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Another Night in Mullet Town

Page 7

by Steven Herrick


  and slinks off towards the lake.

  Mrs Lloyd-Davis wipes her ankle with a napkin

  as I wonder which planet

  these people come from.

  All the fun

  I hear footsteps

  and turn to see Ella

  walking towards me.

  She’s smiling.

  She sits beside me

  and glances across at Patrick’s parents.

  ‘They’re wearing matching white shirts,’ she observes.

  I look at Mrs Lloyd-Davis

  with her immaculately dyed blonde hair

  and high heels

  and her husband hiding behind his Ray-Bans

  and fondling his iPhone.

  I reach into the pocket of my shirt

  and pull out two five dollar notes

  from cleaning Mr Lloyd-Davis’s window.

  ‘Come on. I’ll buy you a gelato, Ella.’

  She smiles and says,

  ‘Rich people shouldn’t have all the fun.’

  Gelato

  Ella and I walk

  up the hill to the museum

  and sit against the wall

  looking out to sea.

  She offers me her gelato.

  ‘A lick of lemon?’ She smiles.

  I shake my head,

  lift my cone towards her mouth

  and try to think of an alliteration

  with pistachio.

  ‘A piece of—’

  Ella leans forward

  and takes a bite from my cone.

  She suppresses a giggle.

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  She looks down towards the cafe.

  ‘When we lined up

  to choose the gelato,

  I made a promise to myself

  that if you chose any of the pretentious flavours,

  like salted caramel

  or poached figs in marsala –

  whatever the hell that is –

  I wouldn’t let you kiss me.’

  She smiles and takes another bite.

  ‘Is pistachio normal enough?’ I ask.

  She moves closer and we kiss.

  Her lips are soft, yet cold from the gelato.

  ‘You taste of lemon,’ I say.

  We kiss again.

  ‘Lemon and pistachio,’ Ella says.

  ‘I could get used to that.’

  Someone takes

  They knew Mr Huth fished from the rocks

  on Sunday morning.

  It gave them an hour of quiet

  to pick the lock on the caravan

  and turn it inside out

  as if they were pirates

  searching for the buried treasure

  of an old man’s savings.

  No-one heard a thing

  until Mr Huth returned

  and set to shouting the place down.

  The cops were called

  more to control the old fisherman

  than to look for his money.

  No-one was sure

  how much they stole

  because Mr Huth wasn’t saying.

  The snarky neighbours joked a few dollars

  wasn’t worth the trouble,

  and reckoned Mr Huth

  should learn what a bank was for.

  Manx’s dad

  passed a hat around at the Balarang Pub

  and everyone put in something

  more in respect of Mr Gunn

  than in sympathy.

  The publican dropped twenty

  even though Mr Huth

  hardly ever made it to the bay for a drink.

  On Sunday afternoon, Manx and I

  fished from the rocks at the point

  and reeled in eight whiting.

  In the evening we knocked on Mr Huth’s van

  and left the fish in a bucket of ice on his step.

  In our town, when someone takes,

  someone gives.

  Secret

  At Monday lunch,

  Angelo and a bunch of boys

  bounce a basketball

  and take up more space

  than they’re worth.

  Angelo whistles

  when Rachel walks past.

  ‘Patrick reckons you’re a lucky girl,’ Angelo says.

  ‘Maybe it’ll be my turn next Friday.’

  Rachel flashes a look that could maim.

  ‘Don’t you get tired

  of playing with balls, Angelo,’ she says.

  The boys laugh.

  Angelo pretends not to hear.

  He skips out of the group

  and aims a set shot at the ring.

  It misses by a mile.

  Rachel walks away.

  Angelo calls after her,

  ‘Come on, Rach,

  Friday night in the caravan.

  It’ll be our secret.’

  On the way home

  After school,

  Patrick’s mum waits in the BMW.

  She has gold-framed sunglasses

  and, when Patrick opens the door,

  we see she’s wearing a swimsuit

  and a silk blouse.

  She gives him a takeaway coffee

  as he flings his bag in the back seat.

  Angelo sits in the bus shelter

  and, no matter how hard he looks,

  Patrick isn’t offering a lift.

  He’s ignored,

  like a fart at a funeral.

  After Patrick leaves,

  Angelo tells everyone who cares to listen

  what he reckons Rachel and Patrick did

  in his parent’s caravan

  parked in the back garden.

  The crowd of boys

  laugh and hang on every word.

  Every bullshit word.

  Ella and the other girls move away.

  They sit in a quiet group

  and wonder where Rachel is,

  knowing it’s a long walk home.

  Angelo says he’s taking offers

  to rent the caravan.

  He doesn’t notice Manx walking up

  behind him.

  ‘I reckon I could go—’ Angelo starts.

  ‘And I reckon you’re full of shit,’ Manx interrupts.

  The bus pulls up

  and Angelo scrambles aboard.

  No-one says a word about Rachel

  all the way home.

  Clean again

  Under the swamp oak

  I lie on my back

  in the cool sand

  and watch the sun drift behind Sattlers Hill.

  As if on cue

  the cicadas go silent,

  egrets fly to the swamp

  and the streetlights flicker on.

  I close my eyes

  and picture my dad

  rubbing his face to stay awake,

  the rumble of wheels

  and the bitterness of distant miles,

  while my mum scrubs her hands

  with Solvol in Auntie Trish’s sink

  to remove the stink of dead fish

  and the curse of eight factory hours a day.

  I think of what Angelo said about Rachel.

  He’s a liar, but I didn’t have the guts to call him that.

  I remember Rachel asking Manx

  to swim with her.

  The evening light turns dull blue.

  I pull myself up

  and take one deliberate step after another

  into the lake

  until I can no longer stand.

  I roll on my back and float

  looking up at the fading sky

  and wonder how long

  I have to stay like this

  until I feel whole again.

  Rachel

  On the way home

  I pass Rachel’s house.

  She’s sitting on the verandah

  and waves for me to join her.

  I jump the fence

  and sit on the stairs. />
  She’s wearing jeans and black riding boots.

  She pulls her chair towards me,

  and pokes her boot forward.

  ‘You could clean my boots

  while you’re down there.’ She smiles.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m thinking of killing Angelo,

  but apart from that I’m fine,’ she replies.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Rachel bites her lip.

  ‘I might leave school and get a job.

  Mum could use the extra cash,’ she says.

  ‘Don’t,’ I say.

  She flashes me a sad smile.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘No-one believes Angelo,’ I say.

  ‘He can go fuck himself,’ she says

  and sighs.

  ‘I only walked away with Patrick

  because Manx …’

  She laughs bitterly.

  ‘We sat in the caravan,’ Rachel explains.

  ‘I wanted to talk.

  He wanted something else.’

  She looks at me.

  ‘I’m not that desperate.’

  Rachel’s brother calls from inside.

  ‘I’ve gotta go,’ she says.

  I walk to the gate

  but, before I open it, I call,

  ‘See you at school tomorrow.’

  Rachel smiles.

  ‘I’ll be the one wearing trousers.’

  My reflection

  I’m woken in the morning

  by noises on the roof:

  a thump and skittering roll.

  I quickly pull on my school clothes

  and run barefoot to the verandah.

  Manx is bent over in the driveway

  picking up another rock.

  ‘Hey,’ I yell.

  He smiles and tosses the rock anyway.

  It pings off the iron

  and lands somewhere in the backyard.

  He leans his bike on the fence and comes up the stairs.

  ‘I reckon we should visit Tipping Point tonight

  with a handful of smooth rocks.’

  ‘I know just the house to hit,’ I answer.

  He follows me inside

  and I look for my shoes,

  while Manx bangs around in the kitchen.

  When I walk in,

  he’s set the table with two bowls,

  a carton of milk

  and a packet of Weet-Bix.

  ‘Other people’s food always tastes better.’ He smirks.

  I fill my bowl and spend the next ten minutes

  calling him a freeloader,

  even though I’m grateful he’s here

  and I’m sharing breakfast with someone

  other than my reflection.

  Waiting

  Manx and I

  sit behind the counter of his dad’s servo

  and wait for something to happen.

  We’ve got an hour

  before school and we’re

  in charge of the pumps,

  the liquid gas tank out back

  and the cash register,

  while Manx’s dad

  visits the hardware in town.

  The highway motorists speed by

  with barely a glance;

  no matter how low

  Mr Gunn sets the price

  the all-nighter in Balarang Bay goes lower

  and offers clean washrooms,

  a restaurant and espresso coffee –

  even if they spell it expresso.

  I look at the percolator

  on the hotplate in the corner

  and wonder how long it’s been brewing.

  The cups stacked above

  are chipped and old.

  A calendar on the wall

  is of a semi-naked woman

  leaning across the bonnet

  of a Ford Mustang.

  In one hand she holds a can of petrol,

  in the other a pistol.

  ‘I can’t work out whether she wants

  to shoot the photographer

  or douse him in fuel and light a match,’ Manx says.

  He leans back

  against the shuttered display of cigarettes

  and closes his eyes

  singing a tuneless refrain:

  ‘Ain’t nobody stopping today.

  Ain’t nobody stopping,

  no matter what we say.

  Ain’t nobody stopping today.’

  An advertising sign bangs in the breeze.

  Jonah thinks smart

  I’m sitting against the paperbark tree

  overlooking the school oval

  when I hear a voice behind me.

  ‘Jonah sits quietly.’

  Ella walks from the shadows

  and sits beside me.

  I shuffle across to give her room

  against the tree trunk.

  Ella leans her head back

  against the trunk and looks down

  at the boys playing force-em-backs on the oval.

  Manx takes a long run

  and boots the ball

  clear over the school fence.

  Everyone groans.

  ‘Why do boys always measure themselves?’

  Ella looks from the oval to me.

  I could answer that in a thousand words

  and be talking for the rest of lunchtime.

  Instead, I hold up one little finger

  and wiggle it around.

  Ella giggles.

  ‘Because we don’t know what’s enough,’ I say.

  I hold my breath, waiting for Ella to answer.

  Angelo climbs the fence

  to retrieve the ball.

  ‘Jonah thinks smart,’ Ella says.

  We both smile at her flawed English.

  ‘Jonah big chicken,’ I reply.

  Ella shakes her head

  and I notice a small piece of bark

  lodged in her ponytail.

  I gently pull it through the strands of her hair.

  I flick the bark away

  and, for a long time,

  Ella and I are both too nervous

  to look at each other

  or say a single word.

  The sex life of caterpillars

  The bell sounds

  for the end of the best lunchtime

  I’ve ever spent

  saying little

  but sitting close to Ella.

  She stands first

  and reaches down,

  offering her hand

  to help me to my feet.

  She pulls me up

  and we hold hands

  for a few seconds.

  Her skin is soft

  and I feel the cool metal

  of a ring on her middle finger.

  We walk back to class

  ignoring the mess of year nine boys

  pushing each other at the canteen,

  begging for free leftovers

  from Mrs Ainsworth

  who’s known as an easy mark.

  Ella and I have Science next period.

  As we take our books from our lockers,

  I say, ‘The mystery of biology,’

  thinking of Mr Drake

  and his enthusiasm for bugs.

  ‘Better the sex life of caterpillars

  than stink bombs in the laboratory,’ Ella replies.

  I drop my textbook.

  Ella reaches down to pick it up and says,

  ‘Jonah is nervous with the word “sex”?’

  ‘Not only with the word,’ I admit.

  ‘We’ll have to work on that.’ She smiles.

  I follow Ella into Science

  my mind a million miles

  away from caterpillars.

  The irony of beer

  On Friday afternoon,

  Angelo gives Manx

  double the usual amount of money for beer.

  ‘Where did this come from?’ Manx asks.
>
  ‘Pat … Patrick gave it to me,’ Angelo says.

  Manx looks at Patrick

  standing beside Angelo.

  ‘Bullshit,’ he says.

  Manx counts off half the money

  and stuffs it in his pocket.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Angelo asks.

  Manx grabs Angelo by the shirt.

  Angelo looks to Patrick for help.

  ‘Your mate’s too gutless to do anything,’ Manx says.

  Angelo pushes Manx away.

  ‘I’ll buy the usual amount of beer,’ says Manx.

  ‘The rest of the money is going back to Mr Huth.’

  ‘You can’t—’ Angelo starts.

  ‘I can. Regard it as a …’

  Manx tries to think of the right word.

  ‘A donation,’ I finish.

  Manx laughs and looks deliberately at Patrick.

  ‘At least someone here has a brain,’ Manx says.

  Patrick shrugs and walks away

  leaving Angelo to swear at us

  as if all that bad language

  will convince Manx to change his mind.

  In the bottle shop,

  I walk up to the stack of Peroni beer

  and tap the case.

  Angelo is an Italian name, isn’t it?

  Maybe he’ll enjoy the irony.

  Payback

  In the late afternoon,

  Manx winds in the fishing line

  and tosses the rod on the sand.

  We look across the lake to Tipping Point.

  Two men in fluoro vests are working

  in Mr Beattie’s yard.

  One of them holds a surveyor’s reflector,

  while the other

  maps the distance to each boundary.

  ‘Either Beattie died without anyone knowing,

  or Patrick’s dad offered him

  more than he could resist,’ I say.

  ‘Bastard,’ is all Manx says in reply.

  A familiar BMW pulls up on Lake Road.

  Mr Lloyd-Davis winds down the window.

  ‘Hey, I want a word with you two.’

  Manx and I stand

  but, as I’m about to walk towards the road,

  Manx grabs my arm.

  ‘Make him come to us,’ he says.

  Mr Lloyd-Davis strides down the bank,

  pointing at Manx.

  ‘My son’s friend just told me

  you’re the idiot who graffitied on my window.’

  I can feel Manx tense beside me.

  ‘Angelo is a liar,’ I say.

  Mr Lloyd-Davis remembers who I am.

  ‘You owe me thirty dollars,’ he says.

  Then he steps up to Manx.

  ‘And you owe me the cost of a new door.’

  He grabs Manx’s arm and says,

  ‘You’re coming with me.

  We’ll see what your father has to say about this.’

  Manx wriggles out of his grasp.

 

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