The Never Boys (11 page)

‘The sun!' she said.

In the background, Michelle rechecked her watch.

‘The General's waiting for us,' Dean said soberly, not letting Zara go.

‘Mum can wait!' she said, brushing them away. ‘Doesn't she know I'm sixteen! I'm in control of my life, not her!' And with that, she stood defiantly — until her ankles gave way a second time and she fell into Dean's arms. ‘Nice catch,' she said hotly against his neck. ‘But you're always here for me, Deano, aren't you? Always getting me out of trouble. You shouldn't waste your time, y'know. I worry that
you're too serious. That you don't have enough fun. Did you have fun tonight, Deano? Hey?' With one hand, she clamped his cheeks together, as if trying to squeeze out a smile.

That was it. He hated drunken talks. With his free hand, he threw Michelle the car keys and asked her to open the back door. ‘We're going home.'

‘Not until one last dance,' Hayden said, more sober than drunk. ‘You heard the girl: Mummy can wait.'

‘You go back to the club if you want to. We're leaving.'

‘Says who?'

‘Says me.'

‘But who's listening?'

‘I am,' said Michelle.

Hayden glared at both of them, but they didn't move.

‘What do you say, Zar?' he asked over Dean's shoulder.

She couldn't answer. A belly full of vomit scattered them into the night.

Hayden ran barefoot across the warming concrete and dived into the swimming pool. He powered along a lane bobbing with orange markers, reached the far end and kicked off its edge. Two pretty girls, dressed in one-pieces, hurried to meet him at the start again.

Out of breath, Dean pegged himself on one of the markers halfway along the pool and cleared a noseful of snot. He watched as Hayden completed another two laps just to show off then hauled himself out of the water. The girls loved it and it wasn't hard to see why. Toned chest, flat stomach, promising eyes, pickup lines and confidence. Any guy who wore racing Speedos in public was comfortable with his body shape. That was why Dean hid in the pool, wearing boardies.

‘Which one's mine?' he asked dryly, as Hayden dunked himself back in.

‘Both of them if you want. I'm not in the mood.'

Hayden pushed out from the edge and floated on his back. He'd been like this all morning.

‘Look, there's nothing you can do about it,' Dean said. ‘The police have your phone number and they'll ring you if they catch the guy.'

Hayden twisted angrily. ‘Believe me, they better. Cos if I find him first, I'll smash his face.'

Dean kept his mouth shut as Hayden completed a few more laps. He wondered why he'd bothered tagging along in the first place. Sympathy? After the club? Get real. Hayden's misfortune was almost funny.

‘Did your neighbours hear anything?'

Hayden spat as he stopped opposite Dean. ‘Only that they heard a crash then the back door slam.'

‘No one saw him?'

‘Or heard a car. The cops think he escaped on foot.' Then, with a shake of his head, he added, ‘The bloke even stole my brother's glasses. How low can you get?'

Hayden sank to the bottom of the pool, failed to resurface and Dean panicked. But a burst underwater found him timing how long he could hold his breath.

They both broke the surface and scraped back their hair.

‘You like her, don't you?'

‘What?' Dean asked, his voice rising.

‘Zara. Admit it. You're attracted to her.'

‘She's my friend —'

‘But you want more.'

‘C'mon.'

‘Mate, I've known her since we were kids. I know a lot about her that you don't. You're not her type. Find another girl, okay?'

‘So you can have her? No way.'

‘Fine. You'll only get hurt.'

‘Is that a threat?'

‘If you don't take my advice.'

Only one of them left in the Falcon that morning.

The peace lasted till midday.

Dean tackled Hayden and bulldozed him against the shearing shed door. The older boy retaliated by twisting, wrestling then barrelling both of them down the jagged steps. A knee, a face full of dirt, plenty of cheers, Dean striking back with a sharp elbow to the ribs.

One swing, two swings, both misses. Caught off-balance. A counterstrike. Another miss, knuckles, connection. Then pain shattering Dean's resolve on the hard earth.

‘C'mon. You wanted this fight!
Get up!
'

‘Move away from him!'

It was Mr Conroy — their current boss. Not his shearing mates.

‘Now!'

‘We're not finished.'

‘Yes you are.'

‘But he attacked me!'

‘With what — a broom?'

‘He jumped me! All the boys saw it! Ask them!'

‘And you've been niggling him all morning.'

‘That was just a bit of fun.'

‘Tell it to your unemployment officer.'

‘What?'

‘Go.'

‘Hey?'

‘You're fired.'

‘You're kidding?'

‘Get off my property!'

‘But I'm the best ringer you've got!'

‘Not any more.'

Hayden stood his ground, glaring at Mr Conroy. If his expression was meant to intimidate, it didn't work. Mr Conroy looked ready to go a few rounds himself. The young shearer balled his fists, but backed away. The Falcon swerved sharply at the gates, obliterated a row of rose bushes, then accelerated between the hills.

‘Inside!' Mr Conroy commanded the gawkers. ‘Or I'll dock your pay.' He peered down at Dean. Blood and dust dirtied his face. Dizziness buzzed his brain.

‘Thanks,' Dean said, accepting Mr Conroy's hand.

‘You too. Off!'

‘Off?'

‘My property. You're fired too.'

‘But —'

‘I hired rousies, not boxers.'

Using his T-shirt as a swab, he patted away the blood as he trudged home. He was worried that he needed to see a dentist. Three teeth needled his jaw each time he pressed his cheek. Equally bad, the high-thirties heat blistered his skin as he took a shortcut across a cropped wheat field. No doubt he'd be sleeping in a bath of aloe vera that night.

The remoteness of the Conroy sheep station welcomed few visitors, so it came as a surprise to see a car dusting over a rise. He waved both hands above his head, attempting to flag down the driver and scab a lift into town. But his arms drooped as he spotted the raw orange Falcon.

Its tyres shuddered as Hayden cornered sharply, launched over the ditch and into the paddock. The fan belt squealed as the car gave chase. Dean ran. Hard! He had to find someplace safe. But where?

He rabbited right, left, right, trying to throw off Hayden. A quick twist of the steering wheel negated any advantage. He rolled to the ground as the Falcon just missed. The shearer was actually trying to kill him!

He got to his feet as the car started burning circles.
A cyclone of dust spun around him as Hayden blocked off all escapes. Brown grit and chaff sprayed his hair, eyes, nose, mouth and chest as it became impossible to see. The engine was menacing as it negotiated tighter sweeps, possibly only an arm's length away. He didn't move. His lungs ached, but he held out.

Finally, the growling softened as the car backed off. The dust drifted across the field, revealing shapes and shadows. He breathed deeply. At first he couldn't see the Falcon. But a tap of the accelerator pinpointed it. Behind him, metres away, Hayden sat; his eyes low and fixed.

If he was going to kill him, this was the moment. All it would take was a steady hand with man and machine lined up perfectly.

The handbrake dropped, the gears changed then the Falcon charged. But Hayden turned the wheel, peered at him then gunned the car across the paddock.

 

Under a signposted hill, the General waited half-seated in her ute. She was pretending to listen to the radio, but spotted Dean first.

‘You heard?' he asked sheepishly.

She switched the radio off. ‘I got the call twenty minutes ago.'

‘Are you mad?'

‘Should I be?'

He looked away and waited for the lecture. Instead, he heard the Falcon rampaging down Truro's main street.

‘Get in,' she breathed, banging the driver's side door behind her. He slid into the other side and the vinyl grilled his legs.

‘We're not heading home?'

‘Here.' She reached under her seat and handed him a backpack filled with his clothes. ‘Get changed. You look like a grub.'

‘You're — not kicking me out?'

A check of the mirrors. ‘For now.'

‘Where are we going, then?'

No answer.

They didn't speak again for another fifteen minutes. She drove and he wriggled into a clean set of clothes. Eventually the ute rattled into Angaston, chugging past cyclists and lost Victorian drivers. A trio of mutts chased them down a hill then halfway along North Street before a woman wielding a leaf blower tumbled them into a gutter. They turned into a large winery, which was twisted with vines x-rayed by the afternoon sun and home to two large stone buildings landscaped with flowerbeds and tiered
lawns. The first building was for cellar door sales. It was fitted with redwood, large windows, spit buckets, an empty fireplace and French oak barrels above the bar. The second was the conference hall. An enormous brass bell hung from its single tower, while underground many vats and wines aged and fermented. Dean had heard about this place. Michelangelo's. Famous for its reds and patronage of the arts. A lot of wealthy people dined on its grounds and its annual jazz festival was considered one of the state's best.

The General parked. ‘They need a new cellar hand. You're it.'

‘But I don't know the first thing about working at a winery.'

‘That didn't stop you becoming a rouseabout now, did it?' she shot back.

From his seat, he watched the workers repairing trellises and drip-irrigation lines. That didn't seem too difficult. But why him?

‘No catch?'

‘No.'

‘No shouting?'

‘I can if you like.'

She stared back at the grapevines. ‘I'd only be wasting my breath. You know you're an idiot. And
I can probably guess what the punch-up was about. As my mother used to say: “Men only think of two things — their bellies and what's at the end of them”. Somehow I doubt you two were fighting over food.'

She knew. The old girl definitely knew. So why wasn't she playing the protective mother this time?

‘You don't have to do this anymore, you know,' he said.

‘Do what?'

‘Help me. You've done more than enough.'

‘Would you prefer it if I didn't?'

‘No, I appreciate it. I really do. I just don't understand why you're not mad.'

‘Oh, I'm mad. Believe me, I want to put my boot up your backside —'

‘You know what I mean. You could kick me out right now and save the stress. But this —' Then, with a weak smirk, he dared, ‘People might think you actually like having me around.'

‘I'll start shouting now,' she said.

For a moment, he felt triumphant. The old girl had actually cracked a joke. It must have annoyed her because she quickly moved on.

‘Why haven't I kicked you out? Maybe that's the way things are done round here. Maybe one day I'll need your help. Or maybe I believe in giving people
a second chance. You're not the first person to make a mistake.'

He almost laughed. ‘I can't imagine you making a mistake.'

She laughed for him. A weary, experienced laugh. ‘I make them all the time. I made plenty of them when I was married — and I'm still making them today.'

‘You? How?'

‘With my daughter. She's making the same mistakes I did at her age: drinking, sneaking out, running around with boys — Don't look so shocked. I know what she gets up to with her mates.'

‘I don't think you've got too much to worry about with Zara. She's pretty tame.'

‘And you're a terrible liar.'

A busload of tourists exited the main building, wearing shiraz smiles and carrying bottles as heavy as their next credit card bill. It gave the General an escape. ‘Now c'mon. Stop wasting time. Introduce yourself to the manager there. She'll get you started.'

New Hebrides

August '43

Honey Bee,

Your last letter made me laugh out loud. Although the next time you draw us walking down the aisle together
try to make my head a bit smaller. It is almost as big as the AWA tower! The drawing I mean! That niece of yours sounds as much a handful as you. And how! Plucking the feathers off those chooks for your tea — while the chooks were alive! I wager they jumped around screaming like the dickens.

That reminds me. You were asking about the smell of fresh bread. We've got our very own bakery on board ship. It smells like home but a bit saltier.

All us boys have just come back from a concert hosted by the US carrier
Sangamon.
It was quite a lark. There was a big brass band and a stage show with plenty of pretty ballerinas, Red Cross nurses and torch singers. They attracted plenty of whistles, including many from me. But don't get too jealous, my love. These “girls” had the deepest voices you ever heard and a few of them had hairier legs than mine. Who knew our stokers and able seamen could look so good in dresses? It's a nice break from all the training, repainting and fire drills. Other times, we play deck hockey or practise fencing here to relieve the boredom.

What about our troops in Sicily? The dagos have overthrown Mussolini. Well isn't that a kick in the pants! Now if only the Germans would do the same to Hitler maybe we could all be home by Christmas.

With extra love,

Clive

New Guinea

February '46

Dear Beatrice,

Here I am at last. I almost didn't make it thanks to the bureaucracy back home, but with a little help from my friends at the dock, I not only got free passage north to New Guinea but a job as well. From tomorrow I'll be working with a salvaging company based in Port Moresby. The boss is German, which explains why he's had trouble employing staff here, although he's lived on the island for more than 20 years. But money's money. And with so many reefs and so many ships returning, he's expecting a big jump in business now that the war is well and truly over.

I don't really know what to say about this town yet except that it's extremely hot. I expected it to be a bit more civilised with more roads, shops and places to eat but I'll have to learn to live with that. I'll also have to learn to speak like the natives. One lady approached me and asked if I wanted
abus.
I thought she said “A bus”. I said yes and she tried selling me some sort of food involving rice. The only other word I've learnt is
muli,
which means lemons and rice. Looks like I'll be eating lemon rice for months!

I'm hoping to return to Sydney some time before November when I've earned enough for a ticket. I'll send
you a telegram beforehand telling you the exact date. I'll take you to the pictures and then dinner at whatever posh restaurant you name. In the meantime, I want you to know that no matter where I am in the world, I love you very deeply. Please tell my mother and father if you see them that I love them too.

Clive

New Guinea

June '50

(Back of a photograph)

Bea,

No, these poor men haven't eaten any of my cooking! They're mummies. And no pharaohs or pyramids in sight. The natives smoke-cure them, then place them in a spot that overlooks the village. I didn't believe it until the
copra bosboi
showed me. Remember how we always wanted to see mummies as kids? Still interested in going?

xxx

Clive