Second Childhood Read online

  ‘Can’t wait to read the project,’ said Daryl.

  8

  ‘Shake a leg,’ said Bob. ‘It’s seven-thirty.’

  Mark forced his eyes open.

  He felt crook, as if he’d only had about five hours sleep. Then he remembered he had only had about five hours sleep.

  ‘It’s a brand new day,’ Bob was saying, ‘and it’s a beauty. Think of all the things you can do in a brand new day.’

  Mark knew the thing he was going to do. Take that dumb book back and get a refund.

  He stumbled past Bob and into the bathroom.

  Bob watched him, worried by how tired he looked. Daryl looked the same.

  Must be tough on the poor little blokes, thought Bob. All that effort they put into coming top. Still, school year’s nearly over and then they’ll have the holidays.

  He decided to make himself a bit late and give them both a lift to school. They deserved it and he could give them a bit of a pep talk on the way.

  Mark hurried out of the house, still chewing his toast.

  Bob and Daryl were already in the car and the engine was running.

  Mark went over to Joy, who was watering her saplings, and kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘Bye, love,’ said Joy. ‘Don’t work too hard.’

  Mark got into the car.

  ‘Okay, champs,’ said Bob, ‘let’s go out there and knock their socks off.’

  There was a loud thump and suddenly the outside of the windscreen was covered in brown liquid and what looked like bits of chicken skin.

  They got out.

  A soggy KFC box was slowly sliding off the bonnet. A dented Coke can lay on the roof, dribbling. Chicken scraps were splattered all over the front of the car.

  They looked up at the overpass.

  ‘Some mongrel chucked it over,’ said Bob angrily.

  ‘Scumbags,’ yelled Daryl.

  Over by the saplings Joy was standing with the hose, staring up at the overpass.

  ‘Pigs,’ she said. ‘Sooner these trees grow and give us some privacy the better.’

  She came over and started hosing the car down.

  ‘Mark, Daryl, listen to me,’ said Bob. ‘You can be one of two things in this life.’ He pointed up at the overpass. ‘You can be the bloke who builds that . . . or,’ he pointed to the mess on the car, ‘you can be the bloke who cops this.’

  Oh well, thought Mark miserably, s’pose I’d better get myself a garbage-proof umbrella.

  Bulldozers roared. Walls toppled. Dust swirled. Men shouted.

  The noise was deafening.

  They stood at the edge of the demolition site, watching bits of the old building come crashing down.

  Bob squinted, grim-faced.

  Daryl stared, fascinated.

  Mark frowned, puzzled.

  Dad had brought them to sites before, but never on the way to school.

  Perhaps he knows, thought Mark. Perhaps he knows reincarnation’s a con and I’m going to fail the big assignment. Perhaps he’s getting me used to demolition sites ‘cause he knows I’ll end up working on them like him.

  Mark realised Bob was saying something.

  ‘Every day of my life,’ yelled Bob, ‘I wish my mum and dad had made me get a decent education. Do you know what makes it okay, working in a crook place like this? Knowing you blokes are going to be like him.’

  Mark saw that Bob was pointing to a gleaming dark blue Mercedes that was pulling up nearby.

  ‘A somebody,’ said Bob.

  A man in a suit got out of the back of the Mercedes and Mark could tell from the way he stood and pointed at things while other men scurried around him that he was pretty important.

  The man glanced at his watch.

  Probably owns a few other sites as well, thought Mark, and wants to go and boss people around on all of them before lunch.

  Then Mark saw how Bob was looking at the man, and suddenly he felt a lump in his chest.

  He wanted Dad to look at him that way.

  ‘Somebodies do it,’ said Bob, ‘ordinary folk get it done to them.’ He put his arms round Mark and Daryl and squeezed them. ‘Mates, I would have been so disappointed if you two had turned out ordinary.’

  Mark decided to give reincarnation one more try.

  The woman had such a nice smile that Mark knew it was going to work out this time.

  The room was nice too. It had brightly coloured pieces of cloth on the walls and posters of rainforests.

  Mark wondered if a person could be a rainforest in a past life.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ asked the woman.

  Mark noticed the tiny plaits in her hair had coloured feathers in them.

  She must have budgies.

  ‘Your ad in the health food shop said you do past lives hypnosis,’ he said.

  ‘That’s right.’

  She gave him another nice smile.

  Mark reached into his pocket and pulled out his money and put it on the table between them.

  ‘I’m afraid past lives hypnosis is $80 a session,’ she said, still smiling.

  ‘This is all I’ve got,’ said Mark.

  Eighty dollars. He’d be dead and onto his next life before he could save up that much.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, still smiling.

  In the next room a wind-chime tinkled softly.

  ‘Would you show me how to do it myself for $7.40?’ said Mark.

  Mark yawned and propped himself up higher in bed and read the same bit for the third time.

  This book was nowhere near as easy to read as the reincarnation one. That woman should have warned him before she sold it to him.

  ‘Self-hypnosis,’ he read, ‘is a way into the subconscious, the part of us that knows who we really are.’

  Mark yawned again. If only he wasn’t so tired after last night.

  He read on. ‘But the subconscious doesn’t speak to us directly. We have to look for clues, particularly when we wake from a deep sleep.’

  Deep sleep, he understood that bit.

  He closed the book.

  Okay, he thought, let’s give it a go.

  He picked up a small box covered in velvet and opened it. Inside, lying on more velvet, was a small spoon.

  Mark took it out.

  On the end of the handle was a metal badge with the name of his primary school on it. Underneath the badge, on the handle, were carved his name and the words Dux Of The School.

  Mark took a deep breath and held the spoon out at arm’s length and looked at the other end, the curved bit.

  He could see his face, reflected, tiny.

  It looked like the face of someone who’d never tried to hypnotise himself and was about to now.

  Slowly he moved the spoon towards his staring eyes, swinging it from side to side.

  As the spoon came closer his reflection began to change.

  By the time the spoon was halfway to his face he couldn’t recognise himself any more.

  9

  ‘Come on, Mark!’ called Joy. ‘It’s seven-thirty!’

  Mark groaned and started to open his eyes.

  Then he stopped.

  He could feel his Dux spoon between his cheek and the pillow, and the self-hypnosis book under his tummy.

  Self-hypnosis.

  Had it worked?

  He couldn’t remember.

  All he could remember was a bit from the book: ‘We have to look for clues, particularly when we wake from a deep sleep.’

  Okay, thought Mark, here goes.

  One, two, three.

  He opened his eyes.

  All he could see was Daryl, standing in the wardrobe eating ice cream out of the plastic tub with his fingers.

  ‘Daryl,’ hecroaked, ‘do that inyour own room.’

  ‘Remember the deal,’ said Daryl, coming over to the bed. ‘You don’t say anything about ice cream, I don’t say anything about laundromats.’

  Daryl was standing right next to Mark now, with the ice cream
tub close to Mark’s face.

  A clue, thought Mark, I’m looking for a clue.

  He wondered if a person could be ice cream in a past life.

  Then he saw the label on the ice cream tub.

  A picture of snow-covered mountains and blue water. And one word.

  Fjord.

  ‘Fjord,’ said Mark.

  ‘What?’ said Daryl.

  ‘Fjord,’ said Mark.

  From outside came the sound of the old Falcon revving and spluttering as Bob set off for work.

  ‘What,’ said Daryl, grinning, ‘you mean Dad in the Fjord Falcon?’

  Mark sat upright, suddenly wide awake.

  ‘That’s it!’ he cried. ‘Ford! That must be it! Ford!’

  He leapt out of bed and rushed out to the lounge.

  ‘Great,’ said Daryl, staring after him, ‘my brother’s the reincarnation of a village idiot.’

  Henry Ford.

  Mark sat under the high vaulted ceiling of the State Library and the silence of the huge room roared in his ears like applause.

  When he’d looked in the encyclopaedia at home and seen who Henry Ford was he’d hardly been able to believe it, so he’d come into the State Library where he knew they’d have the most reliable books to double check.

  Mark stared at the pile of books on the leather-topped desk in front of him.

  All of them about Henry Ford.

  On the front of one was an old black-and-white photo of a man in a funny-looking suit standing outside a funny-looking factory next to a long line of funny-looking old-fashioned cars.

  The man didn’t look funny, though. The way he stood was the way the man with the Mercedes had stood.

  Mark took a deep breath, opened the book, and read the bit inside the front cover.

  ‘Henry Ford,’ it said, ‘legend . . . genius . . . one of the wealthiest men of his age . . . a hero of the twentieth century . . . the man who put the world on wheels.’

  It was true.

  ‘Yes!’ shouted Mark.

  His voice echoed round the huge library.

  Elderly readers looked up, startled.

  Librarians spun round, annoyed.

  Attendants jolted awake, outraged.

  Mark didn’t notice any of them. He’d turned to chapter one and was reading about what he’d been like as a child.

  The bell to end morning break was clanging and the corridor was full of kids hurrying in all directions.

  Mark saw Pino and Rufus heading into class. He ran over to them, panting under the weight of his Henry Ford books.

  ‘Pino! Rufus!’ he yelled. ‘It worked! I know who I am!’

  Rufus looked at him warily.

  Pino looked at him sourly.

  Fair enough, thought Mark, they’re a bit suspicious after the seance. Fair enough.

  ‘You can find out who you are,’ said Mark. ‘You use self-hypnosis. It’s easy.’

  He thrust the self-hypnosis book at them.

  Pino and Rufus didn’t look convinced.

  ‘What are you,’ said Pino, ‘a toadstool or a mushroom?’

  They both smirked and walked off.

  ‘I’m Henry Ford,’ yelled Mark. ‘I invented car factories. I put the world on wheels.’

  ‘That’s great,’ shouted back Pino. ‘My brother-in-law wants a word with you about his exhaust.’

  Mark watched, deflated, as Pino and Rufus ran giggling into the classroom.

  He’d thought they’d be pleased.

  Oh well, give them time to get used to it.

  ‘Now you know what it’s like,’ said a voice behind him.

  Mark turned. Annie was standing looking at him steadily. It was the first time she’d come near him for days.

  Mark wondered if Pino and Rufus had been giving her a hard time again and if she was going to blame him again.

  Then she grinned.

  ‘G’day, Henry.’

  Mark grinned back, relieved.

  He was about to start telling her the whole story when another voice rang out.

  ‘Smalley!’

  Mr Cruickshank was bearing down on them, face like thunder.

  ‘Smalley, I hope you of all people have got a good reason for missing class this morning.’

  ‘Research, sir,’ said Mark.

  Mr Cruickshank stopped and stared at the pile of books in Mark’s arms. He pulled Mark’s folder out of the pile and opened it.

  Mark was glad he’d made a start on the project at the library. Now he knew who he was it had been easy. He’d done nearly a page in half an hour.

  Mr Cruickshank closed the folder and thought about writing an article next holidays about how good teaching could make any kid into a good student regardless of their genes.

  ‘Well, Smalley,’ he said, ‘you’re a dark horse.’

  ‘No sir,’ said Mark, ‘that’s Upton, sir.’

  Mr Cruickshank thought about this. He saw Upton and Smalley grinning at each other.

  Eight years I’ve been a teacher, thought Mr Cruickshank, and I still don’t understand kids’ jokes.

  Mark ran from the bus stop to home, heart pounding with excitement.

  Usually the traffic roaring along this stretch gave him a headache, but today all he could hear were two words.

  Henry Ford.

  He wasn’t even seeing the traffic.

  What he was seeing was him telling Mum and Dad who he was and Mum and Dad hugging each other with excitement.

  And him.

  And then Dad looking at him the way he’d looked at the man with the Mercedes.

  And then the Ford Motor Company flying them all to America and giving them a guided tour round their car factory in Detroit because, after all, he’d invented it.

  Mark burst in through the front gate and saw Joy.

  ‘Mum!’ he yelled. ‘Guess what . . .’

  He stopped.

  Joy was kneeling next to the four little trees crunching something in her fingers.

  Leaves.

  Dead leaves.

  She was crying.

  Mark stared at the saplings. He’d noticed a couple of days ago they weren’t looking too healthy, but they hadn’t looked anything like this.

  Dead.

  He went over and put his arm round Joy. When she saw him she started blinking and frowning and pretending she hadn’t been crying.

  Mark had never seen her so upset, not even when Daryl had fallen down a drain in Mildura and been stuck there for two hours.

  ‘What happened?’ he yelled softly.

  She pointed to the traffic roaring past.

  ‘Car fumes got ‘em. I must have been kidding myself, thinking anything’d grow here.’

  Mark put his books down and hugged her.

  She looked up at the overpass howling over their heads.

  ‘Whoever invented cars,’ she shouted angrily, ‘should be strung up.’

  Mark stared at the shrivelled brown saplings, which vibrated slightly each time a car hurtled past.

  He looked at the Henry Ford books at his feet.

  ‘What about . . . what about the person who invented car factories?’ he said softly.

  Joy didn’t hear him.

  He didn’t repeat the question.

  10

  Mark sat on the metal crash barrier up on the overpass and watched the afternoon rush-hour traffic crawl past.

  Lines of hot and fuming cars driven by hot and fuming people stretched bumper to bumper for as far as he could see.

  Cars from car factories.

  Car factories that wouldn’t exist if he hadn’t invented them in the first place.

  Mark looked at each exhaust pipe as it crawled past and at the fumes belching out. Black fumes, brown fumes, grey fumes, blue fumes, white fumes, see-through fumes.

  He looked out over the rooftops and saw that the whole city was covered with a dirty smog haze.

  I did that, he thought.

  ‘Pino, more salami,’ yelled Mrs Abrozetti fro
m the front of the shop.

  Pino didn’t hear her.

  He was sitting in the storeroom on a sack of beans, holding a spoon out at arm’s length and staring at it.

  He hoped it was the right type of spoon.

  Smalley’s book had just said a shiny spoon.

  Pino had found the shiniest spoon in the whole shop, the one they used for the olives. It was stainless steel so it didn’t pick up stains.

  Hope the holes don’t matter, he thought.

  The holes were good for draining the olives but they might be a problem when you were trying to find out who you were in a past life.

  You might find you were someone who’d been shot several times.

  Pino’s arm was aching.

  He started moving the spoon towards his face, swinging it slowly from side to side.

  Mrs Abrozetti appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Hey,’ she said angrily, ‘this is a deli, not a beauty parlour. Lazy boy. Sometimes I think you’re not an Abrozetti.’

  The giant metal jaws ripped into the car and swung it high into the air. Glass showered down from the shattered windows.

  Mark stood with his face pressed to the fence and watched as the crane dumped the flattened car onto a pile of other flattened cars.

  The wrecker’s yard was bigger than school and Dad’s work and the supermarket carpark put together. It was full of piles of rusting car bodies.

  Mark stood on tiptoe but he couldn’t see where they ended.

  Thousands of cars.

  Millions probably.

  I did that, he thought.

  ‘You’re not coming out of that pigsty till you clean it up,’ shouted Mrs Wainwright outside Rufus’s room.

  Rufus didn’t hear her.

  He was lying on his bed, holding a spoon out at arm’s length and staring at it.

  He wasn’t sure why it had to be a spoon.

  Smalley’s book had said a spoon, but why not a fork or a knife?

  That’s the trouble with people who write books, thought Rufus, they think they know everything.

  He started moving the spoon towards his face, slowly swinging it from side to side.

  ‘I don’t know where you get your filthy habits from,’ shouted Mrs Wainwright outside the door. ‘No wonder your father left home.’

  Mark looked across the beach towards the oil refinery in the distance. He could see the sun glinting off the line of petrol tankers as they moved slowly past the storage tanks and the towers of the refinery itself.