Happy as Larry Read Online Free Page A

for a bigger hammer with which to chip away at the loan. Besides, being able to drive a car or a small truck made him infinitely more versatile as a postman.
    Denise couldn’t see how a licence would make her husband more versatile. She did see, however, that her man was less available for her and her father-hungry son.
    Denise and Larry made a ritual of spending the best part of Saturday mornings in the park, when the weather permitted, playing with the other kids from the neighbourhood. Denise recognised one of the park mums as someone from church. She brought her four kids to the park every Saturday morning, arriving before eight and leaving after a picnic lunch. She nodded to Denise but then buried her face in a magazine. The children, on the other hand, wasted no time in getting to know each other.
    Larry played with all the children, but soon found enduring friendship with two of the Saturday-morning regulars – Jemma, the second eldest of the church mum’s brood, about the same age as Larry, and Clinton, who lived opposite the park.
    Clinton was Larry’s height but chunky, with a head of dandruffy black hair. Denise decided that Clinton either had a very limited wardrobe or dressed himself on Saturday mornings, or both, because he always wore the same sauce-stained yellow T-shirt, tracksuit pants and little red gumboots without socks. Clinton played at the park unsupervised all morning and invited himself to dine at the church mum’s picnic every week. The church mum had tried to reason with him, and then tried shooing him off like a stray puppy. In time, she began to pack an extra cheese-and-tomato sandwich for the boy. It was Clinton who, inadvertently, broke the ice between the church mothers.
    It was the Saturday after an earthquake in Japan (4 October 1994) and the park had been shorn. The clippings of the unruly spring grass had been left in long windrows, and after Clinton had tired of throwing them at the other children, Jemma and Larry made a huge, sweet-smelling pile, then dug seats on the top. The pile of grass became their house.
    â€˜Just pretend . . .’ Jemma commanded. ‘Just pretend this is the kitchen. And this is the laundry and this is the mum and dad’s bedroom. Can’t go in there because Dad is asleep. Shhh.’
    Jemma was only a few months older than Larry, but being the second child of four had equipped her with an assertive style of play. Larry grinned and obeyed.
    They dug their seats deeper and piled the walls to knee height for a four-year-old.
    â€˜Just pretend . . . just pretend we are puppies and this is our kennel where we sleep,’ Jemma said, and they spooned together and cartoon-snored until a curl of Jemma’s hair tickled Larry’s nose and he giggled.
    Then Clinton was standing above them, his tracksuit pants bunched around his knees, penis aimed at the kennel. His thin lips curved into a malevolent smile as he sent a stream of piss splashing onto the legs of the hapless puppies. Jemma and Larry squealed and dashed clear. Clinton chuckled and rocked his hips from side to side until he’d peed evenly over the entire grass cubby.
    Denise ran and grabbed the boy by the shoulder as he was pulling up his pants.
    â€˜What are you doing?’ she screeched.
    Clinton shook her off and, without looking, ran across the road and through the open front door of his house.
    Denise took her son’s hand and looked at his wet leg, gobsmacked. Jemma’s mother swept in with a packet of tissues and offered one to Denise before mopping at her daughter’s ankles. The children, unfazed, ran off to the play equipment, and Denise’s disgust waned. When she exchanged glances with Jemma’s mum, the pair of them giggled.
    â€˜What on earth . . . ?’ Denise said, staring at the house across the road.
    â€˜I don’t think the poor kid knows any better,’ Jemma’s mother quietly offered. ‘I don’t think he