A Morris Gleitzman Collection Page 11

  As Keith stared, the bus jolted and the opal started to spin. Colours flashed from deep inside it. Tropical Parrot. Hot Sunflower. Charcoal Red. Pacific Blue. Frothy Orange. Dusky Pink. Vatican Purple.

  Blimey, thought Keith, I’ve seen whole colour charts that haven’t had this many colours in them.

  And he’d never seen colours so bright, not even on picnics when he closed his eyes in the sun and pressed bread rolls into his eye sockets.

  Later, after the woman had dozed off, Keith stared out the bus window and thought about how many opals he’d be able to fit into his school bag.

  A million dollars worth at least.

  Suddenly even the colours of the trees and houses and glimpses of ocean flashing past seemed brighter.

  The bus slowed down as it went through a town, and Keith, wrestling with Tracy’s map, realised it was the town where he had to get off to go inland to the opal fields.

  He folded the map frantically.

  How could he stop a bus without drawing attention to himself?

  Even as he was trying to choose between telepathy and nudging the sleeping American woman so she slumped onto the emergency buzzer, he saw that they were passing a road junction.

  His turn-off.

  He jumped to his feet.

  He’d just have to go down and tell the driver that he was sorry but he’d got on the wrong bus after receiving a blow to the head playing softball.

  Then the bus pulled into a service station.

  Amazing, thought Keith. I’ve just stopped a bus with telepathy and I didn’t even know I was doing it.

  ‘Morning tea,’ said the American woman’s friend.

  ‘Look at you,’ said the American woman to Keith. ‘On your feet already. You must have done this trip before.’

  Keith grabbed his school bag and hurried back to the stairs and stepped into the middle of the large family and clattered down with them and off the bus.

  He realised he was shaking.

  With luck like this, he thought, when I get to the opal field I might have to buy a second school bag.

  In the service station cafe Keith bought two postcards and went into the toilets and locked himself in a cubicle.

  While he waited for the bus to leave he wrote the postcards.

  Dear Mum and Dad,

  This is just to let you know that I took the torch, the hammer, the gardening trowel, the plastic strainer, the chocolate biscuits, and the stuff that’s missing from the bathroom and my clothes drawer. So it’s OK, you haven’t been burgled. I’m fit and well Please don’t worry, things are looking even better than I thought opalwise.

  Love, Keith.

  Dear Tracy,

  Wish you were here.

  Keith.

  PS. IOU $24.35.

  (signed) Keith Shipley.

  PPS. Thanks.

  Then he ate four chocolate biscuits.

  At last he heard the bus revving away into the distance.

  He went back into the cafe for a milkshake. The mid-morning news was just starting on a TV on the wall.

  Keith froze.

  What if there was a nationwide alert out for him and his photo appeared on the screen?

  There might even be a reward.

  The other customers would jump him.

  He wouldn’t stand a chance.

  And he’d just ordered a milkshake so he couldn’t leave without looking obvious.

  Keith stared at the screen, holding his breath.

  The Prime Minister in Canberra.

  Floods in Bangladesh.

  Cockatoos playing chess in Gympie.

  Then it was over.

  Keith sat down for a minute and let relief and milkshake flood through him.

  Funny though, he thought, that there isn’t a nationwide search yet. Police must be double-checking Mum and Dad aren’t loonies.

  Keith finished his milkshake and started walking back towards the road junction.

  One good thing about the police not looking for him yet, he could hitch a lift. And in a friendly country like Australia he’d get one in no time.

  Keith put on his friendliest face as the car turned off the highway and headed towards him.

  He stuck out his hand with his thumb pointing towards the opal fields and tried to look like someone who was not only great at conversation but didn’t make smells in cars.

  The car roared past.

  Keith closed his eyes as the dust billowed around him.

  He felt dizzy and weak.

  He looked at his watch, squinting in the glare of the sun.

  Nearly four hours he’d been standing there.

  Eighteen vehicles.

  What was the matter with people? He didn’t look like a murderer or a terrorist.

  He rubbed some more blockout cream on his face and adjusted the knotted T-shirt on his head.

  If he didn’t have something to eat or drink soon the nineteenth vehicle would be an ambulance.

  He picked up his school bag and plodded slowly back towards the service station.

  * * *

  It was the most beautiful sight he’d seen since arriving in Australia, including Orchid Cove beach at sunset and mango ice-cream.

  It was parked next to the service station cafe and Keith felt like running over and kissing it.

  He didn’t because if you were trying to keep a low profile it was best not to be seen kissing a semitrailer with a bulldozer on the back.

  It wasn’t the battered truck itself that made Keith’s spirits pick themselves up and do a little dance, or the dust-covered bulldozer. It was the South Australian numberplates.

  If the truck was heading home it would be going inland, southwest, through the opal fields.

  Keith went into the cafe.

  He held his breath.

  Nobody jumped on him and yelled for a reward, so the nationwide search obviously still hadn’t started.

  He asked the man behind the counter if he knew who was driving the truck with the bulldozer on the back.

  ‘I am,’ said a voice.

  Keith turned.

  The truck driver, a big man with earrings, was eating sausages and eggs and watching ‘Play School’ on TV.

  ‘Are you going inland towards South Australia?’ asked Keith.

  ‘Yep,’ said the truck driver.

  ‘Could I have a lift please?’ asked Keith.

  ‘Nope,’ said the truck driver.

  There was a long pause filled only by the sound of Big Ted building a suspension bridge out of cornflakes packets.

  ‘Company policy,’ said the truck driver. ‘No lifts.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said the man behind the counter, ‘aren’t you a bit young? Where’s your parents.’

  ‘Back there,’ said Keith, pointing towards Orchid Cove.

  He hurried outside.

  I bet if you read that company policy carefully, thought Keith, it says no lifts in the truck, not no lifts on the truck.

  He looked around.

  No one was watching.

  He climbed onto the back of the truck, opened the bulldozer cabin door, crawled in, closed the door, and lay on the cabin floor hugging his school bag.

  Keith lay there, by his calculation, through the rest of ‘Play School’, all of ‘Danger Mouse’, and some of ‘Gumby’.

  Then the truck door slammed and the engine roared and they started to move.

  Keith tried to make himself as small as he could. He pressed his cheek to the metal floor and the vibrations through his cheekbone made him see stars.

  He closed his eyes and imagined each exploding point of light was an opal.

  7

  ‘Alright you—out.’

  Keith sat up, cold and dazed and aching.

  Something was different.

  The vibrations had stopped.

  So had his dream. He’d been on a yacht with Mum and Dad, a luxury yacht with built-in fish fryers and solid opal taps.

  The man with the earrings and the scowl
hadn’t been on the yacht.

  He was here now though, glaring at Keith.

  ‘I said no lifts,’ growled the man.

  For a moment Keith wondered if the man was a lift operator, then remembered he was a truck driver.

  A pang of fear gripped Keith just before the truck driver did.

  Keith grabbed his schoolbag as the truck driver dragged him out of the bulldozer and down off the back of the truck.

  He staggered and blinked. The sun was just coming up over the horizon.

  ‘Where are we?’ asked Keith as his teeth started to chatter.

  ‘Twelve hours inland,’ said the truck driver. ‘Which means it’ll take you about twelve weeks to walk back.’

  Keith looked around. It was the country alright, but there weren’t any trees, just bushes and dry grass.

  And concrete. He was standing on a square of concrete with two petrol pumps on it, and a small fibro office to one side.

  ‘Is this the opal fields?’ asked Keith, struggling to control his teeth.

  ‘Opal fields?’ said the truck driver, with a snort of laughter. ‘They’re four hours further on. If you start now you should get there in four weeks.’

  ‘Fair go, Col,’ said a voice.

  Keith turned and saw another man with a plump face and dirty orange overalls coming over from the office.

  ‘He’s only a kid,’ said the other man.

  ‘Still could have got me the sack,’ said Col.

  ‘Get lost,’ said the other man. ‘When was the last time you saw an inspector out here?’

  ‘Could happen,’ muttered Col.

  The other man turned to Keith.

  ‘You on your own?’ he asked.

  Keith took a deep breath, sent his teeth a stern telepathic message, and told the two men about Mum and Dad’s financial problems.

  Col leant against the truck and rubbed his face in his hands and listened gravely.

  The other man looked at Keith and then at the ground and then back at Keith.

  They’re sympathetic, thought Keith. They can see I can’t afford to waste time and they’re going to help me.

  He’d just finished thinking that when they took him across and locked him in the office.

  Keith sat in a cracked vinyl swivel chair and stared gloomily at a model train on a shelf on the office wall.

  Outside he could hear Col and the other man arguing about him.

  ‘It’d only be till tonight, Mick, the cops’d be here before dark,’ said Col.

  ‘You can’t leave him here,’ said Mick. ‘I’m not having the cops coming out here. I’ve got an unregistered tow truck out the back and six microwaves I’m looking after for someone.’

  ‘Well I can’t take him to the cops,’ said Col, ‘not with the state of my logbook.’

  Keith wondered what the wages would be like in gaol. Probably take twenty years to earn enough for a yacht.

  He wondered if Tracy would come and visit him.

  He wondered what she’d say if she was here now.

  ‘Jeez, you’re a worry wart,’ that’s what she’d say.

  Suddenly he knew what he had to do.

  He went and banged on the office door as loudly as he could.

  ‘Col, Mick,’ he shouted. ‘Open up a sec.’

  The door flew open and the two men stood there, looking at him.

  ‘Col,’ said Keith, ‘if you take me to the opal fields I’ll paint your truck.’

  Col stared at him.

  ‘And the bulldozer too if you want,’ said Keith. ‘I’m good at it, I’ve done a car and a fish-and-chip shop.’

  Col and Mick exchanged a glance.

  Col sighed.

  Mick grinned.

  Col stared at the horizon and rubbed the back of his neck for about a minute.

  ‘Alright,’ said Col, ‘paint my truck and if it’s any good I’ll take you as far as the opal fields.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Keith, ‘you won’t regret it.’

  ‘Get him some paint, Mick,’ said Col.

  Keith went over and walked round the truck. It was at least twelve times bigger than the Corolla.

  This could take all day, he thought. Hope they’ve got a big brush.

  Mick came over and handed Keith a cardboard box.

  Inside were some tiny tins of hobby paint and some skinny little brushes.

  Keith stared at them.

  ‘I build model trains,’ said Mick sheepishly.

  Keith looked up at the truck towering over him.

  That’s all I need, he thought. Stranded in the bush with a couple of loonies.

  ‘I won’t get half a bumper bar done with these,’ he said. He spoke softly so as not to startle Mick and cause him to have a fit or a violent outburst or something.

  Col appeared and handed Keith a piece of plywood.

  ‘There you go,’ he said, ‘you can do it on that.’ He went and stood next to the truck. ‘Is this a good place for me to stand?’

  Suddenly Keith understood.

  Col didn’t want him to paint the truck, he wanted him to paint a picture of the truck.

  Mick brought a wooden crate for Keith to sit on, which was just as well because Keith’s knees had suddenly gone a bit wobbly.

  It wasn’t that Keith didn’t like painting pictures, he did.

  But every time he painted one something seemed to go wrong.

  At school Mr Gerlach had kittens.

  At home Mum and Dad got tense and unhappy just because a couple of times Keith had left tubes of paint on the settee with the tops off and Dad had sat on them.

  OK, said Keith to himself, stop being a worry wart. Mr Gerlach isn’t here. Mum and Dad aren’t here. There’s just me and Mick in the office and Col standing over there sticking his chest out.

  ‘Behind the wheel might be better,’ Keith told Col.

  Col climbed up into the cab.

  Keith picked up a stub of a pencil and started sketching the truck onto the plywood.

  He’d be OK as long as it didn’t end up looking like a cane toad.

  ‘Finished yet?’ called Col. ‘My arms have gone numb.’

  ‘Nearly,’ said Keith, ‘Hang on.’

  Just a few more dabs of Burnt Ochre on Col’s cowboy hat and . . .

  ‘OK,’ said Keith, ‘finished.’

  Col climbed stiffly down from the cab, rubbing his arms, and looked at the painting.

  Keith crossed his fingers and hoped Col’s mum and dad had taken him to lots of art galleries when he was a kid.

  If he likes the colour of the truck, thought Keith, I’m probably OK.

  It had been a big risk, changing the colour of the truck to purple, but off-white wouldn’t have shown up as well against the gold and silver sunrise. He’d thought at first of making the truck orange, but that would have clashed with the blue snake wrapped around the black bulldozer.

  If he likes the snake, thought Keith, I’m probably OK.

  He peeped up at Col’s face.

  Col was frowning.

  ‘It’s flying,’ he said. ‘The truck’s flying.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Keith. ‘I’ve painted it from the point of view of a truck inspector as you roar out of the sunrise over his head.’

  ‘What are those things flying around the truck?’ asked Col.

  ‘Vampire bats,’ said Keith.

  ‘What’s that gleam coming from Col’s mouth?’ asked Mick, who’d come over from the office.

  ‘An opal tooth,’ said Keith.

  Col slowly broke into a grin.

  ‘It’s a beauty,’ he said to Keith. ‘Let’s go.’

  He gave Keith a leg up into the cab, said hooroo to Mick, gunned the motor and they were off.

  While they bounced along the dusty road Keith told Col about South London and how big trucks from Europe used to get wedged under the pub overhang coming round the corner from Pontefract Road.

  Col told Keith about the Birdsville Track and how once he’d hit a po
thole so big he’d lost three hundred fan heaters and the can of drink he was holding at the time.

  Then the vibrations from the road started to make Keith feel drowsy and he closed his eyes and thought about the opal fields and wondered if they really were fields or if they were just called that because the glittering opals were in rows like strawberries.

  8

  Keith snapped awake.

  Col was leaning across him, pushing open the door of the cab.

  ‘Is this the opal fields?’ croaked Keith, squinting through the dusty windscreen.

  ‘Yep,’ said Col.

  All Keith could see was dust.

  The only things glinting were Col’s eyes as he looked up at Keith’s painting, which he’d stuck to the roof of the cab with muffler tape.

  ‘She’s a ripper,’ he said. ‘Blokes at the depot’ll chuck their guts when they see it.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Keith.

  He grabbed his school bag and jumped down from the cab.

  The heat hit him in the face like Mr Gerlach’s breath after a curry lunch.

  ‘Don’t forget,’ said Col, ‘if the cops pick you up, leave me out of it.’

  ‘OK,’ said Keith.

  Col gunned the motor and the truck started to move off.

  ‘And give your folks a ring,’ he yelled.

  ‘I’m going to,’ shouted Keith, waving.

  And I am, he thought as he watched the truck disappear down the dirt road, just as soon as I’ve got the opals.

  He looked at the ground around him.

  It certainly wasn’t a field. More a piece of desert with tyre tracks and a few wispy bits of dry grass.

  And no opals to be seen.

  They must be in the dust.

  He dropped to his knees, opened his school bag, and felt around in the thick orange powder.

  Nothing.

  Just dust.

  Then he touched something small and round and hard.

  He picked it up and blew the dust off it.

  It sparkled.

  Heart pounding, he rubbed it on his jeans.

  This one opal, he thought, could pay for the plumbing in our new house, or a month’s holiday for Mum and Dad in a balloon, or a fishing boat so we can catch our own fish, or a Rolls Royce with speed stripes, or a . . .

  The opal had stopped sparkling.

  Keith saw why.

  It had been wrapped in silver paper, which Keith had shredded with his rubbing.