‘Well, hey, hey, hey!’ Mr Barone poked his head out of his trailer and clapped his hands. ‘The Hooblers have arrived. Hello, slowcoaches!’
‘Why, thank you. Thank you!’ said Dad. He leapt out of the car and bowed with a grand flourish.
‘The funnies,’ said Kale Barone, toddling about in a circle, a fishing net jammed tight on his head.
‘Ooh, yes,’ said Mrs Barone, coming over to hug Henry’s mum. ‘So glad you’re here! Isn’t this place great? I had no idea it was going to be this beautiful.’
‘All together at last,’ said Dad, shaking hands with Mr Barone and Mr Carson.
Mrs Carson dropped the tennis racquets she was carrying and raced over to Henry’s mum. ‘You made it!’ she cried.
‘In one piece,’ said Mum. ‘But what a drive! I went through two whole bags of barley sugar.’
They laughed and kissed cheeks. ‘Hope you’re feeling ready for our first ever joint family camping trip?’ said Mrs Carson, giving a little grimace of mock terror.
‘Of course.’ Mum gave Mrs Carson a reassuring pat. ‘I’m certain it’s going to be lovely!’ She paused for a second. ‘Although I keep thinking I’ve left something crucial behind.’
‘Well, as long as you remembered the kids,’ said Mr Carson.
‘Tick!’ said Dad, with a chuckle. ‘Though it was a close call.’
‘Not to mention Lulu’s ponies?’ added Mrs Carson.
‘Ooooh yes,’ said Mum. ‘We’ve got the whole team here—’
‘In all of their aromatic glory!’ said Dad, tapping his nose.
Dylan Barone loped over to the car and lunged through the back window. He wore a singlet top and was all olive skin and long limbs. His baseball cap was tilted up. He and Patch slapped hands. ‘Dude,’ he said. ‘What took you so long?’
Patch glanced at Henry, and then shrugged. ‘Bad traffic.’
‘We left early,’ said Dylan, grinning. ‘Even had time for a swim along the way.’
‘And a fish!’ hollered Reed Barone, rushing up. ‘I nearly caught a snapper.’
‘Aaaah, you did not,’ said Dylan. ‘That was just your overactive imagination.’
‘I’m going to catch all sorts of fish this holiday,’ said Reed, pretending to hold an invisible bending fishing rod. ‘Maybe some albacore, a bream or a tailor. Maybe even some trevally or flounder. But the fish I really want is a kingie out from the island. Oooooh, yeah, bring it on!’ He pointed out to sea. ‘They’re out there in the deep, on the reef, never knowing they’re gonna be on the end of my fishing line before the end of the week.’
‘Enough about the kingfish already,’ said Dylan. ‘It’s been six hours straight of kingfish and Dad singing Elvis and Mum wondering if she locked the back door. I tell ya, I’m at my limit.’
Lulu leant over to glare at Reed. ‘Ha!’ she said. ‘Catching a big fish is nothing! I’m going to swim in the deep end of the pool and put my head RIGHT UNDER THE WATER.’
‘Nah, you won’t,’ said Reed. ‘You’ll have to swim in the hot wee wee toddler pool with Kale forever.’
‘Will not!’ Lulu shook her pink pony in Reed’s direction. ‘Because Kale is just a baby who still wears nappies!’
‘What are you going to do these holidays?’ asked Dylan, nodding at Patch.
Patch rubbed his nose. ‘I don’t know. Might learn to surf. Be good to stand up.’
‘They’ve got a skate park,’ said Dylan. ‘Reckon I’ll give that a whirl.’
‘What about you, Hennie?’ Reed poked his head through the crook of Dylan’s arm. ‘What special thing you gonna do that you’ve never done before?’
‘Henry’s going to ride his new silver bike,’ said Lulu.
‘Hah!’ said Reed. ‘He will not. That’s a big boy bike! He’s too little for that.’
‘Without training wheels!’ said Lulu.
‘Shhh, Lulu.’ The problem with Reed was he had an opinion about everything and once he got started, it was hard to get him to stop.
‘Haaah, what? You don’t still need training wheels, do you?’ Reed slapped his hand against the car door and laughed out loud. ‘Are you still some crazy baby or something?’
Henry shook his head. He should have stayed home in his hidey-hole and pinned all his hopes on the kindness of Mrs Neale from next door. He wasn’t sure eating bucketloads of gelato and playing a zillion board games was going to be enough to make up for having to put up with smartypants Reed for ten days straight.
‘Shut up, eejit,’ said Dylan, squeezing Reed’s head.
‘Yeoww!’ said Reed. ‘I’ll tell Mum!’
Dylan sniffed. ‘Whatever.’
‘Henry’s going to ride a real big boy bike and that’s better than catching a big fish! So there, you ninny head!’ Lulu kicked the seat in front.
A wave of hotness rolled through Henry. ‘Just be quiet!’ he said, nudging Lulu fiercely. ‘You don’t have to tell everybody everything!’
‘Hells bells, why are you such a cranky-pants, Lulu Hoobler?’ said Reed.
‘Neigh!’ Lulu reared her ponies menacingly at both Reed and Henry.
Dylan opened the car door. ‘You want to kick a footy, Patch?’ he asked. ‘Jay’s here but he doesn’t want to do anything yet. Just hang round with Carey in the car and read comics.’
‘Nah, sorry, guys,’ said Dad, jogging towards them. ‘No riding or kicking or fishing just yet. It’s time to unpack the car and set up the tent. Time to build a home.’
‘There’s a storm brewing at the back of the inlet,’ said Mr Barone, with a groan. He wiped his forehead.
‘Ooooh yeah,’ said Dad, gazing back. ‘Looks a big ’un.’ He threw the keys to the trailer up in the air and caught them in the palm of his right hand. ‘It’s a race then.’
‘It’s on for young and old,’ called Mr Carson, with a grin.
Mum clapped her hands. ‘Let’s get cracking.’
‘Do you want to lend me a hand getting your bike off the rack, Heno?’ asked Dad, waving a key in the window.
The roof and doors, pillows and the stench of perfumed ponies pressed in on Henry. A raggedy flutter started up in his chest. ‘No thanks,’ he said, hunching down.
Patch hopped out of the car. ‘I’ll give you a hand, old man.’
‘Well, that could make an old man break into a song and dance routine,’ said Dad, shuffling his feet.
‘Don’t get overexcited,’ said Patch, with a snort.
Henry fiddled with the neckband of his T-shirt. He wished with all his might that his stupid bike had fallen off the back of the trailer. That right now it was resting in some deep thicket of bush where it could never be found.
‘Here it is, Heno.’ Patch whizzed past the open car door, a silver streak.
The moths whirred in Henry’s chest. ‘Great,’ he murmured, dipping his head between his knees.
Tap, tap, tap. The hammers rang out, pegs biting through the grass. Clouds thickened and swirled over the big blue mountain.
‘Come on,’ cried Dad. ‘Faster. Faster!’
‘Keep an eye on Kale,’ called Mum. She darted back and forth, stretching and tightening the long lines of rope, trying to peg down the tent, shivering in the breeze. ‘Don’t let him wander off, Henry. You help too, Lulu.’
‘Make sure he looks after Peony, Henry!’ commanded Lulu, from the boot of the car. ‘I’m only lending her to him. It’s not for keeps. I want her back.’
‘Okay, Lulu,’ said Henry. ‘I heard you.’
‘You’re doing a great job, Heno,’ said Mrs Barone, dashing past with a basket, her red curly hair springy with sweat. ‘Keep it up. That boy’s an escape artist. We should have called him Houdini.’
Henry took Kale’s sticky hand and led him to the open grass near the bike path.
‘I sit you?’ asked Kale.
Henry nodded. ‘Sure. Okay,’ he said.
Kale flopped down onto Henry’s lap. His head smelt sweet, like an overripe mango.
‘Don’t let him lose her, Henry!’ called Lulu.
‘It’s okay, Lulu. You don’t have to keep saying the same thing.’
Kale galloped the pink pony over his chubby, dirty knees. ‘You kiss?’ he asked, holding the pony up to Henry’s lips.
Henry pushed the pony away. ‘Ah, not today! No thanks!’ He wiped a dollop of spittle from his cheek.
‘Don’t let him eat it, Henry!’
‘I’m not letting him eat it, Lulu!’ Henry shrugged. But gosh, what was the point of making a pony smell like a strawberry tart if you didn’t want someone to eat it?
Lulu carried another box of ponies out from the car. ‘I need to show these ones their new home,’ she called, ducking into the tent. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’
Henry gazed up and down the bike path. He wondered about the girl on the crimson dragster. Did she live in a tent? What would that feel like? Would living here be like always being on holidays or would she hardly even notice anymore?
Kale stood up. ‘Me go walk.’ He donked the pony against his nose and ambled off along the grass in front of a long line of tents facing out towards the water.
‘Hey!’ said Henry. ‘Wait up.’
Every now and again there was a gap between the tents, like a missing tooth, with a faded yellow grassy patch waiting for a new tent and family to move in. And directly behind was the second line of tents hugging the shade of the pine trees. Everything tucked up close and snug.
‘Come back, Kale,’ said Henry.
Kale pointed up. ‘Bird!’ he said, shaking his pony.
‘Yep,’ said Henry, gazing up at a seagull. He pondered the tall pine trees. Maybe they should be setting their tent further forward? Perhaps it would be better if they all moved to a waterfront tent site, either side of the Carsons? Maybe he should mention this to his dad and to Mr Barone? Then they could talk to the front desk people at Yelonga Inlet Haven. Lightning liked tall pointed objects best, that’s what he had learnt. Especially trees because they were full of moisture. Sometimes lightning could zap the sap inside a tree and make it boil so fierce and fast, it blew up the whole tree like a stick of dynamite!
‘Bike,’ said Kale. He wandered over towards a trike lying abandoned on the grass.
Henry hurried after him.
Didn’t his Nonna crawl underneath the dining room table as soon as a storm hit? Everyone knew why she was there, even though she made up the same funny excuse every time, like she was still, after all these years, searching for a missing diamond from her mother’s engagement ring, small as a chip of ice.
If there was going to be a storm, Henry hoped there was going to be rain. A lot of rain, first! Enough to soak the trees right through, because if they were completely soggy, it was much less likely they’d be hit by lightning.
‘Me have turn,’ said Kale, picking up the trike and setting it upright. He swung his little leg over the seat.
‘No . . . no . . . that’s not yours! Don’t touch.’ Henry rushed over. He grasped Kale’s hand.
‘He can have a ride,’ called a woman wearing a pretty headscarf. ‘It’s no problem!’ She was scrubbing a barbecue out the front of her tent, with a scourer and a bucket. She glanced over her shoulder and shuddered. ‘Inshallah, God willing, that big storm goes its own way. Somewhere else. Yes?’
‘Yes,’ said Henry, suddenly overcome by a rush of shyness.
A bunch of teenage girls swooshed down the bike path, in a cloud of coconut sunscreen. Their thongs snocked loudly against their heels and they were elbowing each other and giggling, their hands cupped over their mouths.
‘He’s a cutie!’ Henry heard one of them murmur.
‘How old is your brother?’ called a girl with a swinging brown plait.
Henry pretended not to hear. The roof of his mouth felt dry.
‘Yeee-heee!’ Kale swung on Henry’s hand, as if it was a vine and he was a monkey. Henry staggered forwards, nearly falling over.
‘Chasey!’ Kale called, slipping away.
Henry pretended to run very fast, hurtling after Kale, glad to get away from those confident big girls. Why did they always travel in clumps?
‘Can’t me catch!’ Kale scurried fast on his chubby legs, past neat and sparkly tents, with tidy entrances and everything in its right place.
‘I’m going to get you!’ said Henry, chasing Kale around a messy tent strewn with buckets, scattered shoes, surfboards and skateboards, like a higgledy-piggledy obstacle course.
‘I too fast!’ cried Kale.
Henry ducked beneath a makeshift string clothesline, flapping with stripy swimming cozzies and rash shirts and damp towels. Kale squealed and squealed.
‘Hey, slow down. Not near the road!’ Henry clambered over wobbly pine roots, scaly as old birds’ feet. ‘Stop! Freeze! STOP!’
A white ute drove up the gravel road, a huge boat strapped onto the trailer behind it. Music doofdoofed so loud it shook the the ground beneath their feet.
‘Big boat!’ said Kale.
‘Yes,’ said Henry, breathing out a deep sigh of relief. He grabbed hold of Kale’s sweaty, grubby hand. ‘Now come away from here.’
There were huge tents with fridges and toasters and kettles and lamps and even televisions. He wondered what his mum would make of that! She was not so fond of screens of any sort, especially on holidays.
They had come to the end of the long line of tents but there was still no sign of the girl on the crimson dragster. Maybe she lived in one of the cabins?
A group of bikies stood by their tents, folding their gleaming motorbikes in grey tarps, as if they were wrapping babies in blankets. ‘Big storm coming!’ said the biggest bikie, scratching his steel-wool beard.
A long growl of thunder rumbled from the back of the inlet.
‘Yes,’ said Henry, shuddering. He bit his lip. ‘Let’s go, Kale. Come on.’
Kale itched his nose. ‘It rain snails?’
‘What?’
‘The white ones!’ Kale pointed up at the sky.
‘Oh,’ said Henry. ‘You mean hail.’
‘Yes,’ said Kale.
‘Hmmm!’ said Henry. ‘Well?’ He turned and glanced at the clouds roiling towards them. He scratched his head. Hail!
Of course there couldn’t be just the problem of his bike to worry about, and bugs and spiders and snakes and stingers and blue-ringed octopi and tsunamis and sharks and stingrays and whale sharks. Of course there had to be hail too! What if the hail was as large as giant meteors? Should they go and sit in the car, with the windows up?
A gust of wind blew hard, lifting small twigs and leaves and filling the tents like balloons. A palm tree rustled overhead. Everyone was popping out of their tents now, pulling a line here, re-anchoring a line there, hammers starting up, dinging and ringing, like a bunch of miners digging for gold.
‘Kites!’ said Kale, pointing.
‘Not kites,’ said Henry. ‘Tents!’ He held on to Kale’s hot, plump, sticky fingers even tighter. Gosh, what if the wind just snatched Kale straight up and zoomed him away? How could he ever explain that to Mrs Barone?
A bright, alfoil flash of light sparked across the sky.
Holy Zingaroley!
‘Let’s run,’ Henry said.
Kale slumped to the ground. ‘No, no, me no go!’ he cried. ‘Me go bike now! Back! Go back!’
‘Later.’ Henry tried to scoop Kale up but he was slippery as jelly.
‘Bike!’ howled Kale, kicking his legs.
Another crack of thunder echoed around the inlet. Dark clouds were sweeping low now. Out past the estuary, in the channel, the water was rimmed with white horses and boats were swivelling wildly on their buoys.
‘Me ride!’ cried Kale. ‘My turn! NOW!’ He punched the grass with his fists. Henry gazed about helplessly. Holy Tamoley! Toddlers were more changeable than the weather, going from clear and sunny to cyclone in a matter of minutes.
‘Kale.’ Henry crouched by his side. ‘Please!’
Then came roaring as if a train was bearing down over the mountain, and a rush of wind so fierce even Kale’s eyelashes flickered.
‘Please, Kale! Come on!’
Cups, newspapers, bowls, sunscreen, hats, dust, sticks and boogie boards cartwheeled around them. People came bolting from every direction; chasing belongings, holding down tarps, splashing out through the reeds, wading into the estuary to collect kids on canoes before they were swept away.
FLASH!
Henry heaved Kale up like a sack and began to run, his heart beating in his chest like a hummingbird. How close was the storm? He needed to count the seconds between the lightning and the rolls of thunder. If the lightning and thunder came close together, he’d know the storm was right above them.
One hippopotamus, two hippopotamus, three hippopotamus, four hippopotamus, five hippopotamus—
But wait a second! Was that right? Maybe it should be hippopotami?
BANG! There came the thunder! Yoweee!
Henry ran faster, Kale’s legs flailing about like they belonged to a rag doll. What if they both got struck by lightning? Was that Kale’s hair standing up on end? Was a strike imminent? Maybe Henry needed to crouch down now and rest on the balls of his feet? It was hard to tell. Maybe Kale’s hair was just sticking up because he was being jiggled around like a bag of potatoes?
FLASH!
One hippopotamus, two hippopotami, three hippopotami, four hippopotami, five hippopotami—
BANG!
Strange facts began to float through Henry’s mind. How lightning was six times hotter than the sun! How at any moment there were about fifty flashes of lightning somewhere in the world! How the mountain village of Kifuka in the Democratic Republic of Congo was one of the most-struck places on earth, with an average of one hundred and fifty-eight strikes per year!
FLASH!
One hippopotamus, two hippopotami, three hippopotami—
BANG!
The sky was looking strangely greeny-yellow now and raindrops were landing on Henry’s face like small slaps. If it was going to hail, maybe he should think about leaving his bike out in it? Henry had heard hail could damage a car so badly it couldn’t even be driven anymore. Maybe the same could happen to a bike? At least that was a comforting thought.
FLASH!
One hippopotamus, two hippopotami—
BANG!
They were almost there. Henry felt Kale sliding through his arms. Who knew one small kid could be so heavy? He could see their three tents though, all set up now and covered by large silver tarps, huddled close like comforting igloos in a snowstorm. He wanted to burst into tears of rejoicing. He hauled Kale higher. And just as he was about to dive in under his tent tarp, he saw her.
The crimson dragster girl was weaving her bike along the bike path, all on her own, like she had all the time in the world. He wanted to shout out a warning, to let her know she should get under cover and stay away from metal, hills, backpacks, open fields, boats, tractors, puddles and corded telephones! But wait a second! The crimson dragster girl wasn’t even wearing a bike helmet. Maybe she was a crazy daredevil? Maybe she was one of those loopy storm chasers he had seen on television?
FLASH!
One hippopotami—
Henry turned and bolted under the tarp into the tent. He flung Kale to the ground, hurled a sleeping-bag over them both and closed his eyes.
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
‘Don’t just stand there looking, sunshine,’ shouted Dad, from outside the tent. ‘Grab that corner. Quick!’
‘I am!’ cried Patch, over the howling wind.
‘Hold it! Blast and damnation! With both hands! Stop worrying about your hair!’
‘Get back inside, Lulu!’ yelled Mum. ‘I’ve already told you once. And zip everything up.’
‘It’s going to flood, Henry!’ exclaimed Lulu, from their parent’s side of the tent. ‘Maybe we’re just going to float away like Noah’s ark!’
FLASH!
BANG!
FLASH!
BANG!
The wind roared outside. The tarp whipped and flapped like a giant angry bird. The tent strained and groaned, the walls sucking in and out.
‘Maybe a tornado is coming!’ gasped Lulu.
It could be true! Henry was pretty sure this was no ordinary storm. The dark, greenish-yellow sky. The wind like a freight train. The whirling dust. Oh, gosh, what if all the pegs pinged and the tent took off? Just lifted up and flew away like Dorothy’s house in The Wizard of Oz?
Henry bunkered down into the moist darkness of his sleeping bag cave, waiting for it all to be over. He’d been so worried about the problem of his bike and bugs and spiders and snakes and stingers and blue-ringed octopi and tsunamis and sharks and whale sharks, when all along what he should have been worried about was hail and lightning and floods and tornadoes!
Kale tapped him on his nose. ‘Pony gone,’ he whispered.
‘What!’ A stab of horror winced right through Henry. He dug around, searching desperately behind Kale’s sweaty back and beneath his legs.
‘It no here!’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes,’ said Kale, with a mournful sniff. ‘Pony gone, gone.’
Holy Palomino! Kale must have accidentally dropped it. Lulu’s pony was out in the storm, facing lightning, wind, hail and floods all on her own. That fresh, sweet-smelling, expecting-the-best-of-everyone strawberry-pink pony.
Oh, gosh, telling Lulu was going to be worse than facing the problem of his silver bike. Worse than facing a teeming bunch of bugs, spiders, snakes, stingers, blue-ringed octopi, tsunamis, sharks, stingrays, whale sharks, hail, lightning, floods and tornadoes all at once!
Henry should go out into the wild storm to rescue that poor pink pony. He should dash out and be brave and noble! He should be a daredevil, like the girl on the crimson dragster! But how could he, when he didn’t have an ounce of the right sort of courage?