The Invisible Hero (10 page)

Mum is sometimes scared for me. Just the other day when some nincompoops got caught out storing weapons and were recorded saying all sorts of anti-Western crap, Mum wanted me to stay at
home lots. Not go out. She thought I might get bashed by people who are scared of Moslems. I told Mum, ‘No way. You can't live by fear.'

Says me! I'm afraid of rejection by my Aussie mates.

What keeps me safe is that I'm good at soccer. Really good. And I'm big and have been shaving for years. Macca's gang call me ‘Moustacha'. I laugh and joke with them. ‘So Macca, you guys jealous of my extra supply of testosterone?' I ask. And then I flex my strong arm muscles like one of those pumped up gym junkies or someone from a Mr Universe competition and Macca's gang laughs. So I think that has kept me okay 'til now. But that's just 'til now. What about tomorrow? What about when I leave school?

I can look after myself. But it does get me thinking. If a big guy like me has to hide behind poor Dugan, what chance is there for world peace? Is there some hero out there who can get some sanity into this Arab – West conflict? Someone who can just talk sense and let normal people get on with their lives? Personally, I think everyone needs to lighten up a bit.

I said that to my grandfather and his men's club this afternoon. They were sitting under the grapevine drinking Çay tea. Well, I didn't use those exact words, ‘lighten up'. I told them the world needs to laugh a bit more. They stopped drinking and looked at me for what felt like a long time. I thought I'd offended them somehow. Then Uncle Esat said, ‘He's right. We must laugh.'

Dede stood up and said, ‘Like this.' He started trying to laugh.

That made Uncle Osman and Uncle Esat giggle.

Dede kept trying different laughs. High ones like a girl. Slow
ones. Fast ones. Sarcastic laughs. Belly laughs. Low, hearty ones like a villain in an opera. Uncle Osman and Uncle Esat leant shoulder to shoulder, their giggling becoming contagious. I started laughing with them. Mum came out the back door with the tea pot. ‘What's so funny?' she asked.

‘Nothing,' I laughed.

‘Don't be rude,' said Mum.

After that, the men's club and I became hysterical. Three old men and a teenage boy, leaning on each other, weeping even.

Macca and me have been having a lot of fun stirring up the Dill. Sometimes I get the feeling Cheung is dragging the chain a bit. He can be a bit of a lone ranger. I've had to give him a bit of a pep talk about us sticking together. Strength in numbers. Point out how lucky he is to be one of us. That sort of thing. He usually gets what I'm saying.

Our activities have meant I've neglected this little old journal a bit. But I have some more info on Hare and Burke and some questions. Hare went and gassed on Burke. The police put the screws on Hare and he dobbed on Burke in exchange for protection. Hare got away with no punishment. Maybe that's how life goes. You chum up to get by, but you save your own skin if and when you have to.

But something else doesn't add up. This Burke, for example. Everyone gets all upset because he and his mate have killed a
whole lot of people and sold their bodies. Fair enough. But this Dr Knox guy who buys the bodies doesn't get in trouble.

Then secondly, the high and mighty go and execute Burke for being a murderer. And then what happens next is twisted. Don't have time to write about it all just yet.

But tell me, where's the right and wrong in all this? It's all over the shop. Which is how I would have explained the world even before I read about Burke and Hare.

Twis a yaer, Nan and I visit Pop's grav. Thats on his berthday in October and on Nan and Pops weding anversry in August. I was worrit abowt Nans leg. She has a speshel new fangeld rap arownd protecter on her leg that keps the bone from moveing. So bad leg or not Nan was dtermind to go to the graveyard yesday. It ment anutha day of schl and a hol lot of orgnising. Nans not sposd to put eny wait on her bad leg so we rang Mista Bell at the Cemist and he dropt of a welchair on his way home from werk. Lik Nan ses Mista Bell is a god man and mor lik a docter then a cemist. Nan gets his advis more tims than going to the doctor and its cheper.

Enyways by now owr soop nit frens no abowt Nan's acsident. Theyv ben takng it in terns to bring fewd rown to Nan. Wen Mr Rjendra Sing herd bowt Nan's wish to vist Pop's grav he tok tim of werk so he coud drif us. Wen we got to the big cemtry gats, Mr Sing set the weel chair out and helpt me get Nan into it. Then he lef us to hav owr privat tim with Pop.

I weeled Nan thru the plac, past all the expensiv gravs with gient slabs of marbel that hav fotos stuk in them and oldendays gravs with litl fencs and angel skulpturs and sad storeys written on the stone abowt been lost at see and stuff lik that, to the part wer Pops grav is. For quit a few yers, Nan just had a whit woodn cros with Pops nam, Edward Manifold Dugan, 1924–1994, panted in blak that she done hersel. Then a few yers bak Nan got a hed ston cheeply it had a big chip that had acidently come of the top. We panted Pops nam on with the dats as wel as IN GOD'S ARMS
BELOVED TO US ALL REST IN PEACE. Nan mad sur I speld it writ. And it's a tradishonl part of ech trip to his grav for us to tak a chisl and hama and I chip out sum of thos words and pant gold in the craks. Weve got as far as REST.

Then ther are to mor things we alays do. Nan plantd a cuting of a red ros from her gardn nex to the grav. She trims the ros and brings a litl bag of compost to put under the bush and then she watrs it. An then we sit nex to Pop and Nan tels me abowt him. Her dep eyes ar lik meltd dark choclit; they glint and shin as she dus her merembring and I lisn carfuly. So afta that meny vists I no quiet a lot. And the reson Ive writn abowt Pop is that hes a hero for Nan but not meny peple eva new him.

I don't like myself much at the moment. All I do is try to survive this place. But I'm starting to see that when survival is your goal, you can let yourself be pretty weak. I'm making it clear that I'm not a friend of Phil Dugan. In the playground or round the lockers, I walk past him with a sort of distant look, like I'm not focusing on anything. You wouldn't know what he feels because he always seems to have a sort of sad, patient look.

I'm not sure if my survival policy is paying off. Genelle and her crew keep away from me as if I stink like a five-day dead piece of fish; at least they are leaving me alone. Ruth Stern invited me to have lunch with her, Imogen and some other girls today. I was grateful to have people to sit with.

The other girls started talking about one of these reality shows where the contestants get eliminated. ‘Don't you think these shows just make it okay to shun people?' I asked.

‘It's just a bit of fun, for heaven's sake,' said one of the girls looking at me as if I was some show-off intellectual.

For a new girl, I realised too late that I should try a bit harder just to blend.

But then Ruth said, ‘When I was in primary, I remember crying all lunchtime because some kid set up a sort of ‘Big Brother' game and right near the start I was eliminated.'

‘It's the same thing with mountaineering and other sports. Like the Everest climbers now take elimination to the point of death,' said Imogen.

‘What's this about Everest climbers?' I asked.

The other two girls in the lunch group clearly weren't enjoying the conversation. Before Imogen had time to answer my question, the girl who saw reality shows as just a bit of fun deliberately steered the talk back to TV soapies and the dramas of the characters' lives. You would have thought these TV characters were friends and relatives.

I like Ruth and Imogen. And the other two girls are nice. But is nice enough? What a piddly, shrivelling word ‘nice' is; it's what Mum would call, ‘damning with faint praise'.

I'm scanning what I've written. If Ruth invites me to sit with her at lunch tomorrow, will I accept? Probably. And yet I've written all this stuff about some of her lunch friends. Hypocritical me. Can I justify sitting with them again at lunchtime?

Yes, I can. For one, I can stop thinking that there is some sort of extra worth to brainy people. A lesson in humility.

Two. Ruth has seen me on the outside of things and invited me to join her because she's kind. Am I as kind as that? No.

Three. Ruth has already shown herself to have more guts than I do – by standing up to Mr Quayle. Have I something to learn from Ruth? Definitely yes.

I still haven't chosen a hero or villain yet. The idea of spending weeks reading about some creep of a villain and all the damage he or she has done – it doesn't appeal. Like Mrs Canmore suggested, I'd like to choose a hero who inspires me. On the other hand, what's the point of me admiring someone, but being too gutless to follow their lead? ‘Inspire' just has to mean more than to get warm, fuzzy feelings about someone. Surely it means to act on those feelings?

I've just thought of another word – ‘encourage'. That's what I need. Someone to spur me on. You know, it's the first time I've thought about that word. At a guess, I'd say ‘encourage' means to put courage into you.

I'm looking for some sort of hero who'll give me the courage to be a better person.

Someone's trying to show me up. I've got competition in the hero stakes. Mousy little Waterworks found a present in her locker. A gold covered chocolate coin glued to a page with the typed words:

Of course, she gets so excited she shows it around. And now everyone's trying to guess who did it. Some kids ask me if I'm the one and I shrug my shoulders and say, ‘No comment'. That way, I can hint at being the decent one, but I'm still not lying. My hunch is that it's Raphaela trying to suck up to Waterworks. But it's interesting to see what a boost it's given shrimpy little Waterworks. She's started to answer more questions in class and she's lifting her head to look at people. She even dared to say to me under her breath, ‘I know for sure it wasn't you who put that award in my locker, Jake.' The nerve!

It's a lesson for me. The troops need encouragement. It's given me an idea. As class captain, I'm going to propose a work-free day where for every subject we get to do something fun. I'm sure Quayle will back me up.

For the moment, I've got going on the tree planting thing. I was given permission to use the office phone to ring our local council and see if they'd sponsor the school with some money for trees. I spoke to some dude who said I need to send in a formal submission. The ladies in the office explained that a submission is a sort of letter that sets out the problem (not enough trees) and gives a solution (the tree planting) and then asks for help of some sort. They thought I was so cool coming up with this project. The Principal was walking through the office while I was chatting up the ladies, so he got to hear what I'm doing. He said he was proud of me, that I was heading for understanding how a citizen can be ‘empowered' to make society better. He wants to see my letter when I've written it.

You don hav to be a TV cheff to be an amasing cook. You don hav to be publishd to be a writr. You don hav to be a professr to reed lots of boks and no lots of stuf. You don hav to hav the govment tel you whos a hero or not.

Sum of the things I no abowt Pop:

He was punctchel and neva misd a days werk until the day he dide and he was at werk enways but he nokd of erly by diing befor the end of the day.

He fort in Werld war 2 in New Ginee. Australai was in danga of invashon from the Japnes and had no solders up ther in New Ginee and so the army sent solders to nok on dors and tak yung men strait onto the ship. Pop was aiteen and neva held a gun til he got of the ship and was on the Cocoda trale. He neva spok much abowt it except his mat dide rite nex to him from a shot to the hed and Nan ses that mad Pop efan quiter then eva. He neva was a man to spek much.

Pop neva borowt muny but he was genrus to frends who neded help.

Pop bilt Nans hous with his own bear hans and he coud fix enything.

Pop alays washed the dishs withowt been arskd.

Pop bred Bugeregars.

Afta my mum was born, evry yer on my Mums berthday (his dawter Jan), Pop wod giv Nan a plant for her gardn. He thort a bunch of flowrs a wast of muny becos they di kwikly but he sed evry plant livd on and was a merinder of his love for Nan and
how gratful he was to her for giving him a dawter.

Wen we wer at the graveyard this week, Nans story was how Pop was a man of his werd. An then Nan tol me how Pop went to be garantaw for a childhod frend who wonted a lone form the bank to start a bisnes – a corna stor. Pop discust it with Nan and they mad ther hows the garante. Then the mate dide befor his bisnes mad a profet and the loyer tol Pop he thort he cud sel up the bisnes and help Pop sav his hows. The truble was this wud of ment the wido how had for kids wud hav nothing. So for fiv yers Pop werkd thre jobs – at the box factry and a nite one as a Secutry Gard and on the wekends at the frends widos shop until the lone to the bank was payd.

I listnd to this story carfuly and then arsked Nan do you think al this hard werk was wat kild Pop yung and Nan sed probly and I sed wel it warsnt werth it and Nan sed I wodnt wont to be marrid to enybody les of a man then Pop and he wod not hav wonted to liv with hisself ether.

And that mad me relies that its beta to liv a short tim with a hero then a long tim with sumone you don repsect. And it also makes me relis thet I wont to be meremberd as a god man and that this is a tipe of lif evrlarsting to. To liv yor lif jus to suviv as long as posable isn't much of a lif.

An Ive writn al of this becos it shows that efan afta you di you can be a roll modl. I mite not hav had a dad or a living Pop but I listn carfuly to the storeys abowt Pop and I lik to mak him prowd of me.