Tuesday and the Great Fire of Sydney by Jessica Getty - HTML preview

Chapter Twelve

The Labrador waggled its bottom until it threatened to spin off on its own trajectory. The boy at the end of the leash pushed his oversized glasses further up his nose and beamed at them. His buck teeth hung proudly over his bottom lip.

Tuesday shielded her eyes from the glare of his neon braces. “Jeremy Newtpickle?”

“None other.” Newtpickle held out his hand but tripped over the hem of his trench coat. The binoculars around his neck flew up and cracked the bridge of his nose. It began to bleed copiously.

“Oh Pickle!” Cried Esther, clinging to his arm, and shoving the dog out of the way.

“I’m alright my love,” bubbled Newtpickle out of his nose. He gazed at Esther adoringly.

“What is this?” Tuesday asked them. “You’re like, ten years old.”

Newtpickle dug his crooked teeth into his chin and grinned. “Jealousy,” he lisped to Esther, tightening his shorts over his ribcage. His magnified eyes blinked up at Tuesday from his three foot height. “I get it from all the girls.” He rocked back on his heels and fell over.

“How on earth did you find Esther?” Tom asked him, helping him up.

“I’ve been watching my love secretly for weeks,” spluttered Newtpickle, his oversupply of saliva jumping out of his mouth like fleas. “Ever since she kissed me behind the school toilets…” he gazed at Esther love-stricken, “there has awoken within me strange and disturbing desires.”

“Eeeyewh,” said Tom and Tuesday.

Esther looked a little green herself.

Newtpickle smiled, momentarily blinding them. “When I saw Esther hanging from the horse and carriage, Thumper followed her trail from the smell of her army jacket.” He licked his dog’s face gratefully. “For the last two days we’ve been hiding in the dump bin.” A tic spasmed under Newtpickle’s eye and he bravely tried to turn it into a wink. He winked at Esther lovingly, again and again and again.

“Er, yes,” said Esther, “I’m not sure…that is to say…”

Newtpickle squeezed his eyes shut, leant towards Esther on his tip-toes, and pursed his wet lips. His buck teeth hung over his chin and glistened.

Esther paled and slunk towards the door.

“Hang about, Esther, Newtpickle’s saved your life,” said Tom, holding in his laughter. “How are you ever going to repay him?”

“Yes, surely there’s time for one little kiss.” Suggested Tuesday, grinning.

Esther edged towards the doorway. “I…I…”

“I’m here!” Shouted Bill, barrelling Esther out of the way. “Billy-willy to the rescue!”

Jeremy Newtpickle opened his eyes reluctantly and all four of them stared uncomprehendingly at the sight in front of them.

Bill was holding a can of Brasso in one hand and a dish rag in the other. He was dressed in a pink feather boa and hot pink stilettos and nothing else. The feather boa wound around his penis like a spiral staircase. But most startlingly of all, the feather boa stood to attention like it never had before, rising proudly out of his groins as if it were a real boa about to strike.

“Look at it, Tuesday!” He wiggled his penis at her with his hands on his hips. “It won’t go down! It just won’t!”

Tuesday laughed. “I’m pleased for you, Bill,” she said. “I really am. But what are you doing here?”

“I’m giving some loving of course!” Said Bill. “I’m Anthea’s secret lover. And all credit to her – look what she’s done!” Bill did a little victory dance and waved his can of Brasso in the air. His erect penis jiggled between his thighs like an exuberant fist. “I heard you yelling loud and clear from the grill and I would’ve rescued you earlier but I had to wait until I’d waggled my duster between my legs because that’s when Anthea closes her eyes and comes.”

“Bill!” Said Tom. “The children!”

“Oh,” said Bill. He sat down on a plumbing pipe, his penis still standing at full attention. He put down the can of Brasso and rag and removed a pink feather from his mouth. “Well, kids, it’s like this, ‘come’ is like a slang expression, it means…”

“I don’t mean explain it to them, Bill!”

“Oh,” said Bill. “Quite right.” He stood and suddenly seemed to feel a little exposed. He palmed his hands in front of his leathery balls and nonchalantly crossed one stiletto in front of the other.

“Where’s Anthea now?” Asked Tuesday.

“Asleep,” said Bill proudly. “After the big O she starts snoring and falls into a deep slumber. And I’m responsible! Oh - and there’s something else I have to tell you - I just ran past this funny looking tub of bubbling pink liquid and dynamite and attached to it was a digital clock and the numbers were ticking down to sixty-eight minutes and that’s not what I think it is, is it?”

“No one ever knows what you’re thinking, Bill,” said Tom, “but it does happen to be a bomb and it’s not the only one, there’s hundreds of them all over the city from Hornsby to Penrith to Sutherland.”

“Then how are we going to escape?” Asked Tuesday.

“I don’t know,” admitted Tom.

“I do,” said Bill.

Tom stood inside the phone box with one eye on his watch and spoke rapidly into the hand set.

In the street Bill negotiated with three teenagers whose trousers were fastened around their knees. A flash of money changed hands.

Tuesday stood at the top of the dry stone wall in Hyde Park and tried vainly to warn passers-by. “The city is riddled with bombs!” She shouted, feeling a little stupid. “You’ve got to get to the water! HEY LISTEN TO ME!” No one took the slightest notice of her. The city was crammed with pedestrians and her voice was lost in the trundle of carriage wheels, the clip-clop of horse hooves, the babble of human voices, and inexplicably, the baas of a herd of goats.

Esther ran in circles around them, desperately trying to escape the out-reached arms of Jeremy Newtpickle. “10- 4! 10- 4!” She shouted into her broken walkie-talkie. “Urgent assistance required.” Despite the look of disgust on Esther’s face, she seemed to be quite enjoying herself.

“Copy that,” yelled Newtpickle into his walkie-talkie, “Tonto is being chased by a tail wind! The pickle is about to get his gherkin! Special Forces required. Stand by, over and out!”

Esther giggled and Thumper the dog barked excitedly, spinning Newtpickle off his feet and cracking his glasses.

“Right.” Said Tom, picking Newtpickle’s body up from the asphalt and herding them all together. “It’s done - everyone’s heading down to Bill’s yacht in Double Bay.” He looked over at Bill. “Any luck?”

Bill nodded and set three skateboards down on the road.

“Was everyone at home?” Tuesday asked Tom.

“All accounted for. They’re leaving for the wharf as we speak. Swan just had to pack a few necessities.”

“Then tally ho,” said Bill. He attached Thumper to one of the skateboards and Esther and Tuesday knelt on top of it. He tossed Tom the other skateboard and stood himself on the other one with Newtpickle.

“Wait a minute,” said Tuesday. “What about all these people? They don’t know.”

They looked around at the bustling crowds pushing past them.

“You can’t save everyone, Tuesday,” Tom said gently. “They wouldn’t believe you anyway.”

“But I haven’t tried hard enough,” said Tuesday. “If I could just get them to listen…”

Tom kissed her forehead and shook his head. “There’s no time. It’s just something we’ll have to live with.”

A group of schoolgirls walked by, laughing hysterically between themselves. An old man stood in the park and played his violin. A man in a tie and thongs sat on the curb and ran his hand through his hair, sipping his iced tea.

Tuesday turned her head away and tried not to look at them.

“To The Chicken’s Wart.” Hailed Bill, his finger and feather boa stridently pointing the way.

“To The Chicken’s Wart,” they repeated, pushing off.

The wind whistled in Tuesday’s ears as Thumper pulled them into the throng of people on William Street. At the downhill run after the Kings Cross tunnel, Thumper was being overtaken by the skateboard. The labrador leapt on top of Tuesday’s lap and snuggled into her as they raced down the hill at seventy kilometres per hour. In the far distance Tuesday could see Bill’s feather boa flapping at the crest of the Edgecliff hill. Tom was somewhere behind them bringing up the rear.

Everyone had fallen off their skateboards several times and when they all met at the top of the Edgecliff hill carrying their boards under their arms, they were covered in scratches and bruises and limping.

“There she is,” said Bill, proudly pointing to his yacht from their vantage point. “The Chicken’s Wart.”

Tiny figures in the distance crowded the wharf. Tuesday spotted her father’s bony body glistening in the sunlight.

“How much time do we have?” Asked Tuesday.

Tom looked at his watch. “About fifteen minutes.” He said, worried.

“Don’t worry, we’ll make it,” said Bill, setting off.

“It’s not that,” said Tom, giving Tuesday and Esther a helping push. “It’s that I can’t see Swan anywhere.” He ran onto his skateboard, crouched low into the wind, and overtook them.

Minutes later they arrived at the wharf in a flash of downhill speed and crashed into a heap at Monday’s feet, except for Newtpickle of course, who shot forward into a bucket of fish entrails.

Monday detached Tuesday’s face from the bumpy timber palings.

“Tuesday! What’s all this about a plot to blow up Sydney?”

“It’s true, Dad.” Tuesday hugged him and they stared up at the city. “This is the last time we’ll see Sydney like this.”

Through the orange clouds, Sydney’s shiny buildings of commerce glinted like old mercury fillings in a mouth of candy floss. Pockets of black smoke rose from the suburbs and roads moved like rivers of atoms as humans flowed over the hills and into the valleys. Black and yellow grass dotted the exclusive coastal suburbs and burnt out rubbish spilt over the harbour shore. An elephant moved amongst the human highway, an umbrella propped over its people cargo. Dead cockatoos fell occasionally like a strange snow fall in a green house summer. And all above it, a silence so intense, one wondered how the traffic noise of the preceding years had ever hidden it.

Tuesday looked down at her father’s hands. “What are you doing Dad?”

Monday held a paint pail and a brush and he turned around and waved at the yacht. “Thought it could do with a new name.”

Chicken’s Warts had been roughly painted over and in its place were the words Going Walkabout.

“Nice one, Dad,” said Tuesday.

The deck of Bill’s luxurious yacht was a hive of activity.

Audrey moved graciously from stern to bow, the perfect hostess, carrying two silver trays perfectly arranged with canapés and hors d’oeuvres.

Rebecca dug her heels into the gangplank and dragged Hee-Haw inch by inch onto the yacht. “Come…on…you…stupid…bloody…miserable…gimpy old mule!”

Hee-haw farted.

Monday’s three ex-wives were practising their self-defence moves and getting their dreadlocks all tangled up in the process.

Margaret and Louise were undressed in 1960s bikinis, their hairy white bodies proudly displayed for all to see, and clinking together glasses of champagne. “To commune!” Shrieked Louise.

“Ya ya!” Boomed Margaret, wiping the champagne from her moustache. “We have good time there, ya!”

Margaret’s toddlers were as naked as chubby cherubs and Ginny held Fatima’s bottom over the side of the boat while she weed into the water. Then it was Fatima’s turn to go.

Newtpickle sat in the captain’s chair and begged Esther to pull the bucket of fish entrails off his head. Esther and Thumper sat in front of him, laughing uncontrollably.

Bill was running around the deck showing everyone his erection.

Even Yi Ming was nimbly crawling up the mast pole, helping to hoist the sails, and Swan was…

“Swan’s still packing!” Yelped Tom running up to Tuesday. “Quick, get on board. We’ve got less than five minutes.” He took off on his heels.

“But where are you going?” Tuesday called after him. Tom pointed wildly ahead of him at a phone box on the edge of the park.

Monday pushed Hee-Haw up the gangplank and followed him on board. Tuesday plopped down next to Ginny on a padded deckchair and Monday stationed himself by the ropes, his thin black chest sweating in the heat, the coarse sisal rope at his feet ready to be detached from the wharf on Tom’s return.

“Hey,” said Ginny, blushing.

Tuesday looked over at her warily. “Hey.”

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“I thought you weren’t talking to me,” said Tuesday.

Ginny shook her head. “Look, Tuesday, I’m really sorry. I’m an idiot, what can I say? Even before the drugs stuffed up my head I was…” Ginny hesitated, searching for the right word, “…I was desperate.”

Tuesday looked at her.

“It’s this damn city!” Cried Ginny, looking out at the skyline. “It’s so hard to get anywhere! You need money and influence and you have to push people down to get up! You have to make enemies and make friends and make progress. It doesn’t let you just make do! It just doesn’t!”

Tuesday nodded. That was the truth of any city. If you let it get to you.

“Anyway,” Ginny sighed, “I got caught up in it and you didn’t and I’m a shit.”

“Well, you were a bit of a shit but I still love you,” said Tuesday.

“Good,” said Ginny, beaming. “I love you too.”

They laughed and leant back against the cushions, shoulder to shoulder.

“It will be sad to see the city burn down,” said Ginny as they caught a glimpse of the harbour bridge flags through the smust, “despite all its faults.”

“Like cigarettes in the sand,” said Tuesday.

“Ugly apartments,” added Ginny.

“But wonderful cafes.”

“24 hour night life!”

“Lack of leash-free beaches.”

“Rude waiters.”

“No single men!” They both chimed.

“The greed and the corruption and the religious divides.”

“The intelligence and the imagination.”

“The skimp, and the grind, and the struggle.”

“The fun, and the buzz, and the amazing things people produce when pushed to the edge.”

“Yeah, all that,” said Ginny. “All that and more. I’ll miss it.”

Tuesday nodded and looked up at the tips of the simmering skyscrapers. “Yep. It’s got everything we love and everything we hate all wrapped up inside it. But I wouldn’t worry too much.”

She added with a touch of regret, “one day they’ll build another one.”

“You’re kidding,” said Tom.

“I don’t do jokes,” said Swan calmly. “Like I said - I haven’t finished packing, you’ll just have to wait for me. Now – Dinnigan or Lisa Ho?”

“Swan, there isn’t time! The bombs are about to go off any second! I’m holding everyone up as it is.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Tom,” sighed Swan. “I can’t possibly leave without the Winter season and I’ve only packed the Autumn. And do you know how many shoes I have to fit in?”

Tom groaned. “Okay, well, it’s your decision. I’m going to miss you. See you.”

“Wait!” Wailed Swan incredulously. “You mean you’re not coming back for me?”

“Of course not!” said Tom. “We’re leaving right now. Besides, as much as I love you as if you were my own sister, it’s obvious that you’re It.”

“It?”

“Yeah. The sacrificial character. The one the author’s getting rid of. There always has to be one.” Tom shrugged.

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the phone.

“That bitch!” Swan howled. “I’ve never liked her what with her New Zealand accent and complete lack of dress sense! I mean, she sits in front of her computer in the morning in pyjamas!” Swan hiccuped. “Pyjamas, Tom! To write about me! ME! Won’t even get dressed for the occasion! And with her hair all astray and her eyes half-closed! And not even human until she has a cup of tea!”

“Sometimes,” Swan sobbed, “I’ve even seen her edit out my lines! My lines! What does she think she’s…”

All of a sudden the line went strangely dead and the rest of Swan’s sentence was lost in the ether. Tom listened sadly to the bip-bip-bip of the empty line and replaced the receiver. He shook his head. May she rest in peace.

Tom leapt out of the phone box without a backward glance and sprinted in slow motion towards the yacht. Monday yelled to him noiselessly, his face scrunched up, his arms slowly waving Tom forward. The rest of the yacht’s crew lined the deck, egging Tom on, mouthing their encouragement. Monday whipped off the rope from the yacht’s bollard and it fell in slow motion. The yacht began to silently ease away from the wharf.

“Wait……foorrrr….meeeeeee!” Tom screamed, leaping into the air. His feet touched the deck and he landed with a thud.

“What was all that about?” Asked Rebecca, hands on her hips.

Tom shrugged. “Dunno, I think the novel got mixed up with the film script.”

“All aboard then?” Asked Monday.

“All aboard!” Everyone repeated, chattering excitedly. The yacht began to putt into the deep blue waters of the harbour. Audrey had only just made sure everyone had a glass of champers and a handful of skink pate and goanna crackers when the city skyscraper windows blew out with an enormous roar and the innards of Sydney exploded.

The yacht crew screamed and fell onto their knees as the harbour shook and the Going Walkabout rolled dangerously beneath them. There was an enormous roar as block after block of Sydney apartments crumpled. Debris was flung high into the air over the city - kangaroos and thongs and camels and bats.

Millions of massage oil bottles shot up over Bondi Junction. Above Kings Cross, needles were thrust into the air in the first and last successful needle exchange. Lawnmowers in St Ives, used cars in Parramatta, Rivkins in Vaucluse, kebabs in Bankstown, Vespas in Leichhardt, surfboards in Manly, and white elephants in Homebush.

All of them whizzing high over their heads in an amazing display of fireworks such as they had never seen before.

Tom took Tuesday into his arms as they lay rocking on the deck.

“It’s kind of beautiful,” whispered Tuesday, staring up at the red and yellow sky. Buildings blew out of the city like revolving Catherine wheels. “Look at that.” She pointed high above them as a disused train carriage shot like a bullet into the universe. “And that.” A smoking ball of debris torpedoed upwards from the North Shore. It touched a star then fell directly towards them. As it came closer they could see it was Tim Bailey standing on a milk crate.

“Well, there’s quite a fireworks here tonight!” Exclaimed Tim into his microphone. “Expect low-lying smoke tomorrow, Jess!” He flew low over their heads. “And you know what?” He yelled. “A perfect day to go to the beach!” He dodged an incoming politician and shot into the waters of Shark Bay.

“He’s attained new heights,” said Tom.

Tuesday leant into his arms and smiled. “It’s a new start for everyone.”

The Going Walkabout putted towards the Heads and the crew descended into silence as they watched the ensuing firestorm surround the harbour.

Perhaps it was because they were so taken by the fiery balls of light that they didn’t notice a yacht ahead of them in the dusk, well on its way to Woy Woy. On its side was scrawled the name Paradise.

Within its hull a familiar looking lingerie-clad woman raced past the lit portholes, shrieking. An obese naked Italian quickly followed, chasing her with outstretched arms.

“Anthea, my love!” Mr G. puffed. “I forgiva you! Letta me satisfy you with my love wand!”

Above deck Weasel threw up from portside, not only because he was terribly sea sick, but also from the idea of his parents having sex.

And thirteen men chatted excitedly at the bow of the yacht, smoking and dancing, and waving their beers in the air.

“Oh, let’s have a song!” Yelled Kevin.

“Yes! Yes!” Came the reply. “Oh, do! Let’s have a song!”

There was only one song to sing. The song of a burnt country.

Stanley’s lilting Irish accent cut clear across the water and a groundswell of out-of-tune voices followed his.

“Once a jolly swagman camped by a Billabong

Under the shade of a Coolabah tree

And he sang as he watched and waited till his Billy boiled

Who’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?

Waltzing matilda, waltzing matilda

You’ll come a waltzing matilda with me

And he sang as he sat and waited till his Billy boiled

You’ll come a waltzing matilda with me.

Down came a jumbuck to drink beside the billabong

Up jumped the swagman and seized him with glee

And he sang as he stowed him away in his tucker bag

You’ll come a waltzing matilda with me.

Waltzing matilda, waltzing matilda

You’ll come a waltzing matilda with me

And he sang as he sat and waited till his Billy boiled

You’ll come a waltzing matilda with me.

Down came the stockman, riding on his thoroughbred,

Down came the troopers, one, two, three.

Where’s the jolly jumbuck you’ve got in your tuckerbag?

You’ll come a waltzing matilda with me.

Waltzing matilda, waltzing matilda

You’ll come a waltzing matilda with me

And he sang as he sat and waited till his Billy boiled

You’ll come a waltzing matilda with me.

Well up jumped the swagman and plunged into the billabong,

You’ll never catch me alive, cried he

And his ghost may be heard as you ride beside the billabong,

You’ll come a waltzing matilda with meeeeeeeeeee.”

Tuesday turned her face to starboard and stared into the murky smash. “Tom, can you hear something out there?”

Tom cocked his head. There was the sound of thongs plopping into the seawater around them. The hushed murmurings of their family and friends as they watched Sydney burn. There was the soft gulp of water lapping against the hull. The hiss of Hee- Haw’s manure as it hit the deck. Nothing unusual. But if he were not mistaken, the sound of a certain something was absent.

There was no longer the sound of a fountain pen scratching on paper high above them.

Tom smiled.

“No,” he said. And kissed her.