The 10PM Question by Kate de Goldi

Author:Kate de Goldi
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Allen & Unwin Pty Ltd
Published: 2008-08-21T04:00:00+00:00

‘And the code word is, fellas?’ said Cassino.

It was Gigs’s week. ‘Palwankar Baloo,’ he said. He was having a phase on famous Indian cricket teams.

Cassino actually laughed. It was exactly like a rock face trembling. ‘For real?’

‘For real,’ said Gigs. ‘Nineteen-oh-five, nineteen-oh-six to nineteen twenty, nineteen twenty-one: thirty-three first class matches. Left arm orthodox spin.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Cassino.

‘You should be in some quiz programme,’ said Frankie when they sat down. ‘Gigs Angelo. Subject: obscure cricketers.’

Gigs took out his breakfast. It was savoury rolled pancakes.

‘Huh, we had pancakes, too,’ said Frankie. ‘But Gordana was a cow, so it was ruined.’

‘What’s new?’ said Gigs. ‘When wasn’t she a cow? I can’t remember.’

But Frankie could — just. Gordana had been more or less tolerable until … he thought back, but it was hard to pinpoint. A couple of years ago? Till Louie left home, maybe. Yes, it had been all-downhill since then.

‘It’s because of her name,’ said Gigs.

‘What?’ Frankie rolled up his ticket and poked it into the seat back. He surveyed the installation critically. The sad fact was they were running out of room.

‘It’s a man’s name,’ said Gigs. ‘Her personality’s warped because she’s got a boy’s name. She’s kind of in a permanent bad mood about it. Whose was it again?’

‘My grandfather’s. Gordon Osbourne.’

‘The one who died in the car crash?’

‘Yeah,’ said Frankie. ‘His name was Gordon and her name was Pearl. She was the Aunties’ little sister.’

‘Not a very Russian name,’ said Gigs.

‘What?’

‘Gordon.’

‘It’s not Russian,’ said Frankie, puzzled. ‘I think it’s Scottish.’

‘But wasn’t he Russian?’

‘No,’ said Frankie.

‘I thought that was why your Ma liked Russian stuff so much,’ said Gigs.

‘She just did it at uni,’ said Frankie. ‘Then she did it again later, after she had us kids. Or something. She’s very good at languages.’

The bus pulled into the mid-town terminal and the city kids began clambering on. Frankie thought about Ma’s Russian thing. Why did she like Russian stuff so much? He’d never really asked. It was just a fact of her life, their family life — an odd fact along with all the others.

‘Praedictum faciitus mixtum Yendys beeday?’ said Gigs. (You got the thing for Sydney’s birthday?)

‘Sure have,’ said Frankie. He’d made a list of two hundred words in cursive script with Uncle George’s old fountain pen. He’d used fake parchment paper, then rolled it and tied it with string so that it resembled a scroll.

‘So weird,’ said Frankie, ‘I couldn’t work out how to spell some words.’

‘Ours is principally an oral language,’ said Gigs, in Mr A tones, and they both laughed.

‘Shakespeare spelled things all different ways,’ said Frankie. ‘Even his name.’

‘Yeah?’ said Gigs.

Frankie was about to say that Gordana had told him years ago, when she was explaining her own wayward spelling, but at that moment the bus doors banged shut and the gears ground slowly — and Frankie realised Sydney hadn’t boarded.

‘Hey!’ Frankie was on his feet, rolling to the front of the bus. ‘Cassino! Sydney’s not here.’ Frankie grabbed the pole behind the driver’s seat, steadying himself.

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