Three's a Crowd (6 page)

“Don't rave to me of responsibility,” Mum said. “You let your brother gobble twelve lamingtons; ten sausages, four chocolate frogs and six doughnuts, and you wonder why he throws up all over everyone.” Her voice rose and cracked like a whip. I cringed. I keep forgetting that my small preoccupied Mum can become the real heavy if she gets upset enough. “You'd be a lot sorrier for yourself living in a high rise flat away from school and friends. I just can't afford to take any time off at the moment.”

“I don't know where he got the chocolates and doughnuts from,” I objected. I wiped my tears with the towel I had used to dry myself. Mum had put in a pretty long day, and after all I had been enjoying myself at Julie's place. Or I did until all this mess had happened. Mum worried all the time about the hike in mortgage repayments and the fact that we were a single income family. “I only saw him eating the lamingtons and sausages. He just seemed hungry, that's all.”

“You'd better get to bed,” Mum suggested wearily.

I turned to make a dignified exit. It was the way Mum sighed as she sat down again at the kitchen table and reached for her coffee that got to me. It made me feel like a real pig.

“Honest Mum,” I choked out. “I didn't mean to be such a pill, but you don't realize what a little monster that kid is.” Mum remained silent. “Look, I've got two free periods in the morning, with old Downey still away sick. I'll stay home for the morning and mind him for you.”

“That would help,” Mum agreed. The lines of strain faded from her face. “I can sort up my project and work from home for a few days.”

I immediately felt better. It was quite a noble offer on my part. It also meant that I had brought myself a small respite before I went back to school. The thought of seeing Drew again had me cringing. I made the gesture and kissed my bad-tempered mother good night. She patted me on the cheek and suddenly grinned.

“Do you think he would make the Guinness Book of Records?” she asked.

I tried not to grin back and headed for the refuge of a hot shower and then went to bed. It would be wonderful to have a solid reason to stay hidden until everyone had forgotten about the incident, but I suppose my revoltingly healthy little brother wouldn't stay sick for longer than one day.

 

 

When I woke in the morning the rain had gone, and the sun streamed in through my window. Everything was fresh and clean and sparkling, and as usual I felt terrific. The nightmare of Brat throwing up and Drew stalking off in such fury and disgust no longer seemed such a big deal. I dressed in my raggy shorts and top and padded down to the kitchen.

On the way I sneaked a look in Brat's room, but he was a motionless hump under the covers, his face still an unnatural white. He looked very fragile; if it wasn't for the dreadful thing he had done to me, I could almost feel sorry for him.

“He should sleep until I get back,” Mum said as she reached for her car keys. “See you about lunchtime.”

She backed her car out and puttered off down the street. It was still early and unnaturally quiet for the place. I tiptoed around, cleaning up the kitchen and trying to decide what to do for the morning. Of course my first job was to rinse out my good skirt and shirt and hang them on the line.

“Hi, golliwog,” came the hatefully familiar voice from somewhere above me.

I spun around. Jeebie squatted on the edge of the Belano's back roof leering down at me. I immediately realized that my shorts were much too short to wear in public. Jeebie still wore his ragged cut-off jeans and crumpled floral shirt. I wondered if it comprised his entire wardrobe.

“Aren't you a bit old to play on the roof?” I snapped.

He grinned and jumped, clearing the side fence to land almost beside me on our back lawn. Standing so close I had to crane my neck to look up at him.

“I decided to clear the spouting for Gran,” he explained. “It overflowed in the heavy rain last night. What say we walk to school together?”

“Not today, Ichabod Crane,” I snapped. I stooped to pick up the plastic clothes basket and suppressed a shriek as he pinched me. It was as bad as turning my back on Murray the Murk. “You keep your hands to yourself, you menace, or I'll thump you,” I threatened.

His eyes gleamed rather like Brat's when he was up to something, and his grin widened. “Would you?” he pleaded in a low, breathy voice.

I stalked inside without demeaning myself by answering, and shut and locked the door behind me.

I watched through the kitchen window as he vaulted the side fence back into his grandmother's yard. My mobile phone rang. It was Julie.

“What happened last night?” she demanded. “Ian mentioned Brat was sick.”

“After twelve lamingtons, ten sausages, four chocolate frogs and six doughnuts, wouldn't you be?”

“A pretty good record, even for Brat,” Julie said with a chuckle. “What did Drew have to say when he walked home with you, or didn't he have a chance with Brat and Ian around?”

I realized with relief that Ian Gosford, true to form, had only let the bare details of the evening, as it affected him, come out. For the first time I was glad that Ian never volunteered much information, even to his family. With luck no one would ever find out about the disgusting episode of last night.

“He explained he has to practise his tennis two nights a week.”

“Which nights?” came Julie's anxious voice.

“Tuesdays and Thursdays,” I replied. “He trains Wednesday afternoons and Saturday mornings for his swimming.”

“Down at the local pool,” Julie said. There was a thoughtful silence. “Is he still going to meet us at the library for our free period Fridays?”

“He didn't mention it,” I said truthfully. I couldn't see him ever talking to me again. I just knew that he would be labelling me as a high risk acquaintance. “He did ask if I was the prudish type.” The silence went on until I wondered if Julie had left her phone. “Hello,” I reminded her.

“Well are you?” Julie demanded. I stared at the phone. The silence between us lengthened. “You still there?” Julie's voice insisted.

I knew what Julie was really asking. In a roundabout manner she wanted to know if Drew had made a move in my direction, and whether he improved on closer acquaintance. I searched for the right way to answer her. There was no way I was going to admit what had really happened – Julie might be my closest friend but she was also a blabbermouth.

“How prudish would you be with Brat and Ian watching every move?” I stalled.

Julie giggled at that. “Brothers!” she said. “See you at school.”

“After lunch,” I promised. “I have to babysit Brat until Mum gets home. He's pretty sorry for himself.”

By the time Mum arrived home I had taken notes right through another Year 11 English book. If Drew did turn up I intended to be prepared. Mum's casual conversation as she prepared lunch confirmed that I was not wasting my time.

“Isn't that a Year 11 book?” she asked as she shifted it off the table.

“Their booklist is a lot more interesting than ours,” I said truthfully.

“I bumped into Melissa Plympton-Smith in the supermarket.”

“Who?” I asked, startled at the idea of any Plympton-Smiths being left around the district.

“Ghastly female,” Mum said as she shredded lettuce and sliced tomatoes. “I grew up with her. The Plympton-Smiths lived in that big old house on the hill. Her father was the most dreadful old hound.” Mum stopped chopping to gaze back into the mists of her youth.

“Well?” I nagged.

Mum resumed slicing tomatoes. “Lived like a king on borrowed money. When he died they had to sell everything. Melissa married Jim Jamison. His father was a builder, but Jim was the real golden playboy type.” Mum put the tomatoes on plates and paused again, her eyes glazing.

“What has that got to do with the Year 11 reading list?” I really had to be very patient with Mum sometimes, despite her mathematical ability and prestige job.

Mum shrugged. “Association of ideas I suppose.”

“I'm not associated,” I reminded her. “What's the connection?”

“That dreadful son of hers,” Mum said, turning to make the tea. She couldn't see how I hung on her every word. “A playboy just like his father and grandfather, I imagine.” Her voice sharpened with contempt. My mother is a workaholic and honestly can't see any need for people to relax. “Melissa agonizes about him getting further and further behind with his studies.” She gave a satisfied sniff as she pulled her chair out from the table. “Not even the Plympton-Smith name will carry much weight when that boy hits the real world with his abysmal school marks.”

I made the resolve to try and get at least another Year 11 book read before Friday. My mother's rambling disjointed conversation had just given me a delightful sense of proportion over the dreadful contents of the night before.

Drew was in trouble with his English, and I was the only one who could help. I was really enjoying my lunch until I remembered Louise and her straight A's. I stared at my salad in disgust. It really was unfair. Louise had everything: wealthy, doting parents, academic ability, sporting ability, good looks and charm, as well. I speared my pork sausage viciously. I had made my mind up – one thing Louise wasn't going to get was Drew.

“Is that meat all right?” Mum asked anxiously.

“No probs,” I said cheerfully, and resumed eating with one eye on the time. I had to get to school before the afternoon classes started.

 

 

Unfortunately, Brat's recovery was pretty instant so I only had the one afternoon to enjoy the bliss of life without him.

Louise, Julie, and I lingered to talk after school and someone suggested that we drift around to the local tennis courts to check out Drew's tennis. I was a bit diffident about it, but Julie gave me a thoughtful look, and anyway, there was safety in numbers, so I joined them.

The courts were set in parkland. That particular tennis club was for people who took their game seriously. We didn't go inside, just propped on the grass outside to watch. Louise tried to catch Drew's attention but he ignored us. He hurtled around the court returning balls. He was good! I reminded myself never to be on the receiving end of his bullet fast serves. You could see he took his training seriously. The coach was a nuggetty, irritable guy with a loud voice and a mean backhand.

“Ian says Drew's one of the best players he's ever played against,” Julie murmured.

“Old McVitty is the best coach around. Dad recommended Drew try him,” Louise explained, letting us know she had the inside running.

We watched for a while. I started to get bored. We had checked Drew out and so what! Wendy and Louise had these rapt expressions on their faces. I admit that Drew looked pretty good in his shorts and top as he zipped around the court, but there is not much interest in just watching someone fielding balls.

I nudged Julie. She nodded. We collected our bags and left the other two watching Drew slam the ball down the court like kids outside a lolly shop. We went back to Julie's place to have something to eat and listen to one of Geordie's new CDs.

“Old McVitty charges the earth for his sessions,” Julie volunteered as she produced jam doughnuts and poured chocolate milk into glasses. “Ian can't afford him, and he's working.”

“Rich parents must solve a few problems,” I agreed.

A little while later Geordie's van roared in, signalling it was time to go home. As I walked down towards our street, I noticed the houses getting smaller, shabbier and closer together. I looked at our little house with new eyes. What had Drew thought of it, especially after Louise's magnificent home and Julie's spacious house on the double block? Our house was shabby and ordinary looking with its narrow front yard. It looked like a hovel! Mum's car was parked in the driveway – we didn't even have a carport. Then I noticed that the lawn had been neatly cut and I had a twinge of guilt. That was supposed to be my job.

Mum was still working at her drawing board. Jeebie was squatting on the floor playing cards with Brat, whose face had a lot more colour in it. There were a pile of five cent pieces beside him. Brat was cheating at cards again. He was an unnaturally good card player for a small kid.

“You're late,” Mum said.

“Went around to Julie's,” I replied. “Who did the lawns?'

“Jeebie did it with his Gran's new mower,” Brat yelled. “And I'm teaching him to play poker.”

“An expensive lesson,” Jeebie chuckled. He still wore his ragged cut-off jeans and the same floral shirt. “Want to play?”

“I've got homework to do,” I snapped and kept on going to my bedroom.

I stayed there until I heard Brat yell his farewell to Jeebie, and then emerged to help Mum get dinner. I had to wait until Brat was safely in the bathroom before I could complain about Jeebie.

“That guy is a dork, a dork, a bogan and a pain in the neck. What was he doing here?”

“The lawns and keeping your little brother amused so that I could finish my figures.” Mum's voice was wistful. “Pity you can't be as thoughtful and sensible, or at least remember your manners.”

“Sensible!” I exclaimed. I wondered what Mum would have said if she had seen Jeebie loping up the street after me on all fours, howling like a wolf. Sometimes my mother just gets to me. “He's having you on. He's the school clown and nutty as your Christmas cake.”

At that moment Brat screamed back into the kitchen with a balloon dripping water. By the time I had managed to take it from him and chased him back into the bathroom the opportunity to enlighten my mother about Jeebie was gone. Not that she would have believed me. My mother was no judge of character.

Neither was Brat. After winning a pile of cents from Jeebie, he was hooked. Jeebie was his favourite person. Every morning despite my threats and protests, he darted next door to make sure that Jeebie accompanied us to school.