by J A Mawter
Clem pulled a face, saying, ‘Stranger things have happened.’ She remembered how almost two years ago her youngest brother, Drew, had decided to make his entrance a month early, and how he’d come in such a hurry that he’d been born on the laundry floor, much to the shock of her mother. Fortunately, her dad was home at the time, but it was still pretty scary.
Tuesday after school was visiting Mr Lark day. On the way the kids collected Bella and practised some tricks. First they mounted a small brick wall and rode along it, then dropped onto the nature strip and did a skid stop. Bella’s ears propelled into the air, then she sneezed and grinned, her tongue lolling out as she panted in anticipation of the next big thrill.
‘My skid’s the furthest,’ said Darcy.
Tong got off his bike. Using his hands to measure both skids he said, ‘Excuse me, Darcy. So sorry but my skid the very long.’
‘Longest,’ corrected Mio.
‘Longest,’ echoed Tong.
‘All rise for the new skid champion,’ said Darcy, standing up on his pedals, removing his cap and taking a bow.
With all solemnity, Tong bowed back.
Mr Lark beamed when he saw them. ‘You’re late,’ he said. ‘Thought you weren’t coming.’
‘We went home to get Bella,’ said Clem. Bella jumped out of her basket and went straight up to Mr Lark, plonking herself down on her rump and holding up her paw.
‘She knows “shake”,’ said Mr Lark, taking the paw and pumping it up and down.
‘She knows lots of things,’ said Clem. ‘She’s very talented.’
‘So talented I’m thinking of renaming her,’ said Darcy, a twinkle in his eyes. ‘With a pedigree name, like Miss Incomparable Chow Hound.’ He paused to think. ‘Or Miss Sock Thief Extraordinaire…’
Clem stuck her tongue out at him. ‘Only because you leave them lying around.’
‘Or The Quintessential Miss Sniffer.’
‘Alright already. We’ve got the message.’ Clem nuzzled her nose into Bella’s neck, murmuring, ‘Or Miss Canine Best Bud.’ Bella stood up and nuzzled Clem back.
Mr Lark chuckled and leant down to scratch behind Bella’s ears. Automatically, her back legs collapsed. Mr Lark chuckled again, saying, ‘Good trick.’ Then he pulled himself up by the kitchen benchtop and asked, ‘Who’s for some cheese scones?’
‘They’re my favourite,’ said Bryce, but with less enthusiasm than usual; he was still smarting because of Darcy’s comments.
‘Mine too.’
‘And mine.’
Mio looked at Tong. ‘I don’t know about you, Tong, but I’ve never had cheese scones before.’
‘S-s-cone.’ Tong rolled the word around his tongue as though he were taste-testing it.
‘Scone. Rhymes with Saigon,’ said Mr Lark helpfully.
‘Saigon?’ asked Clem.
‘Ho Chi Minh City now,’ said Mr Lark. ‘Since ’75.’ At the children’s blank faces Mr Lark said, ‘Guess I’m showing my age,’ and began reaching for ingredients.
‘Scone like hamburger?’ asked Tong hopefully.
‘Yes,’ said Mr Lark. ‘If you take away the meat, the tomato and the lettuce.’
All this confused Tong even more, so he said, ‘You make—I eat,’ and plonked himself on a kitchen chair. He patted his thigh and Bella obliged by sitting alongside him, melting as she got another pat.
‘Wash your hands,’ ordered Mr Lark. As the kids traipsed into the bathroom he placed the ingredients on the table and turned the oven on. ‘Get out a mixing bowl, Clem, and Darcy, you get the wooden spoon.’
‘Now that’s appropriate,’ said Bryce. He picked up the wooden spoon, his eyes narrowing as he asked Darcy, ‘Ever get hit with one of these?’
‘Nuh. You?’
‘Yup.’ Bryce hated how small his voice sounded.
Mr Lark took the wooden spoon from Bryce and shook his head. ‘Back in the old days we used to cop it all the time.’
Bryce’s voice was hushed. ‘This isn’t the old days…’
Mio reached out, gently resting her hand on Bryce’s arm. She smiled to reassure him. Although hitting kids was illegal in Japan, she knew it sometimes happened. Once, when she was little, she saw a child hit, when she was queuing to go ice skating. The child was belted across the cheek, so hard his head almost snapped from his slender neck. She could still hear the whap! and see the palm imprint, each finger outlined and angry like a bluebottle sting. Huge waves of revulsion had washed over her. She couldn’t sleep for many nights. Even now Mio found it hard to read books or watch movies where little kids get hit.
Mr Lark shimmied across the kitchen waving a bowl. ‘While we get the scones under way, fill me in on your news. It’s been a while.’ He pushed the bowl towards Mio, saying, ‘Two tablespoons of butter.’ To Tong he said, ‘Môt trúng. One egg.’
‘Tong’s English is pretty good now,’ said Bryce. ‘You don’t have to translate.’
‘Sorry, Tong. Force of habit.’
‘No worries,’ said Tong.
Mr Lark chuckled, saying, ‘Cheeky monkey,’ and cuffed Tong on the shoulder.
The butter and egg were mixed with a handful of grated cheese, some milk, the self-raising flour, and baking powder to form a soft dough. While Mr Lark kneaded, the kids brought him up to speed about the bike trials and the training they were doing for it. As he rolled the dough and cut it into rounds they told him about The Peak and how they were practising at the unused part of the railway yard.
‘Sounds good.’ Mr Lark placed the rounds on a greased tray then melted some butter in a saucepan, mixed in some more grated cheese, spooned a dollop of the butter and cheese on each scone, then put the scones in the oven to bake.
‘How long?’ asked Bryce. ‘I’m starving.’ Then he started to sing, ‘I am star-ving. Oh, so hun-gry,’ and patted his stomach to the beat. ‘Yes, I am. Sure I am. How I am.’
‘Bryce!’
Bryce shrugged, then stopped.
‘With these bike trials we enter as a team,’ Darcy continued explaining to Mr Lark.
‘We can win money,’ said Clem.
‘Many, many money.’
‘We’ll be rich,’ announced Darcy. ‘Not.’
‘If you’re a team, what’re you going to call yourselves?’ asked Mr Lark. ‘The Freewheelers?’
Clem, Mio and Tong said ‘Yes’, but Darcy and Bryce said ‘No’. Darcy explained. ‘“Freewheelers” is our own special name. I don’t want other kids knowing about our group.’
‘Me neither,’ said Bryce. ‘Keep it private. Have a different name for competitions.’
The room buzzed with silence as each kid wrestled to find a name.
‘What about The Dragons?’ asked Mio. ‘We have tatsu in Japan. Fuku Riu is our good luck dragon.’
‘No offence, Mio,’ said Darcy. ‘But this isn’t Japan.’
‘Really?’ Mio’s nostrils flared as though she were impersonating a dragon. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’
Darcy ignored her. ‘We could be The Devils,’ he suggested, holding his fingers to his head like horns.
‘The Darcy Devils, no doubt,’ said Clem.
‘No, the Daring Devils.’
‘I like daring,’ said Mio.
‘Me too,’ said Clem.
Bryce bolted upright in his chair, saying, ‘I know. How ‘bout The DEHD? Stands for Dangerous, Edgy, Hip and Daring.’
‘As long as it doesn’t stand for digger, endo, header, dab,’ joked Darcy.
Mr Lark’s eyebrows knotted. ‘Which means in plain English?’
‘Face plant, going over the handlebars, going over the handlebars again, and foot-down-you’re-out.’
‘The DEHD,’ said Bryce. He thought of all the really cool bands he knew that had ‘dead’ in their name. Dead Prez. Dead Beats. There was that really old one, too, Grateful Dead. ‘The DEHD,’ he said again. ‘Has a ring to it, don’t you think?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yeah.’
‘I
t does.’
‘Me like.’
Woof!
Bella wasn’t really joining in. Her sensitive nose had smelt the cheese burning in the oven. Woof, she went again, and pawed at the floor.
Mr Lark grabbed the oven mitt and yanked open the door. Smoke billowed out, triggering the fire alarm and a swear word from Mr Lark. Darcy grabbed a tea towel and flung it up to stop the incessant wails of the fire alarm, but they soon started again. The only way to stop it was for Clem to stand on the kitchen sink, fanning the fumes away from the sensors. When the smoke dissipated all that was left was a tray full of charred lumps, like tree stumps after a bushfire.
‘Spare the teeth and shut the gums, eat that lot and you’ll get the runs,’ quipped Bryce, copping a tea towel from both Clem and Darcy and an oven mitt from Mr Lark.
Chapter Six
After a substitute afternoon tea of jam finger biscuits the kids headed off for more bike practice, promising Mr Lark that they’d see him the following Tuesday.
‘You’re on cheese scone practice for the rest of the week,’ joked Bryce as Mr Lark waved from his front veranda.
‘Cheeky-y-y-y!’
It was one of those beautiful afternoons when the sunlight streamed through openings in muffin-shaped clouds and the air was full of the caws and coos of birds and the chirrup of crickets. It was that leisurely time after school but before peak hour. As the kids coasted round a bend, they savoured the warmth on their backs and the way the road loomed up to greet them, before levelling out to distance itself again. Like a chain of atoms they moved as one, each rider linked to the next. They weaved and ducked between street signs and parking meters, under billboards and tree branches, in a constant game of follow the leader.
‘Anyone up for a criterium?’ called Darcy, whirling around and pulling up.
‘What a criterium?’ asked Tong.
‘It’s where we ride around a certain number of blocks and do laps.’
‘Like a road race but a heck of a lot shorter,’ said Bryce.
‘Make me fit and strong,’ said Tong. The others laughed—already they could see the determination and grit in their new friend, and admire his desire to make the most out of every opportunity.
‘Make us all fit,’ said Darcy. ‘All that sprinting and cornering, blocking and drafting—it’s got to be good for the trials.’
‘How far?’ asked Clem. ‘Don’t forget I’ve got Bella.’ The extra weight of Bella in her basket slowed her down, changing both momentum and equilibrium, but she didn’t mind.
‘Just a few blocks. Past The Van, then back to here.’
‘Why don’t we start at The Van? That way I can tie Bella to the bumper bar. We’ll be back before she’s even noticed we’re gone.’
‘Good idea.’
‘Let’s do it.’
‘Fine.’
Mio was the first to reach The Van. What she saw there made her shiver. A nugget of unease formed in her belly. Someone had scrawled all over The Van. The faded—but still beautiful—sunset and bird could barely be seen under the ugly black marks.
‘Oh, my God!’ said Clem when she arrived. ‘We’ve been done over.’
‘Ferals!’
‘Scum.’
‘Cá uon!’
‘What’s that mean?’ asked Clem.
Tong wore a slight grin as he translated, ‘Bad fish.’
Clem grimaced. ‘Bad fish’ll do.’
Peace signs, once faded, had been traced over with thick whorls of paint, so that now, instead of peace they had a jarring, violent look. The Private Property Keep Out sign had been whited out and in its place were the words, Shooting star.
‘Wonder what it means,’ said Clem, furious that her beloved van had been violated. She turned to Bryce. ‘Any ideas?’
Bryce studied the words, thoughts firing off in his head. Shooting stars…shooting stars were pretty; you saw them at night; they lasted only a second or two; and didn’t the science teacher say they were meteoroids hitting the Earth’s atmosphere?
‘Bryce, you said that “toy” meant something in graffiti, does “shooting star” mean something, too?’
Bryce was about to shake his head and say ‘No’ when he remembered something. Something from last year. He’d been sitting with some friends, it was a cold night, late, and they huddled to keep warm. His brow furrowed as he tried to remember who was there. There was Brick, and Tude, and some kid he didn’t know, and Adz, of course. Earlier that night he and Adz had scrounged two whole barbecued chickens and gorged themselves stupid. They were so stuffed that when they lay back their stomachs rose to the heavens like massive mounds of compost. Suddenly, this light had exploded and trickled down the vast sky like a raindrop, only to fizzle before their eyes. What was it Adz had said? Shooting stars are nature’s graf. It was a weird thing to say, but poetic, and it stayed with Bryce long after the star had gone. He thought about it some more—nature’s graffiti was found in shadows, reflections and lightning, in animal tracks, mud fissures and fossils. When you thought about it, nature’s graf was everywhere. Bryce studied the words on The Van, straining to make some sort of sense of them. He wondered what had happened to Adz. To all of them.
‘Well does it?’ repeated Clem. ‘Does it mean something?’
‘Nope.’
Darcy paced up and down. ‘Mongrels!’ His voice came out all punchy. ‘Wonder who did it?’
‘No idea,’ said Bryce. ‘Let’s check out the other side.’ He ventured around the front of The Van, anxiety bubbling as he imagined what he might find. But there was nothing except the gaping doorway. Bryce hopped off his bike, propped it against The Van and peered inside.
‘See anything?’ called Darcy.
All was as they’d left it. The milk crates, the TV, the old suitcase. Nothing had been changed. Bryce’s breathing grew more relaxed. But then he saw it, and the tension exploded with such a force that he almost cried out.
‘Well…?’
Beside him, Mio gasped. He hadn’t heard her approach, so was doubly shocked. Mio shoved her hands in her back pockets so Bryce wouldn’t see them shaking. It was just one word, a small word, but it had the potential to change everything.
One by one the others joined them, peering inside their van. After an initial chorus of ‘Oh’s, the silence thickened.
Clem turned to Bryce, her eyebrows raised and questioning. Bryce shook his head in protest. ‘It wasn’t me,’ he said, but the words rang hollow in the empty van…and hollow in Clem’s heart. Clem moved away, burying herself in the warmth of Bella’s body.
Mio stepped aside and Tong took her place. His written English was better than his spoken English because Vietnamese and English share the same letters. Immediately he knew what the problem was. For on the back of The Van, in trademark greeny-blue letters, was the word PHREE.
‘Don’t suppose you know how that got there, do you?’ asked Darcy.
Bryce cursed himself for telling them his old tag. Was it going to plague him for the rest of his life? ‘It wasn’t me. Honest. Why would I bomb The Van?’ he implored. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’ He started to jiggle up and down, his thoughts tumbling around as he tried to make sense of this mess.
‘That’s twice we’ve seen it,’ said Mio. ‘The word “PHREE”.’
‘Three times,’ corrected Clem. ‘I also saw it at the station, on the wall.’
Bryce looked up at his friends. He saw questioning in Mio’s eyes, simmering distrust in Darcy’s and hurt in Clem’s, but it was the look on Tong’s face that clawed at him the most. He saw pity, the look you see just before someone turns away from you, unable to watch your humiliation a moment longer.
‘I’m going to say this, and I’m only going to say it once,’ said Bryce, his words peppering like gunshot. ‘Don’t believe me if you want, I really don’t care, and this is my final word on the subject…I did not do it.’
The light returned to Mio’s eyes. A smile seeped into the corners of her mouth. Tong sai
d nothing for a very long time. He studied Bryce, his eyes boring through him as though he was examining Bryce’s soul. Then he exhaled and bowed deeply.
Bryce felt a king tide of relief. But what about the others? He stepped towards Clem. She looked at him, then screwed up her nose and inched back, saying, ‘Sorry Bryce. I just don’t know!’
‘I do,’ said Darcy. ‘I know.’
‘The sad fact of the matter is…’ said Bryce, his words ringing out strong, ‘you don’t know what you don’t know.’ This was the wisdom of Mr Lark.
And Darcy knew it. He ground down hard on his pedal, pushing off with his free foot on the ground. ‘Come on,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘we’ve wasted enough time.’
A few moments later Clem followed, then Tong, Bryce and Mio, but the gracefulness of their line was broken and shadows fell across their path.
Chapter Seven
The afternoon went from bad to worse. As soon as the kids pulled up at the unused train siding, they were confronted by uniformed men. Despite the fact that it was a uniform he did not recognise, Bryce froze. What if it was some new branch of the police? What if he got in trouble again?
‘We’ve had reports of trespass,’ said one man. ‘Railway’s hired us as extra security.’
Private security guards! For the second time that afternoon Bryce melted with relief.
‘You’re going to have to move along.’
‘It’s a bit heavy-handed, don’t you think?’ said Clem. ‘Hiring security guards for a few kids.’
The security guard was about to answer when a crackle emanated from his walkie-talkie. ‘Foxtrot Charlie. Foxtrot Oscar. Do you copy? Over.’
Clem started to giggle. There was something about these men playing at being truckies with CB radios, or commandos in the army, that tickled her sense of humour. Why couldn’t they just say, ‘Hello’?
‘Roger Oscar.’ Why couldn’t they just say, ‘Yes’? Clem giggled again, scoring a blistering look from the guards.
‘Anklebiters at haircut palace. I repeat, anklebiters at haircut palace. Over.’
‘Copy Oscar. We’ll highball to the high rise and meet you there. Over.’
