A Song Only I Can Hear

by Barry Jonsberg

  What if this came from Destry Camberwick herself? What if Andrew had told her about my feelings? It would explain why her number wasn’t recognised by my phone. Other evidence for? Well, none really. In fact, her number not being recognised means she has this in common with ninety-nine point nine nine recurring per cent of the world’s population. I have three numbers in my phone: Andrew, Mum and Dad. And Dad never contacts me. Evidence against? Everything. Chance of mysterious communicator therefore being her? Ten out of ten or zero out of ten, depending how emotionally invested you are in the answer.

  I would not play this game. I would not reply. I would be strong. I would be patient.

  I’m great at making resolutions. Keeping them is another matter.

  I rocked up to the park with Trixie, the Fluffy Bundle of Rubbish, aka FBR, the next day. It’s not that I wanted to talk to Destry again. Well, I did, but my comment about killing her dog must have blown any chance of us having a friendly conversation.

  I just wanted to see her. In fact, I needed to see her.

  And Trixie needed a walk. A few poos as well, it turned out.

  I sat on a bench underneath a spreading tree and kept a firm grip on Trixie’s lead as she tried to shirtfront every dog within a hundred metres. I confess I was tempted to let her have a go a few times. Would she really attack, or would she look at me as if I had crushed her self-esteem? It wasn’t worth finding out.

  Destry came around the corner and the world dimmed at the edges, brightened in the centre. I watched, jaw drooping, until she turned another corner and disappeared from sight. The world undimmed, my jaw undrooped.

  I know I’m sounding desperate and pathetic, but I was prepared to do almost anything to see if there was a future for us. Anyway, I’ve made my peace with being desperate and pathetic.

  I pulled out my phone, brought up my last message and tapped reply. I typed in Y and then pressed send. Almost immediately, I got a reply.

  Wise decision. I’ll give you your first challenge tonight.

  I rushed to the corner. I’d had a eureka moment. What if I saw Destry putting her phone back into her pocket, smiling as she realised I’d swallowed her bait?

  Didn’t happen.

  She’d let her dog off its lead and was throwing a ball for it. The hound bounded along while pedestrians dived into bushes and other dogs tried to climb trees.

  A phone didn’t figure in any of this.

  ‘I’m vegetarian,’ I said to Mum. ‘I told you yesterday.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Mum, ‘but I didn’t think you were serious.’

  ‘You thought “I’m vegetarian” was my attempt at humour? I should enter the Melbourne Comedy Festival with material like that.’

  Mum turned from the stove and regarded me, her hand on a hip. Unfortunately, the hand still gripped a ladle, which dripped chicken casserole onto the floor. I would have pointed this out but I was pinned by those eyes, which were flinty.

  ‘Do not be a smart alec with me, Rob,’ she said. ‘You’re not too old to go over my knee, you know.’

  ‘Sorry, Mum,’ I said. I was, too. It wasn’t like me to be sarcastic. ‘But, actually … I am too old to go over your knee.’

  ‘I know,’ said Mum. ‘Pity. Not that you were ever smacked.’

  ‘True. But the emotional torture you inflicted …’

  ‘Ha, ha,’ said Mum. ‘Oh, now look.’ She’d noticed the dripping ladle. I pulled some kitchen towel from the cupboard and started to mop up. ‘So you don’t want chicken casserole then?’ she said.

  ‘No. Sorry. It’s not vegetarian.’

  ‘But chicken is a white meat. It’s not like beef.’

  ‘Mum, that does not qualify it as a vegetable. Those things that go “cluck” around farmyards are not vegetables.’

  ‘What about fish?’

  ‘That’s different. Everyone knows fish are vegetables in the same family as carrots.’

  Mum did the thing with the hand on the hip again, but this time she’d put the ladle down.

  ‘Sorry, Mum,’ I said again. ‘Honestly. But I have become a vegetarian and that means I’m no longer eating meat, white, red or any other colour. I won’t eat fish. I won’t eat anything that’s been alive.’

  ‘Carrots were alive. Potatoes were alive.’

  ‘They don’t scream when you pull them from the ground.’

  ‘Maybe they do, but you just can’t hear them.’

  ‘Mum!’ I put my hand on my hip but it didn’t have the same effect as when she does it. ‘If you love animals called pets, why do you eat animals called dinner?’

  ‘That’s clever,’ said Mum. ‘Did you make that up?’

  ‘I wish.’

  ‘For the record, by the way, I have never eaten a dog or a cat.’ Mum raised both hands, palms out. ‘But, okay. Okay. No chicken casserole for you. Though I’m not sure what you can have for dinner.’

  ‘I’ll see to myself,’ I said. ‘Most times it should be okay. If you and Dad are having chops, for example, I’ll just have the potatoes and the other veg. Maybe I could get some Quorn burgers from the supermarket. Grandad said they do some good vegetarian options now.’

  ‘I might have known Pop would be behind this. He’s converted you.’

  ‘It’s not a religion, Mum, and he’s not radicalising me.’

  ‘But why become a vegetarian now, Rob?’

  I explained I’d been reading up on the subject, that meat production was destroying the planet and was responsible for much poverty and hunger in third-world countries. I also talked about animal cruelty, not just in meat production but in testing things like cosmetics. ‘Unnecessary suffering, Mum,’ I said. ‘We don’t tolerate it in human beings. Why should we think it’s okay for animals? And don’t get me started on trophy hunting …’

  ‘I respect your views, Rob,’ said Mum. ‘Though, to be honest, I also believe many people do tolerate unnecessary suffering in other people. In fact, they often go out of their way to inflict it. Read the news, watch the television any day …’

  Becoming a vegetarian was the best decision I’d made in my admittedly short life. Not only was I making a small contribution to the welfare of the world, but I was having a serious and mature conversation with my mother about important matters. If I’d had that sign about mothers on my bedroom door, I’d consider taking it down. But I didn’t, so I didn’t.

  ‘This’ll be ready in ten minutes,’ said Mum, pointing to the cookpot. ‘So you might want to start heating up some soup or whatever.’

  ‘Soup’s good,’ I said. ‘What have we got?’

  ‘There’s a nice chicken one in the cupboard.’

  I still don’t know if she was joking.

  I rang the mystery number over dinner, when I took my bowl to the sink and while Mum and Dad finished their casserole. I didn’t expect the call to be answered, but I wanted to keep an ear out for ringing somewhere in the house.

  Nothing. I even went close to their bedroom door, but I didn’t hear anything. Of course, the phone might have been on silent, so it didn’t prove anything. For some reason I didn’t want to tell Mum and Dad about it either. I know I should have. It’s parents’ business when you’re getting messages from a stranger, but so far there was nothing creepy in the texts themselves. I vowed I would tell them soon, and certainly if I received anything weird.

  But for the time being this was a mystery, and I like mysteries.

  The message came through at 10.10 p.m. Was the person responsible deliberately making it late so I couldn’t check out possible senders? If it had come through during dinner I could’ve eliminated Mum and Dad, thereby trimming my suspect list to two. It didn’t matter, I guessed. I opened the message.

  Good evening, Rob. Your first challenge follows, but I want to tell you why this challenge and the ones to come are worthy of your time. You are in love and that’s wonderful. Maybe it won’t last, but maybe it will. Who can say? What I do know is this: how can anyone else love you if YOU don�
�t think you’re worth anything?

  So these challenges are not about impressing Destry Camberwick. They are about Rob Fitzgerald impressing Rob Fitzgerald. Remember this.

  Challenge 1. You will enter the Milltown’s Got Talent competition, which is scheduled for two weeks on Friday. This gives you time to polish your act and find ways to overcome panic attacks. I would wish you luck, but the point of this challenge is that you don’t need it.

  I closed my phone and then closed my eyes.

  A public performance. Probably my worst nightmare.

  I took Andrew into my confidence. Though I like trying to figure things out by myself, I also desperately needed advice. Plus, if Andrew was behind this, I’d be able to tell from his reaction when I showed him the texts. You see, Andrew is not a good actor. He’s sometimes forced to read parts when we’re doing drama in English and to call him ‘wooden’ would be an insult to trees. So if he had any part in this, he wouldn’t be able to hide it.

  He was gobsmacked. And strangely excited.

  ‘This is so cool,’ he said as he read through the text thread. ‘A real mystery. Who’s behind it, do ya reckon?’

  I ran through my short list of suspects and my reasoning.

  ‘Yeah, well you’re right it’s not me,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t write this sort of stuff in an essay, let alone a text message.’

  ‘Just because you always write the letter “u” instead of the word doesn’t mean you couldn’t compose something accurate if you wanted.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe. But this isn’t my style, man, and you know it.’

  I did.

  ‘So your grandad’s the prime suspect, then?’ he said after I’d explained how I didn’t think this was something Mum and Dad would do. They’d spent their entire lives protecting me from stressful situations. It just didn’t seem in character. Having said that, Mum did appear to use a sneaky form of reverse psychology regarding my goalkeeping debut …

  ‘Pop can’t operate an electric kettle,’ I pointed out. ‘And I’ve never seen him near a computer or a phone. I dunno. It seems unlikely.’

  ‘But who else? As you pointed out, you’re not exactly having to fight off a legion of friends.’

  Fight off a legion of friends? That was sophisticated language. I tried to stop thinking about it. You can go mad suspecting everyone.

  ‘How about someone else that either you or Mum or Pop have mentioned this whole love business to?’ I replied. ‘Someone who’s watching but keeping a distance. A mole, an infiltrator. Like you were doing with Destry Camberwick on my behalf. Getting the lowdown, while I remain hidden. Any more progress, by the way?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. She’s cool, from what I can see. Loves her dog, as you know. No idea about her musical tastes, but I’ll get round to that. Doesn’t seem to have any particular hobbies, but goes to the cinema occasionally. She likes “sincerity”, it seems.’ Andrew made speech marks in the air with his fingers. ‘Told me she hates phonies. Nothing that useful so far, but I can’t be too pushy.’

  I nodded just as the bell went for the end of recess. Andrew handed my phone back.

  ‘And by the way,’ he said. ‘I haven’t mentioned you and Destry Camberwick to anyone. I wouldn’t do that.’ He tapped the casing of my phone. ‘So are you going to do this?’

  ‘I don’t think I can do this,’ I said. It was true. I had explained about panic attacks to people before, but I’d learned that unless someone experienced an attack of their own, they had little idea what it was like. It seems simple to them. But all you have to do is breathe deeply, they’d say. Stay calm. Imagine the audience is sitting on the toilet. Get some backbone. Be a man. They don’t understand that sometimes your muscles lock up, your heart pounds, you suddenly lose control over parts of your body. You vomit, you’re overcome with a terror so vivid that all you can do is cover your head with your hands and hope to die. It can last all day, even when the worst is over.

  They don’t understand.

  Daniel Smith caught up with me at lunchtime.

  ‘Wanna fight, Fitzgerald?’ he said. ‘Whaddya say? Cat got yer tongue? Huh? Wanna fight? C’mon. Be a man.’

  ‘A word in your shell-like ear, Mr Smith,’ said Miss Pritchett, drawing him away. It was clear to me, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Miss Pritchett lived in a world, possibly another universe, the rest of us were unaware of and possessed powers beyond the dreams of mortals.

  I entered my name on the Milltown’s Got Talent sign-up form, tacked on the wall next to main reception.

  I could always cross it out later.

  ‘What the blankety hell is Milltown’s Got Talent?’ said Grandad.

  ‘Have you ever seen Australia’s Got Talent?’ I replied.

  ‘Nope,’ said Pop. ‘And I’ve been in Australia for a hundred and fifteen years so far and never seen any evidence of talent anywhere. Why? Has it finally made an appearance?’

  ‘It’s a television show, Pop,’ I said. The thing is with Grandad, you can never be sure if he’s pulling your leg or not. He has a strange sense of humour. I called it ‘dry’ once. I’m so dry, he replied, I need peeing on. There was, therefore, no point in checking his reaction to the news I’d signed up for the talent show. I suspect he is a good actor and if he was the face behind the text messages I wouldn’t find out by trying to trip him up so obviously.

  ‘Ah, television,’ said Pop. ‘The blankety glass-fronted teat we all suck on for comfort. Or does it suck on us, young Rob? Does it drain us of wonder and passion and vitality?’ The word ‘suck’ obviously inspired him because he did it with his teeth and this set off the whistling, which was a shame because he’d sounded really intelligent up to that point. ‘Rarely watch it,’ he added. ‘Very rarely. So tell me all.’

  ‘It’s an amateur talent show, Pop, but you get to do your thing in front of millions. People sign up – all kinds of people, singers, dancers, comedians, jugglers, magicians, you name it. And they perform in front of a panel of celebrity judges. The overall winner is normally voted in by the television audience.’

  ‘Sounds appalling,’ said Pop. ‘And this passes for entertainment, does it?’

  ‘It seems so.’

  ‘And Milltown’s Got Talent is presumably your school’s version of this where revolting young people thrash electric guitars and gyrate on stage while blankety wailing?’

  I tried to find a flaw in Grandad’s description, but it was fairly close to the truth.

  ‘Pretty much,’ I said.

  ‘And you’ve decided to do an act in front of the entire school?’

  ‘Not decided, exactly,’ I said. ‘I’m keeping my options open.’

  ‘You don’t play guitar,’ Grandad pointed out. ‘I’m assuming you’re not expert at gyrating but I’m guessing you can wail. Is that what you’re thinking of doing?’

  ‘I can’t sing, Pop,’ I said, ‘and it’s true I don’t play a musical instrument. But the talent show can be about anything. Maybe you could show me a few of your magic tricks …’ Pop is a good magician. He can make pens and stuff disappear and then pull whatever it is out from behind your ear, that sort of thing. Some of his card tricks and illusions are really impressive.

  ‘I could, young Rob …’ Grandad scratched at his whiskery chin. ‘I could. But when is this show?’

  ‘Two weeks away.’

  ‘Ah. No way, then. The tricks I could teach you; there’s nothing special about them and you can probably track them down on your computer anyway. Isn’t that one of the functions of those blankety things, to remove all mystery from the world?’ (It was a rhetorical question, because he continued without a pause. Nonetheless, I’d think about these words later and wonder again whether Grandad was behind the texts.) ‘The problem is time. Even the simplest trick takes weeks and weeks of practice. Some of the best ones, the ones worth watching and therefore worth performing, can take years of practice. A bad magic show is a blankety dreadful experience. You’d be better singing a song badly.’ />
  I gazed out of the window while I mulled over his words. A light rain was falling and the world seemed slightly dispirited.

  ‘What about your panic attacks?’ said Pop.

  ‘A good question,’ I said. ‘And, yes. If I decide to go ahead with this, then I’ll be terrified about having one in front of strangers. But someone once said, do not fear fear. Its only purpose is to let you know that something is worth doing.’ I kept a close eye on Grandad’s expression. ‘What do you think of that?’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Sounds like a steaming pile of blankety poop,’ said Pop eventually.

  He didn’t use the word ‘poop’ by the way.

  I was working on a particularly tricky maths problem (it needed way more than taking my shoes and socks off – I’m not sure if even the entire class’s bared toes would have helped me with this one) when I was tapped on the shoulder by Ms Singh, the maths teacher. She bent down and whispered in my ear.

  ‘Rob, Mr Broadbent wants to see you now in the gym. He says it won’t take long, so you can leave your bag here.’

  I scuttled off to the gym. Well, I didn’t exactly scuttle, more ambled. There were still thirty minutes left in the lesson and I wasn’t keen to get back to the maths problem, which, frankly, seemed impossible. Then again, all maths problems appear impossible. Maybe they are. Maybe it’s all an elaborate hoax designed to make students’ lives miserable.

  Mr Broadbent was shouting at a bunch of kids racing around the basketball court, making strange squeaky noises with their trainers and sweating profusely. I’ve often wondered what makes people train to be PE teachers. Is it a genuine fondness for the smell of sweat? I have no idea. It’s like a maths problem. Mr B spotted me and blew his whistle.

  ‘Okay, guys,’ he said. ‘Warming down routines. You know the drill.’

  I sat on the bench and watched the class warm down. Mr Broadbent sat at my side.

  ‘Hi, Rob,’ he said. ‘How are you feeling after your exertions on the soccer pitch?’