Free Whole Wild World by Tom Dusevic Page B

back to her gardening, can’t see me hobbling up the steps. My left leg is swelling up. I’m aware of a creeping tiredness and a throbbing pain, but I haven’t cried. I lie down to take the weight off and get my school shorts off, put on pyjamas. I’m cold and pull up the bed covers.
    When Mama checks on me later I tell her I’m exhausted. Not a lie. She feels my head, checks my temperature and serves chamomile tea, my elixir as an infant. I eat dinner on a tray. With only the two of us at home at night it is low-key and snuggly. I regret lying to her, having wiped the slate clean ahead of my Communion.
    A few days later the now multicoloured bruise has annexed more territory around my hip-bone. I cannot take my eyes off its vibrant awesomeness when I sneak a look at it in the privacy of the toilet. Like an aurora borealis there are swirls of purple and black, with splotches of yellow, red and skin-white. My mother notices it while I’m having a bath on Saturday night. How could she not?
    â€˜ Bože moj !’ My God! ‘When did you do this? Did this happen at rugger-bee?’
    I didn’t have the heart or energy to make up another story. On an impulse I told the truth.
    â€˜And the woman who drove you home, was she your teacher?’
    â€˜No, she was driving the car that hit me.’
    â€˜Why didn’t you tell me straight away?’
    â€˜I thought I’d be in trouble.’
    She looks annoyed, but not necessarily with me. She kisses my head. Maybe telling the truth, even at this late stage, and not crying would cancel out a lie. God might be prepared to scrub this one from the record.

    Tanned Sam and Teta are back from Croatia, just before my Communion. He is taller – long pants are ankle freezers – and chubbier. The adventure has put a strange gap between us. For the first few hours we feel each other out. Given his escapades in Europe and Asia, Sam has grown up, tasted things I have little conception of. Three months off school has made him smarter. He’s also spent time with our beloved Baba Luca, grandmother to every kid in the village.
    â€˜We got stuck in Bombay and there were hundreds of kids playing cricket in the streets.’
    â€˜I got run overed.’
    â€˜I bought a camera in Singapore.’
    He’s the winner, a two-punch knockout.
    â€˜Å ime is talking funny,’ I confide to my mother.
    His Croatian has taken on the distinct sound of the village, earthy and languid, in his conversations with my parents. I’m also detecting a hint of a ‘wog’ accent when he speaks English, which he barely spoke while away. Did he just say vot ?
    What makes it bearable is the return of my coach and playing opponent, as well as the distribution of duty-free and other gifts from Croatia. Teta begins unpacking. I can’t believe they have accumulated so much stuff. How were they able to carry these heavy bags on their own? Teta passes around the booty, which comes in all stages of cover – from deluxe wrapping to underpants.
    Sam’s camera is unbelievably snazzy and mature, a Minolta in a black leather case fit for a nine-year-old world traveller; I got a \10 Kodak from the chemist for my seventh birthday that takes out-of-focus snaps. Hidden bonus: Sam just scored himself the job of family photographer for life. Sucked in!
    Tata gets bottles of rakija and Maraschino liqueur. Mama is claiming a pile of doilies and tablecloths, while untangling fiddly necklaces and other gold jewellery. For the family, there is a Sony over-the-shoulder cassette recorder (the exact one every reporter in the world uses, probably even Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein from the Washington Post , soon to break the Watergate story). There are folkloric odds and ends that end up on top of the TV or sideboard, including hats used in Croatian dancing that resemble shallow cake tins with hairy long strands coming off the back. There’s KraÅ¡