Nostrils was impressed. About the boxing, I mean. When I met him on Saturday morning I told him all about the training.
‘So yer ’ittin’ the bag?’ he asked.
‘Course I’m ’ittin’ the bag,’ I lied. ‘It’s boxin’. What did ya think I’d be doin’, dancin’?’
‘Maybe I could join ya? It’d ’elp me with me footy. I’m playin’ this arvo. They’ve picked me on the forward flank.’
Suddenly, a familiar song sounded in my head.
Pat a cake, pat a cake,
Baker’s man…
‘Er… I’ll ask Mr Redmond fer ya Nostrils, but I’m pretty sure he’s not after takin’ on any others. Besides, it ain’t as simple as kickin’ a footy ’round an oval. Ya should see some a the things he’s got me doin’. There’s no muckin’ ’bout, ya know. What I’m doin’ is a science.’
Soon the two of us arrived at Stone’s Timber Yard. It was the first time since the beating that I’d had the courage to resume the wood run and I don’t mind admitting that the thought of seeing Mr Peacock again had me feeling as edgy as a stray chook on Christmas Day. Still, at least I had Nostrils with me.
I stopped at the gate and took a couple of deep breaths.
‘Ya awright, Charlie? asked Nostrils. ‘Ya don’t look so good.’
‘Yeah, I’m awright,’ I answered. ‘I’m just ’opin’ that Squizzy’s sorted things.’
Grabbing hold of the trolley’s handle, I held my head high and strode through the front gate. As we passed the foreman’s hut on our left, the door slammed shut.
I couldn’t look.
‘That Peacock fella,’ said Nostrils. ‘What’s ’e done ta ’imself? He’s got a bandage ’round ’is ’ead.’
Normally I had no trouble coming clean where Nostrils was concerned. He was my best friend, now, after all. But here, my hands were tied.
‘Dunno,’ I lied. ‘Maybe someone’s clocked ’im one. About time I reckon. Come on, Nostrils, ’ow ’bout we load up and get outta ’ere.’
We loaded up, all right – two trolleys full. While Mr Peacock sat stewing in his grotty little hut, Nostrils and I helped ourselves to the wood stack. You cannot imagine the pleasure it gave me, hurling log after log into the trolleys. They were big logs, too, none of the splinters like before. And then, when our trolleys could not take any more I picked up a twig and drew a message in the dirt.
UP YOURS PEACOCK.
That afternoon when I arrived at the Heaths’ I found Nostrils nuggeting his footy boots. Compared to his father, Nostrils seemed fairly relaxed.
‘Thank God yer ’ere, Charlie,’ said Mr Heath as I entered the living room. ‘Pull up a seat. I’m just runnin’ through some last minute instructions with Norman ’ere. But fer the life a me, I’m sure there’s somethin’ I’ve forgotten. D’ya ’ave any words a wisdom of yer own?’
Pat a cake, pat a cake,
Baker’s man…
There was that blasted song again.
‘Um…’ave ya told ’im about the two effs at all?’ I asked.
Mr Heath slapped his knee.
‘Of course!’ he said. ‘The two effs. I knew there were somethin’.’
As I looked around the room for sponge cake, I felt a hand on my forearm. Beside me, Mr Heath looked confused.
‘Er, I’m familiar with it meself a course, Charlie, but I might get ya ta explain it ta Norman ’ere. What exactly are the two effs?’
‘The two effs,’ I said casually. ‘Finkin’ and footwork.’
During my brief explanation, I couldn’t help feeling that Nostrils and his father were having difficulty fully grasping the ins and outs of the two effs. I shouldn’t have been surprised, I suppose. After all, the stuff I was telling them was highly technical in its nature – stuff that was difficult to digest for those without a bit of boxing know-how like myself.
Still, a little more enthusiasm would have been nice.
When I was done, Mr Heath looked none the wiser.
‘Ya’d better make that three effs, Charlie,’ he scoffed. ‘That were the biggest load a frogshit I ever ’eard. Ignore ’im, Norman. When ya get yer ’ands on the ball, kick the bloody thing long.’
When the four of us arrived at the oval opposite the Punt Road ground, a large crowd was already gathered. For the people of Richmond, footy at any level was worth getting excited about, especially when one of the teams was wearing black and yellow.
There was an icy southerly howling across the oval, left to right, and as usual it was Mr Heath doing most of the talking.
‘I’ve got another eff ta add ta yer list, Charlie,’ he smirked. ‘It’s bloody freezin’.’
Ever since we’d left Nostrils’ place, Mr Heath was throwing effs at me thick and fast. By now the two effs had swelled to eight.
‘Ya’d better steady on, Mr Heath,’ I countered. ‘I’ll be runnin’ outta fingers before long.’
Soon enough it was time for Nostrils to join the rest of his team mates in the change rooms.
‘Awright then,’ he smiled. ‘I’d best be off. I’ll see yis after the game.’
Mrs Heath, who’d been unusually quiet, gave her son a quick hug.
‘Ya’ll be right, love,’ she whispered.
Next in line was Mr Heath. He grabbed hold of Norman’s hand and shook it firmly.
‘There’s a breeze blowin’, Norman,’ he said. ‘Make sure yer thinkin’ ’bout the breeze when yer linin’ up the sticks.’
I was next. I slid my hand into Nostrils’ and tried to think of something clever to say. Nothing came. All I could remember was that day in the park.
‘Yer Vic Thorp, remember. Yer a freak.’
With his bag tucked under his arm, Nostrils made his way to the rooms and for the first time I noticed something about him. There was a gracefulness in his stride. Even when some rowdy punter blocked his path, Nostrils simply shifted his weight and danced around him.
Class.
That was what they called it. And Nostrils had it in spades.
Beside me Mr Heath leaned my way and spoke.
‘Freak, ya said. If I’m not mistaken, that’d make it nine.’
The team from Fitzroy came out first and as they ran onto the oval I remembered why it was I’d never taken to footy. Except for a couple of smaller roving types, most of them were giants – more like grown men than boys. I tell you, it wouldn’t have surprised me none if some of them had a wife and kids waiting for them at home.
Not far to my right, a group of supporters started making some noise and as I looked their way a flash of red in the middle of the crowd caught my eye. I rested my hand on Mr Heath’s shoulder and lifted myself onto my toes for a better look.
‘’Em’s the opposition supporters, Charlie,’ he said. ‘Why don’t ya concentrate on somethin’ else?’
There it was again. A mop of dazzling red hair. I lifted myself even higher and discovered that the owner of those flaming locks was a girl of similar age to myself.
‘Carn the Roys!’ she screamed.
If Mr Heath hadn’t brushed my hand from his shoulder, I may well have missed Nostrils running out.
‘Get yer hands off me, Charlie,’ he snapped. ‘The lads are on their way out.’
Richmond Hill came out single file and like the Fitzroy team, they too were big. I spotted Nostrils in the middle of the line wearing number twelve on his back. I wasn’t normally the vocal type but seeing Nostrils in the yellow and black got me excited.
‘Eat ’em alive, Tigers!’ I roared.
After a series of warm-ups, the players moved into position and by sheer good fortune I noticed Nostrils striding to the flank in front of us.
He looked sharp.
‘’Atta boy, Nostrils,’ I bellowed.
This time it was Mrs Heath who found my ear.
‘If ya don’t mind, Charlie,’ she said. ‘I’d prefer it if ya called ’im Norman. It’s more professional.’
As I saw it, I had a few spare minutes up my sleeve before the ball was bounced so I went about locating the girl with the fiery hair. I’d just spotted her when Mr Heath started chewing my other ear.
‘He don’t look that tough,’ he said.
Without turning I grunted a reply.
‘Huh?’
Again his hand found my shoulder.
‘Will ya bloody well stop pervin’ at the opposition and concentrate on the game, Charlie.’
Reluctantly I dragged my eyes from the girl and faced him.
‘Sorry, Mr Heath. What was it ya were sayin’?’
‘Norman’s opponent,’ he pointed. ‘He don’t look so tough ta me. What d’ya think?’
I don’t know why I did it, after all, I was a good forty feet from the flank, but when I saw Nostrils’ opponent I ducked for cover behind Mrs Heath.
‘Bloody ’ell, it’s Jimmy Barlow.’
‘Ya know ’im?’
‘I’m afraid I do, Mr Heath. He’s as tough as nails.’
Suddenly a whistle sounded and while those around me looked to the centre square, I kept my eyes on the flank. Seconds into the game, Barlow made his intentions clear. Just as the Tigers went into attack, he lifted his elbow high across his body then brought it down hard into Nostrils’ stomach.
He was going the knuckle.
With the wind taken out of him, Nostrils dropped onto one knee and began gasping for air.
‘What the flamin’ ’eck’s he doin’?’ said Mr Heath. ‘He’s picked a bloody fine time ta get religious. Couldn’t he ’ave done his prayin’ before the game?’
All through the first half, Barlow had Nostrils off his game. Whenever the black and yellow came forward, Nostrils would try and match his opponent with strength. And, whilst his refusal to take a backward step was admirable, he seemed to be losing sight of what was most important – possession.
When the half-time whistle sounded, Fitzroy were up by sixteen points. Mr Heath looked tense.
‘I’ll be back in a jiff,’ he said. ‘There’s somethin’ I gotta tell Norman.’
Crashing through the crowd, Mr Heath caught up with his son and slung an arm around his shoulder. It was a simple thing, something that my own father had done with me. But now, as I stood there watching them in the crowd, I felt a sharp pang of grief. Never again, I realised, would I experience my father’s touch.
Soon enough, the players emerged for the second half and once again Nostrils made his way over to Barlow on the flank. As soon as they came together, Barlow was into him, bumping chests and pulling on his jumper. But unlike the first half, Nostrils simply pushed him aside and kept his eyes fixed on the action in the centre square.
When the ball was bounced, Richmond’s ruckman palmed off a perfect tap to the waiting rover who kicked it forward. Quickly I looked to the flank and saw Nostrils drop his shoulder into Barlow, sending him sideways. With his opponent off balance, Nostrils charged after the ball and gathered it up with one hand. Speeding towards the goal he took a bounce. Then another.
‘’Atta boy, Norman,’ screamed Mr Heath. ‘’Ave a shot, son.’
Oozing class, Nostrils slowed up then dropped the ball onto his right boot. At first it looked as though he’d aimed it too far left but as it sailed into the air the breeze got hold of it and pushed it right, straight through the big sticks.
Goal!
Before I knew what was happening I was dancing a jig with Mr and Mrs Heath, right there in the middle of the crowd.
‘I dunno what ya told ’im, Mr Heath,’ I said, ‘but it sure seems to ’ave worked.’
‘I ’ope ya don’t mind, Charlie, but I borrowed one a yer effs.’
‘Ya did?’
‘Yeah.’ he smiled. ‘I told ’im to start finkin’ smart.’
All through the second half, Nostrils took Barlow apart. Whenever the ball entered Richmond’s forward line, Nostrils was there. He outplayed him, not with muscle, but with speed and skill. One on one, when it came to getting the footy, Barlow was no match. He simply couldn’t keep up.
When the whistle sounded to signal the end of the game, Richmond Hill, thanks largely to Nostrils’ devastating second half, had won by twenty-two points.
As the players left the field, I decided it was time to get a closer look at the girl with the red hair. While Mr and Mrs Heath took off to congratulate their son, I hung back and mingled with the opposition.
Next to me a girl in a grey coat cupped a hand around her mouth.
‘Hey, Alice,’ she called. ‘Let’s get goin’.’
Slowly the red-haired girl turned and began walking my way. Soon she was next to me, close enough to touch and for a second I thought about saying something. I even opened my mouth. But, as usual, nothing came.
Seeing her up close, however, I realised that her hair was only the half of it. She was beautiful. Her cheeks were soft and shiny pink and her delicate nose was dotted with freckles, so perfect it was as if someone had gathered them up between thumb and forefinger and sprinkled them gently across her face.
Alice.
She was past me now. Gone. And, even though I’d been unable to make an impression, I caught myself smiling.
For the moment, at least, I had everything I needed.
I had her name.