Free Dunger by Joy Cowley Page A

little arpeggios in the breathing pauses, string squeaks at the dramatic moments. The singing is good too, although the breaths come often, and Grandpa’s chest makes a huffing sound. The music gets right inside me. I feel like I’ve just discovered a really interesting book that’s been on the shelf all my life and I never knew it.
    Grandma says to me, “You want to learn guitar?”
    â€œYes,” I nod, and then add, “When my fingers are better.”
    â€œMe too,” says Will.
    We help Grandma back to the house. She’s not wearing her glasses. I suspect she can’t see a thing, and that all her playing is done from feel, which means she could play on a moonless night. Wouldn’t it be something to perform like that? How much can you learn in seven days, I wonder?
    Grandpa says he’s so hungry he can eat an elephant, so Grandma gets out the cereal. “We’ll have breakfast in our pyjamas,” she says.
    â€œI’d prefer mine in a bowl,” says Will, trying to be smart.
    While they are laughing at my brother, I set the plates and spoons on the table. “I think I’ll buy a guitar.”
    â€œYou might pick one up second-hand,” says Grandma. “No point in getting something fancy until you know it’s your thing.”
    I remember what she said about my hands being like hers, and I know, I just know I want to learn. “When do we get paid?” I ask.
    Oh. I’ve said it. Will looks shocked. He sits up straight and turns to Grandpa. I put my hand to my mouth.
    â€œYou already have,” says Grandma.
    â€œWhat?” I remember manners. “I mean, I beg your pardon?”
    Grandpa reaches for a bowl. “Your money went into the trusts last Friday, one thousand dollars each, and more when we can manage it.”
    â€œTrusts?” says Will.
    â€œFor your education.” Grandpa looks at Will, then me, and he frowns. “You didn’t think you’d get that amount of money to fritter away on rubbish, did you?”
    We don’t say anything.
    Grandma sits down. “We’ve set up trusts for your future, one thousand dollars each. We’ll add a bit here, a bit there. By the time you’re ready for university it will have amounted to something.”
    I can’t speak. My tongue won’t work.
    It’s Will who says, “Do Mum and Dad know about this?”
    â€œWe talked it over with them,” says Grandma. “I assumed they’d tell you the details. By the way, if you two want to learn the guitar, you can have mine. But that means you’ll have to share it.”
    Will puts down his spoon. “Trust!” he mutters to me. “It’s called a trus t ! What irony!”
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    Plainly, our parents hadn’t told us the details, because if they had, we wouldn’t have come. So this news only adds to their degree of rotten, low-down guilt.
    To say I’m annoyed is to call a hurricane a breeze. I mean there are degrees of anger, and when you have so much steam it wants to pop your eyes out, you have to do something about it. I can do nothing, nothing… except go outside with the axe and hack off the smaller branches from the big one I felled yesterday. I’ve never had an iPad – bash – or my own skateboard – bash – and now that will never happen – bash – bash .
    â€œYou watch your feet there, chico,” Grandpa calls.
    â€œMy name is Will,” I mutter, swinging the axe. Crack!
    â€œYou’re chopping in the wrong place,” he yells. “Aim at the underside of the branch, not the vee. It’s easier.”
    Nothing in this place is easy, so I keep on chopping my way until he goes back inside.
    I more than anticipated that iPad – I visualised it, worked with it in my head, bought apps for it, until it came into existence as already mine. Dad knew the money was going into a trust when he said