A simple farmer receives a horse from the gods, a man sells ice creams named after missing schoolkids, the demolition of a hotel brings an old horror to light, a wounded soldier finds the real enemy is in his own camp, a family inherits a peculiar r...
"MISTER Kemp," Miss Radcliffe said. "PLEASE tell me you are not looking out the window AGAIN?"
I whipped around to find that she was still looking down at the book she was marking. How on earth had she known I was looking out the window?
Knowing that anything I said or did would be used against me, I said nothing and did nothing. As with a vicious wild animal, it is best to keep very quiet and very still.
She finally looked up at me.
"You have developed the habit of interrupting my class. And I want it to stop. Right, NOW."
I wasn't really listening. I was thinking about the line outside the ice cream man's van. It was a hot summer's day and the line would be long. Long enough to last until I got out of here? Not likely.
There'd be none of the usual pushing and shoving in that line. Nobody joked or laughed or even smiled. Who would want to annoy the Ice Cream Man? He might leave and never come back. But we were afraid of more than that.
What was there to be afraid of?
It was hard to say. There was nothing strange about the van itself. Sure it was old and dingy, and there were wheels of mould on the bonnet, as if it was kept in a damp, dark place all week. The pictures of ice creams painted on the sides had faded to ghostly pastel smears of pink and yellow. Beside the serving window was a painting of a boy and girl holding ice creams. They seemed strangely eyeless, and the paint around their mouths had peeled back long ago, so that it looked almost as if they were screaming. Two vents on the roof spun slowly, wafting out the smells of burned waffle and melting chocolate and hot caramel. All the windows were heavily tinted: nothing of the van's interior could be seen except through the serving window, and all you could see through that was a wall that had probably once been white but had darkened over the years to the colour of butterscotch.
And the Ice Cream Man himself of course.
"I can assure you I have better things to do than spend my leisure time with disgusting little boys," Miss Radcliffe said, interrupting my thoughts.
She loved to call us that. Sure, we were pretty gross, but did it really need to be said? I wondered what better things she had to do, anyway. What did people like Miss Radcliffe do in their leisure time? I realised I didn't want to know.
It was already five past three and my detention hadn't even really got started yet. I sighed. No ice cream for me today. Not a chance.
"Bring your work to me," Miss Radcliffe said.
I looked down at my exercise book. There were three sums on the page, and I didn't need Miss Radcliffe to tell me they were all wrong. I'd spent most of the time drawing ice creams around the edges of the page. I'd also written a tiny swear word, which I quickly crossed out before bringing my exercise book up to Miss Radcliffe's desk. I couldn't bring myself to hand it over though – I just stood there like an idiot.
"Your BOOK, Mr Kemp."
I dropped it on her desk. Then I turned and began to take a great interest in a nearby pot plant. From behind me I heard a series of little tuts and sighs "oh dears". I looked up at the clock. Ten past three. The line would be down to half by now. The orders would be coming fast. Unfortunately for me, the Ice Cream Man was no slouch with an ice cream scoop.
There were only six flavours to choose from. It was five dollars for a single cone and seven-fifty for a double. That was it: no fancy extras, and no discounts. Who would have dared asked for one anyway? Not me.
The flavours were handwritten in black texta in a strangely childish, looping script, on a whiteboard beside the serving window,. I knew them all by heart. Everyone did.
George
Vanessa
Alicia
Vincent
Ebony
Richard
Weird names for ice cream flavours, you might say. Sure, whatever. The Ice Cream Man could have called them Snot, Pus, Vomit, Phlegm, Toe Jam, and Diarrhea for all we cared. Nobody complained there were only six flavours to choose from either. After all, there had been only five flavours last year - but I'll get to that.
You had to stand on your tiptoes to reach your ice cream (unless you were Emily from grade six, who was already taller than most of the teachers) because the Ice Cream Man never leaned out of the window to hand it to you. It was like he didn't want to be exposed to the sun - like he thought he might melt or something.
You never saw his face. His head was completely hidden above the serving window. All we saw of him was a stained white apron between two white arms. The arms were strangely unmarked, with no freckles or scars whatsoever, and completely hairless. Sometimes as his hands went about their business you caught a glimpse of his palms. They had no lines on them at all.
"He's got a disease," Jay whispered to me one day at recess.
"What disease?" I whispered back. I don't know why we were whispering, but nobody ever spoke about the Ice Cream Man out loud. Even whispering seemed risky.
"Tinnitus," Jay said confidently.
I had to take his word for it. Both Jay's parents were doctors. Not to mention Indian, which seemed to count somehow. This made Jay the last word on medical matters as far as I was concerned. But I'd never heard of a disease that could make you look like - well, let's be honest - like an ice cream.
"What's his face like?" I whispered.
Jay shrugged. "If you ever saw it, you wouldn't live to tell the tale."
We both laughed uneasily, and I imagined that where the Ice Cream Man's head was meant to be there was only a squat pyramid of vanilla ice cream.
Nobody had ever heard him speak. The only sounds that came from the van were the rustle of waffle cones and the click of the ice cream scoop and the splash as he dipped it into the bucket of warm water between serves. He never said a word. But what did he need to say? We placed our orders and he made them up and took our money and gave us the change. There was no need for chit-chat. Perhaps he was just shy.
Once his finger had brushed mine as he handed over a Double George (vanilla dipped in chocolate with sprinkles). I had almost dropped the cone in shock. Because that finger had been cold, so cold – like the ice at the back of a freezer. And ever since that day I was extra careful taking my ice cream.
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