Tom Jones Saves the World

His three verse-novels for young adultsâ
Love, ghosts and nose hair; A place like this
and
the simple gift
were all shortlisted for the CBCA Book of the Year Awards and the New South Wales Premier's Literary Awards.

Steven's verse novel for younger readers,
The Spangled Drongo,
won the Patricia Wrightson Prize at the NSW Premier's Literary Awards.

Over the past ten years he has performed his poems throughout Australia in schools, pubs, universities, festivals, rock venues and on radio and television. He has also toured Canada, the United Kingdom, the United States and Singapore. He is one of Australia's most travelled and widely heard poets. Steven lives in the Blue Mountains with his partner and two sons.

Also by Steven Herrick

Young Adult Fiction series

Water Bombs

Love, ghosts and nose hair

A place like this

The Simple Gift

Storybridge series

My Life, My Love, My Lasagne

Poetry to the Rescue

Love Poems & Leg Spinners

The Spangled Drongo

Jam Roll series

The Place Where the Planes Take Off

PRAISE FOR TOM JONES SAVES THE WORLD

As one of Australia's favourite poets, he crafts his work brilliantly, and the underlying message will benefit all ages.

Lyndon Riggall

The Examiner

Steven Herrick's unconventional storytelling works well, injecting an immediacy and intimacy that illustrates the importance of family ties and the love of true friends.

Russ Merrin

Magpies

After a succession of heroes battling with difficulties after the loss of parents here Herrick turns the tables and creates an âover-parented' hero who longs to be an orphan like the boys in the books he reads! ... A jaunty, funny and sentimental verse novel.

The Source

Chapter One

TOM JONES AND THE BOTTLE TOP COLLECTION

Dead parents

Sometimes

I wish I was like

those kids I read about

in books.

The kids who live with

weird Aunts because their parents

died in a car accident

of some heartbreaking disease.

The kids who lead exciting lives

without parents to moan about

unfinished homework

unmade beds

uncombed hair.

When these kids

don't do homework

or don't make their beds

everyone thinks

“oh, that's all right,

they're still recovering from the loss.”

Even when the accident

happened ten years ago,

the kid is allowed

to be a slob.

Don't get me wrong.

I don't want

Mum and Dad to die.

Maybe if they went

to live in another country

for twenty years

and left me alone?

That would be enough.

Thomas

My name is

Thomas Wilbur Johannas Harold Jones.

But, please, call me Tom.

Everyone else does,

except Dad

who calls me Thomas

because he says Tom

is what you call a stray cat,

and Mum

who calls me Darling,

or Sweetie,

or if I do something wrong, Honey.

(Now you know what I mean

about dead parents.)

I live in a big brick home

in a new suburb

called Pacific Palms.

Between us and the Ocean

are five suburbsâ

Pacific Meadows

Pacific Green

Pacific Heights

Pacific Crescent

and, of course,

Pacific Beach.

Because of our name

every house has a palm tree

planted smack-bang

in the middle of the frontyard.

There are no other trees.

Everyone has planted

shrubs instead.

That's all Mum

and Mrs Johnson next door

talk about.

“Your camellias are looking lovely, dear.”

“Why thank you, Mrs Johnson.

And so are yours.”

Dead Parent Wish # 1

The house

The Real Estate Agent

said it was an

“architect-designed

five-bedroom, two-bathroom

slice of heaven set

among immaculate gardens

in the prestigious gated-community

of Pacific Palms”.

Well, the architect

must have been very popular

because I've already counted

fifty-two houses

exactly the same as ours.

Yes, it does have five bedroomsâ

one for Mum and Dad,

one for me,

and three for Dad's

bottle top collection.

(Dead Parent Wish # 2).

The bathrooms each have a spa.

And the “immaculate gardens”

are one palm tree

and forty-eight varieties of Camellia.

All of this is surrounded by

a wrought-iron fence

on which Dad has hung

a sign that reads

NO Hawkers Allowed

NO Junk Mail

BEWARE! Dog on Premises

That last line is a lie.

Dad said if the first two lines

didn't work

the last one would.

A gated community

To get into our suburb

you drive

down Cherrywood Avenue

and at the end of the street

is a sandstone wall

and a massive iron gate.

To get through this gate

you reach out of

the car window and punch your

Personal Entry Number (PEN)

into the keypad on the pole.

The gate slides open,

you drive through,

and it closes behind you.

Often there is a Security Guard

in the office beside the entrance.

He sits at his desk

reading the paper

waiting for something to happen.

After two months

of living here

I realised it was

like a prison that

parents paid lots of money

to live in so

they could say things like

“I feel so secure now.

Thomas can walk the streets

and I know he's safe.”

In our old town,

I used to walk to the shops

to the river

to the school.

I knew everyone.

At Pacific Palms, I only know

Mrs Johnson

who keeps trying to show me

her garden.

I live in a Camellia Prison.

Arnold

My Dad is Arnold Jones

from Beacham Beacham Beacham and Zibrowski,

Accountants.

Arnold the Accountant.

Each morning

Dad drives his clean white Commodore

down Cherrywood Avenue

to his office at Pacific Beach for a day spent

adding, subtracting, multiplying, and dividing.

He returns at exactly 5:30pm,

parks the car in our double garage,

removes his shoes at the back door,

and says

“I'm home, dear”,

places his briefcase in his officeâ

Bottle top Collection Room # 2â

kisses Mum,

sees me in the kitchen doing homework

and says,

“How was your school experience today, Thomas?”

(Yes,
Dead Parent Wish # 3).

I answer “Okay, Dad”.

Arnold the Accountant

then goes upstairs to

change into

white shorts, white polo shirt,

white bowling hat,

white long socks,

and white running shoes.

Arnold the Albino Accountant

then walks downstairs

and out the front door with Mum,

also dressed all in white,

for their “Afternoon reflection walk”

as Dad calls it.

Sometimes, they ask me

if I'd like to go with them.

I lie about too much homework,

watch them walk, wiggling bottoms,

down the street,

then I run upstairs

and change into my swimmers

and jump into the spa,

sit back,

and read novels

about children with dead parents.

Some people have all the luck!

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