Tom Jones Saves the World Read online

  “Why? If we really want to get out,

  we can use the gate with our

  Personal Entry Number.”

  “Yes, I know.

  But don’t your parents always say

  ‘don’t go out the gate?’”

  “So. Is going over the fence any different?”

  He has a point.

  If we really want to go, we can.

  We’d get into big trouble when we returned

  because Mr Smith, the guard,

  would tell somebody for sure.

  “That’s it!”

  “What’s it?”

  “If we go through the gate, Tom,

  we’ll be seen and we’ll get in trouble,

  and won’t get a second chance.”

  “So?”

  “So a secret escape hatch

  means we can come and go

  and never get caught.

  Imagine, we can visit friends,

  we can go down the creek.

  We can even let kids into Pacific Palms

  if they’re stupid enough to want to visit.”

  “No one is that stupid, Cleo.

  But it is a good idea.”

  “Come to my place

  this afternoon and we’ll work on it.”

  “Okay.”

  Cleo’s house

  It’s pretty funny

  when you think about it.

  Cleo’s house is exactly,

  I mean exactly,

  the same as mine,

  only it doesn’t have

  a bottle top collection

  cluttering the spare bedrooms.

  Cleo and I sit

  in the backyard working on our plan.

  Her Aunt and Uncle

  bring us cakes and drinks

  and say how wonderful it is

  to see children doing their homework.

  Cleo, the archeologist

  “The wall is made of sandstone

  and mortar, right? Both are soft,

  well, soft for rocks.

  Now I know about digging rocks,

  from my crazy parents,

  so we find a part of the wall

  that’s hidden from view

  and we chip away at the mortar

  of a few stones.

  And to be safe,

  we get a steel rod

  and we place it above

  the stones we’ve moved

  so it takes the weight.

  I saw my Dad do it once

  in a cave.

  It’s easy.

  Then we can slip the stones

  back into place

  and no one will be any wiser.

  Except us.

  Trouble is,

  where do we find a wall

  hidden from sight?”

  “Easy, Cleo.

  Our backyard fence is the wall.

  And Mum planted

  a row of camellias.

  We can do it right in my backyard!”

  “I’ll get the tools.

  You make sure those camellias keep growing!”

  Friends in prison

  Cleo and I ride our bikes

  around Pacific Palms.

  We race each other

  from the west wall

  to the east.

  Cleo leans forward

  over her handlebars

  like she’s trying

  to beat her own bike.

  Her ponytail

  flaps behind her.

  I try to keep up,

  pushing harder than I’ve ever ridden.

  At the end of the street

  we both skid

  and fishtail in the gravel.

  Cleo drops her bike

  runs to the wall

  touches it first

  turns and dances around

  shouting:

  “I win I win.”

  I don’t mind.

  I have a friend

  here in prison

  where there aren’t many friends.

  Tom, the gardener

  At first

  Mum thinks I’m joking.

  “Gardening?”

  But I keep on about

  fertilizer, and watering,

  and plant food.

  She agrees I can

  look after the camellias

  near the back wall.

  So, here I am,

  standing in our garden

  watering the plants

  feeling old before my time

  when Mrs Johnson

  calls from next door:

  “Good job.

  You can do my camellias next,

  if you want, Tom?”

  Dead Neighbour Wish #1!

  Tom

  I like Cleo.

  She’s smart.

  I hate the wall,

  but not that much.

  I’m just doing this

  because it’s better than homework,

  or helping Dad with his bottle tops!

  And I’ve been thinking—

  when, and if,

  we build this escape hatch,

  where’ll we go?

  The creek for sure.

  I can show Cleo

  how to catch yabbies.

  At our old place

  I’d spend all weekend

  with a line dangling in the creek

  and an old saucepan on the boil,

  full of yabbies.

  Sometimes, even parents

  came along to help.

  Dad was

  the best yabby-catcher in town.

  Maybe Cleo

  would like to visit Grandpa Jones

  with me?

  I bet he’d like our escape plan.

  The escape hatch

  Cleo’s timing is perfect.

  Five minutes after

  Arnold the Albino Accountant

  and his secret belly dancer wife Barbara

  go on their walk

  Cleo arrives with the tools,

  ready to work.

  We creep down the backyard,

  careful to hide from Mrs Johnson.

  Cleo opens her jacket

  and hands me some goggles.

  “Is this a disguise?” I ask.

  “No, silly. It’s so the concrete

  won’t flick into your eyes.”

  We take turns to

  chip away at the mortar

  between the stones.

  Cleo, the BMX Wizard,

  and her trusty sidekick Tom,

  hammering at the prison walls.

  The prison gates

  I leave home

  ten minutes earlier now

  and I walk to the bus stop

  with Cleo.

  Sometimes she brings a

  slice of cake her Aunt baked.

  We share it

  sitting against the wall

  waiting for the bus.

  The Guard

  leans out of his window

  and says:

  “Don’t leave rubbish

  at the bus stop, you kids.”

  He goes back to his newspaper.

  Cleo stands and salutes him.

  We call him Warden Smith—

  prison guard and rubbish-hater!

  The bus turns into Cherrywood Avenue.

  Cleo and I toss a coin—

  heads I sit near the window,

  tails, Cleo.

  It comes down heads—

  Cleo laughs and salutes me

  as we board the bus

  at the prison gates.

  Chapter Four

  THE FIRST DAY OF FREEDOM

  Escape

  For thirty minutes every afternoon

  Cleo and I

  have been chiselling

  chipp
ing, and hammering

  at our back wall, in the corner,

  near the largest camellia bush.

  Today is the fifth day

  and we work even harder.

  We’ve chipped away the mortar

  and the sandstone blocks are moving.

  Cleo holds the steel rod

  level between the stones

  as I gently hammer it into position.

  It slides in easily,

  taking the weight

  of the stones above ... we hope!

  Cleo and I move each stone.

  We wriggle

  through the gap and stand

  in a field of long waving wild

  green grass that smells of

  spring and

  freedom.

  There are cows in the distance.

  They wave their tails in the heat.

  We wave back.

  Cleo and I shake hands

  and do a little victory dance

  then quickly crawl through the gap,

  and move the stones back into place

  before Arnold and Barbara get home.

  We plan our Saturday:

  yabbies at the creek.

  The first day of freedom.

  Cleo—snake-charmer, escape-expert, and Queen of the Nile

  I’m sitting in bed

  reading a Cairo Jim book

  when it dawns on me

  why Cleo is called that.

  Cleopatra!

  Her parents are so obsessed with

  Egypt, archaeology, and ancient ruins

  they named their daughter

  after the Queen of the Nile

  who died of snakebite!

  I laugh myself silly

  thinking of my friend Cleo

  with that rock python at school.

  If only her parents knew!

  The right side of the fence

  It felt good

  dancing around the field.

  The wrong side of the fence.

  The right side of the fence.

  I like Tom.

  Every other kid

  in this prison

  locks themselves away

  with a Game Boy all afternoon.

  Tom reckons

  the creek is full of yabbies,

  waiting to be caught.

  This Saturday is

  escape day.

  Yabby day.

  The phone call

  “Hello,

  Mercy Gardens Retirement Village.”

  “Hi. Can I speak to Grandpa Jones—

  I mean Bob Jones, please?”

  “I’m sorry,

  residents aren’t allowed phone calls.

  Can I help?”

  “I’d like to visit Mr Jones, please?”

  “Visiting hours

  are every afternoon

  One to five. Anything else?”

  “Yes. Tell Mr Jones that Tom Jones rang.

  And I’ll visit him on Sunday.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Visiting hours?

  Grandpa lives in a prison too.

  Saturday—yabbies, bulls and being a carnivore

  There is a bull standing

  on the opposite bank of the creek

  looking at me and Cleo.

  He is munching grass

  and watching us

  toss our long pieces of string

  into Murchison Creek,

  each string tied on the end

  with meat.

  Every few minutes

  we feel a tug on the string,

  we slowly pull it in,

  careful not to lose the yabby

  hungry on the end

  nibbling away

  until

  we see him in the shallows,

  then we quickly jerk the line

  and fling him onto the bank.

  Cleo, who’s afraid of nothing

  including snakes

  and yabby claws

  grabs the yabby

  and throws him into

  a pot of boiling water.

  At first,

  Cleo was a little squeamish

  about killing a poor yabby

  but I asked her

  what her favourite dinner was

  and she said:

  “Hamburgers, of course!”

  I pointed at the bull opposite

  and said

  “Say hello to next week’s dinner, Cleo.”

  Lunch

  For lunch

  I drain the saucepan and

  shell the yabbies

  the way Dad taught me

  when I was young.

  I place the meat

  on a bread roll

  and hand it up to Cleo

  who’s climbed the old fig tree.

  She holds my roll

  while I climb after her.

  Cleo reaches into her jacket—

  no, not for goggles,

  but for pepper.

  She sprinkles it

  on our rolls

  and we sit

  in the crook of a branch

  munching away

  on the best lunch

  I’ve ever eaten.

  Snob!

  Pacific Palms is a snob!

  It turns its back

  on Murchison Creek

  and the fattest yabbies in the world.

  It ignores

  dairy farms

  and fields

  and secret forests

  of scribbly bark gums

  where koalas doze.

  It builds a barrier

  to hide

  the Interstate railway

  with freight trains

  and booming whistles

  that bounce off

  the dumb walls

  and wake Mr Smith

  sleeping

  in his glass office

  where he protects

  Pacific Palms

  from the

  booming

  banging

  breathing

  real world

  where

  Cleo and I

  want to live

  outside the walls.

  Chapter Five

  THE GARDENS OF MERCY

  Outside the gates, okay

  Sunday morning.

  Barbara is polishing

  the kitchen taps,

  humming a tune

  and wiggling her hips.

  She knows Dad is busy.

  After breakfast, he said,

  “I must retire now

  to research the financial dealings

  of my latest client.

  I may be occupied

  for the entire day.”

  Dead Parent Wish # 7.

  “Mum?”

  Barbara stops wiggling.

  “Oh, darling.

  I didn’t know you were there.”

  “Mum, can I go for a ride,

  with Cleo?” I ask.

  Mum wipes the hair

  from her eyes, smiles, and says,

  “Sure. Don’t go outside the gates, okay.”

  Mercy Gardens

  If you cut through

  the dairy farm

  and cross Murchison Creek

  at the rail bridge,

  Mercy Gardens

  is only thirty minutes away.

  It’s surrounded by

  a tall wire fence

  and big fir trees

  with cockatoos

  hiding in the branches

  screeching

  for food

  and keeping

  all the old people

  awake.

  Tom’s visit

  “Grandpa!”

  “Hello, Tiger.

  Come and
sit here with me.

  I like this bench under the trees.

  A good hiding spot

  for my drinks.”

  “Grandpa, you promised.”

  “Yes, yes, yes. I know.

  I haven’t drunk today.

  So how are you?

  I didn’t think Arnie would let you come.”

  “He doesn’t know I’m here, Grandpa.

  I’ve got an escape hole in the wall.

  They think I’m visiting my friend Cleo.”

  “Good for you, Tiger.

  I don’t suppose you could

  build an escape tunnel

  from this place could you?

  It’s worse than a POW Camp,

  only the nurses don’t have guns,

  just pills to put us to sleep.

  I tell them I’m too old to sleep,

  enough time for that when I’m dead!”

  “Don’t say that, Grandpa.”

  “Why not? I’m old.

  I don’t have long to go,

  but I’m going to enjoy the time I’ve got.

  Anyway, good on you for visiting me, Tiger.”

  Tom and Grandpa Jones

  I tell Grandpa about Cleo

  and our escape hatch in the wall

  behind Mum’s camellias.

  Grandpa laughs at that.

  I talk about school

  and the books I read

  about kids with dead parents.

  He says I should let Arnie read those books.

  We sit under the tree for hours

  and Grandpa

  talks about Grandma,

  who died years ago.

  He tells stories of when they were teenagers

  and his first motorbike

  and how he’d meet

  Grandma down the street from her house

  because her dad

  wouldn’t let her ride on a bike

  with a larrikin like Bob Jones.

  “She had black wavy hair

  and she always wore a long dress

  and her hair was tied back in a red ribbon