Pizza Cake Page 9

  ‘I do, thanks,’ he says.

  He looks like he’s enjoying himself. He’s not quite as enthusiastic as when he’s reading a restaurant menu, but he looks pretty happy.

  Hamish is starting to glow with happiness.

  Mum takes dinner out of the oven. It’s exactly what she said. Normal roast lamb. No stuffing, no crust, no bone marrow sauce with pickled fungus.

  Dad carves. With a normal knife.

  Mum puts the veggies on the table. Roast spuds. Peas. Carrots. Orange ones. Normal shape. No honey mixed in with them. Or bees.

  I have a moment of anxiety about the gravy. But it’s OK. It’s out of a packet.

  ‘Mmmm,’ says Mr Hodge. ‘That looks amazing.’

  I grin at Hamish. He grins back.

  We’re both about to have the best meal of our lives.

  Then I notice that the thing Mr Hodge is staring at, the thing he just said was amazing, isn’t the lamb. Or the veggies.

  He’s looking up at the shelf over the fridge. At the one thing, I now see, that me and Mum and Dad forgot to pack away.

  A jar of tickled onions.

  ‘What unusual onions,’ says Mr Hodge.

  I’m not surprised he says that. You don’t often see onions that have turned purple.

  Mr Hodge gets up and goes over to the shelf.

  ‘May I?’ he says.

  Mum and Dad don’t say anything. Are they feeling panicked like me? I haven’t got a clue what their thoughts are right now, or their feelings, and I’ve done a project on the subject.

  Mr Hodge lifts the jar down, unscrews the lid, takes out a tickled onion, and puts it into his mouth.

  Hamish is looking worried too.

  I try to calm down. I tell myself that one unusual food item doesn’t stop a meal from being normal.

  ‘Incredible,’ says Mr Hodge when he’s finished crunching the tickled onion. ‘Fermented fish paste, right? And chilli. And rose petals. Where did you get these delicious onions?’

  Mum and Dad look at each other.

  I can see exactly what they’re feeling now. Even Rick, Jock, Mick, Jack and Vic could spot this much pride.

  ‘We made them,’ said Mum.

  ‘Amazing,’ says Mr Hodge.

  ‘We’re quite keen amateur cooks,’ says Dad.

  He opens the fridge and before I can stop anyone, Mr Hodge is tasting pig-liver marmalade and jellied goat-curd tarts and a whole lot of other stuff, with Garnish panting hopefully at his feet.

  Mr Hodge looks like he’s having the best night of his life.

  ‘What is this incredibly delicious thing I’m eating now?’ he says.

  ‘Salami mousse,’ says Mum.

  Mr Hodge sits back down at the table, deep in thought. He thinks for quite a while. I wonder if he’s thinking about why on earth anyone would make mousse out of salami.

  Probably not.

  I wonder if he’s thinking about whether he can come here for dinner every night, which would mean giving up reviewing restaurants and making Hamish eat three meals at a time.

  I hope so.

  Then Mr Hodge speaks, gazing at Mum and Dad, his eyes shining.

  ‘Stephanie,’ he says. ‘Neil. Have you ever thought of opening a restaurant?’

  There’s a stunned silence.

  Except for the soft sound of Hamish’s sob.

  ‘Come on boys, your tucker’s on the table.’

  Me and Hamish don’t need to be told twice. We dump our ping-pong bats and dash to the dinner table.

  Yum. Veggie soup.

  Mrs Walsh is the best housekeeper in the world and she makes the best veggie soup in the world. Her secret is she puts bits of grilled steak in it.

  Hamish tucks in. Since Mum and Dad and Mr Hodge opened their restaurant, and Mr Hodge hired Mrs Walsh to take care of his house, Hamish looks forward to dinner at home every night.

  So do I. Hamish always invites me.

  ‘Dad’s here,’ says Hamish happily as a car door slams.

  Each evening Mr Hodge comes home from the restaurant for an hour to have dinner with Hamish.

  That’s only fair, because Mum and Dad have breakfast with me each morning. They don’t need to be at Tickled Onions, which is what their restaurant is called, until the first deliveries arrive at ten. Though sometimes the pig livers are delivered earlier.

  ‘Is that veggie soup?’ says Mr Hodge, joining us at the table. ‘Delish. I’ll have a large serve, thanks Mrs Walsh. It’s soup, so it’s not fattening.’

  We all grin.

  Mr Hodge has trimmed down a bit since he became a waiter. He reckons he walks twenty kilometres on a typical night in the restaurant. Twenty-five if lots of customers ask for extra pig-liver marmalade.

  Hamish reckons he and his dad and me will all be the same shape soon.

  It’s possible, though modern science reckons body shape is partly the result of body chemistry, as I explained to Rick, Jock, Mick, Jack and Vic in the Personal Development project notes I gave them this morning.

  The project is on Violence. My notes explained that violence is sometimes the result of body chemistry too, and that sometimes violent people have to change their diet. I included a recipe for sour plum and choko yoghurt pancakes.

  At first Rick, Jock, Mick, Jack and Vic didn’t want the notes.

  They were more interested in having what was in my lunch box. I think they could smell Mrs Walsh’s pickled onions. But I was hanging on to those.

  Mrs Walsh makes them the normal way, and they’re delicious.

  Stationery Is Never Stationary

  ‘Come on, both of you,’ said Mum. ‘We’ll be late. Jack, switch that game off and get your shoes on. If we don’t leave soon, it won’t be worth going.’

  It’s never worth going, thought Jack gloomily. Big family get-togethers should be banned.

  While he tied his shoes, Jack imagined a world without Christmas, Easter, birthdays, engagements, weddings, babies, anniversaries, funerals, public holidays, exam results, holiday videos, new houses, overseas trips, footy grand finals and hearing about people’s operations.

  Heaven.

  Because that would be a world where big families wouldn’t have any reason to get together. And innocent dads wouldn’t feel like losers just because of their jobs.

  ‘Amazing,’ said Dad, still on the couch gazing at his laptop. ‘There’s a company in Japan that makes teflon-coated staples.’

  ‘Archie,’ Mum said to him, her voice loud with exasperation. ‘We’ll be late.’

  ‘Do we have to go?’ said Jack to Mum, like he always did.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mum, like she always did. ‘Uncle Pete wants us all to see his new home entertainment set-up. Plus it’s Aunty Sue’s birthday tomorrow, my cousin Niall’s just back from Venezuela, Aunty Anthea wants us to meet her new boyfriend and we have to talk about where we’re going to have Christmas. Archie, if you don’t switch that computer off, I’ll brain you with it.’

  In the car on the way there, Jack felt miserable like he always did when he and Mum and Dad got together with the rest of the family.

  Then he made a vow.

  This time he’d try even harder. This time he’d do it. This time he’d make the rest of the family respect Dad’s job.

  In the driver’s seat, Dad turned to Mum.

  ‘You know what this means,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ said Mum.

  ‘That crowd in Japan must have a staple remover that can handle teflon,’ said Dad.

  ‘Concentrate on the road,’ said Mum.

  Jack concentrated on being determined and hopeful.

  He was ten now and he was sure he could do it.

  Simple, really.

  All he had to do was make Uncle Pete and the others understand that working in a stationery shop was one of the most important jobs in the world.

  Uncle Pete opened the front door, his big suntanned face beaming.

  ‘The slack mob have arrived,’ he called over his shoul
der.

  ‘We’re only a few minutes late,’ said Mum.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Uncle Pete. ‘We’re just glad you’re here. We’ve run out of paperclips.’

  Uncle Pete clearly thought this was hilarious.

  Jack thought about taking Uncle Pete to Japan, so Uncle Pete could discover the advantages of teflon-coated staples. In particular how they’re less painful when someone staples your mouth shut.

  He decided not to.

  Give me half an hour, said Jack silently to Uncle Pete, and you’ll be gazing at Dad with new respect.

  Dad was gazing at Uncle Pete with a nervous smile. Mum was rolling her eyes.

  ‘Thought you top barristers were meant to be witty and original,’ she said, kissing Uncle Pete on the cheek.

  ‘I don’t do original on weekends,’ said Uncle Pete. ‘This lot can’t afford it. I save it for the people who pay me six grand a day. Probably the same with you, eh, Archie. You probably don’t bring your best manila folders home on weekends.’

  ‘Not often,’ said Dad. ‘Though actually these days the best folders are made from hot-milled cellulose.’

  The rest of the family were around the pool. They raised their glasses to Mum and Dad and Jack.

  ‘Rob’s just telling us about the hospital he’s building in Africa,’ said Uncle Pete.

  ‘I’m not actually building it myself,’ said Uncle Rob modestly. ‘Just arranging the finance.’

  Jack waited patiently while Uncle Rob spent the next ten minutes telling them exactly how. Finally he finished. Before Jack could get started with what he wanted to say, Aunty Anthea butted in.

  ‘Rakesh is a digital microchip designer,’ she said, giving her new boyfriend a squeeze. ‘He’s just had a fantastic breakthrough. He’s invented a microchip that can be inserted into bananas on trees, and when each banana gets ripe, it sends a text to the farmer.’

  Everyone murmured in an impressed way.

  Rakesh shrugged modestly.

  Jack opened his mouth to say his piece, but Uncle Pete spoke first.

  ‘What about mangoes?’ he said to Rakesh. ‘I love mangoes.’

  ‘I’m working on that,’ said Rakesh.

  Everyone murmured again, in an even more impressed way.

  ‘The plum industry in Venezuela’s been having a few problems,’ said Mum’s cousin Niall before Jack could get a word in. ‘That’s why I was over there. Helping them eradicate the sap-sucking fruit moth. We did it with genetic modification. Quite easy really, but don’t tell that to the Nobel Prize committee.’

  ‘South American fruit industry,’ said Aunty Sue, snapping her fingers. ‘Didn’t you have something to do with that, Pete?’

  Say no, begged Jack silently.

  Uncle Pete shrugged even more modestly than Rakesh had.

  ‘Just helped out a few of the growers,’ he said. ‘Twenty thousand indigenous Impala people from the northern rainforests. They were being victimized by an oil company who wanted them off their land.’

  ‘How terrible,’ said Mum.

  ‘Oil company was burning their homes,’ said Uncle Pete. ‘Plus it wouldn’t accept their supermarket discount coupons at petrol stations. I got it all sorted out for them in the International Court of Justice.’

  Everyone murmured in a glad sort of way.

  Except Jack. He was starting to feel weak and defeated, like he always did at big family get-togethers.

  It was happening again.

  He couldn’t even get a word in.

  ‘Saw you interviewing the prime minister on telly,’ said Aunty Sue to Mum. ‘Good job.’

  Mum shrugged modestly.

  At least when Mum looks modest, thought Jack, she means it.

  ‘What about you,’ said Mum to Aunty Sue. ‘Heard around the traps they want you to run that new university in Singapore.’

  Aunty Sue gave a wry smile.

  ‘Can’t see it happening,’ she said. ‘They want me to stay on as Vice-Chancellor of the uni here as well. I’d be flying up and down every second day.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Aunty Anthea. ‘Get real. I’m the chairman of Qantas. I can get you discount fares.’

  Everyone laughed fondly.

  Except Jack, who felt like pushing everyone into the pool.

  ‘What about you, Archie?’ said Uncle Pete to Dad. ‘What’s new for you at work?’

  Jack had been dreading this. He felt sick.

  Dad thought for a moment, chewing his lip. Then his face brightened.

  ‘There’s a very interesting range of non-toxic highlighters that’s just come in,’ he said. ‘Oh, and we’ve finally found some price labels that don’t leave sticky marks on the pens.’

  There was a long silence.

  Jack watched in agony as the others just looked at Dad.

  It was now or never.

  ‘Dad saved several hundred lives last week,’ said Jack.

  Everybody looked at Jack, surprised. And puzzled. And clearly not believing him.

  Specially Dad.

  ‘It’s true,’ said Jack. ‘Don’t be modest, Dad. Tell them how many notebooks you sold last week.’

  Still puzzled, Dad had a think.

  ‘Ten maybe,’ he said. ‘And quite a few post-its.’

  ‘There you go,’ said Jack. ‘Imagine how many disasters would’ve happened if those people hadn’t been able to write themselves notes. Remember to turn the gas off. There’s a few houses blown up for a start. Feed the dog. Pets can turn really nasty when their blood-sugar level drops. Don’t leave the chainsaw where the kids can play with it. See what I mean?’

  Jack looked around at the staring family members.

  They didn’t seem to see what he meant.

  ‘Sticky tape,’ he said desperately. ‘Imagine what would happen if people’s glasses snapped while they were driving and they didn’t have sticky tape. Carnage on the roads.’

  Uncle Pete and the others were starting to frown and glance at Mum and Dad.

  Jack kept going.

  ‘Pens with sparkly ink,’ he said. ‘They can prevent wars. If the leaders of two countries are having a border dispute, a birthday card signed in sparkly ink can make all the difference.’

  Mum put her arm on Jack’s shoulder.

  ‘That’s enough, love,’ she said. ‘It’s a good point, but you’ve made it.’

  Jack could see from everyone’s faces that he hadn’t made it very well.

  Even Dad didn’t look convinced.

  ‘Bit of advice, Jack,’ said Uncle Pete. ‘From the legal world. You’re talking about things that haven’t happened. People don’t care about things that haven’t happened.’

  Aunty Sue and the others nodded.

  Jack went into the house.

  You’re wrong, Uncle Pete, he thought. People can care a lot about things that haven’t happened. For example, there’s an important thing that hasn’t happened right now. Nobody’s patting Dad on the back and saying ‘Wow, Archie, we hadn’t realised how important and interesting your job is.’ That definitely hasn’t happened.

  Jack glanced out the window, just to make sure.

  Nope, not happening.

  ‘Wow, Pete,’ said Aunty Anthea. ‘We hadn’t realised how expensive and impressive your new home entertainment set-up is.’

  The rest of the family murmured in agreement.

  Uncle Pete grinned proudly.

  Jack, who’d followed the family down the steps, had to admit it was impressive. A room specially excavated under Uncle Pete’s house with a massive TV screen and a pile of high-tech equipment and about sixteen speakers.

  ‘If you’re going to do something,’ said Pete, ‘you might as well do it properly. I mean, Archie, you wouldn’t sell a ring-binder with only one ring, would you?’

  Dad shook his head.

  Jack saw him struggling to think of something to say, like he always did. Jack felt a pang in his tummy, like he always did.

  ‘Hope you’ve increased
your home contents insurance,’ said Mum to Uncle Pete. ‘You must have spent a packet in here.’

  ‘Only about a hundred and twenty grand,’ said Uncle Pete. ‘And I don’t have to worry about burglars because this baby’s got a state-of-the-art security system.’

  He picked up the biggest and most expensive-looking remote Jack had ever seen, and pressed one of the buttons. With an expensive-sounding clunk, a metal door slid shut across the doorway they’d come through.

  ‘Impressive,’ said Aunty Anthea’s new boyfriend Rakesh. ‘Controlled by an 87659SLK Quad, I bet. Very fine chip.’

  ‘I told them I wanted the best,’ said Uncle Pete.

  As he said this, several more clunks, much louder, came from above their heads.

  ‘What was that?’ said Aunty Sue, looking alarmed.

  Jack saw that Uncle Pete was looking alarmed too. But only for a moment. Then he grinned.

  ‘Must be the soil settling,’ he said. ‘The builders cracked a pool pipe when they were excavating down here and it started leaking this week, so I got them to dig under the pool and fix it.’

  ‘They were terrified,’ said Aunty Sue. ‘Pete said he’d have them in the International Court Of Justice if they weren’t finished by Friday.’

  Uncle Pete rolled his eyes.

  ‘Not the International Court,’ he said. ‘Just the High Court.’

  Jack was about to comment that the sticky tape Dad sold could have fixed the problem, when he noticed water running down the wall behind Uncle Pete. It was trickling in through the ventilation grilles.

  ‘Excuse me, Uncle Pete,’ he said, pointing.

  But Uncle Pete didn’t hear. He was busy talking to the others.

  ‘The walls are packed with clay specially imported from Bolivia,’ said Uncle Pete. ‘Bolivian clay is brilliant for keeping noise out. Absolutely no sound gets through it.’

  ‘I was able to advise Pete about that,’ said Niall. ‘My work with the acoustic properties of Bolivian clay in Third World concert halls won me a Guns ‘N’ Roses Foundation Research Fellowship.’

  The others murmured in an impressed way.

  ‘My research methodology was quite simple,’ said Niall. ‘I didn’t have a shower for three weeks in Bolivia and discovered I couldn’t hear my noisy neighbours due to the build-up of clay in my ears.’

  The others murmured in an even more impressed way. Then Mum noticed something.