With One Eye Open

Early Morning Escapade

ERIC DOYLE

Ouch, jeez, a wooden toy truck. Nearly went arse over kite. These people should put their stuff away. A person could get injured doing his job.

Just in and out, Jenkins’ said. Nothing too much, just make it look real. Toys scattered everywhere, folded laundry on a chair, a tower of videos leaning against the television cabinet. No flash stereo system in this house. I peer around the dark room looking for something, anything. Anything will do. Enough that they know they’ve been burgled, Jenkins had said.

Family portraits in cheap frames hang on the wall. A tall-boy cluttered with stuff, junk.

Crap, nothing here worth a dime.

The damn torch flicks off and on. I slap the side with my open hand. Should’ve checked the batteries.

Useless. My head’s pounding, my palms are damp, my gut squirms. I scratch my head under the edge of my beanie. Think!

The tall-boy, I’ll try that. Who knows? There may be something of value in there. The top drawer is jammed. With a bit of jiggling, I ease open the next one. It’s crammed full with photo albums, empty cheque books, and a munted, half bar of caramel chocolate. Yuck! Hate the stuff, prefer Dairy Milk or dark chocolate with nuts.

Dunno who these people are, just regular Joe’s not expecting a break-in, not expecting some stranger to rifle through their house in the early hours. It’s nearly daylight, a stupid time for me to be here. Mr and Mrs Joe could get up any minute to go to work.

The whinging dip-stick from next door came over last night and we sunk a few beers. I woke late, with a pounding head and squirming gut.

Just ain’t cut out for this line of work.

Oops, I stumble into a bloody clothes’ horse with more laundry.

I’ll try the kitchen.

‘Mum, mummmmmmm!’

Jeez, all I need. Some squawking kid.

On the bench, sits a new looking microwave. I’ll grab that. Joe and his wife are sure to notice that missing.

‘Mum, mum I’m scared.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Joe! He’ll wake the other two.’

I can’t risk scooting through the front door with that kid making a fuss. I’ll have to go back through the kitchen window. I shove the window open more, unplug the microwave and lift it. It’s heavy, the cord dangles, the glass plate inside clangs. I shuffle over to the window, bashing into the edge of the bench with a thud. I nearly drop the damn thing. I balance it on the edge of the window sill. It tilts. The plate clangs. I grip both sides, take a deep breath and lean out the window. Slowly, I lower the microwave towards the ground. My palms are moist, and I’m losing my grip. I wiggle my body and lean further out the window. My knee bangs on the window ledge. I suppress a yelp. Then my whole body slides like a slippery eel. I lose my grasp on the microwave, it topples and falls with a crash. I tumble in a heap onto the smashed-up microwave.

‘Get up! I think someone’s in the house.’

On all fours, I scuttle to hide behind a bush.

Crouched behind the bush, I hear doors opening. A light flicks on. At the open window, a large shape appears.

‘What the hell?’ The shape leans out, looks around.

From behind this bush, I peer at the shape through the spindly branches. He isn’t looking my way. I lie flat and squiggle, worm-like to a clump of thicker bushes. I sneak a look towards the house. The shape is now outside, bent over the smashed microwave, his back towards me. I stand, glance around. Whew, he hasn’t seen me.

I look across the road. Like a statue, a boy with his bike leaning against his hip is standing there looking right at me.

Nah, the angry Joe ain’t seen me, but the paperboy has!

My heart’s thumping as I sprint down the street. I reach my ute. I yanked open the door and fumbled for my keys. The engine starts, and I speed away in the opposite direction. My hands are sweaty, and my head’s banging and my gut is squirming and for what? A smashed-up microwave. And if it hadn’t smashed, I could hardly have run down the street carrying a microwave and not be noticed. I am an idiot. Should have cut my losses and got out when the kid started squawking.

No worries, I didn’t get caught, and I’ll still get paid by Jenkin’s.

The paperboy, Elspeth’s boy. He saw me.

JACK LARSEN

Nothing different ‘bout this morning. It’s misty and quiet, and like always, I have the streets to myself which is great ‘cos I get to practise some cool moves on my bike. Last week I finally mastered gutter-hopping. With full saddle-bags and papers in the basket, believe me, gutter hoping is not easy. First, I pedal like mad straight into the gutter, then just at the right time, yank the handlebars and ‘hop’ the bike onto the path. I crashed a few times and the papers spilt all over, and that’s why this time of the morning is excellent. No-one’s around to see me sprawled on the path when I bomb out. After a few spectacular bomb-outs, I figured it was best to do this trick with near-empty saddle-bags.

I deliver the papers quick to have time to muck about and work on my tricks.

Rata Street, number fifteen, six fifty-eight, Mr Pyjamas shuffles down his driveway. I swing back my arm, aim, fire. Thwack! Another missile landed, right on time. Jack Larsen, the missile thrower, that’s me.

I swing into Kowhai Street. Two papers at the top end before speeding off to old Mrs G’s at the far end. With my head down, I pump the pedals, feel the power, and jam on the brake to slide into a perfect three-sixty.

My three-sixty skids are mega. I’m the king of the three-sixty. It’s all about building up speed, braking, skidding and timing. Doesn’t matter if the saddle-bags are full either, it’s actually better ‘cos the weight tail-spins the bike making for a better arc.

Mrs Grimsby’s cottage, mostly hidden by her jungle of a garden, has been here forever, like Mrs Grimsby herself. She must be at least a hundred years old, I reckon. A curtain twitches. Quick throw, thwack, the missile lands amongst the cats snoozing on the verandah. They leap, hiss and slink away as the door opens. Seven o’clock, right on time.

I pedal slowly past the waste ground where a man was found murdered in ‘91, eight years ago. The water tower reaching into the sky looks creepy, sinister is a more accurate word, ‘specially with the mist hanging around. People still talk about the murder. Some say the body was found hanging from the top of the tower. Tommy Nielson says the guy’s head got chopped off and stuck on a pole and his limbs were found scattered around, except for one arm. Perhaps a dog took it and buried it some-place, probably in someones back-yard, Tommy says. Of course, I don’t believe him. That’s just Tommy being Tommy. But still, sends a shiver through me just thinking about it. Truth is, nobody really knows what happened.

Only the tower knows!

Conway Street. Seven papers on Conway. Time to pick up speed again, paper in hand, first target. Thwack! Seven-oh-six. On time. I take another paper, swing across the road and throw. Thwack! And another, three doors down.

The day is waking, the mist is lifting, all is quiet. A crashing sound comes from across the street, followed by a soft thud. I stop.

As I look to the other side of the street, I see a bush twitch and a flash of orange. A light flicks on in the house.

What the hell? Someone shouts from inside the house.

Again, a flash of orange from behind the bush. A beanie, a head, a crouched body, hiding. Then lying flat, the figure pulls himself along the ground to a bunch of bushes.

What the hell? The voice again. A massive figure outside the house is standing in his pyjamas, scratching his head. One of those push-up windows, the type you get in older homes, is open and something is smashed on the ground.

The figure behind the bushes stands up and looks around. I’m standing here, my bike leaning against my hip, gawping, not able to move. The guy sees me. My heart thumps. He jolts, snatches the beanie from his head and runs - just runs down the street and around the corner. I hear a car door open then shut. A motor starts.

Slowly, I straddle my bike and take another paper. I throw the paper then another. I’m pissed-off ‘cos now I’m behind time and won’t be able to muck around with my tricks else Mum will be on my case for being late.

I can’t believe what I saw. That orange beanie, I’m sure I’ve seen it before.

DOROTHY GRIMSBY

The kettle whistles. I remove it from the hob, switch off the gas and pour the boiling water into the China teapot. Placing the woolly tea cosy on the pot, I peer through the window and see the Larsen boy careering down the street. He skids to a halt takes a paper from his basket and with a deft throw lands the paper on the verandah, clipping a lupin and disturbing the cats from their slumber. Disgruntled, they hiss and stalk off with their tails in the air. He’s a bit of a lark that boy, likes to have his fun and why not?

Lupins were Frank’s favourite plant. Like sentries they stand tall and proud along the length of the verandah, protecting my cottage or so I like to think. Frank built the cottage when we married before he went off to that damn, silly war. Sixty years I’ve lived here.

The garden, with its muddle of shrubs, is a haven for the cats. Boastful, big-headed blue and purple hydrangea snuggle beside delicate hibiscus. Glossy green, leafed coprosma shadow dwarf Daphne. Camellias and azaleas bloom and, fuchsias bend their pendulum heads. Wild rose brambles twist through the foliage, and wisteria clings lovingly to the weatherboards. Lavender, winter-bare, waiting to erupt into a purple haze and sweet fragrance come spring is my favourite. That’s the joy of a garden, every season offering new life.

My son, Bobby, doesn’t much care for the garden, or the cottage. Nor the town. Last week when he visited, he called the town ‘a back-water, a hick town, a place where nothing much happens.’ He sensed my displeasure. His eyes softened, moistened like his dad’s used to.

He clasped my hand.

“I know it’s your home, mother. I know you like it here, but times change, and we have to change with it.”

My heart melts for the poor boy. It’s like he’s torn between his home, his roots and the allure of the city. Wearing his dark business suits and crisp white shirts and gadding about in a flashy car, like he’s trying on a new skin, only it doesn’t fit. To me, he’s fine just the way he is.

Bobby wants me to sell the cottage to Jenkins for this grand development. The money being offered is very generous, he argues. I could set myself up in a warm, modern place that doesn’t need constant maintenance. He rambles on about how the town would benefit from the development. I disagree. The town is a close community, I say. Here, townsfolk look-out for one another. A flashy apartment block for pretentious city-folks, is not welcome in our town. City-folk with their city ideas would spoil the fabric of the town. Goodness, next they’ll be wanting wine bars and night-clubs and alfresco dining!

What I’m really fearful of, though I don’t tell Bobby is losing the last fragment of Frank. When Frank and I purchased the plot of land back in the thirty’s, cheap because it was next to the Rail Goods yard, we called it our little slice of paradise.

I walked Bobby to the gate that day. He eased the lopsided gate, closed.

“I’ll bring my tools next time I come and fix that hinge for you,” he said. Like always, he leant over the gate and pecked me on my cheek. For all his lofty pretensions, he has a kind heart, does my Bobby.

I have no intentions of selling, and certainly not to the likes of Noel Jenkins, son of Frederick Jenkins.

I pour myself a cuppa, tighten the cord on my candlewick dressing gown and retire to the old wooden rocking chair on the verandah- another reminder of Frank - to read the paper.

Where better to embrace the waking day than in the tranquillity of my jungle garden?

Jack

I finished my round late. I’m never late. Mum nagged me as to why I was late. ‘Did something happen?’ she says.

“Nah, Mum. Nothing happened. Just leave it, yeah?” She gave me that look, the look she does like she’s mad at me and worried at the same time.

Wheeling my bike into school, a bunch of kids are clustered around the gate. Sam Barker, in the middle, is talking loudly.

“Jeez, you should have heard them, going bonkers at each other they were, right out on the street.” Sam, waving his arms, his thick mop of straw-hair flopping in his eyes, laughing. “Entertaining, man.”

Sam’s always got a story. “Who was going bonkers?” I ask.

“The new family, two down from us. Big guy Joe something and his wife, B-E-R-Y-L,’” drags the name out. “‘B-E-R-Y-L’ shouts, the big guy. ‘Come and look here, the microwave, the expensive must-have micro W-A-V-E you insisted on. Well, you can W-A-V-E the microwave away now. Totally wrecked’ and then she starts screaming and punching him on the shoulder. ‘I told you didn’t I, I told you someone was in the house when Brian was calling out but did you get up you lazy sod?’ she’s screeching full pitch.‘Give me a break, woman,’ says the big guy and starts stomping towards the door.” Sam stomps on the spot. “And on the ground is a smashed up microwave under an open window.”

“Huh, a microwave? According to the Y2K theory, microwaves won’t work after January 1st anyway,” Louie chips in.

Louie’s always on about the millennium bug, the Y2K. He says there will be a massive malfunction of all devices with computer chips, such as elevators, heating systems, and medical equipment. And, apparently microwaves. He says we’ll have no electricity or no running water and this will happen at the start of the new millennium. No one responds to his comment, including me.

I think about saying something like ‘I saw him, I saw the burglar hiding behind bushes, wearing an orange beanie. He sprang up, looked around and ran.’ Was the beanie orange or red? Now, I’m not sure. But I don’t say anything ‘cos someone would be sure to say, ‘So why didn’t you chase him? You had your bike, didn’t you? Could have run him down, Larsen, thrown some of your papers at him, if you really did see him.’ I’d look like I’m fibbing. Or they’d say, ‘why didn’t you alert the big guy, Larsen.’ I could have alerted the big guy, could have said something like, ‘hey you’ or ‘there he is’ But nah, I just stood gawping like an idiot.

Everyone continues to chat about the spate of burglaries in the town. I push my bike around the back of the school hall. I don’t want to hear about what I witnessed and did nothing about.

The first bell rings. Everyone heads inside. Sam’s still talking, jabbering on about an urn what got stolen in one of the burglaries.

“Imagine if you couldn’t afford an urn and you plonked your loved one’s ashes in an old Marmite jar or a Peanut Butter jar. You sat the jar on the window sill. Then one morning, buttering your toast half asleep, you grab the jar from the window sill, thinking it’s Marmite... .”

“That’s gross, Barker.”

“Yeah, but it’d be funny, wouldn’t it?”

Miss Martin has us organised into what she calls ‘random groups’ only I’m sure she plans who is together and who is kept apart. Clare, Sally and Sam are in the same group as me.

Miss Martin has given each group a large piece of newsprint. “I want you to do a quick sketch of the town. Label the streets, then the hospital, post office, schools, park, etcetera, everything listed here on the board. Ten minutes.”

Sam hands a black marker to Sally. “You’re the neatest, Sally. You begin.”

“Hmm. Start with Bloomfield Street.” Sally draws quickly. “Coronation Street cuts across about here, yeah?”

“Yep. Jack and I’ll do the streets this side, and you and Clare do the other side.”

Sam hands me a pen. “Jack, you with us?”

“Sorry, what?” Usually, I really like this type of activity, but today I can’t concentrate. My head is not in it. I keep thinking about what happened on the paper run this morning.