After (13 page)

‘It’s awesome, here. Why’d you move?’ I asked, looking around.

Grandpa kicked at the pile of rubble. ‘Fire burnt the lot.’

‘Bushfire?’

‘Yeah. Change of wind and it ripped up that hill. Dad and I were fighting at The Ridge.’

‘So, what, burnt the house and woolshed?’ ‘Stock, fences, machinery—everything.’ He sounded sad.

‘Lucky no one was home,’ I said, not knowing what else to say.

Grandpa turned to face me, his eyes filled with sorrow.

‘Mum was home.’

‘You mean she...’

He nodded.

‘After that Pat and I rebuilt on the other side of the farm. Dad lived with us—he died before Maeve was born.’

The air seemed colder. I stared across the green hills, at the sheep and cattle grazing below us and at the trees shimmering in the breeze. I folded my arms and tucked my hands under my armpits.

‘So Callum, no matter what Paul thinks, and even if Maeve never speaks to me again, I won’t leave this place to Paul. Marrook belongs to Alexanders. It’s Maeve’s and yours. What you two do with it is up to you.’

I tried to think of something to say. But nothing would come.

‘Listen,’ said Grandpa after the longest time. ‘Let’s keep Paul’s plans between us for now, okay?’

‘If you want.’

‘Good man.’

‘Grandpa, is it okay if I come back up here sometime?’

He patted my shoulder. ‘Sure.’

We were eating toasted cheese and tomato sandwiches in the family room when the phone rang. As soon as I answered it, I wished I’d left it for someone else to answer.

‘CJ, I’ve been trying to ring all day. Did you get my messages?’

‘Yeah.’ Mum had left eight messages on the answering machine while we were at the Frewens.

‘Why didn’t you ring me back?’ she asked.

‘We were out for lunch, then Grandpa and I checked the ewes.’

‘Lambing time?’

‘Yeah.’

Mum cleared her throat. ‘Well, I just wanted to check you were okay, about Woosher. Brett. Your dad.’

‘Yeah. I’m great. Terrific.’ I leant against the kitchen bench. ‘It was a blast finding out about him from a psycho in my class.’

‘You don’t need to be sarcastic.’

‘Well, what do you want me to say?’

‘I want you to ... ask questions. Tell me how you feel.’

‘How I feel? Annoyed. Angry. Seriously frustrated. Want me to keep going?’

‘No.’ Mum sipped something—probably chamomile tea. ‘Callum, I was just a kid, only a bit older than you.’

I scoffed. ‘You think I care that you got pregnant?’

‘Well—’

‘I care that you lied to me, then let me come here, where everybody knows everything about everyone. As if I wasn’t going to find out.’

‘I should have ... I wanted to tell you, but you were so...’

‘Don’t blame me,’ I snarled.

Grandpa walked through the kitchen, patting my shoulder as he passed. ‘Go easy, Callum.’

I sighed. ‘All right. I’m listening.’

Mum told me about leaving Marrook, setting up house in a flat above a milk bar with Woosher and how Woosher stopped coming home at night.

‘He was asked to leave Essendon after six months and went back to Winter Creek. He left me alone in the flat, just weeks before you were born.’

‘So is the fact he dumped the footy club as well as me supposed to make me feel better?’

‘No,’ whispered Mum. ‘Nothing about any of it was okay.’

The tightness in my chest grew. ‘So why didn’t you just come home?’

‘CJ, you’ve met Mum. She made it clear I wasn’t to come back. I did call, a couple of times, but she hung up on me.’

I glanced at Nan, sewing in front of the fire. ‘So you cut him off like they did to you?’

‘CJ ... I didn’t cut him off. I tried over and over, but he didn’t want to meet you. He refused.’

That little gem rattled in my stomach.

‘But I loved you so much—you were such a beautiful baby.’

I tuned out. All of this—about me being a beautiful baby, that she loved me—she’d told me before. Over and over. I stared out the window, the word ‘dumped’ darting between Mum’s words.

‘CJ, you listening?’

‘Yeah,’ I said.

‘I wish I’d told you the truth earlier. I feel so much better for talking to you.’

‘Great.’

‘I love you, CJ.’

‘Yeah. Gotta go.’ I hung up, overwhelmed by the need to kick, punch or thump something, hard.

I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. There was so much stuff squeezed into my head—Frewen. Trophies. Benny. Marrook. Woosher. And even with everything else going on, I couldn’t escape Nic.

It felt like the world was holding its breath, ready for something big to happen.

I fell asleep as the sky turned from ink to grey.

The following morning, I stumbled up the hall to the kitchen. ‘Are you all right, Callum?’ asked Nan. She was pouring tea into her mug.

‘Yeah. Just didn’t sleep well.’

‘Lucky you have a day off school, then.’ She placed the teapot on the table. ‘Sit down and I’ll make toast.’

‘I can do it,’ I snapped.

Nan stirred her tea energetically.

‘Morning, all,’ said Grandpa, strolling through the door. He kissed the top of Nan’s head. I looked away.

‘Got a job for you, Pat’ he said. ‘Outside.’

When I didn’t move to follow, Grandpa nudged my shoulder. ‘Come on, you too.’

A tiny lamb stood in a cardboard box on the back veranda. It bleated and shivered.

‘Dear little thing,’ said Nan, stroking its head. ‘Do you want me to take it to the Frewens’?’

‘Frewens?’ I spat.

Grandpa gave a warning cough and shot me a look. ‘Beth and Deborah care for our orphaned lambs, Callum. Bit of pocket money for Beth. Pat, I’d thought we’d look after this one ourselves.’

‘The teats and bottles are in the laundry, I think.’ Nan dashed inside.

‘Where’s its mother?’ I asked, arms folded.

‘In the paddock. She rejected him.’

I snorted. ‘Dumped him.’

Grandpa glanced at me. ‘Well, it’s more complicated than that.’

‘Usually is.’

Grandpa straightened up. ‘Everything all right, Callum?’

‘Fine.’

He frowned. ‘Want to come for a drive?’

I looked down at my windcheater and PJ bottoms and back at him.

‘Right, well, tell your grandmother I’m going into town for powdered milk. Won’t be long.’

‘Yeah.’ I squatted beside the shivering lamb and stroked its back. ‘Hey.’ The lamb’s wool felt weird.

‘Not how you’d expect them to feel, is it?’ said Nan, coming out the back door.

‘Nah—it’s as rough as—like carpet. I thought he’d be soft like a toy.’

‘I was exactly the same the first time I touched a lamb.’ She looked around. ‘Where’s your grandfather?’

‘Gone to buy powdered milk.’

She nodded. ‘Your toast is up, by the way.’

I was spinning a crust on my plate and Nan was at the sink washing bottles and pink rubber things when Grandpa returned, his face dark.

‘How’d you go?’ asked Nan.

Grandpa placed a bag of powdered milk on the table and sat opposite me. ‘Bumped into Max at Manning’s.’

Max was Grandpa’s stock agent. He was also the goal umpire at Winter Creek games. From what I’d seen he knew everything about everyone.

Nan wiped her hands. ‘Oh yes. And what news did Max—’ She took a step back when she saw Grandpa’s face. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘There was trouble at the school last night,’ said Grandpa.

‘What sort of trouble?’ asked Nan, taking a seat too.

‘Kids were caught drinking that lolly-water and smashing empties against the school building. There’s glass everywhere.’

‘That’s disgraceful,’ said Nan.

‘Ted loaded them into the divvy van and took them to the police station. Under-age the lot of them.’ Grandpa shook his head. ‘Guess who?’

‘They wouldn’t be locals,’ said Nan.

‘Frewen, Klay, Miffo. Maybe Matt Nugent too,’ I said.

Nan gasped.

‘Callum, I know Jack’s been out of sorts, but I can’t believe he’d be involved.’

‘Callum’s right, Pat. But he missed one,’ said Grandpa.

I ran through the other kids in class. Cooper’s terrified of his shadow. Vinnie Macchia’s mother brings his lunch to school every day. Tim Mitchell just wouldn’t hang out with Frewen. The only other boy was Benny.

‘Was it one of the girls? Shelley or Em?’

Grandpa shook his head.

‘Was it a Millington boy?’ asked Nan.

‘Much closer to home than that,’ said Grandpa.

‘Who?’ asked Nan, her voice shrill.

‘Callum.’

‘Me?’

‘What rot! He was here last night.’

Nan charged to the phone and stabbed numbers.

‘I’m going to tell Ted exactly that!’

‘Pat, hang up and sit down. I’ve already spoken to Ted,’ said Grandpa.

Nan paused, finger hovering over the next number. ‘But—’

‘Hang up.’

My grandmother slammed the phone back in its cradle and strutted to her seat like an agitated chicken. ‘I will not have Callum blamed for something he didn’t do.’

I thought she wouldn’t be so quick to stand up for me if she knew the truth.

‘Klay Turner said he was Callum,’ continued Grandpa.

‘That boy’s eyes are too close together.’ Nan’s face was stony.

‘He said Jack put him up to it.’

‘Jack?’ said Nan, looking puzzled.

Grandpa nodded. He looked tired.

Nan harrumphed. ‘After all you’ve done for that kid.’

‘For who?’ I asked.

‘Jack Frewen.’ Nan shifted in her seat. She folded and unfolded her arms. ‘Your grandfather has taken Jack to the cricket and footy in the city. He’s enrolled him in clinics and squads, even driven Jack if Paul and Deborah couldn’t make it.’ She banged the table and growled. ‘And he treats our family like this?’

‘Jack’s been giving you trouble at school, I take it?’ asked Grandpa.

‘Nothing I can’t handle. But he gets stuck into Benny.’

‘That explains the graffiti then.’

‘Did they write retard?’

Grandpa nodded.

‘But they were friends,’ said Nan.

‘Yes, but Jack was always jealous of Luke,’ said Grandpa. ‘Even now Luke’s still a better kick than Jack.’

‘I thought he couldn’t play footy,’ said Nan.

‘I watched him kick with Callum.’

I waited for Nan to go off. Instead she reached out and squeezed my hand. ‘It was no big deal.’ I pulled away. ‘Anyway, I’m no better than Jack. I’m worse.’

‘That’s not right, Callum,’ said Grandpa.

I stared at the tiles. ‘If you knew, you’d hate me.’

‘We could never hate you, Callum,’ said Grandpa.

‘Yeah, you would. You hated Mum. You kicked her out and got rid of her stuff, and all she did was get pregnant.’

‘We didn’t hate her, Callum,’ said Grandpa. ‘We made the worst mistake of our lives.’

‘We love her, Callum. And you,’ said Nan, her voice a whisper.

Instead of making me feel better, I just felt worse.

‘Callum?’ said Nan, her voice gentle.

‘Mate, is this about your grandmother’s rubber scrambled eggs?’ said Grandpa.

I laughed.

Nan scoffed. ‘You’re a dreadful man, James Alexander.’

‘My middle name is James,’ I said, wiping my hands on my PJs.

Nan covered her mouth with her hand.

‘I had no idea,’ said Grandpa. Each word drawn out.

‘Mum calls me CJ. Actually, everyone does in Melbourne.’

‘Does anyone call you Callum?’ asked Nan.

‘No.’

‘Not even your teachers?’ said Grandpa.

I shook my head.

‘CJ. We thought it was a nickname only Maeve used,’ said Nan. ‘No wonder you sometimes don’t answer when I call.’

‘Callum’s fine.’ I yawned.

‘Callum, listen to that i-thing and rest,’ said Nan.

‘I’ll clean up first,’ I said, gathering my breakfast stuff.

‘Leave it, Callum—CJ,’ said Grandpa. ‘And when you’re ready to talk, we’re here.’

A knot tightened in my chest.

The next day Nan slipped the lunch box into my bag. ‘Are you sure you want to ride this morning?’ she asked. ‘It’s so cold.’

‘I’m fine.’ I slung the backpack over my shoulder. ‘But thanks.’

Grandpa was waiting by the garage, bike pump in his hand. My bike, or at least Mum’s, leant against the fence beside him. ‘Tyres are fine,’ he said.

‘Thanks. See you tonight.’ I pushed my right foot on the pedal.

‘Callum?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Don’t take any nonsense from Jack Frewen.’

‘I can handle him.’

I pedalled hard, not to keep warm, but to ease the pressure in my chest. That feeling of being ready to explode was back again. When pumping the pedals didn’t help, I tried to focus on the sheep, lambs, even the passing cars, but that didn’t work either.

After a while I started thinking about yesterday. When I awoke after two hours sleep there was no sign of Grandpa. Nan dismissed my questions with, ‘He’ll be doing something for that football club, or the VFF or one of his other committees.’

When Grandpa did show up, smelling of turps and with red paint on his hands I knew exactly where he’d been—cleaning the graffiti off the school. The snippets of conversation floating from the kitchen to the family room, where I was watching one of Grandpa’s footy DVDs, confirmed it.

‘Paul Frewen had other commitments. What rubbish! If my son had...’

‘Elizabeth, Alice Nugent and I scrubbed the walls and Dan collected all the glass.’

‘Those boys should have been made do it with a toothbrush...’

I was picturing Frewen scrubbing the brick admin building with a toothbrush when I turned into turned School Road. Ahead, Benny’s dad drove over the stock grid.

I walked my bike over the cattle grid. Mr Bennett limped up the school path with Ella and Benny.

‘Beetle,’ yelled Benny, waving like crazy.

Ella smiled. Or was it a smirk?

Mr Bennett said something to his son but didn’t slow down.

By the time I locked my bike to the rack, Benny was beside me, jumping up and down on the spot. ‘Hey, Beetle, look.’ He took a sheet of paper from his bag. ‘This is for you.’

On the paper was a pencil drawing of a chook. One leg was bent, as though the bird was mid-step, its comb flopped a little and its eye seemed to twinkle. It was seriously good. But the thing that drew my eye was the writing at the bottom of the page. ‘For Beetle.’

‘Did you draw this?’ I asked.

Benny nodded. ‘For you.’

‘Benny, this is really good.’

He shrugged and took his footy from his bag. ‘Want to have a kick? Dad said I had to look after it. After last time.’

‘What, after we had a kick?’

‘No.’ Benny frowned. ‘After Jack Frewen wrecked my other footy. He cut the laces in class.’

‘I won’t let that happen again, Benny.’ I was smiling but it was only on the outside. Frewen was such a jerk.

‘I told Dad that. So can we have a kick? Now?’

‘Wait till I put this somewhere safe.’ I slipped Benny’s drawing inside the folder in my backpack. The school bell clanged. ‘How about we kick at recess, mate?’

Benny clapped twice. ‘Come on. We’ll be late.’

Miffo and Klay leant against the ramp, glaring as Benny and I walked to our bench. Frewen scowled, arms crossed.

‘Morning, boys,’ I said, dumping my bag on the bench.

‘Morning, boys,’ echoed Benny.

Frewen hissed something at the others, which made them cackle and nod.

Ms Nugent tucked the bell under her arm, and stood at the bottom of the ramp. ‘Line up, thank you Year 10.’

‘Do we have art, Miss?’ asked Shelley.

‘No, Shelley.’

‘Is Mr Agar away, Miss?’

Ms Nugent glared. ‘If you’d give me a chance to speak, Shelley—’

Shelley rolled her eyes. ‘Sorry, Miss.’

‘Mr Peterson will supervise you while Mr Agar is at a meeting.’

Frewen, Miffo and Klay groaned. Matt stood back from them. An old guy, as round as he was tall and with a huge moustache, strode out of the admin building.

Behind me, Cooper Manning squeaked, ‘Here he comes. Peterson was principal before Gray.’

‘Good morning, everyone,’ said Mr Peterson, scanning the group.

His piggy eyes settled on me. ‘You must be Callum Alexander.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Hear that, Frewen?’ boomed Mr Peterson. I cringed.

‘A young man who knows how to address a teacher. Inside and take out your mathematics books, thank you.’

‘But Mr Peterson, we have double English first today,’ said Vinnie.

‘While I’m here, you’ll be doing maths revision. Clear?’

The only sound in the classroom was the scratch of pens on paper and the turning of pages. After a while, my right hand ached. When I leant back to stretch it, I saw parents streaming out the school office door—Paul and Deborah Frewen, a bloke who looked like Klay, only older, Ms Nugent and a woman who I figured was Miffo’s mum. Mr Agar followed, his face white.

‘Are you finished, Alexander?’ boomed Mr Peterson.

‘No, Sir. Just stretching.’

I heard Mr Agar’s boots on the wooden ramp. Mr Peterson met him at the door. The rumble of their voices bounced against the glass.

Mr Agar’s voice became clearer. ‘And Clyde, Elizabeth asked if you could supervise the Year Sevens for her.’

As soon as Mr Peterson left, everyone, except me, started whispering.

‘Thank you,’ snapped Mr Agar. ‘Work in silence. Jack, Klay, Miffo and Matt—here.’ He directed them to the alcove. At first there was more rumbling of voices. Then all hell broke out.

‘Bullshit,’ bellowed Frewen.

‘But we’re the best players,’ yelled Klay.

They yelled over each other.

‘What do you reckon that’s about?’ asked Vinnie, his eyes round like a possum’s.

Someone must have kicked the door or a wall. The whole portable shuddered.

‘That will do!’ Mr Agar’s voice sliced through the noise. ‘What did you think would happen?’

This time there was silence.

‘You were caught drinking, at school and you graffitied the place. And you all knew that if you called Luke names again you’d be banned from footy. You’ve got no one to blame but yourselves.’

‘But—’ said Frewen.

‘I don’t want to hear it, Jack. No footy for four weeks. End of story. Mrs Gray wants to see you lot. Now.’

There were no smirks or swaggers when Frewen, Klay and Miffo stomped down the ramp. Matt, hanging back a little, looked sad. Sorry even. When Frewen reached the end of the ramp, he stared back through the classroom window at me. He held my gaze and ran a finger across his throat.

I laughed.

‘Callum, can you come up here please?’ called Mr Agar, back inside the classroom.

‘Beetle didn’t do anything,’ said Benny, his voice filled with panic.

‘Callum isn’t in trouble, Luke, I just want to talk to him.’

I trudged up the front.

‘You know about the weekend’s events?’ asked Mr Agar, arms folded.

‘Yeah. Grandpa told me.’