by R. A. Spratt
April ran her finger down the wall. It was slightly tacky. The wall had been beige that morning, now it was pink. ‘You painted the whole room in one morning?’
‘Two coats,’ said Loretta. ‘Mr Richter the painter owed me a favour.’
April went to her dresser and opened a drawer. ‘You folded my underwear!’
‘I didn’t do that,’ said Loretta. ‘Jessica the interior decorator believes underwear should be rolled so that every pair can be seen individually when you open the drawer.’
April turned to Loretta. Normally she lashed out at people when she was angry. But this was such a total violation of her privacy and her personal space that she was beyond anger. Only a couple of months earlier, all of April’s possessions had been blown up by Professor Maynard to cover their trail and protect them from the Kolektiv. The contents of that room were her only possessions. And now they had been gone through and moved and laughed at. April tried to yell at Loretta, but all that came out was one heartbreaking sob.
‘Oh my gosh,’ said Loretta. Usually she knew how to handle any situation, but she did not know how she could charm her way out of this. April’s eyes were welling with tears. Loretta had to do something, ‘I can get Jessica to put it all back!’ She went to the bookcase and picked up some of April’s books. ‘Here, we can shove them in a box and hide them again. Not that you need to. There’s no shame in enjoying good old-fashioned romance.’
April felt a surge of rage. This galvanised her into action. She grabbed the books out of Loretta’s hand and threw them out the window. Well, she would have, if the window had been open. But the books hit the glass pane and bounced back onto the floor. The gesture had been pathetic. She felt pathetic. April needed another gesture. She grabbed the pillow and doona off her bed and stormed out.
‘Oh dear,’ said Loretta. Pumpkin barked happily and licked Loretta’s hand. ‘This being a sister business is more complicated than I imagined. I’ll have to rethink my strategy.’
Downstairs in the kitchen, Dad and Ingrid had heard every word of the argument. They hadn’t just heard it. They had seen it. The light fitting rattled and shook as April stomped off and slammed the door.
‘Oh dear,’ said Dad. ‘I worry about April. She’s so angry.’
‘She is fine,’ said Ingrid as she sipped her cup of tea. ‘It is good to let emotions out.’
‘But she never keeps them in,’ worried Dad.
‘It is healthier,’ said Ingrid. ‘It is the oldest boy I worry about.’
‘Who?’ asked Dad.
‘Joe, your son,’ said Ingrid. ‘He keeps his anger buried.’
‘Maybe he hasn’t got any,’ suggested Dad.
Ingrid shook her head. ‘He must. After all the boy has been through. Their mother disappearing, all her lies, and you abandoning them.’
‘I didn’t abandon them,’ protested Dad. ‘I was taken into hiding.’
Ingrid shrugged. ‘Children are simple. To them it is all abandonment.’ She kept sipping her tea. Dad didn’t sip anything. His hands were shaking too much to hold a hot beverage.
The doorbell rang. Dad practically fell off his chair. ‘Who could that be now?’ he asked. ‘I’m not used to having this many visitors.’
‘You had better answer it,’ said Ingrid.
‘Can’t we just be really quiet and hope they go away?’ whispered Dad.
‘No,’ said Ingrid.
‘I’ll answer it!’ April called. They heard her banging her way down the stairs.
‘Is it safe for her?’ asked Dad.
‘If not, the little dog, it will protect her,’ said Ingrid philosophically.
Meanwhile, in the hallway, April stomped over to the front door. ‘What do you want?’ she demanded as she threw open the door. She hadn’t really formed any expectation of who she was going to confront, although she had half been hoping it was someone from the Kolektiv. She had learned some new jiujitsu moves online and she wanted to test them out on someone to see if the chokes worked. But April had definitely not expected the sight, and certainly not the smell, in front of her. April opened the door to discover Mr Chelsea. His van was parked right behind him with the words ‘Chelsea Bakery, the best bakery in Currawong’ handpainted on the side. The smell of freshly baked cakes and treats wafted from this vehicle.
April was still very angry and upset about the confrontation with Loretta. She would have dearly loved to have been rude to this man, perhaps provoke him to a wrestling match, but even her dark heart was softened by that heavenly smell.
‘Is Joe home?’ asked Mr Chelsea.
‘Why?’ asked April suspiciously.
‘I, er … want to talk to him,’ said Mr Chelsea.
‘He’s still at school,’ said April.
‘He is?’ said Mr Chelsea.
‘It doesn’t finish until three,’ said April. ‘Surely you know that.’
‘I didn’t realise that Joe was still at school,’ said Mr Chelsea. ‘He’s such a large lad. And he eats so much. I just assumed he was an adult.’
‘Did I hear you say you’re looking for Joe?’ asked Loretta. She had followed April downstairs. Loretta had a keen interest in Joe, ever since he had taken her to the Cockroach Ball. Loretta enjoyed irritating people, and it had really irritated Daisy Odinsdottir that the best lawn bowler in Currawong had taken someone else.
‘Um … yes,’ admitted Mr Chelsea. ‘But since he’s not here, I’ll come back another time.’
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like to come in and wait?’ asked Loretta, putting on her most devastatingly sincere smile. ‘You could bring some of your cake in with you. We’d hate for it to go stale out there sitting in your van.’
They all glanced at the van. It smelled wonderful, but its beatific image was slightly tarnished by Pumpkin peeing on the rear tyre.
‘Oh no, I’d better go,’ said Mr Chelsea nervously.
Just then, Pumpkin started barking and running down the driveway. He disappeared round the bend and a moment later they heard a distinctive cry.
‘Ow!’
‘That’s Fin,’ said April, grinning. ‘The boys must be coming home.’
At that moment, Joe came round the bend in the driveway. Fin staggered a few paces behind, dragging along Pumpkin whose teeth had a firm grip on his sock.
‘Ah, Joseph,’ called Mr Chelsea with false joviality. ‘I was wondering if I could have a quiet word with you?’
‘Huh?’ said Joe.
‘His name isn’t Joseph,’ said April. ‘Joe is short for Peregrine.’
Mr Chelsea looked confused, but he hurried over towards Joe.
‘And there’s no point walking down there to talk,’ Loretta called after him. ‘I can read lips, so I’ll be listening in, even if I can’t hear.’
‘Oh, er, but it’s a private matter,’ said Mr Chelsea awkwardly. He stopped in the middle of the driveway and mopped his brow. He was sweating a lot considering it wasn’t a hot day and he was nowhere near an oven. He looked at Joe and raised his eyebrows hopefully.
Joe glanced about. He hated being the centre of attention.
‘This is a small town,’ said Fin, staggering past Joe with Pumpkin still dangling from his ankle. ‘I have been informed by multiple residents that there can be no expectation of privacy in a small town.’
‘Please,’ said Mr Chelsea, looking at Joe with pleading eyes. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’
Joe had seen eyes like that before, mainly when he looked in the mirror. They say that eyes are the window to the soul. That’s certainly the case when you have a stammer, because your words aren’t doing their job properly. They’re a blocked fire exit to the soul. For Joe, words recklessly endangered his emotions from escaping. He took pity on Mr Chelsea. ‘All r-r-right.’
‘Perhaps we could talk in the house?’ suggested Mr Chelsea.
‘Not really,’ said Joe, thinking of the time a few weeks ago when Professor Maynard had revealed that she was using their telephone as
a listening device. ‘We could go for a w-w-walk?’
Mr Chelsea shook his head. He would have preferred an option that didn’t involve exercise. ‘Here,’ said Mr Chelsea. ‘Why don’t we step into my van?’
This seemed like an odd suggestion. Traditionally children are taught not to get into cars with strangers. But Joe was a hungry boy and he was intrigued by the idea of seeing the inside of a baker’s truck. It smelled wonderful. And since Joe was a lot bigger and more athletic than Mr Chelsea, and there were lots of witnesses if Mr Chelsea did try to kidnap him, he decided it was worth the risk. ‘O-k-kay.’
Mr Chelsea threw open the back double door of the truck and stepped up into the vehicle. Joe followed. When Mr Chelsea closed the doors behind them it was very dark at first. Then he flicked on the interior light and, to Joe’s mind, it was the most wonderful, magical sight to behold. He actually gasped with delight. It was like being inside the witch’s gingerbread house in the story of Hansel and Gretel. Joe was surrounded on all sides by walls of delicious, edible baked goods. There were tarts, cakes, slices, pies, mousse, friands, macaroons and so much more, and it was all around him.
Now Joe was hungry pretty much all the time, but he was especially hungry after a long day of trying to get through school without speaking to anyone. Right at this moment, his brain stopped functioning rationally and all he could think was, ‘FOOD, MUST HAVE FOOD!’
‘Joseph,’ said Mr Chelsea, who had seated himself on an upturned milk crate. Joe was uncomfortable bent over with his head and shoulders pressed against the roof. ‘Take a seat.’
Joe’s brain did not want to multi-task. It wanted to eat. But he was still able to follow this simple verbal instruction. Joe sat.
‘I have a proposition to put to you,’ said Mr Chelsea. ‘I would like to give you all this food.’ He spread his arms wide to indicate he meant all the food in the truck.
Joe’s brain practically went into shock it was so excited to be hearing exactly what it wanted to hear.
‘All of it?’ gasped Joe.
‘Yes, all of it,’ said Mr Chelsea. ‘And more!’
‘More?!’ whispered Joe.
‘If you can just do one little thing for me,’ said Mr Chelsea.
Joe nodded. He didn’t want to open his mouth. It was watering so badly, he didn’t want the saliva to spill out and form a puddle around his feet.
‘I need you to win the mud run,’ said Mr Chelsea.
Joe’s brain stalled. It couldn’t process why a man with so much cake would be asking him to do this.
‘If you do,’ said Mr Chelsea, ‘I will give you a year’s supply of as much baked goods as you can eat.’ Mr Chelsea waved at the treats all round him. ‘You can have all this and more, much more, every day. You just need to win that race.’
Joe looked across at the cakes and treats. There was a beautiful cherry Danish sitting just centimetres from his face. He reached out to it, but Mr Chelsea slapped his hand away. ‘First you must win the race.’
Joe struggled to regain control of his hunger. This didn’t make sense. It was such a strange proposal. So much cake. Such an odd thing to ask. ‘W-w-why?’ Joe finally said.
Mr Chelsea bit his lip. His face flushed. ‘I need you to beat that woman.’
‘W-what?’ said Joe.
‘Maya Dharawal,’ whispered Mr Chelsea.
‘Why?’ asked Joe. ‘She s-s-seems like a nice l-lady. She does a lot for a-a-asthma.’
‘Because this race is breaking me,’ said Mr Chelsea. Now his eyes started to water. He dabbed at them with the corner of his apron.
Joe was horrified. The only thing worse than when girls started crying was when grown men started crying. He was beginning to regret getting into this otherwise heavenly van.
‘What d-d-do you mean?’ asked Joe.
‘If she wins,’ continued Mr Chelsea, ‘there will be international news coverage. They’ll be talking about it everywhere. And everyone will be asking me why I don’t match the women’s prize money to the men’s.’
‘So why d-don’t you?’ asked Joe.
‘I can’t afford to!’ wailed Mr Chelsea. ‘This is a small town. I may make delicious cake, but there is a limit to how much money I can make selling cake to 8000 people!’
‘Oh,’ said Joe, beginning to wrap his mind around the nature of Mr Chelsea’s problem.
‘I can’t really afford the prize money for the men’s winner either,’ said Mr Chelsea. ‘It was that Brad Peddler. He changed everything when he took over as race organiser two years ago. He wanted everything to be bigger and better.
Joe frowned. Surely better was better.
‘You see,’ continued Mr Chelsea, ‘I knew him when he was a boy. He used to deliver bread for me. His mum made him get the job. He was chubby, you know. She thought if he cycled fifty kilometres a day, he might lose weight.’
‘Did he?’ asked Joe.
‘Of course not,’ said Mr Chelsea. ‘He was cycling fifty kilometres a day, but he had panier bags full of cake. My customers never got their full orders and he never lost a kilo. But I was fond of the lad. When he came back to town a couple of years ago he took me out to lunch, buttered me up then put the contract in front of me to sign. I didn’t have my reading glasses on me at the time. And these days he has such a forceful personality.’
Joe nodded. He was always agreeing to do things that he didn’t want to do just so that people would stop talking to him.
‘I couldn’t see the page clearly,’ said Mr Chelsea. ‘The decimal point was one spot to the right of what I was expecting.’
‘Huh?’ said Joe. He wasn’t good at maths generally, and he never put much thought into decimals.
‘I thought the prize money for the winner was going to be $1000,’ said Mr Chelsea. ‘When I woke up the next morning, I saw in the local paper that I’d agreed to sponsor the race for ten years, with the winner getting $10,000! That’s $10,000 I’ve got to come up with every year. Do you know how much cake I’ve got to bake and sell to make that kind of money?’
‘A l-lot?’ guessed Joe.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Mr Chelsea. ‘Then he added on the grant money for the winning school student. That’s another $2000. Now if I have to match the women’s prize money, I’ll have to come up with even more.’
‘Oh,’ said Joe. The size of the baker’s problem was beginning to dawn on him.
‘Which is why I need a local man to win,’ said Mr Chelsea. ‘And everyone is saying that man is you.’
‘But I’m n-n-not a man,’ stammered Joe.
‘You’re close enough,’ said Mr Chelsea. ‘You’ll have to do.’
‘But I’m just good at l-lawn b-b-bowls,’ said Joe. ‘I’ve never done m-mud running.’
‘Then practise!’ urged Mr Chelsea. ‘You’ve got four weeks until the race. That’s lots of time. I can arrange to have mud delivered to your home, so you can train right here!’
‘D-D-Dad wouldn’t like that,’ said Joe. His father had very low standards generally. But he was rightly proud of his beautiful garden.
But Mr Chelsea was not a successful businessman for nothing, he leaned in and whispered his last bargaining point. ‘I’ll give you all the baked goods you need for carb-loading. If you agree to this, you can walk out of this van with all the cake you can carry.’
Joe could not hold out any longer. His stomach outvoted his brain. ‘Deal!’ he cried.
They shook hands and Joe had that cherry Danish in his mouth in less than three nanoseconds.
The next morning Loretta, Joe and Fin were in the kitchen having breakfast and getting their lunches ready for school. Loretta came and sat next to Fin.
‘Fin,’ she said. ‘I need your help.’
Fin nearly choked on his muesli. He had been desperately wanting to hear these words since the first moment he had set eyes on Loretta and been totally overwhelmed by her beauty and charm. He desperately wanted to rescue her from something. It would be good if that somet
hing could be epic, like a dragon or a speeding train, but he’d be happy to catch a spider for her too. Unfortunately, he couldn’t express any of these feelings because he had inhaled his mouthful of muesli and was now having a terrible coughing fit.
Loretta beat him hard on the back to try to help. Fin grabbed his glass of milk and took a few sips. That didn’t work. The milk just came back up and out his nose when Loretta gave him the next whack. Loretta wasn’t at all perturbed by all this, she just kept talking. ‘I need your help because April hates me,’ said Loretta.
Fin squinted at Loretta through his watering eyes. He was fighting the cough reflex so he could speak. He just managed to choke out the words, ‘But she hates everybody.’
‘I know,’ said Loretta. ‘But no one hates me. I’m just so lovable.’
Fin started coughing again. This had to be the worst conversation he had ever participated in. It was probably for the best. If he could speak, he might accidentally say something stupid like ‘You’re beautiful!’ or ‘I love you!’.
‘But April is very cross with me,’ said Loretta. ‘I’m not used to it. She was really, really angry. And even when I smiled and said ‘sorry’ and smiled again she didn’t calm down. She was really, really angry.’
‘What did you d-d-do?’ asked Joe.
‘I just moved one or two of the things in her room,’ said Loretta.
‘Ah,’ said Joe. ‘She w-w-wouldn’t like that.’
‘What can I do?’ asked Loretta.
‘Nothing,’ coughed Fin.
‘Surely not nothing,’ said Loretta. ‘There must be some way I can win her over.’ She turned to Joe but he just shook his head.
‘You’re part of the f-f-family now,’ said Joe. ‘This is how she treats family. It’s a g-good sign.’
Loretta considered this. ‘So by screaming at me and being horribly angry, that’s her way of accepting me into your family unit?’
Joe nodded.
‘That’s April,’ wheezed Fin, finally able to speak.
Loretta beamed. ‘That’s wonderful! I’ve always wanted to be part of a big family. Especially a dysfunctional one.’
