The Bogan Mondrian

by Herrick, Steven

  I bounce the ball, thinking.

  ‘Okay, Mr Conservative,’ he says. ‘We’ll start with damage to property. And maybe a note.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Come on, a brick through his front window,’ Blake says. ‘It made me feel better after Dad pissed off to Queensland.’

  ‘Is violence your answer to everything?’

  Blake shrugs and snatches the basketball from my hands, jumps to his feet and bounces it towards the court.

  ‘Hey,’ says Blake, ‘if I can pot one from here, you’ve got to do my Maths homework for a week.’

  ‘And what if you miss?’

  ‘I’ll do yours.’

  ‘I lose either way.’

  He takes two confident bounces and launches a graceful arcing shot that lobs straight through the hoop without even touching the backboard. Blake looks at me.

  ‘Do you really trust my Maths?’ I ask.

  He pots another basket in answer.

  ‘I’m ready when you are, mate,’ he says.

  He’s not talking about homework.

  Late on Tuesday afternoon, I sling the camera over my shoulder and walk across the highway to the town side, passing the hedgerows and neat gardens along Narrow Neck Road until I reach the path to Nellie’s Glen. Grevilleas and bottlebrush line the track as it winds through the national park to a lookout not far from where the four of us shared a joint.

  I’ve timed it perfectly. A white doona of cloud spreads across the valley, framed by the canyon walls. The clouds sink into Megalong Valley, yet above me is a miracle blue sky. Mr Hartzig told us about this weather pattern in Science. He called it a temperature inversion where cold air fills the valley and the warm air above stops it rising. I was naive enough to ask him about it and he launched into a period-length monologue.

  At the edge of the cliff, a low fence stops me from leaping on top of a cloud. It’s so thick I could fool myself it was possible. The ring of a bellbird calls through the mist.

  I remove the lens cap and snap loads of photos, adjusting the focus to emphasise the clouds, or frame a single tree rising above the mist, or I crouch low and shoot through the wire fence so the connection between sky and cloud is more pronounced. I think of Piet Mondrian. He’d like this. Blue. White. Grey. The red canyon wall. Simple blocks of colour.

  I remember coming here with Dad on Sunday evenings. It was his favourite spot after he’d lost a bundle on the races. He used to joke about the cliff edge and bad luck. We sat together on the rock and listened to the bellbirds. He told me the birds mated for life but lived in large groups and the other birds, not just the parents, looked after the young. He reckoned they were smarter than humans.

  Tuesday was payday for Mum and Dad. Argument day. Dad called it a budget discussion. Mum’s wages paid the mortgage, bills and food; Dad’s money went on ‘investments’: pokies, horses, beer and cigarettes. He bought Mum a few bottles of rosé and hoped that was enough.

  But no matter how much they argued, how tight it was, they took turns each week coming into my room and slipping pocket money into the top drawer. When Mum did it she’d lean over and kiss me on the forehead and say sorry, as if it wasn’t enough. Dad would just wink and tell me not to waste it on useless stuff like food.

  I take one last photo, setting the camera to timer and balancing it on the rock as I stand in front of the fence. I stare into the lens and wait until the shutter clicks.

  I check the result – the shadow of a tree crosses my forehead and behind me is a perfect cloud spread low.

  I walk along the ridge path pushing through cobwebs strung between banksia bushes until I reach the road. I quicken my pace and make it to the print shop in Katoomba Street five minutes before closing. The woman checks her watch but lets me connect the camera to the self-serve machine. I print a simple 5 × 7 of my selfie with the cloud. When I’m paying for the photo, I borrow a pen and write the date on the back of the photo, followed by two kisses. I know just what to do with it, but it will have to wait for another day.

  Wednesday is our weekly school assembly where Mr Pakula puts on a suit coat and offers his ‘State of the World’ address. Words like ‘dedication’, ‘commitment’ and ‘honesty’ are laced through a dull monologue about our futures. Our futures are to be zombies for another twenty minutes.

  Today, he shortens his speech to introduce a trio of prominent community members – which is Pakula’s way of saying they’ve given us free stuff because the school is crumbling around our ears.

  ‘Please show your appreciation as I welcome our valued sponsors on stage,’ he announces.

  A few teachers begin clapping too early and get the evil eye. That’ll teach them for dozing.

  ‘Please welcome Ms Sayers, manager of OfficeDeal in town,’ Mr Pakula says.

  We all clap on cue as a lady in a dark blue dress walks on stage and receives a laminated certificate.

  ‘I bet she’ll treasure that,’ Blake says.

  ‘Next up is Mr Bursini, owner of Mountain Pizza on Katoomba Street.’ Mr Pakula leads the applause. Why are we being sponsored by the pizza shop? Does he deliver free pizzas to the staff at lunchtime? How does that help us?

  Mr Bursini walks onstage carrying a large sign advertising his shop. He swaps it with Mr Pakula for the certificate. Poor old Pakula has no idea what to do with the sign. He leans it against the lectern.

  ‘Finally, please welcome Mr Walsh, Managing Director of Burns Fleming Walsh, stockbrokers in Sydney who’ve offered a sizeable cash donation to the school.’ Pakula glows as he mentions the word ‘cash’.

  Charlotte’s dad walks onstage. He’s dressed in a dark suit and unbuttons the jacket before shaking hands with Pakula.

  ‘He’s hot,’ a girl behind me says.

  I glance at Charlotte in the middle of my row. She’s not clapping. She’s not even looking at the stage. I don’t know why, but I begin an exaggerated coughing fit. It’s so loud, so I’ve-swallowed-a-fly-and-I’m-going-to-die dramatic, the applause fades quicker than it should.

  Pakula looks at me and frowns.

  Ms Childs, bless her, thinks I’m actually choking and rushes along the aisle to slap me on the back. I fake one more ear-splitting flurry as Ms Childs helps me stand, and I’m pleased to see Mr Pakula is so intent on grimacing at me, he’s left Mr Walsh with his hand outstretched, waiting to be given his plastic award. Death rays from everyone onstage.

  I glance at Charlotte. She blows me a kiss.

  Ms Childs helps me back into my seat.

  Pakula taps the microphone to get our attention. ‘Another round of applause for Mr Walsh, Ms Sayers and Mr …’

  He’s forgotten Mr Bursini’s name. No pizza for the principal! Pakula looks down at the lectern, hoping the name will magically appear. He mumbles into the microphone, expecting we’ll all accept that as the name of our local pizza dealer.

  ‘Bursini,’ someone calls from offstage.

  ‘Mr Bursini, Mountain Pizza,’ Mr Pakula adds, hoping one more free plug will save him.

  We’re released from our assembly prison. I follow the hordes into the foyer, hoping to put as much space as possible between me and Pakula. Maybe I should cough a few times on exit? When I get to the rear door, a woman with dark hair and pale skin smiles at me. She looks like the woman in Charlotte’s family photo.

  She is the woman in Charlotte’s photo, and she’s walking towards me. I cough into my hand.

  ‘How are you feeling, young man?’ she asks.

  ‘Much improved,’ I say. She looks just like Charlotte, only older. But I don’t think I’ll tell her that.

  ‘I enjoyed your performance very much,’ she says.

  I can’t tell if she’s joking or not.

  ‘A coughing concerto,’ I say, remembering she teaches Charlotte piano.

  She’s wearing a tight
-fitting black skirt and a lemon-coloured blouse. Around her neck are pearls the colour of her carpet. She smells of expensive perfume.

  ‘I saw my daughter’s response,’ she says.

  Oh, geez.

  ‘I think she was blowing a fly off her hand,’ I say.

  ‘Charlotte doesn’t have many friends,’ her mum says.

  That’s because everyone thinks she’s stuck up.

  I hope I didn’t just say that aloud.

  ‘Sometimes she can seem a little …’ She deliberately waits for me to finish her sentence.

  One of us has to pop the pregnant pause.

  ‘… scared of flies,’ I answer.

  She looks past me, her eyes clouding over. That’s my cue to leave. When I get to the door, I glance back and see Mr Walsh putting an arm around his wife.

  Scared of flies.

  Good one, Luke.

  As I walk away, Blake jumps on my back, scaring the shit out of me.

  ‘Bloody hell, mate,’ I say.

  Blake grins. ‘I felt like clapping,’ he says. ‘That was hilarious.’

  I shrug.

  ‘I might try it next assembly,’ he adds. ‘Cough at every stupid thing Pakula says.’

  ‘He’s a dickhead,’ I say.

  ‘Who? Pakula or Charlotte’s dad?’

  ‘Charlotte tells me he buys the family expensive stuff, after … you know.’

  ‘Well then, he can afford a broken window or two.’

  ‘He drives an Audi.’

  ‘You’re shitting me!’ Blake smiles. ‘Then it’s decided. You just tell me when.’

  He wraps his big arm around my shoulder and leads me to the canteen. Sausage rolls. He says it’s his shout.

  10

  Saturday morning. Mum’s vacuuming the lounge. A spoon gets caught in the nozzle. She switches off the vacuum and smacks the hose against a chair. The spoon clatters to the floor.

  I stack the dishes in the sink, wash them quickly and leave them to dry on the rack. Then I go to my room and slip into swimmers under my jeans, before texting Charlotte to invite her to the reservoir. I toss my camera into my bag.

  She answers with a photo of her holding up a one-piece swimsuit. It has a Mondrian design.

  ‘See ya, Mum. Don’t worry about lunch,’ I call.

  I have five dollars left from school. Enough for food but no drink. I race around the side of the house to the plum tree and pick as many as I can fit into my bag.

  On the way to the reservoir, I pass Mr Rosetti weeding his garden. He waves and struggles to his feet. I open the bag to reveal the plums.

  ‘As many as you want, Mr Rosetti,’ I say.

  He picks out a ripe plum and bites it. The juice dribbles down his jaw. ‘Grazie, figlio,’ he says.

  Even I know he’s not swearing.

  ‘Come on, Mr Rosetti. You can do better than that.’

  He reaches into the bag and takes a few more plums. ‘Grazie, segaiolo!’

  I heap a few more plums into Mr Rosetti’s arms. ‘The translation?’

  ‘Thank you, wanker,’ he grins.

  ‘You’re welcome, stronzo,’ I answer.

  ‘Blood plums. Perfecto for cakes.’ He winks, then carries the plums inside.

  I head down the street to Buster’s house and stop at the gate. No-one home? Who cares!

  ‘You want to meet my friend, Buster?’

  He runs alongside the fence.

  I unlatch the gate and swing it open just enough for Buster to decide for himself. I walk away and he bounds after me, licking my hand and almost tripping me over.

  At the reservoir, he runs off chasing birds again as I scan the surrounds for Rodney. A new wreck blackens the hill just off the fire trail. I walk up to the car, take out my camera and start taking photos, looking for the perfect angle to connect charred ruin with towering forest and blue sky.

  Whenever I look through the lens, my whole body relaxes; the world is reduced to what’s in the frame. A cicada lands on the bonnet of the car. I zoom in close, admiring the burnished metal through the insect’s wings. I check my settings, adjust the aperture and click the shutter. The insect makes a high-pitched thrumming sound with its torso. I switch the camera to burst mode and snap ten photos per second.

  Buster barks from the shoreline.

  Charlotte is walking along the track, wearing jeans, a white t-shirt and carrying her schoolbag. Buster keeps barking and bounds towards her. She bends down and holds out her hand. He stops a metre away from her.

  ‘His name’s Buster,’ I call.

  I walk down to the shore and sit on a fallen log.

  Charlotte whispers something I can’t hear. Buster moves forwards and takes a tentative lick. She pats his side and he burrows close.

  ‘I’ve heard about this place,’ Charlotte says.

  Buster runs back to me as if he wants to introduce his new friend. Charlotte tries to sit down beside me but Buster demands attention. He rolls over on his back for a stomach rub.

  ‘I come here when I wag school,’ I say.

  She looks across the water.

  ‘It’s not deep, but it’s clean,’ I add.

  ‘I used to swim at Bondi,’ Charlotte says, ‘the home of protein ponies and boardheads.’ She unzips her bag and pulls out two bottles of beer and an opener. ‘I’ve made some sandwiches as well.’ She hands me a bottle.

  I take a long swig. Buster jumps up and chases a honeyeater, barking and wagging his tail.

  ‘This is much better than Bondi.’ She notices my camera on the log. ‘Are you hoping I’ll pose for you?’

  I shake my head. ‘I take photos of the reservoir, the forest, natural stuff.’

  ‘So, I’m not good enough?’

  I blush. ‘No-one is themselves in front of the camera. They look nervous or embarrassed.’

  ‘Or pout.’ Charlotte extends her lips in an exaggerated pose.

  ‘Or go cross-eyed,’ I say.

  ‘At my old school, the girls would teach each other how to apply lipstick so it looked like they were always pouting.’

  ‘Even those with thin lips?’

  ‘Especially those with thin lips.’

  ‘But not you.’

  ‘I was off having sex with my Art teacher, remember?’

  Buster returns from his adventure and wiggles in close.

  ‘There was a girl called Anastasia,’ Charlotte begins. ‘She had blonde hair and perfect teeth. I called her the Ice Queen. Her parents lived in a mansion with a view down the harbour. Everybody wanted to be invited to her place. Even me.’

  Charlotte looks across the reservoir, remembering.

  ‘We were friends,’ Charlotte adds, ‘at least I thought we were. Until a boy Anastasia liked made it clear he preferred me to her.’ She shakes her head. ‘I never flirted with him. I was just polite, but he got the wrong idea.’

  I scratch Buster’s stomach. I don’t want to interrupt.

  ‘The Ice Queen went cold. A week later, Anastasia and her parents complained to the principal that her gold necklace was stolen.’

  ‘How do you steal a necklace?’ I ask.

  ‘She wore it before and after school. The rest of the time she kept it in her schoolbag, even though it was worth a fortune.’

  ‘Blake would have swooped the first day, just to teach her a lesson,’ I say.

  ‘Anastasia’s parents had a lot of influence at school and our bags were searched,’ Charlotte continues. ‘Guess where they found it?’ Her lower lip quivers.

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘I was set up,’ she says, ‘because a boy preferred me.’

  ‘Why didn’t she leave it in his bag?!’ I interrupt.

  ‘Girls like her don’t work like that.’

  A flock of ducks
fly across the surface of the reservoir.

  ‘And you got expelled,’ I say.

  ‘In the end, the school sided with the most influential parent.’

  ‘Is that why you’re at our school now? So your father can throw his weight around?’

  She nods. ‘Mum wanted to move to the mountains, Dad wanted to punish me.’

  ‘Didn’t you tell them you were innocent?’

  ‘It didn’t matter.’

  Buster whines. I’ve been so involved in Charlotte’s story, I’ve stopped rubbing his stomach.

  ‘Mum and Dad made so much money from selling our house, they bought a small flat in the city for when they get tired of commuting,’ Charlotte says.

  ‘Which leaves you alone up here.’

  ‘Don’t get too excited, big boy.’

  ‘That’s the second time you’ve called me that.’

  The sun comes out from behind the clouds.

  ‘Let’s go for a swim?’ Charlotte reaches for my hand. ‘To wash it all away.’

  She removes her boots, stands and takes off her t-shirt and jeans.

  Not even Mondrian can hide what I know is underneath. I try not to think of it, which only makes it worse.

  ‘I’ll … I’ll be a minute.’ I hold up my beer as an excuse.

  Charlotte runs into the water, dives and paddles a few metres before turning around. It gives me time to wriggle out of my jeans and remove my shirt.

  Now or never.

  I run towards the reservoir, almost trip over a dirt mound and plunge into the water. Charlotte laughs as I go under. She stands in chest-deep water. When I get close, she flicks water at me and paddles away. I struggle to keep up. She leads me around the reservoir until I’m too tired to follow.

  ‘I give up,’ I say.

  She turns and swims back to where I am.

  We stand a few metres apart.

  Buster barks from the bank.

  ‘Buster and I …’ Charlotte says.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Buster and I want to kiss you.’

  ‘I choose you.’

  Charlotte rummages in her bag and pulls out a foil-wrapped chicken breast. She offers it to Buster.

  ‘He’ll love you forever,’ I say.