Tigers on the Beach (2 page)

‘What about Mum and Dad?'

‘No.'

‘What about that dead puffer fish?'

‘Dead things don't have auras. But some living things do. Humans and animals.'

‘And I do too?'

‘It makes you look quite handsome. But don't let it go to your head. Are there any girls who think you are handsome?'

‘No. I've got boring brown hair and no sixpack or eyebrows. Girls don't like the way I look.'

‘I think you might be underestimating girls. Many of them don't go for a particular look. Do you?'

‘All they really need is to be alive. Though I do like red hair. There's a girl at my school. Very long red hair. I saw her in the Carlington shopping strip one morning handing out leaflets.'

‘What were the leaflets about?'

‘I don't know, but I took a dozen.'

What's her name?'

‘Samantha. Sam.'

‘Does she have a last name?'

‘I think so, but nobody seems to know what it is.'

‘
She
probably does.'

‘I guess I should ask her.'

‘That would be a good start.'

‘I don't think she likes jokes.'

‘Ah, but I know the funniest joke in the world. Anyone who hears you tell it will fall in love with you. But maybe you should avoid jokes so early in a relationship. You might tell the wrong one.'

‘But telling jokes is all I can do. Tell me the best one in the world.'

‘It's very powerful. I will tell you when you are old enough not to misuse the seductive power of the joke.'

‘I wouldn't misuse it.'

‘Of course you would. You'd go to every country in the world and tell the joke until women all over the world fell in love with you and threw their knickers at you.'

‘I wouldn't do that.'

‘Yes, you would.'

‘How do you know?'

‘Because
I
would.'

‘How come you haven't done it?'

‘I learned this joke just after I met your grandmother, so I didn't need to use it. She was the most beautiful woman in the world. Still is.'

‘You must really love her.'

‘We have an intermittent relationship.'

‘I think you mean intimate.'

‘Probably. You haven't seen her good side,' says Grandpa. ‘Very few people have.'

‘How did you find the best joke in the world?'

‘I'm not sure. It just sort of came to me.'

‘Someone must have made it up.'

‘I think jokes fall out of the blue. They're a bit like dreams. Or maybe they breed on the internet? By the way, I sent you an email this morning.'

‘Is it a joke?'

‘Not quite. But I think you might enjoy it.'

I take one last shot. ‘Will you
please
tell me the world's best joke? The one that makes people fall in love with you?'

‘Later,' says Grandpa. ‘We have to get back. I don't want Doris to worry.'

Even though Grandpa has annoyed Grandma by being too slow returning from the beach, I see them holding hands at the end of the day, walking slowly back to the car. I wonder if Grandma knows that Grandpa is more in love with her than any other woman in the world? I wonder if he ever tells her or if he just jokes about it.

Back at The Ponderosa I check my reflection in the bathroom mirror, and see my big round face with no eyebrows. Do I really have a purple aura, and can Grandpa really see it? For a fraction of a second, I think I see a purple glow around my head.

Of course, it might just be my imagination.

I wonder if Samantha has an aura. I bet it's a sexy one. I bet her last name is sexy too.

The Ponderosa probably seems a strange name for the ten holiday cabins my family owns and runs. It's named after a ranch in an ancient TV series called
Bonanza
, which my dad loved when he was a kid. Our surname is Cartwright, the same as the family in
Bonanza
. But the Cartwrights from
Bonanza
were in the cattle business. We are in the hospitality business. Xander calls it the
hostility business
. My parents, Xander and I live in cabin number one, the biggest. It has two bedrooms and is directly behind the front office, or the ‘reception area' as Mum and Dad prefer to call it. Xander and I share a bedroom, which I hate doing. We also share a bathroom, which I hate even more. The nine other cabins are for holiday-makers.

Nathan and Marika are our two helpers. Marika is young, good-looking and Greek. Nathan is university-educated, very serious and hopelessly in love with her. He is also in his mid-twenties, has a beard and is already going bald. Every morning, Nathan and I have to sweep up the little pellets of crap that the possums leave in the driveway at night. We call it possum duty.

‘Where do the possums go?' I ask Nathan, as I sweep. ‘They run around at night growling. But where do they go during the day?'

‘They must have a nest nearby,' Nathan says.

‘How can we get rid of them?'

‘You can't. They're protected.'

‘But what if we caught the possums in a cage and released them somewhere else? That'd be okay, wouldn't it?'

Nathan looks stern. ‘No. That's against the law.'

‘But they sell possum traps at the store.'

‘They're illegal. It's cruel to relocate possums. They get upset if they're separated from their families.' The conversation no longer interests Nathan because he has seen Marika. ‘Oh god, look at Marika. Isn't she the most beautiful thing you ever saw?'

Nathan admires his Greek goddess, who is wheeling a basket full of damp towels on a squeaky trolley. I'm not so crazy about Marika. She never listens and only ever talks about herself.

‘Hi, Marika,' I call.

‘I have an eye infection,' says Marika.

Nathan looks at her longingly, as if an eye infection is the most romantic thing anyone could have.

‘Have you seen the wild horses of Mongolia?' Nathan asks me, when Marika has passed.

‘No,' I say.

‘They have dark-red coats and white muzzles. They are stunning creatures. But Marika . . . what can I say? She's ten times as beautiful as a Mongolian horse. She's more beautiful even than a jaguar. Or a snow leopard.'

‘Nathan, why don't you tell Marika how you feel about her? Only don't say anything about horses or big cats.'

Nathan looks downcast. ‘She wouldn't love me back. I'd be devastated.'

‘You'd get over it.'

‘Never. I'd move to Mongolia to be with the horses.' Nathan has difficulty scraping some of the pellets from the driveway. It seems as if the possums have been eating epoxy resin.

‘I have three university degrees,' Nathan says. ‘I shouldn't be doing this. I should find a better job somewhere.'

‘Mum and Dad rely on you.'

‘Then they should pay me more.' Nathan frowns as he chisels away.

‘Do you believe in auras?' I ask.

‘I don't even know what they are,' says Nathan.

‘My grandpa reckons that some living things give off a glow. He's a naturalist, sort of like you.'

‘Well, he's right. Some animals do glow. It's called bioluminescence. There are fish, insects, toadstools –'

‘What about people?'

‘You're asking me if people glow? In daylight?'

‘Grandpa says they do.'

‘With respect, Adam, he must be gaga.'

‘Is that like doolally?'

‘Gaga is more scientific.'

I groan as I see Stanley Krongold walking up the driveway. He is the local real-estate agent and he keeps hassling my parents to sell The Ponderosa. He has grey hair dyed black. He also wears fake tan, so his head is orange. His eyes are small and shifty, his moustache pencil-thin. I pick up something and hide it in my hand. As Stanley approaches, I jump up and give him a smile.

‘Hello, Mr Krongold,' I say. ‘You're looking very orange today.'

‘Good morning, Adam,' he says.

I hold out my hand and Stanley, looking surprised, shakes it. Then he frowns and looks at his hand.

‘Sorry, I've been cleaning up after the possums,' I say.

Stanley Krongold forces himself to be cheerful again. ‘No harm done,' he says. ‘Those possums can be devils, can't they?'

‘Do you have them at your place too, Mr Krongold?'

‘I'm always cleaning up their droppings. Only I don't use my bare hands.'

Mum spies Mr Krongold and wanders over from the office.

‘Good morning, Mr Krongold,' Mum says.

‘Hello, Georgia,' says Stanley, brightly. ‘I thought you might be interested. The local fire brigade is having a cake stall to raise money this Saturday.'

‘That
is
interesting,' says Mum.

‘They do a lot of good, the firefighters.'

In order to impress Mum, Stanley Krongold is putting on a fake posh accent. He makes ‘firefighters' sound like ‘far-farters'.

‘They do,' says Mum, ‘particularly when it comes to farting far.'

I love my mum.

Stanley looks surprised to be so crudely mimicked. He adjusts his tie. ‘They had to go to Joyce Kelly's place last week. She was making a cake for the stall and she set fire to her kitchen. Strange how things work out.'

‘It is strange.'

Stanley looks around, tapping his foot. ‘I wonder if you've given further thought to what we discussed?'

‘The cake stall? I'd be useless. I make bloody awful cakes.'

‘I meant selling your property.'

‘We don't want to sell our property,' says Mum.

‘I can understand that. It's a beautiful property. But my customer in Singapore wants it very badly and he'll pay twice what it's worth. Do you want to know how much he'll pay?'

‘No.'

‘Well over a million dollars. That's a lot of money. What do you say?'

‘Yes.'

‘Are you saying yes, you'll sell?'

‘No. I'm saying yes, a million dollars is a lot of money.'

‘So that's definitely no, you won't sell?'

‘Yes. It's definitely no.'

‘I could possibly make him go even higher.'

‘Mr Krongold, who
is
this mysterious customer?'

Mr Krongold scratches his moustache. ‘He's a businessman . . . in Macau.'

‘I thought you said he was in Singapore,' says Mum.

‘He was. Now he's in Macau. He moves around quite a bit.'

Stanley Krongold's lies are as effortless to him as breathing.

‘Mr Krongold, we will let you know if we intend to sell,' says Mum.

‘Thank you, Georgia.' He flashes chemically bleached teeth that don't suit an orange man. ‘And do please call me Stanley.'

He remains for a moment longer, looking at his hand, perhaps waiting for Mum to call him Stanley.

‘You don't have a tissue, do you?' he finally asks.

Mum looks at the mess in his palm. ‘Good heavens,' says Mum. ‘Did a possum go to the toilet in your hand?'

Mr Krongold doesn't answer.

Mum fetches a tissue and Mr Krongold wipes away the mess.

‘I shook hands with Adam,' says Mr Krongold. ‘His hands were dirty but he obviously didn't realise.'

‘Adam, I hope you apologised,' Mum calls to me. I look up. ‘I did.'

‘It's nothing,' says Mr Krongold. ‘It really doesn't matter. Well, good day.'

He smiles and goes. We all know perfectly well that there is no mysterious customer. The person who desperately wants to buy The Ponderosa is, of course, Stanley Krongold himself. He wants to build a luxurious resort for the wealthy tourists that he is sure will one day come.

‘That was childish, Adam,' says Mum. I am a picture of innocence. ‘What?'

‘Holding possum poo when you shook hands with Mr Krongold.'

‘It was an accident.'

‘No, it wasn't.'

I shrug.

‘Well done,' says Mum. ‘Now please wash your hands. You are in the hospitality business, after all.'

After cleaning my hands I wander into the reception area. The messy family in cabin number seven has checked out. I want to know if they have written anything in the visitors' book, about how welcoming and friendly we all are at The Ponderosa. Marika and I have cleaned out their cabin every morning for the last four days. Drunken monkeys would be tidier. But there are no new entries in the visitors' book. We have worked so hard to please them, but they haven't written a thing. A few pages back, one kind person has written,
‘
Staff helpful, very clean facilities'. A kid has written, ‘Greek lady has nice boobies'. At least, I assume it's a kid. It might be Nathan – although a man with three university degrees should be able to come up with something better than ‘Greek lady has nice boobies'. On the office wall is a poster. It's a picture of chimpanzees, grinning and showing their teeth. Beneath them is a caption:

YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE CRAZY TO WORK HERE. BUT IT HELPS.

That night, I'm at the computer, building a website for The Ponderosa. I've been doing it for ages. I'll need to be good with a computer if I'm going to work in movie special effects, which is what I want to do if my career as a stand-up comedian doesn't pan out.

‘I can recite pi to one hundred decimal places,' says Xander, lying the wrong way round on his bed, with his feet on the pillow.

‘I don't care,' I say.

‘3.141592653589793238,' says Xander.

‘Shut up.' I'm irritated because Grandpa's email hasn't arrived.

‘4626433832,' says Xander.

‘If you don't shut up I will murder you.'

‘And I will murder
you
.'

I say nothing, but continue to build the website. My computer thinks it is a better speller than I am, and it keeps ‘correcting' words that I mistype. This is why the splash page says, ‘Come to The Ponderosa for a woeful holiday.' I meant to type ‘wonderful' but my computer isn't smart enough to realise.

‘Good night,' Xander says, turning himself round the right way.

‘Good night,' I say.

‘I wasn't talking to you, I was talking to my beetles,' says Xander.

Xander collects beetles and keeps them in shoeboxes; another reason why I don't like sharing a bedroom with him. Xander soon falls asleep and at last there is peace.

As I build the website, an email arrives with an electronic ping. It's from Grandpa. The subject line is:

NOT SUITABLE FOR ADULTS.

I open it to find that Grandpa has sent me a short story and not the funniest joke in the world.

A man is on the front porch of his house, working on his motorbike. The motorbike slips into gear, runs over him then smashes through the front door of the house and ends up in the living room. The man's wife takes him to hospital. Meanwhile, the wife's mother, who is staying in the house, remains behind and tries to tidy up the mess. When she sees that there is petrol on the floor, she mops it up with paper towel then throws the towels in the toilet. The man isn't badly hurt, so they send him home from the hospital. Depressed about his smashed-up motorbike, the man lights a cigarette then goes to the toilet. He throws his lighted match into the bowl when he sits down. Ten seconds later there is an explosion and the man has to go to hospital again.

It's not so much a joke as an urban myth. It probably isn't a true story. But it's a
good
story. I laugh loudly enough to wake up Xander. He demands to know what's so funny, so I tell him. And because my delivery is perfect, we fall about laughing. We laugh so hard it hurts. Then Mum appears in the doorway and I know we are in trouble for laughing too loudly. But she doesn't look angry. She seems small and pale. She says that something terrible has happened and could we please stop laughing. We're delirious by this stage and it's hard not to keep laughing about the man whose toilet exploded.

Dad joins Mum in the doorway. He also looks pale. We stop laughing and Dad delivers the tragic news. Grandpa has died of a heart attack.

Xander cries and the four of us hug.

I can't believe it. Just a few hours ago, Grandpa was laughing and telling jokes. I feel bad for laughing so hard at his last email, but it's probably what he would have wanted. Why did it take so long to arrive? Did it get lost in cyberspace, or did it have a very long way to travel?