So Feral! (12 page)

When we get there we find that Elizabeth has settled herself on a towel in a linen cupboard. She is lying on her side, puffing and panting. Mr Worrell kneels beside her, fussing and clucking like a brooding chook.
‘Sssh!’
he warns as we come through the door. ‘She needs quiet.’

Tezza, Andy and I creep in and sit on the floor.

‘Not too close,’ warns Mr Worrell. ‘You’ll upset her. Stay at least two metres away.’

I want to tell him that we could be two centimetres away and she’ll still give birth, but one look at his face and I shut up.

Every now and then Elizabeth stops her gasping. She raises her head and looks at us as if she’s wondering, What are you doing here? before getting back to her breathing. Her tummy’s so tight she looks flyblown.

I love watching animals having babies. I settle down on my haunches, content to wait.

Ding! Dong!

Visitors? I think. Tell them they’re not welcome.

Mr Worrell leaps to his feet, calling, ‘Just in time. Glad you could make it. In here. Quick!’

I look up. Right into the eyes of James Bartholomew and his random of a brother.

‘Come,’ says Mr Worrell, gesturing for them to come in. He gives me a nudge, saying, ‘Move over, Caroline. Make room for the new neighbours.’

Half a minute later I’m squashed up against the wall. There’s a bookshelf in my back and a cabinet in front.

I’ve got a lovely view … of a drawer.

I watch Elizabeth give birth to half a kitten. The other half is somewhere behind the drawer.

‘The miracle of life!’ says James in this David Attenborough voice.

He keeps it up for the next three kittens, saying things like
wondrous
and
marvel
and
magnificent
. I’d like to magnificent him.

Then James does something that proves what I’ve always known. He’s a worm. Even a brainless city kid should know not to pick up a newborn kitten.

‘Don’t!’ I yell, but I am too late.

Mr Worrell looks like he’s about to cry.

James is stroking the kitten, looking at us like he’s the one who did all the work, not Elizabeth.

‘Give the kitten back,’ I whisper.

‘Why should I?’ asks James, still stroking. ‘I’m not hurting it.’

Tezza cuts in saying, ‘Put it back, James.’

‘Elizabeth won’t mother it if it’s got your scent,’ I explain slowly, as if we’re speaking a different language.

James puts the kitten down in front of Elizabeth. We watch, holding our breath, and wait. Elizabeth ignores it, too busy licking the other three.

‘Maybe in time …’ says Mr Worrell.

How he can be so nice to such a loser is beyond me.

‘Thanks so much, Mr Worrell,’ says James, standing up to leave. ‘That was the best.’

‘Yeah,’ I echo, then mutter, ‘the best view of a chest of drawers, that is.’

Mr Worrell is the only one who does not hear. Using a tissue he’s nudging the kitten closer to Elizabeth.

We trudge home.

‘The largest breed of domestic cat is the ragdoll,’ says James. ‘They can weigh up to nine kilos.’

‘Really?’ asks Tezza. He’s being polite.

‘Some cats can live more than thirty years,’ drones on Mr Know-It-All.

‘Wow!’ says Tezza, sounding impressed.

I have to say something. ‘Most don’t.’

Despite his stuff-up with the kitten, James is showing off. ‘Do you know a cat once had nineteen kittens in one litter?’

I can’t help myself. It slips out. ‘Did you know she ate them?’

Tezza looks at me. I can see he’s puzzling something awful. I think he’s going to say something. Tick me off, maybe. ‘Caroline and I have been best friends all our lives!’ he says to James.

Well, blow me away. Isn’t he just the best?

We head in, me singing inside.

Worked out what it is about the no-good neighbours? And why they’re like Andy’s bum? We’re getting close.

After dinner we go to bed, same beds as the night before. Me on the bottom bunk, Andy up the top, and Tezza on the single bed opposite.

Five minutes in and Andy starts again with the bucking. The whole frame of the bunk bed is shaking.

‘Hey!’ I hiss. ‘Feels like an earthquake down here.’ I glance at Tezza, hoping he’ll tell his brother to settle down, but Tezza’s already asleep. Tezza is the only person I know who starts to sleepwalk as soon as he’s brushed his teeth.

‘Sorry,’ whispers Andy.

‘It’s all right,’ I whisper back.

I’m in that oozy-woozy place, about to nod off, when I hear someone come into the room.

Not again!

I open my eyes a fraction.

Sure enough, it’s Mrs Shermin. With her trusty torch.

Once again, she walks over to the top bunk. Once again, she starts fiddling with the blankets and sheets. And once again, I can hear rustling.

What is she doing?

I hold my breath, convinced she’ll leave when she’s had a good look, like last time.

The torch stops. The room is fused with light. Mrs Shermin looms over the top bunk of our bed.

Suddenly, the torch goes wild. There’s a lightshow on the ceiling.

I decide there’s no point in waiting for Mrs Shermin to go. I have to breathe. I try to pass the time by counting, but she’s taking forever and the counting gets awkward. You try saying a-hundred-and-one, a-hundred-and-two. Know what I mean?

So I stop and make like a sea slug. The waiting is endless. Even for a sea slug. My knee has gone numb and my arm has pins and needles.

Andy moans in his sleep. It gives me a fright. I do a sea-slug shuffle.

I can see the torch flickering. I hear a gasp.

This is it, I think. I’m getting up. I have to know what she’s looking at!

Slowly, slowly I push down my sheet and quietly, quietly swing my legs out. Mrs Shermin does not notice. I ease out of bed till I’m standing on my feet, right behind her. I can’t believe she hasn’t turned around.

I look where she’s looking. And die!

Mrs Shermin’s face is nearly buried in Andy’s bare bum.

Sick!

One hand’s pulling up his cheek and the other’s holding the torch.

If my mother tried that on me I’d drop the biggest zephyr I could. She’d never do it again.

But Andy just keeps on sleeping, oblivious to the whole thing.

There’s something about Andy’s bum that must be a magnet, ‘cause I can’t help staring at it myself.

There’s another gasp from Mrs Shermin.

Spots dance before my eyes.

I blink. I blink to clear the dancing spots. I blink and blink and blink.

My crack starts to itch. I feel an overwhelming urge to scratch through my pyjama pants. It’s the same as when I hear Andy’s got nits and I have to scratch my scalp. I try to resist but the urge is too strong.

Just as I’m going for it, Mrs Shermin turns around and catches me out.

‘Caroline!’
she spits. She heaves herself up. Her bosom blocks my view. She starts yelling at me —
me
, mind you. ‘Caroline! Stop being such a barbarian!’

How can she say that?
She’s
the one who’s eyeballing Andy’s ring.

It’s at that moment that I know what the Bartholomews have in common with Andy Shermin’s bum.

Have you guessed?

I’ll flip back to Mrs Shermin. And the dancing spots.

No matter how much I blink I can’t clear those dancing spots. That’s because they’re not spots. They’re stringy thingies.

The stringy thingies are going manic, wriggling and thrashing about.

I can’t resist. I lean in for a closer look.

Worms! Breakdancin’, bootscootin’ and rock ‘n’ rollin’ all in one. It is a pretty impressive show — even if it is Andy’s bum they’re dancing on.

I shake my head, thinking of a new nickname for Andy — Vermin Shermin and his Unwelcome Visitors.

Unwelcome visitors …

That’s the link!

Only, the Bartholomews are worse than unwelcome visitors.

They’re foreign invaders!

Evan snaffled two chipolatas from Salvatore’s morning tea and wedged them up his nostrils. Waddling around and flapping his arms like flippers, he asked in a deep barking voice, ‘How’s it hangin’?’

Con and Salvatore laughed, but Ross didn’t. Evan had been doing that trick since Grade 1.

‘It’s wicked how they look like walrus tusks,’ Con said to Evan.

‘Yea-h-h,’ agreed Salvatore.

‘No, they don’t,’ said Ross. ‘They look like Bondi cigars.’ Bondi was famous for its sewer outlet.

‘Yuck!’
cried Evan, ripping the chipolatas from his nose and flinging them across the playground, making Con and Salvatore laugh harder.

Ross grinned as Evan cleaned his nasal passages using his famous bushman’s hankie. Evan held the unofficial record for snot ball — two metres.

‘What’s brown and sounds like a school bell?’ asked Ross, milking the moment.

‘Dung!’
chimed Con and Salvatore, giving each other a high five.

Ross wrinkled his nose, saying, ‘That’s exactly what this school smells like!’

He was right. There was something in the air.

Just then the bell went. Usually it rang for ages
but today it was cut short, interrupted by the school PA system sputtering into life.

‘This is an official announcement. Students may no longer partake of food or recreation in the school playground
.’

‘Huh?’ said Ross, straining to make sense of the crackle. ‘Wonder what she means?’

‘All
students are to come inside. Now!’

‘That’s not fair!’ said Con. ‘It’s second half of lunch — play time.’

‘It sucks!’ said Salvatore.

‘By order of the principal
. ‘

Ross looked around the playground. It was bouncing with kids. Why make us leave? he wondered.

‘Maybe it’s the smell?’ he said, getting a whiff of something rank. Ross poked Evan. ‘It’s getting so bad it could kill a cow.’

A waft of air nudged past, its stench making it sluggish.

‘Wasn’t me,’ said Evan.

‘Phew!’
cried Salvatore, pinching his nose and pulling a face. ‘It’s a dead’un, all right.’

‘Phwoarr!’
agreed Con. ‘Criminal.’

‘And it’s getting worse,’ said Ross. ‘Wish we knew where it was coming from.’

All children to come inside. To the school hall — immediately!’

By now, the playground was almost empty. Ross, Evan, Con and Salvatore were among the stragglers.

‘I’m not going in,’ said Evan, sitting back down in defiance. ‘They can’t make me!’

Con joined the sit-in, saying, ‘Me either.’

‘Count me in,’ said Salvatore, pulling up his schoolbag and plonking himself down.

Ross took a hesitant breath. So much for fresh air! It wedged in his throat, making him gag. He wondered if mustard gas in the war smelt like this. Ross frowned as he inspected the playground. It looked the same, but it sure didn’t smell the same — hadn’t for a few weeks, now he came to think of it.

Ross cleared his throat. ‘Smells like Con’s farts when he’s been eating bran biscuits,’ he said, smacking his lips and poking out his tongue as if he could taste them. He turned to his mates and pointed to the school building. ‘For once she’s right. Come inside. No point staying out here. It’s feral.’

Another vile puff of air hit them from the south.

‘Uggh!’
cried Ross. ‘Let’s go. Come on!’

The boys joined the last lot of children who were filing in.

‘Because the smell is getting worse we have decided — reluctantly I might add — that from now on, every child must come to the hall for recess and lunch,’ announced Mr Briar, Ross’s teacher. ‘Just till the smell is dealt with.’

The room rumbled with protests.

‘When will that be?’ called out Ross.

Mr Briar shrugged. ‘Who knows?’ he said, looking upwards as if waiting for a divine answer.

The ceiling stayed stubbornly silent.

Ross stared out the window at the playground, at the vacant stretches of asphalt and grass. He looked at his classmates, squashed together like forwards in a ruck.

How long will we have to be cooped up like this? he wondered.

The sight of the abandoned playground made Ross mad, very mad. Without the playground there would be no games of handball and without handball … How would he get through the day? Ross stood at the front of the room and clapped his hands for attention.
‘Oi!’
he ended up shouting, which had a better effect. The room quietened to a low hum.

‘Is it okay if I say something, Mr Briar?’ asked Ross.

Mr Briar stroked his beard. He did that when he was thinking. Eventually, he nodded.

‘We’re stuck in here,’ announced Ross, ‘because of the stink!’

The low hum turned into an angry grumble.

‘We don’t know for how long!’

‘We’ve been assured it won’t be for long,’ said Mr Briar.

A voice from the back called out, ‘Someone should come and get rid of it!’ ‘Now!’ came the unanimous cry.

Mr Briar held up his hand for quiet, then spoke. ‘Unfortunately we’ve already overspent our cleaning and maintenance budget.’

‘Boo-o-o-o!’

Mr Briar attempted to explain. ‘We’re on a waiting list for more funds and we —’