The Simple Things

by Bill Condon

  ‘Watch it, mister.’ He laughs as he says it. ‘What I meant was, you find the good things in people, like Mum does. A lot of us don’t even look. I want you to always keep looking. Will you do that?’

  ‘No problem, Dad.’

  ‘That’s the way.’ He squeezes my knee. ‘How does that grab ya?’

  ‘Oww!’ I moan, pretending that I’m in agony.

  ‘Shh. You’ll wake Mum.’

  I turn down my moan so only Dad can hear. ‘Owww.’

  We’re both smiling as we gaze up into the clouds. There’s nothing to see but dark, fantastic shapes – like a haunted house, only it’s a haunted sky.

  ‘Not long to go now, Steve. Then you’ll see how the world wakes up.’

  I haven’t seen a sunrise before. I’ve wanted to, but it happens really early, when I’m sound asleep. It’s hard to wake up in time.

  ‘Will it be good, Dad?’

  ‘It will. I used to do this with my own father. We’d ride our bikes down to the headland, plonk ourselves on the grass, and watch the sun come up. Same as we’re doing now. Yeah. I loved every second of it. It’s the simple things like this that stay with you, Steve. You reckon you’ll remember today?’

  ‘Think so, Dad.’

  Two minutes go by. I time them. We hear the birds first. It’s like they’re in every tree, having their breakfast. Then the lights flicker on.

  ‘Look.’

  Streaks of bright yellow sky cut through the dark. Bit by bit we see the water come alive as the light falls on it. The mud is all gone.

  ‘Keep watching, Steve.’

  As the sky lightens we see the clouds. Red and pink and white and deep, deep blue. And then an orange ball bobs up out of nowhere, glowing and getting bigger … the sun.

  ‘I’ve seen a few of those come up, Steve, but this one’s special. You know what I’ll remember about it the most?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You.’

  ‘Me?’

  I think Dad is going to do a pretend head-butt, but he doesn’t. He just nods.

  Toot, toot, toot.

  ‘They’re here!’ Mum runs to the front door.

  I watch from beside a window as three ladies get out of their cars. They were Mum’s friends at school. Now they hug and kiss each other. I know what that means. I’ll be next, unless I can get away. I could hide behind the lounge. Or maybe I could sneak out the back door without being seen. Or maybe I—

  ‘Stephen. Stephen.’

  I take cover behind the curtain, but I’m not quick enough. Mum waves to me. She must have some kind of GPS, because she nearly always knows exactly where I am.

  ‘Come out here and say hello to my friends.’

  I wish I could just shout ‘hello’ from here, but I know I can’t.

  ‘Coming, Mum.’

  I reach Mum as she’s showing her friends into the house.

  ‘Hi!’

  The ladies all say that at once. Then one of them says, ‘He’s a darling!’

  This is torture!

  Just in time, Dad wanders up to say hello. While he talks with Mum’s friends, I take tiny steps backwards. Grown-ups always forget kids are around. Maybe I can still escape.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Mum says. ‘Come back here.’

  Then, before I can do a thing to stop her, one of the ladies makes her move. She walks straight up to me, kneels down, and hugs me.

  Then she kisses me!

  AAARRRGGGHH!

  (I say that to myself.)

  It’s so bad, I can’t even count potatoes. At least she doesn’t get me on the mouth, but to be kissed anywhere on the face, by a lady who isn’t Mum, is not good.

  ‘What a sweetheart,’ she says. ‘Can I take him home with me?’

  Without even thinking about it, or asking me or Dad, Mum says, ‘Yes.’

  WHAT?

  NOOOOO!

  ‘Oh, Stephen. Don’t look so shocked.’ Mum smoothes her hand across my face. ‘I’m only kidding. I’m not giving you away to anyone. Ever.’

  ‘What about me?’ Dad asks. ‘Are you going to give me away?’

  ‘You?’ Mum gives him a not-so-gentle shove. ‘I’d give you away for sure, John. The only trouble is no one would have you.’

  Mum and her friends have a belly laugh about that. I know they’re only joking, but still, just so there can be no doubt about how I feel, I say, ‘I’d have you, Dad.’

  Early this morning Mum bought cakes. Now they’re on the table. Pink and blue ones. Chocolate and cream. Yum.

  Mum and her friends stand around, eating and talking.

  Aunty Lola walks into the room and looks at the smiling faces. They’re strangers to her, too.

  ‘Mum’s having a school reunion,’ I tell her.

  ‘Just a small one.’ Mum smiles. ‘We talked about it last night, Lola. Remember?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Of course I remember.’ She sits next to me and pulls a face that only I can see. I don’t think she really remembers. And she doesn’t look happy at all. I understand, Aunty Lola. You’ve lived alone for so long. In this sleepy old house. It must be hard to put up with an invasion of chattering ladies. It’s hard for me, too. I wish that I could have stayed in my room. But I’m not allowed to do that any more when there are visitors.

  ‘Now that you’re older you have to make an effort to meet new people,’ Dad told me a while back. ‘If you don’t, you might always be a shy boy.’

  It’s not fair. Mum and Dad aren’t even the tiniest bit shy. How come I’m not like them?

  ‘Stephen.’ Aunty Lola touches my arm. ‘I have a plan.’

  I move my chair closer to her.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Let’s eat something,’ she says. ‘If we have our mouths full, we won’t have to make silly conversation.’

  ‘Good thinking, Aunty Lola.’

  ‘I’m glad you approve. Now pass me a cake. A large one, please. And have one yourself.’

  My cake is called a neenish tart. It’s got chocolate icing on one half and vanilla on the other. Two bites and it’s gone. Aunty Lola does the same with her cheesecake. She licks her lips, her eyes telling me it tastes awesome.

  ‘Having a good time, Steve?’

  I nod to Dad. I’m eating cake and I don’t have to talk to anyone. How could it not be good?

  The doorbell rings and Mum jumps up to answer it. That takes my attention from the cakes. For about one second. A vanilla slice is my next victim. Aunty Lola attacks a piece of lamington. We’re like tag-team wrestlers, without the wrestling – just cake.

  ‘We have a visitor.’ I look up. Mum stands next to a girl. She’s got straight brown hair and braces. They don’t stop her from smiling.

  ‘This is Allie,’ Mum says. ‘Mr Smith’s granddaughter.’

  Allie looks at each face in turn. ‘Hello,’ she says, all bright and breezy. That one hello is for everyone to share. But Aunty Lola gets one all to herself. ‘Hello, Miss Webster.’

  ‘Nice to see you, Allie.’

  ‘It’s nice to see you, too … But Miss Webster?’

  ‘Yes, dear?’

  ‘The week is up. So can I have my soccer ball back? Please?’

  ‘Can you have it back? Come now. You know better than that. We’ve been through this before. Many times.’

  ‘Um … may I have it back?’

  ‘That’s much better. If I think of it, I’ll throw it over the fence later today. But be warned, next time I might keep it for two weeks. Or more. And what happens if it comes over twice in one day?’

  ‘It never comes back.’

  ‘Quite right.’

  Mum’s friends look surprised. They can’t take their eyes off Aunty Lola.

  ‘Children need boundaries,’ she explains. ‘If a ball comes over my fence, it’s an invasion. I don’t care for invaders. Do you?’

  The ladies don’t know what to do or say. Mum thinks of something.

  ‘Well now, Allie,’ she says. ‘You didn’t
just come over for your ball. You said you wanted to ask Stephen something?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Then go ahead.’

  ‘Do you want to play, Stephen? In the park?’

  ‘With you?’

  She nods.

  It’s hard for me to decide. I don’t usually play with anyone except Liam and Alister. And sometimes Keysha, if it’s raining. She knows how to play lots of board games. I’d kind of like to play, but Aunty Lola might need me here so she’s got someone to talk to. And the cakes are really—

  ‘He’d love to play,’ Aunty Lola says.

  My mouth falls open. I was still deciding!

  Aunty Lola points me towards the door, and pushes. ‘Don’t keep the young lady waiting.’

  ‘Er – um – but … ’

  ‘Come on.’ Allie has her hands on her hips. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘How old are you, Stephen?’

  ‘Ten.’

  ‘That’s too bad. I’m nearly twelve … but I’ll still play with you.’

  ‘Thanks, Allie.’

  ‘Can you do star jumps?’

  ‘Probably, but I don’t know how.’

  ‘Watch.’

  Allie bends down low, and then jumps up as high as she can. Then she makes a giant X by holding her arms and legs out wide, while she’s still in the air. She does it three times.

  ‘Your turn.’

  I don’t want to make a fool of myself.

  ‘No, don’t think so. I could do it – but my knee’s sore.’

  ‘You have to try. Go on.’

  ‘What about my knee?’

  ‘Just do one. That won’t hurt you.’

  Allie is hard to say no to.

  I try.

  ‘Not high enough, Stephen. Again.’

  ‘But you said only one.’

  ‘Yeah, but you only did half of one. Do a proper one this time.’

  I try harder.

  ‘Ha! Even my poppy could do a better star jump than that.’

  ‘I told you I had a sore knee.’

  ‘I don’t think you have – I just think you’re the worst star jumper ever.’

  ‘Aw.’

  ‘But that’s okay. I still want to play with you. You tried – that was good.’

  I feel bad about being the worst star jumper ever, but the look Allie gives me makes up for it. She’s a good smiler. She sits on the grass and I do the same. We lean against the trunk of a tree, and she talks.

  ‘I’ve got two sisters and a brother. They’re older than me and they don’t play very much. Hardly ever. They’ve got jobs. My mum and dad had a really big fight. That’s why they don’t live together any more. I had to choose which one of them to stay with. It had to be Mum. She needs me to cheer her up. That was a year ago so I’m used to it now. I still spend every second weekend with Dad. So it’s all worked out real good.’

  Allie makes it sound natural and easy, when it seems like just the opposite to me. If my parents split up it would be the worst thing I could think of. I would cry, for sure. And if I had to pick which one of them to live with, I couldn’t do it. It would be a tie between Mum and Dad. I want them both. Always.

  ‘Poppy told me about you.’

  ‘Mr Smith?’

  ‘Mm-hm. I live in Townsend Street. That’s not far from his house, so I see him lots. Next to Mum and Dad, he’s my best person. But he’s sick. Mum said I have to be prepared. She thinks Poppy might die.’

  Allie rips a piece of bark from the tree and stares at it. For a few seconds it feels like I’m out here alone, but then she flicks the bark away and looks at me. ‘My problem is that Mum didn’t say how to get prepared. And I don’t know – do you?’

  I wish I could help her, but I can’t. ‘Sorry, Allie. I don’t know, either.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s not easy. I have to remember that he’s lived a happy life. We talked about it and that’s what he told me. I’m not to be sad, no matter what happens. Because that would make Poppy sad. And I don’t want to do that.’

  It’s hard to believe that Mr Smith is going to die. He doesn’t even look sick. And he smiles and laughs a lot. I think he’s too alive to die.

  ‘Hey.’ Allie stands and brushes the grass off her pants. ‘You want to have a race?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Okay. To the goal posts. But you’re not allowed to start before I say “go”. Got it?’

  ‘Got it.’

  Before I even get a chance to blink, Allie takes off, like a rocket. When she’s halfway to the goal posts, she yells, ‘Go! Go!’

  I run like a rocket, too, but one with shorter legs. She beats me easy.

  ‘Want to race back, Stephen?’

  ‘All right. Only this time I’ll be the one who says—’

  Allie takes off. Just like before!

  ‘Go! Go!’ she roars, when she’s too far in front for me to catch her.

  This time I don’t even bother to run.

  ‘Tricked you, tricked you.’

  ‘You didn’t trick me.’

  ‘Yes I did! You’re so easy to trick!’

  I stick my hands in my pockets and start to head back home. I talk to Allie in my head, telling her exactly how I feel. I don’t think I like you very much. You’re a big cheater and a show-off. And I don’t care if I never play with you again!

  I’m thinking all this bad stuff about her, when she says, ‘I’ve made up my mind, Stephen.’

  I turn around. ‘About what?’

  ‘About you.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I like you.’

  ‘Oh. How come?’

  ‘Because you’re funny. You make me laugh.’

  This is strange. I try every day to make up funny jokes, but hardly anyone ever laughs at them. Now, at last I’ve been funny. I wish I knew how I did it.

  ‘I have to go home now, Stephen. We can play again tomorrow. If you like.’

  ‘All right.’

  She grins, and runs off.

  Mum’s visitors are still parked out the front when I get back from the park. Dad’s on the roof.

  ‘What are you doing, Dad?’

  ‘Fixing loose tiles. But really – just between us – it’s an excuse to get away. I wanted to let your mum and her friends have a natter. They haven’t seen each other for years.’

  ‘Can I come up and help you?’

  ‘Nah. You should go inside. Lots of cakes left. You might even get a few more hugs and kisses if you’re lucky.’

  ‘Yuck! You sure I can’t help you?’

  He looks down at me, grinning. ‘No, I’m almost finished. Maybe you could keep Lola company for a while. She’s in her shed. Probably be glad to see you.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  I walk up the side passage to the backyard. There are cobwebs on the shed’s window, but I can still make out Aunty Lola at her workbench. She’s asleep. I tap the glass. Still asleep. Tap harder. She stirs and turns to me, then shakes her head. I’m walking away when the door opens.

  ‘What do you want, Stephen?’

  ‘I just came out to say hello.’

  ‘Hello then.’

  ‘Hello, Aunty Lola.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Er … ’

  ‘Dear oh dear.’ She opens the door wider. ‘Don’t just stand there waiting for an invitation. It’s never going to arrive. It got lost in the mail.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Huh! Did you say “huh”? After I told you not to?’

  ‘I forgot.’

  ‘I’ll let you off this time. But don’t let it happen again. Come in.’

  ‘Thanks … did you have a good sleep?’

  ‘Sleep? What are you talking about? I don’t sleep during the daytime. I was thinking.’

  You were sleeping. I saw you. But I keep that thought to myself.

  ‘I’m working on my family history book,’ she says. ‘I don’t mind if you watch. But I don’t want to hear a peep out of you.’

  I
pull a chair over next to her and watch as she writes in her book. Her pen is black and filled with ink. I haven’t seen a pen like that before. Her face is just above the page as she writes, slowly and carefully.

  ‘You write really good, Aunty Lola.’

  ‘This? No. I used to have nice handwriting once, long ago. But it’s scratchy now. Like a chook has run wild with a pen.’

  ‘It’s a lot better than my writing.’

  ‘That’s not saying much, Stephen. Your handwriting is … ’

  Aunty Lola stops. It’s like she suddenly realises her words might be hurting me. They are a bit. I don’t say anything, but she knows.

  ‘Your handwriting is quite good,’ she says, ‘for your age.’ She opens a drawer next to her and takes out a box of chocolates. ‘Have one, Stephen. But none of this taking a bite and putting it back. If you don’t like what you choose, it’s too bad.’

  ‘Thanks! Is there a piece of paper that says what’s inside them?’

  ‘No. You have to be daring and take a chance.’

  ‘Because I don’t like the nutty ones, or the ones that are really chewy. Sometimes they stick in my teeth. I like the dark peppermint ones. Are there any of those?’

  ‘Oh for goodness sakes! You have one second to choose a chocolate.’

  I grab one.

  ‘Take two while you’re at it.’

  ‘Cool!’

  ‘Now you eat those and I’ll continue with my work. Eat slowly.’

  One’s a plain dark chocolate – no nuts, which is good. The other’s strawberry cream. I don’t like it so much, but it’s not awful or anything. I eat as slowly as I can …

  ‘Aunty Lola?’

  ‘You shouldn’t speak with your mouth full.’

  ‘Dad does sometimes.’

  ‘You just did it again!’

  I chew, and swallow. Then I poke out my chocolate-coated tongue to show that my mouth is empty.

  ‘That’s ghastly. I don’t wish to see what you had for breakfast.’

  ‘Is it all right to talk now?’

  ‘If you must.’

  ‘Will you read me some of your family book?’

  Aunty Lola lets her head drop onto the pages. She leaves it there for so long that I start to think something’s wrong with her.

  ‘Are you sick?’

  She looks up. ‘No, I am not sick. I am just trying to get some work done. It’s very hard to do that when you’re bothering me.’