The Slightly True Story of Cedar B. Hartley Page 2

  I didn’t find Stinky that afternoon, and he didn’t come home the next day. Caramella came over to show me the bandage round her ankle. She sprained it trampolining, because she’s a bit of a hefalump when it comes to sporty things. I tried to be sympathetic about the sprain but I was feeling more sorry for myself. And Caramella was happy about having an injury, anyway, especially because her dad had to drive her to school.

  I decided to make a lost dog notice. I got Caramella to draw a picture of Stinky because she’s much better at drawing than I am. This is what it looked like:

  I wasn’t sure what the unique reward would be, but I thought I could get some of Ricci’s Russian sunflowers because they’re enormous and make you think prehistoric fairytale thoughts. Ricci asked one of the boys to photocopy the notice for me at work. The boys love Ricci. She looks after their garden for them when they go to Thailand for holidays, and they gave her a microwave oven for Christmas but she won’t use it because she says it kills the life force.

  I stuck the notice up on telephone poles all around the block and down by the oval. Then I started up again with my moping, and Caramella limped and Ricci squawked, ‘Don’t worry darling, Stinky come back. He’s smart dog.’

  Actually, even I ran away once. It was on my twelfth birthday. I ran away because everyone forgot it was my birthday. I was alternately slouching and hopping on one leg, waiting for someone to notice, but they were all busy making plans and talking on the phone. See, I was born on a special day, the last day of the year: 31 December, 1988, to be precise. Problem is, it’s a special day that belongs to everyone, not just me. New Year’s Eve it’s called. Imagine if you had to share your birthday with the whole world. It’s a bummer, ’cause on your birthday you want to feel special. You want to own the day.

  Now, I’m generally not a selfish person, but you can’t help feeling a bit blue when everyone is so busy celebrating your birthday that they actually forget about you. Me, Cedar B. Hartley. Born on the last day of the year. Bee- and bird-lover. Bound to be infamous. Bad at maths but good at other things, like jumping and making up games. Me. How could they have forgotten? That’s what was mooning around in my mind. Even Barnaby had forgotten. All excited about a dumb party he was going to at Harold Barton’s, of course.

  I kicked at the ground and practised head stands to draw some attention to myself. When that didn’t work, I faked a thought: Well, who needs them anyway? I said to myself. Me and Stinky, we’ll go have our own celebration.

  So I went down the milkbar and bought a box of Orange Thins, the ones Mum has for after dinner parties. Polite people only take one. Since Mum is training me to be polite, I’m only allowed one. Each chocolate comes in its own little chocolate-coloured envelope, just so as you know they’re special. Sophisticated chocolates, that’s what I wanted for my twelfth birthday. Well, not really. I’d actually been dropping hints about a horse. Hints like: I know where there might be a paddock (which is a big lie). Oh I wish I had a horse, I’d be a better child if I only had a horse (with big sigh accompanying).

  I don’t think Mum got the hint. I guess I knew it was a lot to hope for. Anyway Orange Thins are easier to take with you when you run away, and I had a whole box just for me and Stinky. It was, after all, my first day of being a twelve-year-old, which is as close as you can get to almost being a teenager, and I wanted to do something that proved just how grown-up I was.

  To tell you the truth, I didn’t feel any different. I don’t think you ever do. I think one day you just become sixty or seventy, and it must be a shock to be so old because it’s still the same you on the inside; it’s just that all the outside of you has got wrinkled from the weather. When I’m that old I’ll still sneak an Orange Thin, I know it. Actually, that’s got to be the best thing about being old; you don’t have to worry about getting holes in your teeth any more ’cause your teeth are already rotten or gone or replaced. And you don’t have to wait for someone to let you eat a chocolate, you can just go right ahead and eat five and a half if you want. Sophisticated ones, too, not cobbers or rollos or freckles. Orange Thins. They sound kind of restrained and elegant, like an Oriental lady in a silk dress.

  So I went to the bridge and stuffed my face and gave half to Stinky, because it’s no fun if you can’t gloat with someone else. We sat under the bridge, and then we tried to stay out for as long as possible to make sure Mum and Barnaby noticed that we had run away. I pictured them sitting at the kitchen table feeling terribly bad about forgetting my birthday; Mum sobbing into her coffee, and Barnaby slumped in a state of deep regret, and besieged by thoughts of what a dear, sweet, deserving sister I was, feeling compelled to discuss, at great length, ways he and Mum could possibly make it up to me by pitching in for an extra good present (large fast white horse). That’s what I imagined.

  When Stinky and I finally went home again, Mum rushed up to me and was all sorry about forgetting my birthday. She hadn’t been sobbing, though, and she just gave me a toilet bag with Oil of Ulan in it. Oil of Ulan is pink moisturiser, for rubbing on your skin so you don’t get wrinkles. Mum said that since I was almost a teenager I had to start looking after my skin. Barnaby had already gone to the party (which turned out to be a dud rage anyway). He left a note and a book on my bed. The book was called D is for Dog. The note said:

  There was a drawing of the ocean with it. Barnaby always does drawings with his cards. He secretly likes to think of himself as a bit of a poet, but I think he was in a rush when he wrote that. He calls me Cedy Blue because there’s a tree in the Botanic Gardens called an Atlas Blue Cedar, and Barnaby says that must be the tree I was named after and that’s where our mum and dad did it, right there under the blue tree. But I think he’s making it up because it isn’t a very intimate tree. It looks like it should be on a mountain where there are mooses. When I asked Mum, she said it was a load of nonsense, and that Barnaby has an overactive imagination.

  I tried to be pleased about the moisturiser, but I could tell that Mum had just gone and bought it at the chemist, because it wasn’t wrapped up. The best part of a present is the moment when you begin to unwrap it, when you don’t quite know and you are full of hope and anticipation.

  Well, Oil of Ulan wouldn’t have even slightly resembled a horse even if it was wrapped up. It’s the thought that counts, I kept saying to myself. But I wasn’t that excited about having to look after my skin. So far, it had looked after itself just fine.

  Come to think of it, I don’t really believe that stuff about it being the thought that counts. It’s only half true, because what if the thought isn’t a very thoughtful thought, like how my mum always gives Ricci a box of Quality Street chocolates? Now, if she was being really thoughtful she might have noticed that Ricci is nearly always on a diet. She might have given her a book about tofu instead, or new shoes, because Ricci loves shoes, especially if they’re silver or gold.

  And there are certainly more positive things than skin problems to think about when you become a teenager. Like what about freedom? What about being allowed to do things on your own? What about getting smarter? By the time I’m as old as Mum, I’m going to be damn smart. She has to do a lot of thinking for accident victims, because they have acquired brain injuries (which is the right way to say that their brains got messed up by some kind of accident involving a big bang on the head). So her thinking quota is just about used up by the time she gets home and she can’t be thinking thoughtful thoughts about me and Ricci, and Caramella with a sprained ankle.

  One time, I asked Mum if she thought I would be famous.

  ‘Cedar my love, you’ll be infamous.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Infamous is more famous than famous,’ she said with a sigh, because I exasperate her with questions when she’s tired.

  I don’t know what I’ll be infamous for; certainly not for geometry or invention of inventions, because I’m not good at straight lines or electricity.

  Anyway, it didn’t feel right walking down the c
reek or mucking around in the street without Stinky. I stayed inside and read D is for Dog. It tells you everything you might need to know in alphabetical order: false teeth, field spaniels, fits, flatulence, fleas, foreign bodies . . . I’d never even thought about false teeth for dogs. You’d think a book like that, with dental advice and stuff, would also have a part about lost dogs. I figure there are a lot more homeless dogs than there are dogs wanting some new teeth. My grandmother has false teeth. I found them once in a glass of water. She used to live with us, but then she died of old age. Actually this was Granma’s house, and we came to live with her because before that we were living in a small place. It was better when she was here, because she and I used to eat boysenberry ripple ice-cream together. Also, she never got cross. She just wanted to brush my hair.

  Lucky I was lurking around inside thinking about Granma’s false teeth, because that was when the phone call came.

  ‘Hello, it’s Cedar speaking.’

  ‘Hi, I’m ringing ’bout the dog.’ It was a boy’s voice, not a roaring or sneering kind of a boy’s voice, more like the voice of a river running steadily by.

  ‘Stinky? Did you find him?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Is he okay? Does he have a red collar?’

  ‘Yep.’ There was a pause. I could hear him breathe in and out again.

  ‘Where did you find him?’

  ‘Down by the Merri Creek.’

  ‘Do you think I could come and see?’ I asked. There was another pause.

  ‘I can meet you on the oval near where you put the lost dog sign,’ he said.

  ‘Okay. Soon?’

  ‘Fifteen minutes?’ said the river voice.

  ‘Okay, see ya then,’ I said, and hung up. Oops, forgot to ask his name. I checked in the mirror to see how I looked. Cedar B. Hartley’s face looked back at me. Not quite Lana Monroe, not quite famous or completely knowledgeable, just a hopeful grin and a halo of red curly hair. I tried out an intelligent expression, but it didn’t work. I flared my nostrils to give more shape to the nose and then I stuck my pinkies in and growled. My mood had suddenly gone from moochy to loony. The house was full of light and I didn’t care that there were big holes in the lino. I grabbed a banana and set out to bring Stinky home.

  The sky had a serious grey look. There wasn’t anyone down by the creek except the rabbit man. I call him the rabbit man, but he doesn’t look or act like a rabbit. Doesn’t have long ears or a lot of children. Actually, I can’t remember why I call him that. I just do. Sometimes in your mind you call someone something just because it tickles you softly to call them that.

  The rabbit man is old and Italian. He has a walking stick, and he wears a blue shirt done up at the collar, and braces with corduroys, and sneakers. Corduroy on an old person is always a good sign of sturdiness. Besides, he loves dogs. His dog is an old hobbling black-and-tan dog called Diva. They go together very well.

  ‘But where your dog?’ he said, waving his walking stick in the air with some enthusiasm. The rabbit man speaks very loudly and clearly. He says each word with much deliberation, as if he was planting it inside you. When he says ‘Diva’ he squeezes out the Di and hammers open the va, like Deeee va. I usually love to listen to him plant words, but this time I was in a hurry to get to the oval and hang over the pole.

  ‘He’s at the oval. Gotta go get him.’

  ‘He your best friend. Your dog your best friend,’ called out the rabbit man. He says that every time you see him. He likes to bend down and hold out his hand to every dog that passes by. He showed me that. Always let a dog come to you, that way you won’t scare him, he says.

  Some people are scared of dogs. I like to ride my bike up Sydney Road and watch all the Arabian ladies shrink inside their head-wraps as Stinky runs past them. I know I shouldn’t, but I figure it’s good practice for those scared ladies to see how a dog won’t bite your knee or curse you. Dogs are even nicer than some people. Like me. After all, I’m the one who’s amusing myself at the scared ladies’ expense. Not Stinky. He doesn’t even notice them. Not unless they’ve got a sausage.

  It started to rain. I don’t have anything against rain—it’s good for the farmers and all—but I just didn’t fancy getting wet. Sometimes I can get over it. I can just turn my face up to the sky and say, ‘Come on then, go ahead, wet me.’ Then I can enjoy the wet feeling. I even want to see just how completely soaked I can get. I want to be more wet by the rain than anyone has ever been before. But I didn’t feel like it that day, not at all. Getting sopping wet is only fun when you know you can run home and peel off your clothes and slither into a hot bath. But when you’re on your way to meet a river-voiced boy who found your dog, you don’t want to drip all over his shoes.

  So, I headed for the cooing bridge. Stinky looked pretty funny when he got wet. His hair stuck up everywhere. This is what he looked like:

  The cooing bridge is quite ugly on top because cars run over it, and quite ugly underneath because there’s graffiti and pigeon shit everywhere and a dirty grey hollowed-out feeling. If I was doing graffiti, at least I would want to write a magnificent thought or draw a picture of a bird going fishing, but all you see under the bridge is words like ΑΚS. Who knows what that means? Painted in red on the pillars holding the bridge up it says PΑT on one and GΑRY on the other. (Not a great point of departure except that it makes me imagine two blokes who used to play footy together and now they’re going bald and making salami which they sell to delicatessens in Brunswick.) Barnaby says graffiti is about ‘tags’(kind of personal logos), but I think it’s just like how dogs like to wee on walls. Boy dogs and boy kids like to leave a mark.

  So, the only way to make the bridge beautiful is to close your eyes and listen to it coo. It’s the pigeons who are cooing, of course, not the bridge, though if you didn’t see the pigeons hidden up underneath it, you could think it was the bridge. I try to work out what they might be saying. So far, I know this much—it’s a tender and mushy sentiment like, Oh my darling, let me make your nest more comfortable. There, shall I give your little bird claws a rub? What a good bridge we live in. Would you like an Orange Thin?

  Cooing translation is not as stupid as you might think, because I once heard of a monk called Francis in Italy who could talk to animals and birds. I can almost speak dog and I’m not even a monk. But I know what Stinky is saying. I understand tail language. Round and round tail movement, for example, is very pleased, whereas upwards pointing is a question, like Who’s there? Are you a rabbit? Can I come? There is also a language in his eyes. Tail language and eye language go together.

  Stinky can almost speak human, too. At home we can’t say the word ‘walk’, because it makes Stinky go crazy. He starts barking and jumping with excitement, and that hurts my mum’s head. So instead we say, ‘I’m going for a “w”.’ I don’t know why, but he hasn’t worked that one out yet. Talking is one thing, but spelling is another.

  There I was, thinking about nice things like bird tenderness and dog spelling when who should intrude on my nicely cooed-out mind but Harold Barton.

  ‘Well look who’s here,’ said the sneery voice of Harold Barton. He was standing there, panting like a dog. Next to him were Patrick Murphy and Frank Somebody. They were all wet. Rain dripped off Harold’s back-to-front-cap and trickled down his neck.

  ‘Heard from your brother?’ he said.

  ‘Nope,’ I said, looking at Patrick Murphy and wondering if it was him who wrote PΑT.

  ‘Barnaby’s a weirdo,’ said Harold, putting his lips in an ugly shape. ‘Anyway, whatcha doing here sittin’ under a bridge on your own, Cedar? I don’t get you Hartleys.’

  Harold thought anyone who didn’t flock around him was weird, especially if they liked their own company. I considered telling him that I was translating bird, but I thought better of it and ignored the question completely. Best not to give him too much to go on. I knew Harold had secretly admired Barnaby quite a lot, which is not surprising since Barnaby is cha
rming and girls go crazy for him. It was a lie that we hadn’t heard from him, because he sends postcards. Usually they’re just a bit of cardboard cut out of a box, with a texta drawing on the front and two sentences on the back. Like this:

  But I wasn’t going to tell Harold about that, firstly because he suffers from a lack of imagination and so he wouldn’t appreciate it, but also because I have a feeling that something funny went down. Barnaby wouldn’t tell me what, but I know it had something to do with Barnaby being sent away.

  ‘Harold, I know you got Barnaby into trouble, I just know,’ I said.

  ‘Did not. Anyway, Barnaby deserved it.’

  ‘Deserved what?’ I narrowed my eyes suspiciously and Harold narrowed his eyes back, and then he went all American-movie, putting his hand to his heart and looking about at his buddies with a well practised poor-me look in his eye. Harold Barton is the most expert worm I ever met. He made out it was him that was getting the bum steer, just so he wouldn’t have to answer my leading question.

  ‘Hey dudes, Cedar’s coming on all raw prawn at me. Just because her brother’s a weirdo. Hey, Der-brain, face the facts. You and your brother are weirdos. And you got no dad.’

  I didn’t think this really deserved a response from me, especially since Frank Somebody was already responding with a lot of embarrassed grunting and shuffling. (I can’t think of Frank’s surname because Frank isn’t the kind of person you think about much.) Patrick Murphy changed the topic.

  ‘C’mon, let’s get to the footy,’ he said, jerking his head in the direction of the oval. Patrick was dead keen on football. He was what I call a meaty bloke. He crossed his chunky arms over his chest. ‘Reckon we should make a run for it.’