When Nan picked me up after school, I decided to try harder with her, just as Grandpa had asked. Yeah, that went well. She answered my question about her day with a scoff and a grunt. Stuff her and trying harder.
Nan made the first noise after her scoff and grunt in Winter Creek when we walked around the corner of the house to the back door. At first I thought, hoped, she was choking, then I saw what she was looking at.
Grandpa stood on the back veranda, holding Mum’s bike by the handlebars. The bike’s chrome shone in the afternoon sunshine.
‘Looks good,’ I muttered. Since the thing with Frewen, Mr Agar and Luke, everything seemed grey and dull.
‘Trent gave it a service and put on new tyres. You’d never know it was nearly twenty years old.’ Grandpa took one hand off the handle bars. ‘Take it for a ride.’
‘Not without a helmet,’ said Nan. She stood away from us, arms folded.
I shot her a dirty look.
Grandpa reached for a white plastic bag on the woodpile and handed it to me. ‘Should fit. Trent picked it.’
I pulled out a black bike helmet, the same colour and brand as the one I had at home. I stuck it on my head, straps hanging to my shoulders. It was a perfect fit.
‘Thanks.’
Grandpa’s smile disappeared. ‘Bit of enthusiasm wouldn’t hurt.’
‘Sorry Grandpa. Bad day. It’s good. Really good.’
He beamed. ‘How about a test ride?’
Nan stepped past us. ‘I’ll put dinner on.’
Grandpa wheeled the bike out the back gate to the driveway and held it towards me. I climbed on.
‘How does it feel?’ asked Grandpa, leaning against the ute.
‘It’s kind of heavier than my bike at home.’ Helmet unbuckled, I rode to the chookyard and back, skidding to a stop in front of Grandpa. ‘It’s pretty good.’
‘Pretty good—I guess that’s high praise.’
‘Yeah. Thanks, Grandpa.’
‘Pleasure. Take it for a burn down to the front gate and back.’
Nan glared out the window as I sped past the kitchen. Stupid old woman could glare all she liked. At last, I had a piece of freedom.
‘You’re up early,’ said Grandpa, sitting at the kitchen table. Steam rose from the mug in his hand.
‘Figure I had to be. Probably take me about a quarter of an hour to get to school.’
‘Maybe more—it’s windy today.’
Nan put a cereal bowl in the dishwasher with a bang. ‘There’s always the bus. I spoke to—’
I was enjoying how much the whole bike thing annoyed her. ‘I’ll be right. I need the exercise.’
‘Good point,’ said Grandpa.
This time it was a mug Nan slammed onto the dishwasher rack. ‘Mind the traffic. It can—’
‘Pat, for God’s sake, he’s been riding around the city.’
Nan looked so sour I wanted to laugh.
‘I’m off to check the ewes.’ Grandpa finished his drink and picked up his hat from where it hung on the back of the chair. ‘Have a good ride, Callum.’
The strong wind wasn’t my biggest problem on the way to school. The edge of the road was dangerous. At home the asphalt went all the way to the gutter. Here the bitumen ended in a jagged edge. After that there was gravel, grass and a big dip, like a drain, only not a concrete drain.
I just about lost control in the gravel when I pulled to the left as a car approached.
The closest I came to stacking was when the bus zoomed past. It wasn’t the edge, the wind or even the gust of air from the bus that caused the problem; it was Frewen jeering out the window. I steered straight into a pothole and wobbled like crazy. But I stayed on, just. I popped a mono, so Frewen would think I’d been mucking around.
When I arrived at school, iPod earbuds still in my ears, Miffo was sitting on the back of my bench, feet on the seat. Frewen and Klay sat either side of him and Matt Nugent stood at the end of the bench.
I strolled towards them as though my world was sunshine and skate parks.
‘Hey, Global Warming, is it true you play wog ball?’ yelled Miffo.
Here we go again. I stopped and brushed dust from my school trousers, pretending I couldn’t hear them.
‘He’s a cyclist now,’ said Klay.
‘Play a real sport, ya fag. Or are you too scared?’ said Matt.
Their laughter was loud ... and fake.
I leant against the ramp and stared past the admin building, keeping my face relaxed.
‘Him scared? Nah, he wasn’t too scared to have a go at Luke was he?’ said Frewen.
Not reacting was hard. My left knee jiggled while I tried to breathe slowly.
Frewen jumped off the bench and swaggered towards me.
‘You listening, Global?’
‘What?’ I pulled out my earbuds. ‘Sorry, Jack, were you talking to me?’
His face flushed. ‘You think you’re something special, but you’re just scum like your mother. She’s just a skank who tried to trap Woosher.’
His words were like a slap across the face. I shifted my weight. ‘That the best you’ve got Frewen?’ I slipped my earbuds back in, turning my iPod up.
Frewen open and shut his mouth. His lips were wet with spit. I closed my eyes, blocking him out. Mum a skank? And who or what was Woosher? Sounded like a dog’s name. Or a nickname.
Someone shook my shoulder. My muscles tensed. ‘What?’
Mrs Gray stood in front of me, frowning. The bell was tucked under her arm. ‘Turn off that music.’
My shoulders dropped.
‘No iPods, MP3 players or other electronic devices allowed at school, Callum. That includes mobile phones.’
‘Lucky Mum hid mine then,’ I said, wrapping the cord around my iPod.
Mrs Gray ran her tongue over her teeth. ‘Callum, I’m hearing disturbing reports about—’
‘Global warming skeptics? Their nonsense disturbs me too, Mrs Gray. Beats me how people can doubt global warming when the facts are everywhere. Half the country’s in drought, the other half ’s flooded, icebergs are melting. Honestly, I don’t—’
‘Callum!’ Mrs Gray’s face was more purple than grey. ‘Stop that nonsense, immediately.’
I slipped my iPod into my pocket.
‘The disturbing reports are about you. Your behaviour and your attitude to your classmates and teachers. We are a caring community here at Winter Creek. We include everyone. Understand?’
‘Yeah.’
‘As for yesterday’s display of aggression—do you have anything to say for yourself?’
‘No.’
Her lips twisted. ‘Your grandfather is a respected man in this community. He’d be horrified by your behaviour.’
I stared at the ground.
‘You will do a second week of clean-up duty, on your own. And—’
I groaned. ‘Come on, Mrs Gray.’
‘Don’t “come on” me.’ She waggled her finger in front of my face. The bell made a dull clang each time she moved. ‘While you cleanup, pay attention to how students at this school treat each other. And Callum, if you don’t smarten up, you’ll do a third week, and a fourth if necessary.’
‘There are laws against that,’ I muttered.
‘Really? And I’m sure there are laws against loud-mouthed smart alecs, too. Get to class.’ She stormed off, heaving the bell in the air as she went.
I picked up my bag, the word ‘Woosher’ ducking and weaving through my thoughts.
Grandpa passed me the jug of sauce. Seems Nan had given up her ‘no sauce with chips’ battle.
‘Did you have a good day at school, Callum?’ he asked.
‘It was okay,’ I said.
Because Luke wasn’t at school, I ditched his clean-up plan and followed my own—away from the oval. Not to avoid Frewen and his mates, but so I could think without interruption about Woosher. Thinking about that was like trying to untangle a massive knot blindfolded. Now, at the dinner table, the whole Woosher thing still lay tangled in front of me. I decided to concentrate about something easier.
‘Grandpa, can I ask you something?’
‘Sure,’ said Grandpa.
‘It’s about ... well, I know you said not to talk about it but—’
‘What did your grandfather tell you not to talk about?’ snapped Nan.
‘Luke Bennett.’
Grandpa froze, chip in hand.
Nan sat stiff and straight.
‘I just ... well, I thought it was better if I asked you instead of asking someone else.’ Neither of them moved. ‘What was Luke like, before—’
‘Why?’ asked Grandpa.
I shrugged. ‘I just wondered.’
Grandpa placed the chip back on his plate. ‘Benny was—’
‘Benny? That’s what Grace called him.’
‘It was his nickname before the accident,’ said Nan.
‘So why does everyone call him Luke now?’ I asked.
‘Because he’s a different kid, now Callum,’ said Grandpa. ‘Benny was bright, athletic. Pretty good actor too. Remember him in that school play, Pat?’
Nan nodded, her face grim.
Grandpa sighed. ‘Callum, Luke is...’
Nan banged the table with her open hand. ‘For heaven’s sake, Callum, you’re at school with the boy. You know what he’s like. Benny is gone.’
‘He’s not dead.’
Nan gasped.
‘That’s a bit rough, mate,’ said Grandpa.
‘Well she’s going on as though Luke’s dead, and he’s not.’
‘He may as well be dead,’ said Nan. ‘That poor family has been through so much and—’
‘I know, but—’
‘You don’t know anything,’ said Nan, pointing her knife at me. ‘You have no right to stir up trouble.’
‘Trouble? I’m just trying to help—’
‘How can you help him?’ She spat. ‘He’s not much better than a—’
‘Pat!’ Grandpa’s voice was like a crack of thunder.
Nan dropped the knife and glared at him.
‘That will do, both of you,’ said Grandpa.
Nan’s lips puckered as she cut her fish into cubes. I willed a piece of fish to lodge in her throat and choke her.
‘Are you coming tomorrow, Callum?’ asked Grandpa, his voice too bright.
‘To the footy?’
My grandmother’s laugh was more a snort. ‘Where else?’
Grandpa ignored her. ‘Yes, Callum. To the footy.’
‘I guess.’
He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. The rough skin on his palms made a scraping noise. ‘Good. Home game tomorrow. We play Sheffield. Should be a beauty.’
Nan did that snort thing again.
That was it. I picked up my plate and stalked to the dishwasher. I had to get out of there before I leapt across the table and choked her myself.
‘We’re still eating,’ said Nan.
‘I have homework.’
Nan frowned. ‘On a Friday?’
‘Yes, on a Friday.’
‘Go on,’ sighed Grandpa.
In my room, I punched my pillow until my arm ached.
The Winter Creek football ground was on the Marrook side of town and the same side of the highway as the school.
Instead of huge iron gates like the ones at Millington Oval, Winter Creek Recreation Reserve had double wire gates, like the farm gates at Marrook, only with brick gate posts. Just inside the gate was a small tin hut with a window that faced the gates. Near that, two old guys huddled over a fire burning in a metal drum. They waved Grandpa through.
‘Doesn’t the president have to pay?’ I asked.
‘My word I do! I always buy a family membership. That covers home games.’
Grandpa drove to the wing and edged the car forward until the bonnet almost touched the pipe fence. The oval looked kind of lumpy, more like a paddock than a sporting venue. Scattered around the oval were advertising signs for Warton’s IGA, Smithy’s Mechanics, Manning’s Milk Bar and the Gentle Peach Café.
In front of the scoreboard, which was so faded it was more grey than black, was a brown lounge suite—a three-seater and two chairs. Apart from the oldies over by the fire, the only sign of life was a Labrador, churning one out on the wing. I hoped that turd had Frewen’s name on it.
‘Where is everyone?’ I asked.
Grandpa checked his watch. ‘They’ll start arriving in about half an hour. We’re early so I can set up. Coming?’
‘May as well.’
I lugged cartons of soft drink from a storeroom to the canteen, put extra toilet paper in the toilets, even the ladies’, and filled and turned on the urn in the canteen and umpires’ room. When I returned to the store room, Grandpa handed me an open box of toilet paper.
‘Chuck these in both change rooms for me while I put the padding on the goal posts.’
A sour taste filled my mouth. I dumped the box at his feet. ‘No.’
‘Pardon?’ asked Grandpa, hands on his hips.
My palms felt sticky. ‘I mean...’
‘What?’
‘I just...’ I swallowed. ‘Couldn’t I do the padding and you go into the change rooms?’
It felt like Grandpa was looking right through my clothes and skin to my heart. He frowned. ‘I guess. Know what to do?’
I nodded like one of those dogs you sometimes see on the back ledge of a car. ‘Used to do it at school.’
‘Righto, but mind they’re joined properly.’
‘Thanks, Grandpa.’ Relief rushed through me. I ran into the clubrooms to get the pads and skidded to a halt inside the door. Every wall was filled with framed photos, wooden honour boards with gold names and premiership flags, dating back to 1902. The wall opposite me had colour head-shots of this year’s senior players. I didn’t recognise faces, but the names were familiar—Nugent, Miffson, Mitchell and Darwell.
A large black-and-white photo of a tall, skinny bloke wearing the Winter Creek jumper was in the centre of the wall and under the current team photos. There was something familiar about him. I walked across the scratched floorboards to read the writing under the photograph.
No wonder he was obsessed with the place. I turned to the honour boards. The first president of the club in 1901 was a J.D. Alexander, followed by a W.M. Alexander three years later. The name Alexander dominated the captain, coach, best and fairest and office-bearer boards too.
‘Thought you were lost.’ Grandpa’s voice made me jump.
‘Nah, just looking around.’ I glanced at him, trying to imagine him as a footy player, or coach. ‘Do Alexanders own the place?’ I said, nodding at the boards.
Grandpa laughed. ‘Well, my great-grandfather did.’
‘What?’
‘This used to be part of Marrook, but he donated it to the district as a sporting oval. Didn’t you notice the name above the door on your way in?’
I shook my head.
‘Callum, you are standing in the Alexander Clubrooms.’
‘You were a legend,’ I said, turning back to the photo.
Grandpa smiled. ‘I did okay. Come on, I’ll give you a hand with the posts.’
By the time we dragged the padding across the oval and wrapped them around the posts, cars were piling through the gates. Beyond a cyclone wire fence, a netball game had started.
‘All set,’ said Grandpa. ‘I’ll just check in with Rob, the Under-14s coach. Want to come?’
‘Think I’ll take a look at the netball.’
Grandpa raised his eyebrows. ‘At the netball? Or at a netballer?’
‘Give it a rest, Grandpa.’
‘I’ll be around the clubrooms if you need me. And the ute’s open.’
‘See you in a while,’ I said.
The siren blared, making me jump. The Under-14s jogged onto the ground. I took off, taking the long way, around the back of the footy clubrooms, to the netball courts.
Huge pine trees—kind of like the pines that edged the paddocks at Marrook—surrounded the two netball courts on three sides. Floodlights were attached to trees closest to the courts’ corners.
The spectators stood behind a tape barrier. I stood under the pines and watched.
Luke’s sister Ella, wearing the Winter Creek gold and brown lycra, glared at me. She had GD stuck to her front and back. One of her friends shot a goal, and the ball went back to the centre. Ella bounced on her toes, hand resting against her opponent’s hip. Burbridge had taught us to do that when I played footy for my old school. ‘When defending, touch your opponent so you can feel which way they’re going to move.’
Ella moved like Maddie—fast, but somehow slow and graceful—like she was dancing. I tore my eyes away and scanned the cars for Luke. He was sitting in the front seat of a wagon with a guy I figured was his dad.
The umpire blew her whistle, long and loud. All the netballers walked to their coaches. Except Ella. She thundered towards me.
‘Clear off, why don’t you. Leave my brother alone.’
‘I just wanted to—’
‘What? Hurt him again? Just stay away from Luke.’
‘Ella! Come away from him, now.’
I knew that voice.
Ms Nugent stood beside the Winter Creek coach. She wore a brown-and-gold raincoat and held a white crate filled with plastic drink bottles.
‘Hurry up, Ella. You need to swap bibs with Jackie,’ she snapped, not taking her eyes off me.
Ella didn’t move.
‘Now, Ella,’ screeched Nugent, her face red and swelling.
Ella kept glaring at me, arms folded.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’m going.’
When I reached the path, I turned back. Nugent was pressing the GK bib to Ella’s lycra uniform and watching me with crow eyes. I smiled and waved before walking back to Grandpa’s ute. I climbed into the cabin and turned on my iPod. When the Under-14s game finally finished, the Under-17s ran onto the ground. Frewen, chest out, sprinted to the centre, eyes fixed on me. I held his stare.
The game was pretty ordinary, so I watched the crowd instead of the footy.
It was amazing how much country people got into the footy. Like AFL crowds, they cheered goals, yelled at the umpires, argued among themselves and screamed ‘ball’ every 30 seconds. Unlike AFL crowds, they blasted car horns every time someone scored a goal, smoked at the game and drank from stubbies—there were no dry areas here. But the biggest difference between this match and an AFL match wasn’t the crowd, it was the players. Most of them were unfit and fat. One guy playing for the Sheffield reserves looked like a gut on legs.
At three-quarter time in the reserves match, Grandpa brought me a warmish pie, a Coke and a Mars Bar. He didn’t stay long. It was his turn to man the interchange.
Just as the senior game started, I decided to take a trip to the toilet. It shouldn’t have been a big deal, but between me and my destination were heaps of old guys, about Mr Agar’s age, gathered in front of the clubrooms, yelling, smoking and drinking beer.
Head down, I weaved through the smoke, beer fumes and beer bellies, keeping a lookout for Frewen, Miffo, Matt and Klay, who’d been strutting between the netball courts and the football ground since they’d won their game.
On my way back to the ute, my path was blocked by a massive bloke yelling abuse at a Winter Creek player. At the same time, a fight broke out between a Sheffield forward and a spectator. The spectator jumped the fence and grabbed the Sheffield guy by the throat. The umpire stopped play. No one tried to stop the fight. They just cheered. Someone shoved my shoulder.
‘Not like your wog ball, is it, Global?’ said Klay, leering. Frewen, Miffo and Matt were bunched around him.
The crowd lurched back, pushing me and the others towards the clubroom before I could reply.
‘Here’s an idea, ya greenie,’ said Frewen, chest puffed out. ‘Why don’t you bugger off back to where you came from?’
I stepped towards him, back to the ground, but facing the clubroom door. ‘Read the sign above your head, idiot. I do belong here.’
Frewen muttered, ‘You think you’re—’
I waved a hand, trying to look calmer than I felt. ‘Yeah, yeah, I get it.’ I went to walk away but stopped. ‘Hey, Frewen, tough break with those goals you missed today. Set shots in front of goal can be tough.’
I eased between two smokers, smiling.
‘What’ll happen to the bloke who jumped the fence?’ I asked Grandpa as we drove home. Ahead the sun was sinking behind clouds, turning them pink and orange.
‘That Dave Richardson is a fruit loop. So was his father.’ Grandpa turned into the Marrook drive. ‘Hope he gets a life ban.’
‘Can you ban a spectator?’
‘My word. Of course, it could end up being a police case.’
Grandpa slammed on the brakes and stared past me into the paddock.
‘What’s up?’ I asked.
He swore and sped up the drive to the house. ‘You go inside. I have something to do.’ He got out, slammed the car door and jogged up the path.
I stayed put. After a few minutes, Grandpa returned, his face lined and grey. He held a yellow box and a long green bag.
‘What’s that?’
‘Rifle.’ Grandpa slid the bag behind the seat and dumped the box between us. ‘Sure you want to come?’
‘Yeah.’
He drove back down the drive to the front paddock—the one in front of the lambing paddocks. Compared with how he normally drove around the farm, he was flying. He reached into his top pocket and tossed his mobile phone into my lap.
‘See if there’s reception.’
I checked my phone. ‘Only one bar.’
Grandpa swore again. He stopped the car and wrenched on the handbrake.
‘Grandpa, what is it?’
‘Bloody idiots who let their dogs roam, that’s what.’ He stepped out of the ute and leant in the open door to pull the rifle out of its cover and slip a handful of bullets into his pocket. ‘Stay there.’