Blabber Mouth (7 page)

He turned and grabbed Amanda and headed for the door.

Amanda gave me an anguished look as he pulled her away.

There's a horrible sick feeling in the guts you get when something awful's happening and you can't do anything about it.

I got it the day Erin died.

I got it tonight, watching Amanda being dragged away.

Then I decided that tonight was different, because I could do something about it.

Or at least try to.

I ran round in front of Mr Cosgrove and stood between him and the door.

‘You're not being fair,' I said.

He stopped and glared at me.

I said it again.

Then I remembered he couldn't understand hands.

I looked frantically around for a pen.

You can never find one when you need one.

I'd just decided to go and grab the bowl and write it on the floor in avocado dip, when Amanda spoke up.

‘You're not being fair,' she said.

Mr Cosgrove stopped glaring at me and glared at her.

‘Just because you and Dad can't be friends,' I said, ‘it doesn't mean me and Amanda can't be.'

Amanda was watching my hands closely.

‘Just because you and Mr Batts can't be friends,' she said to her father, ‘it doesn't mean me and Ro can't be.'

Mr Cosgrove opened his mouth to say something angry to Amanda, but before he could speak, Mr Ricards from the hardware store did.

‘She's got a point, Doug,' he said. ‘It's like Australia and New Zealand and Tasmania and Stewart Island.'

Mr Cosgrove glared at him.

The other people standing nearby looked at each other, confused.

Me and Amanda and Mrs Cosgrove weren't sure what he was on about either.

‘It's like Homer and Ned and Bart and Tod,' said Mr Ricards. ‘In “The Simpsons”.'

The other people nodded.

It was a good point.

Mr Cosgrove obviously didn't agree, because he glared at Mr Ricards again, and then at me.

‘Stay away from her,' he ordered, and stormed out.

‘Mum,' said Amanda, close to tears, ‘it's not fair.'

‘Don't worry love,' said Mrs Cosgrove, ‘he'll probably calm down in a few days.'

She turned to me.

‘I don't blame you love,' she said, ‘but something has to be done about that father of yours.'

She steered Amanda towards the door.

‘It's tragic,' Mrs Cosgrove said to the people around her as she went. ‘That poor kid's got two afflictions and I don't know which is the worst.'

Me and Amanda waved an unhappy goodbye.

I tried to cheer myself up by thinking that at least I'd be able to see her at school. Unless Mr Cosgrove moved the whole family to Darwin. Or Norway. I didn't think that was likely, not after he'd spent so many years building up the menswear shop.

After a bit Dad came out of the Gents carrying his boots.

‘Come on, Tonto,' he said, ‘let's go. I need to get a hose into these.'

As we headed towards the door I saw how everyone was looking at Dad.

As if they agreed with Mrs Cosgrove.

That he is an affliction.

I felt terrible for him.

We didn't say anything in the truck on the way home because it was dark.

When we got here Dad made a cup of tea, but I wasn't really in the mood, so I came to bed.

Dad's just been in to say goodnight.

He looked pretty depressed.

I thanked him again for standing up for me and offered to buy him a new pair of boots for Christmas.

He still looked pretty depressed.

I don't blame him.

How's a bloke meant to have a decent social life when everybody thinks he's an affliction?

Amanda's Mum's right about one thing.

Something will have to be done.

For his sake as well as mine.

I woke up early and was just about to roll over and go back to sleep when I remembered I had some serious thinking to do.

So I did it.

How, I thought, can I get it across to Dad that he's his own worst enemy, including weeds, mites, fungi, mould and mildews?

I could just go up to him and say, ‘Dad, you're making both our lives a misery, pull your head in'.

But parents don't listen to their kids.

Not really.

They try. They nod and go ‘Fair dinkum?' and ‘Jeez, is that right?' but you can see in their eyes that what they're really thinking is ‘Has she cleaned her teeth?' or ‘I wonder if I switched off the electric curlers in the tractor?'

Who, I thought, would Dad really listen to?

That's when I decided to write him a letter.

A letter from Carla Tamworth.

It's the obvious choice.

He worships every song she's ever written.

He's always sending her fan letters and pretending he doesn't mind that she never replies.

He'll be ecstatic to finally get one.

He'll frame it.

He'll read it a hundred times a day.

I grabbed my pen and notepad.

‘Dear Kenny', I wrote. ‘Thanks for all the fan letters. Sorry I haven't replied earlier but one of my backup singers has been having heaps of trouble with skin rashes and I've had to take him to the doctor a lot. The doctor's just discovered that the rashes were caused by brightly-coloured satin shirts, so if you've got any, I'd get rid of them. The whole band are wearing white cotton and polyester ones with ties now and they look very nice. By the way, it's come to my attention that both you and your daughter are having problems because of your loud behaviour. In the words of my song “Tears In Your Carwash”, pull your head in. Yours sincerely, Carla Tamworth. PS. Sorry I couldn't send a photo, the dog chewed them all up.'

It's a pretty good letter even though I say it myself.

I'll have to type it though, or he'll recognise my writing.

Amanda's got a typewriter.

And it's Saturday morning so her Dad'll be in the shop.

And when we've typed it I'll copy Carla's signature off one of her record covers and post it to Dad and make sure I collect the mail next week so I can smudge the postmark.

I've never forged anything before. I feel strange.

But it's OK if there's an important reason for doing it, eh?

I hope so.

I wonder if fate'll punish me?

For a minute I thought fate was punishing me straightaway.

I went out to the kitchen with the letter under my T-shirt to tell Dad I was just popping over to Amanda's for a bit, but he wasn't there.

Then I heard his voice out on the verandah.

And someone else's voice.

Ms Dunning's.

I panicked and stuffed the letter in a cupboard behind some old bottles.

Ms Dunning's got X-ray vision when it comes to things under T-shirts. Darryn Peck had Mr Fowler's front numberplate under his on Thursday and she spotted it from the other side of the classroom.

Then I panicked for another reason.

It had suddenly occurred to me what she was doing here.

Word must have got around about the fight last night and Mr Fowler must have sent her over to tell us that the Parents and Teachers Committee had discussed the matter this morning while they

were making kebabs for the barbie and I was banned from the school.

I felt sick.

I had a horrible vision of being sent away to another school and having to sneak out at night to try and see Amanda and hitchhiking in the rain and being run over by a truck.

Ms Dunning gave a loud laugh out on the verandah.

I almost rushed out and told her it wasn't funny.

Then I realised that if she was out there chuckling, she probably hadn't come with bad news.

I went out.

‘G'day Ro,' said Ms Dunning with a friendly grin.

I relaxed.

‘G'day Tonto,' said Dad. ‘I invited Ms Dunning out to take a squiz at the orchard. She's gunna do a fruit-growing project with you kids.'

I was pleased to see Dad had remembered his manners and was speaking with his mouth.

‘Your Dad's offered to come talk to the class about apple-growing,' said Ms Dunning.

Suddenly I wasn't relaxed anymore.

Dad in the classroom?

Horrible pictures filled my head.

Several of them involved Dad singing and Mr Fowler having to evacuate the school.

I pulled myself together.

Dad and Ms Dunning were heading down to the orchard. I ran after them to try and persuade them that the whole thing was a terrible idea.

As I got closer I heard Dad telling Ms Dunning about the fight last night.

Admitting the whole thing.

In detail.

I couldn't believe it.

I wondered if a person could get concussion from coleslaw.

And Ms Dunning was laughing.

She was finding it hilarious.

I wondered if chalk dust could give you brain damage.

I grabbed Dad's arm to try and shake him out of it.

He turned and gave me a look and when I saw what sort of a look it was, half irritable and half pleading, and when I heard what Ms Dunning said next, about her breaking up with her boyfriend a month ago and giving him a faceful of apricot trifle, I realised what was going on.

I can be so dumb sometimes.

Dad hadn't invited her over for educational purposes at all.

He'd invited her over for romantic purposes.

And judging by all the laughing she was doing, she wasn't feeling deeply nauseated by the idea.

I gave them both a sheepish sort of grin and walked back to the house.

Correction, floated back to the house.

Every thing's falling into place.

First there'll be a whirlwind romance, with Ms Dunning captivated by Dad's kindness—he never sprays if the wind's blowing towards the old people's home—and Dad bowled over by Ms Dunning's strength of character and incredibly neat hand-writing.

Then a fairy-tale wedding at apple harvest time so Dad can use one of his casual pickers as best man.

And then a happy family life for ever and ever, with Ms Dunning, who'll probably let me call her Mum by then, making sure Dad behaves himself and doesn't upset people, particularly my friends' fathers, and keeps his singing for the shower.

Keeping Dad in line'll be a walkover for a woman who can make Darryn Peck spit his bubblegum into the bin.

Suddenly life is completely and totally great.

As long as Dad doesn't stuff it up before it happens.

The first fortnight is the dodgy time, that's when his girlfriends usually leave him.

He seems to be doing OK so far, but.

When they got back to the house, Ms Dunning was still laughing, and Dad said, ‘Me and Ro usually have tea at the Copper Saddle on Saturdays, care to join us?'

I struggled to keep a straight face.

The Copper Saddle is the most expensive restaurant for miles, and the closest we've ever been to it is driving through the car park blowing raspberries at the rich mongrels.

Ms Dunning said she'd love to and we arranged to pick her up at seven-thirty.

That's still two hours away and I'm exhausted.

I spent ages helping Dad choose his clothes.

I managed to talk him out of the cowgirl shirt. For a sec I thought of trying to persuade him to get a white polyester and cotton one, but then I remembered he'd have to go to Mr Cosgrove for it.

We agreed on the pale green one.

It's almost avocado.

Since then, as casually as I can, I've been trying to remind him to be on his best behaviour.

‘Ms Dunning doesn't like too much chatter,' I said just now. ‘She always telling us that in class.'

Dad grinned.

‘Teachers are always a bit crabby in class,' he said.

Then he messed my hair.

‘I know how you feel, Tonto,' he said. ‘Bit of a drag, having tea with a teacher, eh? Don't fret, you'll be fine with Claire, she's a human being.'

I know I'll be fine, Dad.

What about you?

It started off fine.

When we picked Ms Dunning up she said she liked my dress and Dad's dolphin belt buckle and I'm pretty sure she meant it about both of them.

When we got here the waiter sat us at the table and Dad didn't get into an embarrassing conversation with him about shirts even though the waiter's shirt has got a big purple ruffle down the front and Dad's got a theory that shirt ruffles fluff up better if you wash them in toothpaste.

Then the menus arrived, and even though they were as big as the engine flaps on the tractor, Dad didn't make any embarrassing jokes about recycled farm equipment or taking the menus home for spare parts or any of the other embarrassing things I thought at the time he could have said.

When we ordered, he even said ‘steak' instead of what he usually says, which is ‘dead cow'.

I started to relax.

At least I thought I did, but when I glanced down at my knees they were bright pink, so I was obviously still very tense.

Ms Dunning asked Dad if he was going to the parents and teachers barbie tomorrow and he said he was looking forward to it.

He asked her what would be happening there, and she went into great detail about the chicken kebabs and the raffle and the fund-raising auction and the display of skywriting by Darryn Peck's brother and the sack race and the jam stall and the wool-carding demonstration by Mr Fowler's nephew.

I was totally and completely bored, but I didn't care because I could see they were having a good time.

Then the meals arrived.

They were huge.

The pepper grinder was as big as a baseball bat, and the meals were bigger.

We started eating.

Ms Dunning asked me about my old school and I told her, but I didn't mention Erin in case my eyes went red. I didn't want Ms Dunning thinking she was marrying into an emotionally unstable family.

Dad, who was repeating to her what I was saying, was great. He didn't mention Erin either, even though he's a real fanatic about me telling the truth. He reckons if I tell lies I'll get white spots on my fingernails.