A Song Only I Can Hear

by Barry Jonsberg

  ALSO BY BARRY JONSBERG

  Game Theory

  Pandora Jones (Book 1) Admission

  Pandora Jones (Book 2) Deception

  Pandora Jones (Book 3) Reckoning

  My Life as an Alphabet

  Being Here

  Cassie

  Ironbark

  Dreamrider

  It’s Not All About YOU, Calma!

  The Whole Business with Kiffo and the Pitbull

  For younger readers

  Blacky Blasts Back: On the Tail of the Tassie Tiger

  A Croc Called Capone

  The Dog that Dumped on My Doona

  First published by Allen & Unwin in 2018

  Copyright © Barry Jonsberg 2018

  The moral right of Barry Jonsberg to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the United Kingdom’s Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin Allen & Unwin – UK

  83 Alexander Street Ormond House, 26–27 Boswell Street,

  Crows Nest NSW 2065, Australia London WC1N 3JZ, UK

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100 Phone: +44 (0) 20 8785 5995

  Email: info@allenandunwin.com Email: info@murdochbooks.co.uk

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com Web: www.murdochbooks.co.uk

  ISBN (AUS) 978 1 76063 083 6

  eBook ISBN (AUS) 978 1 76063 646 3

  ISBN (UK) 978 1 76063 497 1

  For teaching resources, explore www.allenandunwin.com/resources/for-teachers

  Cover & text design by Debra Billson

  Cover image by Paitoon / Shutterstock

  For

  Stephanie Spillett

  Lucy Gunner

  Ira Racines

  You don’t love someone for their looks,

  their clothes or their fancy car, but because

  they sing a song only you can hear.

  OSCAR WILDE

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  69

  70

  Acknowledgements

  About the author

  ‘Mum,’ I said. ‘When you look at Dad, do your pupils dilate? Is there a rush of blood to your epidermis and a fluttering in the pit of your stomach?’

  Breakfast is the perfect time for serious conversation. A new day is starting but it’s the calm before the day’s metaphorical storm.

  Mum looked at Dad.

  Descriptive note: father. Name: Alan Patrick Fitzgerald. Age: … who knows such things? Old. Not really old, like Grandad, who is little more than a collection of wrinkles in a nest of greyness, but averagely old. Could be forty-five. Could be fifty-eight. An age, I imagine, when you’ve stopped caring how old you are. Or possibly even remembering. Dad, at least when sitting at the kitchen table, is a sphere on top of a sphere, like a fleshy snowman. His head is bald and he has more chins than standard. I sometimes get the urge to put my fingers up his nostrils, such is the resemblance to a bowling ball, although I have resisted this, for obvious reasons. Alan Patrick Fitzgerald also has a belly like a sail in a strong wind. It stretches the fabric of his white shirt to the extent that gaps between buttons gape. Dark and wiry hairs protrude from those gaps as if he keeps either a dark rug or a dead primate tucked down there. Maybe his head hair migrated south.

  Mum looked at Dad. Dad looked at the sports pages of our local newspaper, lost in the US Open golf tournament, and deaf to my words. She glanced back at me.

  ‘I don’t know about fluttering,’ she said, ‘but he sometimes turns my stomach.’

  I gave a small, disapproving frown and cocked my head to one side. Mum buttered toast.

  ‘Why do you ask, Rob?’ she said.

  ‘I have become a student of love,’ I replied. ‘It’s a mystery and I hoped you and Dad could shed some light on it, since you’ve been together for many, many years. Do you still display all those signs of love?’

  Mum chewed her toast and considered the question.

  ‘The thing is,’ she replied finally, ‘it’s impossible to maintain that first heady flush of love. No one’s got the stamina.’

  I thought about this. If Mum was constantly blushing, with pupils dilating and stomach fluttering, it would be difficult to carry on a normal daily routine. You’d bump into things, for example, and be permanently orange, like Donald Trump.

  ‘So love fades. Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘No. “Fades” isn’t the right word. It changes.’ She gazed at the dining table as if for inspiration. Or maybe it was just to avoid my eyes. Some people, according to reading I’ve done on the subject, find the topic of love embarrassing, if not distasteful. Then she did meet my eyes, as though a decision had been made. ‘You’re probably old enough to talk about this kind of stuff,’ she said. ‘And maybe it’s time we did. The thing is, all those things you described – the rush of blood, the eyes dilating, the butterflies in the stomach – well, those are more to do with physical love, with desire. Do you know what I mean?’

  I looked at Dad and tried to imagine someone finding him physically attractive. I couldn’t, but that didn’t mean it was impossible.

  ‘Sure,’ I said.

  ‘Proper love is more than that,’ she continued. ‘It’s to do with trust and affection and knowing what the other person is thinking without being told. It’s to do with the ordinary stuff of life shared with someone special. It’s doing the dishes together, paying bills, watching television, laughing. Laughter is vital. Love is often not glamorous. You find it in the humdrum. Is this making sense?’

  I nodded. Parents often assume their kids are stupid.

  ‘It’s a complex emotion,’ I said.

  ‘Very true,’ said Mum. She started collecting plates. ‘And why have you become a “student” of this particular subject?’ I could hear the quotation marks.

  ‘I
think I’m in love,’ I said.

  Mum’s jaw dropped a little.

  ‘But you’re thirteen,’ she said.

  ‘Is there an age limit involved?’ I asked. ‘Am I barred, like trying to get in to watch a horror movie at the cinema?’

  Dad folded the newspaper and rejoined the land of the living.

  ‘Dad,’ I said. ‘The greatest, most wonderful love of your life?’

  He didn’t hesitate.

  ‘Golf,’ he said.

  Because I’m in the top English class at school, I attended a writing workshop at a local literary festival a few months back. It was run by a well-known writer for young adults and children. I got a signed novel and I also learned something about the techniques of writing a book (which this is). She went on quite a bit about establishing a narrative voice. I’ve been thinking long and hard about it.

  Hi! My name is Rob C. Fitzgerald (don’t ask what the C stands for – I’m not telling you on the grounds that it’s hideous and embarrassing) and I’m thirteen years old.

  Then I remembered what the author had said about tone. I looked at the word ‘Hi!’ on the page. It struck me as way too conversational and informal. I hit the backspace button.

  My name is Rob C. Fitzgerald (don’t ask what the C stands for – I’m not telling you on the grounds that it’s hideous and embarrassing) and I’m thirteen years old.

  I put my head in my hands. Think. Be critical. Are the brackets and the words in them necessary? If I’m not going to say what the C stands for (and trust me, I’m not), then why mention it? A tip the writer gave came back to me: the delete key is your best friend.

  My name is Rob Fitzgerald and I’m thirteen years old.

  Yuck. Ugly. Keep it simpler still.

  I’m Rob Fitzgerald and I’m thirteen years old.

  Two ‘I’m’s in the same sentence. That’s a basic mistake.

  I’m Rob and thirteen.

  Perfect. If I’m actually determined to be boring.

  Look, maybe it’s best if we pretend this first chapter doesn’t exist. If I don’t get any better as a writer, you have permission to come round to my house, tie me to a chair and have at my toes with a blowtorch.

  Which is way better than getting your money back if you’re not entirely satisfied.

  Daniel Smith was waiting for me at the entrance to school.

  Daniel Smith always waits for me at the entrance to school. Sometimes he also waits for me when school is over. It depends.

  Descriptive note: Daniel Smith. Age: fourteen (or thereabouts – we don’t exchange birthday cards). Stocky, but not like a good beef stew. Solid and muscular, with red hair that sticks up at strange angles. This makes his face resemble a drawing of a rising sun completed by a three-year-old. Daniel is short, knows it and tries to compensate by being a bully, especially to me. He has freckles and a way of standing, with his hands clenched at his sides, arms forming brackets to his torso, that makes him look like he’s on the point of pooping his pants. He has a habit of sticking his chin out as if it was a weapon.

  ‘Hey, Fitzgerald,’ he growled, his loaded chin only centimetres from mine, ‘gonna fight me, huh? Whaddya say? Cat got yer tongue? Gonna fight me, huh?’

  Daniel is a fan of repetition. He is also a fan of the phrase ‘cat got your tongue?’ It is one of his favourite taunts, because I rarely talk at school unless I really have to. Most of the time, I keep quiet. Daniel finds me irritating and my shyness makes things worse.

  I tried to edge past him. If I could make it onto school grounds, then a teacher on yard duty would spot us. Unfortunately, Daniel was wise to this and blocked my path.

  ‘C’mon, Fitzgerald,’ he said. ‘Be a man, all right? Man up.’ He laughed in my face, which was horrible since his breath comes straight from a baboon’s bottom. He also loves demanding that I ‘be a man’. Daniel obviously thinks this is hilarious, proof that he’s a few toppings short of a decent pizza.

  ‘Tellya what. You can have first punch. C’mon. Can’t say fairer than that. Go on. First dig.’

  I tried to stand my ground, despite his breath. We’d had the same confrontation for months. Here is what I wanted to say: ‘I am never going to fight you, Daniel, because all of human history teaches us that fighting solves nothing.’ But I kept my head down.

  ‘Cat got yer tongue?’ Daniel’s voice dripped with contempt. ‘Unless you want me to beat yer head in here and now, then say something. Doesn’t matter what. C’mon. Be a man. Just one word.’ He poked me on the shoulder. ‘Or can’t you speak?’

  ‘No,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Hah, loser,’ he chortled. ‘You said you can’t, but you used a word to say you can’t. Ha …’

  ‘Is there a problem here, guys?’ It was Miss Pritchett, who has a nose for sniffing out potential fights, like a sixth sense. She’d appeared outside the school gates, which was impressive even for an expert battle bloodhound.

  ‘No, Miss,’ said Daniel.

  ‘No, Miss,’ I said.

  ‘Fabulous,’ she said. ‘Then please come in, and mill around aimlessly until the bell goes. It’s what students do.’

  We came in and milled around aimlessly until the bell went. But Daniel kept looking at me. His hands were clenched, his arms bowed and his eyes narrowed. He was a boy who looked in desperate need of the toilet.

  Grandad was waiting for me after school, which threw not just a spanner in Daniel’s works, but a whole toolkit.

  Descriptive note: grandfather on father’s side. Name: Patrick ‘Pop’ Fitzgerald. Age: … ancient. Once referred to himself as ‘older than God’s dog’. When pressed, admits to being as old as his tongue and slightly older than his teeth. He is a collection of wrinkles in a nest of greyness. Was once in the armed forces and served in a war overseas, but never talks about it. Has a puckered scar on his right arm that might be a souvenir of conflict, but never talks about it. Lives by himself in a two-bedroom apartment for the aged in a serviced facility. Refers to the facility as the ‘place where a bunch of old farts hang around, waiting to die’. Or, occasionally, ‘God’s waiting room’. Was married to my grandmother (duh) but she must have died a long time ago because he never talks about her. Neither do Mum or Dad. Grandad uses bad language a lot and doesn’t like many people. He likes me.

  ‘Hello, Pop,’ I said. He was leaning on his cane and sucking at his teeth, which he does almost constantly. Often this results in a high-pitched whistling sound like the ancient kettle he puts on the gas ring back at his apartment. It’s eerie.

  ‘Hello, young Rob,’ he said. ‘Would you like to accompany your old grandad to a fast-food restaurant for an after-school snack?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ I said.

  ‘Tough,’ he said. ‘Never been in one and not starting now. Blankety places use blankety offal.’ (You perhaps need to know that he doesn’t actually say ‘blankety’ – use your imagination.)

  ‘Awful?’

  ‘Offal. Guts, brains, bumholes. Dip ’em in batter, deep fry ’em, serve ’em up. Blankety criminal it is.’

  ‘Deep-fried bumholes?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So why did you offer to take me?’

  ‘Because I’m blankety kind and generous to a fault, that’s why.’

  ‘So where should we eat then?’

  ‘Nowhere. I’m not made of blankety money, you know.’

  It takes a while to get used to Grandad. It’s been thirteen years for me, and I’m still working on it. In the end, we strolled back to his place and he made me a cup of tea with the whistling kettle. He bustled about in a cupboard, sucking his teeth, so I had the whistle in stereo.

  ‘Pop,’ I said. ‘I’m in love.’

  That stopped him bustling. And whistling. He turned to face me.

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘A girl.’

  He slapped his palm against his forehead.

  ‘Well, I didn’t think you were in love with a boy, yer blankety bozo. What’s her name?’

/>   ‘Destry.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Destry. Destry Camberwick.’

  ‘That’s not a name. That’s an eighties rock band.’

  ‘She’s perfect.’

  ‘Well, her name isn’t.’

  I sighed, probably quite dramatically. Grandad echoed me.

  ‘C’mon, young Rob,’ he said. ‘I’ll break open the Arnotts, you can dip ’em in yer tea and tell me all the sordid blankety details.’

  The first time I saw Destry Camberwick, I was hunched over a tricky maths problem. Unfortunately, for me all maths problems are tricky. Ask me what six times two is and I have to take my shoes and socks off. My tongue was probably sticking out of the corner of my mouth. The door to the classroom opened but I paid no attention. Then the voice of the principal forced me to look up.

  ‘Good morning, class,’ she bellowed.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Cunningham,’ we all chanted in a disgusting sing-song voice. I say ‘we’, but I only got as far as the first syllable of the second word before my tongue stuck itself to the roof of my mouth, which turned as dry as a camel’s armpit. You see, Miss Cunningham was not alone. She’d brought an angel with her.

  Descriptive note: Destry Camberwick. Age: thirteen (or thereabouts). Height: perfect. Skin: perfect. Eyes: two, both perfect. Nose: one, situated between the perfect eyes, perfect. Hair: shining, perfect and down to her shoulders, which are perfect. Ears: hidden beneath perfect hair but almost certainly perfect and almost certainly two in number. Voice: … no idea yet, but probably flawless.

  ‘Please welcome a new student to the school and to your class,’ bellowed Miss Cunningham. Our principal is incapable of speaking in anything less than a roar, which makes assembly somewhat frightening and has been known to cause a few small and especially nervous students to wet themselves. She alternates between a roar and a bellow. Today it was bellow’s turn. ‘This is Destry Camberwick and she has moved here from WA. I know you will all make her feel very welcome while she settles in …’

  She bellowed other things but I didn’t hear them because a heavenly choir had started to sing, somewhere in the back of my brain. It was only after Miss Cunningham left that I realised Destry would have to sit somewhere in our class, and there were only two options. Next to Damian Pilling, who has a problem with body odour, or next to me. It seemed a no-brainer from my perspective, but the thought of her taking a seat next to mine made my insides go all squishy and gurgly. What would I do if she said ‘Hi’? I’d probably crack the desk with my jaw and then slide onto the floor when my bones turned to jelly. They’d have to take me home in a bucket.