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  6

  Tim stopped when he reached the bridge. It stood on huge wooden legs which spanned the river beneath. At the top it was narrow with one set of tracks which ran along close to the edge.

  Gentle vibrations, growing strongly, came up through Tim’s crutches. The train was somewhere on the other side of the bridge. Tim wanted to run onto the bridge and grab his brother. But he knew in his heart that if he did, neither of them would come back.

  ‘Richard,’ he screamed. ‘Richard. The train is coming. This way, quick. Get off the bridge.’ He took one wobbling step towards his brother but could go no further. One crutch lodged in a gap in the planks. Tim fell sprawling between the tracks. His chest hurt terribly. And one leg was bleeding freely. For a second he just wanted to stay there. Just stop and let things happen. Blood-red clouds swirled. He lay back and shook his head. Then he closed his eyes. ‘Where are you?’ he said. ‘Where are you? Don’t let me down now.’

  And through the mists of his mind came the wonderful, dancing snowman. Calling, calling, calling. Beckoning with a snowy finger.

  Tim smiled. He opened his eyes and crawled towards his crutches which were balanced on one of the rails. He moved his fingers like the legs of a spider. He could just reach the crutches and scratch them towards himself. In a second he had them and was up on his feet. The vibrations from the tracks grew stronger and stronger. He looked towards the other side. In the distance a train whistle sounded.

  ‘Richard,’ he shouted. ‘This is for you.’ He rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a sachet of honey. He lifted his arm and threw it with all his might. The tiny container arced into the air and then fell down, down, down until it disappeared in the pebbles by the river.

  The train was on the bridge. Thundering towards Richard. Brakes screaming. Sparks flying high into the air.

  Richard looked down after the honey. He looked at Tim. He looked at the train behind him. ‘Aargh, aargh, aargh,’ he screamed. Then he ran, stumbling towards his brother. Fleeing before the steel monster which screeched and roared towards him. He fell at Tim’s feet.

  The train was upon them. Richard peered down the grassy slope towards the river, searching with his eyes for the honey. Then he jumped off the tracks and bounded over the fence and down the hill.

  Tim had no strength. He simply fell, like a tree teetering after the axeman’s last blow. He toppled sideways, away from the train. The thundering wheels crunched his crutches to splinters. Tim rolled like a log. Down the gentle bank and under the fence. At last he stopped by a small stand of bushes.

  ‘Aargh, aargh, aargh,’ came Richard’s voice from the river far below. He scrabbled among the rocks, looking for the honey.

  ‘Stupid little idiots,’ came a fading voice from the last carriage of the train as it rushed into the distance.

  Richard struggled back up to his brother with the sachet of honey. He held it out in one hand. But Tim was too tired to even notice.

  7

  Later, at home, the doctor pulled the sheet back up to Tim’s chin and looked at the sleeping figure. ‘He’s a very sick little boy,’ he said to the two parents. ‘He must have walked ten kilometres. On crutches. And that fall down the bank. It was too much for him. It was getting near the time anyway. You should think about putting him into hospital soon.’

  Tim’s dad shook his head. ‘We’ve talked about this over and over,’ he said. ‘We knew this day was going to come. And we’re ready for it. We want him to spend his last days in his own bed. At home with us.’

  Above their heads, in the bedroom ceiling, an eye swivelled and stared down through a small hole. The eye moistened and formed a tiny droplet. The tear wobbled for a second and then fell. It spun glistening through the warm air and plopped onto Tim’s cheek. His mother wiped it away, thinking it was her son’s. She was right. And she was wrong. ‘He’s crying in his sleep,’ she said. The eye in the ceiling blinked.

  ‘He wanted to see the snow,’ said Dad. ‘He’s never been to the snow. He’s never seen a snowman. Or a snowstorm. It’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.’

  They all looked out of the window. Insects buzzed in the warm summer air.

  ‘And now he never will,’ said Mum. ‘I wish he could see snow before he . . .’ She found it almost impossible to say the word. ‘Dies.’

  The eye in the ceiling vanished. A terrible banging and crashing came from above. A long barking howl filled the air. ‘Aaaargh, aaaargh, aaaargh.’

  ‘What on earth . . .?’ said the doctor.

  They all looked up at the ceiling. ‘It’s Richard,’ said Dad. ‘He’s had a bad day. Don’t worry. I’ll get him down. He’ll be okay.’

  After the doctor had gone Dad climbed the ladder to the loft. The noise grew worse and worse. Dad pushed up the hatch and peered inside. A hail of toilet rolls drove him back.

  ‘What’s happening?’ said Mum.

  ‘He’s gone crazy. He’s completely wrecked the castle. Demolished the whole thing. Toilet rolls everywhere.’

  Suddenly the noise stopped. Mum climbed the ladder and peeped in.

  ‘Well?’ said Dad.

  ‘He’s angry about something,’ said Mum. ‘He’s sitting there with a toilet roll. He’s pulling it to shreds. Just biting it and ripping it to bits like a wild animal.’

  She quietly lowered the hatch and climbed down.

  ‘Do you think he knows?’ said Dad. ‘About Tim?’

  ‘Who knows what he knows,’ said Mum. ‘But just for once we are going to have to forget about Richard. And worry about Tim.’

  8

  Two days passed and Tim grew weaker and weaker.

  In the ceiling above all was quiet. Richard refused to come down. Every time the hatch was lifted a furious hail of toilet rolls met the intruder.

  ‘Just leave him,’ said Dad. ‘He’ll get sick of it up there and he’ll come down like he always does.’

  ‘He’s hardly touched the food I put up there,’ said Mum. ‘But I’ve got something special. I’ve been keeping it for an emergency.’ She fetched a two-litre jar of honey from the kitchen. ‘This ought to bring him down.’ She climbed the ladder and carefully lifted the hatch. Then she waved the honey jar through the opening. ‘Richard,’ she said softly. ‘Look what I’ve got.’

  There was no reply. Then, before she could blink the honey disappeared. Snatched from her hand. ‘Rats,’ she yelled. ‘He’s grabbed it. Now he’ll never come down. We’ll just have to leave him.’

  Both parents went down to Tim’s room. They were shocked by what they saw. ‘Get the doctor,’ said Dad. Tim was pale and sweaty. His eyes rolled wildly in his head and his breath came in heavy gasps.

  Above them in the ceiling an eye stared down and then disappeared.

  Outside the warm summer breeze was swinging around and becoming cooler.

  The doctor arrived within twenty minutes and gave Tim an injection. ‘Stay with him,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait in the lounge. It’s not going to be long now.’

  Tim opened his eyes and tried to sit up. His father lifted him so that he sat upright on the pillows. ‘I want to look out,’ said Tim. ‘At the garden.’

  His father pushed the bed until it was hard up against the window. Without warning something crashed onto the path outside.

  Dad stared out. ‘A tile,’ he gasped. ‘A tile’s come off the roof.’ Another tile hurtled down and smashed into a thousand pieces. And then another and another.

  ‘It’s Richard,’ said Mum. ‘He’s on the roof. And he’s wrecking the place.’

  Like a furious fiend Richard grabbed tile after tile and threw them to the ground. Then he crawled up and over to the other side of the roof. He grabbed tiles wildly and tossed them into the air. Soon there was a yawning hole on both sides of the roof.

  The wind dropped completely. It was the stillness that always comes before a cool change in Melbourne.

  9

  And still the tiles fell.

  ‘Get the fire brigade,�
� said Mum. ‘We have to get him down.’

  ‘No,’ said Dad. ‘This is one time when Richard is not getting all the attention.’ He took his wife’s hand and led her back to their fevered son.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Tim weakly.

  ‘Nothing for you to worry about,’ said Dad. ‘You just like back there and think about . . .’

  ‘Snow,’ said Mum softly. She nodded through the door at the doctor. He quietly left the room and went outside.

  He placed a ladder against the wall and climbed to the top. ‘Good grief,’ he said as he stared into the roofless house. He turned and scrambled back down. He beckoned Mum through the window.

  ‘What’s up?’ she whispered.

  ‘He’s taken off all his clothes,’ said the doctor. ‘And he’s smeared honey all over himself. And those toilet rolls. He’s . . .’

  A cold breeze stirred and turned into a gust.

  ‘He’s torn up all those toilet rolls into little scraps. There’s not one left.’

  The gust became a gale. And lifted a billion tiny pieces of toilet paper into the air.

  From his bed by the window Tim’s eyes grew wide. He stared in amazement at the eddying cloud of white flakes.

  ‘Snow,’ Tim choked. ‘Oh, it’s snowing. Oh, just look at that snow. That snow,’ said Tim, ‘is as fresh as an apple still on the tree. It’s as cool as the breeze across a deep, deep lake. Oh, I thought I’d never see it.’

  Another gust lifted the paper and drove it crazy like a billion white bees swarming in furious silence over a winter garden.

  Then the wind dropped. And the paper began to settle. It filled the air and flurried down covering the brown grass with a snow-white coat. Branches bowed in reverence. The car disappeared like a cake under Christmas icing.

  Drifts formed on the window. Distant houses vanished under the swirling clouds. The world was white, white, white.

  ‘Look,’ called Tim. ‘Look. Yes, it is. I’m sure it is. A snowman. Oh, can you see that snowman?’

  And there, faintly emerging from his private storm, was Richard. Paper stuck to the honey. A wild, snowy figure. Prancing and dancing amongst the flurries. The finest snowman ever. Dressed in a warm, white coat.

  Tim gazed in wonder as his dream came true before his staring eyes. ‘Just look at that,’ he said in wonder.

  ‘A snowman. Look at him go.’ He gave a happy laugh.

  His last laugh.

  He lay back on the pillows with an enormous smile on his face.

  His last smile.

  Then he closed his eyes for the last time.

  And went off to dance with the snowman.

  For ever.

  Parents are embarrassing.

  Take my dad. Every time a friend comes to stay the night he does something that makes my face go red. Now don’t get me wrong. He is a terrific Dad. I love him but sometimes I think he will never grow up.

  He loves playing practical jokes.

  This behaviour first starts the night Anna comes to sleep over.

  Unknown to me, Dad sneaks into my room and puts Doona our cat on the spare bed. Doona loves sleeping on beds. What cat doesn’t?

  Next Dad unwraps a little package that he has bought at the magic shop.

  Do you know what is in it? Can you believe this? It is a little piece of brown plastic cat poo. Pretend cat poo. Anyway, he puts this piece of cat poo on Anna’s pillow and pulls up the blankets. Then he tiptoes out and closes the door.

  I do not know any of this is happening. Anna and I are sitting up late watching videos. We eat chips covered in sauce and drink two whole bottles of Diet Coke.

  Finally we decide to go to bed. Anna takes ages and ages cleaning her teeth. She is one of those kids who is right into health. She has a thing about germs. She always places paper on the toilet seat before she sits down. She is so clean.

  Anyway, she puts on her tracky daks and gets ready for bed. Then she pulls back the blankets. Suddenly she sees the bit of plastic cat poo. ‘Ooh, ooh, ooh,’ she screams. ‘Oh look, disgusting. Foul. Look what the cat’s done on my pillow.’

  Suddenly Dad bursts into the room. ‘What’s up, girls?’ he says with a silly grin on his face. ‘What’s all the fuss about?’

  Anna is pulling a terrible face. ‘Look,’ she says in horror as she points at the pillow.

  Dad goes over and examines the plastic poo. ‘Don’t let a little thing like that worry you,’ he says. He picks up the plastic poo and pops it into his mouth. He gives a grin. ‘D’licioush,’ he says through clenched teeth.

  ‘Aargh,’ screams Anna. She rushes over to the window and throws up chips, sauce and Diet Coke. Then she looks at Dad in disgust.

  Dad is a bit taken aback at Anna being sick. ‘It’s okay,’ he says, taking the plastic poo out of his mouth. ‘It’s not real.’ Dad gives a laugh and off he goes. And off goes Anna. She decides that she wants to go home to her own house. And I don’t blame her.

  ‘Dad,’ I yell after Anna is gone. ‘I am never speaking to you again.’

  ‘Don’t be such a sook,’ he says. ‘It’s only a little joke.’

  It’s always the same. Whenever a friend comes over to stay Dad plays practical jokes. We have fake hands in the rubbish, exploding drinks, pepper in the food, short-sheeted beds and Dracula’s blood seeping out of Dad’s mouth. Some of the kids think it’s great. They wish their Dad was like that.

  But I hate it. I just wish he was normal.

  He plays tricks on Bianca.

  And Yasmin.

  And Nga.

  And Karla.

  None of them go home like Anna. But each time I am so embarrassed.

  And now I am worried.

  Cynthia is coming to stay. She is the school captain. She is beautiful. She is smart. Everyone wants to be her friend. And now she is sleeping over at our house.

  ‘Dad,’ I say. ‘No practical jokes. Cynthia is very mature. Her father would never play practical jokes. She might not understand.’

  ‘No worries,’ says Dad.

  Cynthia arrives but we do not watch videos. We slave away on our English homework. We plan our speeches for the debate in the morning. We go over our parts in the school play. After all that we go out and practice shooting goals because Cynthia is captain of the netball team. Every now and then I pop into the bedroom to check for practical jokes. It is best to be on the safe side.

  We also do the washing-up because Cynthia offers –

  yes offers – to do it.

  Finally it is time for bed. Cynthia changes into her nightie in the bathroom and then joins me in the bedroom. ‘The cat’s on my bed,’ she says. ‘But it doesn’t matter. I like cats.’ She pulls back the blankets.

  And screams. ‘Aargh. Cat poo. Filthy cat poo on my pillow.’ She yells and yells and yells.

  Just then Dad bursts into the room with a silly grin on his face. He goes over and looks at the brown object on the pillow. ‘Don’t let a little thing like that worry you,’ he says. He picks it up and pops it into his mouth. But this time he does not give a grin. His face freezes over.

  ‘Are you looking for this?’ I say.

  I hold up the bit of plastic poo that Dad had hidden under the blankets earlier that night.

  Dad looks at the cat.

  Then he rushes over to the window and is sick.

  Cynthia and I laugh like mad.

  We do love a good joke.

  The question is: did the girl kill her own father? Some say yes and some say no.

  Linda doesn’t look like a murderess.

  She walks calmly up the steps of the high school stage. She shakes the mayor’s hand and receives her award. Top of the school. She moves over to the microphone to make her speech of acceptance. She is seventeen, beautiful and in love. Her words are delicate, musical crystals falling upon receptive ears. The crowd rewards her clarity with loud applause but it passes her by. She is seeking a face among the visitors in the front row. She finds what she is looking for
and her eyes meet those of a young man. They both smile.

  He knows the answer.

  1

  ‘It’s finally finished,’ said Doctor Scrape. ‘After fourteen years of research it is finished.’ He tapped the thick manuscript on the table. ‘And you, Ralph, will be the first to see the results.’

  They were sitting in the lounge watching the sun lower itself once more into the grave of another day.

  Ralph didn’t seem quite sure what to say. He was unsure of himself. In the end he came out with, ‘Fourteen years is a lot of work. What’s it all about?’

  Dr Scrape stroked his pointed little beard and leaned across the coffee table. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘as a layman, how did you learn to speak? How did you learn the words and grammar of the English language?’

  ‘Give us a go,’ said Ralph good naturedly. ‘I haven’t had an education like you. I haven’t been to university. I didn’t even finish high school. I don’t know about stuff like that. You’re the one with all the brains. You tell me. How did I learn to speak?’

  When Ralph said, ‘You’re the one with all the brains,’ Dr Scrape smiled to himself and nodded wisely. ‘Have a guess then,’ he insisted.

  ‘My mother. My mother taught me to talk.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘My father then.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then who?’ asked Ralph with a tinge of annoyance.

  ‘Nobody taught you,’ exclaimed Dr Scrape. ‘Nobody teaches children to talk. They just learn it by listening. If the baby is in China it will learn Chinese because that’s what it hears. If you get a new-born Chinese baby and bring it here it will learn to speak English not Chinese. Just by listening to those around it.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with your re–?’ began Ralph. But he stopped. Dr Scrape’s daughter entered the room with a tray. She was a delicate, pale girl of about fourteen. Her face reminded Ralph of a porcelain doll. He was struck by both her beauty and her shyness.