Gift of the Gab by Morris Gleitzman Page A

ears were still in one piece. On the outside, at least.
    I pulled my hands out of my pockets. ‘How did you know I speak sign?’ I asked.
    He frowned at me, thinking.
    â€˜Fry them with garlic and onions,’ he said.
    I realised we had a bit of a language problem. I asked him again, making my hand-movements slow and big.
    â€˜Ah, I understand,’ he said, making his slow and big too. ‘How do I know you speak sign? I know much about you Australian visitors. I watch people’s lips. I have been hoping to meet you. I love all Australians.’
    Boy, I thought. You obviously haven’t met Dermot Figgis or Darryn Peck.
    The old bloke’s face wrinkled into a scowl and for a sec I thought he had.
    Then he said, ‘Nobody told me about the party at the cafe last night.’ He sighed and gave a shrug. ‘Perhaps it’s because they know that me and Simone go to bed at seven-thirty.’ He patted the dog.
    â€˜Why do you like Australians?’ I asked.
    â€˜Come,’ he said. ‘I will show you.’
    He led me out of the cemetery and across a big paddock. It was a long, slow, muddy walk.
    Probably the best long, slow, muddy walk I’ve been on in my life.
    While we walked, the old bloke told me how during World War One the town was attacked by a German sausage. That’s what I thought he said. Then I realised he’d said German army.
    There were French soldiers defending it, he went on, and English, but mostly Australian.
    Suddenly he stopped.
    We were at the other side of the paddock. Running along by the fence was a deep trench, too wide to jump across. I could tell it was old from the weeds and rain gullies in the dirt walls. Parts of it had caved in, but other parts were about twenty times as deep as Erin’s sandpit at home.
    It would have taken some digging.
    For a sec I thought the old bloke was going to tell me the town people dug it in the war to work off the stress of being attacked by the Germans.
    He didn’t.
    â€˜Australians dug that,’ he said. ‘The Australian soldiers who saved the town.’
    He had tears on his cheeks.
    I didn’t blame him. I’d cry too if Australian soldiers saved my mum and dad.
    Then it hit me.
    Of course.
    That’s why everyone here’s been so kind to me and Dad. They must treat all Aussies that way. To say thanks for saving their town.
    I sat down at the edge of the trench, weak with relief.
    Dad didn’t do a deal with the local council after all. The reason they look after Mum’s grave is gratitude for the war.
    The dog was licking my face, probably hoping I’d play ‘Waltzing Matilda’.
    I was so happy I almost did.
    Then I remembered a couple of things and my lips went too stiff to get a note out of the mouth-organ even if I’d wanted to.
    One, Mum’s killer is still at large.
    Two, the old bloke’s an expert on Australian visitors.
    I looked up at him. My hands were shaking but I got them under control.
    â€˜Do you know who killed my mother?’ I asked.
    The old bloke wiped his eyes on a hanky and looked at me for a long time. At first I didn’t think he’d understood me. I pulled Erin’s rag doll and plastic car out of my pocket and made a little road in the dirt and crashed the car into the doll and knocked her down.
    I hated doing it but I had to be sure he understood.
    I did it again.
    I only stopped when I couldn’t see for tears.
    I felt something being pressed into my hand. It was the old bloke’s hanky. I wiped my eyes and gave it back to him.
    He gestured for me to hand him my notebook.
    I did.
    He wrote something and handed it back.
    Even before I made out the words I saw it was a name and address. I jumped up and threw my arms round the old bloke and hugged him.
    He looked startled, but I think he liked it.
    Thank you, my hug said. Thank you, thank you, thank you for finally telling me the name of the man who killed my mum.
    I