I Am (Not) the Walrus (10 page)

Added to that, the top of the wall looks slippery after all the rain, and it's a long drop down to the soccer field.

Without even thinking I reach out to steady her, and then stop myself. Her opinion of me has probably been improved by the falcons showing up, but not quite to the point where I can grab her anywhere near her bum.

Then I realize what Shawn would do.

What Zack would do.

What any bloke would do.

I clamber up next to her. “In all fairness,” I say, as I try to resist the temptation to look down, “I think this qualifies me for two cups of tea.”

“Yeah.” Michelle nods her head. “I thought you might.” She folds her arms and looks toward me, as cool as if the ground in front of her is level, rather than a three-story drop. “Where do you want to go?”

“I know just the place,” I say. “It's a little run-down, but the tea's not bad.”

15

Saturday

“I don't think this place looks too shabby,” says Michelle. “Could use a lick of paint, but I've seen worse.”

“Thanks,” I say as I unlock our front door. “Big of you.” I push it open and let her walk in first.

She turns to me halfway through the door. “You don't have any dangerous pets, do you?” she says. “You know, dogs, cats, hamsters, crocodiles?”

“We had a crocodile, but it got depressed and we had to take him to the vet,” I say as I follow her into the hall.

“A depressed crocodile?” She wipes her feet on the mat, shuffles off her coat, and hands it to me.

“We're hoping he'll snap out of it,” I say, as I put the wet coats on a hanger.

She gives me her one-eyed squint.

“Tea first.” I rub my hands together. “Then I'll give you the grand tour.” I lead her into the kitchen, pull out the chair that Shawn used to sit in, and then head over to the sink to fill the kettle.

There are some letters on the table. I was planning on putting them away later, but as I run the tap I hear papers being shuffled.

I turn around to see Michelle holding the envelopes in front of her. “I'm sorry,” she says. She shakes her head with her eyes closed. “I didn't mean to look. I just wanted to clear a space on the table.”

“It's okay.” I put the lid on the kettle and plug it in. “There's probably nothing personal there.”

“You're going to think I'm so nosey.” She lifts a sheet of lined notepaper out of the stack of letters. “I saw this. You've got a friend in Brunswick.”

“No, I haven't,” I say as I get the cups out. “I don't know anybody who lives in Brunswick.” I throw tea bags into the cups. “Apart from you, that is.”

“I'm confused.” She taps the letters on the table and gives me the same look she gave me when I told her about the crocodile, except this time it's a little colder. “This is a Brunswick number.”

I walk over to the table and stand behind her so I can see what she's looking at.

Written on a lined sheet of paper, which looks like it's torn from the pad that Mom keeps next to the phone, is:

Toby. Rupert called earlier. Can you call him back? It's urgent. 01375 3554553. If poss could you call after 6.—Mom.

I draw in a long, slow breath. Thoughts swirl around inside my head like leaves, and then slowly they drift together.

It is a Brunswick number. It's the number from the note I found in the bass. Rupert must be name of the prat on the phone.

“Rupert's not exactly a friend,” I say, but then having said that, I'm not exactly sure what he is. “I'm actually in a band.” I spread my hands, then slap them back against my legs. “He's, sort of, to do with that.”

“Oh, wow. A marching band?” She pulls a silly grin. “I can't resist a man in uniform.”

“Come on. You know what I mean,” I say. “The other kind of band. Like the Beatles.”

“I think I've heard of them,” she says. “What do you play?”

“In fact, we're exactly like the Beatles,” I say. I pause between each word, studying her face for some kind of disapproval, but her silly grin softens into a smile. It's the first time I've really seen her smile.

“We do Beatles cover versions,” I say. “I play the bass.”

Then I remember what she said about “Michelle” in the Aquarium. “But, don't worry,” I say. “We don't do ‘Michelle,' so you won't have to hear me sing it.”

“I actually love hearing Paul McCartney sing ‘Michelle.'” She looks down at her feet. “It just makes me really sad.” She looks back at me and bites her lip. “I didn't want to go all weepy on you back in the Aquarium.”

“We don't do it, anyway,” I say. “It's actually pretty difficult to play.”

“But if you're the bassist, then you are the Paul of the band,” she says, then she swivels around to face me. “Do you do ‘Blackbird'?”

“No. But we could,” I say. The kettle clicks off. I fill the cups, then go over to the fridge. “Milk?”

“Thanks,” she says.

“Apart from playing the bass, I don't think I have much in common with Paul.” I put a cup in front of her.

“Cheers.” She picks up the cup. “Contrary to what you'd think,” she says, “‘Blackbird' is actually my favorite Beatles song.”

“We have a gig next Monday,” I say. “Listen. If you promise to come we'll do ‘Blackbird.'”

She folds her lower lip over her teeth and nods. “I'll come,” she says. “I'll probably have to bring Sierra. Where is it?” she licks her lips. “You don't have to do ‘Blackbird' though. It seems a bit last minute if you have everything worked out.”

“It's at the old Jubilee,” I say. “You know it?”

“I think so,” she says. “So what does Rupert play?”

“Rupert?” I say. “Rupert's not part of the band.” I'm not sure I can go into detail about Rupert just now so I gesture toward the kitchen door with my teacup. “Hey. Come with me. I'll show you the gaff.”

Holding my cup steady, I lead her up the stairs to the first-floor landing. “This is where it all happens.” I push open the first door, and right away I wish I'd done some tidying. I let her go in first again. “This used to be my brother's room,” I say, “but he's in the Navy now, so we use it for band practice.”

“Whoa,” she says as she stumbles on a cable and spills some tea. “Is this where you keep the depressed crocodile?”

“Take the weight off your feet.” I point to the bed.

She perches right on the edge, as if she thinks I'm going to pull the bed out from underneath her.

I kneel down next to her and reach under the bed.

“Is that where you keep the depressed crocodile?” she says.

“Exactly.” With quick moves, I drag out the p-bass. “This is it.” I stand up and show it off. Not much light spills in through the bedroom window, but the little that does makes all the chrome and lacquer sparkle, sending tiny reflections scuttling across the ceiling.

“Wow,” she says. “It's really pretty. It's easily as impressive as a depressed crocodile.”

“Fender,” I say. “The best.”

“I bet it cost a bunch, right?” she says, then covers her mouth. “Sorry. That was a bit of an obnoxious question. I told you I was nosey.”

“It's my brother's,” I say. “He bought it. He's not here, so I use it.”

“It's nice of him to let you,” she says. “I wish I had a brother like that.”

“Do you have any brothers and sisters?” I say. I think that's the kind of question you're supposed to ask at times like this.

“Only child,” she says. “As my mom says,
Accidents don't happen twice.
”

“Accidents?” I say. “That's not very nice.”

“She always laughs and hugs me when she says it.” Michelle slurps her tea. “But it makes me wonder sometimes.”

I'm not sure what to say to this. “So.” I sit on the bed next to her, and lay the bass flat on my knees. “A couple of nights ago I opened up the insides to do a repair.” I pull out my wallet and take out the note. “I found this inside.” I hand the note to her.

She tries to unfold the note one-handed while she's still holding her tea.

“Here. Give me that.” I take the cup from her and place it on top of the amplifier. She unfolds the note and reads it. As she does, her eyebrows knit closer and closer together.

She looks up. “Let me get this straight,” she says. “Your brother bought the bass, but you found this note inside it.”

I nod.

“But what does this mean?” she says.

“To be honest, I don't know a lot more than you do,” I say. “It might mean exactly what it says, namely that a girl called Julie is the rightful owner of this bass. On the other hand, it might be a mistake. She might have sold it and forgotten to remove the note.”

“Did you try ringing this number?” she says. “Wait. You must have done. Isn't this is the same number as the one on the note from your mum?”

“Right,” I say. “When I phoned, I spoke to some bloke.” I study her for a moment. Maybe I'm drawing her too deeply into this. “He never told me his name. I suppose, based on the note on the kitchen table, his name must have been Rupert.” I hardly know her, and everything I know about Rupert is pure conjecture. I don't want to have to tell her a lot of my theories and then have to retract them.

“And he knew all about the bass.” She retrieves her cup, sips her tea, then wipes her mouth with the side of her finger. “Or maybe he didn't have a clue what you were talking about.”

I choose my words carefully. “He wasn't a lot of help,” I say. “If I was to make the best possible guess, I would say that Julie is no longer at that number.”

“But you have the address.” She takes another sip of her tea, but this time she doesn't wipe her mouth. “Like I told you. I know Mariner Street. It's not far from me.”

“Wait.” I stare at her lips, which are now shiny from the tea, then I shake my head so I can concentrate on what we're actually talking about. “Let me catch up with you. Are you saying that you think I should give back the bass?”

Now it's her turn to give me a puzzled look. “Why wouldn't you?” she says. “It sounds like this poor girl really needs the bass back.”

“What if I can't find her?” I finish my tea and put the cup on the floor. “What if she's moved?”

“Well…” She finishes her tea. “Maybe the people who live there now will know where she went.” Once again she draws her index finger across her lips, then she slots her finger through the handle and lets the cup dangle. “If they don't then maybe you could put an ad in the paper.” She places the cup on the floor, then slides it next to mine. The cups connect with a little ping.

“Unless she's dropped off the face of the earth, someone will know where she is.” Michelle sits back up, turns slightly so she's facing me, and smiles with her mouth closed. “I know where Mariner Street is. You can walk from the bus station. It's about ten minutes. If you like I could go there with you.” She leans forward with her elbows on her knees, and gives me a sideways look. “When it comes to knocking on the doors of strangers you might have more luck if you're with a girl.”

“No,” I say quickly, or rather I croak because my mouth is dry, then cough. Rupert could be living at 48B Mariner Street, and I don't want Michelle to have to deal with him. “I would rather you didn't do anything right away.”

“But you've got to give it back eventually.” She points to the bass, then shrugs. “You can buy another one with the reward, then you'll be able to play it with a clear conscience.” Once she's said this she stares at me as if I've asked her a difficult question.

I want to tell her that I haven't had a guilty conscience about the bass, but instead I find myself leaning forward. I close my eyes and a moment later, with the bass lying between us, I brush my lips against hers. She takes my upper lip between hers, and plants a line of kisses from one corner of my mouth to the other.

I feel off balance, poised on the edge of the bed. I slide my hand up the back of her arm, and stroke her hair.

She kisses me one more time, pulls away an inch or two, then nestles her nose into my neck. “I have to go,” she says in a soft voice. She brushes her hair behind her ears, then stands up.

“I'm sorry.” I stand up, and put the bass on the bed. “That was totally out of order.”

“No. Really,” she says. “It's not that.” She bends down, retrieves the teacups, and hands them to me. “It was nice.”

I take the cups from her.

She brushes her hair back again and says, “I really do have to go.”

“I can walk you home,” I say. “It's starting to get dark.”

“I think Port Jackson's pretty safe,” she says. “Brunswick? Maybe not so much.”

“I didn't mean because it was dangerous.” I lead her over to the door with a teacup in each hand. We make our way back down the stairs. “I don't think I'd be a lot of help if it was dangerous. I'd just like to walk with you.”

“Don't get me wrong. I'd like you to walk me home,” she says, as reaches the bottom of the stairs. “It's just my dad. I'm staying here with him at his house.” She takes her coat off the hook, and shoves an arm into a sleeve. “You know how told you my grandma was the same age as your mum?”

“Yeah,” I say. I want to help her on with her coat, but I still have a teacup in each hand.

“Well, my mum had me when she was sixteen.” She buttons up her coat, and fixes me with a stare.

Maybe she's looking for a reaction.

“That's how old I am now,” she says. “Mum thinks that having me messed up her life, and she's terrified I'll do the same thing.”

“I'm not … ” I say, waving the teacups around.

“I know you're a real gent,” she says, “but mum thinks all men are the same. So I'm not supposed to be out cavorting with boyfriends.” She reaches up and pulls the ends of her hair out from under her coat collar. “My dad's this total macho man.” She shakes her head, splaying her hair across her shoulders. “He's into extreme sports. You know. He does that thing where you get chased by bulls in Spain. Then he climbs mountains, and goes scuba diving with sharks.” She gathers her hair as if she's about make a ponytail, then lets it fall on her back. “But then he's terrified of my mom. Yeah. Figure that one out.”

I open the door for her. She shuffles outside and turns back to face me. “So, basically, I'd be up shit creek if he saw us while he was walking home from work or something.”

She grabs me round the back of the neck, pulls my head down to her level, and gives me a firm kiss just to the side of my mouth. The kiss is not exactly what I would call tender. In fact, it's close to the force of a headbutt. Nevertheless, a kiss is still a kiss.