Coach asks, ‘Are you hungry?’ and the three of us bellow, ‘Of course we are.’ He rings and he orders, and afterwards he clicks his fingers again and again, saying how Marika’s pizzas are the best in the world.
When he’s driven off to get the food, Taylor says, ‘Can you believe how he’s going on about those fucking pizzas? And what’s with his being so cheerful? What’s got into him, what the fuck is going on?’
I bite my lip. Coach is happy, can’t Martin see that? Coach is just happy.
Wilco says, ‘He’s always like this when he’s got the squad over, always in an up mood. Fraser reckons it’s ’cause no one else ever visits, says he’s just a fat lonely bastard.’
I can’t answer, I can’t look at him. I don’t dare open my mouth. If I did, I’d say, ‘Coach isn’t lonely, Coach has us.’ But that’s not what really gets me, that’s not what is causing the churning in my gut. It’s that Wilco has been here before, Wilco knows this house. Wilco has known it before me.
Coach is right, it is the best pizza I have ever had. At first, the crust seems too thin, the toppings weird, there doesn’t seem to be any cheese. There is capsicum and pumpkin, there are thin slices of potato, eggplant, even mince on one of them. But as soon as I taste them, I can’t stop wolfing them down. I take a slice, I take two, I have to stop myself from having more than my share. Not that Taylor or Wilco would allow me to — they are also stuffing them in, they seem to be guzzling them down whole. When we’re finished we’ve got grease around our mouths. I burp, and Martin grins and says, ‘Good one, Dino,’ but I know now that it isn’t an insult, that he means nothing by it. I burp again and now I am the one grinning.
‘Coach,’ I say, ‘they are the best pizzas in the world.’
Coach takes the boxes outside and as I wash the plates and Wilco dries, Taylor wipes down the kitchen table. Not one of us has said a word but it is clear that we have come to an unspoken agreement, that to show our gratitude to Coach we’re cleaning up for him. When we’re finished he herds us into the lounge room, reaches under the coffee table and pulls out a pack of cards.
We play gin rummy, then Coach introduces Taylor and me to poker, teaching us about straights and royal flushes, about bluffing. He tells us that gambling is nothing like swimming, that it is about luck. We three boys steal looks at each other whenever Coach is dealing or shuffling the cards. None of us has ever seen him so talkative or so animated. I can’t believe how much he is talking. Of course, it’s all about swimming, and it’s all about the competition in Adelaide. But he’s enthusiastic and laughing, and I wonder whether I have ever heard Coach laugh before. He teases us, he scolds us, and then he teases us again. And when he wins a hand, he’s loud and gloating, like Theo gets when I let him win at Snap. It’s not like he’s the Coach — it’s like he’s one of us.
He wins another round and then he says, ‘That’s it, boys, it is a long drive tomorrow. Let’s get ready for bed.’
And Wilco, of course Wilco has to say, ‘So who’s sleeping where?’
I look at my cards, the red and black numbers, the sharp diagonals of the kings and queens. I hear Coach say, ‘I am sleeping here,’ and look up to see him pointing at the sofa. ‘Danny has the front room; you and Taylor are in the spare bedroom.’ And before Wilco can say anything, Coach adds, ‘It is fair. Danny got here first.’
Wilco isn’t going to argue; even when he is in this odd lively mood, no one is going to argue with Coach.
And then Martin says, ‘Anyway, Kelly deserves it because he’s the best — he’s the best swimmer of any of us.’
Wilco sneers, ‘Says who?’
There is a beat; then Coach orders, ‘Come on, off to bed!’
But bloody Wilco isn’t going to let it go. He’s still sneering at Martin. ‘What’s going on between you and Kelly, Taylor? You bum pals — is that what’s going on?’
‘Nah,’ replies Martin coolly, and winks at me. ‘Nah, we’re just best friends.’
I can’t think about Demet and I can’t think about Luke. I wink back at Taylor. ‘Yeah, we’re best friends.’
After brushing my teeth and going to the toilet, I walk back through the lounge. Coach has a sheet folded over the sofa and is laying a blanket across it.
‘Thanks for tonight,’ I blurt out. ‘Thanks so much, Coach, it was fantastic.’
‘You had a good time?’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ I keep saying. ‘Yeah, it was a brilliant night.’
Coach is eyeing me keenly. He comes over and pats my chest. ‘You are strong here, Kelly, you can feel it, no?’
I’m not sure what he means, I know my pectorals are getting more developed, more powerful. I can feel that.
‘Next competition, I want you to compete in the butterfly. I think you will do well at it.’
I’m confused, I don’t know why he’s saying this. The butterfly is effort and skill and sheer bloody hard work. My body doesn’t know the butterfly, my body knows freestyle — my body knows that is my stroke.
‘Trust me,’ says Coach, as if he has read my thoughts, as if he is far ahead of me. ‘Listen to your body. I think the butterfly may be your stroke.’
The sheets are flannelette and far too hot. But the mattress is firm and comfortable and I know sleep will come easily. It’s not like being in a strange room — it is like I have always slept here, it is as if I am home in this room. I’m not thinking about the trip to Adelaide, I’m not thinking about the competition, I’m not thinking about swimming, or my strokes. I’m not thinking about Demet or Luke. Martin said we are best friends. All I can think of is that Martin said we are best friends; and that it feels as if I’m home.
Thursday 24 June 2010
‘Are you really sure you want to go home?’
Luke had a smartphone in his hand and another device that Dan didn’t recognise clipped to his belt. They were sitting in the Qantas lounge of the Hong Kong International Airport, on their second beer each. Luke apologised every time he had to check his phone. Dan told him not to worry, waved his OK as Luke grimaced and said he had to take the call.
Dan didn’t mind. He slowly sipped his beer, enjoying the thought of being in Asia, being one continent closer to home. He knew he wasn’t really in Asia, he was in the limbo of international transit. But the waiters and bar staff were all Chinese, and there were woody, spicy flavours coming from the Cantonese buffet. It wasn’t Scotland, it wasn’t Europe. It was one step closer to home.
He had been shocked by the tears stinging his eyes when the plane broke through the slate-coloured clouds and the islands of Hong Kong had appeared below. He had drawn in his breath: at the luminous sheen on the greens of the forest, the deep shadows of the water, the vivid clarity of the light. The European skies, seas and land were all muted beauty; these dazzling stepping-stone islands seemed of another world, one much closer to his home.
Luke had suggested they meet in Hong Kong. I can change my flight, he had emailed. I don’t need to be in Seattle till Thursday morning. Dan had four hours to kill before his connecting flight to Melbourne. He had hardly dared hope that he could meet up with his old friend, but when he checked his mail at a computer terminal at Heathrow, Luke had confirmed that he’d managed to change his flight. We can get drunk in Honkers, Luke had written. I miss you, Kelly, I can’t wait to see you.