The boy in his haste kept pedalling, but knew he would soon topple. As he went down his arm hit the ground hard, but it was not this that made him afraid; it was the bush he had fallen into, with its spiky leaves. He knew as he put his hand down to right himself that he was stung. He rubbed his arms, which only made the sting worse. The tears started. He struggled to his feet and picked up his bike, then saw the chain had come off. He kicked it, in anger, but knew he’d be in trouble if he just left it, so he picked up the bike and wheeled it back up the dirt path down which he’d ridden.
He was some distance from his home. He ran and cried and wheeled the bike. The rash on his arms spread. His face, too, felt aflame. Maybe his skin would peel off and maybe he would die. Maybe he was poisoned, like from a spider or snake. He ran past an old farm and into town, where he saw Mr Lusby drive by him in his old ute with his eyebrows raised. He ran past the shops without slowing. The stinging grew worse.
At last he reached his house, with its manicured garden out front. He swung open the gate and threw the bike down on the lawn. He ran inside and went to his mother’s bedroom and instead found his father asleep there, snoring.
‘Dad?’ the boy said. He shook his father’s body.
His father groaned and looked as if he wanted to swat the boy away. ‘What, mate? Bloody hell.’
‘Dad?’ The boy was still crying. ‘Dad, look.’
‘What is it?’ His father sat up, grunted. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Dad, I ran into some bushes on my bike.’
‘Ah, mate,’ his dad said, and swivelled to a sitting position. ‘Let me look.’ He reached over to turn on the lamp so he could see better. He held the boy’s arm tenderly. ‘Mate,’ he said, ‘I know it hurts, but it’s okay, alright? It’s just going to sting a bit and then it’ll cool down.’
‘Dad, it hurts.’
‘I know, mate. I know.’ His father rubbed the boy’s head. ‘Alright, come with me.’
Still in his pyjamas, his father ushered the boy down the hallway and into the bathroom. His father helped him to take his clothes off a bit and then went down the hall to the kitchen as the boy stood there in terror, checking his body. The fiery rash had spread up his legs and came near his private parts. It was under his arms, too. When he looked in the mirror he saw his eyes were surrounded by it.
His father returned, carrying a jug of milk, the liquid sloshing over the sides.
‘Dad, that’s milk,’ the boy said.
‘I know, mate. Get in the tub.’
The boy obediently climbed in and sat down and his dad poured the freezing milk over him. He shut his eyes and felt it slither down his back and pool beneath him.
‘Rub it all over, bud. Where’s it really stinging?’
‘On my hands and arms and eyes.’
‘Alright. Well don’t rub your eyes. But put your arms and hands in it a bit. Here.’ His father scooped up some of the milk in his own hands and then cupped them against the boy’s eyes. ‘Blink your eyes in it, if you can.’
The boy did what he was told and felt the stinging subside.
‘You feel any better?’
The boy nodded. ‘Mmm. Yes.’
‘All better?’
‘I think so.’
‘Alright, bud. You just sit there for a bit. I’ll leave the milk.’
‘Wait,’ the boy said, and scrambled onto his knees. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Just going to call your mum and let her know what happened.’
The boy nodded.
‘I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me, okay?’
He nodded again and then his father was gone.
The boy splashed the milk all over himself and heard the sound of muffled speech coming from the hallway. His father’s voice grew heavy, quiet, then loud. The boy couldn’t understand what he was saying. Then he saw his father storm past the bathroom door – heading back to the bedroom, the boy assumed.
His mother soon returned. By this time the sting had gone and the boy had calmed down entirely. She flung open the front door and the boy could hear her running to the bathroom. She wrapped her arms around him, not even caring about the milk.
‘Sweetheart. Oh, sweetheart. I’m so sorry. Let me look.’
‘I think I’m okay, Mum.’
She examined his rash on his arms, near his privates, around his eyes.
‘Does it hurt? Does it still hurt?’
‘It’s okay, Mum. The milk made it better.’
She turned to yell down the hallway, ‘And what were you bloody doing letting him go out riding his bike on his own?’
‘I was asleep,’ his father shouted from somewhere. ‘Alright? He’s fine.’
‘He’s not fine!’
‘It’s probably just a stinging nettle. It’ll fade,’ his father said, appearing in the doorway. ‘He’s alright. You’re alright, aren’t you, mate?’
The boy nodded. ‘I think so.’
‘We need to take him to the doctor’s.’
‘Come on, Liz.’
‘I can’t leave him alone with you for one bloody morning,’ she said, almost to herself. She smiled at her son. ‘Let’s get you cleaned up and we’ll go see Dr Richards.’
‘Dad didn’t let me go riding, Mum. I just went for a ride down to see the bridge.’
‘I know, sweetheart.’
‘He shouldn’t get in trouble, though, Mum.’
The boy looked at his father, who was leaning against the doorframe with his hairy arms crossed. His father smiled a little and said, ‘Your mum’s just worried about you, mate, that’s all.’
‘But you didn’t let me go riding. I just went and I didn’t even ask. I’m sorry.’ He looked at his mum. ‘I’m sorry.’ And the tears started again.
‘Ssh,’ his mother said. ‘Honey, you’re okay. You did nothing wrong.’
‘Well, he shouldn’t’ve gone off riding without asking, right?’ his father said. The boy looked and saw his father’s face wide with a grin. ‘But I guess we know for next time now, hey, mate?’
The boy was swept from the tub in his mother’s arms and so did not see the look she gave his father, though he imagined there was one.
They went into his bedroom, where he was towelled dry and then dressed, then they hurried out to the car. As his mother pulled out of the driveway, the boy looked back to see his father watching from the front door, his arms still crossed.