by J A Mawter
I stop dead in my tracks. Tezza never loses his temper with Andy. For once I take Andy’s side and say, ‘It’s only a dumb game. He didn’t mean it.’ I do a bit of pillow hurling of my own.
Tezza and I get to our feet, eyeballing each other, waiting to see who’ll strike first.
It’s a short wait ‘cause the doorbell puts a stop to it.
‘I’ll get it!’ says Tezza, yanking the door open in disgust and adding at the same time, ‘Waddya want?’
James is standing there. ‘Hello,’ he says with this smarmy grin. ‘I was wondering if you and your brother would like to come in for afternoon tea?’
I am not included in the invite.
‘My grandmother has made us a sponge cake.’
Afternoon tea and sponge? Where does James get off? I’m not sure whether to be narked or pleased at missing out.
Tezza looks like he’s been hit with a stun gun. And Andy? He’s crawled off the chair, flung himself on the lounge and is writhing again.
‘Terence?’ asks James.
Hah! No one’s called Tezza ‘Terence’ since Sam Webber got a chipped tooth for his efforts in Grade 1.
I take a step forward. I am beginning to love this.
I look from James to Tezza to Andy. Andy’s got his hands down his shorts.
‘My family would enjoy it if you and your brother will join us for tea,’ repeats James, although the wattage on his smile is starting to dim.
A moan distracts all of us. Boy, is Andy giving his rear-end a caning.
Tezza’s looking at Andy like he’s about to deck him. James’s invite must’ve really thrown him. Normally, he would’ve answered by now.
At last, Tezza says something. ‘Stop playing with your bum!’ is what he says.
I don’t know who looks more shocked — Tezza or James. It’s a cert it’s not me. This is better than the ‘Comedy Show’ on Saturdays.
James blushes. Seriously! ‘Excuse me!’ he says, staggering a couple of steps back. His jaw is hanging open and his eyes have popped out. He looks like our dog ten seconds after she drank the weed killer.
And in the middle of this is Andy, not listening to anybody. He’s pulled down his daks. There’s this wild look in his eyes. I don’t think he can see us. He’s too busy spreading his cheeks on the lounge cushion and rocking.
I make a mental note to never sit there again.
Then Mrs Shermin comes skidding into the room, concern turning to anger as Andy leaps to his feet and chucks a beauty of a browneye.
Tezza leaps sidewards, trying to block James’s view. ‘Muuum!’ he groans.
‘Mu-u-u-m!’ imitates James with his voice all wobbly.
Who’s a big girl, then?
James does a bolt. As he heads down the drive, I start to feel good. The enemy is retreating. I hope it puts him off Tezza for life!
I look at Andy, who’s still bum high. I have to fight the urge to shout, ‘Bottom’s up,’ like my uncle does when he’s making a toast. Instead, I do what I always do when situations get awkward. I start to giggle.
Mrs Shermin, however, does not.
‘Andrew Shermin!’ she roars, grabbing him by the arm and almost launching him into the air. ‘That’s disgusting!’ The last thing I see is a pair of pink cheeks and a vertical smile disappearing through the bathroom door.
By this time I’m cacking myself. I laugh so much I want to wee, but Mrs Shermin is still locked in the bathroom with Andy so I have to cross my legs and sit down.
Have you worked out what it is with Andy’s bum and the new neighbours? Have I given enough clues?
You should get it with this next bit.
Chapter Three
Yesterday, I saw lights before my eyes. Not the clunk-to-the-head sorta lights, the flashing-on-and-off sort.
Lights? you might ask.
Patience. It’s all to do with Andy’s bum. I’m getting to that. Oh, and the neighbours.
I have to stay at the Shermins’ for the weekend. Mum’s visiting Grandad in hospital in Melbourne and will be gone for a couple of days and I can’t stay with Dad, ‘cause he’s working night shift.
That’s how I’ve ended up at the Shermins’, seeing lights.
It’s Friday night and it’s bedtime. There I am, lying on the bottom bunk with Andy up the top and Tezza in a single bed opposite. I’m desperately trying to go to sleep, which is pretty hard ‘cause Andy keeps flipping and flopping like some sort of stranded fish and keeping me awake.
Suddenly, I hear the door open. I freeze, pretending to sleep, wondering who it is.
Through this tiny slit of my left eye I can see this flash of light sweeping around the room. It’s a torch. I wonder who’s attached to it and why they’re coming in. The beam of light bounces off the mirror. I see wild hair with a reflector scalp.
Mrs Shermin!
What’s she up to?
I lie doggo, thinking she’s gonna leave in a minute. But she doesn’t.
The arc of light swoops across the room then stops, pointing at Andy’s bed. There’s this glow up the wall. I strain to work out what the old chook’s up to, but I can’t. Her body’s blocking my view. I can’t even see her face. Somehow I know she’s looking like a barracuda at a feeding frenzy.
I can hear her rummaging about in Andy’s bedclothes.
Maybe she’s lost something, I think. Her watch perhaps? Or a ring?
But it’s not that sort of ring she’s looking for, if you know what I mean. That’s clue Number Three.
After a while Mrs Shermin gives up. The rest of the night I sleep.
Today — Saturday — Tezza, Andy and me decide to go down to the river. There’s this really steep bank we’ve carved out to form a slide. It’s our secret place. We’ve packed the mud firm. With a few buckets of water, we can get up an awesome amount of speed.
So, we’re at the river. Tezza and I are seeing who can float the furthest in the current before getting stranded on the bank. I usually win. I’m much lighter than Tezza and can float more easily.
Andy keeps sliding, bucking the whole way down like he’s a rodeo rider. Over and over he does it till I am sure his bum must be raw.
Remember that. It’s another clue.
Floating is thirsty work and we’re starting to get hungry, but every time we call Andy to go home he says, ‘Just one more,’ and runs up the bank.
‘C’mon,’ Tezza calls, getting impatient.
But just one more turns into two, then three, then four, till I lose count and lose my patience.
‘I’m starving,’ I say to Tezza. ‘I’m going back without him.’
Tezza looks torn. He’s hungry, too, but he’s also responsible for Andy.
I’m past caring. My stomach is rumbling loud enough to start its own mudslide. ‘C’mon,’ I say, giving Tezza a shove in the direction of home.
Just then we hear voices, laughing and talking and getting closer. I look at Tezza and whisper, ‘Who
is it?’
Tezza frowns. He’s standing with his head cocked to the side. ‘Not sure,’ he says with a shrug.
Andy’s too busy getting bum-burn to notice.
As quickly as we hear them, the voices stop. Mr Bartholomew has walked into the clearing. James and William are with him. They are wearing bright red swimming trunks and carrying floral towels. They look like a brochure for a holiday resort, not the bush.
What are they doing in our secret place? Intruding on our territory!
‘Good morning,’ says Mr Bartholomew. He tries to smile, first at Tezza, then at me. He looks like someone with lockjaw of the lip. ‘It’s a delightful day for a swim, isn’t it?’ he says.
James takes a step towards us. ‘Are you playing, Terence?’ he asks. ‘May we join in?’
‘We’re just leaving!’
Even as I say it I know it’s rude, but I don’t want to share Tezza, or our river, with the Bartholomews.
Tezza tries to soften it but what comes out sounds real lame. �
�Caroline’s right. We were just leaving,’ he repeats, softly. ‘We’re hungry.’
‘Hunger,’ says Mr Bartholomew, shaking his head. ‘It is a terrible thing!’
Somehow, I know he doesn’t mean it.
When Andy comes hurtling past for the fifty-millionth time, Tezza tackles him. ‘Here,’ he says, reaching for Andy’s clothes. ‘Put these on. We’re going home.’
‘No!’ cries Andy, pulling away.
Tezza doesn’t let go of his grip. ‘Get dressed,’ he rumbles, his voice building.
James and William sidle up to their father. Mr Bartholomew stands stiffly, saying nothing, like a blow-in at the pub.
Andy flicks his undies back at Tezza, saying, ‘I’m not wearing these. They itch. Mum isn’t doing the washing properly.’
Tezza seems too embarrassed to argue. ‘Wear your swimmers, then.’
We march home single-file, none of us talking.
And all the while I’m thinking, Why does James want to be friends with Tezz? Why did the Bartholomews have to evacuate here? Why can’t they retreat to their fancy city?
That’s another clue.
The rest of the morning is a non-event. The sort of morning you climb a tree and go looking for spaceships.
So I wasn’t prepared for what happened next …
Chapter Four
At four that afternoon, Mr Worrell from down the way sticks his head in at the Shermins’. ‘Elizabeth is having her kittens,’ he says. ‘You kids wanna watch?’
Would we? Of course we would!
Now, if I tell you what happened at Mr Worrell’s I’m sure you’ll be able to answer, What does Andy’s bum have in common with the new neighbours? Or maybe you’ve already worked it out. If not, this bit might help.
Tezza, Andy and me fly out the door, across the road and round the bend faster than you can say, ‘Here, kitty, kitty.’
When we get there we find that Elizabeth has settled herself on a towel in a linen cupboard. She is lying on her side, puffing and panting. Mr Worrell kneels beside her, fussing and clucking like a brooding chook. ‘Sssh!’ he warns as we come through the door. ‘She needs quiet.’
Tezza, Andy and I creep in and sit on the floor.
‘Not too close,’ warns Mr Worrell. ‘You’ll upset her. Stay at least two metres away.’
I want to tell him that we could be two centimetres away and she’ll still give birth, but one look at his face and I shut up.
Every now and then Elizabeth stops her gasping. She raises her head and looks at us as if she’s wondering, What are you doing here? before getting back to her breathing. Her tummy’s so tight she looks flyblown.
I love watching animals having babies. I settle down on my haunches, content to wait.
Ding! Dong!
Visitors? I think. Tell them they’re not welcome.
Mr Worrell leaps to his feet, calling, ‘Just in time. Glad you could make it. In here. Quick!’
I look up. Right into the eyes of James Bartholomew and his random of a brother.
‘Come,’ says Mr Worrell, gesturing for them to come in. He gives me a nudge, saying, ‘Move over, Caroline. Make room for the new neighbours.’
Half a minute later I’m squashed up against the wall. There’s a bookshelf in my back and a cabinet in front.
I’ve got a lovely view … of a drawer.
I watch Elizabeth give birth to half a kitten. The other half is somewhere behind the drawer.
‘The miracle of life!’ says James in this David Attenborough voice.
He keeps it up for the next three kittens, saying things like wondrous and marvel and magnificent. I’d like to magnificent him.
Then James does something that proves what I’ve always known. He’s a worm. Even a brainless city kid should know not to pick up a newborn kitten.
‘Don’t!’ I yell, but I am too late.
Mr Worrell looks like he’s about to cry.
James is stroking the kitten, looking at us like he’s the one who did all the work, not Elizabeth.
‘Give the kitten back,’ I whisper.
‘Why should I?’ asks James, still stroking. ‘I’m not hurting it.’
Tezza cuts in saying, ‘Put it back, James.’
‘Elizabeth won’t mother it if it’s got your scent,’ I explain slowly, as if we’re speaking a different language.
James puts the kitten down in front of Elizabeth. We watch, holding our breath, and wait. Elizabeth ignores it, too busy licking the other three.
‘Maybe in time …’ says Mr Worrell.
How he can be so nice to such a loser is beyond me.
‘Thanks so much, Mr Worrell,’ says James, standing up to leave. ‘That was the best.’
‘Yeah,’ I echo, then mutter, ‘the best view of a chest of drawers, that is.’
Mr Worrell is the only one who does not hear. Using a tissue he’s nudging the kitten closer to Elizabeth.
We trudge home.
‘The largest breed of domestic cat is the ragdoll,’ says James. ‘They can weigh up to nine kilos.’
‘Really?’ asks Tezza. He’s being polite.
‘Some cats can live more than thirty years,’ drones on Mr Know-It-All.
‘Wow!’ says Tezza, sounding impressed.
I have to say something. ‘Most don’t.’
Despite his stuff-up with the kitten, James is showing off. ‘Do you know a cat once had nineteen kittens in one litter?’
I can’t help myself. It slips out. ‘Did you know she ate them?’
Tezza looks at me. I can see he’s puzzling something awful. I think he’s going to say something. Tick me off, maybe. ‘Caroline and I have been best friends all our lives!’ he says to James.
Well, blow me away. Isn’t he just the best?
We head in, me singing inside.
Worked out what it is about the no-good neighbours? And why they’re like Andy’s bum? We’re getting close.
Chapter Five
After dinner we go to bed, same beds as the night before. Me on the bottom bunk, Andy up the top, and Tezza on the single bed opposite.
Five minutes in and Andy starts again with the bucking. The whole frame of the bunk bed is shaking.
‘Hey!’ I hiss. ‘Feels like an earthquake down here.’ I glance at Tezza, hoping he’ll tell his brother to settle down, but Tezza’s already asleep. Tezza is the only person I know who starts to sleepwalk as soon as he’s brushed his teeth.
‘Sorry,’ whispers Andy.
‘It’s all right,’ I whisper back.
I’m in that oozy-woozy place, about to nod off, when I hear someone come into the room.
Not again!
I open my eyes a fraction.
Sure enough, it’s Mrs Shermin. With her trusty torch.
Once again, she walks over to the top bunk. Once again, she starts fiddling with the blankets and sheets. And once again, I can hear rustling.
What is she doing?
I hold my breath, convinced she’ll leave when she’s had a good look, like last time.
The torch stops. The room is fused with light. Mrs Shermin looms over the top bunk of our bed.
Suddenly, the torch goes wild. There’s a lightshow on the ceiling.
I decide there’s no point in waiting for Mrs Shermin to go. I have to breathe. I try to pass the time by counting, but she’s taking forever and the counting gets awkward. You try saying a-hundred-and-one, a-hundred-and-two. Know what I mean?
So I stop and make like a sea slug. The waiting is endless. Even for a sea slug. My knee has gone numb and my arm has pins and needles.
Andy moans in his sleep. It gives me a fright. I do a sea-slug shuffle.
I can see the torch flickering. I hear a gasp.
This is it, I think. I’m getting up. I have to know what she’s looking at!
Slowly, slowly I push down my sheet and quietly, quietly swing my legs out. Mrs Shermin does not notice. I ease out of bed till I’m standing on my feet, right behind h
er. I can’t believe she hasn’t turned around.
I look where she’s looking. And die!
Mrs Shermin’s face is nearly buried in Andy’s bare bum.
Sick!
One hand’s pulling up his cheek and the other’s holding the torch.
If my mother tried that on me I’d drop the biggest zephyr I could. She’d never do it again.
But Andy just keeps on sleeping, oblivious to the whole thing.
There’s something about Andy’s bum that must be a magnet, ‘cause I can’t help staring at it myself.
There’s another gasp from Mrs Shermin.
Spots dance before my eyes.
I blink. I blink to clear the dancing spots. I blink and blink and blink.
My crack starts to itch. I feel an overwhelming urge to scratch through my pyjama pants. It’s the same as when I hear Andy’s got nits and I have to scratch my scalp. I try to resist but the urge is too strong.
Just as I’m going for it, Mrs Shermin turns around and catches me out.
‘Caroline!’ she spits. She heaves herself up. Her bosom blocks my view. She starts yelling at me — me, mind you. ‘Caroline! Stop being such a barbarian!’
How can she say that? She’s the one who’s eyeballing Andy’s ring.
It’s at that moment that I know what the Bartholomews have in common with Andy Shermin’s bum.
Have you guessed?
I’ll flip back to Mrs Shermin. And the dancing spots.
No matter how much I blink I can’t clear those dancing spots. That’s because they’re not spots. They’re stringy thingies.
The stringy thingies are going manic, wriggling and thrashing about.
I can’t resist. I lean in for a closer look.
Worms! Breakdancin’, bootscootin’ and rock ‘n’ rollin’ all in one. It is a pretty impressive show — even if it is Andy’s bum they’re dancing on.
I shake my head, thinking of a new nickname for Andy — Vermin Shermin and his Unwelcome Visitors.
Unwelcome visitors …
That’s the link!
Only, the Bartholomews are worse than unwelcome visitors.
They’re foreign invaders!
How’s It Hangin’?
Chapter One
