Winston chuckles with satisfaction, and I shut the back door.
Dad did a bunch of reading on the best sort of dog for a prepper and concluded that a border collie was the right fit for us. The only problem was me – as well as being allergic to peanuts, I’m also extremely sensitive to pet hair, something we discovered seven years ago when an eight-year-old Grace brought home a stray cat. So Dad reluctantly compromised on a hypoallergenic bordoodle – a border collie–poodle hybrid. As a result she looks less like a tough survivalist guard dog and tracker, and more like a black and white teddy bear. When we first got her two years ago, Dad wanted to name her something gritty and aggressive, like Trigger or Blaze, but she was such an adorable little bundle of fuzz that Blythe and Grace started calling her Panda, and it stuck.
I think Dad regrets getting Panda. He tried really hard to train her, to make her one of those ruthlessly obedient dogs he’d seen in prepper YouTube videos. But with three bored daughters desperate to play with what was probably the cutest puppy ever, it was never going to be easy. On her first night with us, Dad declared she would sleep outside. Blythe and Grace begged for her to stay inside with us, and we managed to negotiate a crate in the laundry, but even then, Panda didn’t like being alone in the dark. She cried and cried, high-pitched puppy yips and howls. As soon as Dad was asleep, I snuck into the laundry and retrieved her. Her bum nearly wagged right off when she saw me, and when I picked her up she snuggled her little face into the crook of my neck, giving me happy licks. I took her into my bed, and she fell asleep instantly, her nose against my neck, her head on my pillow.
We spoiled her rotten, sneaking her treats, dressing her up, and giving her lots of love and cuddles. Dad tried locking her crate, locking the laundry door, anything to stop me from smuggling Panda into my bed at night.
I bet he regretted teaching me how to pick a lock.
Eventually he gave up, and Panda became an inside dog. She is totally useless as a guard dog, has almost no ability to track scents, and is terrified of thunder, strangers, the garden hose and the vacuum cleaner. But she’s part of our family, and we love her to bits.
I decide to ride my bike into town before it gets too hot. I don’t have my licence yet. I can drive, but Dad won’t let me sit the test. I’ve tried arguing with him. What if there’s some kind of disaster situation that requires me to drive a car? Dad always calmly responds that when the big disaster arrives, nobody is going to get pulled over for driving without a licence.
‘A driver’s licence is yet another way they can track you,’ he said. ‘You have to be careful with your identity. Protect yourself.’
I could have pointed out that he has a driver’s licence. And a mining licence and all sorts of other things. But I didn’t, because sometimes it’s easier to keep the peace.
The fifteen kilometres into Jubilee is an easy bike ride – flat and straight. The morning air is still cool, lifting my hair up from my shoulders and making my shirt flutter. There’s not much to see on the way – orange dirt, grey-green scrub. A mob of kangaroos raise their heads as I pass. Overhead, a wedge-tail eagle glides on the breeze, its wingspan easily two metres across, searching the ground for movement.
Forty-five minutes later, the cool of the morning has evaporated, and I’m grimy and hot. The sun is already baking the streets of Jubilee into a barren hellscape. There’s not a single cloud in the sky, so the weather forecast’s promised rain definitely isn’t coming today.
Jubilee is always pretty quiet – even when everyone is home from the mine and school for Christmas, there’s no more than two hundred and fifty people here. But today it seems particularly deserted.
I duck into the little free library behind the Heart – Jubilee’s community hub – to see if there are any new books. There aren’t. It’s been months since we got anything new. I half-heartedly pick up The Road, but I’ve read it before, and I’m not in the mood for unrelenting grimness.
‘A book?’ says a deep, theatrical voice behind me, and I jump.
It’s Peter Wu, Jubilee’s Unitarian minister and volunteer librarian. ‘O rare one,’ he continues. ‘Be not, as is our fangled world, a garment nobler than that it covers.’
Peter Wu spent most of his life dreaming of being a great Shakespearean actor, before realising that acting opportunities for British Asians were strictly limited, abandoning his career, becoming a minister and moving to a tiny Australian mining town. Now he puts on regular one-man shows that are nominally about Jesus, but are mostly just a collection of his favourite Shakespeare soliloquies. Of course everyone in town attends because he’s the minister and you have to respect that.
‘See anything you like?’ he booms. Peter always talks as if he’s on stage at the Globe.
I shrug. ‘I think I’ve read it all before.’
He makes a rueful face. ‘It’s been a while since we had any new stock,’ he said. ‘I’m trying to get Matadale to do a bit of a book swap with us. Freshen up the shelves somewhat.’
‘Are you working on a new show?’ I ask, because it’s the polite thing to do.
Peter launches into an elaborate description of his work-in-progress – combining passages from the Book of Revelation with quotes from Macbeth.
‘After all,’ he finishes, ‘not in the legions of horrid hell can come a devil more damn’d in evils to top Macbeth!’
‘Sounds intense.’
‘It will be quite deliciously gloomy,’ Peter says with a wide grin. ‘After all, everyone enjoys an apocalypse.’
I grit my teeth. ‘Dad’ll love that one.’
I cross the street and go into the general store, browsing the shelves for a bit, enjoying the air-conditioning. The radio is playing a song I like, but the reception is bad and the song keeps getting interrupted by fuzzy crackle.
I choose an icy-pole from the freezer and take it to the counter, along with some deodorant and a few other groceries.
‘Hot out there yet?’ asks Jan Marshall, ringing up the items. Her nails are electric pink with frosted tips – she’s a regular at Barri Taylor’s beauty parlour and gift shop.
‘Getting there,’ I tell her.
‘Your dad gone up to Hansbach for this health and safety thing?’ I nod.
Jan hands me my change. ‘Think they’ve got the whole crew up there.’
The song on the radio gives way to static, and Jan switches it off with a sigh.
As I step back out onto the street, I realise she’s right. Usually half the Hansbach workers are here in town, and the other half out at the site. But this week is different. Jubilee is almost completely empty. With the men at the mine, and the older kids all at boarding school, there’s barely anyone around.
It feels kind of creepy, like there’s been some sort of disaster and I’m the only one left in town.
I shiver under the baking sun. I’ve been listening to Dad too much.
I peel the wrapper off my icy-pole, and eat it fast before it melts. The sugar high lasts a few seconds, and then I’m sticky and bored. I check my watch. It’s ten-thirty. The day stretches out before me, as hot, endless and empty as the scrub that surrounds Jubilee. And after that, another day, and another, and another. It’s only a couple of weeks until Ana and everyone else come back from boarding school, but it may as well be forever.
There’s nothing to do in Jubilee. No tourist attractions, because nobody ever comes here. Why would you? Jubilee is the kind of place you leave, as soon as humanly possible.
Which is why it’s extra startling to see a stranger walking down the street towards me.
He’s young – around my age. And he definitely isn’t from Jubilee. Everything about him screams civilisation – his clothes, his gait, his phone, the fact he’s not wearing a hat. And he isn’t white.
That’s not unheard of in Jubilee. But this guy definitely doesn’t belong here. His skin is warm brown and his hair is cut in an appallingly fashionable rockabilly undercut. It’s dyed a mix of deep blues and greens and
purples, like the dark rainbow of an oil slick. He wears thick-framed black glasses, a glittering green stud in his nose, and a silver snowflake hanging from one ear. There’s chipped black polish on his nails, and intricate tattoos on both forearms. He’s wearing jeans despite the heat, and a T-shirt that says I SOLEMNLY SWEAR I’M UP TO NO GOOD. He’s frowning at the iPhone in his hand, but as I approach he looks up.
His thick dark eyebrows twitch as he takes me in, and I feel instantly judged. I’m wearing shorts, one of Dad’s old shirts and a baseball cap over my unbrushed hair. My knees are raw from Dad’s emergency drill yesterday, and I’m covered in mozzie bites as usual. I’m like an oversized kid, grimy and probably orange around the mouth from the icy-pole.
‘Is there seriously no 4G in this town?’ the guy says, without so much as a good morning. He speaks with an accent, American tinged with something else. Mexican perhaps? Or somewhere in South America? Is Mexico in South America?
‘Definitely no 4G,’ I tell him. ‘If you go and stand on the fourth step of the Heart you can sometimes get a few bars of GPRS.’
‘The heart?’
I point. ‘It’s the library and church and town hall all rolled into one.’
The guy stares at me as if I’ve murdered his puppy. ‘Unacceptable.’ He shakes his head and stalks off, muttering something in a language I don’t understand.
‘Nice to meet you too,’ I call after him.
I head back to my bike. There’s nothing else to do in town and it’s only going to get hotter. I shove my groceries into the pannier bag with unnecessary force. The stranger was kind of a dick, which is disappointing. It would have been nice to have someone new to talk to.
‘Hey!’
It’s like I’ve summoned him with my thoughts. He’s jogging along the footpath towards me. When he gets up close, I can see beads of sweat running down his forehead and a pink tinge to the brown on his nose and cheeks.
‘You should be wearing a hat,’ I tell him.
‘I apologise for being rude back there.’
‘Okay.’ I put my helmet on and swing my leg over the bike. ‘But you still should be wearing a hat.’
‘The fourth-step thing didn’t work. There must be internet here somewhere.’
He’s utterly pathetic. Hot and sweaty and totally out of place. It’s shocking in a way, because it makes me realise I’m not an outsider anymore. Like it or not, I belong in Jubilee now.
‘I just want to check my phone,’ says the guy. ‘Check that the rest of the world is still there.’
I decide to take pity on him. ‘Simmone’s Café has wifi.’
Hope radiates from his face like a beacon. ‘Where is it? Can you show me?’
I hesitate. I want to say no because he’s so annoying. But what else am I going to do?
‘Please,’ he says. ‘Let me buy you a coffee. Does this town have coffee?’
‘No coffee that you would want to actually drink,’ I tell him.
‘But you can buy me a ginger beer.’
Simmone’s is totally empty. Even Simmone isn’t there, but I help myself to two bottles of ginger beer from the fridge and tell the stranger to leave the money on the counter. We sit at the bench by the window and I stare out into the empty street while he disappears into his phone. I peek over and see selfies and texts and emoji, and think about the almost useless brick in my bag.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, not looking up. ‘I’m being rude.’
‘It’s fine. I’m sure you have lots of stuff to catch up on.’
‘Hmm.’ He’s not listening, too caught up in his life and his friends. I hate him a little bit.
‘Okay,’ he says at last, and puts down his phone. He looks at me and smiles. ‘Who are you?’
‘Prudence Palmer,’ I say. ‘Pru.’
Such an ugly name. I’ll never understand what made our non-religious parents continue the family tradition of giving daughters virtue names.
‘Thank you for rescuing me, Pru,’ says the guy. ‘I’m Mateo. Mateo Ocasio Figueroa. Do you live in this hellhole?’
‘Nearby,’ I tell him.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he says, and I laugh.
‘Is this alcoholic?’ he asks, picking up his bottle of ginger beer.
I shake my head.
‘Pity.’
‘What brings you to the hellhole?’ I ask.
‘My mom is here to give a presentation at your mine. Some health and safety thing.’
Ah. Mateo’s mum is the reason there’s no one in town this week.
‘We’re supposed to be spending three days here, then meeting my other mom in Melbourne.’
He pronounces it the way Americans do – Melbourne.
‘You have two mums?’
‘Doesn’t everyone?’
‘I have zero mums,’ I say, and feel guilt for saying it, then anger at the guilt.
Mateo nods. ‘Perhaps I’m being greedy.’
‘So you’re from…’ I leave it hanging, not wanting to make any assumptions.
‘I’m from Puerto Rico,’ says Mateo. ‘But I live in New Jersey.’
New Jersey. A place I know about mostly due to Real Housewives. I’ve ceased to believe that places like that really exist. It’s hard to imagine the rest of the world when all you have is Jubilee.
‘Are you staying in the hotel?’
The Jubilee Hotel used to be a pub, but the Kennedys who ran it moved to Matadale a few months ago, and nobody has taken over the lease. The Brattons open up the hotel rooms upstairs if there are ever any visitors to Jubilee, which there aren’t, because why would there be?
Mateo shudders. ‘Yes. I’m all by myself up there. Mom said the accommodation at the mine is pretty basic, and I should stay here. I wish I’d gone with her. It’s like being in the hotel from The Shining, but a million times crappier. I’m sure I’m going to get murdered in my bed by a ghost or a spider or something.’
‘At least you get to leave in three days. I’m stuck here.’
‘My mom tried to make it sound like some kind of exciting adventure. The Australian Outback! She said the stars would look really amazing.’
‘They do look pretty good out here.’
He drops his forehead against the bench. ‘I thought Australia would be fun. I thought there would be beaches, and koalas. I really wanted to cuddle a koala.’
‘We have a lake,’ I tell him. ‘It’s not quite a beach, but it’s a nice place to cool off on a hot afternoon. And no koalas, but plenty of kangaroos.’
Mateo looks up. ‘Can I cuddle a kangaroo?’
‘Not unless you want to get disembowelled.’
‘I hate this place.’
I clink my bottle against his. ‘Me too.’
Simmone eventually appears, and I ask her for the most Australian food I can think of. A meat pie and a cheese and Vegemite sandwich, plus a lamington and a vanilla slice from the Kauslers’ bakery.
‘He’s staying in the hotel,’ Simmone tells me, trying to keep her voice low and failing. ‘His mum is the health and safety person they sent out.’ Simmone’s husband, David, is the mechanical supervisor at Hansbach.
‘I know.’
‘He’s pretty cute, don’t you think?’ Simmone says in a whisper loud enough to be heard on Mars. ‘A bit exotic.’
I wince. I hope Mateo doesn’t hear her, but when I go back to our bench I can see that he did. His expression is decidedly unimpressed.
‘Not a lot of multiculturalism here in Jubilee,’ I tell him.
‘Unacceptable.’
I try to change the subject. ‘Tell me about America. Tell me about places that exist that aren’t here.’
So Mateo talks, and I listen. He tells me about growing up in Puerto Rico, and moving to New Jersey when he was eight. He speaks Spanish, English, French and Italian. I learn that he is an only child, and that his other mum is a high school teacher. The mum that’s at Jubilee used to be a nurse before she became a health and safety trainer. Mateo went t
o something called a magnet school, which means he’s smart. He seems smart. He likes science and wants to be an electrical engineer. The complicated schematic tattoo on his left forearm is Tesla’s patent for an electromagnetic motor. On his right forearm is some curly writing in Spanish. He hates nature, especially spiders.
He’s arrogant and a bit patronising – assuming I know everything about the US school system, but then carefully explaining that Cap’n Crunch is a popular American breakfast cereal. If I still lived in the city, I would hate him. But in Jubilee, he’s a breath of fresh air. We’re both bored and lonely. I wonder if he might be gay, but then he mentions an ex-girlfriend. I find myself considering whether or not I should try to make out with him, just for something to do. His lips look nice.
Mateo lets out a sigh and glances around. Is he wondering the same thing as me?
‘I’m starving,’ he says. ‘Is that racist lady bringing us food?’
I snap out of my reverie. Of course I’m not going to make out with him. I don’t even like him.
Simmone emerges from the kitchen, holding plates. She plonks them down in front of us, and vanishes again. I make Mateo try everything. He likes the lamington and the vanilla slice, but not the pie, which is fair enough because it has obviously been in the warmer for a few days and is dry and tasteless.
‘I thought Australian food would be all fresh fruit and barbecued shrimp,’ he says, eyeing the Vegemite sandwich suspiciously.
‘Not a lot of fruit orchards out here,’ I say. ‘Or prawns. But there are yabbies in the lake, and they’re pretty good on the barbecue.’
‘A “yabby” is not a thing,’ Mateo declares. ‘You made it up.’
I laugh. Mateo is funny. Maybe I should rethink my decision not to try and make out with him.
‘So you haven’t always lived here?’ he asks.
I shake my head. ‘We moved here three years ago. We used to live in Melbourne.’
‘So why did you move?’
‘My dad got a job in the mine. He’s an engineer. Used to work at a university, but after my mum left he said he wanted a change.’
After the Lights Go Out Page 3