Head of the River by Pip Harry Page B

lines. His name painted in gold ink. I stare at it and run my hand over his name. Vasile Popescu. Will my name ever make it onto a wall? I doubt it. The space is for Leni, one day.
    I look at a framed photo of Dad’s crew sitting in the grandstand after winning worlds. The nine of them look so young. Dad has sideburns and long hair. His biceps bulge and his legs are massive. He’s wearing a green singlet studded with the Australian crest and he’s looking off camera with a slight smile. The others are grasping a trophy and have medals slung over their necks. They’re a tight group. Mates.
    â€˜The friends I’ll keep until the day I die are oarsmen,’ Dad tells Leni and I. ‘If it wasn’t for rowers I would never have made it out here in Australia. They took me into their hearts. Into their homes. That’s why I want you to row. You’ll meet people who’ll stick by you no matter what. Who will show you more kindness than you can stand.’
    Right on cue, Adam calls. Ads is a mate I’ll have forever and always. I know it.
    â€˜Your sister is doing my head in,’ he says, without even saying hello.
    I laugh because Leni does everyone’s head in. She’s a slippery fish. Hard to pin down and even harder to catch. Adam doesn’t stand a chance.

December
    Four months to Head of the River
    Leni
    We’re walking towards school for Dad’s boat-naming ceremony. It’s been a perfect, blue-sky day, which is tailing off into a warm, still summer night. Dad’s dressed in his best pants and shirt, Mum is in a pretty floral sundress and sandals. The plan is to go out for a special dinner afterwards. ThaiTanic, kids’ choice. The school has displayed the new eight on the front lawn in front of the chapel. The pearly white fibreglass is gleaming – untouched by scuff marks, mud or rust. Mum holds my hand and Dad’s as we walk as a family over to it. Cristian is a few steps behind.
    On the bow Dad’s name is printed in block letters, Vasile Popescu .
    â€˜Dad! It’s totally awesome,’ I say. Excited for him.
    Dad runs his calloused, knobbled fingers over his name. I’ve never seen him cry, but he’s looking misty. He looks at me and then at Cristian. I can tell his heart is bursting, like mine. Not everyone gets a boat named after them. It’s rowing’s highest honour.
    â€˜This is night to be proud of your name. Where you’re from,’ Dad says.
    â€˜We are, Dad,’ I say.
    Popescu . Usually I had to spell it out to people. Then answer the question: where are you from?
    â€˜When I came here I had nothing,’ says Dad. ‘So far from home. So homesick. To me, Australia was Opera House, kangaroos, sheep. I didn’t speak language. Had no friends. I start again. This,’ he gestures to the boat and thumps lightly on his chest, ‘shows me I make something of my life here.’
    â€˜Come on, Vas, let’s get you a champagne,’ Mum says, squeezing his arm.
    I hang back for a few seconds, soaking it up. To get into the ’92 Olympics Dad trained for three hours, then worked all day at a factory job, then trained again for three hours, then went home, ate, slept and did it all again the next morning at 5 am. ‘It wasn’t easy,’ he told me when I once tried on his old team jacket, its bottle-green sleeves hanging past my skinned knees. ‘But nothing worthwhile ever is.’
    My parents are swept up in the crowd of rowing parents. Tonight, the mums have swapped their regatta outfits for swishy cocktail dresses. The dads for suits and ties. Standing next to them Mum’s outfit now looks drab and worn. I notice Dad’s jacket strains around his bulging tummy. It’s missing a button.
    Everyone wants to talk to Dad. Tonight he isn’t the crazy European fix-it guy on the old bike. He’s the star of the show. The guest of honour. VIP. People get him beers and