Free Owen Marshall Selected Stories by Vincent O'Sullivan

among the fennel, just off the sacks, and in the penumbral green light. As we watched the snails would begin their ceremonial dispersal: large and small, sly and bold, all with the patterns of their shells waxed and gleaming. Scores of snails, each with its own set angle of direction. The gradual, myriad intersection of the planes of their escape through the fennel was like an abacus of three dimensions.
    The friendship of Creamy and myself was the smallest and strongest of several circles. We often played with Arty and Lloyd, and there were other faces that we expected at other times. If we went swimming at the town baths, for instance, we joined up with the Rosenberg twins. They didn’t seem to do much else but swim. But sometimes when Creamy and I were sick of what the others were doing, or after school when we’d rather be alone, then we’d make our signal, just a movement of the head, that meant we’d meet later at the hut. The hut was something apart from the rest of the world. In its life were only Creamy and me. As long as we agreed, our word was law; and no conventions but our own were followed.
    I remember just when Creamy told me about going to Technical. We’d had a snail hunt, and were sitting by the river to wash. Creamy had his shirt off, and the snail tracks glistened on his chest. The linear droppings, inoffensively small, clung there too. ‘Dad told me I’m not going to Boys’ High after all,’ he said. ‘He’s sending me to Tech.’ Creamy’s voice was doubtful, as if he wasn’t sure whether it marked an important decision or not.
    â€˜But I thought we were all going to High?’
    Creamy leant into the shingle of the river. He supported himself on his arms, and lifted first one hand, then the other to wash his chest. ‘Dad said if I’m going into the garage with him, I need the Tech courses. He doesn’t go much on languages and stuff.’ Creamy had a broad, almost oriental face, and his upper lip was unusually full. It sat slightly over the bottom lip, and gave his face an expression of thoughtful drollery.
    â€˜I suppose after school we’ll be able to do things together just the same. Maybe it’s just like being in different classes at the same school.’ I had a premonition, though, that Creamy’s father had done something which would harm us.
    â€˜I did try to get Dad to change his mind,’ said Creamy. He said it almost as if he wanted it recorded, lest some time in the future he might be blamed for not putting up more of a fight. Creamy flexed his arms, and recoiled out of the water with easy grace. He pulled the back of his trousers down, and showed the marks of a hiding. ‘I did try,’ said Creamy, and his upper lip quirked a little at the understatement.
    â€˜I don’t see why it should make that much difference.’ I could say that because it was weeks away in any case. When you are thirteen, nothing that is weeks away can be taken seriously. Creamy and I controlled time in those days. We could spin out one summer’s day for an eternity of experience.
    â€˜Maybe I’ll play against you in football,’ said Creamy speculatively.
    â€˜I’ll cut you down if you do.’ We smiled, and Creamy skipped stones across the surface of the river with a flick of his wrist. The sun dried the water from us, and snapped the broom pods like an ambush on the other side of the river. Already I was surprised at my innocence in thinking that all my friends must go like myself to the High School.
    Time made no headway against us that summer, not while we were together. But then my family went on holiday to the QueenCharlotte Sounds, and I returned to find the world moved on. The new term was before us, and Creamy was indeed going to the Tech, and I to the High.
    I didn’t see Creamy after school during the first week, and on Saturday when we went after lizards on the slopes behind the