  “Don’t feel too bad,” I explain. “Some of our lot did while they were laying out this stuff. Actually, right there where you’re standing.”

  The Cadets look even more horrified, peering down, imagining the worst.

  I point to the neutral path that is at least a forty-minute walk back to their camp. “It’s manure-free,” I offer. “And I do believe you have access to it.”

  Griggs stares at me.

  “If you try to invade us again and fail, then we may have to talk. Rule three-two-one of the Little Purple Book.”

  “This is war,” he says quietly.

  “Well, thank God you’re dressed for it, Griggs.”

  And so the war games continue and sometimes it’s so much fun that Hannah and my mother disappear from my head for a minute or two. The Townies find out about it and are diligent about neither of us using their territory as neutral ground, so game plans are drawn up by Richard, who is in his element. Anytime now I expect him to start smoking a pipe and wearing a beret.

  The plan is that we force the Cadets to invade, rather than wait for them to spring it on us. So on Saturday morning, when we know that Jonah Griggs’s troops are on their morning drills, Ben, Raffy, and I stroll onto Cadet territory. Accidentally.

  The Cadet in front sees us almost instantly and I watch his eyes narrow. He looks behind, to Griggs, I guess. I stand on the path not ten metres away and I allow a tiny bit of fear to enter my eyes before I turn and bolt.

  We run for our lives. The heavy footsteps of the Cadets crash behind us. Raffy knows exactly where to lead us. My heart is pounding with the fear that they will grab us before we reach our lines. Our only advantage is that we know this bushland inside out. It’s our playground for most of the year when they’re not around. For them it becomes an obstacle course but we know what to roll under and jump over. We know what trees to grab for assistance and which ones will let us down, caving under the pressure of our grips. We know where the limbo-stick trees are and we shimmy under them like contestants on Dancing with the Stars, and what plants to avoid for fear of the sticky hidden thorns. But they have speed and discipline and sometimes I can feel the breath of the first Cadet on my neck.

  Then, in the distance, I see the area we refer to as “no-man’s land.” It’s the strangest area of the property. Exactly one hectare of land, devoid of trees but knee-high in wild grass on both sides of a path that looks like a dug-out trench. Our territory officially begins smack in the middle. My lungs are begging me for air but I know I can’t stop, not until I get to our line. More importantly, not until the Cadets get to our line. The trenches are tricky, but we can do “tricky” any day of the week. We make it over the invisible line and a few seconds later, I know all eight Cadets have, too. I hear the roar coming from the wild grass on both sides and Richard’s voice booms, “No prisoners! No prisoners!”—which is ridiculous, because it’s not as if we’re going to kill them, but he has this Lawrence of Arabia obsession—and all of a sudden our seniors come flying out from all directions.

  Later, I’m reminded that Jonah Griggs is a rugby league player and if there’s one thing he can do, it’s tackle or dodge a bunch of those of us whose closest thing to a contact sport is a biffo that might take place after a chess game. So it’s not surprising that when I look back for a moment, he’s battling his way between our guys. It’s like one of those scenes in slow-mo because our eyes make contact and I yell to Ben and Raffy to keep running. There’s something about the look on Griggs’s face that tells me our army is not going to keep him back. When we make our way out of no-man’s land, Raffy takes a detour and I know she’s heading towards the Prayer Tree because it’s too early in the morning for the Townies to be out here.

  The Prayer Tree is a kind of Jerusalem. It used to belong to us, the trail leading up to it belongs to the Cadets, and now it belongs to the Townies. When I see it in the distance, a sense of euphoria comes over me but when we reach the trunk, we notice that the rope ladder is nowhere to be seen.

  We stare up at it, our sides pained with excruciating stitches. I look behind, waiting for Jonah Griggs to make an appearance.

  Santangelo’s head appears at the top. “If they get you, what’s the worst thing they can do?” he yells down to us.

  We are standing on Cadet territory. Santangelo knows exactly what they can do. He’s our only hope.

  “Let’s make a deal,” I say finally.

  “Club House?”

  I look at Raffy and she nods.

  “Club House,” I say between gasps.

  The ladder comes down and we begin our climb. I’m halfway up when I see Griggs come out of the clearing and I try to go faster but my legs fall between the steps. Santangelo, Ben, and Raffy pull me up from almost the fourth step down and they grab the rope ladder and yank it up at the exact moment that Griggs reaches it. He’s on his own but who knows how many Cadets have broken through and are about to join him.

  “They can’t get up here. No chance,” Santangelo says behind me.

  I can hardly breathe and I feel Raffy take the inhaler out of my pocket and put it in my hands.

  When we all have our breaths back, I look over the side.

  “It’s not as if he’s going to chop us down,” Raffy says.

  “We’re stuck here until he goes,” Ben says.

  “They’re sticklers for time. As soon as their bugle sounds, they’re out of here,” Santangelo says. “One goes off at ten.”

  Two and a half hours.

  Griggs stands at the bottom and stares at the trunk and I can tell he’s reading it. I wonder if he sees the names of the five or if he understands about nothing stopping them in the field in their day. I wonder which statement is his favourite. I wonder if he sees the blood of someone who cut themselves while carving out their soul. Or if he’s imagining what he’d write if he had a knife in his hand.

  But then he’s gone and I panic more at the idea that I can’t see him than when he was standing at the bottom. Knowing Griggs, he’s lying in wait for us.

  Surprisingly, the time passes pleasantly, apart from Santangelo going into specific detail about his plans for the Club House. Half an hour later, though, Griggs is back. Holding a bucket.

  “Great tree,” he calls up to us.

  “What’s he got?” Raffy asks, trying to peer over my shoulder.

  “Whatever it is won’t get him up here,” Santangelo says.

  Suddenly my heart goes cold. In his hand he holds a paint roller. Jonah Griggs is either going to tar or paint over the trunk.

  “You can’t do that!” I yell out.

  “Then come down and stop me!”

  A rage comes over me but I don’t
move. Because deep down I don’t believe he’ll wipe out those voices.

  “Which one do you want me to go for first?” he calls out cockily.

  “I don’t give a shit!” I yell back, hoping he doesn’t call my bluff.

  “Really? Because according to my surveillance team, you’re here every night.”

  I feel Raffy and Ben looking at me. Santangelo goes to say something but, by the sound of his “ouch,” is slammed in the ribs by Raffy.

  From all the way up here I see Griggs place the roller in the bucket and it hits the trunk. The next minute I grab the rope ladder and throw it down. When it’s securely in place, I begin my descent, sick at the thought of what I’m about to see.

  I reach the bottom and smash into him with my fists as hard as I can. He falls and I can’t believe he goes down so easy, caught off-balance.

  “You care about nothing, you piece of shit!”

  I’m on the verge of tears, like I always seem to be these days, and I hear the catch in my voice and I hate myself for it. He throws me off him and I can tell there is a fury in him.

  “Never,” he tells me in a tone full of ice, “under-estimate who or what I care for.”

  I look over to where the bucket has tipped over and I notice that there’s no tar, no paint, there’s nothing. Just water. I look up at the trunk and everything is still intact, except for the glistening of the drops of water lodged inside the carvings.

  He’s lying next to me and I don’t look at him but I hold out my hand to him.

  “Truce?” I ask.

  He takes my hand but doesn’t shake. Just holds it and it flops onto his chest, where I can feel his heart pounding. I’m not sure how to break the moment or how long we’re going to stay here, but there’s something so awkwardly peaceful about it all, lying under the Prayer Tree.

  “Coffee?” Santangelo calls down to us. We both look up. He, Ben, and Raffy are hanging over the side.

  “Is it espresso?” Anson Choi asks behind us.

  “Freshly percolated,” Ben answers. “You should see the gadgets they have up here.”

  Anson Choi aims a begging look at Griggs.

  “You want to sell out over a coffee?” Griggs asks him with disgust.

  “They’ve got muffins as well,” I tell them. “Double chocolate chip. His mum made them.”

  Griggs gets up and holds out a hand to me. “Truce.”

  Chapter 16

  By the second day of the holidays everyone has left the House. I ignore Jessa’s protests that she’d rather stay with me, first because I know she’ll drive me insane and second because I know she’s lying, which is confirmed when I see the look of excitement in her eyes when Santangelo’s mum and his sisters come to pick her up.

  For the first two days I relish the peace and quiet and lack of questions and drama, and not having to share the television or the internet or even the snacks in the kitchen. By the time Raffy approaches the front verandah on the Wednesday, though, the company of Taylor Lily Markham is beginning to wear a bit thin.

  “I’m bored to death,” she tells me. “Want to get out of town? Somewhere with a shopping centre?”

  “It’ll take us ages to get there. By the time we walk down to town and take the coach…”

  “Just say we’ve got a car?”

  I look at her, puzzled.

  “Santangelo has one,” she explains. “Keeps it in the old shed off the trail across the river.”

  “How do you know that?”

  She shrugs. “I went to youth group on Saturday night.”

  “Santangelo belongs to youth group?”

  “No, but his girlfriend does, and I swear to God, the stuff I can get out of this girl is incredible. You see, Santangelo has to keep the car a secret because his father caught him doing five Ks over the speed limit.”

  “Poor guy,” I say, thinking what a bummer it would be to have the police sergeant as your dad. But the sympathy doesn’t last long. “Keys?”

  She scoffs at the idea. “No one in this town locks their doors, plus we can hotwire.”

  There must be another confused look on my face because she explains. “It’s one of those Townie stories. Too long and insignificant, but being taught to hotwire has been pretty valuable.”

  I’m liking the idea. Having access to a car for the holidays might even take me as far as Sydney.

  The old shed is at least a thirty-minute walk, so we take the trail bikes and trespass into Cadet territory, hoping we don’t get caught. The Cadets are on a partial holiday. No school work, but plenty of hikes outside the area; so there’s no time like the present to violate the treaty.

  It’s fun to be on the bikes again and I remember the times when I was in year nine, before we lost the trail to the Cadets, when we’d go flying over the twists and turns of the dirt road, racing one another across the most ridiculously dangerous terrain around. I broke my arm once by flying straight into a tree and Hannah didn’t talk to me for a week. But Hannah’s not around and Raffy and I race each other, both of us skidding off the bikes at least once. The scrape on my leg stings but I get there first and our adrenalin is so pumped that I’m ready to commit any felony, including breaking into the illegal car of the local sergeant’s son.

  There’s something about the shabbiness of the dilapidated shed that makes me think that nothing could be driven into it without it falling apart. We park the bikes at the back and with great difficulty pull open the two wooden doors. By the time we get them open we are saturated with perspiration and exhausted. But once we step inside, our fatigue changes to a sense of triumph. In front of us is an old but incredible shiny dark blue Commodore. As Raffy promised, the doors are unlocked and we circle it for a moment, celebrating the audacity of what we are about to do.

  Raffy climbs in and disappears under the dashboard. I lean on the windowsill looking in as she pulls out wires and connects them like someone out of those movies that I have always been so dubious about because it’s always looked so easy.

  “You are impressing me like crazy here,” I say to her.

  “I can’t wait to tell him one day,” she says with a giggle. “‘Hey, Chaz, guess what? We knew where your precious car was all the time.’ I’d like to take a photo of his face. What do you think?”

  The car begins to purr and I hear her “Yesss” of victory.

  “I reckon I’d smile really nicely in the photo,” Santangelo says behind me, yanking me out of the way, “knowing that you’ll be keeping it under your pillow for the rest of your life.”

  He opens the car door and pulls her out, bumping her head on the way. Jonah Griggs is standing behind him, equally unimpressed.

  “Don’t you ever touch my car again,” Santangelo says with the same fury he had on his face when Jonah Griggs made comments about his mother.

  Raffy touches the car with her finger in a very dramatic way.

  “You’ve just made our hit list,” he says, getting a hanky out of his pocket and cleaning off some imaginary mark. I haven’t seen a hanky in ages and seeing Santangelo with one makes it really difficult to keep a straight face.

  “Oh, scary, scary,” Raffy says. “Let’s go, Taylor.”

  “What are you guys up to?” I ask suspiciously. “Why are you hanging out together?”

  “We’re not,” Santangelo says.

  “Well, it looks like you are,” I say.

  “We’re not,” Jonah Griggs says. “Believe me. His father’s made us paint half this town and if we stick around any longer he’ll make us paint the rest of it.”

  “As a punishment for Gala Day?” Raffy asks.

  “No. I think it was the Seven-Eleven thing,” he mutters, looking away.

  “It could be because of that thing outside Woolworths,” Santangelo says. We didn’t know about that one. “My nanna Faye saw it and told my mum and she told my dad.”

  “You guys have to stop the fighting,” Raffy says. “It’s passé. No one has punch-ups anymore.”

&n
bsp; “This whole bloody town is passé,” Griggs says. “Can we just get out of here?”

  “Are you going to smash him for that or will I?” Raffy asks Santangelo, glaring at Griggs.

  I pull her away. “We’re out of here.”

  We don’t look back. The trail bikes are prohibited for town use, so we go back to a world with no wheels but at least I have company in my boredom. Our shopping gets downsized to the two or three dress shops in town. It takes us longer to get to the Jellicoe Road from the garage than it would from our House but when we get there, Santangelo’s car is parked by the side of the trail.

  “We can give you a lift,” he says grudgingly. Griggs is looking straight ahead as if he doesn’t give a shit.

  “But just say we get finger marks on the seats?” I ask. “Can we borrow your hanky?”

  Raffy and I are both amused by my humour.

  “Just don’t touch anything.”

  Apart from the ride with Mr. Palmer on the night of my gaol visit, I haven’t been in a car for ages, especially during the day. There’s something so normal about it all, even if the guys in the front seat are your arch-enemies. Santangelo and Griggs have a massive argument about whose CD they put in first and Griggs wins, based on the logistics of Santangelo having his hands on the wheel. It’s a New Order song and from the moment the opening strands are over and the full passion of the music begins, I feel as if I am a thousand miles away from the turmoil of the past week. With the window down and my head out, I feel like everything inside of me is switched on. Santangelo is a good driver and knows every inch of the road, handling its turns and potholes effortlessly. I drift into a dreamy mode, to the beat of the music, and the dual voices of the singers make me close my eyes but still the colours around me penetrate my eyelids and I let them in. Flashes of greens and browns and greens and browns and…

  “Stop!” I yell out. “Santangelo, stop!”

  He comes to a screeching halt and we’re all thrown forward in our seats.