Forever Shores (22 page)

Waiting

Mintook's harvest that year was a clinker, and a record twenty-three Year 12 students were offered university places. After two years of solid toiling, Narelle Tyler became pregnant. Despite this, she and Kim were keen for Raymond to stay on as their guest. The boy from the future had a sweet manner and made friends easily. Dogs were especially fond of him. Ray could get even the most unruly mongrel to do anything.

Raymond proved to be an intelligent, attentive student with a predictable interest in history. Even with so much doubt surrounding the length of his stay, the boy hoped to win a scholarship to continue his studies beyond Year 12.

The young men who might have imagined Ray to be an insuperable adversary were finally won over by the outsider's capacity to tell a killer yarn. Ray's blue stories were several shades bluer than anything ever told in Mintook, and his audience left it for Ray to judge whether speaking this filth conflicted with his regular vague references to Allah.

It was as a cricketer that Ray really made his mark. Blessed with elastic wrists, the cricket bat was a wand in his hands. As the boy from the future chalked up a succession of massive scores, observers expressed the view that Ray must have been privy to sophisticated coaching. Few believed him when he said that he'd never heard of cricket before.

So huge was his enjoyment of the game, Ray began to hope that his mission was to save cricket from extinction. So far as the newcomer could gather, cricket was all about marshalling the forces of time; a game of patience and opportunism.

Once the initial excitement wore off, girls were less obvious in their attempts to win Ray's attention. Many chose to refer to him as the local cricket star before mentioning that this visitor from another time was Mintook's harbinger of destiny.

The most enthusiastic of Ray's female admirers, Jodi, and the boy from the future soon became thought of as an item. This affection notwithstanding, Jodi made no more nocturnal flights, and declared herself to be in no rush to give up her ‘virtue'. Knowing too well what these declarations meant in local terms, Kim Tyler always made sure that Ray had condoms to safeguard against a moment when present and future might conspire to merge rather too dramatically.

At first, everyone waited, but gradually consciousness of the wait diminished, and Mintook people began to think of Raymond as just one of many agents of destiny rather than time's ultimate cannibal. Newspapers were printed, bread was baked, buses were caught and missed. Children were born and several older residents died. The McGibbon family shifted back to Melbourne. If Mintook's boy from the future was going to evaporate, he'd do so when the time suited and not before. After the final of the cricket, hopefully.

Even Mrs Peng began to think of Ray as just another boy in whites who cycled down her street on his way to the cricket ground every Saturday. These assimilations were pretty much her experience of life in the towns around Koorook. Outsiders came, and they were a big deal for a while. You often wondered what they thought this community could possibly do for them. Violent conflict seemed inevitable. Then, the sun rose one day, and it was as if they'd always been there, hand-picked for the town by some greater force of necessity.

Doctor Who? (
or
The Day I Learnt to Love Tom Baker)
Ben Peek

At fourteen, I had never seen my father's face. It wasn't that I didn't try to see it, only that he was
very
good at hiding it. Behind the black-and-white print of his newspaper, underneath the grease and red of our car, and up the steel legs of his ladder where he perched over the clogged gutter: Dad had hundreds of ways to hide his face. Even surprise didn't work. The one time that I was sure that I had caught him unaware—I had burst into the toilet by accident—I found Dad looking at me through the Batman mask he was wearing.

That
incident had been at a fancy dress birthday party for one of his girlfriends, and I like to think that it was merely a coincidence, rather than a planned deception. It had been Mandy's party, the one with blonde hair, I think, but Dad had also been seeing a brown-haired girl called Andy. I had always gotten the two of them mixed up. So much so that once I thanked Andy (or was it Mandy?) for a gift that the other had given me. But I refuse to be blamed for that. It's not my fault if my dad can't date one girl at a time.

That mask in the toilet was a perfect example of how Dad managed to keep his face hidden from me. It occurs to me, every now and then, that it is possible that the government has been swapping fathers on me for years, and that they have a collection of stocky, middle-aged men wearing seventies rock T-shirts who come and go through my house at monthly intervals.

I'm not too sure what the reason for this could be, and I suppose it doesn't really matter. Not today, anyway. I had the day off school to go with Dad to Grandpa's funeral and, besides trying to peer through the straggly brown hair that is the back of Dad's head, I'm not really in the mood for conspiracies. Grandpa's dead. In the back of the car is my inheritance, while in the front of the car is Dad's current girlfriend, twisted around on the front seat so that she can talk to both of us.

Her name is Angela, and she is another one of the tall, dark-haired girlfriends that Dad brings home from university. There are two kinds of girls that Dad brings home: the tall blondes, and the tall brunettes. I like to think that there are some short, red-haired girls there too, but overall I think it's healthier not to think of my Dad, his girlfriends, and whatever it is they are doing at two o'clock in the morning. (I know what they're doing, okay? I just refuse to say it.)

I wouldn't really say that there is anything great about Angela, but at least she hasn't tried to win me over with presents, or said to me, like either Mandy or Andy said, ‘You can call me Mum'. I didn't like that one bit, and I even found that it cheapened the lunches that Mandy (or Andy) had made for me to take to school. Not to mention the presents. Actually, when I think about it, Angela is okay, except for the fact that she has given me the nickname Holden, which she and Dad think is a riot. Ha ha. So funny. And for the record, my name is Matt.

Angela has been speaking to Dad for most of the ride home, asking questions about Grandpa and what it was like for Dad when he was growing up. Cue boredom. Unable to fake interest any longer—and looking for an easy distraction—Angela turned her attention towards my inheritance, and then said to me, ‘You know, it really isn't that bad.'

‘Do you want it then?'

‘Matt,' Dad warned.

I rolled my eyes at his back and silently dared him to turn around. But he didn't, so I took another look at the curly head that poked over my seat from the back of the station wagon. I sighed.

It was still Tom Baker.

It was a life-sized, black-and-white cardboard cut-out of Tom Baker—whoever he was—complete with silly curly hair, a scarf, and geeky clothing.
This
was what my Grandpa had left me, believe it or not. Dad got some money and I got a cardboard cut out of Tom Baker, which I suppose shows just how deranged the old man was when he died. Which isn't a nice thing to think, and I regretted it cause he was a nice Grandpa and I didn't wish that he was dead.

But still: a
cardboard cut out of Tom Baker
! A whole house full of things and he leaves me this?

‘He was in
Doctor Who
,' Angela said, shaking her head at my eye rolling.

‘Doctor what?'

‘
Doctor Who
.'

‘Oh,' I said, but that didn't clear up anything. I had the sneaking suspicion that
Doctor Who
was going to be one of those television shows that she had watched when she was my age.

‘I watched it all the time when I was your age,' Angela said. ‘I thought it was cool.'

‘Do you still think it's cool?'

‘
Matt
,' Dad warned again.

‘What?'

‘Be nice.'

‘I was!'

‘I know that tone.'

Angela said, ‘I think it's still cool, yes.'

It was on the tip of my tongue to suggest that maybe she'd like to take Tom home, but I could almost hear Dad's warning. I bit that back and said, ‘What kind of show was it?'

‘Science fiction,' Dad answered.

‘Did you watch it too?' Angela asked, giving him the smile that girls gave my Dad when he had watched their favourite TV shows.

‘Yeah.' Dad sounded like he was smiling too.

‘Did it have any cool special effects?' I asked, sliding over in my seat to try and see if he was.

Avoiding me by checking his mirrors, he said, ‘At the time.'

‘So,
no
is the answer.'

‘You got to remember how it was at the time, Matt.'

‘Dad, can I explain something to you? They have
good
special effects now, and it's time for you to stop making excuses for those shows you watched when you were my age.'

‘Matt, don't—'

‘It's true, Dad.'

Dad sighed as Angela laughed. He said, ‘How'd you become so cynical?'

I didn't reply. Dad asked me that all the time, and while I had a few theories on it, I also knew that it wasn't the sort of question that I was meant to have an answer for.

When we got home, Angela helped me carry Tom Baker upstairs. Dad and I live in a pretty big place out in Eastwood, and Dad spends most of his spare time mowing the lawns or working in the garden, which I think are his hobbies. Most of his time is spent either with his girlfriends, or out at his job at Sydney University.

Once we got into my room with Tom Baker, I began kicking my clothes out of the way and clearing a spot. Yes, I
do
have a messy room, but it's not because I get any joy out of dumping my clothes, toys, magazines and books around it like I do. And I don't enjoy having dust on my TV or on my computer. But I do let the clothes pile, and the dust crawl, and when it gets to the point that it needs to be cleaned, that's usually around the time that I get into trouble. Well, trouble is such a strong word, because I don't set out with the thought in my head that yes, today, a Tuesday, will be Trouble Day. It really is just a misunderstanding, even if it does result in me being punished, and having a messy room stops Dad from having to think of something
interesting
. This is why I let the clothes pile, and the dust crawl, and why there was a pile of clothes next to the TV that I had to kick away before Angela and I could place Tom Baker.

He still looked like a geek, and I said as much to Angela.

‘That's how he looked in
Doctor Who
,' she said.

I stared at the cardboard cut-out. The more time I spent staring at it, the more uninteresting it became. There was just something about his clothes, and that scarf, and, yes, his hair, which was really …
boring
. Where were his weapons? What about the monsters? What could Grandpa have been thinking when he left me this?

Yes, I'll leave this to Matt. I think he'd really enjoy this. Absolutely. He can dance with it around his room.

Or:

Matt doesn't look like he has many friends. Perhaps a cardboard cut-out of Tom Baker would really help him in that department.

Somehow neither struck me as right. Grandpa had always liked his things weird, that was true, but there was a reason for it. Maybe there was a map to buried treasure on the back of Tom's head? Would it show itself tonight under the moonlight? Somehow I doubted it.

‘What are you going to do with it?' Angela said.

‘What can I do with it?'

She looked at me, then looked back to it. ‘You could sell it.'

‘You want to buy it?'

‘What would I do with it?'

‘Dance?'

Angela laughed, but it wasn't hard to get a laugh out of Angela. She, unlike Mandy or Andy, had a sense of humour. She said, ‘I don't really like dancing enough to dance with Tom Baker.'

‘He could be a dinner companion for those lonely nights,' I suggested.

‘I eat here most nights.'

‘And don't you think it's time to cut down?'

I probably shouldn't have said that—I could practically hear Dad warning me from downstairs, but Angela just smiled. Then she said, ‘Well, whatever you decide, it's yours. Have fun.'

When she had left the room I checked the back of his head, just in case there was a map there. There wasn't.

I had decided, after a few dance steps with Tom Baker, that he wasn't really good for anything, and I was going to head back downstairs when I heard a whisper. I had settled Tom down next to the TV again, and the sky outside the window was dark. The tree outside rustled but the night was otherwise quiet, and there was no one left in the room to make the whisper. Except me.

I breathed onto my hand, listened. I wasn't given to whispering without being aware of it. It could have been my imagination? I never had control over that. I waved at the cardboard cut-out and left my room, heading downstairs.

I had a strange dream that night. I blame Dad, because he had done the cooking and
what
ever he had made—there was some name for it, but it didn't sound particularly believable—gave me that dream. It has happened before, and I'm pretty good at blaming Dad.

In the dream, I was sleeping in my bed. It was peaceful and quiet and dark, like how I imagine the middle of the night usually is, when I was awoken by a whisper. It sounded just like the whisper that I had heard before, but louder.

I sat up in my bed and looked straight at the cardboard cut-out of Tom Baker. The light from outside had slanted right through the window and when I looked at him, really
looked
at him, I could see his cardboard mouth moving.

‘My first film appearance was in
A Winter's Tale
,' he said, and his voice sounded mushy, as if it was being pushed through wet cardboard. ‘I had originally been in the stage production of the piece two years earlier.'

Well, I remember thinking very clearly, that's nice. In the dream, it didn't seem very strange that Tom Baker was speaking. In fact, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. So natural that I fell back to sleep and didn't let the whispering bother me.

I was late waking up the next morning, which was, of course, going to make me late for school. I pulled on my uniform without a shower, grabbed my bag, waved at Tom Baker and ran down stairs, jumping the last five as I aimed for the door.

‘Hey!'

I stopped with my hand on the doorknob. Angela rushed down the stairs with her own bag slung over her shoulder. ‘Need a ride?'

‘Uh huh.'

That's the other thing I like about Angela. Mandy or Andy had never given me a lift to school unless Dad was around, and they always made sure to point it out to him. But not Angela. She would sometimes take me to school three, four times a week because she had her own morning classes to attend, and had not once made a special point of waking up early to take me.

Angela drove a blue hatchback with a lot of rust paint around the doors, and the inside smelt strongly of her perfume. Her driving was … well, I liked it. Dad referred to it as an amusement park ride, and there was that quality about it when Angela began weaving through cars.

When we got to school, Angela said, ‘I think your dad is going to rent some
Doctor Who
episodes for you this afternoon.'

‘Tell him to rent the 1978 season,' I replied without hesitation.

Angela laughed, told me I killed her and drove off.

Personally, I was little concerned, because that hadn't been a joke. I really
did
think that Dad should rent the 1978 season, and what was worse was that I even wanted to watch it. By lunch time, I had decided that it was a combination of the dream I had had and the stress that I constantly lived with from not ever having seen Dad's face.

When I got home, Dad's station red wagon was in the driveway. I found him in the kitchen with his head stuck beneath the sink and a toolbox next to him, and his hand was trying to reach it, but couldn't.

‘That you Matt?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Can you pass me the socket wrench?'

‘It's right next to you, Dad,' I said, looking where his head was. It was too dark to see anything but the pipe he was fixing. ‘All you've got to do is look around.'

‘
Matt
,' Dad said with that tone.

‘Honestly.'

‘Matt, just pass me the wrench!'

I put it into his hand. ‘Dad, where did Grandpa get Tom Baker?'

‘I don't know. A shop, I guess.'

‘Oh.'

Dad tightened something, then said, ‘I rented some
Doctor Who
episodes, they're on the counter there.'

‘The 1978 season?' I asked, alarming myself again.

‘What?'

I found the videos on the counter, and began shuffling through them. ‘Dad, none of them have Tom Baker in them.'