A Song Only I Can Hear

by Barry Jonsberg

  ‘Because Destry Camberwick has a dog she exercises in the park the same time every night.’ Andrew had come up with the goods that very first day. Destry was a keen dog lover. It was terrific intelligence and I was determined to use it to my advantage. ‘It’s the perfect opportunity for me to “accidentally” stumble across her while walking my own dog,’ I added.

  ‘You haven’t got a dog.’

  ‘Which is why I need to borrow one, Pop. Hello?’

  ‘Ah, yes.’

  ‘Having stumbled across Destry Camberwick, it will then be a simple matter to strike up a conversation.’

  Destry: Wow. I love your dog. What’s his name?

  Me: Chopper. And what’s your Pekinese/Boxer/Labrador/Heeler called?

  Destry: Rob.

  Me: What a coincidence! That’s my name!

  Destry: That’s amazing. It’s obvious we were destined to meet, fall in love, have five children and be happy and fulfilled together!

  Me: So what are we waiting for?

  Grandad sucked at his teeth, which set off the whistling. It sounded like ‘Waltzing Matilda’, but that was probably just my imagination.

  ‘Conversation is not your strong suit, young Rob,’ Grandad pointed out.

  ‘I know. But I’m going to have to get over it.’ It was true. I was facing death by soccer ball, so I believed it was possible to change.

  ‘A lot of the old farts here have dogs,’ said Grandad. ‘When you get to my age it suddenly seems like a good idea, apparently. No idea why.’

  ‘Maybe they love the dog and the dog loves them.’

  ‘Unlikely. This is God’s waiting room and these are old farts, remember.’

  ‘You can love an old fart. You’re one and I love you.’

  ‘This conversation is getting blankety revolting, young Rob. I told you it wasn’t your strong suit, so stop it.’

  We sat in silence for a couple of minutes. I said hello to a few of the residents. I’d been here so often I was getting to know everyone. I even found myself eyeing up Agnes to see if Pop’s prediction was a long shot or not. She did look peaky …

  ‘Jim’s got a dog,’ said Pop. ‘And he’s a bit rickety on his pins, so he’d probably be happy if you could take it for a walk.’

  ‘Fabulous,’ I said. ‘Can you ask him for me?’

  ‘You blankety ask him. Consider it conversational practice, because God knows you need it.’

  Borrowing Jim’s dog was not a problem. Pop talked to him and so did I. To be honest, it was something of a small miracle he remembered even having a hound. Or his own name. I arranged to come round the following day at four-thirty to pick the pooch up. Destry’s routine was to hit the local park between five and five-thirty, and I was going to be there, all casual, dog-lover-like and generally irresistible.

  I had a good feeling about this. Between that and the brilliant goalkeeping performance in the offing, I was going to be hot property.

  I almost started fancying myself.

  ‘What’s happened in the last few days?’ Mr Broadbent was astonished. I knew this because he added, ‘I’m astonished’.

  ‘I’ve been practising,’ I said. I stood on the goal line and waved my goalkeeping gloves above my head. They were huge and I was probably a dead ringer for Mickey Mouse. With the exception of the ears. Maybe not with the exception of the ears. Andrew’s words about my physical appearance had cut deep.

  ‘You’ve been … exceptional today, Rob,’ Mr Broadbent said. ‘Absolutely phenomenal.’

  I had to agree.

  Andrew clearly has a future as a motivational speaker when he grows up. His words about protecting Destry’s face were now inscribed onto my brain. When the football hurtled towards me, all I could see was her face in the ball’s trajectory, her beautiful nose squished. And I could not let it happen. I threw myself from one side to the other. I tipped the ball over the bar, pushed it around the post. On the few occasions when Mr Broadbent allowed other players to try to score against me, I charged straight at them and blocked the ball any way I could. My arms, my legs, my feet. My face. Nothing mattered. I would die to stop that ball getting past me.

  I spent an hour in practice. I did not allow one goal to be scored. Suck on that, Mum.

  ‘You’re in the team,’ said Mr Broadbent when he finally blew the whistle for the end of training. ‘Blankety hell. We could even win this year. Well, get a draw. In all honesty, our forwards couldn’t find the opposition’s goal with a GPS.’

  I arrived at the park at exactly five to five. It’s only a two-minute walk from Grandad’s place to the park, but there were problems when I arrived to pick up Jim’s dog. He’d forgotten I was coming, for one thing, and had to be tracked down in the far reaches of the grounds, where the staff found him talking to a random duck. Then we had to find the dog. This was not as easy as might be expected, but eventually we discovered it in another resident’s room – Agnes, actually – who told us she’d taken over the upkeep of the pup when it became obvious that Jim was not up to the job.

  The dog was called Trixie and it was a fluffy bundle of rubbish. These are not my words, I hasten to add, but Agnes’s.

  ‘I hate FBRs,’ she said. ‘Little, nasty, yapping things, like pipe-cleaners on steroids.’ I didn’t say anything because I didn’t know what a pipe-cleaner looked like. I was a bit vague on the subject of steroids as well. It didn’t matter, because Agnes was on a roll. ‘Think they’re tough and yet an average cat could eat one. An overestimated sense of their own importance. A bit like my first husband. And my second …’ She waved a hand as if to dismiss husbands in general. ‘Yet, she is a dog. Only just, true, but a dog nonetheless. And therefore better than ninety-nine per cent of humanity.’ She poked me in the chest with a bony finger, which was a little harsh since I hadn’t even tried to argue with her. ‘A dog loves you and it has no agenda,’ she said. ‘Treat it badly, ignore it, even abuse it, God help us, and a dog will still think you are the greatest thing ever. People are disgusting. Dogs are beautiful.’

  I glanced at Grandad.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it’ll be Jim next.’

  ‘What?’ said Agnes.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Pop and I together.

  ‘Well, come on,’ she said. ‘Are you simple, or what? Trixie might be a fluffy bundle of rubbish but she loves her walks.’ She handed me a small lead and a couple of poo bags. ‘Craps like a good one, too,’ she added.

  Trixie wasn’t the easiest dog in the world to control. Agnes was right. This pooch was tiny, but it seemed to have no idea that, in potential conflict situations, it was at a severe disadvantage. It barked at cars. It yapped at motorcycles. If it had been anatomically capable, it would probably have given a tattooed bikie the finger and said, ‘C’mon, pal. Think you can take me? Bring it on.’

  I tried to steer it around the pathways of the park, but other dog owners were doing the same thing and Trixie appeared to take the presence of another dog as a personal insult. It was Trixie’s park. It was her patch. Like a drug dealer, she resented competition and was happy to show it. I spent most of my time apologising.

  Then I saw Destry Camberwick. She turned a corner and an orchestra played, my peripheral vision disappeared and I saw her as if through a tunnel, radiant, splendid and impossibly perfect. Then I saw her dog and the orchestra gave up.

  Holy moly. This thing was enormous. I’m not an expert on dog breeds, but this was probably Houndus blanketymaximus. I’ve seen smaller wrestlers on the TV. It loped along, blotting out the sun and causing distinct tremors each time a paw hit the bitumen. Its muscles had muscles. I glanced down at Trixie.

  She had a gleam in her eye, as if, finally, a challenge worthy of her had been presented. I had a bad feeling about this.

  Destry and I were on a collision course, which suited me fine. It didn’t suit Trixie. She twisted on her lead and went into a frenzy of yelping. Imagine a tiny, tiny person possessed by the devil and you will get
some idea of her anger. She strained at the lead. Let me at him, her body language shouted. Think you’re tough, mate? I’ll kick your butt.

  Destry’s dog sat down and cocked its head. I was becoming an expert dog translator. What’s this funny fluffy bundle of rubbish? How amusing. Is it dinner or merely starters?

  I smiled at Destry, who smiled back. Maybe this could work to my advantage. I opened my mouth to speak and suddenly went all clammy and light-headed. This was absurd. I can talk, after all. It’s just a matter of exerting control.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said finally, and I don’t think my voice trembled at all. ‘She doesn’t know her own strength.’

  It was obvious that Destry had no idea who I was. Even walking into a basketball post at school and bleeding all over the court hadn’t attracted her attention. I almost gave up then. But I didn’t. Her smile faded and she went to walk past me. I knew I had to find something to keep her there.

  If I’m honest, I’m not at my best under pressure.

  ‘My dog could kill your dog,’ I stammered at her back (which, incidentally, was perfect).

  That stopped her.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ she said, turning to face me. The first words I’d ever heard her speak. It was music to my ears. Much better than music. It was angels singing. I closed my eyes.

  ‘I think my dog can kill your dog,’ I repeated.

  She looked at me. Her dog looked at me. Trixie finally stopped yelping and looked at me. Something was required but I had no idea what it might be. So I tried a wider smile.

  ‘An explanation would be good,’ said Destry.

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said, nodding like a maniac. She was spot on and I only wished someone could supply it.

  ‘Well?’ she said.

  ‘Fine, thanks. And you?’

  ‘No. The explanation.’

  ‘Pardon me?’ Even I found my pathetic attempt to buy time embarrassing.

  ‘How could your dog kill my dog?’ she said.

  ‘Ah, that.’ I looked at her dog and I looked at mine. A few seconds passed.

  ‘Suffocation,’ I said. ‘If Trixie got stuck in its throat.’

  I was dragging myself (and Trixie) back to Grandad’s place. My eyes were fixed firmly on the pavement, my gaze as low as my spirits, when a shadow fell across the path and stayed there. I looked up.

  ‘Wanna fight me, Fitzgerald? Huh? Wanna fight? Come on, be a man. Tellya what, I’ll give you first dig. Whaddya say? Cat got yer tongue?’

  I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

  ‘Fancy seeing you guys here,’ came a familiar voice. ‘Is everything fine? Are we hunky-dory?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Pritchett,’ said Daniel Smith.

  ‘Yes, Miss Pritchett,’ I said, even though I had only a vague understanding of the meaning of hunky-dory. I’d be prepared to bet Daniel thought it was a type of fish.

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Run along then.’

  We ran along. In opposite directions, which suited me fine.

  ‘Andrew?’ I said.

  He grunted, which is sometimes all you can get from Andrew early in the morning.

  ‘Do you think Miss Pritchett has superpowers?’

  ‘What are you on about?’

  I shrugged. ‘I dunno. Maybe super-sensitive hearing? Or a psychic connection. An ability to transport herself across time and space, when she senses someone is in trouble and needs immediate assistance. X-ray vision …’

  ‘I worry about you sometimes, mate,’ said Andrew. ‘I really do. Sometimes I wake up in a cold sweat worrying about you.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Shut up, Rob.’

  ‘Okay.’

  I needed to think anyway. It was time to re-evaluate my strategies. I’d had three. Firstly, I was going to impress the hell out of Destry with my sporting ability. That was still a possibility. The soccer game was tomorrow and I’d been improving day by day. The poem was back-up, but that was proving tricky. I could write essays. I could write short stories. I could even write poems about life, the universe and the futility of existence. But I couldn’t write a poem about how Destry Camberwick made me feel.

  Then there was the dog-lover business, which hadn’t started well. True, she had spoken to me. Eighteen brilliant words that would live forever in my memory. An explanation would be good. Was there a secret message in that statement? Was she trying to tell me something? It was possible.

  ‘Andrew?’ I said. He’d told me to shut up, but this was important. He knows about girls and what makes them tick. If anyone could answer this, it would be Andrew.

  He grunted.

  ‘When a girl says, “an explanation would be good” when you tell her your dog could kill hers, is she trying to say anything? You know, a secret meaning?’

  ‘Rob. Shut up.’

  ‘Okay.’ I took that as a no, and went back to my strategies.

  I’d probably have to give up on walking Trixie. True, it would give me the perfect excuse to keep bumping into Destry, but the difference between our canines was too extreme. They say a dog is a reflection of its owner. Would dragging around a fluffy bundle of rubbish that barked hysterically make Destry view me as someone lightweight, someone who had no idea how pathetic they looked? Maybe that wasn’t too far from the truth. I was not in Destry’s league, just as Trixie wasn’t in … whatever the hell league Destry’s dog was in. The ‘massive mastiff that could be mistaken for an elephant’ league. Then again, if Destry was like her dog, maybe it wasn’t a great idea to get involved. She could kill me. But what a way to go …

  ‘I think you need something else,’ said Andrew. I waited. He’d told me to shut up and I respected that. He pointed at me. ‘The soccer is good. I can’t believe how well you’ve played in training. Do what you’ve been doing in the game tomorrow and she can’t help being impressed.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Guaranteed. So, you could have the sporty business worked out.’ He held up a hand and ticked off the points. ‘Sports, one.’ He straightened another finger. ‘The poetry. Great idea. You are the English genius of Milltown High and no girl can resist a romantic poem.’

  I could have quoted the bits about the vestry and the doggie stick, but felt it was better to keep quiet.

  ‘The dog-walking shows you’re kindred souls as far as animal-loving is concerned.’ He put up a third finger. ‘But your dog’s a bit lame, from what you’ve said. Could you borrow another one that’s more like hers?’ It was spooky how Andrew’s analysis was so close to mine. Then again, as I might have mentioned, we are best friends. But I’d considered this idea and rejected it.

  ‘Nah,’ I said. ‘Firstly, it’s not a good look if you keep changing dogs like underwear. I mean, an animal lover would definitely think that’s suss. Life, not Christmas, and all that. Plus, I don’t think there are any other dogs like the one Destry has. It’s a mutant, Andrew. I’ve seen utes that are smaller. I …’

  ‘Okay. Maybe it’s enough that you’ve shown her you’re a pet person. But …’ he flipped up a fourth finger. ‘What about the inner person, Rob?’

  ‘You’ve lost me.’

  ‘Sporty, book lover, animal lover, but what about your beliefs? Your values? Your spirituality?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘I think you need a passion. Maybe a political stance. Something that shows that beneath the brilliant sportsperson, the talented poet and the dog fanatic there lurks a caring soul, someone who has a drive to make the world a better place.’

  ‘I do want the world to be a better place, Andrew,’ I said.

  ‘Then show us, show her, how you plan to do it.’

  He’s a smart one, Andrew. And little did I know his words would change my life completely.

  Did I mention we are best friends?

  I was fast asleep when my phone pinged. Text message.

  I fumbled for the light switch. Eleven forty-two. Who the hell wa
s texting me at this time of night? The number was displayed in the notification box, indicating this was not from anyone in my contact list. I opened the message.

  Do not fear fear. Its only purpose is to let you know that something is worth doing.

  May fortune smile on you in the game tomorrow, Rob.

  I texted back.

  Who is this?

  Even though I stayed awake for another half an hour, I didn’t get a reply.

  The day of the game. Milltown High versus St Martin’s. This year it was at our school, not that home advantage had ever been an advantage in the long history of our annual matches. Basically, the game is rigged.

  See, Milltown is an ordinary public school. It’s great, don’t get me wrong. Its students have a huge range of academic abilities and an equally huge range of ethnic backgrounds. This makes it great. All of human life is here. St Martin’s, on the other hand, is a private school. It charges massive fees and in return promises excellence, though its Year Twelve results aren’t quite as good as ours. The excellence comes in facilities. An amazing library, partly paid for by someone in government who used to go to the place. An Olympic-sized swimming pool that was opened by Thorpey himself. A state-of-the-art lecture and performing arts theatre that can hold a thousand people.

  Our school relies on demountables, and some of those are riddled with asbestos.

  No one really knows how the St Martin’s versus Milltown soccer game started in the first place, or why it’s become an annual tradition. Maybe it was as simple as the people with money wanting assurance they were superior to those without. If true, they’d got plenty. Milltown had never beaten St Martin’s. Never. In the last five years the scores had been 15–0, 17–0, 21–0, 24–0 and 14–0. At least we improved last year. And why this dreadful drubbing? Because St Martin’s has a purpose-built soccer ground and training gym, a specialist manager who’d once been an assistant coach for the national under-seventeens and a sports psychologist. Milltown has losers like me and a small shack on the oval that passes for a changing room and smells of pee.