The Piper's Son

“Listen, Will. I’d recommend di

Ned makes a scoffing sound. “Oh, the expert. The way I hear it you don’t wait around for breakfast, Tom. So what would you know?”

Ned says, “Listen to me, Will. Frankie’s the type of girl who looks good in stuff. Like undies or something. Buy her undies.”

Now Tom makes the scoffing sound. “Yeah, the expert on what women look good in,” he says. “It’s lingerie, dickhead. Not undies.”

Will is looking uncomfortable. He’s searching over people’s heads for Francesca.

“I’ve got things pla

“Will, you’re not exactly Mr. Valentine’s Day,” Tom says.

“You’re going to screw this up,” Ned agrees.

Will sighs. He seems a bit doubtful now and looks at both of them.

“Okay,” he says, as if he’s going to try the idea out on them. “When I came back from overseas five years ago, her father wouldn’t let me drive her anywhere. We had to take public transport. Buses, mostly. Bus from A

Tom’s already shaking his head. Ned has no idea where it’s going.

“So I was thinking that I’d try to be romantic . . . you know . . . take her to all the bus benches . . . where we pashed . . . and stuff.”

Tom stares at him. Ned even looks impressed just as Francesca returns to them.

“What have you guys been talking about?” she asks.

“Oh, you know,” Tom says. “We just gave Will a great idea on how to be romantic.”

That night Francesca is back and forth between the bar and their table. She’s too hyper. She’s a meltdown waiting to happen, already counting down the moments from now to when Trombal leaves.

“He’s seen you onstage a thousand times,” Tom says, remembering that Trombal was at every single gig they played during their first year at uni.

“But he hasn’t heard me play guitar,” she says, leaning across the table to show Trombal the list. “Choose any one of them.”

“Whatever you want to play, Frankie,” Trombal says.

They’re looking at each other in a way that suggests that stuff is happening on dimensions Tom has no entry into. Trombal leans over and kisses her. “You choose.”

“When you do that so close to people’s faces, can you refrain from using tongue contact?” Tom mutters.

Stani taps Francesca on the shoulder and points to the crowd at the counter and she leaves reluctantly.

“So . . . it must get a bit wild over there,” Tom says, for no other reason than there is nothing else to say.

Will’s attention is focused on the bar, where Francesca’s serving and chatting with some locals.

“So, have you been to any of the strip joints? I hear that’s what you guys get up to,” Tom asks.

This time Will looks at him. There’s a whole lot of muscle twitching and holding back. He could not have picked someone more different in Francesca.

“I hang out with engineers,” Will says quietly. “What do you think?”

Delivered without a trace of sarcasm. Neutral. Tonight Tom’s going to break Will Trombal.

“Does Frankie know about it?”

Tom’s tone shows insidious intent.

“We’re open with each other.”

“Why? Because you get off on telling her about it?”

Will wants out, Tom can tell. Some guy at the bar is chatting up Francesca and he can tell that Trombal’s not liking it.

“Tom,” he says patiently, “remember that time when you were in Year Seven and I was in Year Eight and your mates decided they would flush my head down the toilet because I was a midget? It ended in tears. Mine, because there’s nothing more degrading than having your head down a toilet bowl, and yours, because I don’t think you were equipped to embrace the dark side. Tonight will end in tears.”

“Mine or yours?” Tom says.

Francesca plonks herself down again. She’s giddy beyond sanity. Tom wants her back in normal mode, organizing the troops and listening to the bad news. He wants to remind her that Trombal will be gone in five days. With her younger brother. One more person to worry about. But Trombal is still looking at him. With the answer to his question in his eyes.

Francesca notices the look and there’s a bit of panic in her expression.

“What’s wrong with you guys?”

Will shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“You aren’t fighting, are you?”

Will shakes his head again. “We were just talking about football.”

“Are you coming Sunday, Tom?” she asks. “Both your teams are playing each other at Leichhardt oval.”

Will is eyeing him. There’s a don’t even think about it look on his face.

“I’d love to,” Tom says.

They have a drink with Stani and Ned after Stani closes up and they’ve played Trombal a number in the back room.

“The guitar is a turn-on,” Tom hears Will say quietly when they jump off the stage after playing one of their originals.

“Thanks, Will,” Tom says.

“But I like your voice best,” Will says, ignoring Tom, “and you didn’t need anything more than that.”

Tom wants to stress to Will that when one is paying their girlfriend a compliment, one should put expression in the voice. It can be useful.

Francesca takes Will’s hand and plays with it.

“It was just that stupid guitarist, remember? In the band Justine and I were in when Tom split. And he’d say I was nothing but a good voice —”

“And that you looked sexy in a sundress,” Tom says.

“I didn’t say sexy,” she says, irritated. “Anyway, he’d make us play numbers where there’d be five minutes of him dueling with Justine and all I got to do was twirl my skirt, like June Carter.”

“Beautiful woman, June Carter,” Stani says.

“Remember how he used to stand up real close to me in the middle of a number?” Justine shudders. “And he had the worst breath and when I told him I wasn’t interested, he was . . . just a . . .”

Francesca looks at Will. “What was he, babe?”

Will explains to Tom and Stani and Ned what the guy was, using one syllable.

Tom looks at him with disbelief. “You swear for her? Doesn’t that make you feel cheap?”

“He said we were hard work,” Justine explains.

“Who?” Tom asks.

“The post-you guitarist,” she says.

“If you’re comfortable being hard work, so be it,” Will says.

Francesca looks at him. “So you think we are hard work?”

Will’s shaking his head. “Is this one of those ‘Does my bum look big in this’ moments?”

“So now you’re saying she’s got a big bum and is hard work?” Tom asks.

He’s watching Will carefully because Wonder Boy is just about to walk into dangerous territory and Tom’s loving it.

“It’s that you come with . . .”

“Baggage?” Francesca asks.

“Accessories,” Will corrects her. “A whole lot of them. And they are hard work.”

“What he’s trying to say is that not everything has to be . . . solved . . . fixed . . . proven?” Tom says.

“Not what I was trying to say at all,” Will says coldly.

“It’s what they used to do in high school,” Tom continues, looking at Ned and Stani. “‘Let’s try to fix this and fix that’ and ‘Why can’t we do this and that?’ rather than just enjoying what was around them.”

“Enjoying?” she says with disbelief. “What? The sexism? The lack of choices?”

“Eva Rodriguez never complained once,” Tom argues. “Never. I was in homeroom with her in Year Twelve. Never once did she complain. ‘I’m in,’ she’d say. ‘Sound’s great.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘Hell, yeah.’ ‘Let’s do it.’ ‘Yeah, baby!’”

“He’s got a bit of a point there,” Will says. “She was very popular with my year when you girls first arrived.”

Tom’s relieved that Francesca’s attention has shifted away from him.

“Don’t give me that look, Frankie,” Will says. “You know my tongue was hanging out the moment you walked into that school.”