Dash and Dingo (11 page)

62 | Catt Ford and Sean Kennedy

a toast to “Dash” and his first Aussie barbecue, Helen produced a banana pudding the likes of which Henry had never tasted before.

“Dingo, dear, Dash can’t keep his eyes open,” Helen said. “For pity’s sake, take him up to bed.”

For some unaccountable reason, Dingo’s father seemed to find this amusing, but Henry couldn’t for the life of him decipher why.

“You boys will bunk together,” Helen continued. “I’ve aired the sheets and opened the windows.”

“I’m not sleepy,” Henry mumbled, although his eyes felt heavy and he’d brought his head up with a jerk several times when he nodded off.

“Ah, Dash, come on. I’ll take you up and show you where everything is,” Dingo said. “It’s been a long day, and we haven’t seen a proper bed in almost a week.”

“Don’t worry, son,” Hank said, meaning Henry, not his own son. “You can’t be off to the wilds of Tasmania tomorrow anyway. Take the time to get some rest because you may be on the run once you get—”

“Henry, dear,” Helen said warningly.

“Yes?” Both Henry and Hank answered at once, Henry in confusion and Hank with amusement.

“Henry, dear, you won’t mind if I call you Dash, I’m sure,” Helen announced. “It’ll make everything so much easier, especially tomorrow when both the other boys will be here.”

“Of course,” Henry mumbled. He startled when he felt Dingo’s hand on his arm, pulling him to his feet. He gave an awkward little bow. “Good night, uh, Helen and Hank. It’s so good of you to have me.”

“It’s not them what’s having you, Dash, I’m putting you up in my room,” Dingo said with a grin. He put his arm around Henry’s shoulder.

“Your bag is already up there. Up you go then.”

Henry was too tired to protest. He stumbled along, almost grateful for the warmth and support of Dingo’s arm but uneasy about sharing a room with the man. However, it was likely he could turn to face whatever wall was closest to the bed they put him in and pretty much keep his eyes off Dingo, if not his thoughts.

With the ease of long familiarity, Dingo didn’t turn on the downstairs light as he led Henry up the dark stairs.

“The loo is here,” Dingo said as he flicked on the light.

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The bathroom was small, all the fixtures white, but excruciatingly clean.

“Mum’s put out the blue towel for you,” Dingo said, pointing it out.

“My room’s this way.”

He led Henry across the hall and turned on the light. Despite the sporting trophies, books, photographs, and models that crammed the shelves, all Henry could take notice of was the bed.

The only bed.

That he was apparently going to have to share with Dingo.

“I can’t—we can’t—” Henry sputtered.

Dingo gave his shoulders a squeeze. Henry thought he looked

unaccountably pleased, his mouth stretched in a wide smile that showed all his gleaming teeth.

“No worries, Dash. I won’t be testing your virtue… too much,” Dingo teased.

“But I—”

“Look, you can’t sleep on the couch; you’ve been on those mailbags for the past few days. Get some proper rest, Henry. I’ll be up later,” Dingo said, looking away from Henry, who was relieved because he was afraid that the emotion he felt at Dingo’s saying his real name so gently would show on his face. Dingo moved to the door. “Sleep well.”

“Which side do you—”

The mischievous smile spread over Dingo’s face once more. “I sleep in the middle. Usually. But then, I usually sleep alone.” With that Dingo left the room.

Henry stood there for a moment, feeling doomed. There was no way he could sleep in the same bed as Dingo without betraying himself. He imagined being sent home to England in disgrace, his mission a failure and Dingo finding another companion to travel to Tasmania with. Then he yawned.

Suddenly he felt so tired that even going to the bathroom to brush his teeth, let alone going to Tasmania, seemed to be an insurmountable expedition.

Methodically he removed his clothing down to his boxers. He hadn’t brought pajamas, knowing it was summer in Australia and that most likely he wouldn’t be needing them in the bush. Now he would have given anything for the security of pajamas to act as a barrier between him and Dingo. He trudged into the bathroom, making quick work of washing and brushing.

64 | Catt Ford and Sean Kennedy

Once in Dingo’s room, Henry wanted to explore, but he was too tired.

Resolving to try to remember to ask what the trophies were for in the morning, he turned out the light and was soon fast asleep, securely tucked into the left side of the bed with one of the throw pillows lying by his side.

Struggling out of the throes of sleep, Henry felt unaccountably warm.

His waking brain tried to make sense of it; the sun coming through the window was hot and bright, even for the early hour, and the slight breeze coming through the window was also balmy. But that wasn’t accounting for everything. There was heat against his back, and it felt like a band of burning iron was lying across his chest. Henry looked down and realized he was tightly snuggled into Dingo’s tanned arms. He tried to ease away cautiously, even though he felt quite delirious with delight to rest against that firm chest.

He also couldn’t resist running his hand along the muscle of Dingo’s arm, his palm being tickled by the blond hairs beneath it.

He felt Dingo move behind him and dropped his hand away

immediately. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dingo lean over and his eyes widen with confusion.

Henry opened his mouth to hurry into explanations and apologies, but he was forestalled by Dingo pulling away with a jerk.

“Dibs on the bathroom,” Dingo said, and then he was gone.

And that was that.

Henry lay in the bed, not knowing what to do. He could hear water being run in the bathroom, and downstairs it sounded like Helen and Hank were starting to get breakfast ready. He threw on some trousers and a light shirt; it was already so warm he decided to pad down to the kitchen in his bare feet, where he was greeted by the smell of brewing tea and what was obviously a pot of coffee for Dingo and his anti-tea bias.

“Morning, Dash,” Hank said cheerfully as he started breaking eggs into a large bowl. “Sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you,” Henry replied, trying to look more cheerful than he actually felt.

“Did my great lunk of a son wake you up when he finally stumbled into bed?”

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Henry shook his head.
But I definitely was awake when he left it.
He managed to croak out, “Finally?”

“He was going over plans with me until the wee hours of the morning.”

“Oh.” Henry felt slighted that he wasn’t apparently part of this, especially seeing as he was the one actually accompanying Dingo on his travels.

“You’re not a morning person, are you?” Hank asked, sizing him up.

Henry realized he wasn’t doing a very good job at being a genial guest.

“Oh, sorry.”

“Are you one of those who need a pot of tea before they can get going?”

Hank pushed a cup and saucer before him and headed over to the stove to oblige him.

“I guess so,” Henry said, glad for the excuse.

“Just like Dingo.” Hank laughed. “Except he can’t stand the stuff.

Coffee, for him.”

“I’ve noticed.” Despite his melancholy, he smiled faintly.

Hank studied him for a moment. “Are you… getting along with

Dingo?”

“Getting along?” Henry asked in confusion.

Hank took the pot of tea off the stove and began pouring into his cup.

“You know, do you like him?”

“Yes,” Henry said falteringly. “He’s very easy to… get along with.”

“He’s a charmer, all right.” Hank laughed. “Do you like milk or lemon?”

“Do you have lemon?”

“Have a tree full of them!” Hank disappeared for a few seconds while Henry added sugar to his tea, coming back with a healthy specimen with a fragrance that Henry could smell even before it was cut. Hank sliced it deftly and presented it to his guest. “I’m glad. He doesn’t have many friends, you know.”

Henry found this hard to believe. “Dingo?”

“Oh, he’s got plenty of
acquaintances
. He can talk with anybody, but he hasn’t got many
close
friends. I can tell he thinks of you as one.”

“How so?” Henry asked, interested.

66 | Catt Ford and Sean Kennedy

“He’s just so bloody comfortable around you.”

He wasn’t ten minutes ago
, Henry thought. “He seems comfortable around anybody he meets.”

“There are differences.” Hank shrugged. “You’ll probably notice the longer you know him.”

At the moment, Henry didn’t feel like that would be much longer. He watched the slice of lemon bob upon the surface of his tea and took his first sip.

Dingo’s mood, however, was much changed after breakfast. It seemed any discomfort he felt after waking up had been completely obliterated from his memory, because after he helped Helen wash the dishes, he announced grandly that he was taking Henry to see the sights of Melbourne.

“I reckon that means you’re taking my car.” Hank frowned.

“That’s all right, isn’t it, Dad?”

“I guess so.”

Surprisingly, Henry found himself speaking up. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather go by public transport. I always find that’s the best way to explore a city. And to study the people more.”

“Looks like my car is mine again,” Hank said happily.

“Dad
hates
people borrowing his car,” Dingo explained to Henry.

“Not everybody, just you,” Hank needled his son. “You’re too heavy with the clutch.”

“A car needs to be ridden hard every now and again.” Dingo smirked.

“Just like the person driving it.”

Helen struck her errant son with the tea towel. The wet end of it was extremely effective as a whip, and Dingo yelped as it cracked soundly across his arm. “Get out of here, you dirty boy,” she said without venom.

Dingo winked at Henry and made a dash out of the room.

“Honestly,” Helen sighed. “I don’t know what to do with those boys sometimes.”

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It was an affectionate tone, however. Henry gave her a quick smile, but his mind was already replaying the wink that Dingo gave him and what it meant in context with his ribald remark. He didn’t understand the man and his mixed signals; Henry’s hopes were raised many a time and destroyed just as quickly in the next moment. He didn’t know how he was going to survive the rest of his time in Australia.

68 | Catt Ford and Sean Kennedy

“Oh, the light rail,” Henry enthused, his face beaming in the warm sunlight pouring through the open window. “This is the way to travel!”

“It’s just a tram, Dash,” Dingo said, trying not to laugh at his friend’s eagerness as the electric vehicle noisily trundled down the track in the middle of the street. They passed beneath an electric node, and a shower of sparks flew past their window as the connector bow made contact. “You do have them in London, remember?”

Henry waved his hand dismissively. “But this is an
Australian
tram. It’s new and exciting.” He turned his face upward into the sun;
that
was certainly something you didn’t experience that often on a London tram.

They got off on Lygon Street and searched for authentic Italian coffees.

Henry could close his eyes and pretend he was in Italy as immigrants from that country spoke quickly and furiously in their own tongue above the sound of the espresso machines. Over coffee he wrote Gordon a quick note letting him know that he had arrived safely and was now in the care of Dingo, and then he ran out to post it in a box. From there they jumped on another tram and headed into the city, where Henry marveled at the architecture that in parts seemed so much like London. He especially admired the recently completed Manchester Unity Building just across from the Melbourne Town Hall, which seemed to touch the sky with its Gothic spires. A postcard of it was procured from a street-side newsstand, and Henry surreptitiously stuck it into his journal, which he had thus far managed to keep hidden from Dingo.

A beer was had at Young and Jacksons, a pub a few doors down that had an air of notoriety for its scandalous exhibition of Jules Joseph Lefebvre’s nude portrait
Chloe
. Henry flushed upon first viewing the mysterious woman exposed for all to see, and Dingo laughed at him. Her head was slightly turned, as if awaiting her lover to come and ravish her.

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“She’s… quite pretty,” Henry mumbled, as Dingo seemed to be

awaiting some reaction from him.

“She also killed herself,” Dingo replied matter-of-factly. “She ground matchsticks into a powder, added gin, and drunk the whole thing.”

“That’s tragic,” Henry said, noting that the painting had now taken on a rather morose light.

“That’s what love does to you.” Dingo shrugged, downing the rest of his beer. “Onward, ho!”

Henry didn’t even get to question him about his cryptic statement as they burst back out into the sunlight and fresh air, a sweet relief from the cramped and smoke-filled conditions of the pub. Dingo quickly led him past the ornate façade of Flinders Street Station, where the many clocks hanging above the entrance informed Henry it was only just past eleven in the morning. Had he truly been drinking beer at this time of day? These Australians apparently never wasted a moment of time.