Trust Me!

by Paul Collins

  The spade struck something. Zillah bent, lifting the soil aside. Her heart suddenly slammed against her ribcage. There, gleaming whitely in the dimness, were the bones of a skeletal hand. Zillah stepped back, unable to breathe, black horror coursing through her. For a long while, she stood, staring, her hand pressed to her pounding heart. Then she gave one swift, surreptitious glance all around, bent, dropped the key down on the bones, and hurriedly shovelled soil back into the hole. She put the spade back in the shed, shut and locked and bolted the door behind her, and crept back into her own bed, where she lay, pretending to be asleep, her heart still hammering like she had been running a marathon.

  There was black dirt under her fingernails.

  Ruth jerked out of sleep, her breath harsh in her throat, knowing the key was gone. She had felt its absence in her dream. Although she ran as fast as she could in the darkness, branches had groped for her, roots had tripped her, ivy had strangled her throat. She cried out but the door was shut and though she tore at the wood with her fingers, it would not open, the garden was lost, all was lost.

  Ruth stood staring at her ruined painting, looked down at her empty palm. Her mind refused to tell her what had happened. It was all so impossible. She went out into the early morning, magpies calling weirdly, kookaburras jeering. Past the frangipani, up the stone ladder, and so to the cul-de-sac. There was the wall, hung with vines and ivy, weeds sprouting from the cracks. Set in the wall was the massive old door. Vines grew right across it, garlanding the massive old keyhole, cobwebbed and rusting. It had not been opened in years.

  Man was going to walk on the moon in the next few hours and Jim was looking up at Simpson's huge, ugly mug, from where he stood, pinned against his locker door, trying not to notice the smell from Simpson's mouth.

  Nothing had ever excited Jim so much as Apollo II, not since he'd found a copy of Amazing Stories magazine on his grandfather's toilet bookshelf, when he was five. Right now though, all Jim could think about was Simpson's hairy nostrils and what was going to happen to him after Simpson got through insulting him, his family, his friends, his ancestors and his choice of TV show.

  Jim had enough troubles, with a grandfather who was a Communist and a sister studying politics at Monash University, who went to anti-Vietnam war rallies and ended up on the front page of the Sun newspaper. Grandad had been arrested at the rally on July 4, outside the US consulate in South Yarra, and had to go to the Prahran court today. He wondered if the court would have a TV, but suspected Grandad had other things to worry about. He might end up in jail. It might be a fine. Jim loved his grandfather and was privately proud of him and his sister, Jenny. But right now, he didn't need to be worrying about his family as well as the school bully.

  ‘You got me into trouble, Square-eyes!’ snarled Simpson. ‘I got detention because of you!’

  ‘You got detention because you were trying to punch me in PE. I got detention, too.’

  ‘I don't get detention! I play footy for the school.’ That was true. But Mr Halsom, the PE teacher, was fair. Usually. ‘Anyway, you stuffed up the footy game, daydreaming about Stupid Trek when you should've been catching the ball. It was your fault … Just watch it, Bernstein, or I'll use your head for a footy!’

  ‘The Simpsonians use their enemies’ heads,’ Spock explained, ‘to play a game not unlike Australian Rules football. Fortunately, they are not highly intelligent, but I would suggest we avoid any encounters while we are searching for dilithium on their world.’

  Simpson stomped off, marching past Jim's friend Tony, who'd just arrived.

  ‘Why do you let him pick on you, Jim?’ Tony asked. ‘He's dumb.’

  ‘I like to stay in one piece. Come on, let's get to class. I heard Forms Three to Six might be allowed to go home for the moon landing. You could come to my place, we'll get some food on the way.’

  ‘Great! I'll get some lollies and chips from the milk bar. I took a whole pile of soft drink bottles there on Friday, so there's all that deposit money we can use.’

  In English, Mr Baldie confirmed that they would be allowed to leave after period three, with no recess.

  ‘We were going to keep the Form One and Two students, but half the school hasn't turned up anyway, so we had a staff meeting this morning and everyone can go.’

  There was a cheer from the fifteen students.

  ‘Of course, there will be some homework,’ he said firmly. ‘I'm going to expect a report from you about this, by Friday.’ There were loud groans. ‘Write it down, please. Or you can write a letter to one of the astronauts. I have a friend at NASA, who will deliver them, but I won't send anything that isn't written properly. When I'm happy with them, I'll see if I can get us the typing room to type them up, how's that?’

  ‘Ooh, I'm so excited!’ Simpson said sarcastically.

  The morning was cold and cloudy, but Mr Halsom made the boys go out for football anyway, while the girls played netball.

  ‘Come on, hurry up! We've only got one period before you go home.’

  As they went out on to the oval, shivering, Simpson loomed up behind Jim like a mugato, the huge horned white ape from an episode of Star Trek.

  ‘I gotta have you on my team again, Sir says, but if you stuff up this game, I'll get you!’

  He thumped Jim's shoulder heavily as he passed. If he hadn't done that, Jim could almost have felt sorry for someone who was so useless at everything else that he got upset over a game in PE.

  Somehow, he got through the game without dropping the ball more than a couple of times, mostly because the others didn't let it near him if they could avoid it. After the bell went, he hurried back to the gym to get changed and rushed back to the lockers for his school bag.

  He and Tony walked together to the school gates.

  ‘Damn, I left my footy boots in the locker-room,’ Jim said suddenly. ‘Look, just go ahead, okay? Nobody's at home right now. Here's my keys. There's Neapolitan ice-cream in the fridge and a tin of condensed milk. And put the kettle on.’

  ‘Sure you don't want me to wait for you?’

  ‘No, I might have to get the key from Mr Halsom and then put the boots in my locker.’

  Leaving Tony, Jim returned to the changing room, which turned out to be still open. His boots were on the bench. As he walked over to grab them, the door slammed shut behind him.

  He heard Simpson's voice laughing outside. ‘Have fun, Bernstein. Pity you'll miss your stupid moon landing. Sir sent me back with his keys, to put some stuff away, so don't bother calling him. He's waiting by his car. The cleaner'll let you out later. Bye!’

  Jim heard Simpson leave, talking about buying cigarettes with a friend, a boy called Terry Boyce, who seemed to think what Simpson had done was very funny.

  Jim pushed at the sliding door into the gym, but it was locked. Even if it hadn't been, he supposed, the gym itself would be locked. He wasn't going to get out that way.

  He couldn't just hang around till Mrs McLoughlin, the cleaner, came. Tony was waiting. The TV was waiting. After today, nobody would ever again be able to make fun of science fiction. He wasn't missing it.

  The window was high up in the wall, but it was big enough – just – to get through. He'd never been much good at PE, mainly because he daydreamed when he was supposed to be vaulting or doing pushups. Now, he was going to have to be athletic.

  He propped a bench up against the wall and climbed.

  Captain Kirk scrambled up to the high window of the Simpsonian prison cell. The top of the bench allowed him to peer out into the moonlit courtyard. Empty. He could wriggle through, but it was a long drop to the hard ground. Scratched, bleeding, his uniform shirt torn, Kirk wriggled through the window …

  ‘Oof!’ Jim grunted as he landed head down in a pile of garden mulch. Staggering to his feet, he stared with dismay at his shirt, covered with canteen leftovers, and pulled potato peelings from his hair. He'd have a shower at home, but the uniform was wrecked, and he didn't have anything to change into.
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br />   The school gates were already locked and he had to scramble over the fence. With luck, he'd still make it on time, even if he had to wash before sitting down to watch with Tony.

  He'd walk home by the canal. It was a short cut and nobody was likely to see him.

  No such luck. Simpson was sitting on the bank by himself, smoking. Seeing Jim, he stood. Stepping into Jim's path, he tossed the butt into the rushing water.

  ‘Well, well, you got out! Pee-yew!’ He held his nose.

  ‘Get out of my way, Simpson.’

  ‘But you need a wash. Have one.’ Before Jim could react, Simpson had shoved him into the water. That was the last straw. Swimming to the edge, he reached out and yanked at Simpson's ankle. With a yelp, Simpson fell in. Jim climbed out, not only filthy but wet now. Great.

  ‘I can't swim!’ Simpson screamed. ‘Help!’

  ‘Oh, for – !’ How was he supposed to have known Simpson couldn't swim? He seemed to be able to do every other sport.

  Jim scrambled back down to the bank.

  But winter rains had made the canal very deep and fast. Simpson was swept away. There were two small boats just before the bridge. Simpson could grab one … couldn't he? Teeth gritted, Jim hurried along the bank, looking for a branch. He was a good swimmer, Mum had made him take lessons, but Simpson was floundering and he knew that he'd be more likely to pull both of them down than let himself be rescued. Not that he'd be grateful even if they did get out together.

  Jim found a long branch and held it out to the struggling boy. Simpson grabbed it – and then yanked, trying to pull Jim in. ‘Fooled ya!’ he laughed.

  Jim shoved. Simpson, not expecting it, was carried off, for real this time, cursing and swearing.

  ‘Get lost, Simpson!’ he yelled. He knew some worse words, but didn't say them. ‘I hope you can't get the oil off for days!’ But he waited till he saw Simpson catch hold of one of the boats and climb in, promising to ‘get’ him, before turning away and heading for home.

  Tony's eyes widened as he let Jim in through the kitchen door. ‘What happened? No – don't tell me now. Go and wash. There's a phone message for you.’

  Jim found a T-shirt, jeans and fresh underwear and showered. As he laced his clean shoes, Tony passed on Grandad's message. He'd forgotten his chequebook, which he needed to pay his fine. Could Jim get it for him and bring it along?

  Jim wondered how long this would take. If he'd arrived home earlier, he could have taken it and been back by now. Resigned, he said, ‘Tony, I'm sorry. I don't think I'm going to make it back on time for the good bits.’

  ‘Just go. I'll stay here till your family gets home, might as well.’ Tony grinned. ‘Maybe they'll have a TV at the court house.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  The tram to Prahran took a while to arrive, and he didn't have the right change for his ticket. The tram conductor rummaged in his bag, then chuckled.

  ‘Never mind, ride for free. Special day, isn't it? Pity we're missing it. I was in the city before, people are gathering around all the TVs in Myer's …’

  In the end, it didn't take too long to get there, but he had to go from one clerk to another and find his way to where Grandad was waiting. In the offices, people clustered around small TV sets. He thought he saw the lunar lander on one screen, but nothing was happening and someone pushed him out of the way.

  ‘Jim! Thanks, mate!’ Grandad was sitting on a bench in the corridor. ‘Sorry you're missing the excitement. I know how badly you wanted to see it.’

  ‘No worries, Grandad. Family comes first.’ As he said it, he knew it was true.

  Grandad put an arm around him. ‘You're a good kid, Jimmy boy. Want to go home now? I'll be okay.’

  But Jim knew Grandad would be glad to have company.

  ‘I'll wait.’

  Grandad smiled. They waited for two hours after that, before the fine was sorted out.

  ‘Turned into a nice evening,’ Grandad remarked as they walked to the tram stop. It was true; the clouds had cleared and there was a golden sunset. ‘We'll get out the telescope tonight, eh?’

  ‘Yeah, that'll be good.’

  History had been made that day. It would've been nice to see it. But the thing about history was, it kept happening. And he'd made some history himself, standing up to Simpson. Whatever happened tomorrow, he could handle it, he knew he could – maybe better than Captain Kirk. He grinned at his grandfather as they got on the tram home.

  The gum grew tall and broad in the middle of a field of wheat. It was at least a hundred years old, ancient well before human settlement, when there had been no wheat and no farm, only bush, thick with gums. But now these were gone, felled to make way for crops, for sheds, for the farm house. For the property where the boy lived with his mother and father.

  The boy did not like living there, although he preferred it to the months that he had spent aboard ship, coming over. If he had been given the choice – which he was not, being just fourteen years old – he would have stayed in London. He liked the city, but his father did not, nor his mother, so they had brought him here, against his will, to the infant colony of New South Wales.

  ‘You'll get used to it,’ his father said one morning as they ate cold mutton on the rough porch of their cabin. ‘Bit of sun will do you good. You already look better than that pasty-faced kid you were back in London. You and your books. I know that you're a quiet one, a scholar and all, but there's more to life than sitting by a fire, reading, let me tell you.’

  And the father looked out over the bush that he had cleared, at the field of wheat that he had planted. And the mighty gum tree.

  ‘Your father is right,’ the boy's mother said, sipping tea from a blue enamel mug. ‘I know that you like the scholar's life, as your father says, and your books, and your own company, but you could do well here. You could make a go of it, like we have. When we're dead, remember, this land will be yours. You could clear more bush. Extend the farm. The orchard. The house. And raise a family. Start your own family tree in the colonies. A new beginning, like.’

  And she looked out over the land, well satisfied, except for the gum tree, growing tall and broad in the very centre of the wheat field.

  ‘Why don't you get rid of that tree?’ she said to her husband. ‘It will be a nuisance in that field of wheat. Come harvest, you know.’

  ‘I will, woman,’ the father grunted, hating to be reminded of his many jobs about the farm. ‘I will, when I get the chance.’

  ‘But the birds,’ the boy said, ‘what will happen to the birds?’

  His parents turned to look at him. This was a boy who rarely spoke. Who cared little about the farm, or the bush, or anything to do with their new lives in the colony.

  ‘Birds?’ his mother said. ‘What birds?’

  ‘They come every night, on dusk,’ the boy replied.

  ‘Eh?’ his father said.

  ‘I watch them from here,’ the boy went on. ‘I see them when I'm sitting here reading. Right on dusk.’

  ‘And what do they do, these birds?’ his father asked.

  ‘They come sweeping in from the west,’ the boy said. ‘Hundreds of them. They fly around and around. Around and around the big gum tree, right there, in the wheat field, until finally, they settle in it. The entire flock. To roost. Making the tree white all over. Like there's been snow.’

  ‘Snow?’ his mother repeated, thinking the boy mad. ‘Snow? Like in the old country?’

  ‘Yes,’ the boy said, ‘Snow.’ He felt like he had spoken an obscenity. ‘But quivering. Snow that quivers, when the birds’ wings shake. Or flutter.’ He could not think of the right words to describe this phenomenon.

  His parents looked at each other, over his head.

  ‘What sort of birds are these?’ his mother said, frowning.

  ‘Cockatoos,’ the boy said. ‘White cockatoos. They have yellow feathers on their heads. Like cocks’ combs. So they are called sulphur-crested cockatoos. Or so my book says.’

 
; ‘Your book?’ the father croaked, incredulous. ‘Your book? Where did you get such a book?’

  ‘From a man who came by. A man who ran a travelling library. He was no tramp. No swaggie, as men who walk the roads are called in this country. He wore a good hat and coat. And his boots were well-heeled. I didn't think it any harm to borrow a book from him.’

  ‘What?’ his father said. ‘From a man in a hat and coat. And where were we then? Your mother and me?’

  ‘You were in the fields,’ the boy replied, feeling tears start. ‘But he was not just any man. I have told you that. I am not daft. He said he was a librarian. He said he ran a travelling library. So I took a ha'penny from the box in the dresser where you keep the small coins, Mother, and I paid it to him to borrow the book. For a week.’

  Shocked, the mother said, ‘You gave a man – a stranger – a ha'penny to borrow a book? And you say that you're not daft?’

  ‘A book about birds of all things,’ his father huffed, then added, for good measure, ‘and cockatoos at that. Noisy, screaming things they are.’

  ‘Ah!’ the boy cried, brightening. ‘So you have seen them.’

  ‘Of course I've seen them,’ the father answered. ‘I've seen them strip a corn field of every kernel on every cob within an hour. Or even less. They swoop down in flocks, screaming, then fall silent while they gorge. They can destroy a man's farm in minutes. Take his whole crop. Like that!’ and he snapped his fingers, hard.