Honeybee

by Craig Silvey;

  In the morning I found Vic in his garage. It smelled like oil and it was full of tools and engine parts that Vic was sorting into boxes. His hands were black with grease.

  ‘Did I make you sick?’

  Vic flinched because I startled him.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I heard you throwing up last night.’

  ‘Oh. No, no. Bit too much brandy, I reckon.’

  I stepped into the garage.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Packing this stuff up. Otherwise someone’ll just run through here and toss it all out. Might get some use this way.’

  I walked up to a big object that was covered by a white sheet.

  ‘What’s under here?’

  Vic stopped what he was doing and wiped his hands on a rag. He came over and removed the sheet. Underneath was a motorcycle. It was shiny and black with a silver engine.

  ‘This is a 1953 Vincent Black Shadow,’ he said. ‘It was my old man’s.’

  Vic went over to a shelf and kneeled down to open an old toolbox. He pulled out a small black-and-white photo and showed it to me. A man and a boy were standing on either side of the motorbike.

  ‘Is that you?’

  Vic nodded.

  ‘Taken the day he first rode it home.’

  Vic’s dad looked a lot like him. He had a handkerchief tied around his neck and his jacket had patches on the elbows. Both of them were squinting, and neither of them were smiling.

  ‘Your dad doesn’t look very happy.’

  Vic laughed.

  ‘That’s because the old girl had just slammed the front door off its hinges. He knew how much shit he was in.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘He’d gone out that morning to buy an automatic washing machine, and that’s what he came back with.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Vic smiled and shook his head.

  ‘She saved the whole year for that washing machine. She gave him the money in an envelope and made me go with him so he couldn’t take a detour to the pub. Soon as we’re out the door, he tells me we’re going to the races at Ascot. He knew a groom who gave him the inside word on a three-year-old colt by the name of … what was it? Raconteur. That’s right. He put every pound in that envelope on the nose and made me promise not to tell. It was the boldest thing I had ever seen. I was shaking as they went into the barriers. He picked me up and put me on his shoulders so I could see. We bellowed it home. Came in with daylight in between. He let me hold the collect. I’d never seen so much money. We could barely fit it in the envelope. And within the hour it was all gone. Spent it all on this motorcycle right here.’

  ‘I can see why your mum was so angry.’

  ‘Angry doesn’t even touch the sides. She never washed his clothes again.’

  ‘Good for her.’

  Vic rubbed the motorcycle with the rag. He was really gentle with it.

  ‘Made no difference to him. He loved this bike more than any of us. He’d take me out sometimes and open it up along the coast. Hundred mile an hour on a limestone track.’

  ‘Were you scared?’

  ‘Out of my skin. You’d never meet a man more accident prone than my father. He’d had more broken bones than a squashed snake, but he never got so much as a scratch on the Black Shadow. He was a different man when he rode it. I’d sit right here and close my eyes and hold on for dear life. He never took my sisters out on it. It was just for us. He took it apart to clean and repair it, showed me how the engine worked. That’s what got me started on all this.’

  I looked at all the machine parts lying around.

  ‘Does it still go?’

  ‘Like the clappers. Hasn’t been really opened up on the road in maybe seven or eight years now, though. Tyres need a pump. Otherwise she’s good as new. Edie loved it.’ He pointed over my shoulder, and I turned to see two helmets hanging on the wall. One was matte black, the other was polished and lavender-coloured.

  ‘Which one is yours?’ I asked.

  Vic laughed, which made me feel good. But then he started coughing again and he had to sit down on a paint tin. I put the sheet back over the motorcycle, then I went over to him. I was worried. His face was really red and he couldn’t get any air in. He stopped after a while and spat into his rag. I could see blood.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yeah mate.’

  ‘Do you want some water?’

  Vic shook his head. I waited until he had his breath back.

  ‘Vic, do you mind if I borrow some clothes? I’ve been wearing this for three days and I’m starting to smell bad.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve got some old duds in a chest of drawers in the bedroom. Help yourself.’

  ‘Thanks. Can I have a shower too?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Vic’s bathroom was dirty. I took the watch off and showered then went back to the bedroom wrapped in a crusty old towel that was hanging on a rack. I opened the chest of drawers. It was full of shorts and singlets and polo shirts. The bottom drawer had handkerchiefs and underwear and socks. I found one apricot-coloured handkerchief with lace edges that was stained with old brown blood.

  It felt strange going through Vic’s clothes. I chose a pair of black King Gee drawstring shorts and a white t-shirt with a sunset print. I laid them on the bed.

  I knew I shouldn’t, but before I put them on I slid open the door of the wardrobe. It was filled with Edie’s clothes. It was like I had found treasure. Her taste was amazing. My heart was pounding as I worked my way along the racks. I found a black sequinned halterneck dress, an emerald green jumpsuit, a royal blue silk gown, a navy floral pinafore dress. There was an embroidered stonewash denim jacket, a crimson wide-shouldered wool blazer with pearl buttons, a black leather skirt, high-waisted pants with wide black and white stripes, a lavender cardigan with deep pockets. In a box, covered in tissue paper, was her wedding dress. It was like she had kept every piece of clothing she had ever worn in her whole life. At the end of one of the racks I found a cute tartan baby-doll dress with a round white collar. I held it against my body. It looked like it would fit me perfectly. It was so pretty. I wanted to try it on, but I didn’t.

  In the drawers beneath I found tops and some nighties. There was a whole drawer full of knitwear. I pulled out an oversized mauve scoop neck jumper and laid it on the bed on top of Vic’s clothes. In the bottom drawer there were leggings and tights and sweatbands and a stack of old aerobics videos. I matched the mauve jumper with a pair of black leggings and a pair of white Reebok sneakers with a pastel pink trim.

  I stared at the outfit and chewed on my lower lip. I worried that it was too risky, but I tried it all on anyway. Everything fit perfectly, even the shoes. The clothes smelled musty, so I sprayed my wrists with some Elizabeth Arden perfume from the vanity table.

  I sat down on the stool. It was hard to look at myself in the mirror. The cut on my jaw had a yellow bruise around it, and my skin looked blotchy. I opened a tub of foundation cream and spread some across my cheekbones and my sore jaw, but I still looked really ugly. None of that mattered anyway because I couldn’t fix my hair. I barely even recognised myself.

  My hair had always been long. By the time I was six, it had grown down to my waist. I liked brushing it and braiding it and swooshing it around. I thought it was beautiful. It was the only thing I loved about myself.

  My mum didn’t care, as long as I looked after it and let her trim my split ends. People always thought I was a little girl, and they would pull a strange face when my mum corrected them.

  I knew most boys had short hair, but it wasn’t until I started school that I felt ashamed of it. Boys pulled my ponytail and teased me and laughed. The girls looked at me like I was disgusting, and gossiped about me.

  My first-grade teacher told my mum that I wasn’t integrating or learning proper socialisation skills, and I would continue to be isolated until I got my hair cut. My mum enrolled me at a different school, but it wasn’t any better. A boy called Dan
ny Tarrant snuck up behind me during Silent Reading and cut off a chunk of my hair. I turned around and pushed him. He fell and the scissors sliced his hand open. There was blood and hair everywhere. I watched him scream and cry.

  I was sent to the principal, who called my mum in to pick me up. They had a meeting in his office while I waited outside. When she came out she looked tired. She drove me straight to a shopping plaza and didn’t say a word. She led me into a salon called Hair To Dye For. I knew I was in trouble, so I just hid behind her and tried to be invisible.

  Then a hairdresser with bright red highlights came over and reached for my hand. Her name was Doreen.

  My mum said we were just there to trim my hair, so I went with Doreen. I sat in the high chair and she fixed a big black smock over me and sprayed my hair with water. Then she showed me a scrapbook with different boy’s hairstyles. I pushed it away and started to squirm. Doreen tried to calm me down by saying how handsome I was going to look, but that just made it worse. My mum came over and told me to behave. I felt trapped. I started crying and I begged my mum to let me leave. Everyone in the salon was staring at me. Doreen started combing my hair, but the moment she picked up the scissors I panicked. I slid off the chair and ran outside with the smock still on. I went through the car park and ran across the road without looking. I kept running until there were houses around, and I hid in a carport behind a wheelie bin. After a while, a nice old lady came out of the house and sat with me.

  A little while later I heard my mum calling out. She was walking down the street with some other people from the shopping plaza. The old lady waved her over. I was frightened when my mum charged up the driveway, but she pulled me to my feet and gave me a big hug. She promised not to take me to a hairdresser again.

  That night I agreed to let her cut my hair just past shoulder length, and she taught me how to tie a low braided bun so I might get teased less at school.

  It had been a stressful day for her, so she went out that night. When she came home she could barely stand and she was angry. She started yelling at me. She told me she got fired because she had to leave her shift early to come to my school. She had no money because of me. No life because of me. She was alone because of me. She would never have anything because of me.

  The next morning she didn’t remember any of what she had said. But I never forgot it.

  I got up from the vanity table and went to the garage to see if Vic wanted me to make him breakfast. He looked up and stopped what he was doing and stared at me. I took a step back because I knew I had made a mistake. He looked shocked.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I don’t know. You said—’

  ‘Why are you in those clothes? Are you trying to be funny? You think this is a joke? Take them off!’

  His face was red and his eyes were glassy. I wanted to say sorry but no words came out.

  ‘Take them off! Now!’

  He slammed his hand down hard and loud on the workbench. My knees went weak and I collapsed in the doorway, but I quickly got back up and walked through the house and straight out the front door. My face was really hot and I felt sick in my stomach. I folded my arms and hunched over and put my head down and walked quickly down the street. Then I heard someone call out.

  ‘Hey!’

  I worried it was the mean lady, so I kept walking.

  ‘Hey!’

  It didn’t sound like her. I stopped and looked around.

  ‘Over here, dopey!’

  I turned and saw the girl from the day before waving from a window of the red-brick house.

  ‘Nice kicks!’

  I didn’t say anything.

  ‘Hey, you want some brownies? I made like a whole tray. They kind of have the texture of wood, but they taste okay.’

  I looked at the ground and shook my head.

  ‘No. It’s okay.’

  But she insisted.

  ‘Come on!’ she said. ‘I’ll open the door.’

  I hesitated. Then I slowly walked up to her house. The door opened and she smiled. She had dimples. She looked different out of her school uniform. Her hair was messy. She wore black jeans and a black t-shirt and her feet were bare.

  ‘Come on, come in!’ she said.

  She turned off the television and picked up the tray of brownies, which were burned on top. She led me through the house like I had been going there for years. It was really clean and nice.

  ‘I was just watching Buffy, even though I can essentially recite the whole thing. My parents aren’t here. My mum is making my dad try Pilates because he will not shut the fuck up about his sore back. She’s convinced it’s because he has zero flexibility, which is true in every conceivable sense.’

  I tried to keep up, but she spoke really fast.

  Her room was a mess. The bed was unmade and her clothes and shoes were all over the floor. She had a shelf full of books, and rows of small fantasy figurines on display. Her desk was piled with textbooks.

  There was a brass instrument open in a case. She caught me looking at it.

  ‘It’s a euphonium.’

  I nodded slowly. She kicked the case closed and put on a strange accent.

  ‘It’s naht a tooba! It’s naht!’

  I must have looked confused.

  ‘Schwarzenegger? No? Nobody ever laughs at that. I’m in the school band. My dad says the brass section suits me because I’m full of hot air, so, you know, lame jokes run in the family.’

  She sat on her bed and patted a spot for me to sit on.

  ‘My brother’s home, but he’s still asleep, which is his natural state. Oh! I’m Aggie! Sorry.’

  She waved and shook my hand in an awkward way.

  ‘Actually it’s Agnes. I know. I have the world’s ugliest name. Agnes Meemeduma. My mum’s Scottish and my dad’s Sri Lankan. Apparently my dad insisted that we all had to be burdened with his surname, so my mum was like, well, if you’re going to perpetuate the patriarchy, I’m choosing the first names of our children, which was just a sly excuse to double-fuck us by giving us the names of her grandparents. Why she would knowingly bring Agnes into a new millennium I can’t tell you. Obviously everyone at school calls me Fagness and Faggie. So, it’s been a dream run.’

  She rolled her eyes and took a breath.

  ‘Though when I’m annoying her she calls me the Ag Ness Monster, which is pretty cute. And to be fair to my dad, the alternative was her surname. I’m not even kidding, her maiden name is McNutt. Can you believe it? If my dad wasn’t so obstinately fucking retrograde, we would have been the McNutts. I’ll take the ethnic profiling, thanks. Oh my goodness, I do not shut up. I’m sorry. What’s your name?’

  ‘Sam. Watson.’

  ‘See? That’s a good, solid name. You can go anywhere with that name. You’re very … striking, Sam Watson. Is that a weird thing to say? Do you want a brownie? I’m going to, like, plug my mouth with one.’

  ‘I’m not very hungry.’

  Aggie took a chunk of brownie and bit down hard on it with the side of her mouth. A piece broke off with a loud snap and she laughed.

  ‘It’s okay, my dad’s a dentist. Like, for real.’

  ‘So what’s your brother’s name?’

  ‘Oh my God.’ She crunched the brownie and talked with her mouth full. ‘So this is where it’s so unfair. His name is Dylan, which is an objectively stylish name, right? I tried to argue that I should have been called Dylan, but he’s three years older, so he got dibs. Anyway, he doesn’t deserve it. I mean, I’m a genuine nerd, but he’s on a whole different spectrum of social dysfunction. He leaves his room about as often as that fucking groundhog that forecasts the weather, and when he does he just grunts or tries to lecture someone about cryptocurrency.’

  She stopped speaking for a moment to try another bite of brownie, but she thought better of it and started laughing again.

  ‘I think you might have baked them too long,’ I said.

  She sighed.

  ‘Nobody in this
house can cook to save themselves. We’re like a primitive tribe or something. Like, we all just huddle around the toaster and poke it with a stick. I really felt like brownies today.’

  ‘I can make them for you.’

  ‘Shut up. Seriously?’

  I nodded. It felt good that she was impressed.

  ‘Oh, wait. I think I used all the butter.’

  ‘That’s okay. There’s other stuff you can use.’

  ‘What do you mean? What kind of wizardry is that?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘If you made me brownies right now, I would literally die with gratitude.’

  Aggie looked at me expectantly.

  ‘Okay.’

  She bounced off the bed and led me to the kitchen. The oven was still on, set at the highest temperature.

  I turned it right down.

  ‘Your oven was too hot.’

  ‘It’s weird. The recipe said three hundred and something, but our oven doesn’t even go that high.’

  ‘I think that’s in Fahrenheit. The oven is Celsius.’

  She blushed and covered her mouth with her hands.

  ‘Oh my God, that is genuinely embarrassing. I feel this sudden need to credentialise and tell you that I’m the top of my year in physics and chem, but I actually think that makes it worse.’

  ‘It’s okay. I’ve made the same mistake before. The person who taught me to cook was American.’

  ‘You’re very forgiving, Sam Watson.’

  I blushed and turned away and opened the pantry door. There was so much food in there. I was amazed. I found a jar of coconut oil.

  ‘We can use this instead of butter.’

  ‘Seriously? You really are a wizard.’

  All the other ingredients were still on the kitchen bench. I measured the flour while Aggie scraped her brownies into the bin. Even though I was in a different house with somebody I didn’t know, I felt calm.

  ‘How would you like them to turn out?’ I asked.