to catch someone leaving
as they’re arriving.
Patrick’s mouth hangs open
like a laughing clown at the sideshow.
His mum winds down the window,
and I say loudly,
‘Sorry, wrong house.’
It’s easy to look guilty;
there’s no need for acting,
just a hurried pedal,
back to where I belong –
the poor side of the lake.
All the way home,
I tell myself
my plan to save Manx
will work.
The rich don’t always win.
Shimmer
I text Ella and arrange to meet her
at the end of the pier.
She sits down beside me
on the hardwood landing.
Our legs dangle over the edge
as we watch the shimmer of bait fish below us.
Ella reaches for my hand
and I look at the ring on her finger:
a single stone of jade on a silver band.
I touch its smooth surface.
‘My grandmother’s,’ Ella says.
Clouds scud across the horizon
and a jet takes off from Balarang Bay
wheeling north towards Sydney.
‘I’ve never been on a plane,’ I say.
Ella smiles and kisses my cheek.
‘It’s like the world is in freeze-frame,’ she says,
‘and you’re above it all, watching.’
The wheels of the plane
contract into the fuselage
and a single light blinks on the wing.
Mr Huth strolls along the sand,
carrying a rod and an esky.
He puffs on a pipe
and the acrid smoke
drifts towards us.
‘My parents won’t be home for hours,’ Ella says.
She stands and pulls me to my feet.
We walk off the pier.
‘I like your parents,
even though I’ve never met them,’ I say.
‘You almost met Dad.’ Ella grins.
I remember stumbling around her bedroom
trying to get dressed,
my stomach churning,
my knees shaking.
‘Are you sure your parents won’t be home for hours?’
Ella laughs.
‘Positive!’
A clattering sound
In the cool of the evening,
I arrive home to find Dad
loading garbage bags into the truck.
He walks into the bedroom
and returns with a suitcase
attempting a smile
that he can’t quite manage.
‘I’m going to camp at the workshop,’ Dad says,
‘now Suzy is home.’
He pushes the screen door open
with his boot
and struggles through with the suitcase.
The door bangs shut
with a clattering sound.
For as long as I can remember
Dad has been away for days at a time
on some forgotten highway,
but it still felt like he was around.
I go to the kitchen,
open the fridge
and take two beers from the shelf.
I carry them out to the front step
and sit down,
twisting the tops off the bottles.
When Dad returns from the truck,
I offer him one.
He watches as I take a deliberate swig
and sits down beside me.
‘You’re too young to drink,’ he says.
I take another swig
and reach across with my bottle
to clink it against his.
We drink until it gets dark
and the streetlights flicker on.
The bicker of blackbirds in the casuarina
mark the hours.
When Dad gets up to leave
I tell him I know where the workshop key is hidden
and I promise him he won’t be alone,
that I’ll visit most days.
He kneels down and cups his big hands
around my cheeks.
He nods his head
and I know,
just like me,
he’s too afraid to say anything more.
Coming ashore
In the early morning light,
I take the kayak from Manx’s front yard
and silently carry it to the lake
casting it and myself adrift.
Against the breeze
I slowly paddle
towards Tipping Point.
I’ve chosen the kayak
instead of my bike
because Manx owns it
and I’m doing this for him
and for me.
Last night, Rachel gave me Patrick’s number
and I’ve texted him
to meet me on the beach,
or else.
I smile to myself
at the implied threat
knowing I have nothing to lose;
despite Patrick’s two word response,
I’m sure he’ll be there.
The sun shines on the row of houses
along the point,
each one a mansion of pastel colours,
well-tended gardens
and insufferable neatness.
I think of my dad
setting himself up in the workshop:
a large room with one crusty window,
Peachy whining at the door,
the smell of oil and grease in the air.
I think of my mum
working overtime
to pay off repairs
to a second-hand car.
The kayak glides easily onto the sand.
I step lightly
along the bow
before dragging the kayak ashore.
Stand up
‘What do you want, loser?’
Patrick’s voice
comes from the shadow of a tree.
My spine tenses.
‘I’ve got your dope, Patrick.’
He steps forward and grins.
‘So?’
He shrugs.
‘I can get more where that came from.’
I turn and stare across to Manx’s house,
my silence
inviting Patrick to think
all the wrong things.
He steps in front of me.
‘So?’ he repeats.
I look him in the eye.
‘I’m not going to smoke it.’
My voice is measured and relaxed,
even though it’s not how I feel.
‘I’ve hidden it,’
I glance towards his house,
hoping he’ll take the bait,
‘somewhere that will prove
embarrassing for you
if it was found.’
He steps forward and grabs my shirt,
his face a few inches from mine
and spits out,
‘I’ll beat the shit out of—’
‘No you won’t,’ I interrupt,
‘because if you do,
the cops will be the first to know
where the dope is.’
He loosens his grip
and steps away.
A vein pumps in my temple,
but I keep my voice quiet, calm.
‘I’ve added more dope,
enough for the cops
to lay charges.’
He raises a fist,
but I don’t flinch.
‘Think about it, Patrick.’
He spits at my feet,
his face flushed with anger.
‘Here’s what you can do.
Convince your parents
to drop the charges against Manx.
&
nbsp; Tell them it was too dark,
tell them you were mistaken
and you’re not sure it was him anymore,
tell them anything you want,
and I promise you, the dope
will stay hidden forever.’
I take a deep breath
and step forward.
‘Or you can
spend today
trying to find it.
But if Manx is charged,
I’ll ring the cops
and you’ll be in deep shit.
Your choice, Patrick.’
His shoulders slump.
He looks back towards his house.
I remember Mr Lloyd-Davis
outside Batley’s Cafe
and the way he spoke to his son.
I almost feel sorry for Patrick.
Almost.
‘You have to stand up to him sometime,’ I say.
I walk slowly to the kayak,
step aboard
and use the paddle
to push myself away from the sand.
Floating gently in the shallow water,
I glance towards Patrick’s house:
the green lawn,
the wide double-glazed windows,
the diving board and swimming pool.
Then I turn and paddle back to Turon,
the sunlight bright on Manx’s shack.
A pact
The Holden isn’t in Manx’s yard
so I take a smooth round stone
and toss it onto the roof.
A second later he swears
and comes barrelling through the door,
almost tripping on the front step.
I can’t help but laugh.
He runs towards me
and grabs me in a headlock,
pretending to punch me again and again.
I squeeze free –
neither of us can stop laughing.
‘You’re always fighting someone,’ I say.
‘Only those who deserve it,’ he answers.
We walk across to the lake and sit on a log.
Manx slaps a mosquito on his arm.
‘It’s the swamp and those mozzies
stopping you from having
rich neighbours building next door,’ I say.
‘Nah,’ he says.
‘People like you and me, Jonah,
we drag down the price of everything we touch.’
I think of Ella and me,
the simple pleasure of holding hands
and the honour of Manx
not letting Rachel get caught.
I shake my head.
‘You’re wrong, Manx.’
I look towards Tipping Point.
‘Let’s make a pact,’ I say.
‘In five years’ time,
you and I will be sitting here,’
I look meaningfully at Manx,
‘drinking the beer you bought,
and we’ll count off the residents
at Tipping Point.
I bet none of them will be the same ones as today.
They’ll all move out
bored with the lake,
the sunsets,
and the salt of the ocean.
They’ll return to Sydney
or build an even bigger house
further up the coast.
We’re as permanent as gold.
They’re as temporary as …’
I try to think of the word.
‘… as paint?’ Manx grins.
So much like happiness
Saturday lunch
and I’m teaching myself
how to scramble eggs
from a cookbook,
even though I reckon
Dad’s the expert,
not this glossy recipe.
Lined up on the bench
are grated cheese, capsicum,
and thinly sliced ham that I bought
with my own money
because, if you’re welcoming a guest,
then you should treat them right.
Mum is doing an extra shift for double time
and Dad’s at the workshop.
The table is set with napkins
and the best plates I could find,
even if they don’t match.
I open the window
and smell the ocean.
Someone knocks quietly
on the screen door
and I check my reflection
in the kitchen window.
I hear Ella’s voice
say, ‘Jonah’,
and it sounds like happiness.
So much like happiness.
Melting
After lunch,
Ella and I sit on the lounge.
Ella leans in close
and traces a line up my arm
with her fingers.
‘My dad has a tattoo
of Mum on his forearm,’ I say.
‘I’ll get some ink and a needle,’ Ella replies.
She squeezes my skin tight between her nails.
‘That doesn’t hurt, does it?’
I think of Dad, in his workshop,
tossing a ball for Peachy.
Tomorrow,
he’ll be back on the road.
Love stains.
Ella jumps up,
walks to the kitchen
and takes a container from the fridge
that she put there
when she first arrived.
She tells me to close my eyes.
I lean forward, in darkness,
and hear the crackle of something plastic.
‘Tell me what I’m holding,’ Ella says.
I can smell something sweet and nutty.
‘Pistachio,’ I guess.
‘And?’
I lick my lips.
I know it’s lemon gelato,
but I joke, ‘Salted caramel.
I love salted caramel!’
I open my eyes
and she jumps on me,
pinning me down on the lounge.
We both laugh.
She leans close and kisses me,
while the gelato melts in the container.
Trust
The following Sunday,
Manx casts a line into the lake
and sits against the tree trunk
looking across the water to Tipping Point.
He doesn’t turn around when I approach.
‘Let’s imagine you’re a mullet,
stuck in the lake,’ he says.
‘There’s no way out, Manx,’ I say.
He spits between the gap in his teeth.
‘Someone has let a few sharks loose.
They’re big ugly monsters
that take up lots of space.
What do you do?’
I shrug. ‘It’s a big lake, Manx.’
‘But sharks don’t just swim
innocently around
smiling at the locals.
They feed off the weak,’ he says.
I think of Ella and me,
the gentle hope of skin on skin.
‘Mullet stick with mullet,’ I say.
‘Maybe some are impressed
with the size of their …’ He laughs.
I shake my head.
‘We trust mullet with mullet,
no matter what.’
The line screams;
it’s a big fish.
Manx smiles
and indicates for me to take it.
I rush to the rod
and quickly begin reeling it in.
Manx whistles as
I let the fish play
for a minute
to tire it out
before reeling again.
It comes easier now.
A silver flash breaks the surface.
I bite my lip
and reel harder
focused only on the catch.
At the last moment,
I flick the rod
and the fish sails over our heads,
landing with a thump on the bank.
It’s the biggest we’ve caught.
Manx grips the fish in both hands
and carefully removes the hook.
He smiles at me.
‘Mullet.’
I grin back.
He walks to the water’s edge,
kneels down in the sand
and holds the fish under the water;
the fish stops wiggling.
‘What’s that word again, Jonah?’ Manx asks.
‘Trust,’ I say.
Manx releases his grip
and the fish darts into the deep.
Manx stands, walks towards me,
and wipes his hands dry
on my t-shirt.
A horn sounds from the road.
Mr Gunn waves from the Holden.
Manx takes the rod from my hands
and walks away.
When he reaches the car
his dad says something
and Manx turns,
cups his hands and yells,
‘Fish and chips for dinner!
You want some, Jonah?’
I look across the lake
for just a moment
to the row of houses at Tipping Point
before turning away,
and striding up the embankment towards
Manx and his dad.
THE SIMPLE GIFT
Steven Herrick
Shortlisted CBCA Book of the Year for Older Readers
Shortlisted NSW Premier’s Literary Awards
My hand in his
stops trembling
for a moment.
When the paths of a runaway teenage boy, an old hobo and a rich girl intersect in an abandoned train yard, each carries their own personal baggage. Over early mornings, long walks and cheap coffee they discover, no matter how big or small, it’s the simple gifts in life that really make a difference.
A life-affirming look at humanity, generosity and love.
‘Herrick is an expert writer.’ Weekend Australian
ISBN 978 0 7022 3133 9
First published 2016 by University of Queensland Press
PO Box 6042, St Lucia, Queensland 4067 Australia
www.uqp.com.au
uqp@uqp.uq.edu.au
© Steven Herrick 2016
This book is copyright. Except for private study, research, criticism or reviews, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.
Cover design and illustration by Jo Hunt
Typeset in 12/14 pt Adobe Garamond by Post Pre-press Group, Brisbane
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group, Melbourne
Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
National Library of Australia
catalogue.nla.gov.au