Boy Swallows Universe: Extract from Trent Dalton’s best-selling book

Things are tough in Eli’s home as Christmas approaches, but there are a couple of ways to get around that - enjoy this extract from Trent Dalton’s bestseller Boy Swallows Universe.

Things are tough in Eli’s home as Christmas approaches, but there are a couple of ways to get around that - enjoy this extract from Trent Dalton’s bestseller Boy Swallows Universe.

Our Christmas tree is an indoor plant named Henry Bath. Henry Bath is an Australian weeping fig. Henry Bath is five feet tall when he sits in the terracotta pot Dad keeps him in. Dad likes trees and he likes Henry Bath, with all his cluttered green leaves shaped like canoes and a grey fig trunk like a frozen carpet snake.

He likes to personalise his plants because if he doesn’t personalise them — picture them possessing human needs and wants in some tiny and whimsical part of a mind I am only beginning to realise operates with as much order and predictability as the insides of our lounge room vinyl beanbag – then he is less inclined to water them and the plant is more likely to succumb to the endless assault of Dad’s stubbed-out rollies. He named Henry after Henry Miller and the bath he was lying back in reading Tropic of Cancer when he thought of naming the weeping fig.

‘Why does Henry weep?’ I ask Dad as we slide the tree over to the centre of the living room where the ironing board stands, 24/7, our old iron rusting away in its square metal hand.

‘Because he’ll never be able to read Henry Miller,’ he says.

We push the pot plant in place.

‘Gotta be careful where we put him,’ Dad says. ‘Moving Henry to a new place kinda gives ’im a shock.’

‘You serious?’ I ask.

He nods.

Boy Swallows Universe by Trent Dalton

‘Different kind of light shines on him, new temperature in a new place, bit of a draught maybe, change in humidity, and he thinks it must be a different season. He starts shedding his

leaves.’

‘So he can feel things?’

‘Sure, he can feel things,’ Dad says. ‘Henry Bath is a sensitive son of a bitch. That’s why he turns on the waterworks all the time. Like you.’

‘Whaddya mean, like me?’

‘You like a good cry,’ he says.

‘No, I don’t,’ I say.

He shrugs his shoulders.

‘You loved to cry as a bub,’ he says.

I forgot this. I forgot he knew me before I knew him.

‘I’m surprised you remember,’ I say.

‘Of course I remember,’ he says. ‘Happiest days of my life.’

He stands back and assesses the new location of Henry Bath.

‘Whaddya reckon?’ Dad asks.

I nod. August holds two pieces of Christmas tinsel in his hands, one twinkling red and one twinkling green, both of them losing their tinsel fibres over time, like Henry Bath slowly loses leaves and Dad might be slowly losing fibres of his mind.

August lays the tinsel carefully over Henry Bath and we stand around the weeping fig, marvelling at the saddest Christmas tree in Lancelot Street and possibly the Southern Hemisphere.

Dad turns to us both.

‘I got a Christmas box coming from St Vinnies later this afternoon,’ he says. ‘Got some good gear in ’em. Can of ham, pineapple juice, some liquorice squares. I thought we could have a bit of a day of it tomorrow. Give each other gifts ’n’ shit.’

‘What, you got us gifts?’ I ask, dubious.

August smiles, encouraging. Dad scratches his chin.

‘Well, no,’ he says. ‘But I had an idea.’

August nods. Great, Dad, he writes in the air, urging Dad on.

‘I had this thought that we could each choose a book from the book room and we could wrap it up and put it under the tree,’ Dad says.

Dad knows how much August and I have been enjoying his bedroom book mountain.

‘But not just any ol’ book,’ he says. ‘Maybe something we’ve been reading or something that’s really important to us or something we think someone else might enjoy.’

August claps his hands, smiling. Gives a thumbs-up to Dad. I’m rolling my eyes as if my eye sockets were filled with two loose Kool Mint lollies from a St Vincent de Paul Christmas charity box.

Australian author Trent Dalton. Picture: Russell Shakespeare

‘Then, you know, we can eat some liquorice squares and read our books for Christmas,’ Dad says.

‘And how is this any different from any other day for you?’ I ask.

He nods. ‘Yeah, well, we can all read in the living room,’ he says. ‘You know, we can read together.’

August punches me in the shoulder. Stop being a dick. He’s trying. Let him try, Eli.

I nod. ‘Sounds great,’ I say.

Dad goes to the kitchen table and tears a TAB betting ticket into three pieces, scribbles a name on each piece with the pencil he uses to circle horses in the form guide. He screws the pieces up and holds them in his hand.

‘You get first pick, August,’ Dad says.

August picks a piece of ticket, opens it with a glint of Christmas spirit in his eye.

He shows us the name: Dad.

‘All right,’ Dad says. ‘August picks a book for me. I pick a book for Eli and Eli picks a book for August.’

Dad nods. August nods. Dad looks at me.

‘You will stick around for it, won’t ya, Eli?’ Dad asks.

August looks at me. You’re an arsehole. Really.

‘Yeah, I’ll stick around,’ I say.

Extract from Boy Swallows Universe by Trent Dalton, RRP$19.99, out now.

Originally published as Boy Swallows Universe: Extract from Trent Dalton’s best-selling book