Lessons from the Heart (27 page)

‘No, really,' he says. ‘If I asked her. Friday night, I've got a layover in the Alice.' More muffled laughter. Then: ‘Oops, sorry back there. Did you hear any of that?' Mr Prescott and I raise our brows at one another, and then I press the red button.

‘No,' I say. ‘We didn't.'

And there's a silence, and I imagine them looking at one another in the cabin, and the frown of puzzlement on their faces.

Mr Prescott is frowning too. I can tell he just has to get something clear for himself.

‘You can't actually have been pushed, Billy.'

‘I was,' Billy whispers, and, in the echoing chamber of the ambulance, that makes it seem more certain than if he'd shouted.

‘But no one was anywhere near you.' It's Mr Prescott who's looking harassed, not Billy. ‘Mrs Harvey swears to it.'

‘I didn't say
by
someone,' Billy says, sticking to the same story. But the unreality of these two statements must somehow get through to him too, and his mouth screws up and I know any second he's going to start crying again. ‘I didn't say,' he nearly shouts, ‘it was
anyone
.'

‘Okay, okay,' Mr Prescott says, and stretches both his hands towards Billy in a gesture to calm him. ‘Nobody says you're not telling the truth. It's just –' he says, and appeals to me. To help.

‘You'll be all right now, Billy,' I say. Or something equally nothing. ‘You'll be all right now you're away from there.'

Which only makes Mr Prescott look at me as if
I've
gone crazy as well. Though it calms Billy. Who looks at me for a full minute, then dozes again.

‘Christ,' Mr Prescott says, and puts his head in his hands again. ‘Christ, what a mess.'

‘I'm sure it'll be all right,' I say. Just to say something. But Mr Prescott looks up as if I've said something profound or he's just seen Nostradamus or something.

‘Do you think so? Do you really think so?'

And I nod, because I don't have the slightest idea.

He glances at Billy, who's sleeping more soundly than at any point so far, and says:

‘Laura.'

And I'm frightened then, because I know this is what he's wanted to tell me all along. And I want to know, and I don't. ‘Laura, I swear to you –'

As if swearing to me mattered. When it should be to Mrs Harvey, or Toni, or Billy, or someone.

‘I swear to you,' he says again, and I'm almost ready to scream. ‘I didn't know.'

And I can't say
Know what, Mr Prescott?
because he assumes I already know and have been thinking about it as much as he has.

‘I want you to believe me,' he says, and I can only nod in response. ‘I didn't know.'

And I can only think he's talking about Toni and her having a crush on him, and even while I'm nodding, I'm thinking that's crazy, how could he not know? He'd have to be deaf, dumb and blind not to know. When everyone else – the teachers, the kids, me, Mum – everyone knew. And had for months and months.

‘It's important. You're Toni's best friend – you know her better than anyone else. It's important that you believe me.'

‘Yes, Mr Prescott,' I say. And I don't know whether he thinks that means I do believe him or I'm just acknowledging what he's saying, because luckily Billy wakes just at that moment, and Mr Prescott can't ask again.

‘You weren't there,' Billy says, out of nowhere, to Mr Prescott.

‘Where, Billy?'

‘Weren't you going on the Climb?'

And I can see Mr Prescott's lips drying, and he actually pulls with one finger at the neck of his T-shirt as if it's hot in here, or he can already feel the hangman's noose. And maybe he can, because it isn't hot at all. Billy's got a blanket on and they're keeping the whole van at a cool, even temperature.

‘I was,' Mr Prescott says. ‘But I slept in.'

Billy looks at the ceiling then, but whether he's just looking or is actually working something out, I can't tell.

‘Christ,' Mr Prescott says again, and his hands go back to his head. ‘I'll have to ring Amanda.'

And I can only guess Amanda must be his wife. In Sydney. And it seems it's a good name for her – and I know it's hard to judge when you've only seen someone once or twice and you've only said, ‘Hello, Mrs Prescott' or ‘How's your baby?' – because she's pretty and that, and blonde, and a bit shy, and so different from someone like Toni who's … well, everyone knows what Toni's like.

Mr Prescott doesn't speak after that for at least an hour, just groans once or twice, when you'd expect it to be Billy doing that. And I can't think of anything to say, so I open my journal and try to write, and I
could,
the ambulance's as steady as a classroom, especially now, on the highway, on the way to Alice. But I can't think of anything to write, either. And I remember someone saying once it was always like this when someone died or a really awful thing happened – words were never any good then. And I think about Larkin's poem again, and how even for Mr Prescott, I can't find anything to say that isn't untrue or unkind.

And ages later when Billy stirs and breaks my mood, I find I haven't written anything at all, but I've drawn a picture and it can only be Mr Prescott's head in his hands, and he's unshaven and sorry for himself, and his hair's all tousled like he hasn't combed it – and that's what shocks me, because I look at him, and he hasn't. And under the drawing I've written some words, or three words in big letters, and they're underlined about half-a-dozen times:
I didn't know.
And when I look up, he's wide-awake again, and looking at me, and I realize I've never felt so sorry for anyone for ages and ages, and he's trying to see, then, what I've been drawing. I can't show him, of course, but if I don't, then he'll think -

‘It sounds awfully quiet in there.' Henk comes to my rescue. ‘Is everyone still with us?'

And we realize then that you can manipulate the intercom without using any buttons at all. Or
they
can. And Mr Prescott's face is full of pain and exhaustion, as he tries to remember what we've been talking about. When we've hardly said anything the whole trip.

‘We'll pull over for a minute, and pump you up again, Billy.'

It's Terry who's speaking this time. ‘Then it's no holds barred for the Alice. We'll be there in an hour.'

And in the end, I still don't have any idea why Billy wanted me there. But he did, and when we get to the hospital and drive into Emergency and they wheel him out, he has another moment of panic, and yells past the porters and the nurse who's come out, who's Aboriginal and black and in a blue and white uniform. ‘Laura?' he shouts. ‘You're coming in too?'

‘Yes, Billy. Of course.'

‘Cos otherwise,' he says, looking at the nurse who's got the prettiest face and this huge grin and looks about fourteen, ‘I won't know anyone.'

‘You know
me,
Billy,' the nurse says, straightening his pillow, and already teasing him as she checks his pulse. ‘You see my name here?' she says, but looking herself all the while at the watch pinned to the breast of her uniform. And counting.

‘Jindy,' he says, trying to lift his head. And I can see he's responding to her already, and I mightn't have to stay long. Because I'm thinking of Toni now, and where she is, and if the buses will be long behind us, and I've got the wrong clothes on and it's very hot here. But I like the trees I can see along the street, and there are tourists and backpackers walking about everywhere outside the hospital yard. And a big sign near the grey iron gates just says,
The Gap.
And I'm wondering what that is, and I'd like to stretch my legs and walk after so long in the ambulance but they're wheeling Billy in and he's looking back at me, and Jindy's smiling and beckoning me and saying I can come too, and we're unfair then on Henk and Terry, who are kind of just dismissed now and have finished their job and have nothing to do and aren't important any longer, though of course when we needed them, they were. And remembering this, I'm just turning to thank them when Henk makes it difficult by saying:

‘What about it, Lorrie?'

‘Laura,' I say.

‘Laura, then. Today's Friday. We could go to a disco. Tonight. What d'you say? I could show you around.'

I shake my head. Terry, the reserve driver, I can see, is backing away, getting embarrassed now, and shaking his own head. A lost cause, he might as well be saying, but I wouldn't be sure whether he meant Henk or me.

‘C'mon,' Henk says.

‘Thanks for taking care of Billy,' I say. ‘And driving us.'

Which, I think, Mr Prescott should be saying, but he's wandering after Billy and the stretcher and Jindy. With his head in a fog. Leaving me to deal with this.

‘Whadya say, Laura?'

‘No, I can't. I'll be on duty anyway. I've got to look after the kids.'

‘Well, after that?' Henk won't let go. ‘That's still early – c'mon, what d'you say?'

I've tried that,
I might as well have said, but I don't. I just shake my head and start after Mr Prescott, who's already disappeared inside.

‘You don't know what you're missing,' Henk says then in this sleazy way, and I get sick of him and say:

‘I think I do.' And just stop myself from adding,
And it isn't much
.

Which may be smart and that, but I wish – as soon as it's out

- I hadn't said anything, not because I can see it makes him angry and rude back, but because he's been nice enough and driven all this way and I know Mum would say, ‘There's no need. All you need to say is, Thank you, no.' And I wish I had, just like that. ‘Thank you, no,' which puts the
thank you
first and yet sounds really strong and decisive and is much better than ‘No, thank you,'

when you could be saying you don't want milk in your tea. But I haven't, I've been smart, so he's got to get his own back.

‘Stuck up skirt,' he says.

‘C'mon, Henk, c'mon, leave it,' Terry's saying and pulling at Henk's arm.

‘Stuck up Sydney bitch,' I hear as the glass doors of the hospital entrance close behind me. And I just catch a reflection of the red and blue and white of the ambulance pulling slowly away in the glass.

Sydney, I think, as I go over to the white, curtained cubicle where I can see Billy's trolley, and Mr Prescott standing uselessly beside it. Sydney.

‘
Ambulance?
' Mum says, and I realize I should never have mentioned the word. ‘
Accident?
'

‘It's all right, Mum, it's all right, it wasn't me.'

‘But who?'

‘One of the boys, Billy Whitecross, you wouldn't know him, he fell on the Rock, on Uluru, and broke his leg and they had to drive him here. That was yesterday, and he wanted someone in the ambulance to come with him, and for some reason he chose me.'

‘But you're all right?'

‘Yes, Mu-m. I just rode in the ambulance, that's all.'

‘Thank God for that. Poor boy.'

‘Poor me, you mean. Four hours in an ambulance isn't much fun. You don't see anything for a start.'

‘You weren't responsible for him?'

‘Not specially, he's just one of the kids, the most obnoxious, I used to think, but he's not so bad. He's just a normal boy. I've almost got to like him.'

‘Well, I can think of a thousand reasons why he'd choose you to go with him. You're sympathetic, you care about people, you're a pleasure to look at. If I was a boy in an ambulance …'

Sometimes the things your mother says about you can make you puke. Other times, especially if you're low, they can really lift you up. Even if they're lies.

‘And oh,' Mum says then, making some strange connections in her head. ‘Before I forget … Philip's rung, twice, in the last couple of days.'

‘So?'

‘He asked me to let you know. He seemed very anxious to talk to you. Again.'

‘Oh.' There's a silence on the line for a moment while we both think. It's amazing, Mum's voice is so clear you'd reckon she was in the next room, not her in Sydney and me standing under this tiny perspex bubble in a street in Alice Springs, more than a thousand kilometres away. And there weren't even any pips when she picked up the phone. I imagine I can almost hear her breathing. And waiting.

‘Mr Prescott came in the ambulance with Billy and me.'

‘Did he?' she laughs for some reason. ‘And how are he and Toni getting on? Did she chase him round the Rock?'

‘Nearly.'

‘That girl –' She laughs again, and I can hear Thomas then, gurgling and snuffling right up close to the phone and I wonder if Mum's feeding him while she's talking. But I don't want to ask.

‘I'll be glad to get home,' is all I say.

‘And I'll be so glad to see you, darling,' Mum says. ‘Do you realize – I was thinking just last night – this is the longest you've ever been away from me. I don't know what I'll do when you leave home.'

‘Maybe I won't. Maybe I'll just be an old maid and live out the back in Grandma Vera's flat.'

‘Some hope you've got,' Mum says. And I don't ask her whether she means I won't escape marriage, or she's not going to have me living rent-free in Grandma Vera's flat for the next two hundred years.

‘I better go,' I say. ‘I'm visiting Billy in the hospital, and then we're going out to Desert Park for the morning.'

‘Okay, darling. I can't wait to see you tomorrow.' But neither of us wants to hang up. ‘What's that – Desert Park, by the way?' she asks.

‘It's a place where they have exhibitions of animals and birds and all the plants of the desert. And they have this live display, Mrs Harvey says, with eagles and hawks, where they feed them in flight.'