I Am (Not) the Walrus (12 page)

18

Saturday

“Toby! My man!”

I open my eyes to find Zack standing over me with his wet hair plastered to his head. He's in the middle of unbuttoning his blue denim jacket, which is so wet that it's almost black. He slides it off, holds it up for a second as if he's looking for a hanger, then lets it thump to the floor.

“Hey,” I say. “My man.” I try to sit up, but I can't. Then I realize I have the bass on my chest. For a second I'm happy, thinking Shawn is still here, then the memory of the last hour trickles back into my head.

“Come on. Time is money. Last rehearsal.” Zack steps across to the bed and lifts the bass off my chest. He spins it around and strums it as if it's a guitar, which sounds awful, and about as sad as I feel. He slides his fingers right up the fretboard, then strums it as if it's a banjo. He croons his version of the old Rod Stewart song. “Wake up, Toby, I really should be getting back to school …”

I groan.

“What's up with you then?” Zack props the bass up in the corner. “You're looking more-than-usually bummed out.”

I think about everything I want to tell him. This isn't going to be easy. Maybe it's best to leave it for now.

“Come on, let's play.” I push myself off the bed and fetch the bass from the corner. “Let's run through the set.”

What follows is the usual setting-up routine, and a minute later we're standing there with our guitars. Zack counts us in, but before I even play the first note of “Ticket to Ride” I flop back down onto the bed.

“Listen, mate.” I pluck a string then slide my finger down the fret board, making a sinking sound. “I can't do this.”

“Can't do what?” Zack strums a soft E minor chord. “Can't do the gig? Can't rehearse?”

“There's some shit I have to tell you.” I lay the bass flat on my knees and rest my elbows on the body. “I can't avoid telling you.”

“Okay. What's eating you, mate?” Zack puts the guitar back in its case, stumbles over to the bed, then flops back against the wall next to me. “Something happened, right? Wait. You didn't do anything stupid like phone that dingbat in Brunswick again?”

“He rang back, actually, but I'd ring my dad before I ring him again.” There's no way to lead into this so I just come right out with it. “It's not about the bloke in Brunswick, it's about Shawn. He's in the Glasshouse,” I say.

“Bloody hell. The Glasshouse!” Zack leaps away from the wall, then freezes. “Wait a minute. What's the Glasshouse?”

“It's the Navy prison.” I twiddle the controls on the bass. “It's in Colchester, just outside London.”

“Bloody heck!” Zack sweeps his hair behind his ears. “How long is he in for?” He leans sideways on the wall, then turns and leans flat again. “I mean, what did he do?”

“I don't know what he did.” I stand up and prop the bass against the amp. “Well, actually, he stole something, but I don't know what it was.” I flop back on the bed. “He has to have a court-martial, but that's not the most important point.” I lean back against the wall and pull my knees into my chest. “The important thing is that Mom wants to go back to London now.”

“Holy crap.” Zack jumps off the bed and walks around the room with his hands in his pockets. “Oh, Toby. Man. That's absolute pants,” he says. “Why?”

I take a long breath. “Shawn's going to have the court-martial there,” I say. “They tend to give long sentences. It might be our last chance to see him for a while.”

Zack pulls his John Lennon glasses out of his pocket and puts them on. “I thought you couldn't afford to go back.”

“We can't,” I say. “We'll have to go into debt, but hopefully Mom will make some money fairly quickly when we get there so we can pay it off.”

“So, you're not coming back here again?” he says.

I shake my head.

“When are you going?” Zack folds his arms and rocks back and forth.

“Next Wednesday,” I say.

“Bloody nora,” says Zack. “But wait.” He takes the guitar out of its case, props it upright on the floor, and leans on it. “It's not the end of the world. We could still keep the band going. London's not that far.”

“It's a nice idea,” I say. “I did actually think about it, but how would we make it work? We don't have cars, and we can't afford the train.”

“It's not long till you can get your license.” Zack puts the guitar strap over his shoulder, and takes the pick out from between the strings. “You could borrow your mum's Toyota.”

“It's still a while till I can drive,” I say.

Zack snaps his fingers. “Bicycles,” he says. “You ride north. I ride south. We meet in the middle.”

“We could practice over the phone,” I say. “Just put the receiver on a table and play into it.”

“Brilliant.” Zack softly strums the descending chords sequence to “Michelle,” of all songs. “We could play after six o'clock when the rates go down.”

“It's barely going to be a problem at all,” I say. “We could even do gigs by phone.”

“Yeah. Pipe dreams.” Zack puts his foot up on the bed and strums “Yesterday.” “We'll do this one gig. Maybe we can get another one the next day and make it two gigs before we break up.”

“Please.” I point to Zack's strumming fingers. “Would you mind not playing that one. It's just too depressing right now.”

“Sorry. I know. It's depressing at almost any time.” Zack switches and plinks out the melody to “Penny Lane.” “Maybe we could practice once a month or something.”

“Unfortunately I'm not going to have this anymore.” I slap the body of the bass like it's a bongo drum in time to what Zack's playing.

“Wait.” Zack stops playing in the middle of a bar. “I thought we went through all that and you were going to keep it.”

“Yeah. I know.” I flip the bass into playing position and absent-mindedly noodle some scales. “But I had a change of heart.”

“What brought that on?” says Zack.

“Well, there's this girl,” I say.

“Blimey O'Reilly.” Zack cranks out a spooky power chord. “How many wars have started with the phrase,
There's this girl?”
he says. “When did this happen?”

“Her name's Michelle,” I say. “I met her at the Aquarium.”

“Michelle? Bloody heck,” says Zack. “I always knew you were a dark horse, but I didn't realize you were that dark.” He goes back to strumming “Michelle.” “So what happened? You going to run off to London with her?” He switches to “The Long and Winding Road.” “Is all this stuff about Shawn just a cock-and-bull story?”

“I wish,” I say. “I mean I wish it wasn't true that Shawn was in the slammer.” I play the bass along with what Zack's playing. “I don't really want to run off to London with this girl. I mean she's nice and all. Actually, I don't even know that she is nice, really. She's alright I suppose. She just has a bit of attitude.”

“Wait a minute.” Zack stops playing. “This is bringing on a touch of the old déjà vu. She's not the vertically challenged one from Portland Road, is she?”

“I suppose you could say that.” I play the verse to “Blackbird.”

“So she was the one who tracked you down, then.” Zack joins in quietly with the chords. “Bloody nora. Did she just breathe down the front of your shirt and say, ‘Oh, Toby, if you give back the bass I will make you a very happy young man'?”

“Not in so many words,” I say. “No.”

“Did she change your mind with her mind-numbing power of rhetoric?” he says. “Or did she pour you a drink and slip into something more comfortable?”

“Um … ” I say. “It was closer to the first thing you said.”

“The rhetoric?” says Zack.

“Yeah,” I say. “It was mostly rhetoric.”

“She didn't promise you a little tussle under the jellyfish tank?” says Zack.

“We didn't even look at the jellyfish.” I play the chorus of “Blackbird.” “Actually she was up here, sitting more or less exactly where your foot is right now.”

“Whoa!” Zack leaps away from the bed, then turns around and examines the spot in question. “I thought I noticed an unfamiliar bum imprint.”

“Look,” I say. “The phone number was useless, so I'm going to take the bus to Brunswick tomorrow. See if I can find Julie McGuire that way. If she deserves to get the bass back, then I'll keep it to play the gig on Monday, and I'll take it back on Tuesday.”

“I didn't mean to be a wet rag,” says Zack. “Seriously, if you want my help, then let me know. I'll go to Brunswick with you. We can track this Julie down together.”

“I appreciate it,” I say, “but I think Michelle's going to go with me. She lives in Brunswick.”

“Woo-hoo,” says Zack. “Fancy that. Port Jackson girls aren't good enough for you anymore?”

“No. It's just that they're all lusting after you, mate,” I say.

“They just have sophisticated taste,” says Zack.

“Yeah,” I say. “That's what makes it so puzzling.”

“Are you going to play that thing?” Zack prods the bass with his toe. “Because if you're not, then we might as well take it back right now.”

“I need to ask you one huge favor,” I say.

“How could I deny you anything?” Zack adjusts the strap on his shoulder, and plugs the lead into the amp. “Wait. Don't tell me. We have to play ‘Michelle' now.”

“Not quite,” I say. “‘Blackbird.'”

“‘Blackbird'?” Zack swivels his mouth around as if he's trying to get something out from between his teeth. “Pick an easy one, why don't you.”

“I just worked out the bass line,” I say. “It's pretty easy.”

“Yeah. The bass line is easy,” says Zack. “My part is another story. The guitar chords from hell. What does it start with? G diminished minor suspended off Tower Bridge?”

19

Saturday

After we work out “Blackbird,” we just plow straight through the rest of the set: “Ticket to Ride,” “Can't Buy Me Love,” “Tell Me Why,” “Get Back,” “I Should Have Known Better,” “Revolution,” “Eight Days a Week,” “Lady Madonna,” and “Day Tripper.”

One song just leads straight into the other.

The set sounds great as it is, but after a little discussion we decide to put “Blackbird” in third, instead of “Tell Me Why.”

Working any more on the songs is pointless. We don't need any more rehearsal and call it a day, even though it's earlier than usual.

Zack offers to stay, but I'd rather be left alone, and I know he really wants to go. Probably off to write some steamy letter to Bethany, and then wax down his surfboard. As soon as I hear the downstairs door bang shut, I put the bass away, crash back on Shawn's bed, and try to hang on to the upbeat feeling I got from playing through the set.

I do this by trying to imagine what it's going to be like when we play at Jubilee. It doesn't really work though, and after a couple of minutes I roll off the bed and start fiddling around with the bass again.

“Blackbird” sounds fine, but I could use a little more practice, so I pull out the Fake Book, and flip through the pages until I come to it. I hum through the melody, and then work my way through the chord progression. It should make me think about Michelle, but it doesn't. Instead it makes me think about Shawn.

He's in prison, and I don't feel anything. Does that make me a bad person?

Shawn was definitely no Robin Hood. Sure, he never took any tangible things from me. Not only that, he gave me things like the bass. But he stole something far more important.

When he did whatever it was he did, he robbed me of my last two months in Port Jackson.

Being robbed of time in Port Jackson might not normally seem like a bad thing, but he's taken a couple of months with the band, just as we've started playing in public. Who knows where that would have led?

Worse than that, he's robbed me of time with Michelle. Could that relationship survive me moving to London? Not a five-day relationship. Definitely not, but maybe a two-month one could survive as one of those long-distance things.

Nice work, Shawn. Good one. Three years I've been here, most of the time as a total hermit, and then the minute I get a life, you take it away from me.

Now I have to deal with the fallout.

I've told Zack we're leaving, and that was hard enough. Now I have to tell Michelle.

I play out the scene in my head. She'll come to Brunswick with me. She'll be all happy to see me; she'll probably give me a big kiss, and then I'll have to tell her.

I wish I could tell her right now and get it over with. I don't really want to wait till tomorrow to tell her what's happened, and the more I think about it, the more I realize that I don't actually have to. There's no reason why I couldn't go and see her, but if I'm going to go over there, I have to go right now.

I scoot down the stairs three at a time. According to the clock above the kitchen door, it's 7:57. Mom will be home in three minutes. I have to leave before she comes in. If I wait till after she gets home then I'll have to provide a long explanation of why and where I'm going. Even on a normal day she doesn't really like me going out after it gets dark. By the time I'm through with the explanation and the negotiations, it really will be too late to go out. I'll have to tell Mom where I've been when I get back, but by then I will have done what I need to do.

For the first time since I heard the news about Shawn, I actually feel a little better. I waste one valuable minute checking myself out in the bathroom mirror. There's nothing that plastic surgery can't fix, but now I only have two minutes left to get out of the house.

I grab my jacket, swing through the front door, and leap down all three steps of the stoop in one go.

I could either go north along Gray Street or south along Brackett Street. I spy a tall woman carrying a purple umbrella walking up Winter Street. My mother.

Then it hits me. The umbrella. Michelle's umbrella. It's the perfect excuse to go over and make a spur-of-the-moment visit. But now it's too late. Mom is fifty yards from the end of the driveway. I take a step toward Michelle's house, then a step home, and I think I might even scream aloud in frustration. Arrrggh! I hurtle back up the driveway, fishing the keys out of my pocket as I run. I shoot through the door, grab the umbrella, and bound back down the driveway to Winter Street. I know I'm too late. I've blown it. I know I will run straight into Mom on the driveway, but I get all the way to the pavement without seeing her. I glance in the direction I last saw her.

A van is pulling out of another driveway fifty yards down. Mom is nowhere to be seen. She must be on the other side of the van. Without a second thought I pound up Winter Street as I fast as I can, and I don't rest until I'm halfway to Spring Street. I slow down to catch my breath next to the big chestnut tree at the corner of Gray and Spring Streets. Not so much of a rush now that I'm actually out of the house.

As I pass the chestnut tree I'm stopped in my tracks by a long, wailing hoot. It's somewhere between the sound of train whistle and the sound it makes when you blow across the top of an empty bottle. It's the loneliest sound I've ever heard, and it's also a familiar sound.

At least it's a sound I've heard hundreds of times before, and never thought twice about, but this evening is different. Naturally, there are no trains in the higher branches of the chestnut tree and by a quick process of elimination I figure out that it's an owl.

I suppose that for an expert it would be more than just an owl. It would be a greater, spotted, or crested owl, but now I have yet another excuse to call on Michelle. I can tell her about the owl.

Now I've recovered from my running escape from Winter Street, I try to predict how it's going to go.

I'll ring the bell.

Her dad will answer.

I will explain about the owl.

He will be very interested and impressed that I spotted an owl. He will call Michelle. She'll be a little surprised, and a little shocked.

I'm going to have to tell her my news that I'm leaving the moment she comes to the door. If I delay it even for a moment she's going to be all smiling, and happy, and pleased to see me, and then I won't be able to tell her.

My walk slows down to an amble, and from an amble, to a shuffle. Maybe I shouldn't do this now. But I'm here. I'm at the corner of Spring Street. By now, Michelle might have seen me from a window if she just happened to be looking out. She's going to be really confused if I'm wandering around outside. She'll think I'm a stalker, whereas in reality I'm really the exact opposite.

I check the address on the umbrella tag, and make my way up the garden path. I pause for one moment to run my fingers through my hair, then I jog up the three steps to the front door. A light spills through a diamond-shaped window in the door.

Good, they're home.

Below the window is a brass knocker.

I'm just about to use the knocker when I notice that there's a bell on the doorpost. I get the urge to push the button and hold it for a while, but I just do a quick buzz. I don't want to sound aggressive like my dad. I don't want to be right in the face of whoever is going to come to the door, so I step back down to the pathway.

I've rolled the umbrella badly, so I unfurl it and roll it up again. I double-check the zipper on my trousers and force it right up to my belt. But nobody comes. Now I have the longing to ring the bell again. To fight the temptation, I wander back down to the pavement. This also gives me the chance to take in the whole front of the house. The only light is the one in the hall. Don't they say that leaving the hall light on is a sure signal to burglars that there's nobody home?

Rats! They've gone out. I've spent all this effort building myself up for this, and now I'm going to have to tell her tomorrow anyway. I suppose if they're out then there's no harm in ringing the bell a second time. I make my way back up to the door and up the steps. Just as I'm about to press the bell, a voice behind me says, “Can I help you?” in a tone that sounds somewhat unhelpful.