Three's a Crowd (5 page)

 

 

“This is more like it, aye.” Geordie beamed as he turned another chop.

He had appointed himself chef, and dressed in a soiled white apron and limp chef's cap he presided over the barbecue. I almost agreed. The savoury smell of chops, sausages, and hamburgers barbecuing rose into the still night air, and we ate and ate. Mrs. Gosford wasn't one to stint on food. Even Brat was quiet as he ate sausage after sausage.

Everyone was dressed again. Drew looked even more dashing in his natural Arran knit sweater and well-cut pale coloured slacks. Instead of sandshoes he wore beautifully coloured pure leather moccasins. He sure made the other guys looked like back numbers.

With my hair brushed smoothly and a fresh application of lipstick I felt more like myself, and decided I was passable. Julie wore her best pink sweater over her jeans. I had to admit that she looked good too. Drew was homing in on her, but whether it was good manners because they were sitting together or because the shadowy light of the barbecue lanterns made her suddenly look attractively older and more mysterious I wasn't sure.

Of course Julie had scored the looks in that family. The hair that was ginger yellow on Geordie and his mother and sandy ginger and colourless on Ian was a striking dark red on Julie. Drew was teasing her about her swimming, his teeth flashing white as he laughed.

Geordie distracted my attention by plying me with hamburgers and endless probing questions about Louise's activities. Ian, as usual, was as quiet as a piece of furniture. If he spoke it was only to his mother or Brat. Sometimes I wondered if he even realised that there were other human beings in the world except those he faced over his tennis net.

My plans for getting Drew alone seemed to have flopped. Julie had passed around the plates and then sat beside Drew so naturally that he had to concentrate on her. Geordie still monopolized my attention with his endless questions about Louise, so I couldn't even join in their conversation. Also Geordie scoffed at the idea of Brat being bored with our company and the barbecue.

“A good kid, young Brett,” he said cuffing at Brat's head. “We don't see enough of him as it is. Going to be a big asset to the club when he grows a bit. He's a bit young for the sort of DVDs we've got tucked away anyway.”

So Brat stayed and ate, and his ears floated out like antenna as he listened to the conversation. The most dreadful thing was that when Mrs. Gosford said they were having a family barbecue that is just what we had. She even objected to Geordie bringing out his MP3 player and speakers for a bit of background music.

“I'll have every idiot in the district gate-crashing us, thinking we're throwing one of your dreadful parties,” she said firmly. “Consider your noise sacrificed on the altar of my peaceful digestion.” She spotted me sneaking a look at my watch. “What time do you have to be home, Amanda?” she continued. “Tomorrow is a school day after all.”

“Mum will be home at nine,” I answered. I had a brilliant inspiration. “It's just that it is such a dark night, it seems later. You know what Mum is like about me being out after dark.” Then I waited hopefully for bites.

“There's going to be a storm,” Mrs. Gosford worried. “You mustn't get caught in it.”

“I hope nobody minds but I guess we should head home,” I said, trying to sound pathetic and forlorn. “Thanks for the barbecue Mrs. Gosford. Guess I'll be seeing you all.”

“Suppose I can get out the van and run you both home, aye,” Geordie mumbled through his bread.

“Thanks for the offer, but I bet I could be home by the time you backed your unwieldy monster out of the driveway.”

Geordie relaxed back into eating with a satisfied grunt. He had only offered because it was expected of him. My eyes caught Drew's. “It's only a ten minute walk anyway, maybe fifteen minutes in the dark.”

“Ian won't mind walking you back,” Julie said quickly. Too quickly I thought. She hadn't missed the glance Drew and I had exchanged.

“No trouble,” Ian agreed in his colourless voice. To my delight he then turned to Drew and said carelessly, “Want to walk off all that potato salad?”

“Of course,” Drew agreed. “Can't let our guests go home alone after dark.”

“Take some raincoats,” Mrs. Gosford advised. “It's going to pour down any minute.”

Even as she spoke, a few warm, widely spaced drops fell, hissing as they landed on the hot barbecue. The leisurely atmosphere of our pleasant afternoon vanished with the first drop. Geordie, muttering to himself, rescued the still uneaten food and took it inside. Mrs. Gosford scraped rubbish and paper plates into the fire, stacked cutlery and crockery on the big tray, and followed him in. Drew whisked all the chairs and the table under the cover of the carport.

Drew, Julie, Brat and I waited under the shelter of the carport, Brat still eating lamingtons. No one said anything. I stared reflectively into the hissing fire, ignoring the steady gaze of Julie piercing the shadows as she stared at me. Ian came outside carrying my heavy satchel and Brat's smaller one, a pile of oilskin ponchos over one arm. He slipped Brat's bag over his shoulders and put the smaller of the ponchos on him. It came to the ground at the back and front and was dark and creased. Brat's bright eyes peered at us from the deep shadow of the hood. He looked exactly like a badly wrapped parcel.

“Give me a few seconds and I'll get my raincoat,” Drew promised.

He turned and sprinted off into the darkness towards his own place. Ian handed me my school bag and flung the other poncho over my head. It was stiff and crackling, and smelled faintly of mothballs.

“Our camping spares,” Ian explained. “But they are waterproof.” He glanced upwards. “Be useful if we get caught.”

“See you in the morning then,” Julie said nicely and went inside, slamming the door hard after her.

I guess she was a bit annoyed. Although she had no right to be, I thought to myself smugly. After all, Drew wasn't her property. The drops of warm rain seemed less widely spaced. Ian, Brat and I walked out to wait for Drew under the street light. The rain was marking the dust of the road in damp polka dots. Ian cleared his throat.

“Our lawn courts could do with a good soaking,” he said.

I tried to think up an equivalent and positive comment about the rain. I couldn't understand how Julie could have a brother like Ian. A real Bogan if ever there was one despite his prowess on the tennis courts. He was so shy it was painful.

“Maybe the creek'll flood,” Brat yelled his voice loud from the echoing confines of the over-large hood. “And we could try out Geordie's rubber raft.”

“Maybe,” Ian agreed. “It would flood the lower sports oval if it did.”

“And they could play water polo instead of baseball,” Brat shrieked, obviously attempting to be witty.

At that moment Drew joined us. He wore a pale beige belted raincoat with a hood. I silently thanked our lousy council for the narrow footpaths and overgrown shrubberies. There was only room to walk two by two. Brat skipped on ahead, still chattering about Geordie's raft and Ian lengthened his pace to keep up with him.

Drew and I had to walk together behind them. Drew stroked my arm through the poncho until his hand reached mine and he clasped it firmly. We walked on together, linked by our hands. It was very dark. There was a threatening rumble of thunder somewhere overhead, and the rain became heavier, but it was still warm and somehow pleasant. I wished that Brat and Ian would get lost, so that Drew and I could stroll peacefully through the deserted streets forever.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” Drew apologized. “I've been too busy to unpack properly.”

I assured him that it wasn't important. Drew explained about his busy life, which sounded pretty impressive to me. He played tournament tennis, which meant interminable practice nights. He tried to spend a lot of his summer weekends scuba diving and surfing. His family had a lodge up past the snowline so naturally he spent his weekends in the winter cross country skiing.

“So I haven't spent a weekend home to get myself properly organized since our shift,” he explained.

“Did you spend this weekend at the Surfview clubhouse?” I asked.

There was the slightest of hesitation before Drew answered. The badly wrapped parcel ahead of us with the antenna instead of ears flung back the answer. “He ain't a proper member yet. He spent the weekend at the Lessing's holiday shack.”

“Yes, Louise's parents have made me very welcome. Mr. Lessing and Dad belong to the same golf club.” There was the faintest hint of awkwardness in Drew's voice.

The rain came down more heavily, and I was grateful for the over-large poncho protecting me. All the footpaths and roads were wet and water was filling the gutters. Full marks to Louise for initiative. Louise was lucky to have a father to belong to the same golf club.

“I'm sorry about yesterday,” I remembered. “I had to push you out of the way of the surfboard.”

“That's okay,” Drew said. “I thought maybe you were the prudish type.”

Prudish! It was fortunate that he was new to the district and didn't know that we had to put up with Murray the Murk he started to get over friendly. Or was he referring to Tootles? I tried to remember if there was anything I should know about the Tootles Disco. No one from our crowd ever went there; it usually attracted an older set of people.

I looked up the street. A faint glow was coming from our place – Mum must be home. The poncho that was Ian, with the smaller, untidy bundle that was Brat, plodded ahead of us. Brat had been very silent for the entire block and was actually lagging further and further behind so that we had almost caught up with him.

Drew pulled me closer to him, so that the oilskin between us rustled. “Are you the prudish type?” he asked softly.

I felt my knees get their delicious boneless feel to them. Drew Jamison was actually going to kiss me. The poncho hood fell back from my head as I tilted my face up. I shut my eyes against the warm rain washing over my face. Full marks to Drew, who could take advantage of darkness and rain and opportunity.

There was a sudden wail of distress. Somehow Brat and his poncho seemed to have fallen against us, choking and struggling with some impediment in his throat.

“Oer, Mandy,” he moaned, as he turned and clung to us for support. “I'm gonna die.”

Then he promptly threw up all over Drew and me.

 

 

“I've never been so humiliated in my life,” I exploded after it was all over.

My mother just looked at me and kept stirring her coffee. The ghastly nightmare was at last physically behind me, but I just knew that I was never going to live it down. Brat had managed to throw up all over Drew's beautiful raincoat, his pure leather moccasins, and his light-coloured slacks.

The stains of lamington, tomato sauce and sausages were unmovable. Drew was a mess and nobody seemed to care. Also he was coldly furious. Ian, without wasting unnecessary words, had run on ahead to alert Mum. He divested Brat of the disgusting poncho, carried his limp body up to the front porch and passed him into Mum's arms. I might add that without the poncho, my white-faced little brother was clean and dry. He didn't even pong!

I waited in the rain, humiliated and unable to meet Drew's furious gaze. Ian checked the hose was on the tap and hosed the poncho down. I took off my poncho and moved to the shelter of the front porch as Ian hosed it down, too. Fortunately, the poncho had protected me from most of the mess.

“Stand clear and turn while I hose you,” Ian instructed Drew.

“Look at my shoes – look at my best trousers,” Drew fumed. “I'm going to have to pitch everything out.”

“Well at least pitch them out clean,” Ian advised in his colourless flat voice. “You've still got to get home before you can change.”

Drew went very quiet and co-operated in being hosed. In the glow of our porch light I saw that no matter how hard Ian hosed his raincoat, trousers and shoes, the stains remained. Ian then turned off the hose, folded it up and picked up the two dripping ponchos.

“I hope poor Brett is better in the morning,” he said in his quiet, nothing sort of voice. “Come on Drew, let's go.”

Drew stalked after him, his leather shoes squelching as he walked, water still cascading down his raincoat and trouser legs. He didn't speak or even look back at me. I went inside, shut the front door and promptly burst into tears. I heard Mum in the bathroom bathing Brat, her voice low and soothing. My life was ruined. I had just lived through the most dreadful episode of my life, and my mother didn't even care.

After Mum got Brat changed and put him to bed she came back into the kitchen. If I hadn't been so upset I would have been aware of the danger signals. Her cheeks were very pink and her face frozen into blankness.

“Put your skirt into a bucket to soak,” she ordered. “And leave your shoes in the laundry. They stink.”

“I hate the little brat,” I burst out as soon as I got back into the kitchen, the air cold about my bare legs. “I've never been so humiliated in my life. I'll never be able to face my friends again. Why am I always lumbered with him? Do you know what he's done?” The tears flooded down despite the fact that howling makes my eyes red. “I know you hate me. Brat's your favourite, isn't he?”

“I've had a long and hard day at work, Amanda,” Mum said wearily. “Stop throwing temper tantrums like a two year old. Even Brett doesn't behave as badly as you do.”

“No, his behaviour is a lot worse,” I retorted. “Only he's the baby and he can get away with it. And you wonder why I hate him. Well, this is the end. I swear I will never ever look after him again. I'll hold his head under water, I'll push him under a train, but I will never ever let you blackmail me into taking responsibility for him again.” I took a deep shuddering breath and tried to talk more calmly. “He's your kid. You take responsibility for him for a change.”