Pulling the Moves (6 page)

The farmer stands beside his truck with the .22 smoking, looking disgusted. Even the dog looks disgusted. How could he have missed at such close range? Just as well it’s an old rabbit-shooting .22 and not a machine gun or we’d have more holes in us than a crumpet.

Zac spins the wheel. We do a donut then head back, engine roaring, towards the ute. The farmer’s frantically trying to reload.

‘Don’t kill him,’ I scream, as we whiz by with centimetres to spare.

Another bullet shrieks past. Just as well he’s a lousy shot. Potting rabbits is probably easier than potting speeding vans.

We roar on down the road. But over the howl of the V8 I hear something else, a sort of humming noise. It’s coming from—

‘Copter. Up there. It’s onto us,’ snaps Macca, pointing.

A copter?

Cola sticks her head out the window.

‘It’s got “POLICE” written on it,’ she goes as she pulls her head back in.

They must’ve been cruising along up there going on a mission and noticed the fun with the farmer.

The copter dives and swoops in tightening circles above us. About time something happened, I’m thinking, as we rip away, gravel spurting like volcanic lava from the tyres. Now they’ll pinpoint us, close in, and I’ll be rescued at last.

We scream down the road, bouncing over potholes, as the copter follows like an angry wasp, hot on our trail.

‘Lose him!’ yells Macca.

Sure
. They can fly faster than we can drive. Grow a brain! But Zac nods and plants the foot.

We leave the road again and bore flat out across a paddock. Bright idea. The copter sticks to us like a burr on a sheep’s bum. Sheep raise heads then take off in a mad panic in the opposite direction. I wish I could join them. I’ve been bounced and jolted so much that I feel like I’ve done five rounds with King Kong.

‘Into those trees,’ yells Macca.

He seems to be down from his psycho speed trip and functioning like a rational human again. Well, sort of.

We make for the bush. It’s the start of some hills. There’s a narrow track meant for four-wheel drives or tractors, but we’re on it. The copter hums overhead, trying to spot us through the trees which are tall, stopping the copter from getting in low, and we’re roaring down into a valley now. The copter can’t get in too close because of the hills. It’s starting to rain. The gums are hanging over the track, making a perfect screen. Where’s the infra red? They must know where we are despite lack of visibility. Dense scrub scrapes the sides of the van, scratching the duco. Steve’s going to seriously spew when he sees it. There’s this thumping great dent in the side, more scratches than a horse race on a wet day at the Melbourne Cup, and Coke and burgers splattered all
over the inside.

We keep going. And going. And going. Up hills. Down into valleys. Other tracks lead off. Must be an old logger’s track. The Holden wasn’t built for this sort of treatment. I just know it’s going to fall apart any minute. And will this track never end? It’s got to lead somewhere.

It does. Next thing we’re out of the trees and onto the flat paddocks again, going flat out.

‘Where’s that copter?’

‘Don’t know. We’ve lost him.’

‘He’ll be back. Head for that hayshed.’

There’s this half-collapsing shed on thin stick-like supports, full of hay.

‘Hang on.’

We bore straight into it at 120 k. Hay collapses around us, falls all over the van. Now I
know
I’m going to die, buried in hay.

The phone rings.

‘Is your mother there?’ It’s Steve.

‘Well, she’s—kinda busy.’

‘Tell her that some cops have spotted Sam in a paddock near Portland and they’re closing in. He’ll be delivered back in time for the wedding,’ he says. ‘Then we’ll deal with the criminal bit. Tell your mother I’ll see her at the church.’

He seems so cool. I guess cop school trains you to be like that.

‘You still want to go ahead with the wedding?’ I ask.

‘Of course. This is just a small hiccup. Take care of your mother, Leanne.’

He hangs up. But underneath his casual voice I can tell he’s worried.

Mum’s in the lounge room.

‘That was Steve.’

She looks hopeful.

‘Sam?’

‘The cops have found him in a paddock. They’ll post him back by helicopter, so lighten up,’ I go.

‘But—maybe I should try and get to Portland,’ goes Mum.

‘Look, you’re better off here. By the time you get there Sam’ll be on his way back. He’s okay, Mum, he’s not hurt.’

I don’t know that for sure, but here’s hoping.

‘I think you should go,’ says Mona. ‘You’re his mother.’

‘No, I don’t think you should,’ says Mrs Strachan.

Mum stands there looking miserable. Then she starts howling again. I can’t stand much more of this.

Someone’s banging on the back door. What next? I go to answer it and Cooja’s standing there.

‘Is Sam here?’

‘No,’ I say, resisting the urge to strangle him. I lead the way into the lounge room. Cooja follows, then pulls up short when he sees the wailing women.

‘What’s happened?’

‘Sam’s pinched Steve’s car and done a runner.’

Cooja gapes. ‘Sam?
Sam’s
nicked Steve’s unit and done a runner?’

‘Yeah. Amazing, huh. But that’s not the big issue here. Come with me.’

I drag him into my bedroom, which is easy, because he’s skinny and short. He’s wearing baggy green shorts and an even baggier grimy once-white T-shirt with “Rip Curl” across the ribs. His blond hair’s falling over his eyes with a number two undercut at the back, showing up his pointy little ears. He’s got bright blue eyes, a small beaky nose, and a crooked grin. He’s definitely not a look, but he’s got this sort of cheeky appeal which must be the turn-on for heaps of girls, because there’s nothing else that could be a turn-on that’s visible to the naked eye. I push him down onto the beanbag that Cathy just left. It suits him.

‘What’s this I hear about you and Cathy?’

He looks defensive.

‘Nothin’.’

‘Why did you tell your mates you’d had it off with her, you little slime bag.’

‘I dunno—Anyway, who told you? None of your
business
, Leanne.’

‘Well, I’m making it my business.’

‘I was going with her and now I’m not. So what?’

‘Cop this, you little worm. Cathy’s a nice girl. She doesn’t need you badmouthing her. She really cares about you, and you’ve just used her up, and—’

‘Hang on, Leanne.’

He looks at me with his innocent blue eyes. It must be the eyes: that’s how he gets them. The eyes. I’d like to change them from blue to black, but I fold my arms and tower over him.

‘Go on.’

‘Look, I thought I liked her, but now I don’t.’

‘Come on. You’ve been going with her for nearly a year now. Well, on and off.’

‘Yeah, and I’ve decided I don’t want to go with her any more.’

‘That’d be right. Use her then dump her. I hate guys like you, Cooja.’

‘So I changed me mind. I can’t help that, can I? I’m off Cathy and I like Bin.’

Great. He’s pulling more moves than a can of sex-mad worms. He likes Bin! Does Sam know about this? Does Sam care? And if Cooja suddenly likes Bin, where does that leave Cathy and her friendship with Bin?

He sees my uncertainty and changes the subject.

‘Where’s Sam?’ he goes.

I sigh.

‘Somewhere near Portland. The cops are onto him, and …’

‘The cops?’

He looks worried.

‘Sam’s me best mate,’ he goes.

‘Yeah, and you’re some best mate, tryin’a spade his girlfriend.’

‘They’re not going together any more, Leanne. Bin’s not going with Sam. She’s anybody’s, up for grabs.’

I feel like bashing him over the head. Male pig-brain!

‘Look. Sam’s been found. He’ll be back soon and you can talk to him then. And if you know what’s good for you, you’d better tell your mates you were just mouthing off about Cathy, or you’ll be wearing your teeth on a necklace, got it? And lay off Bin!’

‘Okay, okay.’

‘Now hit the street. I’ve got to help Mum get ready for the wedding.’

‘Is the wedding still going ahead, then?’

‘Of course,’ I say. ‘It’s too late to cancel. Steve’s sure
that Sam’ll be back in time. Now, go before I really lose it and deck you one.’

‘You’re a hard woman, Leanne.’

‘And you’re a terminal idiot,’ I mutter, as he leaves.

I go to the lounge room and unpeel Bin’s mother off my mother and steer her towards the door.

‘Are you sure …?’ she says, looking back over her shoulder.

‘Yeah, yeah. We’ll be fine. See ya at the church, Mrs Strachan. And don’t forget to take the cake.’

‘Oh, yes. I have to drop it round at the Scout Hall.’

She picks up the box and towels out, looking flustered.

I feel exhausted. How will I hang out till the wedding?

‘Come on, Mum. Dry your eyes. We’ve got to get your make-up done and your dress on and all,’ I say.

‘I’d better go,’ says Mona.

‘Good idea.’ I show her the door.

I go back and drag Mum into the bathroom. Major problem. If I shove her under the shower it’ll wreck her hair. I grab a washer and do her face and hands. Then I push her in front of me till we reach her bedroom. She walks like a zombie. I lead her to her bedroom stool and push on her shoulders. She sits.

‘Wait there!’ I go and get my make-up case. This is going to be a major job. Her eyes are all red and puffy.

I smear on make-up thickly and do her eyes.

‘Don’t start bawling,’ I warn her. ‘This isn’t waterproof mascara, Mum.’

‘Oh, Leanne,’ she moans.

‘Keep calm. I just know that Sam’s going to rock up to the wedding, and if you look a wreck he’s going to crack it for sure. He’ll want to give away an attractive mother, not some blubbering wreck. And you want to look nice for Steve, don’t you?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Trust me.’

I outline her lips with my red pencil and carefully put on some lipstick. It doesn’t look right, too red, so I go to her cosmetic case and find a softer pink. I get her looking reasonable.

‘Now we’ll have a cuppa,’ I say.

We sit at the kitchen table and drink strong coffee. She doesn’t want anything to eat, so I make myself some two-minute noodles. She’s probably stuffed to the eyeballs with Tim Tams, I think, as I glance at the clock.

‘We’d better watch some TV,’ I say. ‘It’s too early to put on your dress yet.’

We take our coffees into the lounge and stare at some footy match. Mum gnaws at her fingernails.

‘I’ll put some polish on, Mum.’

I haven’t got any pink polish so I paint her nails red. She waves her hands around to dry them. I thought women about to get married were all excited and happy. Mum’s like in a coma. She couldn’t care less.

‘Mum, are you sure you want to get married?’

She looks at me with tired eyes. ‘Of course.’

‘Well, then. It’s time to get dressed.’

‘Isn’t it still a bit early?’

‘I’ve got to help you then get dressed myself, okay? Come on.’

I lead her into her bedroom. The dress is hanging up on the curtain pelmet, covered in a huge plastic bag. I take it off the hanger and help her lift the dress over her head. It falls in soft folds around her. I adjust the train. Luckily it’s only short or I’d never cope.

‘Where’re your shoes?’

‘In the cupboard.’

‘There.’

She squashes her feet into the white high heels.

I fix the hat onto her head. I wonder how many daughters get their mothers glammed up for weddings?

‘Now, just go back and watch telly while I get dressed.’

She sits gingerly on the lounge room sofa, her dress bunching round her, and obediently focuses on the football game. I’m really worried about her: she seems so pale, quiet and resigned. I realise with a jolt that she thinks Sam’s probably carked it out on the highway somewhere, and she’s gone into shock.

I rush into my room and dab on some make-up. I drag my dress over my head and shove my shoes on my feet. No time to fuss. Mum’s just as likely to jump in the Falcon in her wedding gear and start driving down to Portland. When I finally get my hands on Sam I’m going to wring his scrawny little neck! I rip back into the lounge room and Mum’s still there staring at the footy match. We both sit and gawk at the screen as the players dive and weave after the ball.

There’s a knock on the door.

Who?

Yah! The photographer! I’d forgotten all about it.

‘Mum, stand up and look happy,’ I go.

The photographer poses us in various places. Mum tries to smile and her face looks like it’s going to crack.

‘She’s just nervous,’ I explain, as he rolls his eyes.
‘Don’t worry, you’ll get some great shots at the church.’

He packs up his gear and leaves. We go back to watching TV. I didn’t know footy could be so boring. I keep looking out the window waiting for the wedding car. Anything to be out of this house and on our way before she breaks down completely.

At last this grey Mercedes with white ribbons rolls to a stop outside our house.

‘Right,’ I go. ‘Ready? Grab your flowers, Mum.’

‘But what about Sam’s buttonhole? And Steve’s, too?’

I snatch them up and shove them in a plastic bag.

‘We can give them out at the church. Now, come
on
.’

We tumble out the front door and I lock it. We troll down the driveway with me trying to keep Mum’s train off the wet concrete. That’d be right: a cold, rainy day.

‘Good luck,’ calls our nosy neighbour Mrs Pruitt from her side of the fence.

‘Thanks,’ says Mum shortly. There’s no love lost between Mum and Mrs Pruitt, who’s sniffing round outside her kennel for a bit. When our tennis balls go into her yard she never gives them back. She ring-
barked our gum tree because she said it was choking her drains, and it was at least two metres from the fence, which means she must’ve sneaked into our place and attacked our tree. But trees don’t make for good fingerprints. And the time Sam sold her some chocolates for the school chocolate drive when he was in primary school, she bought two bags and said she’d pay later and never did. She phoned the cops because she said Sam’s billycart made too much noise roaring down the street! And she phoned the cops when I played my music too loud. But enough about Mrs Pruitt: she’s probably wishing someone’d marry her (she’s been a widow for about ten years) but a guy would have to be blind, deaf, dumb and desperate to go for it.

The driver holds the car door open and I bundle Mum and her train in, and go round the other side. I fall onto the seat. There’re rain spots all over my dress: I hope they’ll dry without leaving stains or I’ll look like a mouldy grape.

‘You both look lovely,’ shouts Mr Peel, our other next-door neighbour. He’s nice, not like Mrs Pruitt. It’d be awful to have two feral neighbours. Mum gives him a watery smile. The driver shuts my door with a soft click and gets in the driver’s seat. Yesss!
We’re on our way. I vow there and then that no way am I ever going to get married. It’s too much trouble.

We cruise along the street in the rain and everyone gawps at our wedding car with its white dripping ribbons and Mum sitting in a crumpled heap. She must be the most unhappy bride they’ve ever seen, hunched like a miserable muffin in the back.

‘Smile, Mum. It’s your wedding day, right?’

Mum grimaces. ‘What’s the time, Leanne?’

‘Quarter to three.’

Mum straightens. ‘It’s too early. It’s bad luck to be early for your wedding, Leanne. Don’t you know that?’

Who cares? I’m just trying to
get
her there before she throws a spac.

But Mum’s suddenly determined.

‘We’ll drive down to the police station and see if there’s any news,’ she says.

‘Mum …’

She taps the driver on the shoulder. ‘Can you go down to Central Police Station, please?’

The driver looks puzzled. ‘I thought—aren’t we supposed to be going to St Martin’s Church on Greenley Street?’

‘We’re taking a small detour,’ says Mum firmly.

He chucks a U-bolt and we drive sedately to the cop shop.

‘Pull up, driver.’

‘No parking here,’ he goes. ‘I’ll have to—’

But Mum’s out of the car and moving through the drizzle like a snowstorm up the steps and into the cop shop. With a sigh I follow, feeling like a total loser in the disaster dress. Mum’s already at the counter and the young cop behind the desk’s looking stunned.

‘Aren’t you supposed to be at the church, Mrs Studley?’ he says as he recognises her.

‘Not yet,’ says Mum, draping her train over one arm and leaning on the counter, her damp scarf dangling all over the paperwork. ‘Is there any news of my son Sam?’

‘Latest bulletin was that he’s holed up in a haystack. The weather’s got worse and the copter can’t land, but they’ve got his position and they’re sending in a patrol car to pick him up. I haven’t heard anything since. Do you want me to try and contact Portland?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Mum. We’ll be late.’

‘Quiet, Leanne.’

He goes into another room. I lean on the counter.

‘Holed up in a haystack?’ I go. ‘That can’t be Sam. He gets serious hay fever.’

‘He’ll never make it back in time if he’s in a haystack,’ says Mum, her lower lip trembling. ‘We’ll have to cancel the wedding.’

I think about the dresses and the cake and the time spent writing place cards and organising the Scout Hall and all the other stuff for this wedding.

‘Cancel? No way. You’re getting married with or without Sam. And don’t dare start crying. You’ll wreck your face.’

The cop comes back. ‘The latest is that the van crashed into an appliance shop, and they’re …’