‘When?’ he said.
‘Twelve noon. Outside the supermarket.’
‘I’ll be there,’ he said.
I knew he would.
Andrew was pleased our protest had been put back to midday. He pointed out that, like the reporter, he enjoyed a sleep-in on the weekends.
‘But you would have turned up at nine o’clock, though?’ I asked.
‘Of course,’ he said. He gave me a small glare as if mortally offended I’d doubted him. ‘Unless I’d still been asleep,’ he added. ‘Which I probably would’ve been.’
We met at eleven-thirty in a park close to the shopping mall. I’d made a detour to the newspaper office, but the place was locked up tight. I regretted not getting the reporter’s phone number yesterday, but he probably wouldn’t have given it to me anyway. I just hoped he remembered. Anyway, this wasn’t really about getting on the front page of the paper, I reminded myself, but getting publicity for the ill-treatment of animals at the abattoir and exposing local businesses’ lack of concern at how their meat was sourced. Yes, getting in the paper would achieve the challenge, but ultimately this wasn’t about me.
Andrew was already sitting on a bench, a huge rucksack on the ground next to him. He looked pale and sweaty.
‘Mate,’ I said. ‘You look pale and sweaty.’
‘Not surprising,’ he replied, a little breathless. ‘Do you have any idea how heavy this thing is?’ He nodded down at the rucksack.
I didn’t and acknowledged this freely. But, in solidarity, I tried to lift it and nearly dislocated my shoulder blade. Possibly both of them.
‘What have you got in there?’ I said. ‘An anvil or a life-sized bronze of an overweight hippo? Or both?’
‘The equipment,’ said Andrew.
We’d discussed this last night. To chain yourself to railings you needed two things, we’d agreed. Railings and chains. We trusted the railings would be provided for us – it was staggeringly unlikely, we figured, that council workers would dismantle them from the front of the shopping mall during the night. That left chains. Neither Andrew nor I could afford to buy them, so this meant we had to raid parental sheds. Not stealing, naturally, but borrowing. We’d bring them back. I say parental sheds, but really there was only one shed worth checking out.
My father works in real estate and doesn’t own a hammer. Our shed is bare. Or it would be if we actually had one.
Andrew’s dad has a fluoro vest, more power tools than Bunnings and his shed is crammed with enough material to build a six-lane motorway.
‘Chains,’ I said.
‘And padlocks,’ said Andrew. ‘You can’t tie knots in chains. Well, not secure ones.’
We sat there for twenty minutes, partly to let Andrew get his breath back and partly because we had a specific appointment for twelve.
‘Destry has a boyfriend,’ I said.
‘Yeah, I know,’ said Andrew. ‘Good-looking guy. He’s just started at St Martin’s.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Why would I tell you?’
I spread my arms towards the sky and rolled my eyes. Slightly over-dramatic, I admit, but also pointless, since Andrew was gazing at his sneakers as if they held important secrets.
‘Hello, Andrew?’ I said. ‘You know I’m in love with Destry Camberwick and you didn’t think to tell me of one slight problem? That she has a boyfriend who makes me look like Shrek?’
‘He doesn’t make you look like Shrek.’
‘Really?’
‘No. You do that by yourself.’ Andrew got up and stretched. He looked at the rucksack and waved a hand at it. ‘Your turn,’ he added. ‘And Rob, I didn’t tell you about Destry’s squeeze because it makes no difference.’
I managed to get the rucksack up onto the bench, and then I crouched and slipped my arms through the straps. Standing straight was a problem and for a second I had an image of toppling forward, the rucksack crushing me like a cockroach. When they lifted it off me all that would remain would be a bloody stain on the grass. But I managed to stand, although I tottered a few paces.
‘No difference?’ I said. Andrew was mad and this was proof.
‘None,’ he said. ‘You’ll never get anywhere if you have this negative attitude towards things, Rob. It’s your biggest problem. You think you’re unworthy of Destry and therefore you always will be. Have confidence. If you have confidence then no one can compete with you. No boyfriend, no matter how good looking, would stand a chance against you.’
I must admit, his words made me feel good. Until I remembered.
‘You said I look like Shrek,’ I said.
‘You said you look like Shrek,’ he replied. ‘I was just agreeing with your own judgement. Don’t complain that I’m dissing you, when all the time it’s you talking yourself down.’
Sometimes, Andrew is too smart for his own good. I may have said this before.
‘I’m not totally stupid, Grandad,’ I said.
Pop set up the chessboard and said nothing. When all the pieces were aligned, he regarded me across the board, one eye partially closed, like a strange and disturbing wink.
‘I never thought you were totally stupid, young Rob. Just partly stupid, like the rest of humanity.’ He put a hand out, palm raised, inviting me to start. I moved my king’s knight’s pawn forward one square.
‘Good example,’ he said. ‘What kind of dumb opening move is that?’
‘One I’ve never tried before,’ I replied. ‘All the others have led to defeat.’
‘And you think this won’t?’ said Grandad.
‘Oh, it probably will,’ I said. ‘But at least I will have found a different way to lose.’
Grandad grunted and moved his king’s pawn forward two spaces.
‘I think you were either conscripted or volunteered for the Vietnam War in the mid-nineteen sixties,’ I said. ‘I believe you fought in that war, possibly at the battle of Long Tan in 1966. Then you returned to Australia and met my grandmother in 1967. Maybe you were injured in the war. Or maybe you were simply allowed to come home. Am I close?’ I moved my queen’s knight’s pawn forward two spaces. ‘I looked up wars in the nineteen sixties,’ I added. ‘Ones involving Australians.’
Grandad was silent. I tried not to meet his eyes, but I couldn’t help noticing his right hand shook slightly. I resisted the urge to fill the silence.
‘I told you I don’t want to talk about it,’ said Grandad finally. ‘Is that really too much to ask?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It is. Now, I’m not asking for all the details, the things you saw, the horrors I imagine you witnessed. I just want some facts, Grandad. That’s all. Nice, uncomplicated facts about where you were. That can’t be difficult, can it? “Yes, I was in the Vietnam War. From 1965 to 1967. Okay, Rob? Fancy a cup of tea?” I’d be satisfied with that.’ I wasn’t sure if that was strictly true, but Grandad didn’t need to know it.
Pop stood and picked up his cane. He walked a few steps to the French windows and gazed out to the distant lake. Suddenly I was worried. Grandad never walked away from a chess game. Had I really touched a nerve I had no right to touch, simply to satisfy personal curiosity? Or was this a legitimate opportunity to fill in the gaps of my own background, my rightful inheritance?
Grandad sighed.
‘Maybe you’re right, Rob,’ he said. His voice was so low I had to strain to catch the words. ‘Yes, I fought in the Vietnam War. I was stationed at Nui Dat in the province of Phuoc Tuy. Yes, I saw horrors, particularly at the battle of Long Tan. And most of the horrors, I committed myself. Is that what you wanted to hear? Am I excused now?’
My mouth had gone dry. It wasn’t so much the words Grandad used, as the tone. Not resigned – that’s not quite right. But … weary. So weary.
‘Grandad,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t pry. You’re right. It’s none of my business.’
I wanted to get up and put a hand on his shoulder. No. I wanted to get up and hug him. But I was
scared of what might happen next. What if he shuddered and pushed me away?
Pop stood against the bright backdrop of the window. Outside, the sun was falling towards the tops of the trees and the distant waters of the lake were kissed by gold. Grandad did shudder then. And he seemed to shrink in on himself. When he turned to face me, it was as if he’d aged years in the last two minutes.
‘Let’s play,’ he said. Was it my imagination, or were his steps back to the table more unsteady than normal? He sat and gazed at the board, moved a piece forward. Then he met my eyes. ‘Not your fault, Rob,’ he said. He smiled, but it was twisted somehow. ‘Not remotely your fault, okay?’
I nodded, but that didn’t mean I agreed with his words. I felt soaked in guilt.
‘Sometimes,’ he said. ‘Sometimes, when you uncork a bottle and let the contents out, you can’t get them back in. Do you know what I mean?’
I nodded again.
‘I’ll tell you something about my time in Vietnam,’ he said, ‘because I think you deserve to know why your grandmother couldn’t stay with me. That part is your heritage and I guess you should know why you never had a grandma telling you bedtime stories, watching you grow up. But I won’t talk about it too much and when I’m done, I’m done, okay?’
I nodded.
He pointed to the board. ‘Your move,’ he said.
Not only had Andrew brought enough stuff to chain us both to the supermarket’s railings, he’d brought enough to fix the staff and all of the customers as well. Not just chains, but padlocks too. Small ones, hulking ones, over thirty in total. I found it hard to believe his dad would need so much material, even if he was a tradie (which he was). Maybe he collected chains and padlocks like other people collect china figurines and antique snuff boxes. That was a weird thought, and I liked it.
Andrew saw to me first. I sat on the pavement up against the railings and he wound the links through my arms and legs, across my neck and through the bars of the fence. Occasionally he put in a padlock and locked it. We’d talked about this: if the butcher or the supermarket manager came out, we didn’t want them unravelling the chains in five seconds and telling us to clear off. What kind of a protest would that be? No. We were here for the long term. A few passers-by glanced our way, somewhat puzzled, but no one challenged us.
‘How does that feel?’ said Andrew when he was done. I flexed my arms and legs, tried to shift my bum across the pavement. All good. I was trussed like a Christmas turkey. (No. Animal cruelty. I was trussed like a Christmas nut loaf. No. That doesn’t make sense.)
‘Great,’ I said. ‘I’m going nowhere.’
‘Okay,’ said Andrew. ‘My turn.’
It was only then we realised the problem. Andrew stood with a couple of kilometres of heavy-duty chain draped across his arms. He couldn’t tie himself up and I was in no position, since I could barely move the fingers on one hand.
‘You could ask a passer-by,’ I suggested.
He did, but it didn’t work. Maybe that wasn’t so surprising. Excuse me. I’m fourteen years old and would much appreciate it if you’d lock me to this railing with lengths of chain and numerous padlocks.
Luckily, Grandad turned up right on midday.
‘G’day, guys,’ he said. ‘Need a hand?’ He summed up the situation quickly. ‘I don’t know,’ he mumbled. ‘If your brains were dynamite, you wouldn’t have enough to blow your hats off.’
‘We’re not wearing hats, Mr F,’ Andrew pointed out.
Grandad quickly and efficiently shackled Andrew next to me. It must have been a bizarre spectacle for anyone paying attention – an old guy tying up a boy in the centre of town. You can probably get arrested for that kind of thing. Luckily, no police came by. Plenty of other people did, but no one intervened, which, in a sense, was a real worry. We could’ve been holding up a jeweller’s shop and people would undoubtedly stroll by, heads over their phones, chained and padlocked to their own interior set of railings. Had people always been like this? I thought not. I resolved to ask Grandad at some point. He wouldn’t know all history but he’d lived through a fair portion of it.
‘Okay,’ said Grandad, tugging at the padlocks and chains. He appeared satisfied they were secure. ‘Comfortable?’
How can you be comfortable chained and padlocked to railings while the cold from frosty concrete creeps up your bum?
‘Great, thanks,’ we both said together.
‘And where are your placards?’
Andrew and I looked at each other. Correction. We tried to look at each other but the chains were so tight it was hard to make eye contact.
‘You said you’d get the placards, Rob,’ said Andrew.
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Well, you should have said it. I brought the chains and padlocks after all. You can’t expect me to do everything.’
‘Now, wait a moment …’
‘Shut up,’ said Grandad. ‘You moronic mounds of cat poo.’ I was going to complain about the insults, but reckoned if I did, Grandad might gag both of us and then walk away. ‘So here you are, chained to railings, but no one knows why. Brilliant! Were you relying on telepathy or simply hoping people will ask you? “Excuse me, but are you chained up for a reason or is this how teenagers now spend their weekends?” I wouldn’t talk to you. I’d pretend you didn’t exist, just like all these people are doing.’ Grandad waved a hand to encompass the surroundings. The town centre was busy now, but no one was looking in our direction. Part of the problem was that we were both close to the ground, being chained to the railings and all, so it was difficult for anyone to spot us. Grandad sighed. ‘I’ll go and get some placards and a texta,’ he said. Now he shook his head. ‘Honest to God. You guys are meant to be the future of the human race. Heaven help us all! Okay. I’ll be quick. Don’t go anywhere.’
‘We can’t, Mr …’
‘He’s joking, Andrew,’ I said.
‘Oh.’
Pop was only gone ten minutes, but in that time Destry Camberwick rocked up.
‘Hi, Rob. Hey, Andrew,’ said Destry.
‘Destry. How’s it going?’ said Andrew.
‘Good.’ She squatted down so we could see her more easily, rather than staring at her kneecaps. Don’t get me wrong. I liked staring at her kneecaps. They were brilliant kneecaps. But it was also great to look into her eyes. ‘Now, I know it’s rude to ask,’ she said, ‘but I couldn’t help noticing you’re chained to the railings.’ She put a hand on my knee and a part of me shrivelled and died. ‘Just as you said, Rob. But is there a reason? Or is this how you guys like to spend your weekend?’
I explained.
‘You need placards,’ she said when I was done.
‘I know,’ I replied. ‘My grandfather has just gone to get some. Oh, here he is.’
Pop had not only got placards, he’d written on them and pinned them to stakes.
Boycott Meat At Dixon’s The Butcher and Morgan’s Supermarket.
Don’t Support Animal Cruelty!
He propped them between our knees.
‘Grandad,’ I said. ‘This is Destry Camberwick.’
Pop looked at Destry and then back at me. At that moment I regretted introducing him; I should’ve known better. I should’ve said, I have no idea who this old fart is, Destry. That wouldn’t have worked but it might have bought me some time.
‘What? The Destry Camberwick?’
‘Er. Well. A Destry Camberwick,’ I said.
‘The one you’re in love with?’ asked Pop.
There was silence for two months. Okay, not two months, probably more like five seconds, but certainly plenty of time to die a couple of hundred times.
‘No,’ I said after two months. ‘That’s another Destry Camberwick entirely.’
You can hope for the earth to swallow you, but let’s face it, it’s unlikely to happen. Especially when you’re chained to a supermarket’s railings with a placard clenched between your thighs. There’s probably some law of physics involved.
Grandad looked Destry up and down.
‘I thought you were an eighties rock band,’ he said.
There was once a dog who lived in the nineteen twenties, somewhere in America.
He was a well-loved dog, so well-loved that when the family went on holiday, they didn’t organise a house-sitter or put him in a boarding kennel. They’d miss him too much.
So they took the dog with them on a very long road trip. A very, very long road trip.
All would have been fine, except one day their dog went missing. The family was horrified and upset. They searched and searched, but couldn’t find him. Eventually, they had to return home. They had no choice. It was a long and emotional journey back. Many tears were shed; they knew they’d never see their dog again.
Except – yes, it’s happened before and it will probably keep on happening – the dog found its way home. Imagine how happy the family was to see him limp up their driveway a few months after they’d got back. Imagine their surprise as well.
You see, the dog had walked two and a half thousand miles to get home. That’s four thousand kilometres.
Do you know any person who would walk four thousand kilometres for someone they love?
Speaking of dogs …
There was once a dog called Hachiko and he lived in Japan. The person he shared a life with was Hidesaburo Ueno, a lecturer at the University of Tokyo. Every day, Hidesaburo would go off to work and every evening he would return to Shibuya Station on the train.
Hachiko would always be there at the station waiting for him. Always. And they would be so happy to see each other.
But one day, Hidesaburo died. He died at work, but of course Hachiko didn’t know that. So he waited at the station as he had always done. When his master didn’t arrive (or is ‘master’ the right word? Is ‘friend’ better?) he wondered what had happened. But he knew that if he waited, Hidesaburo would turn up eventually. That’s the way it had always worked. So he waited and he waited.
Every day for over nine years.
When Hachiko died, the people of Tokyo put up a statue of him. The statue is still there at Shibuya Station in Tokyo. So, in a sense, Hachiko is still waiting.
A Song Only I Can Hear Page 13
