Game as Ned

by Tim Pegler

  I felt broken and worthless. And, in a moment of utter horror, I understood why they’d confiscated my laces and belt. In here, there was only one way out for people who believed they couldn’t sink any lower. But it wasn’t for me. No way.

  CHAPTER 15

  Fitzpatrick begrudgingly released me after about two hours. Seems Mum had been busy ’round town, asking questions and kicking up a fuss with the few people still willing to give us a fair go. To their credit, both Andy and Bron risked the wrath of the McMasters on my behalf. They told Fitzpatrick they’d been with me at the showgrounds and that I’d had no idea about the General.

  Fitzpatrick still wanted to charge me with being an accomplice — on account of my being home and the package being on the kitchen table — but, as Doctor Martyn pointed out, there was nothing to prove I knew what was inside it. What’s more, no one had seen Dad near the showgrounds and he sure wasn’t going to tell anyone different. If it wasn’t for the package, he might’ve got off too.

  Instead, they charged him with break and enter, criminal damage, theft and pretty much anything else Sergeant Fitzpatrick could think of. The court case took place at Portland. Dad represented himself and pleaded guilty. I held my breath when the magistrate asked him if there were ‘extenuating circumstances’ leading up to the crime. Maybe this was the chance for Dad to tip a bucket on the McMasters! But Dad said nothing. Just mumbled, ‘No, yer worship.’ And copped eighteen-months’ gaol, six months of it because the last time he was locked up, he’d been given time off for good behaviour. There’d be no more gifts like that for Paddy Murphy.

  Sitting at the back of the court, Mr McMaster looked sour that the sentence wasn’t longer. He soon cheered up when he saw Mum and me, though.

  ‘I guess you ladies will be leaving town now,’ he gloated.

  ‘Why … what would you …’ I began, but Mum gripped my arm, warning me to stop.

  ‘With the family breadwinner in prison, I imagine you’ll experience financial hardship,’ Mr McMaster said. ‘You’ll find there aren’t many opportunities in a town like Murnong. It can be very difficult …’

  Mum and I moved towards the exit but McMaster wasn’t finished. ‘Of course, I might be prepared to help you … as long as you agree to leave Murnong and never return.’

  Man, I wanted to hit him! I was about to, believe me. But, just as I drew my arm back, Mum panted these short urgent breaths. Then she sighed, long and sad. And slumped to the floor.

  CHAPTER 16

  Mum isn’t improving. Her memory is patchy, her speech slurred. When she’s awake, she seems confused and upset. She can’t use her left arm, either.

  Doctor Martyn organised for the ambulance to bring her from Portland to the tiny hospital in Murnong. He visits her twice a day, bringing flowers, and books for me to read. He even brings me a sandwich for lunch. ‘You need to look after yourself, Erin,’ he says. ‘You need to be well enough to care for your mum.’

  But it’s been two weeks and Mum doesn’t seem to be getting better. I’ve spent every day at the hospital, only heading home in time to feed the chooks, collect the eggs and rustle together some sort of a meal. I don’t know how long I can keep it up. Not because of school either. I haven’t been back to class since I was arrested. It’s more that the rent’s due next week. I haven’t the foggiest how I’m going to pay it.

  Today Doctor Martyn chatters cheerfully to Mum as he checks her blood pressure. Then he pulls a chair over next to me. I’ve a feeling I’m not going to like what he has to say.

  ‘Is there anywhere you can go where you will have family support? As you know, your mother has had a stroke that is affecting her speech and movement. It’s going to be a slow process getting her back to her old self. Even when she can leave the hospital, she’s not going to be able to work for quite a while. With your father … away, it’s going to be up to you …’

  Much as I’d expected it, the news is still a shock. I’d sorta hoped I could at least finish fourth form here. That way I’d be better placed to get a job. I’d actually planned to finish school and do a nursing course so I could work in one of the big hospitals, maybe at Geelong or Ararat. Plans don’t always turn out how you want though, do they? Not for me, anyway.

  With Mum snoozing, I walk into town, desperate to find a job. The bakery doesn’t want me back. The postmistress doesn’t need an assistant. Too young to work at the pub. Too female for a job at the servo.

  I bang on the door at the places where Mum does cleaning work, asking if I can fill in for her. Mrs Howard says she doesn’t want a thief in her home. Mrs Keegan says, ‘I’m sorry, Erin. I hope your Mum feels better soon.’ Mrs Frost slams the door in my face.

  As I trudge home, Mr McMaster’s threat echoes in my mind: ‘… there aren’t many opportunities in a town like Murnong. It can be very difficult …’ He’s right, damn it. He’s made sure of it. There’s nothing left in Murnong for the Murphys. So where do we go? Until Murnong, we always kept to ourselves. Never relied on anyone else, let alone hand-outs. But I don’t have a choice now. There’s no food at home and next to no money to buy any. Doctor Martyn’s sandwiches are the best meal of my day. If Mum got sent home tomorrow, we’d starve if I couldn’t get work. There’s got to be someone I can ask for help.

  Dad only has the one brother and he’s useless. Last I heard he was in Western Australia, mining or fishing or something. Besides, I wouldn’t know where to start looking for him.

  Mum has two sisters. Aunty Maggie married Carl who works with the Queensland railways. They’ve a daughter my age, April. We haven’t seen them for nearly ten years although we still get letters every birthday and Christmas.

  Mum’s other sister, Rhona, lives in Rushton. She’s single (she perpetually whines about being ‘unlucky in love’). Mum and her don’t really get on. But, let’s face it, Mum’s in no state to travel to Queensland, even if we could afford the tickets. Rhona’s our only option.

  I find a number for Aunty Rhona in Mum’s battered address book, grab a handful of change and scamper down to the payphone outside the post office, before I chicken out on calling.

  Man! Talk about a tough conversation! Aunty Rhona sounds cranky from the second she answers the phone, spitting out words like angry wasps.

  ‘It’s Rhona. Who is this?’

  ‘Hi, Aunty Rhona, it’s Erin.’

  That floors her. She hasn’t seen or heard a peep from me for years.

  ‘Erin … well, well … how is your mother?’

  ‘She’s not good, actually. She’s in the hospital here at Murnong. She had a stroke.’

  Rhona says nothing. It’s as if she’s waiting to learn how this news affects her. I speak quickly, hoping she won’t cut me off.

  ‘The doctor — Doctor Martyn — says she won’t be able to work for some time. We haven’t seen Dad for a while —’ (Rhona hisses at the mention of Dad) ‘— and we need somewhere to stay so I can get a job. Umm, I was wondering whether you knew anywhere in Rushton as … we don’t have much money.’

  There’s a pause, so long that I wonder if she’s hung up. Then: ‘Well, you better come stay with me I suppose. Until you find your feet. I always knew your father was bad news. Tell Ellen I have a spare room. Call me when your train gets in. We’ll talk about rent when you get here.’

  She hangs up without saying goodbye.

  I pull the phone-box door open and step out into the crisp evening air. Part of me is relieved; comforted that we have somewhere to go. But I’m also leaden with grief at having to leave another town and start over. Bloody Murnong! It’s as if my family is litter blown in off the highway. We’re tumbling again and no one cares.

  I’ve never felt so utterly alone.

  CHAPTER 17

  Doctor Martyn drives us to the station in his zippy little Triumph. He offered to take us all the way to Rushton but there’s a baby due and I know he can’t really leave town. I cry when he says farewell and hug him like a grandfather. Apart from Bron, wh
o gave me a notepad with butterflies on it and demanded I write, no one else even said goodbye.

  As I drag bags from the back seat, Doctor Martyn hands me a roll of cash, secured by a rubber band. ‘Wages owing,’ he whispers. ‘No need to tell your mum.’ I’m embarrassed but he winks and makes it seem OK. To be honest, I’m in no position to argue. There’s no guessing what Aunty Rhona is going to demand for the privilege of putting a roof over our heads.

  Mum still isn’t talking much and her left arm is numb. When she does speak, she mumbles from one side of her mouth.

  In spite of my sadness, I enjoy the trip. I haven’t travelled by train before. I like the clatter and sway of the dark carriages with their wide, slippery seats and the soap operas on the railway platforms at each stop. Teary farewells; boisterous hellos; nervous travellers stepping into the unknown; kids jumping out of their skins to get on the move; lovers reunited. I make up stories about the faces I see, wondering if any of them have been driven away, forced from their homes like us.

  When we reach Rushton, it’s dark. I nudge Mum awake. ‘Paddy?’ she murmurs. ‘Breakfast?’ I haul our bags from the racks above our seats and help her totter down the aisle.

  Mum flops onto one of the platform benches, beside our stuff, while I phone Aunty Rhona. ‘Rhona speaking. Is that you, Erin? So the train was actually on time. I’ll send a taxi.’

  A chubby driver, who introduces himself as Stan, pulls up about ten minutes later. He loads our bags into the boot, observing happily, ‘You girls travel light.’ I’m not sure if he’s being sarcastic. We’ve three heavy, battered suitcases, crammed full. Everything we own.

  Stan drives us along a tangle of streets with the abandoned feel of a country town after dark. When we hit the main road, a cathedral looms yellow out of the darkness, scaffolding caging the main spire. ‘Rumour has it one of the priests found gold in his vegie patch,’ Stan says, looking back over his shoulder at me. ‘A nugget big enough to pay for the rest of the building work. Lucky bastard.’

  A block from the cathedral, Stan pulls over beside an impressive white building, its entire veranda glowing in the rich maroons and iris blues of leadlight windows. ‘Won’t be long,’ he says. ‘I’ll go get Rhona.’

  Stan waits at the top of the stairs. The front door swings open and he disappears inside. I can see a tasselled lamp on a hall table, tiled floor and a Chinese urn loaded with flowers. I’d never imagined Aunty Rhona’s boarding house would be so grand. Living in it will be like being a character in a Jane Austen novel.

  Moments later, Stan emerges from the hallway, pulling the door closed behind him. He’s shaking his head and muttering to himself as he stomps down the steps.

  ‘Sorry ’bout the wait. Change of plans for you ladies,’ he says. ‘Rhona’s busy with a new guest. She’ll be putting you up elsewhere. She said to give you this.’ He reaches over to the back seat and hands me an envelope. Inside there’s a heavy iron key and a note on a page torn from a jotter:

  Ellen, I had to book out the room I had for you. I’m putting you up elsewhere instead. The place needs a bit of work. Get Erin to tidy it up and I won’t expect any rent for the first month. — R.

  Stan closes his door and restarts the engine. ‘It’s not far,’ he says, sounding sympathetic and a little embarrassed. He turns across the wide, empty street and drives two blocks north to a dark, tree-lined avenue. I scan the gloomy homes, wondering how bad the place will be. ‘Here we are,’ Stan says. ‘At least you’re a bit closer to the shops.’

  The first impressions aren’t too bad. The house is set back from the street behind a snarl of weeds and a gap-toothed picket fence. To the right, on the corner, is a two-storey bakery, its rear wall an ivy tapestry. The bakery blocks the nearest streetlight, keeping our new home immersed in shadow.

  Stan pulls a torch from the glove box, lopes up the path and onto the bull-nosed veranda. I follow, clutching the heavy key, scuttling to keep near the torchlight.

  The key turns easily in the lock and, hallelujah, the heavy door opens without a creepy haunted-house creak. Inside, the air is musty, heavy with decay. Stan aims the torch at the fuse box while he wrestles with the switches. Then he curses. ‘The ruddy power isn’t connected. You’ll need to get on to the SEC tomorrow. Do you have a torch?’

  I do have a torch but the batteries are on their last legs — not exactly perfect for moving into a new house. Stan plonks our suitcases into the hallway and I search for my torch. Mum’s still asleep in the taxi.

  Having located my torch, I shine it around the front room. There’s an enormous bed with a dust cloth over it. I drag the cloth aside, sneezing as the dust stirs. The bed still has sheets and blankets on it. They smell musty but appear clean — by torchlight, anyway. They’ll have to do until daylight.

  Stan waits on the front veranda, twiddling an unlit cigarette. ‘I’ll give you a hand with your mum then I have to be off; I’ve just been called to another job.’

  I wake Mum gently. Stan helps her out of the car, across the wide gutter and up the stairs. We sit her on the bed and help her to lie down, dragging an ancient patchwork quilt over her.

  ‘How much do I owe you?’ I ask Stan.

  ‘Nothin’,’ he replies. ‘Be buggered if I’m taking money for leaving two women in the cold and dark. It’s not right. Rhona can cough up for it the next time I see her.’ With that he laughs and calls out ‘good luck’ as he drives away.

  I close the front door. The light from my torch is already fading to a dull orange, the batteries evidently as exhausted as I am. Even with Mum snoring nearby, loneliness hangs on me like a heavy coat. Sighing, I venture down the hall to the kitchen, thrusting the dim torchlight into the pantry and cupboards beneath the sink.

  I find a pair of crooked candles and half a box of matches, then take an upturned glass from the sink, stand a candle in it and strike a match. Returning to the bedroom, I put the candle on a dusty chest of drawers and slide myself under the quilt with Mum.

  CHAPTER 18

  I spend the next two days dusting, washing curtains and bed linen, carting boxes of rusty tinned food out to the rubbish and scrubbing at carpet stains and mildewed walls. Opening the windows is like giving the house mouth-to-mouth — it begins to breathe again. With the power on and the hot water furnace bubbling, it feels more like a home than a mausoleum.

  After I’ve cleaned the two front bedrooms, lounge, kitchen, laundry, back veranda, bathroom and toilet out the back, there’s only one room left and it’s locked. When Aunty Rhona drops by, I ask her about it. ‘Storage,’ she snaps. ‘You needn’t concern yourself with that room. If you’re done inside, the garden needs work.’

  The garden can wait. I need to find a job.

  I begin with the bakery next door. A sign on the window says ‘Proudly supplying Rushton since 1910’, but there are no customers to be seen and the shop is almost dark. An elderly lady shuffles to the counter when I ring the bell. She smiles, as if she wishes she could take me on. ‘I’m sorry, dear. We’re a small family business. Perhaps you should try one of the bigger bakeries in town. Gilmours, maybe.’

  I door-knock the service station, the corner store and the butchers’ in Barnaby Street but they don’t have anything going either. I’m clearly going to have to look further afield.

  At least Mum is on the improve. She can’t walk far and isn’t up to cooking but she’s happy enough sitting by the radiator with a magazine or her knitting. She likes having me around every day but must know it can’t last. We’re almost stony broke.

  I start buying the local paper, The Advocate, and scanning the job advertisements. Barely sixteen, with little experience and no qualifications, there isn’t much I can realistically apply for. I don’t have nice enough clothes for an office job and I’m a crap typist. I’d like a hospital position, anything that could help me get into nursing, but there’s nothing around for someone my age. Then I see an ad that seems to fit. It reads:

  Kitchenhand/cleaner: 3
5 hrs pw. Must be patient and have caring disposition. No exp. reqd. Call Mick Hartnett. 436 004

  There’s a phone box opposite the corner store, outside the squash courts. Nervously, I drop the coins in the slot. The phone rings five times before someone picks it up.

  ‘Hello. This is Mick.’

  ‘Oh, good morning, Mr Hartnett. My name is Erin Murphy. I’m ringing about the job.’

  ‘G’day, Erin. What’d you like to know? It doesn’t pay well and you’ll be working with special kids, if you get my drift. It’s mostly kitchen work, err, with some cleaning and caring for the kids.’ He sounds almost apologetic. ‘If you’re still interested, you better come in and we’ll have a chat.’

  I’m not quite sure what he means by ‘special kids’ but I like his knockabout approach to job interviews. Mr Hartnett sounds as laid-back as the shearers Dad used to work with.

  ‘Yes, please. I mean, what time would you like me to come in … and what is the address?’

  ‘Yeah, reckon you’ll be needing that,’ he chuckles. ‘Righto, how about 10.30 on Wednesday? Do you know the, errr, special centre? Some people call it The Silver City.’

  ‘No, I’m new to Rushton.’

  ‘You will be needin’ an address then. It’s 25 Quarry Road, Ironbark Gully. See you Wen’sdy.’

  I’ve no idea where Ironbark Gully is or how to get there so I walk into the town centre, find a tourist information booth near the town hall and pick up a free map. Ironbark Gully is a fair walk away but I don’t really have a choice. I can’t afford a taxi.

  For the interview, I put on my best outfit, the clothes I used to wear to church in Murnong. In the mirror on the chest of drawers I look more mature than I expected: no longer the schoolgirl. It’s an odd feeling, meeting an older version of yourself like that. It gives me a lift, makes me feel more confident. I leave my hair down, say goodbye to Mum and start walking.