Sydney Bridge Upside Down (15 page)

Caroline and a few other people seemed to enjoy watching him. I got tired of seeing him hurt invisible opponents, but Caroline did not move when I touched her arm. So I went along to where a kid was hitting a bopping-bag at one end of the platform. Every time he hit the bag it bounced back at him and he had to hit it again quickly or dodge.

‘How about a turn?’ I asked the kid after glancing along to make sure Caroline was still watching the boxer.

The kid let me have a turn. I began bopping that bag and bopping it harder every time it bounced back at me, and I imagined there was a face on the bag, and you can guess whose face it was, and you can guess how that made me bop it even harder. I ignored the kid when he said it was his turn, I just went on bopping that bag. I got angry at it. I was so angry I missed hitting it properly, and it bounced back and hit me. And this made me even angrier. My nose was bleeding, but I went on bopping. Then the other kid pulled me away and I stood watching him, puffing, wiping my nose on my shirt-sleeve. My nose soon stopped bleeding, but it certainly made a mess of my sleeve. I rolled up the sleeve.

Then I remembered Caroline and I hurried back to where I’d left her, but she had gone. Kid Savage was still in action, other people were still watching him. But Caroline had gone.

I looked for her among the groups outside other sideshows, I went back along the main street as far as the Town Hall, I went down two side-streets before returning to the Kid Savage tent. And all the time I kept asking myself why she had disappeared without telling me, she must have seen me at the bopping-bag, she must have known I was only there because I was filling in time while she watched the boxer. Yet she had left me!

Or maybe she had not seen me at the bopping-bag. Maybe she thought I had gone on to the jumping paddock. That was where I had better look.

When I got to the jumping paddock, though, it was harder than ever to find her. There seemed more people watching from the rails round the paddock than there were back in the main street. I had thought they would be watching horses going over fences and racing; they weren’t, they were watching motor-bikes being wheeled into the paddock. When I got there the motor-bikes were silent, as if the fellows wheeling them were going to have a pushing race. Then, one after another, the fellows started up the engines, and suddenly there was so much noise I could no longer hear the band, and more people left the main street and came to the jumping paddock, and pretty soon I was surrounded. I guessed I might as well watch the race, Caroline should be able to look after herself for a while.

The race was fun, sure enough. The four motor-bikes went very fast, and those fellows were good riders because they all got round the paddock several times without falling off or crashing. There was plenty of bumping, plenty of skidding, and all the time I kept thinking a rider was
bound to fall and hurt himself, but there was no serious accident until the third race and by then I had forgotten Caroline. I remembered her during the silence that came as the two riders hurt in the accident were carried from the paddock. I suddenly thought: Where’s Caroline?

I got away from the crowd by the rails—and met Cal and Dibs. They were running towards the main street, but stopped when I shot in front of them.

‘
You
didn’t find Buster!’ Dibs shouted. ‘We found him first, boy.’

‘I didn’t look for him,’ I said. ‘Where you going?’

‘Buster’s on next!’ Dibs said, very excited. ‘We got to find Dad. Buster says Dad will want to see him ride through the burning hoop. Come on, Cal!’

I ran after them. ‘Is that what Buster’s going to do?’ I asked when I caught up with Dibs. ‘Is Buster going to ride through a burning hoop?’

‘He’s on next,’ Dibs said, running into the main street. ‘Come on, Cal! I know where Dad will be!’

I ran with them for a block. Then I saw Caroline and I stopped running.

Caroline was hiding from Mr Wiggins.

I could tell this straight away. Because I no sooner saw Caroline in a shop doorway than I saw Mr Wiggins, still with his whiskers, walking slowly along the street, staring everywhere, looking for somebody, looking for Caroline.

He saw me. He walked towards me.

This was all right. It meant he had his back to Caroline.

I had arrived just in time.

‘Hello, Mr Wiggins,’ I said before he could speak. ‘Did you win a prize? I haven’t seen another beard as big as yours. I bet it’s the biggest beard at the carnival.’

The band was playing nearby, so he probably didn’t hear all I said. In any case, he did not mention the beard when he spoke. He said: ‘Your cousin wasn’t at the Rob Roy, son. Have you seen her lately?’ Again his voice was friendly. Again I was not fooled.

I said: ‘Buster Kelly is going to ride through a burning hoop.’ I pointed towards the jumping paddock. ‘Suppose that’s where Caroline is, Mr Wiggins. Everybody will be watching Buster Kelly.’

His eyes shone through all the hair and he nodded. He walked a few steps, then turned to ask me: ‘Why aren’t
you
watching him?’

‘I’m getting Dad so’s he can watch,’ I said.

He moved on up the street. He still looked about him. But now he was past Caroline’s doorway. She was safe.

She must have seen how I had saved her, but she said nothing about Mr Wiggins when I went across to her. In fact, she acted surprised when I greeted her, as if I were the last person she expected to be greeted by. She was carrying a plaster puppy that looked very much like the one she had hooped at the stall earlier in the day.

‘Harry!’ she cried when I was right next to her. ‘Harry, where did you go?’

‘Where did
you
go?’ I asked.

‘I met Mrs Kelly and we looked at the stalls, then we went back to the lorry,’ she said. ‘I collected my prizes on the way. But I forgot the puppy, so I had to go back for it.
It will be a nice present for Mrs Kelly.’ She held the puppy up for me to admire, but I ignored it.

‘I looked everywhere for you,’ I said.

I saw Dad and Mr Kelly go by. They were following Dibs and Cal. Dad was moving as fast as the others; he did not let his crutch slow him.

Caroline did not see them go by. I did not point them out in case she wanted to follow them.

‘I couldn’t find you anywhere,’ I told her.

‘Fancy not finding me!’ she said, cuddling the puppy. ‘Wasn’t that strange?’

Yes, it was strange, but I did not say so. Something in her voice made me think she hadn’t really minded my not finding her, she had been happy without me.

‘Strange, wasn’t it, Harry?’ she said, and she looked at the puppy more than she did at me.

I said nothing.

‘Wasn’t it, Harry?’ she said.

‘Oh, sure,’ I said.

The band had stopped playing, so the noise of a motorbike along at the jumping paddock seemed extra-loud. It got louder and louder. Then it stopped, and there was the noise of the crowd cheering. I could guess what had happened, and now I wished I had stayed at the paddock instead of looking for Caroline. Finding her and saving her did not seem to have done me much good, all it meant was that I had missed what was probably one of the most exciting parts of the carnival. Blow Caroline, I thought.

‘I wonder why they’re cheering,’ she said. ‘Shall we go and see, Harry?’ But she did not move from the doorway.
Was she not really hiding? Was she waiting for somebody?

‘It’s too late,’ I told her. ‘That was Buster going through the burning hoop. He won’t do it again.’

‘You mean Dibs’ brother?’ she said, looking very surprised. ‘You mean the one who followed us?
He
rode through a burning hoop? Why didn’t you tell me he’d do that, Harry?’

Now she did move from the doorway.

I did not follow her. I said: ‘I told you he’d be at the jumping paddock. I told you that before.’

‘Not about the burning hoop,’ she said, stopping and looking back at me.

‘I didn’t know that bit myself then,’ I told her, staying in the doorway. ‘Too late to see him now. We’ve missed him.’

‘Come on, Harry,’ she said. ‘He might do it again.’

‘He won’t,’ I said, and my earlier feeling of sadness had turned to something gloomier, almost as though I were in for another of my black times, which would be ahead of schedule.

Would she leave me? Would she find the others?

I looked at her.

She looked back at me, seeming puzzled.

But those questions did not matter, after all. Because that was when the first drops of rain fell, and the drops got heavier, and the rain went on and on and washed out Bonnie Brae’s happy day.

Even without the rain, though, the rest of the day would have been awful. In fact, it had turned awful before the rain. And I knew who was to blame. That damned Mr Wiggins.

‘A
ND NOW
,’ said Fat Norman, chalking a cross beside the next word on the blackboard list, ‘somebody give me an example of a
catastrophe.
’ He stared at us, his stare settled on me.

I put up my hand. ‘Please, sir.’

‘Yes?’ said Fat Norman, nodding to me.

‘Please, sir,’ I said. ‘Please, sir, if somebody didn’t like Mr Phelps and wanted to pay him back for doing something bad, he might shift the rails on the wharf and Mr Phelps wouldn’t notice and next thing Sydney Bridge Upside Down would pull the wagon off the side of the wharf and it would crash into the sea. Mr Phelps would be drowned and so would his horse, and the wagon would sink to the bottom. Please, sir, all that would be a catastrophe.’

Fat Norman waited, making sure I had finished. Then he said: ‘That seems more an example of revenge. What is your name?’

‘Harry Baird,’ I said. ‘Please, sir,
wouldn’t
that be
an example of a catastrophe?’

He watched me for a moment or so. ‘I suppose it will do,’ he said. He turned to the blackboard, chalked a new cross. ‘Now who can give me an example of a
predicament
?’

I put up my hand. ‘Please, sir.’

Though I was first to answer, Fat Norman did not choose me, he did not even look at me, he waited until another hand went up.

This, I thought, was typical of our new teacher. Besides being forgetful—he had three times asked me my name in the three days since school had started—he acted as if he sometimes did not know the answers to the questions he asked. Spelling, sums, geography—any of these things could seem harder for Fat Norman than they were for me. For instance, I had mentioned in geography class the day before how our previous teacher, Mr Dalloway, had once said that living in Calliope Bay was like living on the edge of the world; many people, Mr Dalloway had said, must have felt they were about to fall off. I asked Fat Norman if he’d had this feeling yet. How long did you have to be in Calliope Bay, I wondered, before you had it? Fat Norman said he hadn’t had this feeling. In any case, he said, he did not think it was a geography topic. He took it for granted, he said, that we all knew the world was round. Which, of course, had nothing to do with it. You would never have caught Mr Dalloway hinting at anything like that,
he
knew we weren’t dumb.

It was not as if I had been a complete stranger to Fat Norman on the first day at school, either. We had met at his house—it used to be Mr Dalloway’s—on the Saturday
before school began. I had taken him his mail. His mail was a letter. Dad, who had collected it from the store when we called there on our way back from Bonnie Brae, said it would be a friendly gesture to the new teacher if we delivered this letter, he said the teacher was bound to arrive some time during the week-end, he would have to if he reckoned on starting at school on the Monday. We did not know until we got home, of course, that Fat Norman had arrived while we were at the carnival. He had driven to Calliope Bay in his own car, and he had brought his wife and three kids with him. All the Normans were fat. The eldest kid was a boy about Cal’s age, but he certainly didn’t look as if he had done as much running around as Cal, he looked too fat to run anywhere. This kid had a good stare at me when I took the letter along, but he said nothing. He was on the front veranda with his father, helping to empty one of the packing-cases, when I got there. Fat Norman thanked me for bringing the letter but did not invite me in out of the rain. Maybe he would have acted differently if it had been an important letter; I knew it was not an important letter because he screwed it up after glancing at it. If it had been important he would have read it carefully, then read it again, several times maybe, the way Dad had read
his
letter. The important thing about Dad’s letter, I discovered after tea, was that my mother still hadn’t decided when she would return home. Although she was recovering from her illness, she wrote, she did not think she was yet well enough to travel, and of course it was a shame she couldn’t be home to see the kids off to school but she knew they would understand the position if he
explained it to them. ‘So that’s the position,’ said Dad after he had read the letter to us. ‘She’s taking her time about it. In no hurry to see us fellows again, eh?’ He smiled after he said that, but I knew he was worried, he had not read any of her earlier letters as often as he had read this one, as if hoping every time he read it to find something new, something that might explain why she was in no hurry to see us again. He kept looking at Caroline too; he seemed to expect her to help in some way, yet when she said she was sure my mother would be home soon Dad did not really stop worrying, I could tell he was only pretending to be cheerful. And next morning, Sunday morning, I heard him talking to Caroline in her bedroom (he had taken her a cup of tea), and he was saying things like ‘Janet’s never done it before’ and ‘Janet knows how Cal frets for her’, so I guessed he was still anxious, and for the first time I felt a bit anxious myself, though I didn’t know why I should feel anxious, I didn’t care how long she stayed away, I certainly didn’t. Especially, I kept reminding myself, if it means Caroline has to go when
she’
s home again. Because by then, of course, I had forgiven Caroline for seeming to act oddly to me at the carnival. I had decided Mr Wiggins was the only one to blame for the carnival not being as exciting as I had expected it to be. I had also decided that I hated Mr Wiggins. I spent so much of Sunday thinking how I hated the butcher that I even forgot how close school was. I later realised, in fact, that I was in a
predicament
over Mr Wiggins and his annoying habits. I realised this when I saw the word on the blackboard and would have given it to Fat Norman as an example (changing the names) if he
had nodded to me. He hadn’t nodded to me. He had not even looked at me.

Ordinarily, I would probably have gone on thinking how stupid Fat Norman was and no wonder the only job he could get was in Calliope Bay. But I did not go on thinking like this. Because I suddenly thought of a way out of the predicament. The thought was so surprising that I blinked, I could no longer see the words on the blackboard.

Once I got used to this thought, though, I felt better. I didn’t mind Fat Norman then. Oh,
Mr
Norman. I wasn’t the one who called him Fat Norman the first day of school. It was his own fat son, the kid named Bruce, who called him Fat Norman when we were talking at morning playtime. If it was good enough for his own son to call him Fat Norman, we reckoned, it was good enough for us. ‘That’s reasonable,’ said Bruce Norman, ‘but don’t let him hear you using that term, he turns maniacal if he hears himself called that.’ ‘Turns what?’ asked Dibs. ‘Turns murderously angry,’ said Bruce Norman. ‘What do you know?’ Dibs said to me. I hesitated, then, in the old friendly way, said to Dibs: ‘What do you know?’ Anyway, once I’d had this thought about my predicament, I didn’t mind so much that the teacher was stupid, he could be
Mr
Norman for all I cared. Not that I took much notice of what he said for the rest of the lesson. I was staring at him, I could see his mouth opening and shutting; but I did not hear a word he said.

I was planning on making a quick getaway after the lesson, the last of the day. I would shoot home, see how
Caroline was doing, then keep my promise to go up to the cave with Cal and Dibs.

But Mr Norman delayed me.

‘I say, Harry Baird!’ he called as I headed for the door. ‘I want a word with you.’

‘Please, sir?’ I said when I reached his table.

‘I’ve been wondering about the example you gave,’ he said.

‘Please, sir?’ I said.

He frowned. ‘Your example of a catastrophe. I’ve been troubled by it. Was it based on something you’d overheard? Is there anybody who would want to take revenge on Mr Phelps in that fashion?’

‘I made it up,’ I said. ‘I thought it would be a good catastrophe.’

‘Don’t misunderstand me, Harry,’ he said. ‘I mean, has Mr Phelps done anything bad that you know of? Never mind the nature of any possible revenge.
Has
he done anything bad?’

I reflected. I twisted my face. Then I said: ‘I don’t think so, sir.’

‘Nothing?’ he asked.

‘I don’t think so,’ I said. Why was he making such a fuss about something that was none of his business?

‘You know, Harry,’ he said. ‘I am not only a teacher, I am the father of young children. You can understand that I have to consider my own children’s welfare, can’t you?’

‘Eh?’ I said.

‘I think you’re old enough to understand that no father wants his children to be in danger,’ he said. ‘If there is
somebody who has done something bad, a father would want to know all about it. In case such a person was a danger to his children. Do you understand me?’

‘Sure,’ I said. What a strange fellow, I thought.

‘But you don’t
think
he’s done anything?’ he asked. ‘Aren’t you certain?’

‘He hasn’t done anything,’ I said.

‘Then why did you say he had?’

‘I was only making it up—for an example.’

‘It seemed to come out very easily for something that was made up. Not only that, there was the tone of your voice. But I’ll take your word for it. You made it up?’

‘Sure, sir. What say you ask Dad or Mr Kelly? They’ll tell you about Sam Phelps. If you don’t believe me, sir, you could ask them.’

‘I believe you,’ he said.

‘Mr Phelps is a nice old man,’ I said.

‘I said I believe you.’ He was frowning again. ‘Perhaps I misunderstood. Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked you…’

I waited for him to make up his mind.

‘Very well, you may go,’ he said, turning his back to me.

A strange fellow, I thought, running out into the playground. He had better not ask Dad or Mr Kelly questions like that about Sam Phelps, they might bop him for having the cheek to suggest that such a nice old man could do wrong.

I’ll have to warn the other kids about Fat Norman, I thought.

Cal and Dibs had not waited for me. But I could catch
up with them before they went to the cave, Dibs was bound to be stopping off for a piecey at his home. Anyway, I had something I wanted to think about; I must do some pretty careful thinking. I’d walk home, I wouldn’t run.

Not far along the road I heard the sound of Buster Kelly’s Indian starting up. Then Buster came speeding towards me. He was heading for the river crossing.

I waved to him and he stopped beside me, the Indian’s engine chugging noisily.

‘What you doing here, Buster?’ I said. ‘I didn’t know you’d be here today.’ This was his second unexpected visit to Calliope Bay since the carnival. He had come on Sunday too; that was when he was introduced to Caroline. He and Dad and Caroline had a good talk on Sunday afternoon.

‘I had to pick up some gear from home,’ he told me now. ‘Brought your cousin a telegram too. It was waiting for her at the store. Came yesterday, so I reckoned I’d better hurry across with it.’

‘What did it say, Buster?’ I asked, worried. ‘Was it bad news, do you know?’

‘Don’t reckon so,’ Buster said. ‘Caroline didn’t seem to mind when she read it.’

‘That’s good, eh?’ I said. Buster had his shirt-sleeves rolled high. His freckled arms and hands looked very strong.

‘What did you say?’ he said above the motor-bike noise.

‘I said it’s good about Caroline not caring what was in the telegram,’ I said. Buster’s fingers, outstretched on the handlebars, looked very tough. I moved closer to the
motor-bike. I said: ‘Can I ask you something, Buster?’

‘What do you want to know, Harry?’ He was a decent fellow, he never minded talking to me.

‘I’m a bit sick of being so skinny,’ I said. ‘What’s the best way of building muscles?’

He laughed. ‘You’re not too skinny, Harry. Better than being a fatso, boy.’

‘I don’t want to be
fat
,’ I said. ‘Wouldn’t mind being a bit stronger, though.’

‘Are you thinking of taking up boxing?’ he asked. He threw a punch close to my left ear. ‘Hey, you’re a calm one. Why didn’t you duck?’

‘I knew you wouldn’t make it land, Buster,’ I said. ‘I saw it coming. I knew which way to duck. If I’d wanted to, eh?’

‘You’d make a good boxer, Harry,’ he said, tapping me lightly on the chest. ‘Who would you fight? My old mate Kid Savage?’

‘Well, I wasn’t really thinking of being a boxer,’ I told him. ‘I just thought I should be a bit stronger. Feel this.’ I flexed my arm so that he could feel the muscle. ‘Not very big, is it?’

‘It’s not bad,’ he said, smiling. ‘More like a peanut than a muscle, I suppose. But you can’t expect to have enormous muscles at your age. Wouldn’t be natural.’

‘Anyway, how could I become a bit tougher?’ I asked.

He looked at me thoughtfully for a few moments. Then he said: ‘What about press-ups? Do you do press-ups?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Do you think they would help, Buster?’

‘I reckon so,’ he said. ‘If you do twenty-five press-ups
a day, you’ll probably toughen your arms. But I wouldn’t worry too much about it, boy. You’re okay for your age. I was no tougher than you when I was your age. It’s hard work that’s turned me into a fine figure of a bloke.’ He grinned.

‘Thanks, Buster,’ I said. ‘I’ll try press-ups. I’ll try twenty-five a day. See how I get on.’

‘Don’t overdo it,’ he said, making the engine roar, ready to take off. ‘I said don’t overdo it, don’t strain yourself, Harry.’

I stepped aside. ‘I’ll be all right, Buster,’ I said. ‘When you coming back?’

‘Maybe at the week-end,’ he said. ‘I’ll see how the work goes. So long!’ He waved as he roared off towards the river crossing.

I watched till he was out of sight. I had certainly been lucky to meet Buster. What he had told me fitted in great with my plans, everything would go smoothly now. Would the press-ups be enough? I might try some extra running as well. Say I got up early every day and ran to the river and back, or along to the works then back to the river then back home for breakfast—I could do the press-ups first, then go for a run. Later I could go for longer runs. I could do more press-ups. All that would be bound to make me tougher.