A Straight Line to My Heart (2 page)

As i sit at the bus stop I see Mrs Muir's sunflowers. Her front garden is infested with them; tall and vibrant. To me they're a symbol of sheer happiness. That is really rubbing my nose in it. Well, I've had enough and I'm not going to take it anymore!

Even as I stomp over there, the evil thought swelling up in me, I tell myself I can't do this. I won't.

Another voice rages.

I hate that boy! I hate me! I am so incredibly stupid!

A sunflower leans over the fence, smiling.

How dare you!

I rip off its head and throw it in the gutter.

The smart thing to do is to keep on going. Walk away quickly and no one will know what I've done.

But I can't move because my eyes are locked on the slowly opening front door – locked on Mrs Muir.

‘I'm sorry.' My tiny voice sounds so pathetically lame, but I've got still more lameness for her.

‘I never do this sort of thing. I like sunflowers. I was just angry about something – nothing to do with you or the flower. I'm really, really sorry.'

‘Oh, you
are
upset. Well, never mind.' Mrs Muir comes closer to me. ‘Goodness, we all get cross. The main thing is: did it make you feel any better?'

‘No. Yes. Maybe. A little bit.'

‘Would you like to do another one? There's more out the back, too. You go for your life, dear. I don't mind at all – they need a good pruning.'

She's an old, close-to-the-ground, jelly-belly woman with bald patches showing through her wispy grey hair. It doesn't seem like she's got a lot going for her, but she's still smiling. Been around the sunflowers too long, I'd say.

‘No thanks, Mrs Muir, but I'll keep it in mind for another time.' I open the gate and walk into her yard. ‘Are you going to the game tomorrow?'

‘Oh yes. I always get along to support our boys.'

‘Thought so. Please take these to make up for the flower.' I put them in her hand. ‘Raffle tickets. They're drawn at half time. All paid for. Top prizes.'

‘What a lovely thought.'

She wraps her arms around me and holds me like I'm hers.

On the bus home I ring my best friend Kayla to tell her about my strange visitor.

‘What a creep! Hitting on you – at the library of all places – and then trying to sell you raffle tickets. I would have told him where to go.'

‘Thanks, but boys don't actually hit on me, Kayla. I am not exactly flavour of the month.'

‘Yeah, that's true.'

‘You didn't have to agree so quickly.'

‘Aw, Tiff, I'm sorry. It could be different, if a boy ever got to know you . . .'

Kayla and boys go together like chocolate and pimples. She can have her pick of any guy she wants. She's friends with Jarrod and Ryan and once she almost agreed to Gabriel Bronkowski's suggestion that they live together. But then she realised that Gabe meant ‘live together with him and his mum'. Pass.

Mostly Kayla can't be bothered because she thinks boys are too possessive and she likes her freedom, doesn't want to get tied down to just one person. As for me, I wouldn't mind, not if he was the right person; wouldn't mind at all.

‘This guy sounds like a tool,' she says.

‘No, he wasn't that bad – I was just being naïve, as usual.'

‘Don't defend him. I know you, Tiff. He must have made some impression on you, or else you wouldn't have told me about him. I bet you got your hopes up – I bet you were hurt.'

‘Okay, but it was my own fault. He was being friendly, that's all.'

‘Of course he was. So he could sell you raffle tickets.'

I know she's right.

‘Please tell me you didn't buy any. That would be really tragic if you did.'

‘Not a chance. Are you joking? I still have
some
pride.'

I stroll into the kitchen. Bull's making lunch. He's actually no relation to me, though secretly I look on him as my big brother, sometimes even my dad. When I needed a father for parent–teacher nights, Bull was there; if I fell out of a tree he'd run to catch me. He usually dropped me, but at least he tried; he's my full-time bodyguard and chauffeur, and, when I was thirteen and feeling depressed after spending too long in front of a mirror, he was the one I asked – ‘Do you think I'm pretty?'

‘No, mate,' he said, ‘I wouldn't call you pretty at all. No way. You're beautiful.'

It's still near the top of my all-time favourite lies.

I don't tell him how I feel about him because he'd get a swelled head. And one thing Bull doesn't need is a bigger head.

Nor do I tell him about Big Foot. I figure it's best to forget him and his stupid raffle tickets.

Reggie's sitting at the table looking more despondent than usual. His face has as many lines as the state rail system, and though he still has some hair, most of it is poking out of his ears and nose. Hair on the head is too ordinary anyway. If I think of Bull as my dad, then Reggie has to be my grandfather. He's way old and he's kind to me like a grandfather should be, but if I call him Pops or Gramps he goes right off. Says it makes him feel ‘like a relic'. So to me he's always Reggie.

Our family tree is kind of twisty-turny. Reggie and his wife, Nell, were friends with my mum's only sister, Debbie. When Mum died, Auntie Debbie couldn't look after me herself, and there were no other volunteers for the job, so she asked Reggie and Nell if they'd take me. I think it was only a stop-gap fostering thing at first, but I was probably a really cute baby, so I stayed.

Nell was married before, when she was a lot younger, but it didn't last long. One dark and stormy night she left her husband and moved in with Reggie. Her little boy was part of the package deal. That was Bull. He was twenty-two by the time I joined the family.

- - + - -

‘What's up?' I ask Reggie.

‘Eughhh.'

That's the noise a snarl makes.

‘As bad as that, huh?'

‘Yeah, Tiffy. It's that bloke over there.' He points to Bull to make sure I know who he means. There's no one else in the kitchen so I could probably have guessed. ‘He's got no respect.'

‘You're not wrong.' I pat Reggie's back as I wander past. ‘He's a lowlife, all right.'

‘Who you callin' a lowlife?' That's the unmistakable, deep-down-in-the-dungeon voice of Bull.

And then I'm next to him, leaning in like a pesky calf pushing up against a tree. If I didn't annoy him he'd think there was something wrong.

‘Get out of it, you!'

I take both barrels of his steely gaze as he tries to look mean. It only makes me laugh.

He used to be a boxer: Wild Bull Bennett. Gave that up years ago and joined the police. His mates don't need a battering ram when they have Bull with them; they send him charging first though the door every time. Just the look of him scares the crooks half to death. But he doesn't scare me. It's the other way around, as it should be.

‘What's cookin', Greg-ory?' He hates it when I call him that.

‘Bacon, tomatoes, scrambled eggs; food for the gods. But Wolfie's gunna be havin' your share if you're not careful, Tiff-a-ny.'

Ouch. I hate being called that, too. It's hard to score any points when you know each other's weaknesses so well.

I pull up a chair next to Reggie.

‘What's all this about him giving you no respect?'

Bull jumps in before Reggie can open his mouth. ‘His usual garbage. Yesterday he felt a bit off-colour so now he decides he's on his way out. Tells me he's going to leave me the Falcon. Whoopy-do. Only been working on it ten years and he still can't get it on the road.'

‘But I will. You can put money on it. And by the way, I felt more than off-colour, boy. I tell yer, there's somethin' wrong with me throat. I can feel it.'

‘Not another tea leaf is it?'

‘Aw, give it a rest. When are you gunna forget that? It was ages ago.'

Only last year, actually. Reggie was convinced he had cancer because he had a black spot on his tongue – he switched to tea bags after the doctor told him it was a tea leaf.

‘Look,' Bull says, ‘if you're really concerned, go and see Anna. She'll put your mind at ease.'

‘I'll save me money, thanks. Already diagnosed meself, anyway. I'm cactus.'

‘Cactus? Right. Great work, there, Doc. I'm glad you're not my bloody doctor.'

‘Well what do you want me to say? That's how I feel.'

‘You're a misery guts, that's what's wrong with you. Ever since Rupes died you've been like this.'

‘He was me best mate, Bull.'

‘He was a rabbit.'

‘Still me best mate.'

‘You'll always have me,' I say.

‘And don't think I'm not grateful.' Reggie manages a craggy smile. ‘But you'll be leavin' here one day. Sure as eggs.'

I wish I could say it wasn't true, but I know it is. Soon as I can I'm getting out of Gungee. I'll keep on going until I find where I'm meant to be.

Nell died when I was five so I was raised by these two boofy blokes. It was a challenge for all of us, but we've scraped through. No, that's not fair – we've sailed through, had the best time. Still, I can't stay their little girl forever, even though it's very tempting.

‘I'll be in your life, no matter what,' I tell him, which isn't a lie – it just might be from a distance. ‘And you've got Wolfie.'

‘Nah. The Wolf's your mutt now – I'm leavin' her to you in me will. Got it all sorted; I'm packed and ready to go.'

I'm really fascinated to know what sort of things he's packed in preparation for dying – how would you know what the weather was going to be like? But before I get around to asking, Bull interrupts.

‘Better unpack, old fella. You're not going anywhere. Don't even think about it.'

‘Sooner or later I need to get the arrangements settled.'

‘You and yer flamin' arrangements.'

‘Now you remember this – when I go you can burn me up in the incinerator out the backyard and then bung me ashes in the garbage bin. Green one if yer like, so I get recycled. That's me last wish and testament.'

‘Wait a second.' Bull pauses to flip over the bacon. ‘Okay, now listen. When you go you're gettin' a proper funeral with all the bells and whistles. And I don't want to hear any arguments.'

‘No one would turn up to see me off.'

‘Of course they would – they'd want to make sure you didn't change your mind.'

‘Funerals are too sad.'

‘Sad? You're havin' yourself on, mate. No one's gunna be sad over you. They'll be dancing in the street.'

‘All right then, have it your way; but whatever you do, I've got instructions.'

‘Thought you might.'

‘There are only two things.'

‘Go on.'

‘One: If anyone feels the urge to get up and say what a good fella I was, they can put a sock in it. If they haven't told me when I'm alive, then it's too late when I've carked it.'

‘Got it.'

‘Two: I want you to have a party. Be sure you have sparklers – they were always me favourite – no crackers 'cause they'd scare the Wolf. Fire up the barbie, play the old Beatles' records, some Elvis, sing and dance, have a beer, tell some jokes – you get the idea?'

‘Think so, Reggie.'

‘I hope you do, because if I catch anyone howlin', I'll come back and haunt yers!'