Tigers on the Beach

by Doug MacLeod

  ‘It exploded,’ I say, probably unnecessarily.

  ‘Yes, Adam, it did,’ says Dad.

  ‘That wasn’t supposed to happen, was it?’

  ‘No it wasn’t. What you just saw defies all the laws of science. Are you okay?’

  ‘I think so. My face feels a bit hot.’

  When we realise we aren’t badly injured, we start to laugh. It actually hurts to laugh, because the skin on my face is red and raw, but I can’t stop. Dad is just as bad, laughing as though he is about to bust a gut.

  Mum runs up, with Xander in tow.

  ‘What happened?’ she demands.

  Dad and I stop laughing.

  ‘Nothing to worry about,’ says Dad.

  ‘What was the noise?’ asks Xander.

  Dad looks foolish. ‘I lit some gunpowder.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’ Mum asks.

  ‘I wanted to show Adam something scientific.’

  ‘Dad didn’t think the gunpowder would explode,’ I explain. ‘But it did.’

  ‘It must have been faulty gunpowder,’ says Dad.

  ‘Ken, please don’t make explosions with gunpowder. We have paying guests. They come here for peace and quiet, not explosions.’

  Even though Mum is cross, my parents don’t argue. They never argue.

  ‘We didn’t get hurt,’ I say.

  ‘I’d be so terribly upset if something happened to either of you,’ Mum says. ‘How would I manage?’

  ‘I’m sure you’d find a way,’ says Dad. ‘You’re a very capable woman, Georgia. Not to mention gorgeous.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Ken.’ Mum is no longer cross.

  ‘Aren’t you going to tell me that I’m gorgeous?’ Dad asks, pretending to be offended.

  ‘You’d probably look more gorgeous if you had some eyebrows,’ says Mum. ‘And if your face wasn’t the colour of a tomato.’

  ‘Was it a big explosion?’ Xander asks.

  ‘About medium,’ Dad replies.

  ‘Do it again,’ says Xander. ‘Only make it bigger.’

  There is nothing in our medicine cabinet to soothe our bright-red faces, so Dad and I go to the Samsara general store. As we approach the counter, the store owner Victor Burns looks at us curiously.

  ‘Hello, Ken. Hello, Adam.’ Victor speaks in a slow drawl.

  ‘Hello, Victor,’ says Dad.

  ‘Ken, I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but you’ve both got very red faces,’ says Victor.

  ‘It’s why we’re here,’ says Dad.

  ‘What on earth happened?’

  ‘There was just an explosion,’ I say, trying to sound casual, though it’s hard to sound casual when you say the word ‘explosion’.

  Victor raises his eyebrows, very slowly. ‘An explosion, you say?’

  ‘Only a small one,’ says Dad.

  ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘Well, it was sort of my fault,’ says Dad. ‘I lit some gunpowder.’

  ‘Why did you do that, Ken?’

  Dad doesn’t want to go into details. ‘Do you sell any cream for burns, Victor?’

  ‘There’s sunburn cream.’

  ‘Does that work on faces that have been burned by an explosion?’ I ask.

  Victor’s eyebrows amble back down his forehead. ‘I’m not sure, Adam. Maybe you should go to the pharmacist in Flanders?’

  Dad decides this is a good idea, especially as a tube of sunburn cream at the Samsara general store costs about fifty dollars. Victor overcharges for everything. The locals call it the two-hundred dollar shop.

  As we leave the store, we hear Victor calling out to his wife. ‘Did you hear that, Blossom? Ken Cartwright made an explosion. Nearly blew his whole head off. The silly coot’s lucky to be alive.’

  This is how rumours start in small seaside towns.

  The pharmacy in Flanders is busy, with a queue of people waiting at the checkout. For some reason, today is a day for injuries and ailments. People have been stung, wind-burned and pierced by bindis. Dad has a tube of something called silver sulfadiazine, which the chemist recommended. As we wait to pay, kids stare at Dad and me: the two bright-red aliens with no eyebrows. An old man holds everyone up by trying to pay with a credit card that won’t swipe.

  ‘It must be your machine,’ says the old man. ‘My card works everywhere else.’

  ‘When was the last time you used it?’ asks the chemist.

  ‘This morning. I used it to stir some sugar into my coffee.’

  There’s an annoying little brat in the queue who won’t stop asking his mum to buy him jellybeans. The mum keeps saying no, but in a battle-weary way. The brat knows that he will eventually wear her down.

  ‘I’m sorry about this, Adam,’ Dad says. ‘I’m an idiot for making that explosion.’

  ‘Dad, it could happen to anyone.’ This is unlikely, but I don’t want Dad to give himself too hard a time.

  ‘I want jellybeans,’ says the annoying brat.

  ‘No,’ says the tired mother. ‘I won’t say it again.’

  ‘But I want jellybeans.’

  ‘No,’ the tired mother says again.

  An angry woman with one huge bushy sideburn steps out of the queue, announces that she doesn’t want to die of old age before she gets served, and leaves. I suspect the lady with the bushy sideburn might be intending to buy something to get rid of her facial hair. Or maybe she’s proud of it and wants to dye her sideburn purple? We are a varied and rich community in the Port Argus region. That is a nice way of saying that a lot of loonies live in the area.

  I notice a girl in front of me in the queue. She has the most amazing straight red hair. She has no bushy sideburns as far as I can tell. I can’t stop staring. It’s Samantha, the red-haired girl from school who was handing out leaflets.

  Samantha’s short skirt is plaid. Her legs are so long that her red tights seem to go forever. Tights in summer are rare.

  Samantha turns around and catches me staring. She gives me a half-smile, so cute that my knees go weak. There are light freckles across her nose. Her eyes are a brilliant blue, like the default desktop on my home computer.

  ‘Put them back,’ says the mother. ‘Put back the jellybeans.’

  ‘I can’t. The bag’s come open,’ says the brat.

  ‘You’re a very bad boy.’

  The boy becomes mercifully quiet, now that he has his jellybeans. Out of respect for my late grandfather’s advice I try to make conversation with Samantha, without jokes.

  ‘That kid needs a slap,’ I say.

  ‘You probably shouldn’t hit kids,’ Sam says, ‘unless they really deserve it and are unlikely to hit you back.’

  We are off to a good start. Samantha is being gently funny.

  ‘What happened to your face?’ Samantha asks. ‘It’s a bit on the crimson side.’

  ‘I was in an explosion,’ I say, trying to sound casual, though it’s hard.

  Samantha is surprised. ‘How did that happen?’

  ‘Dad and I were . . . fixing a car,’ I lie, to protect Dad, who stands nearby. ‘I’m Adam, by the way.’

  ‘I know,’ Samantha replies. ‘I’m Sam.’

  ‘I know.’

  Sam has amazing lips, awesome cheekbones and a pert nose.

  ‘Don’t eat those jellybeans,’ the mother says. ‘And don’t drop them on the floor.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Pick them up.’

  ‘I don’t like the black ones.’

  Desperate to continue our conversation, I tell Sam that I like black jellybeans.

  ‘I don’t,’ she says, but not in a conversation-stopping way.

  ‘Green ones are quite good,’ Sam says.

  ‘Yes, I like the green ones,’ I say.

  ‘But not yellow.’

  ‘I can’t stand those,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t like the aftertaste,’ Sam says.

  ‘I can’t stand the aftertaste,’ I say. ‘I’d rather eat earwax.’

  ‘O
r ointment.’

  Because I’m now quite confident about talking with Sam, I ask a question that you really shouldn’t ask in a pharmacy. ‘What are you buying?’

  I’m in luck. Sam holds up a pretty little stick of gold. ‘Eyeliner,’ she says. ‘You?’

  ‘Explosion cream,’ I say.

  ‘You should talk with my mum,’ says Sam. ‘She’s a nurse. That’s her over there.’

  Sam points to a short round woman with black curly hair. The woman is reading the directions on a tube of ointment.

  ‘She looks nice,’ I say.

  The brat upstages everyone. ‘Mum, there’s a jellybean up my nose.’

  ‘Well, take it out,’ says the tired mother.

  ‘I can’t. It’s stuck.’

  ‘Why did you put a jellybean up your nose?’

  ‘It was an accident.’ The brat begins to wail. ‘I was just trying to smell it.’

  ‘Let me have a look,’ says the mother.

  The brat whines as though he’s in pain, but I bet he’s not. ‘Get it out, Mum.’

  ‘I can’t,’ says the mum. ‘You’ve jammed it in too far.’ The chemist steps out from behind the counter. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Of course everything isn’t all right!’ the mum yells. ‘My son has inserted a jellybean in his nose. We should call an ambulance!’

  Someone chuckles. People like the fact that the boy is being punished by fate.

  ‘It isn’t funny,’ growls the mum.

  ‘Of course it isn’t funny,’ says the chemist, though he thinks it is.

  Sam’s mother comes to the rescue. She puts down her tube of ointment and snatches up a pair of tweezers, still in their pack. Tearing open the pack, she approaches the little boy, whose wailing is now deafening.

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ she says. ‘I’ve done this sort of thing before.’

  She tells the boy that her name is Rose and she is a nurse and she is going to remove the jellybean.

  ‘Calm down, Ryan,’ the mum says. ‘The nice lady knows what she’s doing.’

  The boy quietens down. Sam’s mother, Nurse Rose, gets the boy to tilt back his head. She has a little torch on her car keys and she shines it up the boy’s nostril.

  ‘I want you to be very brave for me and keep still,’ Rose tells the boy. ‘This won’t hurt but it might feel strange.’ She turns to her daughter. ‘Sam, could you please hold the light for me?’

  Sam kneels alongside her mother, directing the light up the boy’s nose. Gently, holding the bridge of his nose to keep him still, Rose uses her free hand to remove the jellybean with the tweezers. She holds it up in victory.

  ‘One purple jellybean!’ she says. People clap. The boy reaches for the purple jellybean and immediately eats it.

  Sam introduces me to her mother.

  ‘You’d be amazed what kids stick up their noses,’ says Rose. ‘Ball bearings. Peanuts. Small screws. You could write a book about it. Maybe not a bestseller.’ She has a closer look at Dad and me. ‘Why are you both so red?’

  ‘They were in an explosion,’ says Sam. ‘A car blew up.’ Rose looks horrified. Dad looks a little confused.

  ‘We were . . . fixing it,’ I lie.

  ‘Does it hurt?’ Rose asks.

  ‘We’re fine,’ Dad says.

  ‘There’s no pain,’ I add, to prove to Sam that I am the strong, uncomplaining type that women desire, even if I don’t have a sixpack or pronounced eyebrows. I don’t even have unpronounced eyebrows.

  ‘But there is considerable epidermal burning,’ says Rose.

  I panic. Can you die from considerable epidermal burning?

  Sam and I talk a little more as the queue advances slowly.

  ‘Where do you live?’ I ask.

  ‘Port Argus,’ says Sam. ‘You?’

  ‘Samsara,’ I reply.

  ‘My flute teacher lives there,’ says Sam.

  Like an idiot, I ask her, ‘Do you play the flute?’

  But Sam doesn’t roll her eyes or make me feel stupid for asking such a dumb question. She replies with a nice, gentle, ‘Yes, I play the flute.’

  ‘I bet you’re good at it,’ I say.

  Sam shrugs modestly.

  ‘I’d really like to hear you play,’ I say. ‘I bet you’re brilliant. A virtuoso.’ (I’ve heard that girls like it when you flatter them, though I might be overdoing it.)

  ‘I’m in an ensemble,’ she says, and I nod as though I know what she is talking about. ‘You can come and hear us play, if you like.’

  Sam hands me a card with a little photo of five musicians on it. An ensemble is obviously some kind of band. They are called Il Gattopardo Pazzo.

  ‘What does Il Gattopardo Pazzo mean?’ I ask. I see that Sam’s surname is Koenigsberger. It’s the most beautiful name ever.

  ‘The Crazy Leopard,’ says Sam.

  ‘That’s a very weird name,’ I say.

  ‘I invented it,’ says Sam.

  ‘It’s weird in a good way. You’re very clever with words. I’m sure you have a high IQ.’

  I stare at the photo of the five musicians holding their instruments. One of the boys is handsome and standing very close to Sam.

  ‘Is that your boyfriend?’ I ask.

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘I don’t have a boyfriend at the moment.’

  Sam takes out a pen and writes her phone number on the back of the card. I can’t believe that such an amazing girl would want to give me her phone number. I am lost for words.

  ‘What’s your phone number?’ Sam asks.

  I hand her my business card, one of a hundred that I printed for myself.

  ‘Adam Cartwright, Assistant Manger, Ponderosa Holiday Cabins,’ Sam reads, then looks up. ‘Isn’t a manger where Jesus was born?’

  ‘It’s supposed to say manager, but the printer got it wrong.’

  ‘What does an assistant manager do?’

  ‘Everything.’

  I’m not going to tell her that one of my main tasks is to sweep up possum poo.

  By the time we reach the counter, Sam has told me the correct way to pronounce Koenigsberger (It’s KERNIX BURGER. To me it sounds like angel song) and that her favourite food is a blintz, which I thought is what happened to London during the war, but apparently it’s a pancake. I’ve told her that I’m named after a cowboy and that my favourite food is sausage rolls. In hardly any time we have become experts on each other. I tell Sam the joke about what you get if you cross a parrot with a lion. She doesn’t laugh. That’s okay, I have plenty of other jokes. Sam’s mother smiles at my dad. The adults think it’s cute that their teenagers are hitting it off. When Rose and Sam reach the counter, the cashier rings up two items: the eyeliner and the tube of ointment. They come to over fifty dollars.

  ‘That must be expensive eyeliner,’ I say.

  ‘It’s the ointment,’ says Rose. ‘It’s criminal what people charge for haemorrhoid cream.’

  I look questioningly at Dad, but he just shakes his head. He doesn’t want me to ask him what haemorrhoid cream is. When I find out I understand why.

  Two hours later I summon up the courage to ring Sam and ask if she would like to get together soon. She says sure. Where should we meet? I suggest the café area at the Samsara general store. This will turn out to be an epic fail.

  That night I get an email from Sam. It is a cartoon of two tigers walking along Bondi Beach. One is saying to the other, ‘It’s not very crowded for a public holiday, is it?’ I don’t get it. In return, I send Sam the story about the man whose toilet blows up.

  This will also turn out to be an epic fail.

  The only epic win I have is that after being burned, I grow pronounced eyebrows. Pronounced ‘eyebrows’. Dad’s eyebrows also grow back, but in a very odd way. They become bushier. The left one points up and the right one down. Nathan says it makes Dad look like a tawny frogmouth owl. Mum says she likes Dad’s new eyebrows and she’s perfectly happy to be married to a gorgeous little tawny frogmouth ow
l.

  Sometimes my parents are sickening.

  Sam is wearing green tights. I think the red ones are better but I say nothing. I don’t want to spoil the moment by criticising her tights, like some tights-critic. We sit in the Samsara general store, drinking caramel milkshakes. The sunlight streams through the front window of the store and makes Sam’s straight red hair look brilliant. Sam says she has sixty-seven freckles on her back. I hope I get the chance to count them one day.

  ‘My older brother has freckles too,’ says Sam.

  ‘That’s interesting,’ I say, and I’m not being sarcastic. When you start to fall for someone, everything they say is interesting, even if it’s just about brothers and freckles.

  ‘He lives in the city. He’s studying to be a molecular biologist. It’s a six-year course.’

  ‘He must really love molecules,’ I say.

  ‘And my dad’s a lawyer.’

  I’m beginning to feel inadequate. ‘You seem to have a lot of high achievers in your family. My parents run holiday cabins. I help.’

  ‘Do they like doing it?’

  ‘They love it,’ I say, with passion, because it’s true.

  ‘Then they’re better off than my father. He doesn’t like being a lawyer.’

  I tell Sam one of the most interesting things about me. I was born at eight o’clock in the morning on New Year’s Day, which is a very unlucky time of year to have a birthday. No one pays much attention. The only good thing about being born on the first of January is that when anyone asks your age you can tell them to the year, the month, the week, the day, or even the hour. I look at my watch and realise that I am exactly thirteen years, ten months, three weeks, two days and seven hours old. When people ask my age and I rattle it off like this, they think I must have a computer in my head, like Xander. But I have no amazing talents. At least, none that I’m aware of. I know I can’t fly like Superman, because I tried it once.

  ‘I think my mum likes you,’ Sam says.

  ‘Well I like her too,’ I say. ‘I know I met her only once, but I think she did an excellent job of getting a jellybean out of that little boy’s nose. It’s a real skill.’

  ‘I should warn you,’ says Sam, ‘when Mum takes a shine to someone, she makes food for them. She’ll probably start force-feeding you.’