Such a simple plan.
The tennis ball
is soaked with dam water
and Skip’s spit,
but no matter how many times my brother
throws the ball
Skip chases it
and brings it back
to drop at our feet.
MR KORSKY
I drove my ute
up to Walter Baxter’s place
on Monday afternoon
and I sat on the front verandah
looking out over the town
just like Walter and I used to do
when he was alive.
I poured a beer in two glasses
and drank from them both
until the sun drifted
behind the hills.
The window frames rattled in the wind
and I told Walter
all the news I could think of:
the footy team’s win on Saturday,
the joy of the Parker’s wedding,
how the council
opens the library on Thursday nights now,
and
I told Walter
how much I miss him.
Then I went to the ute
and lifted the lawn-mower out
filled it with two-stroke
and set to work on his yard.
The evening faded
and afterwards
I had another beer
with Walter
and admired the view.
CAMERON
I’ve been sitting
waiting
beside the river
for exactly twelve minutes
and thirty-two seconds
when I see her
riding across the bridge.
I pretend not to notice
and start whistling casually
except
I’m not a very good whistler
so I accidentally dribble
and blow a huge raspberry
which I quickly wipe on my sleeve.
I try humming instead
huuummmm hhuummm hhhuuummm.
‘Hello, me,’ she says.
‘Oh, hi,’ I answer.
‘I knew it was you, me, who phoned,’ she says.
I smile.
‘Should I keep calling you me?’ she asks.
‘Cameron is fine,’ I say.
‘Hi, Cameron is fine,’ she says, and giggles.
After a few minutes
of no one speaking
she asks,
‘Can you whistle?’
RACHEL
Sometimes I wake
in the middle of the night.
A tree branch scratches at my window.
Dad snores like a broken kettle.
I know Mum is sleeping beside him
earplugs in place.
Our dog Maisy snuffles beside my bed.
She can’t sleep either.
A breeze clinks the wind chimes
on the verandah
and then I hear it,
what I’ve been hoping for . . .
a barn owl hoots . . .
I scramble out of bed
and creep to the window.
Maisy whines.
Shhhh!
Maisy follows my eyes
and we both sit
wide awake
waiting
for the applause of wings
as the white-faced owl
circles high over our yard
like a delicate kite
before swooping into the paddock
and snatching up a fieldmouse
from the wire grass.
Maisy goes back to her blanket
and I climb into bed.
My clock glows midnight.
I close my eyes
and fly over the paddocks
with the owl
in the perfect moonlight
of my dreams.
LAURA
I’m not sure when
to give Mick the crackles.
Should I leave them on his desk
with a note from anonymous?
Or sneak them into his backpack
hanging on the verandah?
Maybe I’ll just hand him the package
and walk away before he has a chance to say no.
The bell rings for class,
the crackles stay hidden in my bag.
At morning recess, I can’t find Mick,
maybe he’s hiding from me?
All morning in class I think of the crackles
and hope they’re not melting.
At lunch I sit on my bench seat
the package of crackles on my lap
watching Mick and his friends
lazing against the back fence, laughing
and I know there’s only ten minutes
until the afternoon bell
and I can’t bear it any longer
so I take a deep breath,
and walk, knees knocking, hands shaking,
towards Mick and his gang.
Rachel sees me first and says, ‘Hi’
and Mick looks up
and I get scared
so I casually toss the parcel
and luckily he’s a good catch
and he laughs and says, ‘Whoa!’
which is not a word,
not really, it’s just a sound,
and I don’t know what to say
so I turn and start to walk
back to my bench
where I belong
and Mick says, ‘Laura’
he calls my name
so I turn back to him
and he unwraps the parcel
and everyone looks inside and laughs.
Cameron says, ‘Not more biscuits!’
and Mick blushes,
I’m sure he blushes, and says,
‘Sit down and help us eat them.’
He looks up at me and adds, ‘Please?’
And then he makes a space
between him and Selina
and offers me the first crackle
and it tastes
as fresh and crisp and sweet
as friendship.
RACHEL
Ms Arthur said
at her last school
in the city
they didn’t have
snakes in the playground
or children jumping off sheds
trying to fly.
She said
they didn’t have summer storms
that threatened to wash away the town
or students who yelled and saluted
in answer to roll call
and they didn’t have
butterfly swarms
or days so windy and hot
it was like teaching in an oven
and she didn’t remember her city school
having a ghost house nearby
and the children swam in a heated pool
not in the river
and her last school didn’t have
an old-fashioned bell
and the children at that school
didn’t know everyone
who lived within ten kilometres
and then she stopped talking
and smiled . . .
at the end of the day
Ms Arthur told us
she was going to apply
to stay at our school
for another year
at least!
MICK
Why is it always Charlie Deakin
who’s asked to lead me
to the Principal’s office?
What have I done this time!
Charlie is smirking, again,
does he have any other look?
Why do I need him to show me
where Mr Hume’s office is?
Charlie knocks on the door
and says, ‘Mick Dowling’s here, sir.’
As he walks away, he mutters, ‘Again’
and I so much want to chase him,
but Mr Hume calls me inside
and tells me to sit down.
He stands at the window
gazing outside
and I’m tempted to just admit everything.
Yes, sir, I did it,
whatever it was. Guilty!
A week’s detention?
Thanks, sir.
Like removing a bandaid from a scab,
just rip it off,
get it over and done with.
A second of pain
and then a numb feeling
for the rest of the day.
‘Mick,’ Mr Hume says.
I sit up a little straighter.
‘Mick Dowling,’ he repeats.
I know my own name.
‘I believe you’re responsible . . .’
here we go
‘. . . for the biscuits
that were brought to school recently.’
Is he mad at me for not offering him one?
‘Is that true, Mick?’
Well, strictly speaking, it was me
and Rachel, Cameron, Pete, Selina, Alex,
the whole gang
but I don’t want them to get in trouble
so I say,
‘Yes, sir, it was me.’
Mr Hume sits down
heavily at his desk
and clasps his hands in front of him.
‘And I believe the biscuits
were given to the Kindy children,
and Year Five,
the teachers,
and Year Four,
in fact,
most of the school!’
I knew it! I knew it!
We should have given him one.
Diet or no diet.
Mr Hume sighs
and stands once again,
before walking to the window.
What is out there?
He says,
‘A few people have mentioned
how pleased they were,
to see such sharing
in the schoolyard.
Such . . .’
Here we go, another lecture.
‘. . . a sense of community.’
I groan, ‘Sorry, sir.’
‘I’m very proud of your actions, Mick!’
Did he say proud
not ashamed
not annoyed
not disappointed?
Mr Hume walks back to his desk
and offers his hand
for me to shake
and I stand quickly
and grip his hand firmly
like my dad taught me
and I say, ‘Thanks, sir.’
‘A very generous gesture, young man,’ he says.
As I open the door to leave,
he says, once again, ‘Well done, Mick’
and I turn and say,
‘Next time, sir, I’ll bring you a bundle as well.’
He grins,
‘The diet, Mick . . .
Just the one, hey?’
PETE
Last night at dinner
Mum and Nan cooked a roast
with thin-sliced potatoes baked in the oven,
just the way I like them,
and pumpkin and broccoli from our garden
and Dad made his favourite pepper sauce
for pouring gloopily over the roast
and me and Dad
moved the kitchen table and chairs
out to the verandah
for the breeze
and Dad let me pour
him and Nan
a glass of beer each
but Mum touched her tummy
and said no
when I offered her a glass.
Maybe she’s sick?
And I filled Ursula and my glasses
with sweet raspberry cordial.
We all sat outside
eating and drinking
and halfway through the meal
Dad clinked his glass with a spoon
and stood up,
‘Nan, Pete, Ursula . . .
guess who’s pregnant?’
Ursula giggled, ‘You, Dad!’
and everyone laughed
but we all looked at Mum,
her face had gone as red
as the cordial in my glass
and, just for a second,
I saw Nan glance
across the paddock
to the cemetery
where Grandpa is buried
and then she reached over
and hugged Mum tightly.
Mum had gone from blushing
to crying
and she hugged Nan back
and said,
‘If it’s a boy,
I know what we’ll name him.’
And Nan smiled.
LAURA
After school
with the last chocolate crackle.
He winks as he takes my gift, and says,
‘Wait just a minute, young lady.’
He shuffles over to the back of his shed
and comes back with a small tin.
It’s shiny and new and doesn’t have a label.
Mr Korsky reaches for his screwdriver
and lifts the lid.
He offers it to me,
‘Hold it up to your nose.’
Inside is a golden liquid,
like honey, only darker and thicker,
sweet and treacly and . . .
a smell so familiar.
Mr Korsky laughs,
‘Someone . . . a kind young student
left me a batch of recipes.’
He nods at the tin I hold,
‘Lavender molasses.
Perfect for scones or toast,
almost as tasty as this chocolate crackle!’
He places a cushion on a drum
and offers me a seat.
He says, quietly,
‘If you know who left the recipes,
thank them for me, will you?’
CAMERON
On Saturday morning,
I nervously enter the newsagency,
expecting Mrs Davenport to yell
and point me to the door
as soon as I walk in
but
she just folds her arms across her chest
like Dad does when he’s angry
and I swallow hard
walking quickly to the counter
and I place the cake tin in front of her
and she says,
‘What’s this?’
I’m too nervous to answer
so
she unfolds her arms
and opens the tin.
The smell of biscuits,
fresh-baked this morning,
fills the shop
and she leans down
over the tin
closes her eyes
and takes a deep breath.
I glance quickly towards the comics
and she catches me looking
only this time
she smiles
and says,
‘Ten minutes’,
reaching for a biscuit,
‘and not a second more, you hear.’
MICK
On the other side of the school back fence
there is a paddock full of lush wild grass
and there are nanny goats and their kids
who wander around and bleat
and sleep sometimes in the thick grass
with just their ears poking up.
In the gully is the river
surrounded by willow trees
with their branches weeping low,
brushing along the surface.
And sometimes when the sun is high
and you look really close you can see
little silver fish darting around.
On the eastern bank of the river
someone has tied a rope to one of the trees
and if you’re tall enough
you can grab the rope and swing yourself
far out above the water
and if you wanted
on a hot sunny day
if you’re wearing swimmers,
and it’s lunchtime
and no one saw you jump the back fence,
you could drop into the water and swim,
laughing all the way to the sandy shore
watched only by the goats
and the glorious sunshine.
When you were dry and dressed,
back in your school uniform
and sneaking across the paddock
hiding in the long grass,
before climbing the fence back to school
you’d notice
someone has written the word
paradise
on the river side of the fence
where no one can see it but you.
In the last few seconds before you return to school.
CAMERON'S DELICIOUS ANZAC BISCUITS
1 cup plain flour, sifted
1 cup rolled oats
1 cup shredded coconut
¾ cup brown sugar
125 grams butter, chopped
2 tablespoons golden syrup
½ teaspoon bicarbonate of soda
1 tablespoon water