‘So the thing is,’ said Patch, pushing Henry’s bike down the back street towards the inlet, ‘if you want to learn quickly and you want to learn well, you’re gonna have to trust me, okay? Because I know what needs to be done.’
Henry nodded. He felt a small flutter in his chest.
‘Because we don’t have long, yeah?’ said Patch. ‘Dad is only going to be at golf till just after lunch. But we can do it before then, you can do it, if you listen up and pay attention.’
‘I will,’ said Henry.
‘Good man.’ Patch cuffed Henry on the back of his head. ‘Now, let’s cross here.’ They looked right and left and then darted across the road together.
Patch rolled the bike over the grass and then onto the path. ‘Now this is where we’re gonna learn because there’s not too many people around, yeah, and that’s good. But also because there’s a little hill here. It’s just a tiny one, mind you, not a hill of death, so don’t worry about that. But we need a tiny hill to help with the balance. Now, watch this.’ And he flipped the bike over so it hung upside down, the wheels whizzing.
Patch swung his backpack down and unzipped it. He wrestled inside until he brought out a spanner.
Henry stooped over. ‘What are you going to do with that thing?’
‘I’m going to take off the pedals!’ said Patch, crouching.
‘Take off the pedals?’ Henry wiped a sweaty palm against his short pocket. ‘What! You can’t do that! It’s a new bike.’ What would their dad say if they came back with no pedals? All the welcoming happiness would drain out of his eyes in a second!
‘You’ve got to trust me!’ said Patch. ‘Remember?’ He spun the spanner around and slipped a pedal off. He shoved it in the front pocket of his bag. He leapt up and darted around the front wheel.
Henry placed a hand on the back wheel to hold the bike steady. Patch twisted and turned the spanner once again. He whistled a tune as he dropped the second pedal into the bag. ‘Now for the seat,’ he said with a grin, flipping the bike back over.
‘The seat!’ Henry bit his lip. ‘You’re going to take the seat off?’ How was he meant to ride a bike without a seat and without any pedals? He scraped his foot along the cement. He stopped and looked up. Holy Hamoley! Maybe Patch expected him to ride the bike like a circus monkey, doing handstands on the handlebars?
‘I’m not a monkey, you know!’
‘Ah, you big funny numpty,’ said Patch. ‘I’m not taking the seat off completely. I’m just lowering it. The thing is, you’ve got so used to riding a bike with training wheels that you can’t balance for peanuts.’ He shoved the seat down and tightened it. ‘And that is the first thing we need to fix. So climb aboard.’
‘Climb aboard? Now?’
‘Dude!’ said Patch. ‘That’s what we’re here for, yeah?’
Henry closed his eyes. He was ready. He was almost sure of it. He wished he could summon up the electric spangles again, the singing through his whole body.
‘Come on, mate!’
The sun was blaring and there was a sour taste in Henry’s mouth. A tidal wave of sweat was rushing down his back. With any luck, it might sweep him off his feet and out to sea.
‘Maybe I should wait one more year!’
‘Nah,’ said Patch, clapping his hand on Henry’s shoulder. ‘You don’t want to do that. It’s going to be dandy. But it’s okay to be nervous, alright? I get nervous all the time.’
But Patch was so tall and strong and fast. Holy Moumoley! He was almost a man. He even had the faintest hint of a moustache, for goodness sake, sweeping across the top of his lip like a shadow. And he had real muscles, not like Henry, who had to prop his biceps up from below, and even then they were measly as walnuts.
‘You don’t believe me,’ said Patch.
Henry shrugged. ‘Well—’
‘I get nervous about all sorts of stuff.’
‘Like what?’ Henry squinted up at Patch.
‘Girls,’ said Patch. ‘Man, they make me nervous.’
It was like old times, how he and Patch used to chat at night, in their bunk beds, when they should have been asleep. Before Patch got a room of his own and started grunting and growling every time Henry took a step inside. Before his voice went all funny, dipping high and low, like a rollercoaster.
‘There’s this girl called Maeko at school . . .’
‘Maeko?’
‘Yeah . . . well, she’s new to the school and we all call her “truth girl” because she is so whip-smart funny and clever and you know, whenever I see her, even when I just say hello, the palms of my hands get as itchy and sweaty as armpits, and next thing you know my tongue twists up and all my words spew out higgledy-piggledy like someone dumped out a Scrabble bag in one go. I swear she thinks I’m the dumbest thing on two legs and she only says hi back because she feels sorry for me. On those miserable days, I kind of wish a boa constrictor would slither on by, swallow me whole and drag me down the fire stairs.’
‘I heard about a man who got dressed up in a special snake-proof suit in the Amazon jungle and tried to feed himself to an anaconda,’ said Henry.
Patch shuddered. ‘Ah, dog-goggles,’ he said. ‘That’s creepy.’
Henry rubbed his nose. ‘He was filming the whole thing with cameras in his suit.’
‘Whoah,’ said Patch.
‘It was like armour!’
‘Yikes.’
‘Because of the snake saliva and not wanting to get squished and all.’
Patch smooched his fringe back. ‘What a fruitie!’
‘I think he wore a rope around his foot so they could pull him out once he got . . . you know . . . all the way in!’
‘Now that’s a complete loony tune!’
‘But I don’t think there are any anacondas in Australia.’ Henry glanced out at the inlet. The water was turquoise today. He turned and furtively checked the grass behind him. ‘You know, there are one hundred and forty species of land snakes in Australia. That’s a lot! It’s kind of scary, when you start to think about it.’
‘Okay, dude,’ said Patch. ‘Let’s not think about land snakes. I feel we’re getting off track here.’
Henry rubbed the back of his leg with his foot. ‘We are?’
‘The point of my story is not the boa constrictor.’ Patch swiped a fist across his forehead.
‘It’s not?’ asked Henry.
‘Sheez, the point is . . .’ Patch jabbed his foot into the pavement and sighed. ‘Oh, gewsh, now I can barely remember what I was going to say. Hope I’m not turning into Dad. Next thing you know, I’ll be losing my wallet and my keys every thirty seconds and blaming everybody else for it.’
‘You were talking about a girl,’ Henry said. ‘Maeko.’
‘Ah, yeah . . . brilliant . . . truth girl!’ said Patch. ‘Well, what I’m trying to say is that it’s kind of normal to be nervous when you’re doing something . . . new.’
‘Okay,’ said Henry.
‘And even though I turn into a gibbering, nervous idiot every single time I run into Maeko, I’m going to keep on trying, because one day she’ll recognise my scintillating intelligence, good looks and charm, my absolute and complete utter awesomeness, and want to go out with me forever.’
‘Okay, well, no, maybe not forever . . . aw, gosh, this little pep talk thingie . . . it’s a tough gig. It’s sort of not going as smoothly as I thought it would. I reckon being a footie coach might be harder than it looks. What I’m trying to say—’ Patch scrunched up his face. ‘What I’m trying to say . . . is that when you’re nervous, it’s good to keep the end in mind.’
Henry nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Keep the end in mind!’
‘Excellento! So are you all set?’
Henry wiped the sweat out of his eyes. ‘What end?’
‘Holy Moley Pimento!’ cried Patch. ‘You, buddy, you – riding your bike down the bike path, on your own, no training wheels, speeding along like a little grand genius with the wind in your hair and the whole world watching. Okay?’
‘Okay!’
‘So let’s get this show on the road—’
‘But—’
‘Figuratively,’ said Patch. ‘Sheezy-sweezy! When I say road, I mean path!’
‘Alright then.’ Henry swept his leg over the back of the bike and sat down on the seat. His sneakers rested solidly on the path.
‘See, that’s not so bad,’ said Patch. ‘Now, all I want you to do is to use your feet to push the bike along like you’re running and then when you get enough speed, to lift your legs up, okay?’
‘So I’ve got to just sort of run with my feet and make the bike go fast and then lift up my feet?’
‘Exactly!’
Henry licked his lips. He pushed his feet forward. His front wheel wobbled like it had a life of its own, as if it was the boss of the joint.
‘Hey, wait,’ said Patch. He tugged on Henry’s shirt. ‘You’ve forgotten something.’ He dug around in his backpack. ‘Here! Your helmet.’ He swung it over to Henry, who caught it with both hands.
Well! Holy Bamoley! That was almost fatal. The last thing Henry wanted was to have a fall and for his brain to end up like mashed potato. He slipped the helmet onto his head and snapped the lock together under his chin.
Patch placed his hand on Henry’s head and tried to wobble the helmet. It was snug and tight. ‘Perfect,’ he said with a grin. ‘Now go forth, mighty warrior, and conquer the lowlands!’
Henry nodded. He was a knight about to charge off into battle on his trusty steed. He swept his feet along the path.
‘Hold the handlebars steady.’ Patch jogged beside him. ‘Yeah! Yeah! That’s good. Keep going, mighty warrior.’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Henry.
‘The holy grail is yours, sire!’
Holy Clamoley! His heart was thudding loudly. It was trampolining inside his chest, doing backflips even. The bike began to pick up speed. The front wheel rolled faster and faster. The wind whizzed in his ears.
‘Yep,’ said Patch, ‘that’s the ticket. Head up. Head up! Keep going. Keep pushing. And now lift your legs.’
Henry lifted his legs.
Out of the corner of his eye, the world reeled past. The solemn grey mountain. The flashes of turquoise from the inlet. The swing set, the Rotary garden and the gum trees. The fisherman by the edge of the water, the mangroves and the skate park. Every now and again, he struck a foot down like a long match against the path to increase his speed.
‘I’m gliding,’ Henry cried out, flicking his foot. The bike’s front wheel wiggled uncontrollably. ‘Yeeeeek!’
‘Don’t get too cocky,’ said Patch, as he cantered alongside. ‘Now pull up here and let’s do it all again, until this balancing thing is as natural as breathing.’
For the next two hours, Henry rode up and down the small hill, over and over again, until he was drenched with sweat and could whip along the path on his bike without wobbling once.
After a morning tea of a pink finger bun, Henry practised stopping and starting in the car park and Patch taught him how to turn both ways and do a figure eight. ‘Well,’ he said at last. ‘I think you’re ready.’ And he yanked out his spanner and a pedal from the backpack.
‘Are you going to put them back on now?’ asked Henry.
‘Only one to start with,’ said Patch. ‘So you get a bit of a taste of what it’s like.’
So Henry practised shooting down the hill, with one foot on a pedal, the other scooting along the ground.
‘We could leave it now, if you want,’ said Patch. ‘And come back tomorrow to do the rest?’
‘Nope,’ said Henry, his face dripping. ‘I’m ready for two pedals!’
‘You sure?’
‘I’m sure!’ Henry wanted to know now. He wanted more than a taste. He wanted to zoom across the world and to feel it rise up fast towards him at the same time.
‘Alrighty, then,’ said Patch. He spun the spanner up and caught it with one hand. ‘Let’s go.’
On Henry’s first go with two pedals, he rampaged down the path, wobbling from side to side, before crashing through the Rotary garden. He toppled over a bushel of lavender and landed – splat – into another big scratchy bush.
‘Geez,’ said Patch, running up panting. He peered down. ‘Are you okay?’
Henry felt the twinge. It was in his throat already. The howl. There was a scratch on his leg. Tiny beads of blood were beginning to bloom on his shin. He could give up and it would be okay. He had tried his best and there was always tomorrow.
‘Far out,’ said Patch. He took a step backwards and read the plaque at the front of the garden. ‘Geez Louise! You’ve just crashed into a scent garden, Heno! Flat bang into a rosemary bush! No wonder it smells like roast leg of lamb in there!’ He reached out his hand and pulled Henry up and dusted him down. ‘That’s a nasty scratch. Do you wanna take a break?’
Henry glanced over at the mountain at the back of the inlet. A fluff of cloud hung like a flung scarf. He gazed back at the dried-up scab in the middle of Patch’s nose. He hesitated. He tried to grab hold of what Patch had said, how even confident, strong, almost-moustache big boys sometimes get jelly legs.
‘It’s fine,’ said Patch. His face shone with sweat. ‘You’ve done good! Better than could be expected. There’s no shame in calling it a day! We can go back to camp and get a bandaid and come back again tomorrow, yeah?’
But there were not that many days left and Henry knew it. He wriggled his shoulders. He tipped his head from side to side. He was pretty sure there wasn’t anything broken.
He ducked down and picked up his bike. A solid, quiet certainty chinked in his chest. He was going to keep the end in mind. That’s what he was going to do. He was going to ride his bike down the bike path. He was going to sail on down, on his own, with no training wheels, that afternoon.
After all, he wanted a bright, loud life.