Steven Herrick - Black Painted Fingernails

Praise for Steven Herrick

By the River

'Herrick captures the essence of his characters with deft strokes concise, eloquent and moving .' Sydney Morning Herald

' highly emotional poetry that can induce tears of both laughter and sadness.' The Age

Lonesome Howl

'The flawless rhythm of his writing and the bittersweet tales he tells make him a unique storyteller.' Sydney Morning Herald

Cold Skin

'Gripping.' Sunday Age

' delivers a powerful sense of authenticity and unforgettable lyricism.' Sydney Morning Herald

'As you listen to each character speak, you are drawn into their mind and feel part of their life.' Good Reading

First published in 2011

Copyright Steven Herrick, 2011

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 Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin

83 Alexander Street

Crows Nest NSW 2065

Australia

Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218

Email: info@allenandunwin.com

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 74237 459 8

Teacher's notes available from www.allenandunwin.com

Cover and text design by Lisa White

Cover photo by Sally Mundy/Trevillion Images

Typeset and eBook production by Midland Typesetters , Australia

Printed in Australia by McPherson's Printing Group

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To Jos and Maria, Daniela and Daniela, with thanks for being such wonderful hosts while I worked on this book at Casa Dos Esteios

Steven Herrick was born in Brisbane, the youngest of seven children. At school his favourite subject was soccer, and he dreamed of football glory while he worked at various jobs, including fruit-picking. For the past twenty years, he's been a full-time writer of books for children and teenagers, and each year he visits many schools in both Australia and overseas. His books have twice won the NSW Premier's Literary Awards, and have been shortlisted for the CBCA Book of the Year Awards on six occasions.

Steven lives in the Blue Mountains with his wife, Cathie, a belly-dancing teacher. They have two adult sons, Jack and Joe.

Visit Steven's website at www.stevenherrick.com.au .

I'm stuck in cross-city traffic, smelling petrol fumes and watching the man in the car beside me sing along with his iPod. He closes his eyes opera-style and lets rip. His double chin wobbles as he strains for the high note.

I press the button on my armrest and every window lowers, noiselessly. Is there a cyberspeed gadget somewhere among all these dials to transport me into the future, upstairs to the verandah room I've booked at the Shamrock Hotel, Hillston?

'How long do you want to stay?' the woman on the phone asked.

'Six weeks, please.'

'Weekends too?'

'Yep. Forty-two days to be exact, arriving on Wednesday.'

'No worries, mate.'

'Do... do you want my name?'

'There'll be a room here, no matter who you are.'

In three days' time, I'll be facing a class of twenty-six Year Five students. I can see it now: the red-haired boy beside the window deep in thought, picking his nose; the girl with pigtails in the front smiling because she hated the last teacher; the big-eared boy at the back scowling because he hates all teachers. And me? I'll be the tall curly-haired bloke, knees knocking, hoping my voice doesn't crack when I say hello.

Earlier this morning, Mum bustled into my bedroom and opened the curtains.

'Time to rise, James.' She tickled my foot hanging over the bed. 'You've got a long drive today.'

I gave her the finger with my big toe.

Silence.

I kept my eyes closed, but I could feel her watching me. She sighed. 'I wish you weren't going. Who will I have to talk to?'

'Dad, your friends at tennis, Mrs Reynolds, the book club...'

'They're not my own flesh and blood, they're...' She squeezed my foot, searching for the words. '... not my only son.'

An hour later, Mum, Dad and I stood on the back verandah, my suitcase at our feet. Mum handed me the lunchbox I've had since Year Seven.

'Wholemeal salad sandwiches, James. And a peach, for your long drive.' She patted my hand. A magpie sat on the back fence, chortling.

Dad slipped the keys to the gleaming red BMW M3, parked in our driveway, into my shirt pocket. He clasped both hands on my shoulders. 'Drive carefully, Jim.' We shook hands and his voice seemed to waver. 'I'll miss you, son.'

I leant in close and hugged him. Underneath the expensive suit, he felt thin and frail. He touched my back gently and, as we pulled apart, I noticed the grey hair peppering his curls.

'Thanks, Dad. For the car.'

Mum wrapped her arms around me and kissed me on both cheeks.

'I'm only going for six weeks, Mum.'

'But it's your first time away from home, James. Who'll look after you?'

'I'll look after myself.'

She pushed a strand of hair behind my ear. 'I could come with you, until you settle?'

'Mum!'

She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief, then reached for Dad's hand.

I flipped the suitcase into the boot of the BMW and opened the driver's door, nervously adjusting the seat. Mum and Dad waved from the verandah as I reversed slowly out of the driveway. Mum blew me a kiss.

I stop for petrol at the first service station in the Blue Mountains.

Beside a sign advertising three Cornettos for six dollars, a small white cross faces the road. Inscribed on it is Matthew 2001 . Matthew's cross has a single rose tied with blue ribbon at the base.

I fill the tank and look across at the houses opposite. A timber cottage is overgrown with roses and lavender, bottlebrush and a single bloodwood tree. A man sits on the verandah watching the traffic thumping past.

'Are you heading west, mister?'

She's wearing a flowing black dress and her tangled hair tumbles across her eyes. She brushes it back and smiles at me: lip gloss but no make-up.

No need for make-up.

'S-sorry?' I stammer, big feet shuffling, eyes downcast.

She repeats it, slowly. 'Are you heading west?'

If I say yes, how do I then say no to offering her a lift? If my mate Pete were here, he'd cheekily cock his head and ask her name, grin and say, 'Sure, I'm going wherever you are.'

I don't want company. In movies, hitchhikers talk because they think it's payment for the ride. Witty conversation about places they've been to, jobs they've had, friends they've lost.

I wish I could speak another language, suddenly switch to Spanish and reel off sentence after sentence to show I don't understand, that 'sorry' is my only English word.

She leans casually against my car, her bag slung across one shoulder. One bare shoulder. I look across the highway at the man on the verandah, as if he can get me out of this.

'How about we toss a coin for your answer? Heads, it's west and a lift.'