‘Not bad,’ said Frankie. ‘Started new book project. New partners. New girl and me. New cricket practice time.’ He usually gave Ma the day in shorthand. It was simpler.
‘Sydney, the new girl?’
‘And her sisters are called Galway and Calcutta. Can you believe that? What’s for dinner?’ There was a competing savoury smell in the kitchen but he couldn’t pin it down.
‘Chicken pie,’ said Ma. She sprinkled walnuts on the filo. ‘Galway and Calcutta!’
‘They were born there,’ said Frankie.
‘Like Sydney was born in Sydney. Can we have mashed potatoes? Louie’s favourite. And he prefers tinned peas.’ Conveniently, this was also what Frankie preferred with his chicken pie.
He began assembling the ingredients for a massive banana smoothie and thought back yet again to Wednesday a fortnight ago. Just now, it was his favourite default memory.
‘Your mate’s in a pet,’ Sydney had said at lunchtime. She was following Frankie to the canteen, though he hadn’t asked her.
‘A pet?’ said Frankie.
‘A big fat sulk,’ said Sydney. She bought a bagel with cream cheese and jam and waited while Frankie got an apple juice.
‘He doesn’t like me,’ said Sydney. Since this was obviously true, Frankie said nothing. The puzzle was why? Sydney was certainly different, but that was a good thing, surely? Apart from Vienna, who Frankie had known forever because her father was a friend of Uncle George’s, and maybe Renee, the other newish girl who seemed passable, the rest of the girls in the class, if not the entire school, were exceptionally silly.
They were always feuding or having hysterics about project deadlines. Or they were trying to match each other up with different boys in Year Eight. Frankie had spent weeks last year worrying about what to do every time a girl rang him up. He hadn’t wanted to be rude, but he also strenuously had not wanted to go to the movies or The Mall with them. That was the other thing: all the girls in his class ever did was go to The Mall. He and Gigs had had many a conversation about the crucifying boringness of The Mall and the complete tedium of having to go there with any of the girls from their class. They’d rather score an own goal, they decided, than go to The Mall.
Frankie poured milk into the blender and broke two eggs into the liquid from a great height. He enjoyed the wet sucking sound that produced. He peeled two bananas, sliced them carefully down the middle and chopped them into thirds.
Sydney, he thought, was very much not a Mall girl. For a start she wore very un-Mall like clothes. Plus, her hair was dreaded and this had already caused a minor sensation in Room 11. Most of the girls in Room 11 stuck to a narrow range of hairstyles, strictly no dreads. Apparently there was a rule somewhere—probably in Bronwyn Baxter’s head—which decreed a girl couldn’t get dreads till she was at high school.
Sydney seemed oblivious to rules of the Bronwyn Baxter sort. She marched to a different drum, as Uncle George liked to say about people. She was an independent operator (another Uncle George-ism). Independent operations, Sydney-style, apparently meant making friends with a boy in the class rather than all the other girls. This really was very interesting, Frankie thought. He’d never seen it before. When a new girl arrived she was usually swallowed up by the phalanx of Room 11 girls, just as a new boy was somehow magnetically pulled towards the cricket game at lunchtime, or the clusters of other boys wandering round the grounds, chucking balls or wrestling each other to the ground.
Not Sydney. She’d ignored most of the girls and they’d ignored her right back. At lunchtime on her second day she’d followed Frankie over to the cricket pitch. He really didn’t know how to tell her that no girl ever played cricket at lunchtime; it was strictly boy territory. But no problem, Gigs did that for him, anyway. ‘I can bowl, you know,’ said Sydney.
‘Yeah,’ said Gigs, derisively. He was tossing the ball high, over and over, and catching it with increasingly wristy flourish. Frankie felt small prickles of tension starting on his arms.
‘I was strike bowler for my school team in Australia,’ said Sydney.
‘You lived in Australia?’ said Frankie, blushing at the question as soon as he’d uttered it, since she’d just said so. But diversionary tactics seemed necessary.
‘Girls can’t bowl,’ said Gigs. ‘They’ve got stupid elbows.’ Frankie and Gigs had privately concluded this some time ago, but Frankie wished now it wasn’t so.
‘My sister can bowl,’ said David Robinson. ‘And she’s fast.’ Frankie and Gigs had also privately admitted that David Robinson’s sister, Julie, was the exception to the otherwise iron-cast girls-can’t-bowl law, but Gigs rightly said this was because Julie Robinson was practically a man; she was big and fierce and had a six pack where other girls had breasts.
‘I’m fast too,’ said Sydney, at which moment she darted sideways and upwards and expertly intercepted Gigs’s ball on its downward trajectory. She ran to the other end of the pitch and proceeded to send down a ball of excellent line and length. Seventy ks, Frankie reckoned, giving it a practised assessment.
‘Boy!’ he said, stealing a look at Gigs.
Frankie particularly enjoyed reliving that ball of Sydney’s. He dug deep now into the vanilla ice-cream and added two scoops to the blender. He considered the height of the mixture for a moment then added a third scoop.
‘Hey!’ said Ma.
‘It’s a three-scoop kind of day,’ said Frankie. He stabbed the blender button and watched the banana, milk, eggs and ice-cream bump and bounce and transform themselves into his smoothie.
Gigs certainly had his blind spots, Frankie thought—his little brothers and sister being three of them. But the good thing about him was his basic fair-minded nature. He always gave skill its due. And cricket skill was particularly high on Gigs’s priority list for a perfect human being.
After Sydney had bowled that ball and David Robinson had fielded it and the guys had gathered round, all grinning, Sydney had stood, hands on hips, bulging her eyes at Gigs, and Gigs had stared back and Frankie had held his breath for what seemed an entire historic era.
‘Not bad,’ said Gigs, finally. ‘Can you bat, too?’
Frankie had felt like bursting into song.
Right now, he decided to drink straight from the blender. No point in making extra dishes. He took two straws from the cupboard and headed for the stairs.
‘We’re going to Upham’s. I can get anything you need,’ he called to Ma.
‘More honey. And lemons. I need to do the mint and honey cake later tonight.’ Ma often baked late. It was an occupational hazard, she said. If there were early morning orders, late-night baking was unavoidable. She put the cakes in the oven and went to bed with the timer. She said it was like getting up to feed a new baby.
‘And cream for Louie’s cake!’ she called.
‘Make a list!’ Frankie shouted. After-school shopping always fell to him. Gordana was never around to do errands. She was either at work or the gym. Apparently earning money or getting fit relieved you of all household tasks. Frankie wondered if he should get a paper round. Or take up boxing.
The smoothie was very good. Frankie sat on his bed with the blender balanced on his raised knees and sucked hard. It was enjoyable being disgusting. When he was full he was going to lie down and listen to some music, an even more disgusting undertaking because, apparently, you weren’t supposed to lie down on a full stomach. Too bad.
Then he’d go to Upham’s with Gigs, then the supermarket. He’d go to Pak’nSave because it was nearest to Upham’s, even though, as far as he knew, Pak’nSave still had a ban on Louie for shoplifting in Year Ten. Louie’s name was somewhere on a list of Bad Boys and for years Frankie had boycotted Pak’nSave out of brotherly loyalty. And also a lurking fear that the check-out girls had him marked as a potential delinquent. Louie had eaten a piece of Belgian slice from the in-store deli while he was pushing the trolley round the aisles, and technically this was stealing.
‘Damn right, it’s
stealing,’ Uncle George had repeated every few minutes to Louie. The school counsellor had given Uncle George strict instructions not to minimise the eating of in-store Belgian slice in the supermarket aisles. Frankie had heard Uncle George explaining it to Ma. Ma had been upset with Louie too, but mostly, it seemed to Frankie, for eating supermarket Belgian slice when it was so inferior to her own. Louie had sworn black and blue he’d just forgotten to pay, but Frankie doubted it. Personally, he’d always thought it was Louie’s cunning way of permanently avoiding shopping duty.
That was four years ago. Louie was nineteen now—today!—and a responsible citizen, apparently. He worked for De Souza’s Document Destruction, collecting bins of print material for shredding. It was the perfect job for Louie. He got to drive round the city in a white truck with a car phone and a CD player; he got to take his beagle, Ray Davies, with him; he got to chat up dozens of girls in dozens of offices. Louie was a big fan of girls. Once Louie had been like Gigs: devoted to soccer and cricket statistics, and roundly contemptuous of all females and female pursuits. Then suddenly, in Year Ten, seemingly overnight in Frankie’s memory, he’d begun talking to girls on the phone for whole evenings at a time. Shortly after that he’d started going out with Honey Johnson. Honey Johnson was the Bronwyn Baxter of Louie’s year. Her name really was Honey, a fact Frankie had always been rather fond of; she was a know-it-all with a pert blonde ponytail and surf shop clothes and she was very pretty. An Alpha girl, Uncle George had sighed. Everyone had his Honey Johnson moment, said Uncle George, and there was no going back after that.
A thought struck Frankie with sudden force. He slid off his bed and changed into his togs. Last week Gigs had asked Bronwyn Baxter to be his book project partner. Frankie had experienced a moment of terrible disorientation when Gigs had done this: if there was one immutable fact in their lives it was that Bronwyn Baxter was sillier than a headless gnu. So they had to choose new partners, but there were plenty of other people Gigs would have been happy to work with. Solly, for example. Or David Robinson. He was a good guy. Or Vienna. She was fun, even if Gigs didn’t have any time for girls.
But perhaps he did have time for girls now and Frankie hadn’t noticed. Perhaps this was his Honey Johnson moment. Could that be possible? Frankie walked up the stairs slowly and opened the hall cupboard. He stared into it, briefly unseeing. Gigs wasn’t thirteen until June. Surely he wasn’t old enough to have a Honey Johnson moment? But then, Seamus Kearney must have had his when he was about five and a half. As long as Frankie could remember he’d been going on about girls in what Mr A liked to call ‘a malodorous way’.
Frankie took the shopping bag from the hall cupboard. It was sturdy hessian with a wide reinforced strap that made it perfect for hefting groceries. Gordana had made the bag years ago in Year Eight Manual. She’d dyed it purple and embroidered Ma’s name on it, though of course, Ma never took it anywhere. Frankie had admired the bag enormously at the time. He thought Gordana’s embroidered rolling pin and eggbeater were quite brilliant. He thought the way she’d decorated the letters of Ma’s name—F R A N C I E—with wooden spoons and measuring cups and cookie cutters was especially nifty.
It was a pity Gordana didn’t do that sort of thing any more, Frankie thought. She’d done a lot of sewing and artwork back then. She’d been full of good ideas. She’d planned to be a clothes designer. Frankie didn’t know what Gordana was planning these days. Probably a job in reception; she spent enough time on the phone.
Gigs was turning in the gate, chewing his way down a Killer Python. Frankie was halfway down the path when Ma called out to him from the front door.
‘One more thing!’ she said. ‘Some oranges! For zest!’ Frankie turned and waved to show he’d heard. Ma stood well back from the open door, her face in the shadow.
‘Hey, Francie!’ Gigs called.
‘Hey, Gigs!’ came Ma’s voice. ‘You coming back for cake?’
‘Definitely!’
Frankie checked the letterbox. He’d forgotten to do it on the way in from school. The mail was still there. Gigs handed him the Killer Python and he bit off the blue section. That was their arrangement: Frankie always ate the blue and green sections if it was Gigs’s Python; they reversed the practice if Frankie had bought the Python; neither of them much liked the blue and green flavours, but nor did they like to waste a particle of any lolly. Frankie couldn’t remember the two of them ever having discussed this; they’d just always done it. There was a lot you didn’t need to discuss with Gigs.
‘First one to the library,’ said Gigs, punching him on the arm. But Frankie could hit presto from a standing start and he pulled ahead of Gigs immediately. Gigs always proposed their races, though he never won any. Frankie was the runner, they both knew that. Just as Gigs was the better batsman.
Frankie pushed through the sticky westerly heat and down the hill, the dust pricking his nose, the supermarket bag flapping like a hefty wing. Behind him Gigs did his bloodcurdling downhill holler.
He didn’t seem like a guy who’d had his Honey Johnson moment. Frankie really hoped not. He didn’t want anything to change.
(2008)
Rachel Bush, ‘The Strong Mothers’
Where are the mothers who held power
and children, preserved peaches
in season, understood about
greens and two classes of protein
who drove cars or did not have a licence
who laughed, raged and were there?
Take Mrs Russell who rode her irate bike,
an upright fly that buzzed
with a small engine on its back wheel
up South Road past the school football field
on her way to the hospital. Consider
the other Mrs Russell, drama judge, teacher of
speech and elocution in a small front room,
part-time reporter on The Hawera Star.
And Mrs Ellingham who had an MA in French,
ah, the university. Or Mrs Smith, one knee stiff
with TB, her tennis parties on Saturdays, adults
on banks and we smoked their cigarettes in the bamboo.
Her legs shone, their skin in diamonds like a lizard’s.
Then Mrs Chapman who sang in the church choir,
formed brooches from fresh white bread,
made you look for a needle till you found it,
heated records and shaped them into vases for presents
who did a spring display in the window of Gamages Hats.
They have left the vowels uncorrected, the stories unproofed.
They have rested their bicycles inside their garages,
looked up the last word, la dernière mot, in Harraps Dictionary,
let needles lie in the narrow dust between verandah boards.
They have tested the last jam on a saucer by a window
comforted the last crying child they will ever see,
and left. How we miss them and their great strength.
Wait for us, we say, wait for me.
And they will.
(2002)
Damien Wilkins, ‘Reunion’
I was in the public library café the other week. At a nearby table was a group of mothers and fathers with their babies and their toddlers. One of these toddlers—a girl of about two—was making it her habit to hop down from her chair and escape. She’d set off in the direction of the lift doors. The café is very open and leads across a mezzanine to lifts, which carry you down to the library or to the underground car park.
The little girl, with a smile on her face, because she knew exactly what she was doing—she knew she was cute and young and blameless—she would run through the café towards the lifts. Her father, on whose love she could depend, would let her get a certain distance and then he’d put down his coffee and stand up and walk fairly quickly to retrieve his daughter. He’d scoop her up and she’d cry out in pleasure and they’d return; the girl would be put on her chair again and the father would pick u
p his coffee again and try to have a life again. This happened a few times, and the pair had a good audience—mostly older couples having lunch. We were enjoying the spectacle. Each time, the father would let the girl run a little further. He’d ignore her for a little longer. He was trying to finish his coffee or the conversation he was having. He was with adults; it was a rare treat and he didn’t want to miss out. But eventually, of course he’d go and get her again. Short of tying her down in some way, what else could he do?
It was all developmental.
He put her in the playpen with the slide and she climbed the little wall and ran off. He gave her some of his cake, which she ate while leaving. He removed someone’s else’s child from the top of the slide and put her in his place. She slid down and escaped. He spoke with his nose pressed against hers, forehead to forehead almost, like soccer players sometimes do. She heard him out and hopped down while he wasn’t looking. He said, I will give you everything, a TV above the cot, everything. Please stay there. By this stage most of the audience were a little bored. When the girl ran past the tables now hardly anyone was looking and if they did it was with a bit of annoyance—won’t someone deal with that child?
So this last time, the father really ignores her and the girl gets as far as the lifts—she’s made it—and she stands in front of them. She doesn’t know what to do now. The father gets up and maybe he’s a little concerned, though he doesn’t want to frighten his daughter, so he sort of begins half-jogging towards the girl, and he may even be making a few noises of discouragement.
The doors to the lift open and the girl steps inside and the the doors close and she’s gone.
The father arrives at the lift and pushes the button but the lift has obviously started on its journey.
Now the father doesn’t know what his next move is. He looks over the railing of the mezzanine wondering if his daughter will get out there. But what if she carries on down to the car park? What if she steps out there? That’s probably where they parked the car. Would she run to the car? She can recognise their car. She’s a very clever girl. Then he presses the lift button again. The other lift has arrived—but should he step in? Maybe he’ll miss her, if he’s in one lift and she’s in the other. He sort of hops around. He puts his arm inside the lift door to prevent it closing. I know what he’s thinking because I’ve been more or less in the same boat. He’s thinking, She’ll be fine. But he’s also thinking, I’ll never see her again. And it’s all my fault. He’s thinking because he wanted to finish his coffee, he loses his daughter. For one tiny moment of selfishness, this is my punishment? The hundreds of hours, the two-plus years, all that care, the mornings, the early mornings, and the nights, you’ve got to be joking, the nights. So all that counts for nothing? Oh God, what have I done! How did I deserve this? Never to see her grow up. Oh please, dear God. Mercy! I beg you! Please bring my daughter back safely to me.
The Auckland University Press Anthology of New Zealand Literature Page 141