by Kate Lyons
Ray moved the lighter onto his skin. The smell of burning hair. He thought of the lamb, its crisped ears and anguished eyes.
‘Oi? You there?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Look. All I know is, Freda said Barb had a message for you. She tried your mobile but you didn’t pick up, just like you didn’t pick up when I rang five fucking times yesterday to find out where you was.’
‘What message?’ Even now he was still hoping it was all a mistake, that Charlie or Mick had got it wrong.
‘Something about your mum. Thought you said your mum was dead.’
Ray imagined his fingers closing on that thick red neck, squeezing and squeezing, until the bones crumbled, dry as Freda’s flowers. Bandy legs kicking, fat frog eyes popping out.
‘Anything else?’
‘Nuh.’
‘OK. Tell Freda I rang. Tell her to ring me back.’
‘Tell her yourself. And you’d better be back soon, mate, or that’s us square. And bring that little bugger with you, I don’t care if he’s bleeding from the ears. Promised his dad I’d keep an eye. Right?’
‘Right.’
‘Right.’
But neither of them hung up. They just stayed there, listening to each other’s white-hot breathing, as if they were chest to chest, nose to nose. That buzzing noise again, then the line went dead.
‘Is that right, Mr McCullough?’
It took him a while to realise she was speaking to him. When he turned, she was smiling at him uncertainly. Those big dark eyes. He found himself trying to work out what colour they were. Not brown or green, something in between. River colour, creek colour, tannic water over rock.
‘Sam gave Mick a few days off? For Christmas?’
‘He did. Didn’t he? Ray?
Mick looked pleadingly at Ray across the top of his mother’s head. Now he was being asked to lie yet again. But it seemed a small price to pay to get himself out of here and on the road.
‘Yeah, for Christmas. And because he was crook.’
‘That’s odd. Freda knew I’d be in here.’
Mick’s mother looked done in, playing tiredly with the boy’s long curls.
‘Well, I don’t know where he thinks he’s going to stay. There’s no room at my place, Lily. I got the whole lot coming to me for Christmas. With you in here, I gotta do everything this year.’ With a sigh, Cheryl stuck another stick of gum in her mouth and the slap of fresh chewing was added to the clank of needles, the clatter of bangles and rings.
‘I’ll just stay here. With Mum. I’ll sleep in a chair.’
‘Can’t. Against the rules.’ Cheryl cast off victoriously and a tiny pink jumper arm fell into her lap.
‘Then I’ll stay out home.’
‘Told you. The electric’s off.’
‘I don’t care. Don’t need it. I’ll use a torch. Or I can go back to that motel, where Ray and me stayed last night. It’s right near here. It was OK. Wasn’t it, Ray?’
‘Oh, right. And your mother’s just made of money. Let’s chuck it around.’
Mick was getting off the bed now, face vibrant as his hair. Ray watched, fascinated, as Cheryl tied a knot, broke the wool with small white teeth, then cast on again, all without taking her eyes off the boy. A thin smile on her bright orange lips. Despite his longing to be gone, he didn’t like leaving the boy to the mercies of a vulture like this.
‘I’ll go where I want. Fuck all to do with you.’
‘Micky. Don’t swear.’ Lily tried to pull him back to the bed, but he shook her off, fists clenched, knuckles white.
‘Listen, love, I’m really sorry about Christmas, but Cheryl’s right. You can’t stay out home, not without lights or a phone. How would you get back and forth? And they won’t let you stay in here.’
‘I’ll sleep in the waiting room. They won’t even notice. And you’ll be coming home soon anyway. And I got money.’ He fumbled in his jeans pocket, pulling out Sam’s petty cash. ‘Maybe they’ll turn the electric on again, if I pay a bit.’
‘Thought you said you were broke. Where did that come from? You on the rob again?’
‘Shut up.’ He turned his back on Cheryl. ‘Mum? We could just go home, for Christmas, if I pay the bill. I could cook and stuff.’
‘Oh, she’ll be in here for a while yet. Spewed all night last night. Can’t keep anything down.’
‘It’s just for a few days, Mick. While they sort out the dose.’
Mick started crying for real now, shoulders shaking, that toddler-like gulping again. Ray rummaged in his pockets for his keys.
‘And, anyway, you’ve got your job. Freda told me last time you were doing really well. And if you work hard and get your reference then you can come home next year, and get a job in a restaurant, like you wanted, after you finish school …’
‘Not going back there. It’s shit.’
Ray had edged round the wall and was nearly out the door, when Lily spoke to him again and he froze.
‘Mr McCullough? Sorry. Before you go. If you’re heading back to Sam’s and it isn’t too much trouble, could you give Micky a lift? If you’re heading that way. I’ve got some cash somewhere. I can pay something toward the petrol.’ She opened the drawer of her bedside table, fumbling around, then fell back, defeated by tubes and sheets.
‘Yeah. Sorry, Mrs Jones. I’m going south now. Heading home.’ He’d said it as another lie, then realised it was true.
‘Oh. For Christmas? That’s nice.’ She closed her eyes, face greenish beneath her tan.
‘See? I’ll have to stay here.’
‘You’ll do as you’re told. Lily, if he was mine—’
‘Well I’m not, you stupid bitch.’
‘Lily? Did you hear that? If his father was here …’
Ray could stand no more. ‘OK. Look. Easiest thing is, he comes with me. For a few days. Until you get out.’
He regretted it as soon as he said it. But they were all staring at him now and he was caught, between Mick’s red face, Lily’s big eyes, Cheryl’s gimlet stare.
‘But your family. We don’t want to impose.’
‘One more won’t matter. My sister always cooks too much.’
Having conjured up this fake family Christmas with its groaning tables and scores of relatives and a sister cooking turkey, he was stuck. He found himself saying he’d be heading back this way anyway, on his way to Sam’s, for a job he didn’t have any more. That it’d be no trouble to drop Mick off at home for a visit, if that’s what she wanted, before New Year.
‘Really? That’s very nice of you.’ She fiddled with her sheets. ‘If you’re sure. I’ll be back home by then. Do you want some money for Mick’s food, or petrol …’
‘Not to worry. Fix me up later. We better get going though. My dog’s out in the car.’
Once outside, he rounded on Mick so fast, the boy dropped his skateboard in shock.
‘Right. Listen up. Here’s what’s going to happen. First, you’re gonna ring Sam, apologise for nicking money and for running off. Then you’re gonna promise to pay him back, every cent. OK?’ Mick nodded miserably, not meeting Ray’s eye. ‘Second, when I get you back to your mum, you’re going to tell her you’re going back to work at Sam’s, after New Year. That’s if he agrees. Either that or go back to school. Last thing. No more lying, no more drinking, no more nicking or smoking dope. And I’m telling you, mate, if you steal from me, there won’t be any cops involved.’
Ray turned on his heel, walked toward the ute. In the glittering fish-bowl windows of the new cafeteria, he saw a tall man, striding fast and furious, a boy trailing behind. All the fizz gone out of him, like an empty balloon.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting to find at the drycleaners. Certainly not herself. Not in some credulous, Harry-type way, but literally. Here in her hand.
At first she’d thought there’d be nothing at all. When she handed the docket over, the girl behind the counter just stared, as
if no one had ever walked in and asked for their clothes before.
‘Two items. This doesn’t say what they are, although it should. They’ve been paid for however. In full.’
‘This is old.’
The girl dropped the docket on the counter, looked bored. She had purple hair, sharp black fingernails with lightning strikes painted on them. The shop smelled powerfully of her musk deodorant and cigarettes.
‘Yes, I realise that. But according to your sign, you keep unclaimed items for six months. And see? This is dated two and a half months ago.’
The girl just goggled at Ursula through her sticky-looking fringe. Even years after retirement, teenagers like this could still manage to enrage. The way they drooped and dripped through life with their pants falling off. Ursula had an urge to walk behind the counter, deliver a nunnish jab between the shoulderblades. Stand up straight, stop chewing, you’re not a cow. Buy a belt, use a hairbrush. Go back to school.
‘And they’ve been paid for. So I’d like you to check. Today, if possible.’
With a sigh, the girl slouched off. Was gone so long, Ursula decided she must be sitting out back somewhere, blowing smoke through that languid-looking fringe.
She circled her neck, tired from driving. Tired too of this caustic stranger who kept taking over her mouth. As she waited, she peered out the window, curious to see this place famous for its riots and racism, but she could see very little, having mislaid her glasses again. From what she could see, it looked like every other town she’d driven through today. Empty of people, bloated with fast food. Like her, Ray must have been passing through.
She was about to go and look in the back room herself when the girl appeared, bearing a suit in a plastic sleeve. Ursula pressed it flat, feeling greedily across the breast and hips. Nothing there.
‘Was there anything left in the pockets, do you know? Things put aside?’
The girl shrugged, too dim to think Ursula might be accusing her of something.
‘That’s ten dollars.’
‘What? It’s been paid for. I told you.’
‘Prices have gone up.’
Too tired to argue about the logic of this, Ursula handed the money over and walked out.
She didn’t want to look at it on the street or in the car. It felt like a private thing. Buying a coffee full of froth and chocolate, she drove to a park out of town, sat in a picnic shelter out of the wind. Fed the dog half her doughnut and put some Savlon on its head. Its sore was weeping yellow stuff and it needed a bath. It occurred to her for the first time she’d have to find somewhere to stay. Most motels wouldn’t allow pets.
Laying the suit out on the table, she ran her fingers over it again, but the pockets remained flat and empty as the day. The trousers were big, she could see that even without taking the cover off. Much longer in the leg than the pair in the crate. The coat was broad in the shoulder and long in the sleeve, about the same size as the cheap black one from the pub. This was better quality though. There was a faded label on the collar, advertising a men’s outfitters in Sydney, long defunct.
It had been tailored, this suit, by someone special, for someone special, long ago. Good fabric, too. Good feel to it as she removed the plastic shroud. Proper heft to the tweed, generous cuffs, finely stitched buttonholes and the inside was expertly lined. Too high in the waist and flared at the calf to be fashionable, but it had a stern sort of elegance. She could imagine a grandfather wearing it to a wedding, a christening. A funeral even, it was sober enough. Soft grey with that fleck of purple, a classic pattern. Barleycorn perhaps.
Looking closer, she saw it wasn’t part of the pattern, that tidemark on the lapel. It was a stain.
She felt enraged, out of all proportion. Wanted to storm back to the drycleaners and shake that girl until her nose ring fell out. Two months and two payments and they hadn’t even bothered to clean it. Just left it to moulder, like the stuff in that room above the pub.
Fingers trembling, she gathered the fabric up, pressed it to her nose. Faint sweat, stale tobacco, the autumnal smell of once-damp wool. Hint of sherry or aftershave. No stink of port.
It was only four o clock but the sun was already dipping low over the oval goalposts. Grass gone silver, a chill rising from the stone bench. She’d put the coat back on the hanger and slipped the cover back on, when she remembered that other coat, the hole in the lining. Tilda’s teeth.
Tearing the plastic off again, she pulled both the coat and the trousers inside out. Pored over the lining, inch by inch, until she found a sort of old-fashioned secret slit for money or fob watch, deep inside the breast pocket. And there it was, folded to a tidy square.
Turning the letter over and over in her hand, she marvelled at how round and confident her writing had been back then, considering everything else that was going on. The envelope was grubby, a tea ring disfiguring the head of the Queen. By the date on the postmark, this would have been the last in that long line of letters she’d sent to Dad after Mam died. Couldn’t remember what was in this one. Not much by the feel of it, just a single page. And she still couldn’t find her glasses, and it was too dim inside the shelter now anyway. Probably just some practicalities about agents and solicitors, a list of things scavenged from her clean-up at the homestead, all those stacks of ancient tractor repair and feed invoices, the yellowing paperbacks and flyblown butter covers, the remains of Mam’s wedding china. Her spare dentures. Her mass-going coat, still with her cameo brooch on the lapel.
This was how she and Dad communicated after Mam died. Lists of who owned what, who owed what, who did what to whom and when but never why. Never saying what should be said, never showing the real intent. Just vicious little paper cuts, delivered back and forth, the family history rewritten in poisonous, slightly worded decrees. Both of them scavenging over what remained. Teeth and cups, rings and bones.
There’d been that one final explosion, after the funeral but before his move to the nursing home. Dad at Frederick Street, rocking, shouting, going on about the funeral notice in the paper. How dare she, dirty laundry, all out there, in black and white. The shirt off his back, his house out from under him. The teeth from her own mother’s head. Selfish, greedy, useless. The words pinged harmlessly in the dark little lounge room. She’d grown some armour by then. Tough as old boots, or so she’d thought. Impenetrable as a nun.
After that, nothing. Her letters to him went unanswered. After his move to the home, he wouldn’t come to the phone, even for emergencies with Tilda. According to some woman with a silly name who answered the phone at the reception, he was at lunch, or swimming, or shopping. Playing bowls. Dad couldn’t swim, hated shopping and he’d never played bowls in his life.
She’d thought, right, if that’s how you’re going to be. She’d hauled everything she’d saved from the clean-up out of the garage, sold anything sellable, arranged for a few of the uglier but more valuable bits of furniture to be shipped back to Dad’s rental place. Kept only Mam’s sewing machine, her recipe books. The photographs. Then she’d sent all the remaining clothes off to Vinnies, along with those stupid old ball gowns from the back shed. No time for sentiment. Slash and burn.
After that, she’d rung the real estate. Told them not to wait for Dad’s fantasy price, and not to worry about his daily calls saying he’d changed his mind, that he didn’t want to sell any more. To just say yes to the first buyer who came along.
Out near Simon’s shed, she’d made a bonfire. A funeral pyre. To Dad’s old books, his work hats, his vast collection of belts, she’d added the family Bible, the one he’d kept asking for in his letters. She stood watching the family tree on the frontispiece curl and blacken, first Grandad’s stoic copperplate, then Mam’s frail cursive with its listing of wobbly old saint’s names, then Ursula’s own branch, dead, black, gone. Ray’s name had been written there, by Mam, but unattached, out on the margins, like an immaculate conception. Dad had tried to obliterate it with a biro, rubbing so hard, he’d worn a hole in the p
aper. Genesis bleeding through.
Selfish, greedy, lazy. Useless. But not completely useless. She’d left Ray a clue, which in turn had become a clue for herself, disappearing and reappearing, like the alphabet she used to write for him on his little Magic Slate. Like a coded message on one of those treasure hunts she used to devise for him when he was little and she was teaching him how to read. It was a thing Dad used to play with her, when she too was small and loveable, but that seemed unlikely now. She only remembered the game, little rhyming notes hidden under mailbox or birdbath or verandah step, clues about history or science or geography, a trail of breadcrumbs leading a little boy from inland seas and perished explorers past unknown cities and famous rivers, following rumours of great books yet to be discovered, stories yet to be told. Coaxing him, step by step, from ignorance to knowledge. To herself in the kitchen, waiting with a glass of milk and a cockle biscuit. Reliable as the old wood stove.
Codes. Secrets. Pockets. She remembered the little red velvet bag, still in her own pocket. She hadn’t even opened it. Inside was a jeweller’s receipt, from a jewellery shop in her home town. Like the drycleaning docket, dated two months ago.
Wrapped inside the receipt, the ring itself. Small, a single diamond. So dainty, it fitted only the pinky of her own big-knuckled hands. She thought of the man on the trolley, his frail little wedding ring. But this ring was new and flawless and polished and his ring had been so worn and old. Codes, secrets. Treasure. A map, of sorts.
It would be dark in an hour or so. But the route looked straightforward, on the map at least, on decent road. She was so flushed with the letter, so buoyed up by the smooth hum of the Toyota, she broke every speed limit on the way out of town.
In her mind, a little boy, smiling up at her, a rim of milk around his mouth. Waiting patiently for her to work it out.
CHAPTER TWELVE
He left Mick with the dog in the town park. Dog was in heaven but the boy was in shock, his body sodden with it. Arm lifting, the dog trembling in anticipation, the tennis ball dribbling away. Mick hadn’t asked where they were headed and Ray hadn’t told him. He was only one step ahead of that underwater feeling himself.