The Watermelon

The house is grey, on stilts, maybe four feet up in the air. I won’t be able to stand under it, not quite, but there’s plenty of room to climb in and crawl, to hide away from Mum and Dad, to make a cubby house or perhaps just to explore.

Dad leads us up the wooden steps, one, two, three, into what he calls the sleep-out. With louvred windows, it’s just big enough for a single bed. It’ll be my bed, I decide, if I can get my way.

Next is the lounge room and, at the far end, the kitchen. A bedroom swings to one side and a passageway to the other. There’s no furniture. The only thing visible, on the counter between lounge and kitchen, is … I’m not sure what it is.

My imagination tells me it’s a bomb, or maybe the egg of some prehistoric bird, or perhaps a massive Irish football. I look to Mum, she always has an answer, but all she does is scrunch her face.

‘Ask your father,’ she says.

It’s about as hot as I can stand and I’m gasping for the coolness of a Coke or a lemonade. Even a drink from the kitchen tap might do, but that thing is blocking my way. I can’t wait for Dad to come and remove it, but he’s back outside unloading the car.

Mum circles the room. I know she’s thinking about where our furniture will go when it finally arrives. Not ten minutes ago, she was in a panic. All our stuff’s been delayed, Dad had told her. But he had calmed her, too, telling her the US Navy would be helping out with beds and such until the proper stuff arrived. That’s fine, I think, but I still have doubts about that thing lurking away in the corner. I edge a little closer, my eyes and ears open.

‘Dad, what is this?’ I ask, as the screen door slams. ‘Is it dangerous?’

Dad has a suitcase in each hand and Nicky perched on his shoulders. He grins.

‘What do you think it is?’ he says. ‘It's a bean from ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’.’

‘No, it's not,’ I say.

I can always tell when he’s fibbing.

‘It's a balloon,’ says Nicky.

‘Wrong,’ said Dad. He lifts Nicky to the floor. ‘It's a watermelon. They grow wild up here.’

Only Mum’s heard of them before.

‘What do we do with it?’ I ask.

‘We eat it, of course,’ says Dad.

I feel a shudder. Never, I think. Never in a million years. It would be like eating something raw, something alien and unknown. I make a face.

‘No way,’ I say. ‘I'm not touching it.’

‘What do they taste like?’ asks Mum.

‘Soft and sweet,’ says Dad. ‘You’ll love it.’

‘I'm not eating that green stuff,’ I say.

But Nicky is already picking at it.

‘You don't have to,’ says Dad. ‘You eat the inside. It's nice and red. Just wait till we slice it up.’

‘But we don’t have a knife,’ says Mum. ‘We don’t have anything.’

Dad thinks for a moment, then lifts the melon. He winks.

‘Come with me,’ he says.

He leads us back outside.

There’s no lawn or garden beyond the front steps, only a small concrete slab, almost hidden by dust. Dad holds the watermelon above it, at arm's length.

‘Stand back,’ he says with a smile. ‘Anything could happen.’

We laugh, and then shriek with delight as the melon falls.

I expect it to split like a stone. What I don’t expect is an explosion and the dance of a million pieces across the concrete and surrounding earth.

Dad lifts an unsoiled piece and sucks it dry.

‘Give it a try,’ he says.

Mum tries, and Nicky tries, but still I resist.

‘Here,’ said Nicky, ramming a piece in my face. I back away.

‘I don't want to,’ I say.

I watch the juice run down their chins. Slowly, I find myself giving in.

It’s not the smallest piece – I don’t want to seem cowardly - nor is it the largest – I don't want to get stuck with something I can't eat. I choose a piece that’s just right. I flick the seeds away, as I’ve seen Dad do, and bite.

Back home, I'd spend summer after summer following Mum and Dad through strawberry fields as they worked to earn extra money. And, summer after summer, I'd sit at the end of their row and, while their backs were turned, eat my fill from the punnets they’d left behind. But, immediately, I know. I won’t miss those times.

Hurriedly, I grab a much larger piece. Dad smiles as he catches my eye.

Sometime later, the truck arrives to deliver our stopgap furniture and Nicky and I watch as four burly sailors carry beds and tables and chairs and boxes into the house. Sometime after that, our skin is as red as the setting sun and the beast is dead.