After (5 page)

I ate break fast alone, still uneasy after my dream. When I returned to the kitchen, showered and dressed, Nan was humming as she packed sewing stuff into a cane basket. She stared at my long-sleeved T-shirt then scowled, which didn’t surprise me. All she ever did was scowl or snap at me. ‘You’ll need a warmer jumper.’

‘Warmer? Or just not a slogan jumper?’

‘A coat will do,’ said Grandpa, standing in the kitchen doorway, oilskin coat over his arm and a brown cap embroidered with ‘Winter Creek—125 years’ in his hand.

‘I didn’t bring one.’ I glared at Nan. ‘Not that it’s your problem.’

The lines around her lips went white.

Grandpa walked away. I hoped he’d gone to the footy without me. But he hadn’t. He returned with a second oilskin coat. ‘This was always too big. Should fit you no worries.’

My grandmother’s lips tightened even more. The coat smelt of oil and old paper.

‘It stinks.’

‘That’s the oilskin. You won’t mind when the rain sets in,’ said Grandpa. ‘Looks good.’

The coat was stiff and heavy on my shoulders. In this stinking thing I looked like I belonged here. I pictured my old coat lying across Christos’s back seat, blue and green, thick padding, zips and pockets. ‘Doesn’t feel good.’

‘What do you think, Pat?’

Nan wouldn’t look at me. ‘I think you should have thrown it out with the other stuff.’

Grandpa shook his head. ‘Come on, Callum, we’ll be late.’

‘See you,’ I said.

‘Callum, take this for lunch or a drink,’ said Nan, thrusting a twenty dollar note at me.

‘Thanks.’

‘Have fun,’ she said, as though the words tasted sour.

‘The O is the best ground in this part of the state,’ said Grandpa, turning carefully into the Millington City Oval gates. The enclosed trailer hitched to the back of the ute followed with a bounce.

‘The O? Weird name.’

‘It’s a nickname—like people calling the MCG the Gee.’ He spoke as if I was stupid. ‘The Millington City Oval is called the MCO, so we call it the O.’

Country humour was weird.

‘Flash gates,’ I said, ignoring his explanation. The gates were made from looped wrought iron. A ball with a spike sat on top of the gate posts.

‘Bloody heavy. When we were kids, a friend of mine rode his bike straight into them. Smashed his nose and lost three teeth. Blood everywhere.’ Grandpa stopped the ute beside an iron shed. Two old guys wearing money belts around their waists stood inside.

‘Gidday, Jim,’ said the shorter guy, limping forward.

Grandpa pulled money from his wallet. ‘How are you, Bluey?’

‘Can’t complain.’ He bent to peer at me through the car window. ‘Just you and the boy?’

‘This is my grandson, Callum. Callum, this is Mr Blewett.’

‘Hi,’ I said looking at the dashboard.

‘Playing today?’ asked the Bluey bloke.

For a moment I thought he was asking Grandpa, but then I realised he was talking to me. ‘No.’

‘Soccer player,’ said Grandpa.

‘Oh,’ said Bluey, nodding, as though being a soccer player was as bad as having a fatal disease. ‘Catch you later for a beer, Jim?’

‘No worries.’

Bluey tapped the ute’s roof and Grandpa eased the car forward. I shook my head and laughed through my nose.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘Bluey. It’s such a country...’ One look at Grandpa’s face told me to shut up. The chill settling in the ute’s cabin had nothing to do with the open window.

‘Such a country what?’

‘Nothing,’ I said.

Grandpa drove towards an old grandstand. Cars were parked around the oval already, bonnets close to the pipe fence. A few people stood by the coaches’ boxes. A couple of little kids kicked a football on the oval.

‘Looks quiet now, but the place will be packed by lunchtime,’ said Grandpa. ‘Millington versus Winter Creek is a bit of a grudge match.’ He backed the ute and trailer beside the change room marked ‘Visitors’. ‘Callum, from now on when you meet someone, shake their hand and look them in the eye. Firm grip. Understand?’

What was the big deal? ‘Sure.’

‘Good.’ Grandpa grabbed his coat. ‘Let’s unhook the trailer.’

I stood between the ute and the fence, as far away from the change rooms as I could, and watched.

‘Ever thought about playing footy?’ asked Grandpa, mucking around with the tow bar.

My skin prickled. I’d been waiting for this question ever since I found out Grandpa was president of the footy club.

‘You’re a great height and build for it. Centre-half-forward, I reckon.’

That’s where I’d played for the school senior team.

‘Or centre-half-back.’

He lifted a bulging sports bag with U14 written on the side in black texta out of the trailer. ‘Winter Creek needs height. Why don’t you pull on the boots? Give it a try?’

‘I hate footy, okay? I hate all sport.’

Grandpa glared at me. ‘Right. Well, take this into the change room, will you.’

I started to sweat.

‘Hurry up,’ said Grandpa, holding the bag towards me.

‘I can’t,’ I whispered, my throat tight. I felt caged. Trapped. I couldn’t go in there.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Your arms aren’t drawn on. Take this bag into the change rooms.’

‘Do it yourself,’ I yelled. My voice echoed off the back of the empty grandstand.

Grandpa jerked back, as though he’d hit an invisible barrier. ‘Mind how you speak to me.’

A chill filled my stomach. ‘Lay off then.’

‘Lay off?’ Grandpa’s eyes widened. ‘I just asked you to give me a hand, so you’d feel like you fitted in.’

‘Maybe I don’t want to fit in. Maybe I don’t want to be here.’

Grandpa dropped the bag and stepped forward. He towered over me. ‘And maybe we don’t want you here.’

The noise I made was more animal than human—a growl. I kicked and punched the cyclone fence behind me.

‘Callum,’ said Grandpa, reaching out for me, his face twisted in sorrow. ‘I didn’t mean that.’

‘Yeah. You meant it,’ I said.

I kicked the fence again and ran, past the hut and a surprised Bluey in the gateway, through the massive gates and down the footpath, away from the oval.

I ran hard, trying to run away from Grandpa’s words. Don’t want you here. But I ran out of puff before the words disappeared. Bent over, hands on my knees, I gasped for air. When my breathing settled, I realised I was standing on the corner of Main Street, where Nan and I had shopped the day before. Only it didn’t look anything like it had yesterday. The car parks either side of the street were empty and the only person around was a woman walking a fluffy dog.

I glanced at the clock above the post office. Quarter past eight. I plodded up the footpath, away from the dog walker, eyes on the cracks, lumps of chewing gum, cigarette butts and occasional dog turd on the footpath. By the time I reached the fake baker, jeans shop and the place where Nan had bought that stupid uniform, the mist filling my brain had cleared, but my jaw ached from clenching it so tightly.

After crossing at a second roundabout, the buildings changed from shops to businesses—an accountant, an architect, a newspaper office. The display of old front pages in the newspaper office window caught my eye. Photo after photo, black and white and colour, dominated the pages on display:

A policeman, arms folded and frowning, stood in front of a level crossing.

Jack Frewen holding a footy and a medal.

Wide-eyed school kids watching a circus performance.

A netballer at full stretch.

Right up the top, beneath a headline, ‘Baby Dead. Boy in Coma’ was a photo of two cars so mangled, I couldn’t work out what make they were. I tried to read the article under the photo, but the article was too high and the type too small. But one word was clear—Bennett.

‘Callum? What are you doing here?’ Tim, the kid who’d tried to talk to me at school, sat on a purple hybrid bike behind me, holding the parking meter for balance. He wore a Winter Creek footy jumper and had a backpack slung over his shoulder.

I stepped away from the window, hands in my pockets. ‘Nice bike.’

Tim smiled. ‘Thanks. Divorce bonus.’

‘How do you figure that?’

‘Just another of the things Mum’s bought me since I decided to stay on the farm with Dad after she moved to Millington. In the last month she’s bought me an iPod and dock, a mobile phone, this bike...’ He shrugged. ‘Not that I’m complaining.’

‘Neither would I.’

‘So what are you doing here?’ he asked, nodding at the newspaper office.

I shrugged. ‘Nothing.’

‘Come on, admit it. The big city guy’s lost in the little country town,’ said Tim, smiling. ‘Your grandfather sent you to buy a curry pie and you took a wrong turn.’

‘Curry pie?’

‘And latte. He’s legendary for it at away games. Between the Under-14s and Under-17s he disappears and returns with a curry pie and latte. Without fail.’ Tim released the parking meter and climbed off his bike. ‘Last presentation night, Sparky, the club treasurer, presented Mr A with a trophy—they figured he’d cracked his two-hundredth curry pie as president.’ Tim was carrying on as though the story was hilarious.

‘Right,’ I said.

Tim wheeled his bike over the gutter and onto the footpath. ‘Come on, I’ll show you which bakery. Millo bakery sucks—pies are more crust than meat. Foran’s does the best pies.’

We walked back the way I’d come, but turned left at the roundabout I’d crossed.

Tim nodded at a small shop across the road. ‘That’s it. The oval is straight ahead. Will you be right? I’m kind of late.’

‘Yeah, I’ll be fine.’

Tim got onto his bike. ‘See you then.’

He rode along the footpath.

‘Thanks,’ I yelled after him.

‘So it wasn’t a fire then?’ said Bluey, standing in the middle of the gates.

‘What?’

‘You shot off in such a hurry, I thought there must have been a fire.’ He nodded at the bakery bag and cardboard tray with hot drinks I held. ‘On the pie and latte run? Took you long enough.’

‘I got lost.’

Bluey’s laugh grated. ‘Lost in Millington? Now there’s a first.’ He scratched his belly then pointed to the coach’s box nearest the grandstand. ‘He parked there after he unloaded the trailer.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, walking as fast as I could without spilling the drinks. A car horn tooted. Frewen led the team onto the field. I’d been gone for the entire Under-14s match.

Grandpa must have seen me coming. He met me at the back of his ute. ‘What’s going on here?’

‘Latte and curry pie for you. Hot chocolate for me.’ I couldn’t look at his face.

‘Saw your grandmother slip you money. Did she tell you what to buy me?’ He took the brown paper bags from me. ‘And a caramel slice.’

‘That’s mine.’

We sat on the bonnet, Grandpa eating his pie and drinking his coffee. Me eating my slice and hot chocolate.

‘Good?’ asked Grandpa, crumpling his empty paper bag.

‘Yeah.’

‘Figured, from the way you were getting into it.’

‘Better than the ones at home.’

‘Callum, about what I said ... about not wanting you here. I—’

‘Forget it. No one wants me around these days.’

‘Callum, that’s just not true.’

I shrugged. ‘Whatever.’

Grandpa sighed.

We ate in silence, watching the footy. A small kid marked the ball and played on but Frewen ran him down and tackled him to the ground. Then he leant into the small of the kid’s back as he stood, pleading with the umpire for a free.

‘Good tackle,’ said Grandpa, draining the last of his drink. He turned to face me. ‘Callum, I am glad to have you here.’

I nodded, eyes on the long grass around the fence post.

‘And about the footy...’

A car horn blared. Then a second.

‘Great goal.’ Grandpa clapped. ‘Jack’s tackle set that up.’

The team celebrated near the forward pocket.

Tim high-fived Matt and Vinnie. Frewen and Klay hugged.

‘I used to love sport—footy,’ I said, brushing caramel slice crumbs from my knees. It would have been so easy to let the words I kept buried spill into the gap between Grandpa and me. But once I’d said them I couldn’t take them back, and once he knew, he wouldn’t want me around for real. I packed the words back into the corner deep inside.

Grandpa nodded. ‘You will again. Give it time.’

The siren cut the air.

‘Quarter time. I’m going out to the huddle.’ Grandpa pushed off the bonnet. He took a step before turning back. ‘Want to come?’

‘I’ll wait here.’

Drizzle started to fall. I wished I’d asked Grandpa to leave me the keys. Then again, this was the country. I slipped off the bonnet and walked around to try the passenger door. Open.

I climbed inside, planning to grab the oilskin coat and sit back on the bonnet. But the cocoon feeling of the cabin drew me in. I settled into the seat and shut the door. The misty rain on the windscreen distorted the Winter Creek footy player huddle, but I could still see who the coach was—Dan Agar. No wonder he was so jokey with Frewen, Matt, Klay and Miffo.

Mr Agar pointed at the goals, the ground and at Frewen. Each player followed his every move, like a cat watching a fly. They nodded and clapped their hands, their mouths moving. I didn’t have to hear the words to know they were staying stuff like ‘Come on’ and ‘We can do it’—stuff I used to say when I played.

I glanced at the scoreboard. Winter Creek was down by 10 points, but it was only quarter time. Grandpa stood on the edge of the huddle, arms folded. He smiled and clapped when Mr Agar sent the boys back to their positions. As they scattered, I noticed Luke among the people who’d been standing around the huddle. I recognised that look on his face—it was a look of longing.

The wind forced a rain droplet across the window. The droplet’s path traced the ridge of the mountains in the distance.

‘Smart move, staying in the car, mate,’ said Grandpa, eyes on the road. His hair was plastered to his head and he smelt of wet wool. He’d left his oilskin coat in the ute. ‘Even my undies are wet.’

‘Okay, way too much information!’ I picked out another droplet to follow.

‘Next week we play at home. Against Sheffield. Would you...’ Listening to him pick his words made me think of an obstacle course. ‘I mean, I’d like it if you’d like to...’