I rush over and throw my arms round him.
‘Don’t ever do that again,’ I say.
Matt is sweaty, but grinning.
‘Don’t tell Mum,’ he says.
He knows I won’t. He knows I wouldn’t dream of it. Not even next time I get cross with him for making the toilet roll soggy playing soccer with it in the bathroom.
Uncle Cliff arrives.
‘Matty,’ he says. ‘Are you alright?’
Matt nods, still grinning.
The angry officials start to have a go at Uncle Cliff, probably because they think he’s Matt’s parent or guardian. Uncle Cliff steers them away from us.
Matt’s grin disappears. I know why. He’s worried they’ll tell Mum and Dad.
‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘Uncle Cliff’s calming them down.’
We watch Uncle Cliff calming down the angry officials.
‘Fair go,’ Uncle Cliff is saying to them. ‘If you want cattle running round for the news cameras, you should have warning signs. Health and safety, page one. And production assistants with luminous vests.’
Uncle Cliff is good with angry people. He reckons it’s a skill you develop in electrical stores because of the damage electricity does to some electrical products.
Matt is rubbing himself on the shoulder. He sees me notice.
‘One of the cattle pronged me,’ he says.
I check him out. But there’s no blood. His shirt isn’t even torn. Which is a huge relief.
‘Doesn’t hurt much,’ says Matt. ‘No need to panic.’
Sometimes older brothers can be really dumb. Matt should know by now why I panic. He’s had nearly two and a half years to work it out.
It’s because I’m scared of losing him as well.
After Mum and Dad finish work, we tidy Pete and Danny’s graves like we do every Sunday arvo.
Dad sweeps, Mum does the flowers, Matt pulls out the weeds and I pick the tree seeds out of the gravel. Birds poo the seeds out. They don’t do it on purpose. It’s something they were born with, like Matt scoring goals.
Mum hates having any sort of tree seeds on the graves. I think it’s because it was a tree that killed Pete and Danny. That and an out-of-control cattle truck with brake pads Uncle Cliff reckons probably came from a pizza shop.
Today Matt is quiet as he weeds.
I know why. His shoulder must be getting stiff, which happens when you’ve nearly been killed by cattle, and he doesn’t want Mum to see.
I try to cheer things up a bit.
‘Dad,’ I say, ‘tell us a Pete and Danny story.’
On Sunday arvos Mum and Dad often tell us things about when Pete and Danny were little. The twins were eleven years older than me and I wasn’t born when they were small, so it’s a way for me and Matt to get to know them better.
Dad smiles and wipes the sweat off his face with his hand. I love the way his hands are so big. He’d have made a great goalkeeper. But that’s OK, because he’s a great removalist.
‘One Christmas,’ he says, ‘Nanna and Grandad were visiting from Scotland.’
I smile too because I know this one. It’s about Pete and Danny when they were toddlers, thinking Nanna and Grandad’s whisky was wee.
‘Matt,’ says Mum. ‘What’s wrong with your shoulder?
Matt tries to look like nothing is, but the effort of pulling some crabgrass extra hard just made him wince.
‘Let me see,’ says Mum.
She pushes up the sleeve of his shirt.
Oh no.
A few hours ago it was just a scrape. Now Matt’s shoulder is half covered with a huge bruise from where two hundred kilos of beef pronged him.
‘It looks worse than it is,’ mutters Matt.
Silently I ask the gods of soccer, the ones Uncle Cliff reckons players pray to before cup finals, to make a galah fly down and poo a seed on Mum’s head so she gets distracted and doesn’t ask how the bruise happened.
No galah appears. The gods of soccer must be English and don’t know what a galah is.
Mum is still staring at the bruise. I can see she’s getting upset.
Any mum probably would after what she’s been through. Two and a half years ago, when we first got the news about the crash, we thought Matt was dead too.
‘Matt,’ says Mum. ‘You promised you wouldn’t play rough. How many times do I have to remind you? Your legs are held together by bits of metal.’
‘Only three,’ mutters Matt. ‘Three tiny bits.’
Mum glares at him. They argue about this a lot.
It’s not Mum’s fault. When parents have kids that get killed, they end up extra anxious about their other ones. It’s why I’ve got more asthma puffers than any other kid in my class. Including one that Mum hides in a tree on the corner of Bentley Street in case I run out on the way to school.
‘Easy, love,’ says Dad, putting his arm round Mum. ‘It’s only a bruise. It’ll be gone in a week.’
‘It’s getting smaller already,’ says Matt.
‘It could be worse,’ I say. ‘My friend Shay, last week her big brother had an accident with a power sander and one of his tattoos got scraped off.’
Mum and Dad both look at me.
‘It was only a stick-on one,’ I say. ‘But still.’
Mum laughs. One of those laughs that’s almost tearful. Then she sighs and the expression on her face is just like Gael-Anne gets after missing a goal. A mixture of upset and annoyed with herself.
‘I’m sorry, Matt,’ she says. ‘I am trying.’
‘You are love,’ says Dad.
We all know she is.
Uncle Cliff put it best. ‘When your sons go off to a football match in the next town,’ he said at the funeral, ‘and for two of them the final whistle blows seventy years too early, and there’s no extra time even when you beg, it’s pretty hard to ever trust the ref again.’
I thought that was amazing. Uncle Cliff hasn’t even got kids. And he used to be a ref in the under-six Sunday league.
Dad kisses Mum, then looks more closely at Matt’s bruise.
‘Hope the other bloke’s is bigger,’ he says.
Matt doesn’t know what to say. We tell the truth in our family. But we also look after Mum.
‘Let’s get home,’ says Dad. ‘I need my tea.’
Me and Matt swap a relieved glance. No need for Mum to know about stampeding cattle. Except suddenly a thought plummets into my mind like a tree seed from the bum hole of a bird.
Those TV news cameras at the cattle yard, were any of them pointing at Matt?
No sign of Matt on the news.
So far.
On the TV, the visiting politician is telling the cattle-yard crowd about our beef going to China.
‘Good news for a change,’ says Mum.
I know why she’s pleased. When our cattle go to China, they leave their skins behind. That means more leather for the leather goods factory where Mum works.
Dad nods, his mouth full.
Mum and Dad like to eat dinner while we watch the news. That way there’s not too much chat and they don’t miss the important stuff.
I pray Matt won’t be on. If he is, Mum will definitely see it. She can cut a fish finger up and put it in her mouth without taking her eyes off the screen for a blink.
‘Love, don’t do that,’ says Mum to Matt.
Matt’s doing what he usually does when he sits on the lounge. Flicking something from one foot to the other. Tonight it’s a dirty sock.
‘He’s just practising,’ I say. ‘You need at least ten thousand hours of practice to get really good at anything. They’ve done studies.’
‘And have they done studies,’ says Dad, ‘on how many hours of practice it takes to do what your parents tell you?’
Because he’s Dad, he grins after he says it.
Matt stops flicking the sock.
I think the main reason Mum and Dad don’t like Matt practising at dinner is it reminds us all of what he’s lost. Before th
e accident everyone thought he’d be a professional soccer player one day. Now the doctors reckon his legs probably wouldn’t stand the strain. We don’t talk about it much, but we all know how disappointed Matt must be.
‘What the . . .?’ says Dad.
Oh no.
Matt’s on TV.
I’ve been dreading this, but I still have to look. What Matt did is even more amazing seeing it on TV. There are clouds of dust, but you can still see the cattle are trying to foul him the whole time. He doesn’t lose his temper once. Or the ball.
I think the doctors are wrong.
If Matt’s legs can survive that, they can survive anything.
‘The Cristiano Ronaldo of the cattle yard,’ says the reporter. ‘Showing the minister what fancy footwork really looks like.’
The segment ends. I peek at Mum. She’s staring at the TV, her mouth open. I can see half-chewed fish finger, which she’s always telling us we shouldn’t ever let anyone see.
I hope she swallows it soon. Fish fingers can kill you if they get lodged in your airway. Asthma, page one.
‘Judas H incredible,’ says Dad.
Normally he’d be comforting Mum. But he’s still staring at the TV.
I see why. The next segment’s started. And it is incredible. Matt’s in this one as well.
Franco Di Rafaela, one of the most famous footballers in the world, has just arrived in Australia for a year to play in the A League. Uncle Cliff reckons it’s partly because he’s a bit over the hill and partly because they’re paying him millions.
This is his press interview at the airport. And one of the reporters is showing him a phone video of Matt in the cattle yard.
‘Is this why you’ve come to Australia?’ the reporter says to Franco Di Rafaela. ‘So you can learn some new skills?’
Franco Di Rafaela frowns. He looks like he’s hoping the reporter will be sent off. Then he shrugs in a weary but good-natured sort of way.
‘Australia is a young country in football,’ he says. ‘I come here to be young again.’
He speaks good English, which isn’t surprising. Everyone knows he’s just spent a few years playing for a top English club.
He points to the reporter’s phone, where a tiny Matt is still doing magic moves in the cattle yard.
‘This boy is me,’ says Franco Di Rafaela. ‘Except I learned my football on the street. Much harder. Stampeding cattle are easy compared to the traffic in Italy.’
The reporters laugh. The segment ends.
We all look at each other, stunned. Except Mum, who leaves the room.
Looking upset. Really, really upset.
And angry.
‘Matt,’ she calls from her bedroom. ‘Come in here, I want to talk to you.’
Matt looks at Dad.
Dad sighs, and signals for Matt to follow him into the bedroom. They both look like they’re carrying about six wardrobes.
The phone starts ringing.
I’m the only one left, so I answer it.
‘Bridie Sutherland,’ I say. ‘Sutherland residence.’
It’s one of Mum and Dad’s friends, telling them that Matt’s just been on TV. I take a message. The phone rings again. And again. I take about twenty messages. I wish we had an answering machine, but Mum thinks they’re rude.
Then Uncle Cliff comes crashing in through the screen door. He only lives in the next street, so when he wants to tell us something he usually just comes over.
‘How brilliant was that,’ he says breathlessly. ‘That was just totally Judas H brilliant.’
He sees it’s just me in the room. He sees Mum and Dad aren’t there.
His face changes.
I can see he’s realising that maybe it wasn’t totally Judas H brilliant for everyone.
I have the bad dream again.
The one I have a lot.
Me playing for Australia in a World Cup soccer final. Nil–nil with two minutes to go. I’ve got the ball. Matt wants me to pass to him.
But I can’t kick.
There’s bubble wrap round my legs. And my arms. And my chest.
Matt’s not much better off. His soccer shirt and shorts are made of cotton wool. Which is growing like fungus.
It’s over his head and feet now. He’s being smothered in cotton wool.
The more I struggle to kick the ball, the tighter the bubble wrap gets.
Until I can’t breathe. Or make a sound.
After that dream I can never get back to sleep, so I just lie here thinking about all the bad luck our family’s had. And how it’s about time we had some good luck.
Then I get up and creep through the dark house to the phone and ring information and get the number of the TV station who had Matt on their news.
Soon after it gets light, I hear Mum creep into Matt’s room.
I can’t hear everything through the wall, but I’m pretty sure she’s saying sorry. For being a worry-guts. For making Matt suffer because of Pete and Danny. For trying to keep him wrapped up in cotton wool. I know that’s probably what she’s saying because I’ve heard her say it before, though I think last time she said bubble wrap.
Also, because she’s a mum who’s proud of what me and Matt do, she’s probably saying well done for his footwork and the way he kept control of the ball when the cattle tried to tackle him from behind.
And she’s probably also giving him a tickle and telling him not to get big-headed just because he’s the first member of our family ever to be on TV.
So at breakfast I’m a bit surprised how stern she is.
‘I don’t want you running around today,’ she says to me and Matt. ‘I want you at Uncle Cliff’s.’
‘Aw, Mum,’ says Matt.
We’re meant to be meeting the others. The orange lot want to do blindfold penalties again.
‘I want someone keeping an eye on you both,’ says Mum.
I’m outraged. Looking out for Matt is my job. One little incident in a cattle yard and people think you’ve lost it.
Plus it’s only the second week of the school holidays. Are we going to spend the next three weeks at Uncle Cliff’s? He’s really nice, but he plays weird music.
I say that out loud.
‘Probably only the next couple of days,’ says Dad while Mum’s putting on her work clothes. ‘Try to understand.’
At Uncle Cliff’s we spend the day helping him with housework and watching soccer on pay TV. Which makes more housework. Uncle Cliff gets very excited watching soccer on TV and biscuit crumbs go everywhere.
After my phone call last night, I’m really hoping we have some special visitors, but we don’t. So instead I do a lot of thinking about how me and Matt can show Mum we don’t need the cotton wool and the bubble wrap.
Late in the afternoon I have an idea.
‘Uncle Cliff,’ I say, ‘can we sharpen your knives for you?’
If Mum hears we’ve done some dangerous things without getting hurt or bleeding to death, it’ll show her we can look after ourselves.
Uncle Cliff peers at me, frowning, and I realise he can’t hear me.
I go over to the sound system and turn down the music thudding out of the big speakers. It’s Uncle Cliff’s favourite group, the Rolling Stones. Except I’m surprised he still wants to listen to them after what he’s been through lately.
‘Can we sharpen your knives?’ I say.
Uncle Cliff is fiddling with the vacuum cleaner. He’s found some strands of Aunty Paula’s hair tangled around the roller-brush attachment.
He answers without looking up.
‘Thanks for the kind offer,’ he says. ‘But I haven’t got a knife sharpener.’
I don’t take it personally. Getting rid of sad memories must be a fiddly job when you’re not used to using eyebrow tweezers.
‘That power plug on the vacuum cleaner looks a bit dodgy,’ says Matt, who’s keeping one of Uncle Cliff’s cushions up in the air just using his feet and head. ‘Can I rewire it for you?’
&
nbsp; Good old Matt. He understands my plan without me even telling him.
‘No thanks,’ says Uncle Cliff. ‘It only looks a bit dodgy because it’s off an old Xbox.’
I try to think of something else dangerous we can do.
‘Do your gutters need a clean?’ I say. ‘Or your chainsaw?’
Uncle Cliff shakes his head, still fiddling with the roller-brush attachment.
I give Matt a look, hoping he’ll think of something else. But he doesn’t. He’s still flipping the cushion.
Uncle Cliff gives a big sigh.
But it’s not about the cushion. And I realise it’s not about his knives or his gutters either.
Uncle Cliff is staring at the music system and he looks really sad.
He gets up and turns the music off.
I knew it was too soon for him to be listening to the Rolling Stones. Even though the song that was playing, ‘I Can’t Get No Satisfaction’, is his all-time favourite. Aunty Paula only left him a few weeks ago. They went to see a Rolling Stones tribute band a couple of towns away, and the next day Aunty Paula emailed the pretend Mick Jagger and the rest is what Dad calls a king-size tragedy. He should know, he moves a lot of big beds.
Uncle Cliff sighs again.
‘I need some fresh air,’ he says, putting Aunty Paula’s hairs into the kitchen tidy. ‘Let’s go to the pub for tea.’
I glance at Matt to make sure he’s still got his phone with him.
He has, which is good, because there might be a call coming through.
Really, as Matt’s manager, I should have a phone of my own. So at moments like this, when arrangements change suddenly, people can still get hold of me.
Uncle Cliff knows Mr Daltry, the publican at the Horns And Tail Hotel, so me and Matt are allowed to have our tea sitting on boxes of crushed pear cider in the storeroom behind the bar.
That’s good, because if any special visitors come looking for us, we can chat with them here in private.
Except it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen. Which is really disappointing. When I rang the TV station last night and told them Franco Di Rafaela should come and see Matt’s talent in person, the man I spoke to was really friendly. He said he couldn’t promise anything, but he congratulated me for doing such a good job as Matt’s manager so late after my bedtime.
Extra Time Page 2
