I took her hand and we shook. Another part of me shrivelled and died.
‘I’m Rob,’ I said.
‘I know,’ said Destry. ‘I saw you in Milltown’s Got Talent.’
‘I was the one proving the title wrong,’ I said. This was better. My brain had returned from holiday, apparently refreshed. What was coming out of my mouth not only made sense, but was witty and self-deprecating. Maybe she’d realise I was not just a blankety loser, but a witty blankety loser. I’d settle for that.
‘I thought you were great,’ she said.
Another small part shrivelled and died inside. The way this conversation was going, I’d crumble into dust when I tried to stand.
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘I love Macbeth,’ she said. ‘And I thought you did a fabulous job of his insecurity just before he goes off to murder Duncan.’ She liked Shakespeare! This was getting better and better. If I could just stop shrivelling and dying … ‘You know, all anyone remembers is that Macbeth’s a monster, but at the start of the play he’s a decent guy.’
She said a few more things and in time I might remember what they were. But right then, all I noticed was the way the sun caught her face, the gleam of her hair, the small gap between her front teeth and the hammering of my heart.
And then she was gone. A smile and a wave and back to her table on the far side of the canteen area.
I should’ve done better. I know that. Virtually the first words she heard me utter were swear words, I’d made one fairly intelligent remark, and the rest was stumbling, bumbling and bordering on gibberish. She, on the other hand, had been smart and interesting.
No. I’d blown it big time.
But you couldn’t wipe the smile off my face for the rest of the day.
Okay. Poetic attempt number one hundred and five (not that I’m counting).
What about borrowing a line or two of well-known poetry, just to get me started? And rather than being afraid of rhyme, perhaps I should embrace it fully. It’s worth a try, if only because everything else has been a disaster.
If I should die, think only this of me:
Bury me, not in some random cemetery,
But next to my true love, my Destry,
(Assuming she’s dead, of course. If not, that would be
A total disaster, an undeniable tragedy.)
I don’t mean that if she was alive it would be
A bad thing. On the contrary …
Excuse me while I stab myself in the hand with a sharp pencil.
Right. It’s official. I just have to hope that Milltown’s Got Talent impressed Destry enough because I’ve given up on poetry.
Actually, I think it’s given up on me.
‘Are you kiddin’?’ said Andrew. ‘That sounds like an awesome opportunity to me.’
I’d finally told him about the chance of joining the state under-sixteen soccer squad and the possibility of going to Brisbane to play in a tournament. Mr Broadbent was pushing for an answer, but with everything that had happened I hadn’t given it much thought. To be honest, I hadn’t wanted to give it much thought. The enrolment forms were still in my bag, probably all crumpled and dog-eared by now.
‘But I’d be away from home.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Andrew. He clutched the sides of his head in mock horror. ‘Not away from home! It’s impossible. Can’t be done. What on earth were they thinking?’
‘All very well for you to make fun,’ I said, ‘but you don’t suffer from panic attacks, Andrew.’
‘You get them at home, don’t you?’
‘You know I do.’
‘So how do you cope with panic attacks here?’
I thought about it. ‘Generally, I wait them out. Go somewhere I can be alone, do my breathing exercises and pass the time until the terror leaves.’ It always did. Eventually. ‘Strenuous exercise can help.’
‘So who do you talk to? Who holds you and calms you and tells you it’ll all be okay?’
‘No one.’
‘So if you get over it by yourself and no one else can help, what difference does it make where you are? And strenuous exercise helps, huh?’ He leaned forward and knocked his knuckles against my head. ‘Duh. Soccer tournament. Hullo?’
‘I’ll get more panic attacks if I’m somewhere strange.’ I rubbed my head because that hurt.
‘Brisbane’s not that strange. A bit, maybe …’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Hey, look,’ he said with a shrug. ‘If you’re determined not to go, then I can’t persuade you. I don’t want to persuade you. But you asked my opinion and I gave it. ’Sup to you what happens next.’
I hate it when Andrew is all logical. Because I knew what he said made sense. Panic attacks are personal and no one else can help. It’s you and you alone facing the terror, dealing with a heart like an engine racing and screaming, threatening to shake you apart.
Yes. Panic attacks are lonely. But at least I can deal with them in a comfortable, familiar place.
Then again, why always take the comfortable and familiar path? Playing in that soccer game had been way outside my comfort zone, but I didn’t regret doing it. And Mr Broadbent seemed to think I was good enough. I took out my phone and went back to that first text message.
Do not fear fear. Its only purpose is to let you know that something is worth doing.
Maybe I should stop fearing fear.
‘It’s up to you, Rob,’ said Mum. ‘I mean, that’s great they want you. But in the end it’s a decision only you can make.’
Dad pointed a sausage at me, which was slightly unnerving.
‘I only wish someone had offered me a chance to play golf at state level,’ he said. ‘Imagine what my life might be like now. I could be on a golf course every day.’
‘You are on a golf course every day,’ Mum pointed out.
‘Yeah, but the course would pay me to do it, instead of the other way round.’
‘Dad,’ I said. ‘I think you need to face facts.’
He waved his sausage, which was still unnerving but I interpreted it as encouragement to continue.
‘You’re rubbish at golf,’ I said. ‘And I should know because I watch you all the time.’
‘Rubbish? That’s a little hurtful.’
‘The last round you played you scored one hundred and twelve.’
‘That was a bad day.’
‘That was a good day.’
He put the sausage back on his plate. I was relieved because it was looking absolutely wonderful and I’m vegetarian.
‘But if I’d had encouragement, maybe I’d be better,’ he said. ‘Maybe I’d be a world-beater.’ A world-beater? I didn’t think so. Possibly an egg-beater, but I didn’t have the heart to say it out loud. So I turned back to Mum.
‘What about my shyness?’ I asked.
‘What about it?’
‘It’ll be horrible in Brisbane because I won’t know anyone and my shyness will mean I’ll be all alone.’
‘Hey, look,’ she said with a shrug. ‘If you’re determined not to go, then I can’t persuade you. Because you’ll always find an excuse, no matter what anyone says.’
‘Just do it,’ said Grandad. ‘If it doesn’t work, then come home. Jeez, Rob. The younger generation always blankety overthinks things.’ He sucked on his teeth and treated me to a whistling rendition of some accidental tune that was actually quite nice.
‘But I’d have to get changed in dressing rooms and use public toilets, Pop. You know I don’t have the confidence to do that sort of stuff.’
‘Then get over yourself, young Rob. You know what I think, because we’ve talked about this before. Accept who you are and stop worrying how others are going to react.’
‘Easy for you to say.’
‘Hey, look,’ he said with a shrug. ‘If you’re determined not to go, then I can’t persuade you. But all I will say is: don’t end up with regrets. You will, of course. Everyone does. But don’t rack ’em up u
nless you have to.’
He paused. ‘Fancy a game of chess?’ he said. ‘You won’t regret it.’
I got the next text message that same night. Ten thirty-five.
Here’s a challenge that will challenge.
Accept it or decline. ‘Carpe diem’ or ‘dedo’. Look it up, my friend.
Get yourself on the front page of the local newspaper.
It doesn’t matter how you do it.
I already knew that Carpe diem meant ‘seize the day’. But I had to look up Dedo on my phone. It’s Latin for ‘Surrender’.
‘I first saw your grandmother in Sydney in 1962. I was twenty-three years old and literally fell over her in Darling Harbour.’
Granddad had his cane between his legs and he’d propped his chin against the handle. I sat next to him on the couch in his apartment and we stared out through the window towards the distant lake. A few ducks wandered around and the fountain gurgled and belched, though at this distance we couldn’t hear it. Grandad occasionally gurgled and belched as if to provide the missing sound effects.
‘You have to understand,’ he said, ‘that Darling Harbour was very different in those days. It was probably a good twenty years before Neville Wran made it into the upmarket place it is now. Then, it was an industrial area gone to seed, a place that had outlived its usefulness.’
‘You bumped into Gran,’ I reminded him. This was not the time for social history. I was about to learn something about my grandmother and I was excited.
‘She was carrying a bag of groceries and it spilled all over the street.’ He laughed as he watched it in his mind. ‘She said afterwards it was my fault, that I’d been running along the street and hadn’t paid attention. Just barged straight into her, sent the groceries flying. But it wasn’t like that, Rob. I wasn’t running. I walked. And she bumped into me. But she’d never admit that.’ His eyes took on a faraway look. ‘Your grandmother didn’t brook arguments. She knew she was right, even when she was wrong.’
‘What was her name?’ I asked. I needed basic information before we got into who was at fault about flying groceries over fifty years ago. It didn’t matter, at least to me. Maybe it did to Pop.
‘Bella,’ said Grandad. ‘Beautiful in Italian. And my God she deserved that name.’
Bella. I knew my grandmother’s name! I nearly burst into tears there and then. I’m such a sook. But I kept control because if I sobbed, Grandad would pay attention to me and I wanted him to pay attention to his memories. To keep control I had to curl up my hands so my nails bit into my palms.
‘I stood there dazed,’ said Grandad. ‘I couldn’t believe how beautiful she was. It was like being hit over the head with something soft and heavy.’ He fell silent.
‘Love at first sight,’ I offered.
‘Maybe,’ said Pop. ‘Maybe that was it.’
‘What did she say?’ I asked. I leaned forward on the couch, eager to catch every word. Pop’s voice had softened and his eyes had become dreamy. I leaned a little more. I had only a portion of one butt cheek on the couch and worried I’d collapse into a heap on the floor unless Pop said something.
‘She didn’t,’ said Grandad. ‘She just looked at me with those brown eyes.’
‘And?’ I said.
‘And then she kneed me in the nuts,’ said Grandad.
This was so unexpected I did slip off the couch and bruise my tailbone. It really hurt.
‘She did not,’ I wailed.
‘No, she didn’t,’ agreed Grandad. ‘I made that up.’
‘I hate you, Grandad,’ I said.
‘No, you don’t,’ he said. ‘It’s not my fault you’re a romantic idiot, Rob.’
‘It’s not my fault, either,’ I pointed out. ‘So, was any of that true? Her name, your first meeting?’
Grandad stood and arched his back as if ironing out aches and pains.
‘The violence was my only fiction,’ he said. ‘Your grandma’s name was Bella and I met her by falling over her in 1962 in Darling Harbour. And she was beautiful. She was so beautiful.’
‘So what happened then?’ Grandad was right. I am a romantic idiot and this was a story that already had me on the edge of messy, hysterical sobbing.
‘Ah,’ said Pop. ‘I didn’t see her again for five years. But I never forgot her, Rob. Hardly a day passed in those intervening years when I didn’t think about those eyes. I knew we were destined to meet again.’
‘Oh God, Grandad,’ I said. ‘That is so romantic.’ I couldn’t help myself this time. It was like a wall had given way and I burst into tears. Grandad put a hand on my shoulder.
‘Without a doubt, Rob,’ he said, ‘you are the most spineless sook in the entire Southern Hemisphere.’
‘I know, Pop,’ I spluttered between sobs. ‘Maybe the world.’
He didn’t argue.
Get yourself on the front page of the local newspaper.
It was obvious I was going to have problems with this task. A time for mature reflection on these texts and where they were leading me was obviously called for. I closed my eyes and concentrated.
First things first. Back to the thorny problem of who was sending them. I had a shortlist of two – Mum and Dad (one person) and Grandad. I’d never heard any of them use Latin, but I supposed that wasn’t a clinching argument on the grounds that I’d never heard anyone use Latin. Get yourself on the front page of the local newspaper. That’s not something a parent would suggest, especially since it also said it doesn’t matter how you do it. Maybe if it had said ‘get yourself on the front page of the newspaper for charitable services to the community’ then I’d keep Mum and Dad as suspects. But the text encouraged me to do anything to get there. Holding up the local McDonald’s with a sawn-off shotgun, tying myself naked to a statue in the CBD, stealing a car and ramming it into a storefront. There were plenty of possibilities, but Mum and Dad certainly wouldn’t be encouraging them. They’d gone ballistic when I stood in front of the canteen with a placard, for God’s sake. I couldn’t see them being character witnesses at my trial for urban terrorism, arguing that at least I’d made it onto the front page of the local newspaper and all should therefore be forgiven.
It couldn’t be them.
Unless they trusted my judgement on what would be acceptable and unacceptable actions to achieve the challenge.
No. It really couldn’t be them.
That left Grandad. What did Sherlock Holmes say? When you’ve eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.
Grandad.
What was becoming increasingly obvious was that these challenges were designed to improve my self-confidence. I’d spent most of my life trying to be as small as possible, scuttling through the world unobserved. The sender of the texts was trying to widen my experience, putting me centre stage and proving I had no reason to be self-conscious. And, I had to admit, it was working. Thus it followed that the sender was someone who cared about me. Cared for me. As far as I knew only four people did that, and I’d eliminated three. You can’t argue with Sherlock.
Grandad.
I was dimly aware of muffled laughter. I opened my eyes and nearly wet myself.
Ms Singh’s face was centimetres from mine. Now, her face is lovely – it’s just that I wasn’t expecting it to fill my vision. So I jumped a surprising and possibly impossible distance off my chair.
‘Sorry to disturb you, Rob,’ she said. The laughter increased. ‘It’s just that I’ve asked you three times for the solution to this problem. After the first, I figured you were sleeping. After the third I was afraid you were dead. Believe me, I’m happy to know you’re still in the land of the living.’
‘Sorry, Miss,’ I said. ‘I was thinking.’
‘Excellent. That makes a welcome change. So you have the solution?’
‘Er, I wasn’t actually thinking about maths. Sorry, Miss.’
‘No apologies necessary, Rob. We can work on the problem together during lunchtime detent
ion today. How does that sound?’
Blankety awful was the reply, but I kept that in my head.
‘Okay,’ I mumbled.
‘No, no, no, Rob. Definitely not “okay”. My lunch is my lunch and the last thing I want is to spend it with students, particularly a student who wasn’t paying attention during the time I am paid to teach. “Okay”, I’m afraid, doesn’t cut it.’
I thought for a moment.
‘Thank you, Ms Singh.’
‘You’re welcome, Rob,’ she said.
We didn’t work on the problem. I worked on it, while Ms Singh ate a small salad and marked assignments. At least it gave me an opportunity to get out my phone, though I kept it hidden beneath the desk.
Do you really mean ANYTHING, Grandad? I texted back.
I wasn’t expecting a reply. True, I’d got one once but that was only in response to a Yes or No question. The times I’d rung, I got zilch.
Nonetheless, my phone buzzed.
Whatever it takes, said the text message. And this isn’t your grandfather.
‘Checking your phone during detention?’ said Ms Singh. How could she sneak up on me like that? Was she a ninja? ‘I think that means another meeting tomorrow lunchtime, Rob. What’s your view?’
I thought.
‘Thanks, Ms Singh,’ I said. ‘It’s quality time and I really enjoy it.’
‘Mum?’ I said.
I tried to keep the tone conversational, quiet and reasonable. Just a normal question on a normal day.
‘What?’ Mum wrapped the roast in alfoil and placed it into the oven. It was beef. It was disgusting. Not only had an innocent animal died to fill that piece of alfoil, but the cost to the environment was enormous. It was clear that putting the meat into the oven was a betrayal of the planet and a damning verdict on humanity.
It was also clear I’d need to stay away from the kitchen when the smells started coming from the oven. I can resist everything except temptation …
‘Can I have a dog?’ I peeled a carrot in what I hoped was a casual fashion. ‘Please?’ I added because manners never hurt.
A Song Only I Can Hear Page 10
