chapter 25
Wavering lines of blue-grey smoke like a wispy sea blur images into a strange underwater world. A car door slams somewhere in a vague distance. Clattering footsteps. Voices shouting in urgency. Foreign voices.
"¡Necesitamos agua¿Dónde podemos encontrar nosotros agua¡Rápidamente¡Debemos apurar!"
His quick brain soaks in languages as easily as it soaks in everything else and he knows they are talking about water to put out the fire, emphasising the urgency of the situation. But his voice has lost itself somewhere in this strange dream. Mistaking his silence for an inability to understand, they try desperately to communicate. How are they to know he can't move? How can they know of his fear? He may only be a boy of fourteen, but he is native to this country and he may be familiar with the layout of the school.
The woman clutches his arm. She is startlingly pretty. Beautiful glossy black hair falls in waves and frames a heart-shaped, olive-skinned face.
"Niños?" She pleads, flecks of gold in her large brown eyes where tears are spilling. "Pliss - where are the leetle ones?"
He finds his voice at last although it's croaky and not his own.
"Empty," he explains, shaking his head to emphasise the meaning. "El edificio es vacío."
She smiles through the rain of tears and, gently, the man pulls her away, talking in rapid fire Spanish, his wedding ring flashing momentarily in the sun as he places a hand on her stomach.
She hugs her husband and begs him in her native tongue to be careful. Unlike his wife, his own grasp of English is poor, but his liquid brown eyes speak a thousand words, filled as they are with anxiety and love for her. His skin too is dark, his hair too black as night and given to curls but smaller and tighter, unlike her own flowing locks.
He has about him an air of strong, quiet determination and his tender kiss of her tear-stained cheek and brushing away of her tears quickly reassures. She says something about el gato and Steven surrenders the cat in his arms.
"¡Vayamos!" He yells to the man. "Let's go!"
Never would he have thought he'd ever go willingly towards fire, but it's alright, it's alright, this must be a dream, and, as in a dream, memories, long forgotten in waking, rise and dance again. He recalls a moment when passing by the school: sunlight casting patterns through newly-painted railings, a brief glimpse of an open shed and janitor Billy Jackson, watering the grass around the flower garden, while a handful of kids run up to tease, then to scatter, screaming in delighted fear when a Billy amusedly pretends to turn the jet of water their way.
Shoulders bruised against the locked shed door, the long hosepipe attached to the stand-pipe his memory located, unfurling the hose, heart pounding in terror, mouth dry with fear, intense heat burning on his face, and then they are running, he and this stranger, towards the angry flames...
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Stella Nolan couldn't stand the urgent whispering or the small hands on the back of her allocated - and extremely uncomfortable - town hall seat any longer.
"What ARE you doing, child?" She demanded, laying down the notepad she'd been scribbling into and turning around.
Sally buried her face in Mrs Martha's yellow hair. "I'm v-very s-sorry. I've T-TOLD Milko n-n-not to keep r-running up and d-d-down b-b-but he w-w-won't listen," she mumbled almost inaudibly.
"And who or what, pray, is Milko, you silly little girl?" Stella shuddered inwardly and surreptitiously raised her feet off the floor, casting wary glances downwards, suspecting a pet mouse or pet rat.
It wasn't what someone normally took with them to a talent show but nothing would have surprised her about this insane little town where anything could happen and often did.
Such as the unofficial "interval" that had arrived immediately after the second act when the third act, the boyfriend, after falling over his untied shoelace the moment he got on stage, loosened his collar, blushed beetroot red and declared he couldn't possibly go through with it. Instead of booing like a normal audience, the Summer Bay audience had heaved a collective sigh of disappointment, mixed with claps and shouts of encouragement for "Lancey" - all to no avail, as the boyfriend had covered his face with his hands in embarrassment and fled off stage.
After hurried conversations with mysterious people hidden behind the wings, the wild-haired woman on piano established that the next three acts, respectively a ventriloquist, a comedian and a three-piece band, weren't quite ready yet either, and, anyway, she announced, her arthritis was playing up so she needed her tablets and a break from the foot pedals. Then the principal of Summer Bay High, who apparently went by the peculiar name of Flathead and who seemed to carry some clout, climbed up on stage, announced they should all "take five" and just about everybody, including the madwoman from piano, went off without a murmur of protest for ice creams, soft drinks and toilets.
Now Flathead, Julie Andrews and the two barrel-shaped, rainbow-lorikeet-dressed ladies were gathered at the foot of the stage, trying to persuade the boyfriend to go through with the singing and the boyfriend was protesting he couldn't, while people calmly streamed past them as if it were nothing out of the ordinary.
"M-Milko's my...my friend," Sally stammered, close to tears, to Stella's impatience. She hated kids who blubbered, and was just about to say so when the two teenage girls, who were also in the row behind, each put a protective arm around the annoying little brat and glared at Stella.
"Hey, Sal! You being given a hard time here?" The eldest said in a dangerous voice.
Stella didn't scare easily (rodents excepted) but even she withered under the harsh gaze. Having been deserted for the unexpected break, the seats in the whole of her own row and that of behind were empty except for herself, the bratty kid and the self-appointed bodyguards.
Fortunately, at that precise moment, the arrival of an extremely tall, good-looking youth with floppy fair hair and an easy smile broke the tension.
"Best get these before they melt," he advised, four ice-creams dripping pools of liquid down through his fingers. "Pip, Tom and Lizzie said to tell you they wouldn't be long, they've gone to see how the cakes are selling and Jenny's still trying to talk Frank..." Zammo suddenly realised he'd interrupted something. "What's going on?" He asked.
"I...I j-j-just want-wanted to go see L-Lance and...and M-Milko w-won't stop r-running up and d-d-down," Sally said, growing more and more alarmed by the looming confrontation she was the cause of, and wondering how Milko dared pull faces behind the woman's back.
"You have a problem with my kid sister's invisible friend running up and down, lady?" Carly took an ice-cream from Zammo, bit into the wafer and delivered the question like a Mafia threat.
Invisible friend! Like whirring machinery starting up after being laid idle for the weekend, things started to click into place in Stella's mind.
Without even realising she had, thanks to Stella's subtle questioning, Julie Andrews had divulged more information about the dysfunctional Fletcher family that the Daily Review's star correspondent was looking forward to lampooning to the point of narrowly-avoiding-libel-damages, but, thanks to soaring ticket sales and the boyfriend's stage fright, she hadn't yet had time to actually point them out to Stella. And here they were, sitting behind her all along! Stella wanted her controversial story and to get it she needed this lot onside.
"Ah! The Fletcher family!" She said in conciliatory tones, smiling down at the youngest Fletcher with large, polished teeth that put Carly in mind of a shark. "You must be little Sally...?"
"So what if she is?" Carly took another mouthful of ice-cream and pulled Sally closer as if she thought Stella might bite her little sister any minute.
"My name's Stella Nolan," Stella said sweetly and proffered her hand, which she withdrew when Carly ignored it. "I'm a reporter for the Daily Review. Kathy Murray - lovely person! - invited me to write about the talent show. And I was hoping to write about Tom and Pippa too - you know, as a nice surprise for them to read in the papers tomorrow. Kathy has told me all about what great foster parents they've been to you all."
"Oh, yes! They are!" Lynn said trustingly. "What do you want to know?"
Carly, deciding she'd over-reacted, shrugged and backed off, grinning at herself, and Zammo snaked his arm round her shoulders and grinned back at her, glad everything had been sorted so amicably.
Lance and Miss Murray were looking back towards the stage and Milko, his curiosity getting the better of him, had finally decided to sit down quietly and listen. Sally smiled shyly, ready to answer any questions about Milko if asked.
It was easier than taking candy from a baby, Stella thought gloatingly, as she retrieved her pen.
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Coughing and laughing, they congratulated each other.
The fire hadn't been given a chance to take hold. All that remained of its angry onslaught was the blackened library annex, a few burnt books and the acrid smell of smoke.
Attention turned back to Toby and quickly Steven told of the dilemma, of the Town Hall, where the cat's owner Billy Jackson was at that moment, being in the opposite direction to the vet's in Settler Point. And somehow, in the confusion, it never occurred to anyone it might have made more sense to collect Billy first.
The car engine faded into the distance and Steven stood alone once more.
It was only now, now that he thought of the flames, that he began to shake uncontrollably. For some reason, despite the smoke, the fire alarm still hadn't activated and a strange silence, broken only by the crash of the nearby sea to the shore and the cry of the gulls, ensued. And yet it was as though nothing had happened. As though the strangers had never existed outside his imagination.
And yet they knew Sally! He frowned up at the sky where puffy white clouds sailed unhurriedly past.
"We come here for Sally. Sally Keating," the woman had explained their reason for being at Summer Bay Primary before they climbed back in the car.
Sally! What the hell did Sally have to do with anything? None of the day made any sense. Nothing did.
Steven sighed. His original plan had been to skip the talent show and dodge Frank. But someone had to break the news about Toby to Billy. And there was no one else.
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When you're weary, feeling small
When tears are in your eyes,
I will dry them all
I'm on your side
When times get rough...
Satisfied that the home-baked cakes were selling "like cold cakes" as Tom put it, earning himself a dig in the ribs for his terrible joke, Pippa, Lizzie and Tom had barely had time to settle back into their seats and for a brief introduction to Stella, before Lance launched into his song.
And friends just can't be found
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down.
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down...
Sally knew it must be a love song because Lance was singing it specially to Miss Murray, who was smiling and weeping and blowing her nose. But somehow the words seemed to be about Pippa and the terrible sea too...
She stood up to lean against Pippa's lap and Pippa smiled as she put her arm round Sally's waist and smoothed back that inevitable stray tendril of hair. Tom whispered something in Pippa's ear. This was one of their special songs.
When you're down and out
when you're on the street
when evening falls so hard
I will comfort you
I'll take your part
When darkness comes
And pain is all around...
Stella Nolan, popped a fresh piece of gum into her mouth. (The backwoods town didn't allow smoking in its precious town hall.) She had to admit it. The boyfriend was good. Bloody good.
His singing echoed all around the ancient building, up to the wooden rafters surrounded by the peculiar narrow high windows and down against the strange, sloping floors, sending shivers down everyone's spine.
Concerned about Janice Drummond, Lance had insisted that she gave herself a little extra rest from the arthritis bout but the strength of his voice easily carried the beautiful harmony without musical accompaniment. He met Kathy Murray's eyes as he reached the end of the song and, whistling and cheering, the audience rose as one to its feet. Thunderous applause rattled non-stop like pebbles of hailstone hitting a million windows. It was a foregone conclusion that he would win.
Nobody could live up to such perfection. And nobody did. The acts that followed varied in being good, fairly good and absolutely dire.
If only the kid with the dark Italian good looks, heavy scowl and delusions of being a rock star could have gone on stage, Stella thought, intrigued by a scene that had lately begun playing out at the arched doors of the entrance, certain this was Frank, one of the two missing members of the Fletcher family.
Rock star temper, she recalled the sister had said, and he certainly looked like he wouldn't hesitate to smash up drums, stage, even a whole theatre, given half a chance.
Stella hadn't been a journo for years without getting a hunch for a story. The rock star wannabe was gunning for somebody and Julie Andrews' sister was having no luck in trying to talk him out of it.
She only half watched the final act, a tone-deaf singer who, after admitting he'd only entered to win a bet, consistently sang off-key, taking the audience's laughter in his stride. Though she couldn't hear what was being said, the little scene playing out at the door was far more interesting.
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"You don't understand, Jen. Einstein's good at everything. Music's all I ever had."
"And that's a good enough excuse for ruining all Kath's hard work?"
Frank bit his lip and ran his fingers through his hair. "I'm not gonna ruin it, Jen," he said stubbornly. "I told you what'll happen and we agreed it'd just teach Steven a lesson. You know how big-headed he is. Reckons he's better than the rest of us. This'll bring him back down to earth with a bump."
Jenny sighed. "Yeh, well, I had second thoughts. I don't trust that journo somehow. Frank, maybe we should think about this..."
But suddenly it was too late to think about anything.
Steven burst through the doors and charged straight into his foster brother, who grinned and slammed the guitar and its case against him so fiercely that he was winded for several moments.
"Been waiting for you, mate. See, I got a great payback lined up. You get to play guitar. On stage. And you even get to play your very own tune."
"Frank, listen..." Steven managed to catch his breath at last.
But Frank Morgan was in no mood for listening and he was too strong for Steven to pull free from his grip.
Donald Fisher smiled when he saw Frank with his arm round his brother's shoulders bearing down towards the stage. Frank had already given him details and explained that Steven was keen to enter but apparently, like Lance, he suffered from stage fright, which was why he hadn't turned up earlier. He was delighted to see Frank must have persuaded him after all.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we have a late last entry. Steven Matheson playing a solo guitar composition written by himself." Flathead sounded and looked suitably impressed.
Ripples of polite applause greeted the lone figure propelled by Frank onto centre stage. And Steven froze. He was about to lose street cred with every single one of his mates and every single chick in the school.
At first he'd thrown himself into life at Summer Bay High to try and forget the guilt over his parents' deaths. But more recently he'd deserted everyone, knocking back invitations to parties and not turning up for footie games that they went on to lose without their star player. Easier to be a geek, staring at computer screens and complicated mathematical theories that didn't care when memories made tears sting your eyes. It wouldn't take much to put the final nail in the coffin.
None of his mates from his life before Summer Bay would have recognised Stevo Matheson, back then someone they knew as the hottest, most popular guy in the school.
His face, hair and clothes were still blackened by smoke that resembled simple unwashed-away dirt and there was a rip in the sleeve of his T-shirt from when he and the stranger had dragged the heavy hosepipe out of the shed. Still shaken by the fire, he strummed nervously on the guitar and the strings sounded tunelessly back like an elastic band twanged against teeth.
Convinced it had to be a joke like the previous act, someone stifled a laugh. It reached a stream that flowed down to the river. The first small giggle was followed by a giggle/cough and then an outright guffaw. And the music, an idle little tune that Frank insisted he played, would kill his reputation forever. This was it. The death knell had sounded.
Steven Matheson took a deep breath, squinted into the spotlight and prepared to die.
Bridge Over Troubled Water © Paul Simon
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I took the Spanish/English translations from a free translation website, hope they made sense!