by Kate Gordon
The indie-girl at the coffee stand today has cropped bleached hair, a nose stud and a picture of Rosie the Riveter on her arm. Even though Melody doesn’t believe in love, she does believe in hipster girls with retro feminist tattoos.
‘My parents would call that girl a wastrel,’ Roz says. She bites her lip and adds, ‘But I really like her tattoo.’
‘I really like everything about her,’ Melody breathes. ‘How many coffees do you think I can order before it starts looking sus?’
The soft drink stand is manned by a very non-hipster bloke called Nige, who might have been behind that counter since 1879. The fact that Melody bought Wally his Powerade, instead of getting herself another cappuccino, says it all. She wants Wally to do well, as much as the rest of us do.
As much as I do.
Because even though there’s still that tiny part of me that aches at the thought of him leaving, my hope for him is much bigger.
I can still feel his fingers on my cheek. They felt like he might say, Come with me.
‘How’s your knee?’ I whisper to him, trying to ignore his scent as my mouth is at his ear.
Peppermint.
Sweat.
Lynx deodorant.
Wally.
He shrugs. ‘It’s far from perfect, Champ. It’s bloody sore. But I’m doing okay despite it, don’t you think? Lucky that Clarence newbie isn’t giving me much competition. Dunno where MacMichael is today but I’m not complaining!’
‘You’re doing fantastically,’ I say. ‘You can’t tell at all about the knee.’
Wally grins. ‘Thanks, Resey. And thanks for, you know, being here.’
The siren sounds for the start of the second half. Wally inhales the rest of his slice. ‘Nice chef work, you!’ he says.
If I was Wally’s manager, on the mainland, I’d make him slices every weekend. And banana muffins.
‘Well, wish me luck!’ He hip-and-shoulders me and I fake that it hurts. I can’t wipe the grin from my face, though. I’m so excited for him.
He runs back to the ground like he has springs in his legs.
But, as he reaches the centre circle, the springs rust. The rubbish ruckman from Clarence is back on the interchange bench. Standing in the centre of the field, stretching his hamstring, is Tom MacMichael—Clarence’s star ruckman and best-and-fairest for the club two years running.
It all makes sense. The Clarence coach was resting Macca in the first half to give him the best chance of playing well in the second. The best chance of helping the Roos win and the best chance of impressing the scout.
And, as he bounces from foot to foot, it looks like he swallowed the Energiser bunny.
Wally glances our way. He’s terrified.
‘Go, Wally!’ I yell, as Peter roars, ‘Carn the Hawks!’
‘Go, Hawkies!’ Roz screams.
Melody rolls her eyes and mutters, ‘Down with the patriarchy.’
I cross my fingers and, inside my Volleys, I cross my toes, but my belly’s already sinking. Wally doesn’t look good out there. His confidence is shattered, and everyone knows that confidence is almost as important as form in a game of footy. It’s a psychological war on that ground, and Wally’s already on the back foot.
And then it begins. The umpire bounces the ball. It ricochets off the muddy soil and right in Wally’s direction. It should be an easy one for him. But he doesn’t leap high enough. He doesn’t leap far enough.
MacMichael gets it.
He gets it, and his tap sees the ball heading straight in the direction of Carpenter, one of Clarence’s best forwards. Carpenter takes the mark and heads towards the attacking fifty for Clarence. He easily dodges Pedda and punts the ball at Wise, the Clarence full-forward.
Wise collects the mark and takes his time, lining up.
The ball goes through the middle posts, like a hot knife through butter.
Wally’s dead scared now.
He’s starting to limp, too.
The scout is taking notes.
My muesli slice is useless. So’s the Powerade. Nothing’s going to work if Wally’s scared. We’re screwed. And I feel like I’m going to vomit up my pie and Coke.
Chapter Thirteen
I fix all my hope and all my will and all the luck that the universe might have been planning to give me on Nick Wallace. Any magic I might have inside me—that goes to him too.
I’ve splashed my drink all down my front—it’s wet and uncomfortable. My hair is a mess in the wind, my lips are chapped and my eyes are streaming, but it doesn’t matter.
None of that shit—all the things I thought when I looked in the mirror—matter anymore.
Everything is Wally.
Roz squeezes my arm. ‘He’ll be okay, Resey. It’ll all be okay.’
I don’t reply; can’t reply. What can I say?
Everything is Wally.
He’s limping and he’s broken and it’s hopeless, but I’m still willing him on.
I stare at him. My eyes are a camera lens. He’s in the middle of everything. He’s the centre of everything.
‘Come on, Wally,’ I murmur.
‘This is shit,’ Peter says. ‘He’s stuffed.’
‘Can we go to Jointley’s already?’ groans Melody. ‘This is painful.’
‘Mel,’ Roz says, gently. I see her shake her head.
I don’t see Melody roll her eyes, but I can almost feel it.
I don’t care. I don’t care what she does; what she thinks.
My whole soul is with him.
I don’t blink.
Wally looks away from the ball for just a moment. He sees me watching.
He nods.
The whistle blows.
When the final siren sounds the Hawks fans yelp and holler.
The team surrounds Wally. They scream and yell and hug him and kiss him, forgetting for a moment that they like to be tough and unemotional and blokes.
I watch the scout approach Holland.
And I think, That’s it. I’ve lost him.
Because that last goal was magic. And the scout saw it.
I’m crying. I don’t know why I’m crying.
Wally looks at me again. I expect him to smile, but he only looks.
And I can’t read his expression. I can’t read him. Why isn’t he smiling?
I don’t know whether to go to the car park and wait for him. Usually, I do. To offer congratulations, or a home-baked something, and a sympathetic smile. It’s tradition. Wally expects it.
But today feels … different. I don’t know if he’ll expect me. I don’t know if he’ll want me there.
Why isn’t he smiling?
Peter can see the indecision on my face. He shakes his head. ‘Better leave him, Resey,’ he says, softly. ‘Reckon he’ll be pretty busy with Holland after this. Bloody legend.’
‘He might come to Jointley’s,’ I say, hopefully. ‘When he’s all done?’
Peter doesn’t look convinced, but he knows I need to hold on to that hope, cotton-thin as it is. ‘Yeah, maybe. You wanna go?’
I nod, looking to Melody and Roz.
‘Yeah, of course,’ says Roz. ‘There’s a pasty there with my name on it. I’ve only got homework waiting for me at home, and my mum going mad at me for spending the day at the footy—it’s so “uncouth” and such a “waste of my time and talents”.’ Roz rolls her eyes like she doesn’t care, but I know she does. Her parents are a nightmare. ‘I’m staying at Jointley’s for as long as humanly possible.’
‘He probably won’t show,’ Melody says, linking her arm through mine. ‘I’m thinking the boys will be taking him for a sneaky beer or two at Greens, don’t you? But that’s okay. We can all have a good chat.’
My head still jerks up whenever the plastic curtain rustles at the front of Join
tley’s. The others natter happily about school, Netflix shows and Wally’s future stardom.
I’m just waiting for him to come.
‘I think it’s time to go, Resey.’ Melody is abnormally gentle, when she forces me to give up, after more than an hour of watching the door.
In the car, on the way home, the radio is playing a nineties Spice Girls’ song. Rhino would love it. Auntie Kath starts singing along.
Melody joins in—she and I both learned the song by osmosis when we were babies. Roz, of course, was raised on Bach and Beethoven, so she only hums.
I stay silent. I lean my elbow on the car window and watch as the rain begins to drizzle from the eggshell-grey sky.
‘You okay, Tiger?’ Auntie Kath asks. ‘Was the game okay?’
‘The scout was there,’ I say. ‘And Wally was a hero.’
‘Well, that’s good … isn’t it?’
‘It’s wonderful.’
It is.
It is wonderful.
We stop at the Kwongs’ house and I tell Melody and Roz that I’ll see them at school, even though we had sort-of plans to go to the park tomorrow.
‘What about—’ Melody begins. Roz elbows her in the ribs. I smile at her, gratefully.
‘Come on,’ she tells Melody. ‘I’ll come in for a while. I’ll tell Mum I had to borrow some of your biology notes.’
‘I’m not taking—’ Melody begins to protest.
Roz shakes her head, her eyes wide and fierce.
Melody shuts up.
‘Bye, Resey!’ they call out, waving as Mabel backs smoothly out of the driveway.
‘Can we go to Grandma T’s?’ I ask Auntie Kath, as we leave Melody’s street.
Auntie Kath puts on her indicator, and we turn right onto Seabrook Road, heading in the direction of the farm.
When we arrive, I give Grandma T a hug. ‘I think I just need to go to the chook shed.’
‘Unicorns?’ Grandma T asks. She knows. The chook shed is one of the few places where I can lose myself. I can turn everything off and imagine I’m in the Otherwhere.
‘Unicorns,’ I reply.
In the shed, I sit in the dark. I don’t eat my cake. I feel like I’m not breathing, but I must be, because I can hear myself crying.
When he comes, it feels like a dream at first. I’d wanted him there so strongly. But then he talks. ‘Grandma T said I could come out.’
‘I thought you’d be getting pissed with the boys,’ I say, my voice splintering a bit.
Something is different.
Something is charged.
‘They wanted to. I wanted you.’
He leans into me. He puts his head on my shoulder, at first, and I hear him say something that sounds like, ‘Make it feel okay.’
And then he raises his head.
Raises his lips.
It’s magic.
And I think, Maybe he’s not lost. Maybe he’ll take me with him. This has to mean he’ll take me with him.
He strokes my face. ‘Golden,’ he whispers.
He doesn’t quote poetry; doesn’t say another word.
He looks like he might cry.
I’m filled with stardust. I’m filled with the whole world.
Dear Dad,
I wanted to fly to you.
I wanted to land somewhere safe.
I soared and in those arms I was bathed in light.
This room is so dark now.
I’m not high enough.
Chapter Fourteen
When we get to school, Wally isn’t at his locker. He isn’t there at recess or lunch or in the classes we have together.
‘He’s probably already on the plane to Tullamarine,’ Peter says. I’m holding half a Paddle Pop, watching the ice cream drizzle down my wrist. Wally loves Paddle Pops. ‘En route to Glenferrie,’ Peter adds, as if we all didn’t know what he meant.
‘He wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye.’ Roz looks up from her study, shaking her head. There is a biro stuck through the auburn bun on the crown of her head.
Peter shrugs. ‘Never know,’ he says, taking a bite from his Vegemite sandwich.
Roz looks at me and smiles, and even though I know she doesn’t know, I feel my cheeks heat up.
I’ve been blushing a lot today. Every time I close my eyes, I’m in the chook shed. In the Otherwhere. In his arms.
I wrap the rest of the ice cream in its plastic and put it on the grass.
He might come.
‘Hey! I’ll have that!’ Melody cries and lunges for the ice cream. She grabs it before I can protest and talks through yellow mush. ‘Mum’s got the flu, so she’s in bed listening to AB Original instead of cooking. I’m suffering from major nutrient deficiencies, which are adversely affecting my mental health. All I’ve got for lunch is a fruit bun. My mind needs protein.’
‘I’ll eat it,’ says Peter. ‘I love fruit buns. And my brain doesn’t care about protein. I’d still be Einstein if I ate nothing but jelly beans and Spam.’
‘Spam is protein, Einstein,’ Melody snaps.
‘I don’t think you should be too confident about exactly what Spam is, Kwong,’ Peter retorts. He lowers his voice. ‘Nobody really knows.’
‘Can I have your sanger, then?’ asks Roz, looking longingly at the wax-paper parcel in Peter’s hands. I know for a fact that Vegemite isn’t allowed in Roz’s house.
‘Get it into ya,’ says Peter, pinging it over to her.
And so the lunch-swapping game begins and everyone forgets about Wally.
Except for me.
Despite what Peter says, I know Wally’s not already gone. He wouldn’t go without saying goodbye. Not after the chook shed. He’ll take me with him.
His hand shook when he touched my face ...
After school, I have musical practice. I stand on the stage, waiting for Jarrod to come and sing with me, then give me the kiss that makes his girlfriend, Mandy, stupid with envy. I’m on autopilot. All I can think about is Wally.
Jarrod’s lips are soggy. They move up and down like a wind-up caterpillar.
Wally’s lips breathed his soul inside me and stole mine back inside him.
I want those lips again.
‘Therese?’
I look up. Mr Lohrey is watching me, baton in hand, waiting to start the song.
I nod. ‘Sorry. Just getting focussed.’
Mr Lohrey smiles, approvingly. He’s always telling us to take a moment to get ‘centred’ and ‘aligned’. ‘You’ve come up in leaps and bounds, Resey,’ he says. ‘You’re going to steal the show.’
Usually, this would make my heart sing. Not today.
My heart is too full of him.
I force a smile. Beside me, Jarrod makes a show of concentrating, too, desperate for Mr Lohrey’s approval.
Jarrod wants to be an actor when he leaves school. He wants to go to NIDA.
Sometimes, when I switch off my brain for long enough; when I stop thinking about sensible and smart; when I’m sitting on the beach with my shoes off, letting myself just be … I know that I want it too.
When I’m on stage, letting the words of the script flow through me like I’m the character and these things I’m saying are real … those times, I want it more than anything. Those times, I feel free of everything. Those times, I feel alive.
Usually. Usually, when I’m on stage, acting, I feel complete.
Today, I feel like a million scattered pieces, searching for a home. All I want is to see Wally. Everything else feels like pretending.
I turn on my Audrey smile. I put on my Audrey voice. I open my mouth and Audrey sings.
But, inside, I’m still Tiger and inside all I can think of is him.
Dear Dad,
I’ve stopped dreaming.
I want to dream again.
Chapter Fifteen
In my head, there’s only Wally.
I feel like if you opened me up the sky would be flooded with stardust.
So when Auntie Kath sits down beside me by the window and says, ‘You look like you’re full of things that need to be talked about with your doting auntie,’ I talk through my teeth. I don’t talk long. I talk very quietly and, instead of saying his name, I ask Auntie Kath about the one thing that will distract her.
I ask her about my dad.
‘Did he ever want to play footy professionally? Could he have been scouted like …’ I don’t finish the sentence. Like Wally. Auntie Kath knows me so well. She would know if I said his name.
Auntie Kath settles back into the cushions. She shakes her head. ‘No. He never wanted to do it professionally. I think Birdie would have liked him to; she had these dreams of being a WAG—they didn’t call them that in those days, of course. She would have liked to go to the Brownlow. She would have loved to meet Warwick Capper, if only so she could tell the story.’
‘I can’t imagine her as a footballer’s wife,’ I say, looking across the room at her photo on the mantelpiece. ‘I can’t imagine her in a glittery dress. I so can’t imagine her with a spray tan and chicken fillets in her bra.’
Auntie Kath laughs. ‘Well, for one thing, chicken fillets and spray tans didn’t exist in the eighties. If they had, I doubt my sister would have used them, anyway. She barely ever wore makeup. I was always the one trying to fix myself—you’ve seen the pictures of my terrible perm.’ Auntie Kath laughs and rolls her eyes. ‘It took me a very long time to be comfortable in my own skin. Becoming an artist helped. I learned that there are lots of kinds of beautiful. But back then I was always desperate to change myself. To make myself beautiful. To find my soulmate.’
‘Do you still want one?’ I ask, a cold shard of ice settling in my chest. ‘A soulmate? You don’t sometimes wish—’
Auntie Kath cuts me off. ‘No,’ she says, firmly. ‘Not now. Maybe later. For now, I’m happy just us.’
