"Wally" by Candace Petrik.

Wally.

Seven today and she hasn’t even had cake. Mumma says they have to stay outside and wait till they hear the sirens. Meredith is sitting under the two trees on the traffic island. The grass is soft and slightly long, thin and wispy enough to be green witch hair. She drags the blanket from the couch, drags her cousin Patrick out too because Mumma will be mad if she has to tell them twice. He puts his red cap on, grey hoodie covering all but the front of it. They play a game: whoever spots the most red cars wins. It takes ages for the first one to drive by because the only thing they can watch is the roundabout in front of them. They’re not allowed to stray to the main road, can hear sirens, but the ambulance won't come their way. They can hear the homeless man, yelling things to the traffic occasionally. He sits where he always does, with his back against an apartment block near the church, legs splayed out on the footpath. They’re not even allowed to say hi but this one is usually quiet, nice. Would sometimes chat with them when they were bored on Sundays. Meredith calls him Wally, because her Dad does. ‘Where’s Wally today?’ he laughs and Mumma says no, please don’t.

The tram grinds down Elgin Street, you can hear but can’t see. Meredith wants to jump on it but doesn't want to be lost wherever it ends up. Caught the wrong bus once with her big sister and nothing about the new place they ended up was exciting. Only after they found the bus back, then caught another that took them home did she decide that maybe she’d like another adventure. Her cousin won’t move from the blanket though, says the ambulance won’t come if he moves. And they’ve been waiting for ages and Grampa will probably die.

‘No he won’t,’ she says, she kicks up dirt with the heel of her slippers, the soft leather already turning darker from the moisture on the grass.

‘He’s gonna die anyway,’ her cousin says. ‘He’s gonna die today.’ She decides Patrick doesn’t deserve to come on any adventure, he’d only make it scary because he’d find all sorts of things wrong with it that she’d rather not think about. He’s only eight; she knows people way older. Her sister is older but she’s like a grown up, is learning to drive. Is allowed to swear because Mumma and Dad say it’s ok and she’ll just do it anyway even if they tell her no. But little kids make God angry if they swear.

‘You don’t know anything, Patrick,’ she says. ‘You only think you know.’

‘I know more than you.’

‘Bull. That’s such bull.’

She wonders what will happen to her princess party if Grampa dies today, if her Mumma will call all the girls from her class and tell them it’s not ever happening. Maybe her Mumma is inside now already, calling them. She wonders if it’s a bad thing that she’s still in the mood to get dressed up. But she already has the plastic silver crown on, even though it looks funny with her spotty pyjamas and woolly jumper. She has the pink dress with all its slinky frills laid out on her bed and you have to get dressed with the things you lay out, because otherwise it doesn’t make sense to put them there in the first place.

Another siren, but this doesn’t come down their street either. It’s been at least half an hour since Mumma called one. Patrick has spotted another red car, it turns their way round the roundabout and heads past them looking for a car park, just like they all do. She realises this game is stupid. The homeless man has started singing, she can hear him even from half a street away because he’s yelling more than actually hitting the right notes like in choir. He sings like how drunk people sing on TV and movies, so the words bleed together and there’s no tune and you can’t even tell what he’s going on about. She doesn’t think she’s seen a drunk person in real life, at least not a singing one.

‘We’re gonna talk to Wally,’ she says. Her cousin looks at her, but doesn’t reply right away. He shakes his head.

‘We’ll miss it.’

‘We won’t miss it stupid, you can hear an ambulance coming from a bazillion miles away.’

Patrick gathers up the blanket and wraps it around himself instead of just carrying it, it drags on the dirt and then the bitumen as they walk. Wally doesn’t notice them, not even when they’re standing right in front of him because he’s singing with his eyes closed. He smells a bit like the bad kids at her school that have shiny, unbrushed hair. They wear the same coats every winter that are stained brown all over, especially on the bums and arm pits and they are either too big or too small. Mumma says be nice to them, but it’s so hard when the kids are mean or quiet or weird, not saying hi back when Meredith talks to them. Wally’s beared is grey and brown and his hair is just as scruffy, his face is brownish in places, like he is developing a crust. Patrick pauses just behind her like a cat who thinks it can turn invisible if it stays still enough.

‘Hi,’ she says, even though she isn’t as brave as she is when he hasn’t been singing. His breath is sweet and warm, like the smells inside a public toilet.

‘Princess,’ he croaks. ‘How are you princess?’

‘I’m seven today,’ she says.

‘So am I!’ he says, then he chuckles at himself. ‘Do you like my song?’

She nods even though she is glad he’s stopped.

‘Special birthday song,’ he says. ‘Special birthday.’

‘It’s not special,’ she says. But she doesn’t tell him about Grampa maybe dying because Mumma says Wally has come from something bad. He’s probably had lots of grandparents die and she doesn’t want to upset him.

She can sense Patrick edging away bit by bit, watching the road for the sign of an ambulance. He reacts every time he hears a car, and when they hear another siren going, he almost twitches.

‘You sick?’ Wally asks him. But sometimes Wally’s so hard to understand, Meredith isn’t sure this is what he’s asked until he wobbles it out a few more times. She shakes her head.

‘Patrick’s just being a baby.’

‘I’m not!’ Patrick says, dropping the blanket and beginning to kick at it. He kicks it and kicks it, so dirt and leaves and twigs become all twisted into the wool.

‘Don’t, you’re wrecking it.’ She kicks his feet to stop him, but he shoves her away. ‘Patrick, don’t!’

‘I wanna go home.’

‘It’s my home, you don’t even live there.’

‘Grampa lives there.’

‘So?” She gives Wally a look, like he might understand how annoying cousins are, especially when you are forced to play with them on your own birthday. But he is murmuring to himself, she can’t tell if this is another song because of how quiet he is, but he is staring at his feet, nodding his head.

She doesn’t know what time it is, but it feels like it’s been ages. Feels like maybe it’s too late to have her party now. If she were having it, her friends from school would be here already. The music would be playing and she’d be eating the fairy bread Mumma started making right before Grampa’s breathing went bad this morning. Her watch is on her bed next to her dress. It’s a special grown-ups one that her Mumma gave her when she woke up; the minute and hour hands are large, with smiling faces drawn on them. She is so angry about the party it takes her a moment to notice that Patrick has started crying. He is standing with his hands in fists, hiccoughing and sniffing, snot and tears mingling down his face.

‘Fine,’ she snaps, but this doesn’t shut him up. ‘I said Fine, Patrick? We can go home, but you’re gonna feel really dumb when Grampa isn’t dead.’

‘You don’t know anything!’ Spit and snot fly everywhere, he shakes his fists. He is blubbering too loudly to be understood now, may as well be yelling made-up words. Baby, she thinks. But then he runs. He sniffles into his hoodie sleave, running as fast as he can towards the house. Meredith is suddenly alone with Wally, who has been watching the whole display like you would something on a TV. When Patrick is gone Wally starts laughing.

‘Stop it!” she cries. She wants to run away too, but there’s nowhere to go but home, with Patrick’s crying and Grampa’s breathing and no party. She claps her hands over her ears.

‘Don’t, Wally! It’s not even funny.’

But his laughing is like his singing, his eyes are closed and he doesn’t listen.

"Candace Petrik is from Melbourne. She is writing about the apocalypse for her first novel and enjoys caffeine..."