A Different Dog Read online

  First published by Allen & Unwin in 2017

  Copyright © Text, Lockley Lodge Pty Ltd 2017

  Copyright © Illustrations, Geoff Kelly 2017

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the National Library of Australia

  www.trove.nla.gov.au

  ISBN 978 1 76029 646 9

  eISBN 978 1 92557 682 5

  Cover and text design by Sandra Nobes

  Cover illustration by Geoff Kelly

  To Ruth and Frank

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  From the author

  About the author

  Also by Paul Jennings

  One

  The boy opened his eyes and saw that the light globe was too high. It seemed to hover like a low-flying eagle about to drop on a mouse. He blinked his eyes to bring the morning into focus and noticed that the ceiling was also higher than it should have been. Then he remembered. And realised.

  It was not the ceiling that had moved. It was him. He was sleeping on a mattress on the floor.

  His wooden bed had collapsed and his mother had chopped it up for firewood. He didn’t really mind. It was cold inside and the flames had kept the place warm until morning.

  But that was yesterday and there was no firewood left. He knew from the frost on the window that it would be another damp, chilly day.

  He stood up quietly and pulled on his underpants and T-shirt. He shivered and quickly added a ratty pair of jeans and a holey jumper. Then he wriggled into his mother’s pink parka. The one with the furry border around the hood. White stuffing poked out through a couple of holes in the sleeves.

  ‘Everyone will laugh,’ he said.

  He pulled up the zip.

  ‘But I don’t give a rat’s.’

  He pulled out the black gar-bag that he had shoved under the mattress and pushed his head through the hole in the bottom. He pulled the rest of it down over his body and thrust his arms through the slits in the side.

  He examined himself in the cracked mirror on the wall. They had found it on the side of the road. It had a sailing ship etched into the glass.

  ‘Now I’ll be okay if it snows,’ he said. ‘But I’ll look like a fool.’ He shook his head and gave a rueful smile.

  ‘The Gar-bag Kid rides again,’ he said. ‘But at least it will keep me dry.’

  The door of his mother’s room was ajar and he could hear her gentle breathing.

  ‘Today I will win some money,’ he said to himself. ‘And then Mum can buy two beds. And electric blankets. And we will fix the broken window. And she won’t have to work in the orchard in the winter.’

  More than anything he wanted her to get a job which didn’t leave her with red raw hands and cold feet. A job inside. In the warm. That paid well.

  ‘But what if you don’t win?’ he said. ‘What then?’

  He could see the fog of his own breath in the damp air.

  ‘I will win,’ he said. ‘I have to. Because…’

  He didn’t finish the sentence. He knew that good jobs were hard to find in country towns. Especially for a single woman with a boy to look after.

  He put on his worn boots and picked up the backpack that he had prepared the night before. Then he walked over to the outside door, quietly twisted the handle and stepped into the frosty morning. In the far distance the higher mountains were covered in snow. He could just make out the twisting road to the top of the nearest peak.

  ‘Here I come,’ he said. ‘Ready or not.’

  He walked across the bare paddock and paused at the wire gate. He read the words scratched into the bark of the only tree on the property.

  In Memory of Deefer

  A distant sound like the breaking of a dry stick cracked across the valley.

  The boy winced. It was that damned man again. Firing at the corellas. Scaring them off his newly sown field. Sending the flock into the air like a frightened white cloud.

  Every morning in spring the man fired his gun into the air. The boy’s mother called the gunshot ‘The Morning Rooster’ because it often woke her up.

  Blinking back a tear the boy began his journey. He made his way along the deserted and lonely track to the main road, which led to the foot of the mountain. He passed the secondary school and then began his ascent. There was no one else to be seen.

  He planned his strategy. The competitors would start at the lookout at the top of the mountain and jog to the bottom and then back up again. The final leg down would end at the school where there would be food and entertainment.

  ‘I have to save my energy,’ he said. ‘It’s going to take all day. Start off slow and just keep going.’

  He sighed and looked up the steeply winding road …

  ‘Who are you kidding?’ he said. ‘You’ll be tired before you even start.’

  For the first hour he had the road to himself. The left side fell away dangerously into the forest below. Bent trees struggled to gain a hold on the rocky banks.

  He moved to the side at the sound of an approaching car. It was coming up from behind, headlights still on. He stepped nervously closer to the edge as the car slowed and then stopped. The boy groaned as he recognised the late model SUV.

  A window dropped and a grinning face appeared. It was Skinny Luke. The kid from Year 8C who was always trying to get him to talk.

  ‘You have to ask,’ said Skinny Luke.

  The boy said nothing.

  ‘Otherwise it’s no ride,’ said Skinny Luke.

  The boy shook his head.

  ‘It’s talk or walk,’ said Skinny Luke. He smirked, pleased with himself. He said it again. To make sure that they all got the joke.

  ‘Talk or walk.’

  ‘Love the parka,’ said a voice from the back seat. ‘Where did you get it?’

  The boy saw that it was Skinny Luke’s sister. She was wearing the latest snow gear.

  The boy pressed his lips together and said nothing.

  Skinny Luke’s father leaned across to the open window.

  ‘Hop in,’ he said. ‘We’ll give you a lift.’ The rear door swung open.

  The boy shook his head.

  ‘He can’t get the words out,’ said Skinny Luke.

  ‘He only talks to one person,’ said Skinny Luke’s sister.

  ‘Himself,’ said Skinny Luke.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want a ride, son?’ said Skinny Luke’s father. ‘It’s a long way to the top and you might miss the start.’

  The boy shook his head again.

  ‘He’s stubborn,’ said Skinny Luke. ‘He can talk but he won’t even try.’

  ‘Leave him alone,’ said Skinny Luke’s father. He opened the glove box and fiddled around. He produced a pencil and a small notebook and held it out to the boy.

  ‘Write it down
,’ he said. ‘What you want to say.’

  The boy shook his head again.

  Skinny Luke’s father put his notebook back in the glove box. He gave the boy a smile and then said, ‘Good luck in the race. I hope you win.’

  The boy heard a snort from the back seat.

  ‘Thanks heaps, Dad,’ said Skinny Luke’s sister.

  The man turned around and spoke to his daughter. ‘I’m putting up the prize money,’ he said. ‘And you don’t need …’

  His voice trailed off. He didn’t want to go on. But the girl wasn’t finished yet.

  ‘I need the money,’ she said. ‘Just because he’s poor doesn’t mean that I …’

  He frowned and barked out one word.

  ‘Desist.’

  There was silence in the car.

  Their father leaned across and spoke to the boy.

  ‘We’re helping organise the race,’ he said. ‘The money is going to set up an op shop in town. To support the SES.’

  The boy already knew this. It cost one hundred dollars to enter. Anyone could win but kids didn’t have to pay. Most of the money went to the State Emergency Service.

  The boy nodded and the man started the car

  ‘Love the gar-bag,’ said Skinny Luke.

  The back door slammed and the car began to move off.

  The boy heard muffled laughter and Skinny Luke’s voice shouting.

  ‘Talk or walk, talk or walk.’

  He began to jog on but was forced to move to the side again as another car came up from behind. A red van with writing on the side. The driver showed no sign of stopping or even noticing the boy on the side of the road. Next to the driver was a dog, which, like its owner, was wearing earmuffs.

  Instinctively the boy touched his own ears. He gave them a rub to ease the biting cold that was creeping through the thin hood of his mother’s parka.

  The dog sat in the passenger seat taking in the scenery. It reminded the boy of the way his mother used to sit in the car, looking around. In the days when they had a car. Before she lost her job when the post office closed.

  The boy smiled at the dog. It had sad eyes but it seemed to smile back.

  And then the car was gone.

  The boy jogged on for half an hour or so. Then he dropped his pace back to a walk, trying to ignore the stitch in his side and the pain that had developed in his left leg. The clouds were building slowly above him and he knew that he should turn around and head back home.

  ‘It’s a waste of time,’ he said to himself. Then he spoke as if someone was listening.

  ‘I’ll never win. I’ll never even get there. I should have gone in the car. But Skinny Luke is a pain.’

  He bent over and panted like an athlete at the end of their run.

  He straightened up.

  ‘But I have to give it a go. For you, Mum. I’m going to win the thousand dollars. And get you all the firewood you need. And good shoes. And the best parka in the world. And you won’t have to work in the orchard in the winter. And get sore hands. And walk all the way there.’

  He wished he could tell her all this. All he wanted for her.

  The road sloped steeply in front of him.

  ‘Downhill is harder, he said. ‘It will be worse coming back. But not as tiring.’

  Without warning, the clouds released their load. Hailstones bounced on the bitumen as if thrown by some hostile giant in the sky. He imagined the sound on the tin roof of the shed.

  ‘It will wake Mum up,’ he said. ‘If the Morning Rooster hasn’t done it already.’

  He stood under a large gum tree and watched every exposed space turn white. The hail lasted for about five minutes and then stopped, leaving a river of icy beads twisting down the mountain.

  ‘I’d better watch my step,’ he said.

  He picked up a handful of the stuff from the road and rolled it between his gloved fingers.

  ‘Or I will go a sixer.’

  He started to pick his way up the mountain. Treading carefully. Judging every step. Not wanting to feel his legs slide from under him.

  Then he heard a sound from above. The unmistakable crunch of wheels. Moving fast.

  He jumped to the side of the road. It was the red van coming back down the mountain.

  ‘Don’t hit the brakes, mate,’ he said to himself.

  The van rushed towards him, gaining speed with every second.

  ‘Or you are a goner.’

  The van flashed past with the rear wheels locked. It fishtailed a couple of times through the white hailstones and disappeared around the bend.

  Two

  The boy hurried down after the van, picking his way carefully. He rounded the bend and surveyed the stretch of road in front of him.

  The road was empty. He knew that the van couldn’t have made it to the next corner.

  He went as quickly as he dared, careful. But not careful enough. His feet suddenly slipped out from under him and he crashed onto his backside.

  ‘Rats,’ he said. ‘That hurt.’

  He jumped up and continued on, following the crushed tracks of the van’s wheels. From time to time he peered down the cliff face searching for signs of the missing vehicle. Halfway to the next bend he found them.

  Unmistakable skid marks ended at the edge of the road. Freshly broken saplings and crushed ferns marked the van’s passage down the slope. It had miraculously avoided the bigger gums as it crashed down the valley. Far below he thought he could see a smudge of red.

  Without stopping to think he began slipping, sliding and skidding down the steep mountainside. The cold wetness from the soil and shrubs sank into his jeans. At times he had to climb down sheer embankments and cling to branches and roots to stop himself from tumbling.

  He passed a crushed side mirror and a steaming exhaust pipe which had been ripped off in the van’s descent.

  He was vaguely aware of how difficult it was going to be to get back up to the road.

  Now he could see the van. It was crumpled into a tree with both front doors hanging open. Steam was rising slowly from the radiator.

  He wanted to rush to the scene but a feeling of dread slowed him almost to a standstill. What was he going to find? What could he do? What did he know? He was only a boy. Mangled fears stole his courage.

  He couldn’t take a step closer. He tried to move his feet but they were held in place as firmly as the roots of the silent trees. He did not want to see.

  If only there was someone else to take over. If he had a phone he could call the SES for help. Not that a phone would work in the mountains. And even if it did he wouldn’t be able to get a word out. Phones were the worst thing of all.

  He gritted his teeth and forced his trembling legs towards the open driver’s door.

  Unwanted images flitted through his mind as he thought about what he might have to do. He mumbled half-forgotten CPR lessons.

  ‘Push the chest. Blow into the mouth.’

  The man was slumped forward. A small trickle of blood was already drying on his upper lip. His neck was bent sideways like a broken branch on a tree. The eyes were open and sightless.

  The man’s white knuckles were still clenched on the steering wheel. The boy gasped in horror. Tentatively he reached out and raised the nearest hand. He felt the limp wrist.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘There’s no pulse. Or don’t I know how to find it?’

  He released the hand and it flopped down onto the man’s lap. He knew what he was looking at.

  Death.

  He fell back and sprawled on the damp earth, screwing up his eyes, mumbling to himself, trying to block out the sight.

  The sound of cars far above turned from a trickle to a steady stream as the kids from school and their parents headed up the mountain for the start of the race.

  He opened his mouth and began the hopeless fight for words. He tried to call out ‘Help’. But nothing came. His mouth was jammed open like a wooden clown in a sideshow waiting for a ball to be dropped down
its throat. He tried to scream, but still nothing.

  Remnants of the sight that he had just seen floated through his head like pieces of a torn photograph. He pushed them aside but they were immediately replaced by new images of the dead man’s stare. Intrusive, wandering thoughts. About eyes.

  Dead eyes.

  Dull eyes.

  Dolls’ eyes.

  Dogs’ eyes.

  Dogs’ eyes?

  ‘The dog,’ he shouted. ‘Where is the dog?’

  The boy jumped to his feet and began searching the drooping undergrowth. He parted bushes and fought low scrub. Tree ferns showered him as he bumped and pushed his way through the unfriendly forest.

  Finally he found the dog.

  ‘There you are,’ he shouted. ‘But are you …?’

  He couldn’t say the word. The dog lay on its side, legs sticking out stiffly. The boy stood, staring.

  ‘I can see your breath steaming, dog,’ he said. ‘You’re alive.’

  The dog’s eyes were closed.

  He knelt down and stroked its head.

  ‘Wake up, fellah. Wake up. Please.’

  The dog continued to breathe gently, its chest rising and falling. It was shaking from the cold.

  The boy took off his tattered gar-bag and then his mother’s parka. He put the pink parka over the dog and threaded its front legs through the sleeves. Then he folded the sleeves back and used the wrist cords to hold them in place. He pulled the fur-lined hood over the dog’s ears and tied it in place with the chinstrap.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But I can’t find your earmuffs.’

  He put the gar-bag back on and sat by the side of the dog, stroking the fur of its neck and giving it a gentle massage.

  Time passed. The boy started to shiver beneath his gar-bag. He walked over to the van and reached out to take the man’s earmuffs. But his hands shook.

  ‘It’s no good,’ he said to the unconscious dog. ‘I just can’t.’

  The boy looked up at the cliff he had scrambled down and shook his head.

  ‘No one will know that we’re here, fellah,’ he said. ‘We’re out of sight.’

  Watery sun struggled through the branches. The hail on the ground had melted and only the deepest patches were left. His shoulders shook as he began to cry. He sobbed for the dog, for the dead man and for his own inability to make things right.