Sticky Beak

by Morris Gleitzman

  ‘So,’ Dad went on, ‘tonight’s little mishap wasn’t on account of me singing?’

  I shook my head.

  I know it wasn’t, because Dad’s sung heaps of other times since the wedding—at Ms Dunning’s birthday party and at the school fund-raising bingo night and at the dawn service on Anzac Day—and no food’s ended up in any electrical appliances on any of those occasions.

  Dad looked relieved. Then he frowned, like he does when we’re playing Trivial Pursuit and he gets a question about astronomy.

  ‘Do you reckon there’s a possibility,’ he said, ‘that tonight’s mishap was the result of stress?’

  ‘What stress?’ I asked.

  ‘The stress,’ he said, ‘of you having a teacher who’s also your mum.’

  ‘Definitely not,’ I said, almost poking his eye out with my elbow. My hand movements get a bit wild when I’m being emphatic.

  There’s no way that could be it. I love having Ms Dunning living with us and she was tops in class. The number of times she must have been tempted to tell me to pay attention or I wouldn’t get any tea, and she didn’t do it once.

  ‘The only stress I’ve suffered this year,’ I said to Dad, ‘was when that committee in Sydney ignored my nomination of her as Australian Of The Year.’

  I was ropeable. How many nominations do they get that have been signed by thirty people? Even Darryn Peck signed after I gave him two dollars.

  Dad looked relieved again. ‘Just checking,’ he said. ‘By the way, Tonto, now she’s not your teacher any more, it’d be real good if you could call her Claire.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, ‘I’ll try to remember.’

  Dad frowned again, but this time really hard, like when the Trivial Pursuit question’s about the digestive system of the West Australian bog leech.

  I waited for him to speak.

  I could see there was something else he wanted to ask me, but he was having trouble getting it out.

  I decided to step in before he risked his health by standing on his head or doing any of the other things he does when there’s a bit of tension in the air.

  ‘Dad,’ I said, ‘I’m really happy you married Ms Dunning. I mean Claire. I think she’s great and I wouldn’t swap her for a prawn sandwich, not even with the crusts cut off.’

  Dad grinned and gave me a big hug.

  His hair smelt faintly of raspberry jelly.

  ‘We’ll have to get you some new shoes,’ he said. ‘Something with decent soles that’ll grip coleslaw.’

  I didn’t say anything, I just tried to look as sleepy as I could.

  Ms Dunning came in and gave me a kiss on the cheek and when I peeked she and Dad were creeping out of the room with their arms round each other.

  They stopped in the hallway and kissed.

  I bet there aren’t many couples who still do that after a year of marriage.

  It gave me a warm feeling inside.

  But that was ages ago, and now I don’t feel warm inside or sleepy.

  I may never sleep again.

  It’s pretty hard to nod off when you’ve just chucked a dessert across a school hall and you haven’t got a clue why.

  Dad always reckons if you’ve got a problem, don’t just mope around, do something about it.

  When I woke up this morning I decided to do something about mine.

  I grabbed my pen and tore a page off my drawing pad.

  At the top in big letters I wrote, ‘TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN’.

  Under it I wrote, ‘SORRY’.

  Then I had a think.

  I wanted to choose my words carefully because you don’t just scribble any old stuff when you’re apologising to two hundred people.

  It wasn’t easy to concentrate, what with Dad revving the tractor outside and Ms Dunning whistling really loudly to herself in the kitchen, but after a bit I decided on the right words.

  ‘If the school insurance doesn’t cough up enough,’ I wrote, ‘send the extra dry-cleaning bills to me and I’ll fix you up. It might take a while cause I only get $2.50 pocket money, but I earn extra helping Dad in the orchard. Sorry for the inconvenience, yours faithfully, Rowena Batts. PS If there’s anything that won’t come out, bring the clothes round to our place. Dad knows how to shift problem stains using liquid fertiliser.’

  When I’d finished I went into the kitchen to ask Ms Dunning to check the spelling.

  She was standing at the stove reading the paper.

  ‘Look at this,’ she said excitedly. ‘Carla Tam-worth’s singing at the showground, next Saturday.’

  ‘I know,’ I said.

  ‘Dad’ll be over the moon,’ she said.

  ‘That’s right,’ I said.

  I didn’t remind her that Dad and me had already been over the moon two weeks ago when the ad first appeared in the paper.

  People who are having a baby in eight days go a bit vague, it’s a known fact. No point making her feel embarrassed.

  I made Ms Dunning take the weight off her feet while she checked my spelling and I did the eggs.

  I’ve told her a million times that when you’re having eggs with apple fritters the eggs should be runny, but she just can’t seem to grasp the idea. She probably will when she’s had the baby and her head clears, but.

  Ms Dunning finished reading my public notice and got up and came over and put her hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Inconvenience doesn’t have an “s”,’ she said quietly. ‘Ro, it’s a good notice, but you don’t have to do this, you know.’

  I turned the heat down under the eggs and explained to her that in small country towns if you spray jelly onto people’s clothes, bitter feuds can erupt and fester for generations.

  She thought about that.

  Even brilliant teachers don’t know everything, specially when they’re originally from the city like Ms Dunning.

  ‘If I don’t make amends now,’ I told her, ‘in fifty years time you could find someone’s parked you in at the supermarket just on the day you’re rushing to get over to the bank to pick up your pension.’

  Ms Dunning thought about that too, frowning.

  For a sec I thought she hadn’t understood all my hand movements, but then she grinned and I could see she had. She’s very good at reading sign now, just not so good at speaking it.

  ‘OK, Ro,’ she said, ‘go for it.’

  She gave my shoulder a squeeze and hurried off to have a wee, which is something else that happens a lot when you’re having a baby in just over a week.

  I’ll be going for it as soon as I’ve finished breakfast.

  Actually I’m not feeling very hungry, even though the eggs are perfect.

  Every time I swallow there’s a knot in my guts the size of Uluru Rock.

  I think I’m a bit nervous about facing everyone after last night.

  I’ll be OK, though, as long as I can get the notice photocopied and stuck up everywhere before an angry mob grabs me and strings me up by my feet from the Tidy Town sign.

  As I left our place I saw something that made me feel better.

  A rainbow sparkling from one side of the orchard to the other.

  We get them sometimes when Dad’s spraying the trees with the big blower and the sunlight slants through the clouds of spray.

  Today’s was a beauty and I decided it was a good sign.

  It wasn’t.

  It didn’t even have a pot of gold at the end of it.

  Just Darryn Peck.

  Halfway into town I turned a corner and there he was, coming towards me with two of his mates.

  He was carrying something in a cage. At first it looked like a white feather duster with a blob of custard on it, but I knew that couldn’t be right. Even Darryn Peck wouldn’t carry a feather duster around in a cage.

  As he got closer I saw it was a cockatoo with a row of yellow feathers sticking out the top of its head.

  Then Darryn stopped kicking dust at his mates and saw me.

  His red lips stretched into a sm
irk.

  ‘Oh no, it’s Batts!’ he shrieked, backing away pretending to be scared. ‘Don’t go too close, she might be carrying a trifle and slip over.’

  His mates thought this was so hilarious I looked away in case they split their daks.

  Then Darryn did a strange thing.

  He came over to me and spoke in a quiet, serious voice, just like a normal person. ‘Was that an accident last night,’ he asked, ‘or did you chuck that trifle on purpose?’

  I was so stunned, partly by the question and partly because I’d never heard Darryn say anything in a serious voice before, that my hands stayed where they were, gripped around my rolled-up notice.

  We looked at each other for a moment, then Darryn nodded slowly. ‘Good one,’ he said, and winked.

  People generally don’t like being winked at by Darryn Peck. I’ve seen teachers fly into a rage and send him out to stand on the oval. But as I turned away and walked on, heart thumping, Darryn and his mates chortling behind me about how funny Mr Fowler had looked with pineapple on his head, I realised I was feeling better than I had all morning.

  I almost went back and told Darryn about Mr Fowler wiping his hands on his blotter, but I resisted the temptation and hurried on into town.

  It was just as well I did, because when I arrived at the newsagents my name was already mud.

  Two elderly women I didn’t even know glared at me across the top of their wedding magazines and muttered things to each other.

  When I’d finished the photocopying, I gave them a notice each and hurried out.

  The main street’s always busy on a Saturday morning, but today there were even more people than usual. I crept along sticking notices on power poles and rubbish bins and hoped they hadn’t come to get their hands on me.

  A lot of them seemed to be staring at me. I kept my eyes on the ground except when I had to reach up with the sticky tape.

  Which is why I didn’t see the queue until I almost walked into it.

  The queue that stretched out of the dry-cleaners and along the front of the cake shop next door.

  I looked down again and hoped desperately that Mr Shapiro the dry-cleaner had started selling concert tickets to make ends meet, and that the people were queueing to buy tickets for next weekend’s Carla Tamworth concert.

  Then I remembered that the concert is part of the Agricultural Show, so it’s free.

  I looked up and saw that every person in the queue was holding a dress or a suit or a skirt and blouse, each one streaked and spotted with jelly and custard stains.

  I hoped Mr Shapiro’s dry-cleaning machines were in good running order.

  People in the queue were starting to look at me and mutter to each other.

  I could feel my face going red and the knot in my guts growing back to the size of Uluru Rock including the car park and the kiosk.

  I’d have given anything at that moment to be able to speak with my mouth.

  Money.

  Jewels.

  My softball bat and the blue satin dress Dad bought me to wear at the wedding.

  Anything.

  Just for two minutes so I could read my apology out in a loud clear voice and everyone could see that I meant it.

  I squeezed the thought out of my head and took a deep breath and walked along the queue to where I am now, in front of Mr Shapiro’s window, sticking up a notice.

  It’s taking me ages because my heart is pounding so hard I can hardly get the sticky tape off the roll.

  I’m trying to ignore everyone behind me.

  I’m having this talk in my head to try and take my mind off them.

  It’s no good, I can feel their stares boring into the back of my neck like enraged codling moths.

  People in our town hate queucing at the best of times.

  I’m terrified someone’ll start shouting or jostling.

  I reckon that’s all it’ll take to turn that queue into a furious, surging mob that’ll grab me and rub my nose in all those stains and cover me with custard and chook feathers and parade me round town in the back of a ute.

  Oh no.

  Someone’s started shouting.

  I braced myself against Mr Shapiro’s window, hoping desperately that there were lots of officers on duty in the police station, and that they weren’t watching the cricket with the sound turned up.

  Then I realised it was Amanda doing the shouting.

  She was calling to me from the doorway of her dad’s menswear shop across the street.

  ‘Ro,’ she yelled, ‘over here.’

  I sprinted across the road and into the shop and crouched trembling behind a rack of trousers, hoping the people in the queue wouldn’t follow. Or that if they did, they’d see all the neat piles of shirts and socks in Mr Cosgrove’s shop and decide that having a riot would mean too much tidying up afterwards.

  ‘Sorry to yell like that,’ said Amanda. ‘I’m serving, so I can’t leave the shop.’

  Then she noticed I was shaking like the mudguard on a tractor.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, concerned. My hands were trembling too much to say anything so I just gave her one of the notices.

  While she read it I glanced around the shop. There was only one customer and he seemed to be too busy looking at jackets to form a mob.

  Mr Cosgrove was busy too, straightening each jacket on the rack after the customer had touched it.

  I took some deep breaths and tried to calm down.

  Mr Cosgrove turned with a smile.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asked.

  Then he saw it was me and his smile vanished.

  He hurried over and steered me away from the rack of trousers.

  I tried to show him that it was OK, I wasn’t carrying any desserts, trifles or squishy cakes, but he wasn’t paying attention.

  He was glaring at Amanda.

  ‘Outside,’ he muttered to her, gesturing at me.

  ‘Dad,’ said Amanda indignantly, ‘Ro’s my friend.’

  Amanda’s getting really good at standing up to her father.

  I was still feeling wobbly, so I leant against a colonial table with some polished horseshoes and a pile of neatly-folded shirts on it.

  Mr Cosgrove snatched the shirts away.

  ‘Dad,’ said Amanda, even more indignant, ‘last night was an accident. D’you think Ro threw that jelly on purpose?’

  She gave me an apologetic grin.

  I didn’t want to say anything, but my hands wouldn’t stay still. They’ve always told Amanda the truth and they weren’t going to stop today.

  ‘I did throw it on purpose,’ I said.

  Amanda stared at my hands, so I said it again.

  She looked stunned.

  But only for a moment.

  She probably didn’t mean to do it, but she glanced around the shop at all the neat new clothes. Then she grabbed my arm and dragged me out of the shop and into the milk bar next door.

  I didn’t blame her.

  Even best friends can’t put their dad’s stock at risk in a recession.

  She ordered us both milkshakes, and by the time she’d asked why I’d done it and I’d told her I didn’t know and she’d screwed up her face and thought about that, they were ready.

  The tables were all full, but as we went over everyone stared nervously at the double strawberry malted in my hand and suddenly there was a clatter of chairs and an empty table in front of us.

  We sat down.

  The people at the next table shifted too.

  I gave them one of my notices as they went.

  The people at the other tables watched me out of the corner of their eyes and muttered to each other.

  We slurped for a while and I wondered gloomily if it’ll take me as long to get used to the sound of muttering as it takes people who live near the railway to get used to the sound of trains.

  Then Amanda’s face lit up.

  ‘The dribble,’ she said with her hands.

  I stared at her blankly.<
br />
  ‘Last night,’ she continued. ‘You were upset about the dribble.’

  I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, so I chose my words carefully. I told her it was really thoughtful of her to use her hands so the other people in the milkbar couldn’t eavesdrop, but that unfortunately I didn’t know what she was talking about either.

  She shook her curls, cross with herself, and tried again.

  ‘The speech,’ she said. ‘You were upset about the speech.’

  Even before her hands stopped moving I knew that was it.

  Last night, before the party, the Social Committee changed their minds about me reading our speech to Ms Dunning. They reckoned if I read it with my hands and Amanda repeated it by mouth it’d take too long.

  I was really hurt and disappointed, but I had an apple fritter and got over it.

  As least, I thought I did.

  Obviously deep inside I didn’t.

  Deep inside I must have wanted to push the whole Social Committee into an apple-polishing machine, but because an apple-polishing machine was too heavy to take to the party, I chucked the Jelly Custard Surprise into the fan instead.

  It’s scary, but at least now I know, which is a big relief.

  ‘You’re right,’ I said to Amanda. ‘That’s it. Thanks.’

  ‘It must be pretty frustrating sometimes, having bits missing from your throat,’ said Amanda.

  I nodded.

  I wanted to hug her, but she was still slurping and I knew that if I made another mess my name would be mud in this town for centuries.

  I should have guessed Amanda would come up with the answer. She’s an expert at working out why people do things. When I’d nominated Ms Dunning as Australian Of The Year, Amanda had twigged straight off. ‘It’s to put her at her ease, isn’t it,’ she’d said. ‘Show her you don’t mind her marrying your dad.’ Amazing. I hadn’t even given her a hint.

  And now, even more amazingly, she’d worked out something I didn’t even know myself.

  I gave her a grateful grin and we sat there slurping. Until an awful thought hit me.

  ‘I’ve been frustrated heaps of times,’ I said to Amanda, ‘but I’ve never chucked a dessert before.’