Blabber Mouth (3 page)

‘One hundred metres, boys,' said Ms Dunning and just about every boy in the class stuck his hand up. When she'd finished writing down all the names, she said ‘One hundred metres, girls'.

No one moved.

Then the whole class turned and looked at a girl sitting on the other side of the room.

I don't know why I hadn't noticed her before because she's got the most ringlets I've ever seen on one human head in my life. The colour's fairly ordinary, barbecue-sauce-brown, but the curls are amazing. She must keep a whole hairdressing salon in business just by herself.

Everyone watched as she looked embarrassed and raised her hand.

‘Amanda Cosgrove,' smiled Ms Dunning, writing on her list. ‘Who else?'

No one moved.

‘Come on,' said Ms Dunning, ‘Amanda can't run the race by herself.'

Amanda was looking even more embarrassed now.

Must be another new kid, I thought. I wondered what she'd done to make everyone not want to race with her, and whether it had involved jamming something in Darryn Peck's mouth.

She was looking so uncomfortable I found myself feeling sorry for her.

Which must have been why I put my hand up.

‘Rowena Batts,' said Ms Dunning, writing down my name. ‘Good on you, Ro. Now, who's going to follow Ro's example?'

No one moved.

‘OK,' sighed Ms Dunning, ‘I'll have to choose some volunteers.'

While she did, and the people she chose groaned and rolled their eyes, the girl next to me scribbled a note and passed it over.

I thought for a moment she'd got it wrong and thought I was deaf, but then I remembered that you're not meant to talk in class in normal schools.

I read the note.

‘Amanda Cosgrove,' it said, ‘is the 100 metres champion of the whole school.'

I smiled to myself. At least tomorrow people won't be thinking I'm a show-off. And as the rest of the people were dragged into the race, and it's really hard to sulk and run at the same time, I can probably manage not to come last.

My heart didn't sink until several minutes later.

When Ms Dunning reminded everyone that sports carnivals are family events, and she's hoping to see as many parents there as possible.

Since then I've been feeling a bit tense. Nothing serious, my knees aren't pink or anything, but I've got a bit of a knot in the guts. Not Tasmania or anything, but Lord Howe Island.

The other kids keep looking at me a bit strangely, so it must be showing.

Ms Dunning even asked if I'm feeling OK.

I reached for my notepad, then had second thoughts and just smiled and nodded.

I couldn't bring myself to tell her the truth.

That I keep having horrible visions of Dad in the middle of the oval singing to everyone, and everyone backing away.

I thought about not telling him.

I didn't tell him all the way home in the truck.

By the time we got home I felt terrible.

Here's Dad busting a gut moving us here and fixing up the house and knocking the new orchard into shape, all so I can go to a proper school and live at home, and here's me not even inviting him to the first chance he's really had to meet people in our new town.

OK, second chance if you count the conversation he had with the man in the milk bar about how if the man didn't want people to cheer and thump the wall he shouldn't have got a video game in the first place.

I mean, Dad gets lonely too.

He doesn't talk about it, but he must do.

He's left all his friends behind as well, including girlfriends.

All for me.

Even before we left he always put me first. He never invited his girlfriends to stay the night at our place when I was home on weekends because he reckoned it wasn't fair for me to get used to someone when I'd probably never see them again. That was a really thoughtful gesture because I never did see them again. His girlfriends always leave him after a couple of weeks. They're probably married to someone else and just having a fling.

All the things he's done for me, and here's me having unkind thoughts about him.

I mean, who am I to have visions about him scaring people away?

Me, who can clear a classroom in three seconds.

Two if I've got a frog in my hand.

Dad's just a slightly unusual bloke with slightly unusual clothes and a slightly unusual way with people.

I'm the psychopathic frog torturer.

Plus if he found out I hadn't told him he'd be incredibly hurt.

So I told him.

I went down to the orchard where he was spraying and jumped on the front of the tractor.

‘Tomorrow's our sports carnival,' I said, ‘and parents are invited. If they're not too busy. But if they are it's OK, the school understands, and us kids do too.'

The good thing about talking with your hands is people hear you even when there's a tractor roaring away and a compressor thumping and spray hissing.

The bad thing is people hear you even when, deep down, you don't want them to.

Dad stopped the tractor, tilted his hat back and his face creased with thought.

‘Well, amigo,' he said, holding his thumb in the position we invented for when we want to speak with a Mexican accent, ‘it's a frontier out here. Enemies all around us.'

He dropped the Mexican accent and used some of the signs we invented last week.

‘Weevils,' he said, eyes darting around the orchard like a wary gunfighter. ‘Weeds. Mites. Fungi. Moulds. Mildews.'

He spun round and shot a blast of spray at a clump of couch grass. The last people to run this orchard were very slack.

‘On the frontier, a bloke can never rest,' he said.

I realised I was holding my breath.

Was he saying he was too busy?

‘Except,' he continued, ‘when it's his daughter's sports carnival. Then you couldn't keep him away even if a ten foot lump of blue mould had tied him to a railway track. What time does it start, Tonto?'

It'll be fine.

I know it will.

If I keep telling myself that, I'll get to sleep soon.

Tomorrow's just an ordinary old sports carnival and he's my dad and it's the most normal thing in the world for him to go.

It'll be fine.

It was fine.

Mostly.

Sort of.

At least Dad didn't sing.

And when he put his hand down the front of Mrs Cosgrove's dress, he was just trying to be helpful.

I'd better start at the beginning.

I got up really early and ironed Dad a shirt. One without tassels. Or pictures of cowgirls riding horses at rodeos. It had metal corners on the collar, but I hoped people would think Dad was just careful about his shirts fraying.

While he was getting dressed, Dad announced he was going to wear a special belt buckle to bring me luck in the race. I was worried for a moment, but when he came into the kitchen he was wearing one I hadn't seen before—a kangaroo in mid-hop.

I gave him a hug, partly because it was a kind thought, and partly because I was relieved he wasn't wearing the grinning skeleton riding the Harley Davidson.

In the truck on the way into town he played me one of his Carla Tamworth tapes. It was the song about the marathon runner who realises at the end of the race he's left his sweetheart's photo in the motel room so he runs all the way back to get it.

I could see Dad was trying to inspire me.

I wished he'd stop.

‘Dad,' I said, ‘I'm only in the hundred metres. And I'm up against an ace runner.'

Dad grinned and played the song again.

‘What it's saying, Tonto,' he said, ‘is that we can do all kinds of stuff even when we think we can't.'

If it was saying that, I thought, it'd be about a girl at a sports carnival who manages to persuade her dad not to upset the other spectators.

When we got to the school oval, the first event was just about to start. Kids and parents were standing around talking quietly, teachers were hurrying about with stopwatches and clipboards, and Ms Dunning was telling Darryn Peck off for throwing a javelin in the boys' toilet.

‘Well, Tonto,' asked Dad, ‘are we going to stand here all day like stunned fungi or are you going to introduce me to some of your classmates?'

I tried to explain that it wasn't a good time as the sack race was about to start and everyone was very tense.

‘You're the only one who looks tense, Tonto,' said Dad. ‘You can't win a race with your guts in a knot. Come on, lie down and we'll do some breathing exercises.'

Dad took his hat off, stretched out on the ground on his back, and started taking deep breaths through his nose.

I saw other parents glancing over with puzzled expressions, and other kids smirking.

‘Dad,' I said, ‘if you don't get up I'm going to drop a heavy metal ball on your head.'

Dad shrugged and got up.

As he did, Ms Dunning came over to us.

‘G'day Ro,' she said. ‘G'day Mr Batts.'

I explained to Dad who she was.

‘G'day,' said Dad. ‘Kenny Batts.' He grinned and shook her hand for about two months. ‘Ro's told me what a top teacher you are.'

Ms Dunning grinned modestly and Dad turned to me and winked and asked me if Ms Dunning was married.

For the millionth time in my life I was grateful that Dad talks to me with his hands.

But I still wanted to go and bury myself in the long-jump pit.

‘I can see I'm going to have to learn some sign-language,' grinned Ms Dunning. Then she excused herself and hurried away because she'd just seen Darryn Peck holding a starting pistol to another kid's head.

‘Nice teacher,' said Dad. ‘OK, let's mingle.'

As usual I was torn between going off and sitting in the toilets so no one could see I was with him, and sticking with him to try and keep him out of trouble.

As usual I stuck with him.

He walked over to some parents talking to their kid.

He'd already said ‘G'day, nice day for it', and stuck out his hand when I realised the kid was Amanda Cosgrove, the hundred metres champion.

And Mr Cosgrove had already shaken Dad's hand and was already looking Dad up and down with a sour expression on his face when I recognised his brown suit and realised he was the bloke who'd glared at us as we were being chucked out of the milk bar.

I smiled nervously at Amanda, but she was staring at the ground.

Either that or Dad's goanna-skin boots.

‘G'day,' said Dad, shaking Mrs Cosgrove's hand.

Mrs Cosgrove was looking very nervous and gripping her handbag very tightly.

‘Nice suit,' said Dad, feeling Mr Cosgrove's lapel and winking at him. ‘Bet it cost a few bob. Criminal, the price of clothes these days.'

‘I own a menswear store,' replied Mr Cosgrove coldly.

‘You'd be right then, eh?' said Dad, giving him a friendly nudge. ‘Listen, you might be able to help me out. Last year at a Carla Tamworth concert one of the backup singers was wearing this unreal pink satin shirt with black fringing on the back and a black guitar on the front. I've been looking everywhere for one. You wouldn't have one in stock, would you?'

‘We don't stock satin shirts,' said Mr Cosgrove, even more coldly.

Dad stared at him, amazed. ‘You should,' he said, ‘they're big sellers. I buy one every couple of months.'

Mr Cosgrove didn't look as though he was going to rush out and order a truckload.

Amanda nudged me gently. ‘It's our race,' she said softly.

She was right.

Mr Fowler was calling through his megaphone for all the contestants in the hundred metre races. Kids were lining up in their different age groups near the starting line.

I was just about to go with Amanda to join them when I saw Dad staring at Mrs Cosgrove's chest.

Crawling across her dress was a small greyish-brown moth.

Dad took a step closer to her.

‘Don't move,' he said.

Mrs Cosgrove froze with fear.

‘Codling moth,' explained Dad. ‘If you've got any apple or pear trees at home these buggers'll go through 'em like guided missiles.'

‘We haven't,' said Mr Cosgrove.

‘I have,' said Dad, and made a grab for the moth.

Before he could get his hand to it, the moth fluttered in through the armhole of Mrs Cosgrove's dress.

Mrs Cosgrove gave a little scream.

‘Hold still,' said Dad, ‘I'll get it.'

He grabbed Mrs Cosgrove's shoulder and stuck his hand into the armhole.

Mrs Cosgrove gave a louder scream.

Mr Cosgrove grabbed Dad and pulled him away. ‘You be careful, mister,' he snapped.

‘It's OK,' said Dad, ‘I've got it.'

He showed Mr Cosgrove the squashed moth between his fingers.

‘You,' Mr Cosgrove said loudly, glaring at Dad, ‘are a rude, unpleasant, badly-dressed hoon. Why don't you back off, go home, and leave us in peace?'

Dad stared at Mr Cosgrove, bewilered, and he looked so hurt I felt like crying.

‘Amanda Cosgrove and Rowena Batts to the starting line,' boomed Mr Fowler's voice through the megaphone.

Then Dad stopped looking hurt.

He glared at Mr Cosgrove. ‘Pull your head in,' he said, ‘I was only trying to help.'

He turned to me. ‘The bloke's a cheese-brain,' he said with his hands. ‘Don't let him spoil your race. Get out there and show 'em your dust, Tonto.'

He glared at Mr Cosgrove again and walked off.

I followed Amanda to the starting line and glanced at her but she didn't look at me.

I stood there while Darryn Peck won his race and crowed about it for several minutes.

I hardly noticed.

I was seeing something else in my head.

Me doing what I should have done ages ago.

Telling Dad to back off and stop scaring people away.

Making him listen.