Another Night in Mullet Town
Page 6
Manx blushes and looks away.
I wonder if Rachel notices.
‘Vodka Cruisers to celebrate the weekend.’
She looks at me and winks.
‘Who’s going to jump in the lake first?’ she asks.
‘Not me, too cold,’ I say.
She digs Manx in the ribs.
‘Looks like it’s me and you, Manx,’ she says.
Manx mumbles under his breath.
‘Come on, Manx,’ Rachel says.
‘Don’t let me swim alone.’
‘What about Patrick,’ Manx mutters.
Rachel lets go of our shoulders
and stands with her hands on her hips.
‘Are you jealous?’ she says.
Manx bites his lip.
It’s not often he’s lost for words.
Rachel smiles again.
‘I’ll jump if you do, Manx,’ she says.
She turns and walks up the stairs.
Manx reaches for the key to his locker.
His hand is shaking.
Sharing the stash
At lunchtime, word is passed around
of a session starting at the lake
tonight at sunset
and Manx is enlisted, as always,
to buy the beer.
Rumour has it
that Patrick
bought a stash of dope
and is willing to share it with Manx
in the interest of peace,
although I’m not stupid enough
to believe that includes me.
I don’t want their dope anyway.
All week Angelo’s been sucking up to Patrick
and making snide comments at me,
like the scratching of mice in the ceiling.
Manx promises me an extra bottle of beer
because,
as he explains it,
the more beer we drink
the less for sharks like Patrick.
Climate change 101
In Science
Mr Drake lectures us
on climate change.
‘Burn today, roast tomorrow,’ he says.
Manx wonders aloud
how his dad
will make a living selling
batteries or solar
instead of petrol.
Mr Drake writes on the board
fish
coal
oil
and asks us to spend our weekend
writing an assignment
on ways to replace them.
Everyone groans,
except Manx
who leans back in his chair,
and says,
‘Tofu,
gas,
bicycles.’
Assignment done.
Weekend begun.
Paddling to Chile
When I get home from school,
there’s a light on in the kitchen
and news on the radio
of interest rates rising.
Dad swears as I walk in.
‘Sorry, Jonah,
I was talking to the radio.’
We look at each other
and realise how silly that is.
I switch it off
and Dad plonks a handful of potatoes
on the table.
‘Peel them if you want mash,
or slice them thin for chips,’ he says.
I take a sharp knife from the drawer
and begin hacking away.
He pours oil over a tray
and I arrange the slices in rows.
‘I called Suzy,
I mean your mum.
The Magna will be fixed
at the end of next week.’
Dad pulls the bulbs of broccoli apart and
gets a packet of frozen peas from the freezer.
He stands at the sink and sighs,
looking out to the backyard.
I remember the story he once told me.
‘I don’t want you to paddle to Chile,’ I say.
Dad laughs.
It’s a deep, hearty sound.
‘That was ages ago,’ he says.
Then he shakes his head.
‘Nah. I’ll hang around.’
He tips the peas into a saucepan, and adds,
‘I want to see how you turn out.’
Last chance
Rachel lights the bonfire;
everyone stands back and cheers
as the flames take hold.
Patrick passes a joint to Rachel,
but she shakes her head
and glances at Manx and me
in our usual spot on the grass.
She runs towards us
as Manx opens a bottle.
‘Come on, Manx,’ she says,
offering her hand,
‘swim with me.’
Manx holds up his beer and replies,
‘Maybe when I’ve finished this.’
Patrick shouts for everyone to watch
and runs along the pier
executing an extravagant somersault
into the lake.
Rachel turns back to us.
‘Last chance,’ she offers.
Manx looks at Patrick climbing onto the pier
and shakes his head.
Rachel sighs and walks back to the bonfire.
She unbuttons her dress
and lets it fall
revealing a black-and-white one-piece.
She waves to Manx,
turns and runs along the pier
before executing a perfect dive into the lake.
I wish Ella were here tonight
instead of babysitting her neighbour’s kids.
Maybe I’d have the guts to sit beside her.
Maybe.
Friday night flame
I hang with Manx
until all the bottles are empty.
He doesn’t speak,
just keeps watching Rachel and everyone,
with their Vodka Cruisers, beer and weed.
‘I’m going up to the museum,’ Manx says.
I stagger to my feet to follow,
but he holds up a hand and says, ‘Alone.’
I watch him walk to Lake Road,
where he turns right
instead of left to the museum.
Angelo’s voice comes from near the bonfire.
‘Hey, loser.
Why don’t you piss off with your caveman mate.’
Angelo drapes his arm around Harriet’s shoulder.
She quickly moves away.
I can’t help but smile.
Suddenly, Angelo reaches into the fire
and grabs a burning branch.
He jumps up and throws it
with all his strength at me.
It spins through the air
like an out-of-control missile
and lands a few metres in front of me.
I walk towards the branch, still burning.
Should I pick it up and return fire?
With my shoe, I grind the stick into the sand.
The flame goes out.
I climb up the bank
and leave them all
with the dying embers of the bonfire.
Welcome to Turon
I walk home along Lake Road.
Up ahead, glass smashes and a dog barks.
I run towards the sound
to discover the shattered door
of the Lloyd-Davis Real Estate office.
I look up and down the street,
but can’t see anyone.
Scrawled on the front window are the words:
BACK TO SYDNEY SCUMBAGS.
The black paint dribbles down the glass
and drips onto the footpath.
In the distance I hear a police siren,
so I start running.
I’ll return in the morning
just to see the look on Mr Lloyd-Davis’s face
>
when he discovers the damage.
Maybe he’s asked one too many old blokes
if they’d like to sell,
or he didn’t offer them enough
and this is their way of answering.
Welcome to Turon.
Rooftop serenade
I stop running when I hear
the sad music
of someone’s lonely weekend:
country guitar and vocals
of lost love and loneliness.
Turon: bachelor capital of the coast.
Men with names like Barney,
Stan or Ed crooning into their beers
and cursing the women
who left them.
Dad is perched on our roof
drinking a beer,
framed by the moon
and the plane tree.
The ladder is resting on the gutter.
I climb the rungs
and scramble onto the corrugated iron.
Dad reaches for my hand
and drags me to the apex
to take in the view across the rooftops.
‘Someone bricked the real estate,’ I say.
Dad offers me a sip of beer.
‘That’s nice,’ he replies.
I count the number of empties in our yard
and figure he’s been up here since sunset.
‘I’m sorry about your mum and me,’ he says.
‘It’s just a car,’ I say,
thinking of Mum stranded in Balarang Bay.
Dad shakes his head.
‘I wish it were as easy as fixing an engine,’ he says.
He touches me on the shoulder.
‘You’d better go to bed.
I’ll stay up here
and keep an eye out for vandals.’
He’s quiet for a moment
before adding,
‘If I see any, I’ll offer them a beer.’
No hawkers allowed
Early in the morning,
the sky is slate grey
and the wind scuttles clouds
across the horizon.
On Lake Road
two boys ride skateboards
down the smooth bitumen.
Mrs King, wheeling her shopping trolley,
stops to watch them rattle past,
and I’m not sure
whether her expression
is one of fright or fancy.
When they’re out of sight
she draws a ratchety breath
before walking down the street.
I sit on a park bench
wondering how Saturday
can be so lonely.
Ella lives at number 62.
It has a Colorbond fence,
yellow curtains on each window
and a NO HAWKERS sign
on the front door.
If I knocked,
would Ella’s mum mistake me for
a salesperson?
All I have to offer is myself.
Would she point to the sign
and slam the door in my face
long before I got anywhere near asking
if Ella could come outside and play?
A smeared masterpiece
I look across at the Lloyd-Davis Real Estate office.
The front door is covered in plywood
but the graffiti remains.
Mr Lloyd-Davis walks out,
sees me and whistles
waving an impatient hand
for me to come closer,
like I’m a stray dog
looking for a handout.
He wears a suit,
even on Saturday.
On his wrist is a shiny gold watch
that matches the chain around his neck.
He flicks his head
towards the graffiti
scrawled across his windows.
‘I’ll give you twenty dollars to clean it,’ he says.
I survey the splattered glass
figuring out how long it’d take me
and what I’d use to remove it.
Mr Lloyd-Davis mistakes my silence
for a challenge, and says,
‘Okay, thirty dollars
or I’ll ask someone else.’
I look up and down the street.
There’s not a soul about,
except Mrs King
resting at the top of the street.
‘I’ve hired a high-pressure hose.
If you use rags and eucalyptus oil,
it’ll do the job,’ he says.
I nod and follow him into the office.
He points down the hallway
to a bucket.
I set to work on the window,
soaking a rag and smearing the glass.
My reflection shifts from clear
to technicolour
and I soon learn
the more oil
the less effort.
I’m getting paid thirty dollars
to clear my nasal passages
with the strong scent of eucalyptus.
When the rags are much dirtier
than the window
Mr Lloyd-Davis hooks up the hose
and tells me to stand aside.
He aims the jet
at my smeared masterpiece.
The paint washes down the footpath
and into the gutter.
‘That’s going straight into the lake,’ I say.
He turns it off and sneers.
‘Someone else’s problem, buddy.’
Dirty work
In the office,
Mr Lloyd-Davis counts the money twice
before handing it over
in five dollar bills.
I stuff it in my pocket
and turn to go.
He whistles again.
‘I want you to sign this,’ he says,
holding up a slip of paper.
It’s an invoice
for my services.
‘Tax,’ Mr Lloyd-Davis says.
‘I’m making a claim for the bastard
defacing my window.’
I shrug and scrawl a name
across the dotted line.
It’s not my signature
but he seems satisfied.
When I’m at the door
he calls after me,
‘If you know the culprit
there’s another thirty dollars in it for you.’
I walk away without answering.
There’s all sorts of dirty work
I’ll do
and some I won’t.
Magpie market
The car park is scattered
with rickety tables under umbrellas.
On display are the cast-off debris
of my town’s backyard sheds:
a scatter of paperback crime novels,
an orange lampshade,
a child’s plastic tip truck,
an empty fish tank,
crockery cracked with age,
videos of western movies
and too many empty photo frames.
I sit on a beach chair
and look after Mr Crewe’s stall
of old tools and fishing magazines.
In the past twenty minutes
I’ve sold two magazines
and a claw hammer.
I watch the people from Tipping Point
dressed in white linen
wander from table to table
occasionally stopping
to touch a set of kitchen scales
or an old toaster
and asking how much,
even though
they have no intention of buying.
They’re biding time
until they escape to the only cafe in town,
while the rest of us
show our desperation
by selling worthless junk to each other
in what passes for enterta
inment
on Saturday in Turon.
Batley’s Cafe
Once a week
Manx and I would go to Batley’s Cafe
where burgers used to cost $5.50
and came with fried egg,
beetroot and tomato sauce.
Chips cost a few dollars extra
and were smothered in salt
before being wrapped in wax paper.
The cafe was called Batley’s
after the first owner
who built it in the 1950s
out of hardwood timber.
Mr Batley painted it vivid blue
because he reckoned it reflected
the colour of the sky.
A few months ago,
his grandson hired Mr Lloyd-Davis
to sell it.
The new owners
renamed it Lake Road Espresso Bar,
took out the old fryers
and replaced them with a charcoal grill.
Now the lamb burger
comes with tzatziki and salad
and costs $15 to eat in.
Chips cost twice as much
for half as many.
Manx and I haven’t eaten there since.
The cafe is closed Monday and Tuesday
because everyone returns to the city –
or so the new owners think.
What would they know?
They only visit on the weekend
to check on the locals
left to run the place
for minimum wages.
The owners
spend their day
sipping an espresso,
talking on their phones
and watching the exotic wildlife
of old fishermen
wandering home from the lake.
Another planet
Patrick and his parents
sit at the front table of the cafe
under an umbrella.
I sit across the road
in the shade of a chestnut
and watch them.
Patrick’s mum reads the paper,
while his dad receives a text message
every few minutes.
Patrick yawns and puts his feet
on the vacant chair.
‘Don’t you have something to do?’
Mr Lloyd-Davis asks.
Patrick shrugs.
‘There’s nothing to do in this dump.
Ever!’
He gets up and walks away.
Neither of his parents answer.
Patrick’s dad orders another espresso,
while his mum picks at her salad.
A stray dog walks to the table
hungry for scraps.
It nuzzles against Mrs Lloyd-Davis’s ankle.
She pulls a face
and says, ‘Gerald!’
He looks up and smacks the dog on the side.
The dog yelps,
more in fright than pain,