Schoolie
Life in The Village, through the eyes of Tom
Grant, the only teacher at the remote school.
This is an original work of pure fiction (just
an expression of a fantasy)
(re-written from my 2013 version)
The resemblance of the characters by action,
name, location or description to any real person is purely coincidental.
If it is illegal, or offensive, for you to
read stories involving interactions of a sexual nature between adults and
youths, then what are you doing here?
From Chapter 48:
"Mum?"
I say, and point to the door.
My
heart begins absolutely racing in anticipation.
She
steps forward, politely raps twice, and lays her fingers on the handle.
The
door swings wide open. Gin-and-barra, Gee!
OMG!
The hair on my arms and neck stands upright. My scalp tingles and I feel tears
well up in my eyes. My almost-fearful contemplations have just been confirmed...!
As
was great grandma, Mum and I must be distantly descended from perhaps the last
remnant of the Jintabudjaree aborigines. Another coincidence? Fearfully
unlikely! But...
The
old house somehow recognises us both, Mum and me!
Chapter
49 - The mysterious door handle
Everyone
looks at me, expecting me to say something by way of explanation.
I
am faced with a dilemma!
Should
I tell Mum why I think that she was able to open the door? Should I tell Will
and Uncle Bill why I think that they couldn't?
My
brain, tossing up the possibilities and potential consequences, decides to take
a `time-out' and, so, with upturned palms, I shrug my faked ignorance, instead
of vocalising my theory.
I
look at Mum and, with a nod of my head and an ushering hand, I simply indicate
to her that she should lead the way. "Ladies first," I say.
Mum
steps through the door and then suddenly stops before Uncle Bill and Will can
follow.
"What's
wrong?" I ask from back behind the stationary trio. "Is everything OK?"
She
replies, "I just had the strangest feeling. It was like an iciness that made my
whole body tingle, almost shiver."
I
think to myself, I know that feeling in this house!
Always
ready to explain (even fancifully) anything and everything, Uncle Bill says,
"Old houses are like that. Probably just the cooler air inside escaping through
the front door."
"I
suppose that's what it was then," Mum replies and takes a few more steps, to be
joined by the other three of us.
Mum
and Uncle Bill look around, taking in the detail of the grandeur.
"Oh,
my!" Mum manages.
"Goodness,
gracious!" Uncle Bill exclaims. "This is a real museum piece!" Then he adds,
"But I don't like the zebra skin. The black and white looks totally out of
place amongst all of the warmer tones."
Will
adds his two-cents worth. "What a neat place, eh?"
"Yes,
it's very tidy," Mum responds.
"I
don't think he meant neat and tidy, Mum," I tell her. "It was more of a `neat
and cool'! You know, amazing!"
"It's
cool alright!" she replies, nodding and rubbing her arms as if to warm up.
Uncle
Bill says, "Come on, Susan, it's not that cold, but it is magnificent!"
Mum,
ever the one for manners, protocols and decorum asks, "Is the owner here? I
think that we should pay our respects instead of just walking around in his
house."
I
look at her and encourage, "I'm sure that it's all right. Every other time that
I've been here, the owner was here." I don't mention how few times that has
been!
I
look at Will and he smirks, raising and lowering an eyebrow of acknowledgment
of my cryptic truthfulness.
"Hello?"
I call, just to appease her. "Is anyone here?" No response - obviously - except
for the faint resounding echo of my voice from the walls. "I'll see if I can
find him," I tell them. "In the meantime, do feel free to look around."
Then
Mum stuns me with, "Thomas, what are we even doing here? I hope that we were
invited! And, it's very strange that the owner isn't already here to meet us.
It's not as though he couldn't have seen us coming."
Will's
smirky expression alone is sufficient to say, `let's see you get out of this
one!'
I
surprise myself at the simplicity of my hasty explanation. "There's going to be
some restoration work done on the pub in The Village and I wanted Uncle Bill to
see this place and the architect in charge of the work, Ashley Cook, as well.
The owner is happy for anyone to come and look through. It seems as though
somebody working with one of his great-great-grand-something relatives had a
real eye for quality design and workmanship."
Then,
to deflect attention and questions away from me, I add, "Wouldn't you say so,
Uncle Bill?"
"Thomas,"
he replies, "this building is an absolute treasure. It's predominantly early
Victorian in design but with the addition of decorative broad verandahs that
have become so characteristic of the `Queenslander' style. This one could have
been the very first of its type."
He
thinks, then comments, "I just don't know why I've never seen any photographs
of it in any of the architectural or historical literature. How could this
place have escaped everyone's attention for so long? Even I didn't see it when
I was here all those years ago!" He adds, "And I didn't recognise its grandeur
when we were up in the helicopter either. We didn't get close enough. Damn! I
should have brought my camera with me!" he admonishes himself.
"You
can always bring it tomorrow," I reply. "I understand that the focus of the
`shindig' is for the homestead to be an Open House for everyone in the
district. Apparently, it will be the first time that it has been open to the
public for years... decades, actually, so I'm told. Julie Smith is providing the
food and the drink."
I
look at Will and, while facing him directly, I flash my eyes to the side,
accompanied by a slight nod. He grasps my intent and he nods.
"Come
on, Aunty Susan," Will says. "Let me show you around. I've been here before.
We'll probably bump into the owner somewhere. He's a really nice guy!"
I
wink at him.
He
guides Mum towards the dining room while Uncle Bill and I head into the
library. He begins browsing.
"Magnificent!"
Uncle Bill says, again, selecting a few items from the shelves and inspecting
their titles and authors. "Look at this collection! Somebody has gathered
copies of many of the great eighteenth and nineteenth century works of
literature and science and philosophy and ..." He stops abruptly when, taking and
more cautiously opening yet another book, he gasps. He carefully selects and peruses
another, then another.
"Thomas,"
he half whispers. "Do you know what these are?"
"Yeah.
They're called books!" I reply sarcastically, waiting for a return jibe. With
Uncle Bill, there's always a jibe or a taunt or a punch line. However, I do
have some inkling of what might follow, according to Davo's assessment of the
room's contents.
"Not
just books!" he gasps, surprising me. "Rare books! As rare as the house! These
aren't reproductions. They're the originals. This one is a second edition, and
this is a first edition. And this..." he says, displaying a wallet of papers and
stopping to take a gulp of air, "is a collection of handwritten letters that
date from the same period as when this part of the country was still being
explored. I'm guessing that they could contain a wealth of information of
historical interest. I'd love to look at them in some detail, some time, with
the owner's permission. Perhaps I might be able to come and look at things more
closely while I'm here during the construction work in The Village."
"I'm
sure that the owner would be agreeable to that," I tell him.
Then
Uncle Bill adds, for no apparent reason, I guess, other than to continue his
historic comment, "Did you know, Thomas, that the explorer Ludwig Leichhardt
disappeared somewhere out this way around 1848? Nobody knows for sure what
happened to him in his attempt to cross the continent from east to west. Some
say that he made it much farther west than here while others proposed that he
and his party were all killed somewhere along the way by aborigines."
Now,
in high school, I did learn a lot about the state's early history (including
Ludwig Leichhardt), and my momentary rush of blood linking LL and the
Jintabudjaree people subsides; the facts, as I understand them, don't align at
all, despite having the commonality of aborigines, murder and sudden
disappearances. I take a deep breath. The sufficiently discrepant details put
my imaginative mind at ease, almost.
As
he seems entranced by his `discovery', I leave (and this is going to sound like
a suspect in a Cluedo game...) Uncle Bill in the library with the books, and I go
to search out Will and Mum (and maybe to introduce her to the elusive owner!)
As
I step into the large hall, I see them emerge from one of the south-side bedrooms
upstairs, heading towards the front verandah.
"Hey,
guys! Wait up!" I call and I take the stairs two at a time, overseen by the
headless zebra.
I
manoeuvre my way between them and slip my right arm around Mum's waist and my
left hand over Will's shoulder.
Mum
covers my hand with her own and gives it a loving squeeze.
Will
drops his hand behind me and gives my butt a cheeky, gentle scrunch.
With
my left hand already in place, my response is to apply some none-too-subtle
pressure to his trapezius muscle. He dips noticeably.
"Are
you all right, dear?" Mum asks him in response to his flinching movement.
"It's
OK, Aunty Susan," he says. "It was just a sudden pain near my neck. It's gone
now!"
"What
a coincidence," she says, rubbing her chest and abdomen. "Some of my own pain
seems to have gone too."
While
she focuses on the door ahead of us, Will, hanging back, turns, and defiantly
pokes his tongue out at me, reminiscent of my little sister, Amelia's taunts. I
assist his firm, easy-on-the-eye posterior through the doorway by giving him
`the finger'. Literally! I'm tempted to sing something with `goose' in it.
He
purses his lips. His cheeky glare is one of provocative appreciation. He's
sexy, and he knows it!
As
we stare towards the eastern horizon Mum says, "Thomas, this is a beautiful
house and, `magnificent' as Bill has already said." Then she adds, wistfully,
"But I'm very disappointed."
"Why?"
I ask, amazed.
"I'm
disappointed, Thomas, because the owner isn't here. That's why! I was hoping to
meet him."
"But
the owner IS here," I tell her, taking her hand and rubbing it.
She
looks at me, apparently confused. "Is he downstairs with Bill then?"
"No,"
I reply, looking from her to Will, who nods his encouragement that I should
confide in her.
"He's
actually on the upstairs verandah with his brother and his mother."
She
looks around, searching. Then, processing the information, a look of deduction
but incredulity shows on her face.
"Thomas,
you cannot possibly mean...?" she begins, frowning, and pointing at me.
I
nod. She looks to Will. He nods. Her eyes widen like those of an Emoji
character. "But..., how...?" is all that she can muster.
I
enfold her in my arms and say, "It's true, but it's complicated."
"Even
Dad doesn't know yet, Aunty Susan," Will adds from behind me.
"You
haven't told Bill?" she asks, holding me at arms' length and scanning my eyes
for any hint of untruthfulness. (She was always able to tell when I was lying,
as a kid.)
"But,
how?" she asks again.
"Long
story!" I respond. "I'll fill you and Uncle Bill in on the way back, so that I
only have to tell it once."
I
close the upstairs door behind us and we go down. Uncle Bill is still in the
library. Mum looks around, probably to check whether the `genuine' owner is
here.
"Found
anything else of interest?" I ask.
"You
have no idea what is here, Thomas," he almost whispers. "I feel that I should
be wearing white gloves to even touch some of the books and documents in here.
I wish that I could talk to the owner and shake his hand at having such a... such
a... magnificent collection."
"Then,
I'll organise some white gloves for you," I say, seriously.
Mum
looks at me.
"I'm
sure that he'll let you browse to your heart's content, Uncle Bill. I'll
arrange it. Deal?" I ask, extending my hand.
He
takes it. "Deal!" he replies. I smile. Owner's hand shaken. Wish granted!
"Let's
head back then," I say to them. "We can come back tomorrow with the other folk
from town."
I
close the door behind me. "Want to try the handle again?" I jokingly put to
Uncle Bill.
"No
thanks," he replies, shaking his head and starting down the front steps. Mum
and I follow. However, I hear Will try the handle - unsuccessfully - then he
catches up with us.
"I
don't believe a word of it!" Uncle Bill grumbles as we approach The Village and
as I finish the story (omitting my theory on the compliance of the door
handle).
"I'll
bet that you'll believe it tomorrow!" Will tells him. "Everything that Tom has
told you is the truth!"
"Very
un-bloody-likely!" Uncle Bill exclaims.
"Bill!"
Mum admonishes him. "Please restrain yourself!"
"Sorry,
Susan," he apologises, then he adds, "Let's see if these two clowns can extend
their joke beyond tomorrow! I'll be asking people questions! Lots of questions.
You can be assured of that!"
"Why
is it so hard for people to believe us when we tell the truth?" Will asks. Then
he adds, "Maybe I should take up lying! People always seem to believe a good
lie!" That causes a humorous ripple.
I
pull up the Beast at the pub and give the accelerator a pump to make it growl,
then switch off the ignition.
Now,
one of the things that I've learned since I've been here is that people can
identify vehicles by their unique sound. Reg's Land Rover is the easiest for
me, but I also recognise Marty's SUV, his old workhorse truck, and my own
(sorry, Will's) car when it returns from Jake's place or the twins'. The Beast
is a `newbie' and many inquiring heads emerge from the bar to identify it and
its owner. My/Will's car never had that effect on them!
I
say to Uncle Bill, "Why don't you and Mum go and check on Mrs T and Andy?"
While they fawn over the Beast (and I even let them wake it
up) Mum, Uncle Bill, Mrs T and Andy emerge from a side door that I hadn't
noticed previously, which would obviate the need for them to walk through the
public bar.
"Tom!" Andy calls out loudly, and he latches onto me, then
says in a quieter voice, "I had a good nap!"
"That's great, buddy!" I tell him. I hug him to me then
ruffle his hair with one hand while continuing to hold him with the other.
The onlooking patrons can obviously tell from his gait, his
speech and his language that there is some issue with his mental and physical
abilities, not to mention the plaster on his arm, and I read their mixed
emotions. Some are sympathetic. Others appear embarrassed. Some nod their
approval or give me a `thumbs up' for my actions. I smile and nod `thanks'
back.
"I'm
looking forward to a good rest myself," Mrs T says. Then she asks, "How are
you, Susan? It's been a long day for you!"
Mum
replies, "Actually, I'm quite fresh and I'm not tired at all. I feel good.
Really good."
"Mrs
Thompson," I ask, "could you put a few of Andy's things together for him to
spend the night at Marty's? You know, pyjamas, etc.".
"Of
course, Tom," she replies. "It will only take a minute to pick them out of his
bag."
I
turn to Uncle Bill. "Can I leave it to you to arrange dinner with Julie Smith
for all of us, please? Oh, and include Marty. I'll take Will and Andy to
Marty's. Will can collect his PJs and a few things for him to stay the night
with you. We won't be long."
I
wonder whether Will will even be able to find his pyjamas. He hasn't worn any
for months. I smirk. Actually, I must try to remember where mine are!
I'm sure that it would break Andy's heart if he had to stay
with his mother instead of with me. "It's OK, Mrs Thompson," I reassure her.
"That won't be a problem at all."
I ponder that, after doing the relationship talk with Will
and Jake, wiping Andy's backside will be a cinch! And, no way could I ever
think of taking advantage of his vulnerability! It will be clean and clinical!
"Thank you, Tom," Mrs T sighs. "So much!"
I suffer a brief emotional spasm as I contemplate the
similarities between my cheeky cherub Kurt and the vivacious young Andy that
Will and I met at the beach. Andy's current condition is a cruel, undeserved
blight on his body and his life. I pinch my nose as if that will help prevent
tears from forming in my eyes publicly. However, I know that privately I may
cry many times for him.
"OK, guys. So, who's sitting up front with me?" I ask Will
and Andy.
"Me! Me! Me!" Andy calls, raising his `good' hand and making
ungainly attempts to jump up and down.
I look at Will who smiles at Andy's response.
"Hey, Andy," Will says. "If you give me a hug, you can have
the front seat with Tom."
Andy quickly attaches himself to Will. "Hug! Hug! Hug!" he
squeals. Then he adds, "I like you Will. You're my friend!"
Will helps him into the front passenger's seat, I secure his
seat belt and the Beast growls. Then Mum, Mrs T and Uncle Bill all wave us good
bye (primarily for Andy's benefit and pleasure) and we turn the corner and head
south.
The sun dips below the crown of the river gums across to the
west. The result is stunning. The trees appear to be back-lit, with the
stippled sunshine continually streaming between their leaves and branches as we
drive yielding the most amazing light show. It's better than flashes from a
disco mirror ball! It's not only Andy who is spell-bound. I slow considerably
to prolong the experience for as long as possible.
The
approaching sound of an unrecognisable vehicle ensures that we are greeted by
both Marty and the dogs; one peering questioningly as we round the final bend
in the track; the others barking unsparingly. Predictable!
I
silence the Beast but, instead of getting out, I sit and enjoy the expression
on Marty's face, which is a combination of curiosity and awe.
I
don't think that he has noticed me yet. He is checking out the car with the
same wide-eyed hankering that I recall when I first laid eyes on Will, and on
horse-boy Sam at the motel, and on Jarrod at the Games Shop, and on Tony and
Rocco at Mr Verdi's restaurant, and on architect Ash and... `Whoa! Get a grip,
boy!' I tell myself.
Will
jumps out which breaks Marty's trance-like focus. "Hi, Cuz," Will chirps. "Do
you like it?" He can't help himself... "It's Tom's birthday present from his
parents!"
It's
only then that Marty squints at the lightly-tinted windscreen and recognises
me. I give him the `thumbs up'.
He
looks from me to Will, to the Beast, spots Andy, then his eyes do the circuit
again.
Will
says, "Close your mouth. You'll catch flies!" Then he looks at me and laughs at
our shared joke.
Will
helps Andy down from the seat then introduces him. "Andy, this is my cousin,
Marty. This is Marty's house where Tom and I live. Marty, this is Andy."
I
interject for Marty's benefit. "We told you about Andy - the one who had `the
accident'!" I say the last two words slowly and deliberately. Marty actually
knows the whole sorry tale. He nods his comprehension.
Extending
his hand, Marty says, "Pleased to meet you, Andy."
Andy
grasps it and, shaking it with exaggerated movements, replies, "Pleased to meet
you, Marty. Tom is my friend, and Will is my friend, too."
"Come
on, Andy," Will encourages. "I'll show you my bed. You can sleep in it
tonight."
Will
assists Andy up the four stairs. I stay with Marty to fill him in on the
funeral, the "Beast", dinner at the pub and the various sleeping arrangements.
"Poor
young guy!" Marty says with genuine compassion. "What are his chances of
recovering?"
"As
you can tell," I begin, "there is obviously some neurological damage that is
affecting his limbs, his thinking and his speech, and he has lost his senses of
taste and smell. His mother says that the doctors are hopeful and will be monitoring
him for any positive signs."
"Like
what?" Marty asks.
"They're
not sure, according to Mrs Thompson. However, if either his motor skills or his
speech shows some noticeable sign of improvement, then there is hope for the
rest. But they can't say for sure whether he'll regain full use of all
functions. His mother said that she could see some improvement today, but
didn't elaborate, so I don't know where he's at in terms of a recovery." I add,
"According to my sister, he was a champion body boarder and a real heartthrob
for all of the girls in his grade at their school - and even younger ones."
We
continue to chat while I show off my `Beast' of a birthday present, much to
Marty's delight and to satisfy his keen interest and curiosity. He checks it
out thoroughly with wows and whistles. "You can drive it up to The Village for
dinner, if you like," I tell him.
"I
like! Yes, thanks," he replies.
There
is a pause. Then, out of the blue, he jokes, "So will the Big Willie and Little
Willie be together tonight?"
"I
hadn't thought of that," I tell him. I ponder the reactions of both if they
actually see each other naked. Then I confess, "You know, in all of the years
that I've known Uncle Bill (all my life) I've never seen his `equipment'. But I
know that the ladies love him! Will and I met some of his `harem' during the
holidays."
"Hang
on! He's your uncle?" Marty asks. "I thought that he was your father."
I
give Marty the whole IVF and `Uncle Bill' explanation, again, I think. I'm sure
that I told him once previously. I can't remember. I've told the story a number
of times now, to various people.
We
stroll inside and I hear muted wailing. I hurry to the bedroom door. Andy, shaking
and crying, is hanging onto Will, with his face buried in Will's chest.
"What
happened? What's wrong?" I put to Will, extremely concerned that Andy might
have hurt himself. Marty is at my shoulder, peering in.
"I
don't know," Will replies, obviously very anxious for Andy, whom he is hugging
to himself and rubbing his back. "He was fine until just now. I showed him
Marty's room, the living area and kitchen, the bathroom and then our beds -
yours on the bottom and mine on the top. Then he just called out, `NO' and
started being really upset."
I
go to them and hug them both wrapping my arms as far around them as I can
reach. I feel Will's anguish as well as Andy's pain. "Andy, buddy, I'm here for
you. What's wrong? You can tell me."
Andy
latches onto me and cries, rocking his head on my chest, "No, Tom. No. You're
my friend. No, Tom."
I
look at Will. He appears terrified.
I
have to ask! "Andy, did Will do something bad?" Will vehemently shakes his head
and his eyes mist up at my suggestion of some impropriety.
"Uh-huh,"
Andy sobs.
"What
happened?" I ask, rubbing Andy's back, while staring at Will who shrugs his
shoulders and shakes his head. His eyes are now full of tears, ready to
overflow.
"Andy,
what happened?" I ask again. "You can tell me. I'm your friend, remember? It's
OK."
He
points at the top bunk and cries, "NO!"
I
get it, instantly. "You don't want to sleep in Will's bed?"
"NO!"
he wails.
"Is
it too high for you?" I ask.
He
nods his head, still holding it against my chest.
"That's
OK, buddy," I encourage him and ruffling his blond hair. "You can have my bed
on the bottom and I'll sleep in Will's bed on top. That's all right with me."
I
motion my little brother to me and hug him with one arm, kiss his head and
whisper, "Sorry, bro!"
We
are all surprised by Andy's response. "NO! You will fall, Tom. You're my
friend. I don't want you to die." I am greatly moved by Andy's concern for me,
based on his own experience, and memory of my words at Danny's funeral.
Will
slips his arms around me and holds me tightly. I feel guilty for even thinking
that he might have done something to upset Andy!
The
expression on Marty's face tells me that he understands Andy's anxiety at any
kind of height. He speaks up. "Hey, Andy, if you like, you can sleep in my bed
and I'll sleep in Will's bed. I won't fall out and get hurt."
"No!"
Andy replies, looking up for the first time. "Tom has a big bed. He's my
friend. He can share."
Will,
Marty and I all exchange looks of veiled concern. If it had been Ash who
suggested that any one of us share a bed with him, it would be totally
different!
What
is Andy suggesting? Something sexual, or simply two people sharing a space?
The
expression on Marty's face, with wrinkled brow, seems to question my motives
rather than Andy's. Perhaps I didn't adequately explain the logistical reason
that I've brought him here.
Will
squints as if to admonish me, now, for something that I might be tempted to do,
and his face warns me against it.
"It's
OK, Andy," I tell him and look from Marty to Will as well, as if to reinforce
the point. "It's a big bed. You can sleep on one side and I can sleep on the
other side. No problem! Is that all right with you?"
"Uh-huh,"
Andy replies.
The
expressions on the faces of Will and Marty soften, somewhat.
"Why
don't you sit on the bed while Will collects his things to spend the night up
at The Village?" I tell him, gently prising his fingers loose from my body.
Marty
asks, "Would you like some lemonade, Andy?"
"Uh-huh,"
he replies. Then he adds, "Thank you, Marty," as if a long-past memory of
manners comes to mind.
Marty
leaves. Andy sits. Will rummages. And I search the last-remembered location of
my own pyjamas.
We
join Marty in the kitchen. Andy gets his lemonade. Marty has a beer. Will and I
settle for coffee.
"So,
this is what is happening," I remind everyone, "just so that we are all `on the
same page'. We can all take the Beast up to The Village for dinner with Uncle
Bill, Mum and Mrs T, then..."
Marty
interrupts, "So, why did you call it `The Beast'? You didn't tell me."
"My
idea!" Will pipes up. "Don't you think that it growls like some kind of animal?
Kind of appropriate, I thought!"
Marty
quips, "Yeah, one more noisy animal around here won't matter!" He stares
intently at both Will and me.
I
continue, "Because of the limited accommodation available at the pub, the best
solution was for Will to bunk in with his dad, Mrs T and Mum have a twin room
and Andy gets to share with me, so that we can talk about his... `situation'."
Marty
catches on first, and then Will's face confirms his understanding too. I really
want to find out what Andy remembers of his ordeal and how he's feeling. I now
know about his acrophobia, even of quite low heights.
"Tomorrow,"
I continue, "there's going to be a lot of celebrations going on and everyone, I
presume, will want to visit the homestead."
Uncle
Bill is in for a shock!
I
pause for a moment and then pose a question that has been pin-balling around in
my head. "Marty, does the property already have a title? And, if not, do you think
that anyone would be offended if I called it `Jintabudjaree'?"
"That
has always been a taboo word around here," he replies, "but I've never actually
heard the place referred to by a specific name. I suppose that `Jintabudjaree'
would be appropriate, considering its history." Then he asks, "Was there any
reference to a name that you found out there?"
I
hadn't even thought of that! Perhaps Davo and Uncle Bill can look for something
among the documents in the library. And, I wonder whether any name is written
on the certificate of ownership that Julie Smith was showing me.
"Have
you said anything about tomorrow to your mother, yet, Marty?" I ask him.
"Oh,
shit!" he says. "I forgot that she doesn't know anything!" Then he smirks that
mischievous smirk of his.
"Um-mah!"
Andy cries. "Marty said a bad word!" He waggles his finger admonishingly at
Marty. "Your mum's gonna wash your mouth out with soap, young man!"
We
all laugh.
However,
I'm encouraged when I think about the complexity of his thoughts to come out
with such simple words. And, they indicate his mother's strict upbringing of
him, without a father for most of it, as I understand.
Marty
apologises and back-tracks rapidly. "Sorry, Andy. I meant to say `sheep'." Then
he adds, by way of explanation, "My dad always told us three boys to say
`sheep' and `truck' if there were ladies or little kids around."
"Hey!
I'm not a lady or a little kid!" Andy says indignantly. (Will and I could
attest to both.) He pauses, then adds in a hushed tone, looking around as if to
check for his mother's presence, "You can say `shit' Marty. I won't tell your
mum!" He covers his mouth and giggles at his own boldness at the public use of
a `bad' word.
Marty
moves and ruffles Andy's hair. "Thanks, Andy. You can be my little mate!"
Andy
smiles. "I like you, Marty. You're my friend," he replies. Marty receives an
unexpected hug.
While
we finish our drinks, Marty changes for dinner. Will grabs his `overnight' bag
and we head out.
Will
stows his bag in the back and then puts his hand out, very optimistically, for
the keys.
"Truck
off, Will!" Marty tells him. "Tom told me that I could drive it."
I
look at Andy for any reaction to Marty's words. He giggles and covers his mouth
as if he had spoken them. He gets it! He understands Marty's humour! What a
pity that I can't bring myself to tell his mother. House rule!
Will
jumps into the front passenger's seat alongside Marty. Andy and I take the
seats behind them.
Apart
from very briefly at the airport, it's Will's first time in the front seat and
he wastes no time in exploring the multi-function system and checks out all of
the knobs, buttons and switches.
Marty
kicks the beast into life and switches on the headlights. Will quickly flips
the switch for the four spotlights. "Holy sh...eep!" he blurts out. "It's like
daylight!"
"Holy
sheep!" Andy repeats, then he laughs.
"Trucking
hell!" Marty exclaims.
"Trucking
hell!" Andy echoes, then covers his broad smile with both hands, and we all
laugh. Andy's cackle becomes totally unrestrained at his inclusion of our `guy'
humour.
As
the beast stalks along the track to the road, we can see everything. I'll bet
that they'll see us coming up in The Village long before they hear the roar of
the engine.
We
turn onto the road. "Can I see what she'll do?" Marty asks, then adds, "I'll be
gentle."
"Sure,"
I tell him. "Gently though!"
Marty
slowly but increasingly depresses the accelerator. I can feel myself being
pushed back in my seat.
From
the purring noises that Marty is making, I don't remember him being so excited.
Ah, except for once. But Ash isn't here now! And I can't help but wonder
whether the throb of the Beast might be having the same physical effect on him
as Ash did.
He
pushes the needle on the speedo into territory where I've never ventured, either
as a passenger or as a driver!
"Hell,
Yeah!" Will exclaims.
"Hell,
Yeah!" Andy responds.
"Trucking
hell, Yeah!" Marty adds. Andy has a mischievous grin on his face, as if tempted
to echo Marty's words. But he refrains.
He
slows. I'm glad that he is such an accomplished driver.
As
we pull up to an admiring audience at the pub, Will blurts out, "I can't wait
to try that!"
"You
will NEVER try that!" I snap at him. "Not in this vehicle or your own car! Do
you understand me?" He can tell that I'm serious.
"Yes,
Tom," he begins, less enthusiastically. "I just..."
Marty
doesn't let him finish. "Sorry, Tom. That was reckless of me. But she handles
superbly. He adds, turning to Will, "Tom is right, Will. Don't you ever try
that speed until you've had many years of driving experience."
Marty
hands me back the keys and we head towards the side door for dinner.
Holding
back, Andy tugs as my sleeve. "Don't tell," he says quietly, almost
confidentially.
"Don't
tell what, buddy?" I ask, thinking that he meant about Marty's driving.
"Don't
tell that I was scared. Please. Mum will be sad."
Again,
I'm pleasantly surprised at his caring thoughts for other people. I meet him at
his level. "It's OK, Andy. You're my friend. I won't tell. We have a rule in
Marty's house that whatever happens there, stays there. So, we don't tell what
people say there or do there. Does that sound good?"
His
face beams "Sheep, Yeah!" He giggles, grasps my hand as we go in. I'm totally
amazed at the remnant of his former self having emerged.
The
`oldies' are waiting for us in the dining room and partaking of a drink. Under
Uncle Bill's direction, they shuffle around so that Andy can sit between me and
his mother with Will on my other side. Mum is positioned between Uncle Bill and
Marty.
Conversation
over dinner is mostly jovial, despite the fact that we've attended a good
friend's funeral today. Will is uncharacteristically quiet, almost downcast.
Before
dessert, Andy whispers something in his mother's ear then Mrs T excuses herself
and Andy from the table. Some minutes later they return and she whispers to me
as she passes, "You won't have to worry about cleaning him up tonight. It's all
done." I nod my understanding, and am greatly relieved.
Will
nudges me and says very quietly, "Are you still mad at me, Tom?"
"I'm
not angry with you, Will," I reply, putting a comforting hand on his thigh.
"Why?"
"What
about what you said in the car?" he asks.
"Will,"
I tell him, "you've had your driver's license for only a couple of months. You
don't have the experience to drive any car at that speed. I'm not sure that I
do either. So, let's not dwell on it, OK?" I pat his leg.
He
is silent, so I add, "How do you think I would feel if Chad had to come and
tell me that you had died in a car accident, because you had been testing out
your skill or just having a bit of fun? I couldn't bear to bury you, like Mum
and Uncle Bill did with their friend today."
He
says nothing. I go a bit further. "What if I was speeding and had a crash,
killing myself, Andy and Marty? How would you feel then? I love you, and them,
too much to allow that to happen."
Will
gets up without speaking, or even looking at me, and heads in the direction of
the toilets.
I
give him a couple of minutes then excuse myself to go and check on him.
I
push the external and the next toilet doors open, but there is nobody in here.
I step back out and look around. There is nobody down the corridor towards the
accommodation area. I know with certainty that he wouldn't have gone into the
public bar so I take the side door exit. He can't have gone anywhere else.
I
can't see him. "Will?" I call quietly. No answer.
I
cross to the other side of the road and walk about 20 metres towards the church
and school. My eyes adjust to the light cast by the three-quarter moon. I can
see quite clearly now.
I
turn and look back past the pub in the direction of where his old house used to
be. He's not down that track!
I
cast my eyes towards the Andersen house. My instincts tell me that he would not
have ventured over there to be quizzed by Jan and the boys.
It
enters my head that he might be sitting on the school verandah, out of sight of
the pub and I head across that way. I approach the school quietly and walk
through the open gate to the verandah and look along it. He's not here.
I
go back to the gate, stand and look around me, considering any other
possibilities. Would he have taken off back to Marty's as he was accustomed to
doing when he was upset by one of his mother's moods? Possibly. I wouldn't have
to drive far in the Beast until its four spotlights picked him up.
I
take a couple of strides back towards the pub, with a mild sense of urgency
now. Then I stop. I am suddenly overcome by the same strange feeling that drew
me towards the Jintabudjaree homestead.
I
turn and walk purposefully towards the weir. The cascading sound of the water
intensifies. When I am quite close, I hear him. Sobbing. Moaning. Crying.
He
is sitting on the log of the fallen tree that had once, previously, been
decorated with his shorts and the twins' underwear as they frolicked naked in
the water. I don't think that he is aware of me. I slip up behind him and wrap
my arms around him, over his shoulders and across his chest, with my chin on
the top of his head. He doesn't need to ask who it is.
He
leans, and rubs the side of his face against one of my arms. "You scared me,"
he sighs, after a heavy sob.
I
kiss his head. He continues, "I didn't want to burst into tears in front of
everyone, so I came over here." It's so peaceful, and this is the place where I
first saw you and it changed my life. It's as special to me as our `lucky' spot
on the track into Marty's.
"Come
on," I say, urging him to his feet. "Let's get back, and have some dessert." He
doesn't need a lecture. Just love.
I
hug him and he melts against me. "Thank you," he says, and kisses me.
We
walk hand in hand. When we near the pub I raise his hand to my mouth and kiss
it, then we separate.
We
enter via the toilets to freshen up and ensure that we look OK.
I
go back to the table first, and announce, "Will and I have just had a little
chat. He was a bit upset by the events of the day. Everything's OK now."
Everyone nods and resumes talking.
Will
joins us. "Did I miss dessert?" he asks, putting on a happy face.
"Yes.
I ate yours," Marty tells him.
"That's
a big fib," Andy admonishes, wagging his finger. "No, you didn't, Marty!"
Marty
makes amends. "We were waiting for you, Will. The house special tonight is
apple pie with custard and cream. I thought you'd like that, so we've already
ordered."
On
cue, Julie Smith arrives and begins serving the sweets. Will's mood hasn't
affected his appetite.
And
he has seconds.
Andy
yawns and leans into his mother. I take that as my cue. "We'll see you all up
here in the morning, about nine o'clock," I tell them. "Come on Andy. Kiss your
mother goodnight. There's a big bed waiting for you."
We
say our goodnights. I give Mum a long cuddle and a smooch. "Tomorrow's going to
be a great day! Sleep well."
Mrs
T and Will follow Marty, Andy and me to the car. Mrs T. kisses Andy again and
says, "You be a good boy and do everything that Tom tells you. OK?"
"Yes,
Mum," Andy replies. "I like Tom. He's my friend." I think I see a glistening in
her eyes. This will be the first night that they have been apart since his
`accident'.
Marty
helps him into the passenger seat and then climbs into the back. Will follows
me to the driver's door. "I'm gonna miss being with you tonight," he says. His
eyes are moist too.
"Be
kind to your father," I tell him. He steals a quick kiss, hopefully not being
noticed by anyone else.
They
wave. I drive.
The
dogs bark but, I think for Andy's sake, Marty refrains from his usual
invective.
"Anything
you need?" Marty asks me.
"No.
I think we'll be fine," I reply. "Thanks."
"Good
night, Andy," Marty says to him, and extends a hand.
Andy
ignores the hand and gives Marty a hug. "Good night, Marty. You're my friend."
"Come
on buddy," I tell him. "Let's get your pyjamas on and brush those teeth."
We
head to the bedroom and search his bag. I can only find the PJ bottoms. "Do you
have a top to go with these, Andy?" I ask him.
"I
wear pants. No top," he says matter-of-factly.
"OK,"
I tell him. He doesn't need any prompting. With his single `good' arm, he
manages to strip totally naked without any hesitation or shame in displaying
his adolescent gear and bush, and attempts, unsuccessfully, to put on his
elastic-waisted pyjama pants. I contemplate the fact that he has definitely
grown since I last saw him fully unclothed. The lack of exercise while confined
to bed has done nothing to diminish his ripped musculature. He's a perfect
young specimen of a `swimmer's build'. Firm pecs, flat and defined abs, slim
waist and tight glutes. Definitely `boyfriend material' as Amelia would say.
"Help
please, Tom," he asks.
I
crouch in front of him and hold the thin cotton trousers open, low to the
ground. He rests his unplastered hand on my shoulder and places one leg at a
time into the holes, then grasps one side and yanks them straight up. Too far.
Apart from the fact that he seems to have outgrown them for size, I also think
that he has the beginning of an erection. The combined result of all three is
one impressive bulge. "Not quite so high, I think, buddy," I tell him and I
ease the elastic down a little. "Doesn't that feel better?"
"Thank
you, Tom. You're my friend... Teeth."
We
take his toothbrush to the bathroom and I put toothpaste on both his and mine.
We brush and rinse. He reaches his toothbrush towards the glass where mine is
resting. I put it in. "They can share," he says. I admire his subtle but
incredible sense of humour and ruffle his hair.
"Do
you want to sleep near the wall?" I ask him, turning the bed clothes down.
"Uh-huh,"
he answers and scrambles onto the bed. He sits and looks straight at me. I'm
tempted to display a measure of modesty in changing but, given his own lack of
shyness, I decide to act as naturally as possible, without hiding myself from
him. I make it quick but unhurried. I strip off and put my bottoms on, leaving
the top in the drawer. My pants are a little tight too. Maybe I have put on a
bit of weight since I last wore them.
"Do
you need to pee?" I ask him.
"No,
Tom," he replies. "I did a pee and a poo at the pub."
"OK,
then," I say. "Get in and move over. I'm going to switch off the light." I also
close the door then slide in next to him. There is sufficient moonlight to see
what I'm doing. "Good night, buddy," I say.
"No,"
he says. "Pray first."
Now
I'm out of my depth!
"OK,"
I tell him. "You pray, and I'll say `Amen' with you at the end. OK?"
"OK,"
he says, then he begins, very falteringly, to recite a prayer that I recall
from when I was a little kid:
"Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to keep,
If I should die before I wake,
I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to take."
Then
he adds, "God bless mum and my friend Tom, and my friend Will and my friend
Marty, and please, God, make me better. Amen."
I
swallow hard. He is fully aware of his plight! It's all I can do to stop myself
from bursting into tears. I manage to choke out an "Amen" to follow his. I add
an unspoken prayer of my own. `Yes, God, please make him well again. Amen'
There
is so much that I want to ask him, but now is not the right time. Maybe in the
morning, after a good night's sleep!
We
lie side by side. He takes hold of my hand and we chat for a while. Some of it
is meaningful recollections of his day, including his first aeroplane ride.
Much of the conversation is repetitive. When one of my comments receives no
reply, I know that he is asleep.
I
wonder why he wasn't scared of the Lear jet but was terrified of the top bunk.
I ponder his concern for me sleeping up there and, again, for his mother if she
was to find out that he had been scared.
He
has beautiful manners. Like Kurt. Ah, yes... He's just like Kurt in so many ways.
With that thought pervading my mind I soon succumb to the enveloping
drowsiness.
Sometime
later, I instinctively turn onto my side, facing the open room and I nestle
back a little towards the centre of the bed, finding the familiar contour in
the mattress.
I
hardly stir later when I sense the familiarity of Will's body take up its usual
position behind me, the skin of his chest against my bare back and his
accustomed firmness between us lower down.
I
am only slightly more awake when I sense the movement, the pulsing and then the
wetness.
At
that point, I become fully alert! It's not Will! I keep perfectly still and
whisper, "Andy?" No response. I speak his name, "Andy." No words. His only
reaction is to roll back away from me.
With
the moon having moved to the west, and with the window facing the river, the
room is quite well lit. I feel the wetness and stickiness of my pyjamas and I
turn to look at him. Sound asleep! He's just experienced a wet dream against my
body.
I
guess that I AM his friend!
I
don't dare wake him. I slip out of bed, remove my PJ bottoms and dry my wet and
sticky backside with them. Quite a load for a young guy, and through his own
thin pyjamas too! I put on a pair of underpants and slide back in beside him.
I
lie awake for a long time, thinking of what to say, or not to say to him.
Having concluded to say nothing lest I upset him, I drop off to sleep.
My
next awareness is the sound of faint sobbing.
I
turn my body and bleary eyes to face him. "Are you all right, Andy? What's
wrong?" I ask, laying my arm across his chest to console him.
He
sobs a lot more then manages, "I'm a bad boy."
"You're
not bad Andy. You're a good boy. Why do you think you are bad?" I ask him
tenderly.
"I'm
a bad little baby. I wet the bed," he manages to sob back.
"No
you didn't, Andy," I tell him. The bed's not wet. Feel it." I rub my hand
between us, then take his hand and do the same.
"I'm
all wet!" he sobs. "I did a pee in my pants. I'm sorry Tom. Are you still gonna
be my friend?"
"You
didn't wet the bed, Andy," I repeat. "But something did happen and, yes, of
course I'll still be your friend." So much for saying nothing! This might be as
hard as my talk with Will and Jake.
"Andy,"
I start. "Can you remember when we were surfing with all of the guys at the
beach?"
"Uh-huh,"
he responds, slowly.
"And
do you remember what we all did in the showers, and what Luke and Simon did
with each other?"
"Uh-huh,"
he says again.
"Do
you remember all the white stuff that came out of their... out of everyone's...
cocks?" I was hesitant as to what word to use.
"Uh-huh."
He seems to be taking it all in, and I can only hope that he is actually
remembering everything, and not just Luke and Simon.
"Sometimes
big boys can make that happen for themselves. Sometimes they like a friend to
do it, like Luke and Simon, and everyone else did. And sometimes it just
happens while big boys are asleep, having a good dream. It just comes out, and
they get wet and sticky in their pyjamas."
"Uh-huh."
I
think, and hope, that he is processing this.
"Well,"
I tell him. "You must be a really big boy because that's what happened last
night while you were asleep."
"Uh-huh,"
he replies. "My pyjamas are all wet."
"So,
you didn't wet the bed, Andy." I tell him, ruffling his hair. "You just had a
big boy dream."
He
lifts the bedclothes and pulls down his pyjama pants with the one obviously
damp splotch, revealing the hint of a new morning erection and still-wet
stickiness, most noticeable in his pubic hair. "See. You're a big boy," I tell
him.
He
smiles at me. "I like you Tom. You're my really, truly friend." I marvel at his
`new' words.
"Wait
here," I tell him. "I'll be right back." I head to the bathroom and wet a face
washer with hot water and squeeze it out.
When
I return to the bedroom, he's talking to his cock. I close the door. "You were
naughty to wet me while I was asleep," he says.
I
hand him the washer and encourage him to clean himself. He takes it and begins
wiping. "It feels good," he tells me. It's not long before he is at full mast.
"Help me, Tom," he pleads.
Self-control!
I'd love to help him, like Kurt, but, despite our previously shared pleasures
in the showers at the beach, I won't allow myself now to take advantage of him.
I take the washer, rub around his abdomen, pubic hair, legs and give his balls
and hard cock a quick once-over. Then I say, "All done! Let's get you ready for
breakfast. Would you like a bath or a shower?"
"Bath,"
he replies.
I
head into the bathroom, put in the plug and run the water. I check that the
temperature's good and stay to make sure that the bath's not too deep. When I
turn around, Andy is behind me, naked and still erect. "I'll help you get in,"
I tell him, "and I'm sure that you can wash yourself with one hand while I get
your clothes ready. Try not to get your plaster wet."
I
help him to step in and sit down. I hand him the washer and soap. "Remember,
keep your plaster dry. I'll be back in a minute to wash your hair," I say, and
leave.
I
lay out his clothes and grab a fresh towel. As I head back to the bathroom, I
encounter Marty heading in the same direction. He is, of course, starkers. "You
know what it's like in the morning, Tom," he tells me, "especially after a few
beers the night before." He stops at the doorway when he sees Andy in the bath.
"It's
OK," I tell him. "Just act naturally."
"Hi
Andy," Marty calls and walks across to the toilet. He has the decency to turn
his back to Andy while he relieves himself. He washes his hands at the basin
then says, "I'll get breakfast started. Do you like sausages and scrambled egg,
Andy?"
"Uh-huh,"
Andy replies, adding, "Thank you Marty."
"Have
you finished in there?" I ask Andy.
"Uh-huh,"
He replies. Then he reminds me, "Hair." His memory seems good.
I
take the shampoo and lather him up. Now, should I get him to lie down to rinse
it off, or stand up while I turn the shower on? Neither. "Back in a minute," I
say. "Keep your eyes closed." I rush into the kitchen and grab a small pot.
"Are
your eyes still closed?" I ask him, returning as quickly as possible.
"Uh-huh,"
he replies. I dip the pot into the bath water and carefully use it until I've
removed all suds from his hair, making sure that none get into his eyes or onto
his plaster.
"There
we go, buddy. All done. OK, let's get you out and dried." I encourage, and help
him to his feet. He holds me tightly while I assist him out onto the bath mat.
I hand him the towel.
"Help,
please, Tom," he says, holding the towel out for me to take back.
"Why
don't you start," I tell him, "and I'll dry any spots that you miss."
He
mops at parts of his body while I pull the plug. "Help, please, Tom," he
repeats.
He
has managed his chest and his hands and face. I take the towel, dry his hair,
the back of his neck and down his back. I dry his athletic young backside and
the back of his wispy-haired legs. He turns around and spreads them, partially
squatting. I work my way back up, drying between his legs as proficiently and
quickly as I can, without dwelling on his plumped-up package which, I can't
help but note, is longer than Kurt's but not as thick. "Sit on the toilet seat
while I do between your toes," I tell him. He complies.
"OK,
let's get you dressed." We walk back into the room and I help with everything -
undies, pants, shirt, socks and sneakers. I lead him to the kitchen and seat
him at the table. "Why don't you have a glass of milk while I take a quick
shower?" I say, and Marty almost immediately puts a creamy white glass in front
of him. "I won't be long," I tell them both.
I
lay out my clothes for the day, strip off and head for the shower. I regulate
the temperature, step in and begin with the shampoo. As I rinse off, I open my
eyes and see Andy sitting on the toilet seat, milk still in hand, watching. I
make quick work of the rest of me and step out. I dry myself quickly and head
back to the room. Andy follows. He stands and watches me dressing. "I like you,
Tom," he says, without adding his usual ending.
"I
like you too, Andy. We're friends, aren't we?" I ask him.
"Uh-huh,"
he replies, mega-nodding his head and smiling.
We
return to the table and Marty serves breakfast. "How did you both sleep?" Marty
asks.
"Like
babies," I reply.
Andy
frowns at me. "I'm not a baby. I'm a big boy. You said so!" I hope he doesn't
say anything more. It would be too embarrassing to try to explain. I make a
mental note of his slightly more complex language and I feel an excited pang of
hope.
I
remember something. "Back in a minute," I tell them. I go to the bedroom, grab
Andy's pyjama pants, pat the damp area as firmly as I can with a towel and head
out of the back door. I spread them in a patch of warm morning sunlight to air
and to dry as much as possible. I'm glad that there was no overnight shower or
dew, and the low humidity will be useful. The pattern on the fabric should help
to disguise any residual stain. Maybe his mother won't notice.
Breakfast
consumed, I take Andy on a long, slow walk around the property, so that we can
talk. He holds my hand, for a bit more than stability on the uneven ground, I
think. Friends.
We
go via the track to the river, down past the Men's Room (without going inside)
and, after about 20 minutes, eventually return to the house at the back door.
His pyjamas seem sufficiently dry so I collect them on the way.
I
reflect on what he has been able to share of his ordeal, albeit in his own
simple words; that although he can remember almost everything vividly,
painfully, his body now doesn't seem to want to cooperate with what he wants to
do or to say. It frustrates him. He cried a couple of times while recounting
his memories. I hugged him and cried with him.
We
pack his bag. "Let's brush our teeth," I tell him. That done, we add his
toothbrush to his bag and leave everything on the top bunk for tonight. We're
ready to go. "Remember," I tell him. "We have our House Rule. What happens in
the house, stays in the house. So, we both promise not to tell anybody what we
talked about, or what happened last night. OK?"
He
pauses. "Trucking hell Yeah!" he manages to reply. I'm shocked. Pleasantly. He
looks at me for any adverse reaction. Seeing nothing but my broad grin, he
emits a self-satisfying, conspiratorial chuckle and hugs me. Then, in a most
sincere, albeit faltering, voice I hear, "Thank you, Tom. You are my really,
truly friend." I think that his mother is in for a surprise when she hears him
speaking today!
She gives me a hug. "It's going to be a wonderful day, Tom,
and we are all looking forward to the official ownership signing. People are
coming from everywhere! I'm very happy for you."
"Thank you, so much for doing all of this," I tell her.
"I'll take young Andy and the ladies out after they have finished their
breakfast. Will and his dad can drive themselves once they've woken up and have
eaten."
I join Andy and our mothers and enjoy a freshly-brewed
coffee while they finish theirs.
"Toilet," Andy says, but when his mother rises to help him,
he reacts. "I can do it myself. I'm a big boy." Mrs T looks bewildered. He's
not gone long, so we can tell that he experienced few, if any, problems,
without us actually appreciating the extent of any effort involved for him. His
shirt is still loose and his zipper is not completely pulled-up, but he's done
well.
"Amazing!" Mrs T whispers to me as she sees him coming and I
hope that she is not going to cry, which would set me off too!
I ask Julie Smith if she would pass on a message to Uncle
Bill and Will that they should come out (in Will's car) whenever they're ready.
I help Andy into the front passenger's seat. Mum and Mrs T
take the back seats as they did yesterday.
The Beast re-awakens with a low, throaty growl and we pull
away from the pub slowly. I leave the sound system off and enjoy the
conversation between Mum and Mrs T.
"I'm
so pleased that you're feeling much better today, Susan," Mrs T tells Mum.
"Thank
you, Enid," she replies. "I thought that the flight and the anguish of Danny's
funeral would drain me physically and emotionally, but I feel fine, even
refreshed."
It
must be the country air," I tell them. "I feel great living out here,
especially surrounded by so many wonderful, generous and supportive people."
Not
to be left out, Andy joins in and tells his mother, again, what he had for
breakfast at Marty's and what he saw on our walk. His speech may be slow, and
somewhat infantile, but he's talking! I can see Mrs T's amazed face in my
rear-view mirror.
We
pull up at the homestead. The dust settles and we clamber down from the Beast.
I
hear Mum telling Mrs T what she knows of the place, and they make a bee-line
for the rose bushes.
"Beautiful!"
Mrs T comments, inhaling deeply. "I would love a perfume that smells like
this!"
I
offer to give Andy a piggy-back up the steps but he insists that he can walk up
by himself, if I help him. He holds the railing with one hand and offers his
plastered arm to me. We climb together, slowly and a little shakily, counting
each step as we go.
With
the four of us standing at the front door, Mum looks at me with a degree of
uncertainty and comments, "I still think that we should knock before we go in."
Andy
jumps at the opportunity, eyeing off the large door knocker. "I'll do it!" he
says excitedly. I'm right beside him because I don't want him to be
disappointed when the apparently-locked door doesn't yield.
"OK,
buddy. Go for it!" I tell him.
He
reaches for the knocker and raps hard a few too many times, causing his mother
to tell him to stop.
He
grasps the handle and pushes the door open!
He
takes half a dozen steps inside then stops. He turns to me. I am still stunned
and frozen by the doorway.Andy
says, "Come on, Tom," motioning eagerly with his `good' arm for me to join him.
My
brain is too busy (processing any possible reasons why Andy was able to open
the door) to send a `move' message to my legs. There goes my theory!
Or
does it?
"Thank
you, Thomas," both Mrs T and Mum say, walking past me, thinking that I've
extended to them the courtesy of entering first, and they join Andy in the
great hall.
Andy's
hand motioning to me continues.
Mum
and Mrs T have positioned themselves on either side of him and seem to be
immediately engaged in discussing the variety of animal hides.
I
walk up behind them and stand between Mum and Andy. I comment, "Is anyone else
cold? Or is it just me?"
"I
wasn't going to say anything," Mrs T says, "but I felt it as soon as I came
in."
"Me,
too, like yesterday," Mum adds. "But there doesn't seem to be a draught."
"Mee
tooo!" Andy complains, and it appears that he is beginning to shiver.
I
take Mum's hand next to me. "You don't feel cold," I tell her.
"Feel
mine, Tom!" Andy insists, holding out both hands to me.
"Nope!"
I tell him. "You don't feel cold, either."
Mrs
T extends hers, and I confirm her normal body warmth as well.
We
make a complete `circle' of hand holding and comment on each other's
temperatures.
As
we hold hands, everyone agrees that the perception of our unexplained sudden
chill gradually seems to have passed, to be replaced by a feeling of warmth and
well-being.
"Are
you sure that you're OK, Susan?" Mrs T asks.
"Actually,"
Mum replies, "I feel remarkably well!"
"Actually,
so do I!" Andy comments.
Mrs
T and I, without hesitation, turn to look at each other, the fluency of Andy's
response having just seized both of our attentions.
Her
astonished eyes communicate, `Where did that come from?' I shrug my ignorance
and surprise.
We
all go left to check out the dining room. Mum has already been in here, with
Will.
Down
the centre, lengthwise is a magnificently carved and highly polished dining
table and 12 matching chairs with ornately-crafted backs - five, without arms, on
each side and one at each end, with arms; `carvers' I think they are called.
There is ample room around the table and the far end of the room, presumably
for servants to move about freely. It seems a great place for the signing of
the title deeds later, I think to myself.
The
ladies want to check out the kitchen. Of course! I tell them that Andy and I
will wait for them on the other side of the house, in the formal lounge room. I
realise that I had not given that room more than a cursory glance previously,
simply to confirm the location of one of the fireplaces.
It's
not like Mum and Dad's informal lounge room at home on the coast. Nor is it
like Marty's living area. It has a distinctive aroma; not the cigars and brandy
that I might have imagined (nor Gin and Barra, gee, for that matter) but it is
the heady smell of leather!
The
farther end of the room is dominated by two seat-three, dark brown,
deep-buttoned Chesterfield lounges, facing each other (presumably to facilitate
conversation), between which is a low `coffee' table of similar design to the
large dining-room version across the hallway.
At
the nearer end to the door and fireplace is a collection of three armless
chairs, covered in various rich fabrics; alongside each of which is a small
side table, obviously by the same craftsman as the other tables. Additionally,
beside the fireplace, is a single-seat Chesterfield-design chair, obviously for
the master of the house. I can't resist trying it. Very comfortable! I can
imagine Jeeves, the butler, bringing me an aromatic coffee and a custard tart.
Make that two!
Andy
tries a few of the other chairs then stands silently in front of me. "Would you
like to try this one too?" I ask him, anticipating an `uh-huh' response.
"Yes,
please, Tom," he answers, smiling politely.
What's
going on with him?
We
swap places and I peer hard into his face for any hint of aboriginality. It's
the only answer that I can think of as to how he was able to open the door, if
my theory is correct. But his nose is not broad, nor are his lips unduly thick
(but then, neither are Mum's nor mine!) His skin colour? A golden-bronze (but
faded) surfer's tan gives nothing away either.
"I
like this one!" Andy says, returning my inquisitorial stare. Something in his
eyes is different today! Clearer. Happier. Healthier, perhaps.
Mum
and Mrs T enter the room and I extend both my hands to Andy who grasps them and
stands up. "Do you want to check out the bedrooms and bathrooms?" I ask. I add,
"I haven't looked at them carefully."
"Oh,
do come on upstairs Enid," Mum says. "They are wonderful, especially the one in
green tones."
We
leave together, but Andy is first to the bottom of the stairs.
"Hang
on, Andy, I'll help you." I tell him. But he doesn't wait. Using the bannister
for balance, he negotiates them alone to the landing below the zebra skin, then
turns and smiles at the three of us who are spellbound by his sudden burst of energy
and ability. He continues upwards.
Mrs
Thompson covers her mouth and nose with her (almost-prayerful) hands. She looks
at me. Her eyes are full of tears. "I don't know what is happening," she
manages to say, "but it's a miracle."
"He
did pray last night that he would be made well again," I tell her. Then I add,
"So did I."
She
is unable to hold back any longer, and the tears escape her eyes and cascade
over her fingers. She sobs silently. My clean handkerchief again proves useful.
I
chase Andy up the stairs. "I'm gonna get you!" I call, and he squeals in
delight at being my prey.
"What
took you so long, Mr Tortoise?" he says, turning to face me at the top,
displaying the broadest of grins.
I
turn to see Mum taking the stairs singly but at double time. "What on earth are
you doing?" I call at her. "Be careful!"
"I
haven't felt this good in ages," she tells me and, at the top, gives me the
most wonderful of hugs, spinning us both around. "I can't explain it. I just
feel great."
"So
do I," Mrs T adds, joining the three of us. "I have this really positive
feeling, where previously I was overcome by doom and gloom. It feels so good! I
feel alive again. Thank you for letting me come with you, Susan."
I
really want to test out the door-opening ability on Mrs T too! And, I am
convinced that there is something much more inexplicable than bizarre door-handles
going on here!
I
wish that I could remember exactly what Davo first told me about the land out
here that day in the pub! I can recall only the basics. It was a sacred site to
the aboriginals who used to be provided with food, water and general sustenance
by their Great Rainbow Serpent who lived under the ground that the house was
built on. What else? Was there more?
I
snap myself out of it!
Andy
and I walk a few steps behind the ladies. I throw one arm over his shoulder and
he puts his arm around my waist. "Am I still your friend, Andy?" I ask him.
"Trucking
hell Yeah!" he whispers back. He looks up at me, grinning, and we both laugh.
There is a
parallel version to this story, told through the eyes of Kurt.
Find it at https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/kurt-series/
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