Stuff Happens Read online

  Contents

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Justin D’Ath had stuff happen to him on a school camp too.

  He slipped while getting off the bus and ripped the backside out of his shorts, and had to wear Sister Patrice’s big blue raincoat for the rest of the day.

  www.justindath.com

  It sucked. Why did they wait till Monday to have the funeral? And why, out of all the Mondays in the year, did it have to be this one?

  The first day of the Monvale Primary year five camp.

  All year I’d been looking forward to today, then Pop had to die and spoil everything!

  I sneaked a look at my phone. 10.15 a.m. Jeff, Dan, Jack, Fadi and all my other friends from school would be right down the back of a big, comfortable tour bus, halfway to Thunder Canyon by now.

  And here I was, still in Monvale, right up the front of a dreary old church, surrounded by big old men in suits and sniffling old ladies.

  One of the ladies nudged me with her elbow. ‘Put your phone away, Cooper! Show some respect for your grandfather.’

  It was Great-Aunty Nicole, Pop’s grumpy old sister.

  Why did he have to die, not her?

  ‘Sorry Aunty.’

  ‘Shhhh!’ snivelled Mum, nudging me from the other side.

  How was that fair? I say sorry, then get in trouble for it!

  My life totally sucked.

  On the plus side, I’d never been in the same room (well, church) as so many deadset rugby legends before. When we’d first come in – Mum, Dad, Nanna and me – my eyes had nearly popped clean out of my head.

  Half the mighty Wallabies team of 1968 filled the three back pews!

  They all looked pretty old now – and either too fat or too skinny – but who wouldn’t recognise Larry Sayer, AKA Captain Slayer, who ran in three tries against the All Blacks in the final test in Sydney? (Pop got the other one.) If I could find a pen, I was going to get him to autograph my prayer sheet after the service.

  Great-Aunty Nicole’s bony elbow jabbed me again. ‘Stop fidgeting, Cooper. This is a funeral, not a circus.’

  As if I didn’t know. The big wooden coffin, surrounded by twelve flickering candles, sat on a shiny silver trolley-thing only a few metres away. Draped over it was a faded Australian rugby jumper with Pop’s number on the back.

  In my first year at Monvale Primary, Pop came to school on Grandparents’ Day wearing that jumper. I was the proudest kid in class, probably in the whole school. Even Dan, whose grandmother brought a real live carpet python from the wildlife sanctuary where she worked, came and sat with me and Jeff at lunchtime.

  On my prayer sheet it said Mr Lawrence Sayer would be reading the eulogy.

  Lawrence. I didn’t know that was his real name. Larry suited him better. I wondered if it would be okay to snap a photo with my phone? I’d have to be super careful, though – Aunty Nicole’s elbow was sharp.

  Here’s something else I didn’t know: a eulogy is a speech where someone who knew the person who died comes up to the front of the church and says all sorts of nice stuff about them. I guess it’s supposed to make everyone feel happy, but for me it did the exact opposite.

  I didn’t want to be reminded that Pop was dead!

  So when Larry Sayer started on about what a great bloke Pop was, and how we were all going to miss him, I forgot all about taking photos. All I wanted to do was get up and run out of the church with my hands clamped over my ears. But I couldn’t do that – everyone would see – so I closed my eyes and went to another place inside my head.

  It’s called daydreaming, and I’m pretty good at it. Sometimes it gets me into trouble at school. Like when my teacher Miss Hobbie asked me to talk about Green Waste Recycling, while in my head I was fighting off an invasion of giant zombie frogs from Mars.

  Which should have warned me not to daydream in church.

  But there was all this other stuff going on today, sad stuff, confusing stuff, and I really needed to take a time out. So while real Cooper Hodge sat in church with his eyes closed, daydream Cooper Hodge flew off and joined Jeff and the guys on the bus.

  I know that daydreams aren’t real, but when you’re in one it seems real. It was like I really was on that bus. We were right down the back where the footy boys always sit. Jack and Dan had just invented a game where you had to bounce an empty water bottle back and forth across the aisle using just your knees. If it went on the floor, you were out. In between turns, Jeff and I were trying to think up a name for our new game. Don’t Drop the Bottle. Knee Volleyball. Volleyball with a Bottle.

  Then I got it: ‘Volleybottle!’ I cried.

  We all started giggling.

  Peck! Peck!

  Suddenly I found myself in a different daydream. In this one, I was back on Nanna and Pop’s farm, being attacked from all sides by a flock of hissing geese.

  My eyes snapped open.

  Oops! Not my grandparents’ farm – their church. And not hissing geese, but two hissing ladies with very sharp elbows.

  ‘Shhhh!’ hissed Mum.

  ‘Shame on you!’ hissed Great-Aunty Nicole.

  My face went hot. I was sitting in church at my pop’s funeral – giggling!

  I couldn’t stop. I tried everything I could think of: clamping my hands over my mouth and nose; holding my breath; I even tried thinking of something sad (the reason we were all in church that day), but nothing would stop my stupid giggling.

  It was getting louder and more out-of-control with every passing second!

  I knew everyone could hear me – not just Mum and Aunty Nicole. The minister was glaring at me like I was doing it on purpose. People behind me were whispering crossly and shuffling in their seats. Dad, his face bright red, leaned across Mum, gripped my shoulder and gave it a shake. But I kept right on giggling.

  It was so embarrassing! I wanted to hide. I wanted to disappear. So I brought my hands up higher, until they covered my whole face. When I was little, I used to think that made me invisible. I wished it really worked, wished I was invisible now. Or, better still, I wished I was on the bus with Jeff and the guys, halfway to year five camp.

  Suddenly something was different. My hands still covered my face, my eyes were still closed, so it took me a few moments to realise what had changed.

  Larry Sayer had stopped reading the eulogy.

  Something else was different, too. I was no longer giggling. Yay!

  The silence stretched for five, ten, fifteen seconds. I started to wonder what was going on. Slowly, I lowered my hands and opened my eyes.

  Everything looked more or less the same. The minister was still scowling at me. Dad’s face was still red. Larry Sayer still stood at the lectern.

  But here’s what was different: Larry’s eyes were no longer focused on the bit of paper in his hand. They were looking at me. For a moment, it was like he and I were the only two people in that church. There was a puzzled look on his face, a look that seemed to ask: Why were you giggling at your grandfather’s funeral?

  And I didn’t know.

  It was totally and without doubt the worst moment in my entire life.

  Great-Aunty Nicole and Great-Uncle Murray lived in a little town not far from Thunder Canyon. They were supposed to be dropping me off at camp when they drove home that afternoon. It was all arranged. But after the funeral, Aunty Nicole told Dad that she and Uncle Murray had decided to stay in Monvale for a couple of days – to help Nanna with some stuff – so they wouldn’t be able to
take me.

  Part of me was glad when I found out. Uncle Murray was okay, but I couldn’t imagine spending three-and-a-half hours in a car with grumpy old Aunty Nicole – especially after I’d made such an idiot of myself during the service.

  But now I had a major problem. How was I getting to camp?

  ‘Will you take me?’ I asked Dad.

  He carefully extracted a pointy grass seed from the hem of his trousers. ‘I don’t think so, Coop.’

  We were sitting on the lowered tailgate of our brand-new Holden Colorado Crew Cab in the freshly mown paddock behind the church hall. Everyone from the funeral had gone inside for food and drinks. Everyone except me – I was still ashamed about what had happened in church. But Dad didn’t say anything about that. He’d loaded up a plastic plate with sausage rolls, party pies and mini-lamingtons and come looking for me.

  ‘Please, Dad!’ I said, spitting bits of coconut as I talked. ‘I’ve been looking forward to camp all year.’

  ‘I know that. But Thunder Canyon is half a day’s drive from here. And then I’d have to turn around and drive all the way back.’

  ‘You said you wanted to test out the Colorado on the open road.’

  Dad stayed silent for a few seconds. He’s going to say yes! I thought. But he just sighed and patted my arm. ‘Sorry, Coop. It’s not going to happen.’

  I pulled away from him. ‘I’ll ask Mum then.’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ he said in his Bossy Dad voice. ‘She has a lot to deal with right now.’

  My eyes went blurry. I could hear voices and laughter coming from the hall. Why was there a party after Pop’s funeral?

  ‘It’s not fair!’ I muttered. ‘You and Mum said I’d only miss the first half-day of camp – now I’m going to miss the whole thing!’

  ‘I know it doesn’t seem fair, Coop. Life can be like that. Sometimes these things are beyond our control.’

  ‘You could control it,’ I said. ‘You could drive me there.’

  I knew I was pushing my luck – Bossy Dad had already said no – but I was desperate to get to camp. And when he didn’t say anything, I thought maybe this time he was changing his mind.

  ‘Please, please, please, Dad! I’ll pay for the petrol out of my lawn-mowing money.’

  At last he started to say something. I watched his lips move, but it was like Bossy Dad’s voice came from a long way away.

  ‘No. I’m not driving you to camp and that’s final.’

  Something happened to me then. It was like his words flipped a switch in my head. I dumped my food on the ground, slid off the Colorado’s tailgate and went stomping off between all the parked cars.

  Behind me, Dad switched into Angry Dad mode. ‘COOPER!’ he roared. ‘WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING?’

  I had no idea where I was going – just away from Angry Dad, who was too mean to drive me to camp. And away from the church hall and all the people in there, laughing and talking and feeding their faces like there was something to celebrate.

  ‘COOPER!’ someone called. ‘COOPER HODGE!’

  It wasn’t Angry Dad this time. The new voice came from the direction of the hall. I wanted to keep going, but my feet kind of stopped of their own accord.

  Slowly, I turned around. ‘Hi, Mr Sayer.’

  The former Australian rugby captain came strolling towards me between the parked cars. He wasn’t looking down and nearly stepped on one of my party pies.

  ‘Young Cooper!’ he said, smiling like he and I were lifelong buddies. ‘I’m glad I found you. I was wondering if you could do me a favour?’

  I wiped my eyes with the fingertips of one hand, pretending I was just shooing away a fly. ‘Sure, Mr Sayer. If I can.’

  ‘I was just talking to your Great-Uncle Murray,’ he said. ‘He mentioned that you have some business to attend to in Thunder Canyon this week.’

  ‘It’s my school camp,’ I said, trying to figure out why Larry Sayer and Uncle Murray had been talking about me.

  Larry interrupted my thoughts. ‘Your great-uncle and I both work for Search and Rescue at Thunder Canyon National Park,’ he said. ‘I’m driving back there this afternoon and was wondering if you’d like to come along and keep me company?’

  ‘I reckon I could do that, Mr Sayer,’ I said.

  And for the first time in what felt like a hundred years, I actually smiled.

  Larry Sayer’s car was even sweeter than our new Colorado. It was a silver, two-door Aston Martin, just like James Bond’s one in the old 007 movies Dad’s got on DVD. It even had an electric sunroof that slid open when you pushed a button.

  ‘Would you like me to leave it open?’ Larry Sayer shouted.

  ‘That would be great, Mr Sayer,’ I shouted back.

  We were cruising along a dead straight section of highway just out of town and the wind from the open sunroof swirled noisily around our heads. That made it hard to talk, which suited me fine. I was scared Larry would ask the question he’d silently asked me in church.

  Or, worse, he’d want to talk about Pop.

  But after a while it got a bit cold with the sunroof open and Larry pushed the button to close it. Uh-oh, I thought and looked out my side window, waiting for the questions to start. I didn’t have to wait very long.

  ‘Would you like to listen to some music, young Cooper?’

  It was a question I hadn’t been expecting, and I was happy to answer. ‘Sure, Mr Sayer.’

  He switched on the radio. But instead of music, it was some guy asking a lady when was the right time to prune roses? Pop would have known the answer – his roses won first prize every single year at the Monvale Show.

  Which was on in two weeks’ time, I remembered.

  ‘Can we listen to something else?’ I asked quickly.

  Larry pushed a button and violin music came on. Yawn. But anything was better than boring old stuff about roses.

  Larry glanced at me and raised an eyebrow. ‘Not really your thing?’

  ‘It’s okay, Mr Sayer,’ I answered politely.

  ‘Why don’t you see if you can find something you like?’

  I twiddled the dial until I found Triple J. ‘Is this okay?’

  ‘Turn it up a bit, if you like,’ he said.

  He was pretty cool for an old guy. At any other time, I would have switched the radio off and talked about footy. But that might have led to other stuff – stuff I didn’t want to talk about – so we listened to Triple J and didn’t talk at all.

  Except when we stopped for fuel in Harmon Downs (whose under 10s beat us in last year’s lightning rugby carnival). Larry pointed at the toilets and asked me if I wanted to go. As if I was a three year old who needed to be reminded. Still, to cut the old dude some slack, maybe he had no grandkids my age and didn’t remember that ten years old is almost grown up.

  When he came out from paying for the fuel, Larry carried a brown paper bag and a bottle of spring water. He kept the water for himself and handed me the bag.

  ‘I thought you might be hungry,’ he said.

  Inside the bag was a hamburger, some chips and a can of Coke. Maybe Larry Sayer did have grandkids my age, after all.

  ‘Thanks, Mr Sayer.’

  He started the car and Triple J came back on.

  It was nearly dark when we came to a narrow, single-street township, squashed in on both sides by dense forest and steep, rocky cliffs. Larry killed the radio.

  ‘Welcome to Thunder Canyon, young Cooper.’

  I peered out my window. We were just passing a tiny general store with a Post Office sign in the window and two petrol pumps out the front. A sign on the door said Closed.

  ‘Where’s the camp?’ I asked.

  Larry chuckled. ‘I was about to ask you the same thing. Do you know the name of it?’

  I looked at him, suddenly worried. ‘Thunder Canyon. The year fives at my school come here every year. I thought you knew where it was, Mr Sayer.’

  He slowed the car. ‘Well, there are two possibilities.
Does either Wombat Camp or Camp Lyrebird ring any bells?’

  ‘I – I’m not sure,’ I said, feeling totally stupid for not knowing which camp I was supposed to be going to. ‘Do you want me to phone Mum?’

  ‘No, no, we’ll be right,’ Larry said confidently. ‘If it isn’t Wombat, it’ll be Lyrebird. They’re pretty much next door to each other.’

  We crossed a bumpy wooden bridge, then followed a narrow dirt road into the forest. The land dropped away steeply on one side. Even with the windows shut, I could hear the roar of churning water through the trees. It sounded loud, like river rapids or a waterfall. Now I understood where Thunder Canyon got its name.

  Pretty soon our headlights lit up a big wooden arch with letters across the top made of painted sticks. It took me a couple of seconds to make out the words. Wombat Camp. We drove under the arch and went crunching along a gravel track between huge, shadowy trees. There was a scatter of lights ahead. An arrow made of more painted sticks pointed to a parking area. Two buses and several cars were already there. I tried to read what was written on the buses – hoping it would say they were from Monvale – but it was too dark to see.

  Larry parked at the end of the line of cars. When he opened his door, the Aston Martin’s interior light shone on the car next to us. It was an old green VW beetle with tree-hugger stickers all over it. Yay!

  ‘We’ve come to the right camp, Mr Sayer.’

  ‘How do you know?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s Kermit.’

  Larry peered back and forth. ‘I don’t see anyone.’

  Now I felt stupid all over again. This time it was Miss Hobbie’s fault. How could a grown-up give their car an actual name?

  ‘The green car next to us is Kermit,’ I explained. ‘It belongs to my teacher, Miss Hobbie. She’s a bit of a weirdo.’

  Larry unbuckled his seatbelt.

  ‘My very first car was a VW,’ he said. ‘I used to call him Herbie.’

  The lights we’d seen as we were driving in came from a long, low building made of logs with their bark left on. Its creaky wooden verandah was wide enough for a row of picnic tables like the ones on the lawn beside the grandstands at the EBO. About a million moths and bugs were spinning around the outside lights, just above our heads. One got stuck in Larry’s hair. It was some kind of wasp and I wondered if I should tell him, but the hum of kids’ voices coming from inside distracted me. Also, there was a strong smell of toast and melted cheese that made my mouth water. It didn’t take a genius to work out that this was the dining hall. Or that we’d arrived right on dinnertime.