Miss Understood (19 page)

‘Yeah, it’s quite sad, and I’m a bit sick of pizza and kebabs and takeaway Chinese food,’ he replied. Then he sighed again. ‘You know, sometimes it feels kind of hopeless. If I didn’t have to get out of this house before opening time, I don’t think I’d even get out of bed most mornings. But at least I have somewhere to sleep, so that’s something.’

‘It is something,’ I agreed.

‘Hey, what’s your name, anyway?’ he asked.

Would you tell him your name? Well, I didn’t want to tell him mine, either.

‘I don’t know,’ I said.

‘You don’t know?’

‘Um . . . no.’ I couldn’t think of anything else to say, even though I probably could have said, ‘I don’t want to tell you my name because I don’t really know you.’

‘Okay, fair enough,’ he said. ‘Stranger danger, I suppose.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘We talked about that at school last year.’

‘That’s wise,’ he said.

‘Well, I’m sorry you don’t have a house to live in,’ I said. ‘If you need anything –’

But then I heard the back door rattle, followed by the sound of Dad’s voice. ‘Betty!’ he was calling. ‘Betty, you out there?’

‘Dad’s home. I’ve got to go,’ I said to the man. ‘Bye.’

‘Is that you?’ he asked. ‘Are you Betty?’

I had to think about how I answered. But then I didn’t think about it any more, and I just said, ‘I might be. Who are you?’

‘I might be Derek,’ he said.

*

Sometimes I help out by changing Richie’s nappy. It’s not a job that I enjoy – who would? – but I know my parents like it when I help them. And that’s what I was doing, while Mum sorted through Richie’s clothes and took out the ones that were too small for him.

‘What are you going to do with those?’ I asked her, looking at the pile on the floor.

‘I thought you could take them to Helping Hands,’ she said. ‘I’m sure someone will find a use for them.’

‘Hey,’ Dad said. He was standing in the doorway, holding a sheet of paper. ‘What are we doing on Thursday?’

‘Which part of Thursday, Marty? There’s a total of twenty-four hours in Thursday –’

‘The
evening
part of Thursday. What are we doing?’

Mum shrugged. ‘What we usually do on a weeknight, I suppose. Making dinner, eating dinner, cleaning up after dinner, going to bed –’

‘Doing our homework,’ I added.

‘Yes, doing our homework, watching a bit of TV if there’s anything good on. Why, Marty?’

He handed her the sheet of paper. ‘An invitation.’

‘From
Feine Wurst
?’ she said as she began to read. ‘What do they want?’

‘Actually, they want to give us a free meal,’ he replied.

‘After what you said about them?’

‘Yes. The manager hopes that . . . How does it go again?’

Mum read from the letter: ‘“We hope that you and your guests will find our food, service and ambience to be of the very highest Bavarian standard.” So in other words, they want you to change your mind about the place.’

‘Yes. And provide a written apology, no doubt.’

‘We’d need a babysitter for the kids,’ Mum said. ‘I can ask Carol and Tony.’

Unbelievable, I thought. ‘I want to come to Yuck Sausage as well!’ I said.

Dad nodded. ‘I think Betty should definitely come along. I need to hear my fellow reviewer’s opinion of the place. If Carol and Tony can’t do it, can we get that red-headed kid?’

‘Lauren? Yeah, sure, I can ask if she’s available.’

And she was.

‘S
o, here it is,’ Dad announced as we parked the car in the laneway. Above the restaurant door, a bright red sign made out of those wiggly light tubes said
FEINE WURST.

Mum was taking it all in with the same expression she has when someone tells her a lie. ‘You’re sure this is a good idea, Marty?’

‘Nope,’ Dad said. ‘Not at all. But we’re going to go in there, and we’re going to smile and let them impress us.’

‘Why are we doing this?’ I asked. ‘Can someone tell me why we’re going to a restaurant that Dad hated? I mean, there’s like a million really good places we could have eaten at instead. We could have just gone to The Green Gecko.’

‘They want me to give them another chance,’ Dad said.

Mum smiled at him. ‘Don’t you mean you want to give them another chance?’

‘Let’s just say I’m
prepared
to give them another chance.’

‘Do you think the food will be better?’ I asked him.

‘No chance,’ he said as he swung his car door open. ‘Come on, let’s do this. Smile, people.’

I actually thought it smelt okay when we opened the door and went in – a bit like a barbecue, only different. I know that doesn’t make much sense, but my nose was confused. It was as if I recognised it, but at the same time I didn’t, a bit like when you see a teacher at the shops. Actually, you know what it smelt like? Like a cross between a primary school on election day and the Greek salads that Dad likes to eat.

Because of Dad’s review, I was kind of prepared for what it would be like in there. But I still wasn’t ready for how much wood there was. Everything that hadn’t been painted was made of wood – the walls, the floor, the ceiling, the tables, the chairs, the window frames, everything.

‘Everything’s wood,’ I said to Mum.

‘Ah, Bavaria!’ she replied.

The girl who greeted us at the door was very short, and quite pretty. She also had a wide smile which stayed just as wide but changed shape slightly as soon as Dad said, ‘Good evening, I’m Marty Adams. We have a booking for tonight.’

‘Of course, Mr Adams,’ the girl said, with that nervous face some people get (even though she was still smiling). ‘Would you like me to get Mr Heckner for you?’

‘I’m sure Chef is very busy in the kitchen,’ Dad said. ‘Why don’t you show us to our table, and then you can let Chef know that we’re here.’

‘Yes . . . of course,’ the girl stammered. ‘Oh, and I’m Sarah.’

‘Hello, Sarah,’ Dad said.

Sarah showed us to a booth right inside the front window. She was about to walk off when Dad touched her on the arm. ‘A couple of drinks, maybe?’

‘Of course – I’ll just send Callum over with the drinks menu,’ Sarah said, looking even more nervous than she had before. ‘And the regular menus as well. For the food.’

‘Thanks,’ Dad said. ‘Smashing.’

‘Well, this is . . . interesting,’ Mum said after Sarah had left. ‘Very rustic.’

‘Don’t,’ Dad said. ‘I’m meant to have come in here with an open mind.’

‘I don’t mind rustic,’ Mum replied. ‘It’s just an interesting choice of decor. Surprising, I guess.’

‘Just wait until you try the food,’ Dad said, as he felt around down by his leg. A couple of seconds later he placed a small chunk of sausage on the table. ‘Ah, a perfect start,’ he said.

‘Get rid of it, Marty,’ Mum hissed.

Dad swept the chunk of sausage off the table with the back of his hand. ‘I really hope I haven’t wasted that,’ he said.

Mum was checking out the room, which was mostly empty. ‘Is this how busy it gets?’ Mum asked. ‘It’s almost eight o’clock, and there are . . . two other people here.’

Dad just raised his eyebrows. I guess sometimes you don’t have to say anything.

Over Dad’s shoulder, I saw a man walking towards us. He was quite a big man, with a shaved head and a large moustache, and he was wearing a white top that stretched over his enormous belly and came all the way up to his neck, with buttons right down one side. Well, I think the top
used to be
white, but now it was kind of grey, with rust-coloured food splotches all over it.

‘Dad,’ I said, nodding towards the man. ‘It’s the cook.’

‘The chef, Betty, the
chef
.’

The chef had reached the end of our booth. He stuck out one of his huge hands. Its back was covered with red hairs, and there were bright blue bandaids on three of his fat fingers. ‘Martin,’ he said. His accent was one that I didn’t think I’d heard before – he sounded like this: ‘Mar-tin! I’m so glad you came. And you brought ze family! Zis is excellent!’

‘Hello again, Dieter,’ Dad replied, shaking hands with the chef. ‘This is my wife, Denise, and my daughter, Lizzie.’

‘
Guten abend
,’ he said, and then he wanted to shake Mum’s hand too. But he didn’t try to shake my hand – he just kind of nodded at me and said, ‘
Hallo, kleine Dame
.’

‘Hi,’ I said.

‘So,’ Dieter said, ‘you have returned, Mar-tin. I am glad. I trust that you vill enjoy your meal with us. Of course, please feel free to order anysing you vish from ze menu, or if somesing else you vish to try, please tell ze waiter, and I vill cheerily comply. Let me get some pretzels for you to nibble on – zey are very fresh.’ He snapped his big fat fingers at Sarah, who’d gone back to her spot at the door and was looking just as nervous as ever. ‘Sarah,
einige Salzbrezeln, bitte
.’

‘Yes, Mr Heckner,’ she said, and she scurried off.

‘So,’ he said to us, ‘I vill leave you now. Please enjoy.’

‘Thank you, Dieter. I’m sure everything will be wonderful.’

‘Of course, I hope so too.’

But it wasn’t. It was actually kind of awful. It could be that I just don’t like German food. The thing is, I know Dad
does
like German food, but he didn’t seem to like
this
German food. But even though he was making a screwed-up kind of face, he did eat his meal, and Mum ate hers, and I pushed mine around the plate with my fork. Luckily the big, crusty, chewy pretzels with the salt crystals were good, because that was pretty much all Iate.

‘I like these,’ I said, taking my third one.

Dad just raised his eyebrows at me. ‘Don’t get too excited – he probably buys those in from the German bakery in Surry Hills.’

Later, as we were getting ready to leave, the chef came out again.

‘I trust everysing vas good,’ he said, shaking Dad’s hand.

‘It was really lovely to get out with the family for the evening,’ Dad said. ‘Thank you so much for the opportunity to bring them here to show them what you do.’

‘Of course,’ Dieter said, his face all shiny with pride (or it might have been the sweat). ‘Sank you for coming. Trucefully,
vielen Dank
.’

‘No, thank
you
,’ Dad said. ‘And I feel confident that your restaurant is going to be famous.’

‘I do hope so. Lovely to meet you, Denise, and you too, Liza.’

‘Lizzie,’ I said.

‘Forgive me – Lizzie.
Auf Wiedersehen
.’

‘
Auf Wiedersehen
,’ I said, because I knew that means goodbye.

As we were walking to the car, I asked Dad, ‘How come you told him that his restaurant was going to be famous? It didn’t look like you enjoyed it at all.’

‘I didn’t,’ he replied. ‘I thought it was horrible. But things can be famous for being bad as well. So, who’s for Maccas on the way home?’

I don’t think I need to tell you what me and Mum said to that.

*

‘I don’t think I’ve ever had German food,’ Miss Huntley told me as we folded tea towels together in the Helping Hands shop that Saturday morning. ‘What’s it like?’

‘The pretzels were good,’ I said.

‘I see. And that was all that was good?’

I screwed up my face. ‘I didn’t like anything else.’

‘What did your dad think?’

‘He didn’t like it either.’

‘What did he say?’ she asked, watching my face closely. I wondered if she was waiting for me to tell her that Dad had thrown another paddy.

‘He shook the chef’s hand and told him that it was nice to be out with his family for the evening.’

Miss Huntley smiled. ‘Of course he did.’

*

A few days later, something happened that made lots of stuff happen – good stuff and bad stuff. It didn’t make it happen right away, but it definitely started it off.

It was Thursday morning and I was having recess. I wasn’t out the front on the lawn that day, though, because it was overcast and a bit cold.

Muppet doesn’t like postmen very much, so when he started barking like a crazy dog, and then Mr Hanson’s little yappers started, and then I heard the postman’s little red motorbike, I stood up and headed out the front to collect the mail.

Miss Huntley was checking her letterbox too.

‘Anything?’ she asked me.

‘Just one letter.’ I looked at the front of the envelope and read a couple of names that seemed kind of familiar to me.
Hector & Prince.

‘Nothing for me today except an offer to paint my roof tiles, and my friend Ronald. He’s a hunstman who lives in my letterbox.’

I went all shuddery when I heard her say that. ‘Ooh, I don’t like spiders.’

‘Oh, they don’t eat much,’ Miss Huntley replied. ‘So tell me, Lizzie, how’s your dad?’

‘Okay, I guess. Why?’

‘No reason,’ she said, which usually doesn’t mean ‘no reason’ at all.

‘O
h, you have
got
to be kidding,’ Dad yelled, and I put aside my phone and walked down the hall to his study to see what all the shouting was about. Muppet plopped off the end of my bed and followed me.

Dad was sitting with his elbows on his desk and his forehead in his hands, and the letter from
Hector & Prince
that I’d just given him was lying open on his desk.

‘Dad?’ I said. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘It didn’t work,’ he said. ‘All that
dampfnudeln
and
sauerkraut
I choked down in that place, and it’s still going to court.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Mum, who was standing behind me at the door while Richie crawled around on the floor behind her.

Dad read aloud from the letter: ‘“Our client, Mr Dieter Heckner, owner/chef of
Feine Wurst
Bavarian Restaurant, has instructed us that since the thirty-day window specified in earlier correspondence has expired without a full retraction and apology for the aforementioned restaurant review published in the
Morning Mirror
, his only remaining recourse is to seek a court injunction to that effect, pursuant to which proceedings costs and damages shall be sought from Mr Adams, in addition to the full retraction and apology outlined above. Such proceedings shall be initiated within twenty-one days from the dating of this notice unless the full apology and retraction is published in the
Morning Mirror
within said twenty-one days.”’