After (6 page)

I shrugged.

‘Just don’t ask about me playing again.’

‘Deal,’ said Grandpa.

‘Grandpa, can I ask you something?’

‘Sure.’ His eyes were fixed on the wet road.

‘Today when I took off, you know...’

‘Hmm.’

‘I ended up at the newspaper office, and I saw this old front page. The headline was something about a dead baby and a boy in a coma.’

Grandpa pulled the car to one side to avoid a pothole.

‘It was up too high on the window for me to read the story,’ I said.

His right thumb tapped the steering wheel so fast, it could have been twitching.

‘I think I saw a name, but I’m not sure.’

‘What are you asking?’ said Grandpa, his voice clipped.

‘The boy in the coma. Was it the kid from school, Luke Bennett?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, he wasn’t always like he is now.’

‘No.’

Questions filled my mind but Grandpa spoke before I could turn one into words.

‘Callum, about Luke, don’t go talking about it—to him. To anyone.’

‘How come?’

Grandpa turned to face me. ‘Just don’t.’

We drove the rest of the way in silence.

Sweat dripped down my spine, pooling between my jocks’ elastic and my skin. My arms ached and my palms burnt. My head buzzed from the effort of pushing the wheelbarrow through holes and rocks on the path. After breakfast, when I’d asked Nan if I could help, I’d meant could I peel a potato, not could I cart wood from behind the garage to the back veranda.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. She announced, right as I was about to leave, that this time last year Grandpa had found a tiger snake hidden between the logs.

‘The cold slows them down,’ she added, as I walked out the door.

As if that made me feel better! Every time a piece of bark slipped under my fingers, I expected fangs to pierce my skin. If she’d kept her mouth shut, I would have finished the job a whole lot quicker.

After unloading the last log, I swept the slivers of wood, bark and sawdust from the concrete veranda and tossed them on the rose garden mulch. I was picking a splinter from my palm when Grandpa came around the corner.

‘You’ve been busy.’

I shrugged. ‘I guess. How was the Veef committee meeting?’

‘VFF—Victorian Farmers Federation. Not bad. Finalised a few—’

Nan opened the flywire door. ‘Good, you’re both here. You two need to smarten yourselves up. Deborah, Paul and the children are joining us for lunch.’

‘All of them?’ asked Grandpa, taking off his cap and slapping it against his thigh. Dust puffed into the air.

‘All except for Beth. She’s at a birthday party.’ Nan clapped her hands. ‘Well, chop chop. They’ll be here in ten minutes.’

After changing into jeans and a T-shirt I went through my windcheaters to work out which cause to promote.

Mum just washed, folded and ironed my stuff, then left it on the bed for me to put away. Here it was different. My grandmother collected the washing from my room, washed, folded, ironed it and put it away. She also rearranged stuff, and not just my clothes, but my books, deodorant, magazines and iPod. I knew she wasn’t just tidying—she was being nosy. But she needn’t have bothered. My secrets were packed away deep inside me.

Car tyres crunched on the gravel drive. I guess I was about to find out who Paul and Deborah and the children were. I pulled on the green ‘Global Warming’ jumper. Voices drifted down the hall. So, too, did the smell of roasting meat and vegies.

‘Callum,’ called Nan. ‘Come welcome our guests.’

Welcome guests? How English TV. I ran my fingers through my hair and strolled down the corridor to the front door.

Nan stood inside the front door with a woman, little girl and a blonde teenager. I froze. I wanted to bolt. Hide in my room. Pretend I was sick.

‘There you are, Callum,’ said Nan. ‘This is Jack’s mum, Mrs Frewen.’

Frewen’s mum wore dark jeans, pull-on boots, a red-and-white striped shirt and a puffy vest. Her straight blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail. The pearl earrings she wore were huge.

‘Hi,’ I muttered.

‘Call me Deborah, Callum. And this is Emma.’ She stroked the curly hair of the girl clinging to her leg. ‘You know Jack.’

Frewen’s smile was cold. ‘Hello, Callum.’

‘Come through.’ Nan guided Deborah, Emma and Jack into the lounge room to the good furniture.

Before I could move, Grandpa and Mr Frewen were wiping their feet on the front door mat.

‘Callum, meet Paul Frewen,’ said Grandpa.

I caught the expression on Grandpa’s face and stepped forward, hand outstretched. ‘Hi. Mr Frewen.’

Frewen’s father was lean with thin lips, like his son. His handshake was firm. A bit too firm. ‘You’re in Jack’s class?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Don’t let him give you any trouble.’

‘Trouble? Jack? Hardly,’ said Grandpa. ‘Come and sit down, Paul.’ Grandpa led the way into the lounge room.

Mr Frewen sat on a lounge chair opposite Deborah, Emma and Jack. Jack was stretched out, legs under the coffee table, like he was at home. I stood beside the cracking fire in the open fireplace. From there I could see Nan fussing in the kitchen.

‘I’ll get drinks.’ Grandpa left the room, leaving me alone with the Frewens.

‘Have you signed up for Winter Creek, Callum?’ asked Deborah, hands folded in her lap.

The fire popped and an ember hit the fire screen.

‘You’d be great in the ruck, Callum. We need the height,’ said Paul.

Grandpa returned to the lounge carrying a tray. On it were two glasses of white wine, two of red and three of lemonade. He offered the tray to Deborah first, who took a white wine.

‘Callum plays soccer, Paul,’ said Grandpa.

‘Oh.’ Mr Frewen pulled a face.

‘We play real footy, don’t we Mr A,’ said Jack.

‘Not much interest in soccer around here.’ Grandpa looked up at me. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Callum, it’s a skilful game. I just prefer AFL.’

Jack looked about ready to explode with delight.

Nan placed a plate of dry biscuits, olives and dips on the coffee table. ‘Soccer is a ridiculous sport. If they scored more goals there would be less crowd violence, I’m sure.’

Like she’d know anything about it. I imagined chucking the glass of lemonade Grandpa had just handed me at Nan’s head.

Jack reached for the plate and offered it to Grandpa and Mr Frewen. ‘Good result yesterday, Mr A,’ he said.

‘Fantastic. First time in years all our footy teams and netball teams have beaten Millington on the same day,’ said Grandpa, taking two olives. ‘You played a tremendous game, Jack. Best on ground, easy.’

Jack sat the plate down and dunked two biscuits into the dip. ‘Thanks, but Klay played better.’

‘Nonsense—you were outstanding. Keep that form up and you’ll be best and fairest again,’ said Mr Frewen.

Jack beamed.

I gritted my teeth as the Jack love-in rolled into town. When they started going over the rest of the team’s performance, I tuned out, staring through the open double doors to the dining room. The table was set with cloth napkins, silver cutlery and crystal glasses, making the room sparkle like a mirror ball. Dazzled, I stood silent and still like one of the china figures on the mantelpiece behind me. Nan’s voice snapped me out of my daze.

‘Time to move to the dining room.’ She directed us where to sit, placing me beside Jack.

Grandpa, Mr Frewen and Jack continued talking about footy as though nothing had changed. Not that I was complaining—it meant no one was focusing on me. That changed after Nan cleared the leftover roast lamb, potato, pumpkin and bean lunch and served her ‘famous’—according to Mr Frewen—apple crumble.

‘How are you enjoying Marrook, Callum?’ asked Deborah, looking over her wine glass.

‘Okay, I guess.’

‘I love visiting the city, but I couldn’t live there. It’s only good for shopping.’ She was slurring her words a little. ‘Where do you live?’

‘Inner city.’

‘Hmmm. I suppose that explains the windcheater.’

Jack sniggered. ‘You should see his ‘Free Tibet’ jumper.’

The room shrank around me. Deborah stared across the table. It felt like she could see through my skin to my bones. ‘Have you and Maeve always lived there?’

Mr Frewen cleared his throat.

‘Yeah.’

Deborah lifted her wine glass again. ‘How is Maeve? I haven’t seen her since—’

Nan leapt to her feet. She held the serving spoon like it was a weapon. ‘Anyone like more apple crumble? Or ice-cream?’

‘As delicious as it was, Pat, I couldn’t,’ said Mr Frewen.

Nan didn’t wait for anyone else to comment. ‘Why don’t you children go outside? The fresh air will do you good.’

‘Can we go to the tree house?’ asked Emma.

What tree house?

‘I’ll take you,’ said Jack.

‘You go too, Callum,’ said Nan.

I sighed and dumped my napkin on my unfinished dessert.

Jack strode through the kitchen and into the backyard. Emma skipped alongside, talking about her cat or something. I trailed behind, watching the gravel.

Deborah hadn’t seen Mum since what? And how come the Frewens knew about a tree house and I didn’t? For that matter, how come Jack strutted around the place like he owned it?

Ahead, the Kelpies barked and ran as far as their chains would allow. A crow cawed. The ewes behind the tractor shed bleated.

‘Hey. There’s sheep in the lambing paddock,’ said Jack.

‘Yeah.’

Jack stopped, hands on his hips. ‘Since when?’

‘Since Grandpa and I moved them.’

Jack spun around. ‘But I do that for him. On the quaddie.’

‘Not this time.’ I walked past, glad to have slipped one into him.

Jack’s footsteps crunched on the gravel behind me. In no time he was beside me.

‘Do you always wear those?’ asked Jack, nodding at my windcheater.

‘What?’

He screwed up his nose. ‘That greenie stuff. Don’t you have other clothes? Surf stuff?’

‘An inland surfie? We’re a bit far from the beach, aren’t we?’

Jack folded his arms over his ‘SurfzUp’ windcheater. Ahead of us, Emma took a wide berth around the barking dogs. Star strained on his lead to reach Jack, tail wagging. Jack whistled and patted his chest. Star jumped up and rested his front paws on Jack’s chest. ‘Star’s my dog.’ Jack reminded me of a crowing rooster.

‘He is not yours, he’s Mr A’s dog,’ said Emma. ‘Star just likes you.’

Determined not to let him beat me, I strode towards Jilly.

‘She bites,’ said Emma. ‘She bit Jack’s leg.’

I swallowed and squatted down. Jilly trotted forward, tail wagging. She nuzzled under my armpit. I tried not to gag at the rotten smell coming off her. ‘Good girl.’

I glanced at Jack. His face was hard.

‘Poo,’ said Emma. ‘Jilly’s been rolling in something dead.’ She held her nose and stalked off.

I kept patting Jilly, determined to ignore the smell. The shimmer of anger surrounding Jack, made it worth the effort. Two cypress trees on, Emma stopped. Why hadn’t I noticed the wooden planks nailed there? They were on the road side of the tree. Jack helped Emma climb the steps to where the tree trunk separated into thick branches. The breeze through the cypress leaves made a sighing, whispering sound and a shiver slipped down my back.

Jack galloped up the steps. ‘Coming?’

I followed, taking my time.

‘Guess there aren’t many trees to climb in the city,’ said Jack.

I ignored him and pulled myself into the centre of the branches. There was a small cupboard nailed to one branch and a seat made from planks of wood. Dead cypress leaves and nuts carpeted everything. I wondered if it was Mum’s cupboard. Her seat. Her tree house. The cypress smell was sharper and thicker up here than it had been on the ground. I sneezed.

‘You ’lergic?’ asked Emma, opening the cupboard and pulling out a china teapot.

‘No.’

Above Emma’s head, engraved in the branch, was the word Maeve and a lopsided daisy.

‘This was your mother’s,’ said Jack, watching me.

‘I know.’

‘Not any more,’ said Emma. ‘This is my tree house now.’

Jack snorted. ‘Exactly. Don’t you get too comfortable here, Greenie.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘You don’t belong here. At Marrook. We do.’

I leant against the branch, feet crossed at the ankles. ‘What are you? Jack Frewen—King of Winter Creek and Marrook?’

Emma giggled. Even in the shade of the cypress tree I could see Jack go red. ‘Winning over a dog and moving sheep doesn’t mean anything,’ sneered Jack. ‘They want me here. They like having me around.’

‘The sheep or the dogs?’ I pushed off the branch and jumped from the tree house to the ground. As much as I wanted to thump him, I wasn’t going to in front of his sister.

‘Chicken shit.’ Jack spat but he missed me.

I strolled towards the house, whistling, knowing my cool would drive Jack nuts, just like it used to drive Nic and Michael nuts. Before.

But it was an act. How come Jack Frewen knew so much about Grandpa and Marrook? And about Mum? By the time I reached the back door, I decided I didn’t care what he knew or why he knew it, because he didn’t matter. Neither did this place.

Voices echoed through the kitchen from the dining room. ‘You two are amazing to take him in, after everything with Maeve,’ said Deborah.

‘He certainly is Maeve’s son,’ said Nan. ‘He’s rude, arrogant, selfish—’

‘He’s our grandson, Pat,’ said Grandpa.

Nan scoffed. ‘You were too soft then and you’re too soft now.’

‘What time do we have to pick up Beth, Deborah?’ asked Paul.

I sneaked to my bedroom and sat on the floor, back against the bed, staring at the closed door. My grandmother hated Mum and me, Mum hated me and I hated them. Great little family cycle we had going.

I knew why Mum hated me—but what had she done to make her mum hate her? It couldn’t be as bad as what I had done. Somewhere in the back of my brain, I heard Nan calling me to say goodbye to the Frewens. No way did I want to see the Frewens or Nan. The phone rang at the other end of the house. Footsteps thundered down the hall.

Nan flung open the door. ‘Why didn’t you come and say goodbye to the Frewens?’

‘I was on the toilet,’ I said, not looking at her face.

‘I see,’ she said, making it clear she didn’t believe me. ‘Your mother’s on the phone.’

Great! I climbed to my feet.

‘Hurry.’

What was it to her? It wasn’t like she was paying for the call. Mum was. I pulled a face at the back of Nan’s grey head and slipped past her to the kitchen. She’d left the cordless phone lying on the bench. Why hadn’t she just brought it with her?

‘Hello?’

‘CJ. Where have I dragged you from?’

‘The bedroom.’

‘What were you doing?’

‘Mucking around.’

‘How are things, you know, with ... them?’

‘Who? Your parents?’

‘Who else?’

She sounded tense.

‘Well, you could have meant Floss or Zebedee.’

‘They can’t still be alive.’ The clock ticked three times before she spoke again. ‘Floss was 14 when I ... How do you know about them?’

‘I saw your mural.’

She cleared her throat. ‘I thought it would have worn off by now.’

‘Apparently not. It gives the chooks something to look at, I guess.’