“Why? If we really want to get out,
we can use the gate with our
Personal Entry Number.”
“Yes, I know.
But don’t your parents always say
‘don’t go out the gate?’”
“So. Is going over the fence any different?”
He has a point.
If we really want to go, we can.
We’d get into big trouble when we returned
because Mr Smith, the guard,
would tell somebody for sure.
“That’s it!”
“What’s it?”
“If we go through the gate, Tom,
we’ll be seen and we’ll get in trouble,
and won’t get a second chance.”
“So?”
“So a secret escape hatch
means we can come and go
and never get caught.
Imagine, we can visit friends,
we can go down the creek.
We can even let kids into Pacific Palms
if they’re stupid enough to want to visit.”
“No one is that stupid, Cleo.
But it is a good idea.”
“Come to my place
this afternoon and we’ll work on it.”
“Okay.”
Cleo’s house
It’s pretty funny
when you think about it.
Cleo’s house is exactly,
I mean exactly,
the same as mine,
only it doesn’t have
a bottle top collection
cluttering the spare bedrooms.
Cleo and I sit
in the backyard working on our plan.
Her Aunt and Uncle
bring us cakes and drinks
and say how wonderful it is
to see children doing their homework.
Cleo, the archeologist
“The wall is made of sandstone
and mortar, right? Both are soft,
well, soft for rocks.
Now I know about digging rocks,
from my crazy parents,
so we find a part of the wall
that’s hidden from view
and we chip away at the mortar
of a few stones.
And to be safe,
we get a steel rod
and we place it above
the stones we’ve moved
so it takes the weight.
I saw my Dad do it once
in a cave.
It’s easy.
Then we can slip the stones
back into place
and no one will be any wiser.
Except us.
Trouble is,
where do we find a wall
hidden from sight?”
“Easy, Cleo.
Our backyard fence is the wall.
And Mum planted
a row of camellias.
We can do it right in my backyard!”
“I’ll get the tools.
You make sure those camellias keep growing!”
Friends in prison
Cleo and I ride our bikes
around Pacific Palms.
We race each other
from the west wall
to the east.
Cleo leans forward
over her handlebars
like she’s trying
to beat her own bike.
Her ponytail
flaps behind her.
I try to keep up,
pushing harder than I’ve ever ridden.
At the end of the street
we both skid
and fishtail in the gravel.
Cleo drops her bike
runs to the wall
touches it first
turns and dances around
shouting:
“I win I win.”
I don’t mind.
I have a friend
here in prison
where there aren’t many friends.
Tom, the gardener
At first
Mum thinks I’m joking.
“Gardening?”
But I keep on about
fertilizer, and watering,
and plant food.
She agrees I can
look after the camellias
near the back wall.
So, here I am,
standing in our garden
watering the plants
feeling old before my time
calls from next door:
“Good job.
You can do my camellias next,
if you want, Tom?”
Dead Neighbour Wish #1!
Tom
I like Cleo.
She’s smart.
I hate the wall,
but not that much.
I’m just doing this
because it’s better than homework,
or helping Dad with his bottle tops!
And I’ve been thinking—
when, and if,
we build this escape hatch,
where’ll we go?
The creek for sure.
I can show Cleo
how to catch yabbies.
At our old place
I’d spend all weekend
with a line dangling in the creek
and an old saucepan on the boil,
full of yabbies.
Sometimes, even parents
came along to help.
Dad was
the best yabby-catcher in town.
Maybe Cleo
would like to visit Grandpa Jones
with me?
I bet he’d like our escape plan.
The escape hatch
Cleo’s timing is perfect.
Five minutes after
Arnold the Albino Accountant
and his secret belly dancer wife Barbara
go on their walk
Cleo arrives with the tools,
ready to work.
We creep down the backyard,
careful to hide from Mrs Johnson.
Cleo opens her jacket
and hands me some goggles.
“Is this a disguise?” I ask.
“No, silly. It’s so the concrete
won’t flick into your eyes.”
We take turns to
chip away at the mortar
between the stones.
Cleo, the BMX Wizard,
and her trusty sidekick Tom,
hammering at the prison walls.
The prison gates
I leave home
ten minutes earlier now
and I walk to the bus stop
with Cleo.
Sometimes she brings a
slice of cake her Aunt baked.
We share it
sitting against the wall
waiting for the bus.
The Guard
leans out of his window
and says:
“Don’t leave rubbish
at the bus stop, you kids.”
He goes back to his newspaper.
Cleo stands and salutes him.
We call him Warden Smith—
prison guard and rubbish-hater!
The bus turns into Cherrywood Avenue.
Cleo and I toss a coin—
heads I sit near the window,
tails, Cleo.
It comes down heads—
Cleo laughs and salutes me
as we board the bus
at the prison gates.
Chapter Four
THE FIRST DAY OF FREEDOM
Escape
For thirty minutes every afternoon
Cleo and I
have been chiselling
chipp
ing, and hammering
at our back wall, in the corner,
near the largest camellia bush.
Today is the fifth day
and we work even harder.
We’ve chipped away the mortar
and the sandstone blocks are moving.
Cleo holds the steel rod
level between the stones
as I gently hammer it into position.
It slides in easily,
taking the weight
of the stones above ... we hope!
Cleo and I move each stone.
We wriggle
through the gap and stand
in a field of long waving wild
green grass that smells of
spring and
freedom.
There are cows in the distance.
They wave their tails in the heat.
We wave back.
Cleo and I shake hands
and do a little victory dance
then quickly crawl through the gap,
and move the stones back into place
before Arnold and Barbara get home.
We plan our Saturday:
yabbies at the creek.
The first day of freedom.
Cleo—snake-charmer, escape-expert, and Queen of the Nile
I’m sitting in bed
reading a Cairo Jim book
when it dawns on me
why Cleo is called that.
Cleopatra!
Her parents are so obsessed with
Egypt, archaeology, and ancient ruins
they named their daughter
after the Queen of the Nile
who died of snakebite!
I laugh myself silly
thinking of my friend Cleo
with that rock python at school.
If only her parents knew!
The right side of the fence
It felt good
dancing around the field.
The wrong side of the fence.
The right side of the fence.
I like Tom.
Every other kid
in this prison
locks themselves away
with a Game Boy all afternoon.
Tom reckons
the creek is full of yabbies,
waiting to be caught.
This Saturday is
escape day.
Yabby day.
The phone call
“Hello,
Mercy Gardens Retirement Village.”
“Hi. Can I speak to Grandpa Jones—
I mean Bob Jones, please?”
“I’m sorry,
residents aren’t allowed phone calls.
Can I help?”
“I’d like to visit Mr Jones, please?”
“Visiting hours
are every afternoon
One to five. Anything else?”
“Yes. Tell Mr Jones that Tom Jones rang.
And I’ll visit him on Sunday.”
“Certainly, sir.”
Visiting hours?
Grandpa lives in a prison too.
Saturday—yabbies, bulls and being a carnivore
There is a bull standing
on the opposite bank of the creek
looking at me and Cleo.
He is munching grass
and watching us
toss our long pieces of string
into Murchison Creek,
each string tied on the end
with meat.
Every few minutes
we feel a tug on the string,
we slowly pull it in,
careful not to lose the yabby
hungry on the end
nibbling away
until
we see him in the shallows,
then we quickly jerk the line
and fling him onto the bank.
Cleo, who’s afraid of nothing
including snakes
and yabby claws
grabs the yabby
and throws him into
a pot of boiling water.
At first,
Cleo was a little squeamish
about killing a poor yabby
but I asked her
what her favourite dinner was
and she said:
“Hamburgers, of course!”
I pointed at the bull opposite
and said
“Say hello to next week’s dinner, Cleo.”
Lunch
For lunch
I drain the saucepan and
shell the yabbies
the way Dad taught me
when I was young.
I place the meat
on a bread roll
and hand it up to Cleo
who’s climbed the old fig tree.
She holds my roll
while I climb after her.
Cleo reaches into her jacket—
no, not for goggles,
but for pepper.
She sprinkles it
on our rolls
and we sit
in the crook of a branch
munching away
on the best lunch
I’ve ever eaten.
Snob!
Pacific Palms is a snob!
It turns its back
on Murchison Creek
and the fattest yabbies in the world.
It ignores
dairy farms
and fields
and secret forests
of scribbly bark gums
where koalas doze.
It builds a barrier
to hide
the Interstate railway
with freight trains
and booming whistles
that bounce off
the dumb walls
and wake Mr Smith
sleeping
in his glass office
where he protects
Pacific Palms
from the
booming
banging
breathing
real world
where
Cleo and I
want to live
outside the walls.
Chapter Five
THE GARDENS OF MERCY
Outside the gates, okay
Sunday morning.
Barbara is polishing
the kitchen taps,
humming a tune
and wiggling her hips.
She knows Dad is busy.
After breakfast, he said,
“I must retire now
to research the financial dealings
of my latest client.
I may be occupied
for the entire day.”
Dead Parent Wish # 7.
“Mum?”
Barbara stops wiggling.
“Oh, darling.
I didn’t know you were there.”
“Mum, can I go for a ride,
with Cleo?” I ask.
Mum wipes the hair
from her eyes, smiles, and says,
“Sure. Don’t go outside the gates, okay.”
Mercy Gardens
If you cut through
the dairy farm
and cross Murchison Creek
at the rail bridge,
Mercy Gardens
is only thirty minutes away.
It’s surrounded by
a tall wire fence
and big fir trees
with cockatoos
hiding in the branches
screeching
for food
and keeping
all the old people
awake.
Tom’s visit
“Grandpa!”
“Hello, Tiger.
Come and
sit here with me.
I like this bench under the trees.
A good hiding spot
for my drinks.”
“Grandpa, you promised.”
“Yes, yes, yes. I know.
I haven’t drunk today.
So how are you?
I didn’t think Arnie would let you come.”
“He doesn’t know I’m here, Grandpa.
I’ve got an escape hole in the wall.
They think I’m visiting my friend Cleo.”
“Good for you, Tiger.
I don’t suppose you could
build an escape tunnel
from this place could you?
It’s worse than a POW Camp,
only the nurses don’t have guns,
just pills to put us to sleep.
I tell them I’m too old to sleep,
enough time for that when I’m dead!”
“Don’t say that, Grandpa.”
“Why not? I’m old.
I don’t have long to go,
but I’m going to enjoy the time I’ve got.
Anyway, good on you for visiting me, Tiger.”
Tom and Grandpa Jones
I tell Grandpa about Cleo
and our escape hatch in the wall
behind Mum’s camellias.
Grandpa laughs at that.
I talk about school
and the books I read
about kids with dead parents.
He says I should let Arnie read those books.
We sit under the tree for hours
and Grandpa
talks about Grandma,
who died years ago.
He tells stories of when they were teenagers
and his first motorbike
and how he’d meet
Grandma down the street from her house
because her dad
wouldn’t let her ride on a bike
with a larrikin like Bob Jones.
“She had black wavy hair
and she always wore a long dress
and her hair was tied back in a red ribbon