A Straight Line to My Heart

by Bill Condon

  ‘Oh dear.’ Her face is full of lines that seem to dance when she smiles. ‘Looks like I lost another one.’

  ‘Where is he? Did you two have a fight?’

  A loud scraping noise comes from outside. Kayla turns on the side light and we both look through the curtain.

  Colin’s putting out the bins.

  ‘Well how about that?’ says Inky. ‘I finally got one that’s house-trained.’

  I have a terrible nightmare. And when I wake up I find out that it was true. I’m still here – trapped in Gungee Creek.

  Gungee is a very ancient word that means: this place is a hole. A very ancient person told me that so it must be right. There just isn’t much to do here. Gungee Creek doesn’t even have a creek.

  There’s a cinema complex, of sorts, at Kalatta, but that’s two hour’s drive away. We’d still claim it as our own if it was a decent size. But, to be honest, it’s a slight exaggeration calling it a complex. It’s more your inferiority complex cinema, since there’s only one, teensy screen.

  If you want some hot local entertainment, you can always head up to Chans and look at the lobsters. They’re very playful and happy because no one in Gungee ever orders lobster. They’ve been there so long I think they’re the Chans’ family pets. Or if you’re not into shellfish you can go to the Royal Arms on a Sunday and watch them draw the meat raffle. Or – yes, there’s more – you can sit in Mario’s barber shop and listen to his tv. Mario never turns it off and he has it blaring, but there’s no picture. It’s radio tv. And that just about covers the whole social panorama.

  What we do have, though, is football. And we have it today.

  It’s nine a.m. on Saturday, first game of the pre-season. Already cars jostle for positions around the fence at the oval. Tom Mackenzie, club prezzo, gives the pa a try-out – ‘testing, one, two, etcetera, testing’ – while small boys in red-and-black footy jerseys pop up on the grass like mushrooms after a rainy day. The Gunners start at under-nines and keep going right through to under-nineties, or thereabouts, which is where Bull fits in.

  Every year he makes a solemn announcement: ‘This is probably my final season. I’m gettin’ too old for this caper.’

  I haven’t taken much notice before but soon he’ll be forty, so maybe he means it this time. The Gunners will find him hard to replace if he retires. Under his captaincy they’ve notched up about twenty straight losses. It’s not every team that can be so consistent. Good one, Bull.

  ‘Look at that big galoot, will yer?’

  It’s good to hear Reggie’s voice – it throbs with life again, not like last night. He points across the road to where Bull runs around the oval in a last-ditch effort to get fit. Reggie opens the window, leans out and roars.

  ‘Oi! Breakfast!’

  Bull waves, and plods on.

  I have to give Reggie a kiss. Can’t help it.

  ‘What was that for?’

  ‘Glad you’re okay. That’s all. I was really worried about you last night.’

  ‘That was yesterday.’ He shrugs. ‘Over it now.’

  He pours me a cup of tea so strong you could lay bricks on it.

  ‘I googled it,’ I say, ‘about coughing up blood.’

  ‘Aw, yeah?’

  ‘Seems it’s fairly common. You might have burst a tiny blood vessel at the back of your throat.’ I don’t mind lying for a good cause.

  ‘Really?’ He has that look in his eyes like he gets when he backs a winner. ‘Probably what it was then. I wasn’t too bothered. No dramas.’

  ‘But you should still go and see Anna.’ I lean across the table and touch his hand. ‘Just so we won’t worry. Will you do that? For me?’

  ‘Sounds like blackmail.’

  ‘It is. But you’ll do it, won’t you?’

  ‘S’pose I’ll have to.’ He sighs wearily. ‘Only way a man’s ever gunna get any peace.’

  ‘Thanks, Reggie.’

  ‘Tea strong enough for yer?’

  We all set off together for the big game – only have to hike across the paddock. Kayla’s here to cheer Bull on, as always. Inky, Colin and the kids will be down soon. Zoe is coming when she finishes her shift at the police station. When the Gunners play, all of Gungee rocks up. If dogs and cats could cheer for the home side, they’d be roped in, too. And Reggie is right in the thick of it. He traipses along beside Bull. Forget that step-dad stuff. It’s father and son on days like this.

  Reggie started playing for the Gunners when he was a young boy. Now he’s the team mascot; their lucky charm. They haven’t won a game for ages, but no playing time has been lost due to earthquakes or tsunamis. That has to be a plus. He sits on the team bench with the reserves and the coach, Dusty McTrustry, Gungee’s postman. Reggie always wears the team jersey – and a pair of shorts – no matter how cold it gets.

  I’m betting he dreams about one day being called on to make a comeback.

  ‘We need five tries in the last three minutes. It’s almost impossible, Reggie. That’s why I’m asking you.’

  ‘Piece of cake, Dusty. Here, mind me false teeth.’

  Dusty’s been with the Gunners as long as I can remember. He’s an institution – or he should be in one – it’s one of the two. The boys aren’t really into training so his main job through the season is to tell jokes and cheer everyone up. He’s like a grief counsellor for bad footballers.

  Kayla and I spread our blanket out on the Grandstand, a long grassy mound looking down over the oval. We can see the whole town trooping in from here. There’s Mrs Muir. She stands out because of her pink umbrella. Further along are Joel and Dominique, holding hands and swinging their arms like kids.

  There are people I’m always glad to see, like my old primary school teacher, Mrs Smiffy. It took me a few years to realise her real name is Smith, but I still kept calling her Smiffy – same as everyone else. And here comes Gabe and his new girlfriend, Amelia. Hope she likes living with his mum.

  Now I see Inky with Rowie in a baby stroller. And Colin. He lifts Harrison off his shoulders, plants him lightly on the ground and chases him, making monster noises as Harrison squeals. Colin catches me looking at him and smiles, open and friendly. I swing from his face to Inky’s; line them up and compare. He has a wild and handsome look – think of some swashbuckling movie pirate. She looks like a tuckshop mum, her face permanently creased with tiredness from years of being on-call for crying babies. It crosses my mind that Inky won’t keep him for long.

  Hey! Be positive! I tell my mind.

  Scattered applause breaks out as the ref and the linesmen jog onto the field. We hold up our banner when Bull lumbers past with his teammates.

  ‘go the guns!’

  Kayla puts two fingers between her teeth and does her famous whistle – better than any boy – while I stand up to applaud.

  Bull spots us and gives his two-thumbs salute, trotting backwards. Imm-pressive! All those years of practice are starting to pay off – his footy is still woeful but he’s got the reverse trot down to a fine art.

  The Tarwyn Blues are just like the Gunners. They don’t have enough players in the local derby to fit them all perfectly into their respective age brackets. If you’re ugly enough and big enough to play with the middle-aged baldies, you’re in. So I’m not all that surprised when I see Big Foot jog onto the field.

  ‘Let’s pay him back,’ says Kayla when I point him out. ‘Every time he gets tackled, we cheer. If he drops the ball, we cheer even louder. But I don’t think we should boo. We don’t want to be bad sports. Do we?’ She crinkles up her nose as she thinks it through. ‘Aw what the hell – let’s boo him.’

  ‘No. We won’t do any of that stuff. We are going to ignore him.’

  ‘But it’ll be fun, Tiff. And he deserves it.’

  ‘You don’t get
it, Kayla. I don’t want him to know I’m here. Please, let’s just sit here quietly. Okay?’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ she says.

  ‘Bull’s got the ball!

  ‘Yes!

  ‘He’s running hard!

  ‘Watch out!

  ‘He steps through the tackle!

  ‘Goooo, Bullll!

  ‘He dodges, weaves and – ouch – nasty.’

  Apparently, this is Kayla’s best. Great!

  Again and again I ask her to keep it down. I don’t need the commentary, but she’s determined I’m not going to miss a thing. Why? I’m only here to support Bull and the team, and try to lift their spirits after they’ve lost. Until then I’m quite content to sit out the duration of the massacre, buried deep in the French Revolution, thanks to a little red pocket edition of A Tale of Two Cities that I bought at a garage sale for fifty cents. It’s the perfect companion for buses, trains, and football games where I’m trying to be invisible.

  ‘Tiff! Tiff!’

  ‘She’s not here.’

  ‘Look, look!’

  I humour her, hoping to see Bull doing something spectacular, but it’s only his bum she’s going on about. His head’s in the scrum and a goodly portion of his pale and pimpled behind is sticking out, his shorts and underdaks at half-mast. Kayla thinks it’s hilarious; too much information for me.

  Since I’ve already been distracted, I take a quick peek at Big Foot. He looks awfully confused. I don’t think he’s had much practice at this game. Now he’s got his arms folded. Now he’s scratching himself. Now he breaks into a half-hearted trot. He runs as if he’s borrowed someone else’s legs for the day and they’re not his size. It isn’t a good look. But at least he runs in the right direction – most of the time.

  Where was I? Ah, yes . . .

  ‘Every day, through the stony streets, the tumbrels now jolted heavily, filled with Condemned.’

  ‘Tiff.’ Kayla nudges my book. ‘Your guy isn’t much of a player.’

  ‘You know what this is about?’ I show her the cover.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then you know I’m too worried about the guillotine to care about football – and by the way, he’s not my guy.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. He is hopeless out there.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s all that bad.’ I always go for the underdog. ‘At least he’s made two tackles.’

  ‘You call them tackles?’ Kayla gives me her astounded gape. ‘He lost his balance when he was doing up his shoelaces, that’s what they were.’

  ‘Get ready to take that back.’

  I stand for a better view as Big Foot leaps high to take a pass. Now he’s worked out how to use his legs and the line’s wide open. And he’s charging.

  Kayla jumps up. ‘Stop him! Stop him!’

  Only one person can reach him before he scores.

  Bull.

  Everyone at the ground is on their feet and roaring. Gungee Creek hasn’t seen such excitement since they put in the flashing forty kay lights outside the primary school.

  As if he’s trying to fly, Bull launches himself through the air, actually flies for one glorious second, and then comes crashing ingloriously down. Big Foot evades him easily and crosses over for three points while Bull is still skidding across Gungee Oval. He really needs to wear a parachute if he plans to do any more tackling.

  This one mighty try unlocks the avalanche and the Blues go on a scoring rampage. For all of five minutes the Gunners fight back valiantly but then reality sets in. If you could put subtitles to their body language it would say: ‘Ah, stuff it. This is too much like hard work.’

  By half-time the local lads are done for. The guy with the ice-cream van is doing a fair trade, but if he sold black armbands he’d make a fortune.

  ‘I think we should get a girls’ team together next year,’ Kayla says. ‘We’d have to be better than these losers.’

  The Blues prance off the oval like cup-winning racehorses: straight backs and beaming smiles. The Gunners limp and trudge, heads down and shoulders sagging. A crane couldn’t lift their morale, though Dusty tries his best.

  ‘“A” for effort, men,’ he says as they straggle past. ‘Don’t worry about the score – numbers mean nothing – you’ll run over the top of them in the second half.’

  There’s no clubhouse at Gungee. The teams change in the toilets and flop down on the grass at the break. Both sides are only four or five metres away from us.

  Dusty picks his way over a battlefield of bloodied arms and legs, dispensing oranges, bandaids and fatherly slaps on the back. He doesn’t bother with a motivational speech. The boys need their rest.

  I look around for Big Foot and see him at the same time as he sees me.

  ‘Hiiii!’

  I act as if I don’t hear him.

  ‘Hiiii!’

  It’s like pretending you don’t hear a foghorn when it’s stuck in your ear.

  I give him the smallest wave I’ve got. That’s all the encouragement he needs. He bounds up to me, smiling broadly.

  ‘Hey. Library girl. Thought it was you.’

  ‘Hey. Toilet boy.’

  ‘Toilet boy – good one. How’s it goin’?’

  ‘It’s going really good.’ I show him my book. ‘I’m up to a very exciting part and I just can’t wait to find out what happens.’

  That’s about as big a hint as I can give, but hints only work if the other person is listening.

  ‘Got a bit lucky out there,’ he says. ‘Scored a try. This is only my second game, too. You see it?’

  ‘No. When?’

  ‘Just then. In the game.’

  ‘Oh. Interesting. Shame I missed it. I was reading.’ I turn to Kayla. ‘Did you see anything?’

  ‘Nuh. Not me. What happened?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ He smiles. ‘Almost had me goin’ there. I’m Davey.’

  ‘I’m Kayla.’

  As they shake hands he says, ‘Well, that’s two people I know in Gungee Creek: Kayla and my pal from the library – Tiffany.’

  He remembered.

  ‘You don’t mind if I call you that, do you? I really like that name.’

  ‘She hates it,’ Kayla says. ‘Don’t you, Tiff?’

  ‘Um . . . sometimes I don’t mind it.’

  ‘Come on!’ bellows one of his team mates. ‘We’re waitin’ for yer!’

  ‘One minute!’ He turns back to us. ‘The coach wants to give us some pointers. He’s all into motivation and–’

  I tune out from what he’s saying and tune in to looking at him. The negatives are hard to ignore. He’s a Big Foot all right, with a dash of Neanderthal thrown in. His body is ungainly and sprawling; hard to know where the muscles end and the fat takes over. And his bushy hair, which can’t make up its mind if it’s black or brown, sticks out at all angles and is streaked with grass stains, dirt and a liberal drenching of sweat.

  There’s not a whole lot on the plus side, unless you’re a soppy idiot who believes in stuff like kindness. I can’t help feeling he’s got that. It’s in his voice, his smile and his eyes.

  ‘Numbnuts!’

  Big Foot blushes. ‘They call everyone that.’

  ‘Over here. Move it!’

  ‘Gotta go! See yers!’

  And he runs.

  Kayla watches me, watching him.

  ‘You like him, don’t you, Tiff?’

  ‘Puleeze. Give me more credit than that.’

  ‘Okay then. What’s so wrong with him?’

  ‘He’s not my type.’

  ‘What is your type?’

  ‘Normal.’

  Tom mackenzie’s voice booms over the loudspeaker.

  ‘We’ve go
t a couple of raffles to draw today: one for Gungee, one for Tarwyn. Have your tickets ready.’

  It’s the perfect excuse to escape from Kayla before she asks any more dumb questions. Mrs Muir is straining to read the numbers on her tickets, and I’m glad to help out.

  ‘No, you haven’t got that one. Or that one. Or that one. Sorry, Mrs Muir. That’s all there is. You didn’t win.’

  ‘That’s quite all right, dear.’ She gives me a smile like a sunflower. ‘I have a lovely time just being alive. A person can’t be too greedy.’

  I like Mrs Muir. She always cheers me up.

  On the way back to Kayla I stop off to see Reggie. He says he’s feeling awful.

  ‘Stay right there and I’ll get Bull,’ I tell him. ‘We’ll take you home.’

  ‘Why? There’s nothin’ wrong with me. It’s the Guns. They’re gettin’ hammered. That’s why I feel awful.’

  ‘Dusty oughta get you out there,’ I say. ‘You’d soon turn things around.’

  ‘Couldn’t do any worse, luv.’

  Next stop is Bull.

  ‘You are playing a complete blinder.’ I lower my voice. ‘But your back must be aching. You’re carrying the whole team.’

  ‘True, mate,’ Bull says. ‘Bloody hopeless lot they are. Only trouble is I taught ’em everything they know.’

  A strong hand grips my shoulder. I look up and see Zoe.

  ‘Hi ya, Tiff.’ Bull gets a kiss. ‘Sorry I’m late. What’s the story? Are we winning?’

  I leave it for him to break the bad news.

  ‘Catch you later.’

  Then I’m back with Kayla for The Slaughter, Part Two. It’s not a lot of fun to watch the pride of Gungee getting squashed under foot. Of all the team’s supporters I’m the only one who has a moderately good time. Thanks heaps, Mr Dickens.

  Now and again I look up to see how Big Foot is doing. It’s purely zoological curiosity. He’s a strange beast; unlike the boys I know. Or maybe I only think that because he’s cheerful and friendly – and when he talked to me just now there wasn’t a raffle book in sight. I’m sure he’s not interested in me, not really, though it’s comforting to know that there are guys like him out there – weird, gangling, goofball guys. But nice ones.