Gift of the Gab (11 page)

Why's it taking them so long?

With the amount of gear they've got here, you'd think they'd have him out by now.

If I was the French version of the State Emergency Service and I had cranes and scaffolding and generators and lights and an army of bomb-disposal experts in padded suits, I'd have had Dad out of there hours ago.

OK, I know the shell's so fragile that the slightest bump could blow him and them into the next country.

And I know the edge of the trench is so crumbly that they have to reinforce it before they can get the crane close enough.

And I know the shell's slipped so far out that they daren't try and get scaffolding in next to Dad in case the whole thing comes down on them.

But I still reckon I'd have him out by now.

And then I could get home to bed instead of hanging around behind this security tape having painful thoughts.

Like how, even though I really want to blame Dad for what he did to me with the spray, I'm having trouble doing it.

Because if I had a dad like Dad's, a dad who was always angry and yelling at me and never showed he loved me, I'd probably get sucked in by a friendly, caring, older chemical salesman too.

A salesman who seemed to like me.

A salesman who took me under his wing.

A salesman who wanted to teach me things.

I probably wouldn't notice he was doing all that just to sell me more chemicals either.

I'd probably trust the scumbag just like Dad did.

This is ridiculous.

What are they doing over there?

I've built really complex Lego rescue operations in less time than they're taking over there.

If I climb onto the roof of this four-wheel drive, I can just see Dad down in the trench.

Oh no, the shell's slipped out even more.

Dad's having to support most of the weight of it.

I can see his arms trembling with the effort.

He's giving it everything he's got, but how much longer can he take the weight?

If I was the French version of the State Emergency Service I'd be feeding him onion soup to keep his strength up. And I wouldn't have that ambulance parked where he can see it and get depressed.

Thank God Dad's used to giving things everything he's got.

Like when he first married Mum and started the farm and everyone told him it wouldn't work.

Including the bank, the stock and station agent and his dad.

He showed them, but.

‘Every day,' he told me once, ‘I'd look at Mum's tummy getting bigger with you, then I'd go out into the paddocks and give it everything I'd got.'

Now I'm crying.

I don't want to because if Mrs Bernard sees me she's liable to get all motherly and take me home.

Oh come on, you blokes, work faster.

He can't last much longer.

He's my dad and I want you to get him out.

I'm yelling encouragement to him, but he can't see my hands from down there.

If only Mum was here to yell with her voice.

Wait a sec, I've had an idea.

Mrs Bernard was brilliant.

For a woman who's never sung in public before, she was amazing.

OK, she got to read the words off my notepad, but she also did a great job with the tune and she's only heard Mum's song a few times and most of those were twelve years ago.

I couldn't even play her the cassette because it's back at the house and I was worried Dad wouldn't hold out that long.

Mrs Bernard's guts must have been in a knot as we walked to the edge of the trench. I know mine were. For a start we weren't even meant to have climbed over the security tape.

When the rescue workers saw us, I was sure they'd make us go back.

They started yelling and pointing, but we just ignored them and started singing.

Mrs Bernard really belted it out and Dad looked up almost straight away. He frowned at first, then gave the sort of crooked grin people do while they're holding up huge weights.

I made my hand-movements as big as I could so he'd know I was singing too.

Then I heard other voices joining in behind us.

I turned round.

Mr Didot and Edith and Mr and Mrs Rocher had followed us. They were singing as well, peering over Mrs Bernard's shoulder to see the words.

They couldn't pronounce half of them and they were even more out of tune than Dad usually is.

It didn't matter.

By the time we'd got to the chorus bit –

‘I know you love me

I know you're doing your best,

That's why I'm not angry

You've got my head in an ants' nest.'

– Dad's legs had stopped trembling and his shoulders had straightened up.

Which was just as well because suddenly my shoulders were shaking with sobs.

It was Mrs Bernard's singing that did it.

Even though Mum has been dead twelve years, her voice was still alive.

Helping me save Dad.

And her heart.

And her eyes.

And her kidneys.

I looked up at the singing faces gazing down at me and I knew I was being given the one thing I've always wanted more than Mum's voice.

Her love.

At that moment one of the rescue workers trying to get a nylon crane sling in position slipped and bumped the shell.

The shell slid out further.

Other rescue workers yelled in alarm.

Dad was only just able to hold it. I don't reckon he would have if we hadn't been singing.

Then suddenly the crane sling was in position.

The rescue workers started yelling again, instructions this time.

The crane motor revved, the cable tightened, and slowly, slowly, slowly the shell was lifted off Dad.

He was free.

Bomb disposal experts dragged him up out of the trench.

He was surrounded by people slapping him on the back and kissing him on both cheeks.

I couldn't even get to him.

The truth is, I held back.

I wanted to hug him, but something was stopping me.

What if I put my arms round him and it didn't feel right?

What if even though my brain knew it wasn't his fault about the spray, my guts wouldn't let me forgive him?

What then?

I didn't get a chance to think of an answer.

Suddenly the crowd around Dad fell back.

A woman was walking slowly towards him across the rescue site. She was wearing an ambulance driver's uniform.

The local people all stared at her, and then at Dad, and nudged the non-local rescue workers and told them to shut up.

I felt arms slip round me and hold me tight.

It was Mrs Bernard.

The woman stopped in front of Dad and looked him in the face.

In the bright rescue lights I saw her cheeks were wet with tears.

Mrs Bernard stepped closer to Dad and took me with her.

The woman said something to Dad in French. Mrs Bernard translated.

‘My name is Michelle Solange.'

Suddenly I had a knot in my guts the size of Australia, including Tasmania.

The woman spoke again. Mrs Bernard hesitated, then translated.

‘I killed your wife.'

Some of the onlookers gasped.

I did inside.

Dad blinked.

Still the woman kept looking straight at him.

‘My baby daughter was very sick,' she continued. ‘I was rushing her to the hospital. I was in a panic. That's why when I hit your wife I did not stop.'

For the first time she looked at the ground.

‘Also,' she said quietly, ‘I was scared they would take me away from my daughter.'

She looked at Dad again.

Dad still had no expression on his mudstreaked face, but I could see his eyes were red and I knew it wasn't just because of the time being 4.20 a.m.

‘To try to make amends,' said the woman, ‘I became an ambulance driver. I have helped save hundreds of road victims. But it is not enough. So I have come to you to say what I should have said twelve years ago.'

Mrs Bernard paused, and I realised it was because her throat was choked with tears.

Finally she whispered the woman's last words.

‘I'm sorry.'

There was a long silence. Dad and the woman looked at each other.

Then Dad did a wonderful thing.

He lifted his arms and put them round the woman and held her to him.

I looked at them, two weeping parents who'd both just tried to do their best.

And I knew in my guts I wanted to hug him too.

I did most of my crying at Mum's grave.

Mrs Bernard and Mr Didot and Mr and Mrs Rocher and Edith did a fair bit too, specially when I laid the sausages next to Mum's headstone.

But we did some laughing as well.

And some singing and mouth-organ playing.

Mum would have liked that.

Dad did most of his crying at his grandfather's war grave. He's still doing some now.

I don't blame him.

Standing here among the hundreds of white stone crosses, if s hard not to shed a tear.

A lot of these young Aussie blokes were dads when they were killed in the war. Dads who were just doing their best.

A lot of kids had to grow up without them.

That chemical salesman might even have been one.

I reckon that's pretty sad.

Specially for someone like me who's growing up with one of the world's top dads.

Just now me and Dad had one of the best hugs we've ever had and Dad told me he's planning to do two things when we get back to Australia.

First he's going to put a metal plaque on our biggest apple tree in memory of his grandfather.

Then he's going to go and make his dad a bacon and jam sandwich.

I reckon Mum'll be pretty happy to see that.

She won't be there in person, of course, but I will, so that's almost the same.

And then afterwards I'm going to use my gift of the gab to tell Paige Parker everything that's happened.

And when I do I'll make sure I give this place a special mention.

Because if the TV people want to broadcast the truth about Dad and the sprays and me, they should tell the whole story.

It's only fair.