The centre, an old scout hall, has been freshly painted — jelly-pink walls with clotted cream trim. Gauze curtains lift in the breeze or are tied back with red ribbons. The floor is polished pine. Unframed prints of Indian temples and meditating monks are stuck to the walls and there is a bookshelf near the front door beneath a sign, Please place shoes here, and another one advertising Bryant’s chakra balancing workshops. The hall smells of paint and incense; outside, the sound of birds and the odd car.
‘Smell the air,’ Bryant says, and Mrs Fatori, the landlady, joins him in a deep breath.
‘So, how do you kids like the place?’ Mrs Fatori has been fussing over the children ever since she arrived to drop off the keys. Her bare thighs, the colour of chicken sausages, are squeezed into army shorts; her sneaker-clad feet seem too small to support her rotund torso; and half of her teeth are missing. Oscar hasn’t said a word, just stares at her as though she’s a cartoon character, and Amber ignores her completely.
Julia hates answering for the children; she read somewhere parents shouldn’t do that, but Mrs Fatori continues to wait for their answer and the silence is stretching. ‘I think they will love it here,’ she says. ‘The local school is supposed to be good.’
‘Are both of yours going there?’
‘Amber’s only five, so she’s still in kinder. But Oscar will; he’s in year one this year.’
‘All my grandkids went to the local school and they turned out well. They do a lot of Steiner things, apparently, or so my daughter reckons. It’s supposed to be good for kids’ self-confidence. Although I think the youngest girl is a bit too self-confident.’ She turns to Bryant who has draped a beaded tapes try across the front of the yoga platform. ‘What amazing material. Did you get it from here?’
Bryant smiles, his face radiant. ‘No, Mrs Fatori. It came from India,’ like the material has been couriered down by angels; a hand-sewn offering from God.
Mrs Fatori screws up her face as though he’s offered her a plate of something unsavoury. ‘Ooh, no. Spicy food doesn’t agree with me.’
Lunchtime, and Julia has only handed out two or three leaflets.
‘You could put a little more enthusiasm into it.’ Bryant’s face is red from the heat. ‘Don’t ask if they want one, simply hand it to them.’
‘And then they end up in the bin.’ There isn’t a single shade tree in the mall, only prickly natives that grow parallel to the pavement and shelter piles of fading rubbish. The awnings from the shops do nothing to cool the area. Airconditioners drip and hum. She is sweating rivers beneath her shirt. ‘Most people here don’t even know what yoga is.’ She sounds childish; even Oscar and Amber are content to sit in the middle of the town mall, swinging their legs under the seat, smiling at old ladies who stop to ask where their mummy is, and playing I-spy. ‘Perhaps it would be better to drop them in people’s letterboxes.’
‘Come on Julia, my first class is on Thursday night. We want a good turn up, don’t we? And it’s nice to meet people face to face. They’ll remember us that way.’
That was the difference between them; Bryant loved centre stage, Julia preferred to dance in the background.
She hands a brochure to a young mother with two kids. The woman’s face is raw with acne. ‘What’s this for?’
Julia points to the picture of Bryant on the front, to the magnified close-up of his face, looking eager and slightly goofy. ‘My husband has started up a yoga centre here.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Yoga?’ Julia fumbles. ‘It’s a kind of exercise.’
‘Like aerobics?’
‘Kind of.’
The young mum pushes the pram away and drags it back again. The toddler’s head moves in rhythm with the rocking. His nose is running. A baby lies behind him asleep.
Julia takes a step away from them. She can feel the beginnings of a headache gnawing at her temples.
The woman follows. ‘How much does it cost?’
Julia has no idea. Bryant stands with his arm around a man dressed in overalls and gum boots. They laugh together as though they’d known each other for years. She approaches Bryant. ‘How much are the yoga classes?’
He nods towards the brochure. ‘It’s in there, darling. Fifteen dollars for an hour and a half.’ The smile remains in place but Julia can tell he’s hurt. She should know that already.
That night, Oscar’s scream reaches every corner of the strange house.
Julia walk sun steadily up the hallway, like she did a thousand times before in the old house to a thousand similar screams. She’s a well programmed automaton, banging into the walls, dreams still trailing behind her — hold on sweetheart, Mummy’s coming — while she tries to get her eyes open enough to see in the darkly nested house. One whimper, cough or sniffle, even a held breath, and she is awake and ready, despite the seductive pull of sleep and dreams.
‘Why does he do that?’ Amber cuddles her one-legged Barbie, groggy, half asleep.
‘Just dreams, darling, go back to sleep. See, he’s all quiet now.’
‘It scares me though.’
‘Come here then.’ Julia offers her other arm to Amber who jumps out of her bed and snuggles close. Oscar hasn’t even woken up, although his legs twitch occasionally.
She lies there, sandwiched in the single bed, smiling at the ceiling, a child on either arm, humming a tune she used to sing to them as babies. Even from here she can hear the rumble of Bryant’s snoring. Amber giggles.
Julia falls asleep, her arms going numb from the weight of their heads.
When the first birds start calling outside the window, Oscar pokes her in the ribs with his little elbow. ‘Get out, Mummy. You’re taking up all the room.’ She puts Amber back in her own bed, kisses her forehead, and tiptoes out of the room.
As the dawn appears through the bedroom window, she slides between the cool sheets and presses herself against Bryant’s back. She feels the warm pull of desire and moves her hand towards his stomach.
Bryant’s breathing remains slow and even; he’s obviously settled at the bottom of a peaceful sleep. The kind one shouldn’t disturb. If she was irresistible it would be different. What man complains about being woken up by a goddess, wanting sex?
Her hand hovers for a moment longer, uncertain, then withdraws, fingers curled against her palm. No, she must lose some weight first, she decides. Eat less, get some exercise, and think more positively. Then she will get her old body back. Then she will be irresistible again.
Tom
I am slowly unravelling in this town. Over the years, tiny pieces of me have been left behind in shop doorways or hanging from the trees, flattened against the summer-soft roads; my inner most thoughts snagged on people’s elbows. I learned this is possible in Ms Purvis’ class years ago. She taught us that we are made up of tiny atoms, and these atoms are not connected but just spin around each other, so the air can get inside all the little gaps and pull us apart.
Mrs Brookes walks out of the butcher shop, carrying fifty dollars worth of minced cow in her beefy arms; the plastic bags are almost stretched to the pavement with the weight. It will feed her sons for a few days. From the pavement, I can see my reflection laid over the trays of meat. Charlie stares right through me for a second, then turns back to the counter and serves another customer. He’s doing that big fake smile again. I’ve seen how he looks when no one else is in the shop, staring out at the mall with a look of tired resignation on his face. Now, he wipes his hands down the length of his body, two pink smears on either side of a stiff white apron, and holds a leg of lamb out to Mrs Cartshaw, smiling proudly, like he’s giving her the keys to a new car.
What is it that holds people together? I wonder. Will power? Gravity? When no one is around to see, do we all dissolve into the paddocks and kitchens? Do we cease to exist for that time? And when we are together, in video stores and supermarkets, how much of our energy mingles and adheres and how much of it separates when we leave?
I stand nex
t to the Drover’s Rest pub, beside the old horses’ trough which is full of green water and cigarette butts. Mother gave me a letter and money for stamps. I hold the coins tight, afraid they might drop, and they imprint my palm in tight wet circles. My head hurts and the bones in my jaw feel as though they are breaking. Another migraine.
It’s ten in the morning and already, three of the utes and the old ambulance are parked out front; a dog watches me suspiciously from Mick Morton’s tray. It growls a little in the back of its throat, ready to call for Mick if I get too close.
The door is always open to the pub and it stinks like a drunk’s mouth. I can see cracked vinyl stools, the barmaid’s elbow, dartboard, ashtrays, someone’s left a pile of dirty tea towels on the floor. But no one in sight, thank goodness. Later, they’ll all sit by the door, feet up on the veranda rails, watching everyone outside. But first thing in the morning, they play pool.
I take a deep breath and hurry past. The dog lets out a half-hearted woof.
Only a few traders have opened their shops. It is hot already, the sun bleaching the sky white and turning the footpath to glass. I walk past the real estate agent and the fish and chip shop, the milk bar and the Bargains Galore and try to ignore the pain in my head. But it’s getting worse and I have to sit on my heels, holding the money and letter to my chest, trying to breathe the pain away. My head is being cleaved apart. I coax my mind into a quiet place, allowing it to sink past the pavement, beyond the hard concrete and through the layers of silt and clay. Down to where the earth breathes. I recall the peaceful brown of the dam; its still surface. I keep my head close to my knees and imagine that my mind is blank and dark.
One word brings me to the surface.
‘Loser.’
Wilson and Mick Morton stand in front of me; I recognise their boots.
‘What are you doin’ here?’ Wilson asks. ‘You know you’re not allowed in town without our permission.’
None of the other townsfolk have a problem with me being here; most of them say hello and ask after my father. I have no idea why Wilson and Mick hate me so much. It’s been going on a long time though. I’ve tried to read the dark grey energy that circles their heads, to interpret the sombre duet they sing, but the answer still eludes me.
Mick squats down in front of me and looks up at Wilson. ‘You know, Wilson, I reckon he wants to get the shit kicked out of him.’ He removes his sun glasses, folds them carefully, and puts them in the chest pocket of his denim jacket. ‘Is that what you want, Tom?’
I keep my mouth shut, not wanting to provoke them further.
Wilson puts his leather boot on my shoulder and forces me to the ground. He sinks on top of me, pressing one of his bony knees into my ribs, holding me there. I can hear the dog barking excitedly, wanting to join in the action, its chain rattling every time it pulls.
‘What have you got here, Tom?’ Wilson snatches the letter out of my hand and tosses it over his shoulder. ‘And what’s in this one?’ He digs his fingers between mine and tries to open my other hand.
Mick grips my forearm. ‘Get your knife, mate. We’ll cut it open.’
Wilson takes an army knife out of his jacket pocket. ‘Open up,’ he says and I know he means to cut me, I can see it in his eyes. But facing Mother is far worse.
Mick is laughing. There is a tattoo on his arm with the words, Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap, a picture of a worm-infested skull beneath it. I remember when he got it in high school and everyone voted him the coolest kid in school, until Sean Fritz got a Maori one down the entire length of his arm and the vote swung to him.
The knife doesn’t really hurt; not compared to the pain in my head. I watch from several feet up; their hunched backs, my gritted jaw, the blood dripping on the pavement. Even with the knife, the two of them aren’t strong enough to open my hand.
Through the gap between Mick’s arm and body, I see a man, standing in the mall. He seems happy and confident; not a local. His mouth is open with big white teeth. Pale hair is tied in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. He strolls over to a group of teenagers and hands them a piece of paper. Instead of the usual sneers they smile and talk to him. Even from here I can see two of the girls are blushing.
He turns and sees us. He drops the smile. ‘Hey,’ he calls out and hurries forward, running when he gets a few feet away. ‘What the bloody hell?’
Wilson gives me one last kick, Mick spits on his own shoe, although I think he was aiming for my face. He wipes his chin and follows Wilson back to the pub.
The man picks up Mother’s letter, hands it to me, and then helps me to my feet. ‘What in God’s name did they do that for?’
Julia
The local supermarket. It’s got to be quarter the size of the one she’s used to in town. Julia counts the aisles: six of them altogether, and two of them are taken up with alcohol.
Oscar and Amber wander off, and then return almost immediately. ‘They don’t have a toy section, Mum.’
‘That’s probably a good thing.’ Julia selects one of the half-size trolleys and gives it a quick test run. It’s old and crooked. Only two of the wheels touch the ground; the other two spin lazily in the air. She puts it back and selects another one, which has seized up wheels and won’t move forward at all.
‘You should buy me a toy to say thank you.’
‘And why do I need to say thank you, Oscar?’
‘Because I didn’t have a tantrum.’
‘We haven’t even started shopping yet. And you usually have one at the checkout.’
‘Well, if you get me a present first, I won’t have one at all.’
Amber is watching, smiling. She seems to enjoy her brother’s well-crafted arguments.
‘Hmmm, I’m not sure if that’s something that should be rewarded. Some kids enjoy being good when their mummy does shopping.’
‘Well, I don’t.’
The last trolley makes a sound like a train derailing but at least it moves forward. ‘All right, let’s do this. Amber, do you want to sit in this thing?’
‘No way, it looks as though it will crash.’
The trolley prefers to move to the right, so by the time she reaches the second aisle, her forearms are hurting from holding it straight.
This supermarket is a shrine to all things weird and processed. At the end of aisle three she finds a sagging cardboard box full of salted fish, another with hibiscus tea. Further on there is a box of strange-sounding biscuits, Crème Goojags. Julia picks up a pack and tries to interpret the label, which is written in different languages. She finds the English ingredients in tiny letters: tea-flavoured wafers. Disgusting. She puts them back and wipes the dust from her hands.
‘Can I have some biscuits, Mum?’
Julia shakes her head. ‘Too much sugar. The dentist said you had to cut down, remember?’
Oscar points to a bar of chocolate. ‘This?’
‘Still too much sugar. What about some of those fruit strap things?’
‘I hate them.’ He sweeps his hand along the shelf and half a dozen bars of chocolate fall to his feet.
‘Oscar, you come back here now, and pick them all up.’
But he runs around the corner, and Amber puts them back on the shelf, carefully straightening the whole display.
In the tea and coffee aisle there are more weird packets: coffee from China, of all places; dried leaves that look like tiny yellow claws; sachets of something granular, in a language she doesn’t recognise. All covered in dust, haphazardly placed on the shelves together. Julia feels as though she is on another planet, searching for life.
A young girl in a light-blue uniform has been watching her. ‘That’s Mr Bruce, who gets in all the foreign stuff. He buys it cheap from his brother-in-law.’
‘Some of it’s past the use-by date.’
‘No one cares though, not if it’s cheap enough. When Mr Bruce drops the price, there’s always a mad rush.’ The girl leans forward, says under her breath, ‘You should come back tomorrow
; Mr Bruce is planning to slash the price on the Indian biscuits.’ She widens her eyes at Julia. ‘Fifty cents a pack.’
‘Thanks for the tip,’ Julia says. Tea-flavoured wafers. Six months past the use-by date. Delicious.
The meat and dairy section is fronted by a long puddle, which spans the entire aisle. Water must be a permanent fixture because the grey linoleum squares are buckled and soft and the area smells of sour milk. Julia regards the products through the glass, while a bored teenager behind the counter plays a game on his mobile phone. She wheels the screaming trolley away, without purchasing anything.
The fruit and vegetable section isn’t much better: a narrow table displaying spotty bananas, a box of broccoli, two cabbages and bags of withered Granny Smith apples.
Julia sighs. Ah, well, it’s probably better to buy the fresh produce from the butchers and greengrocers anyway.
As she is putting toilet paper and soap (also very dusty, but cheap) in the trolley, Oscar returns beside a tall, red-haired man. ‘I’m the manager here. Is this your son?’
‘Oh, dear, what’s he broken?’ She pulls out her purse.
‘Er, nothing. I found him crying in the confectionery aisle. He said he was lost.’
‘Sorry,’ she tells the manager. ‘I thought he could hear the trolley.’
Oscar passes her two packets of biscuits and does his best sad, lost child impersonation. ‘These would cheer me up, Mummy.’
The red-haired man doesn’t leave until Julia accepts the biscuits. Duped again, by a seven-year-old.
At the checkout Julia realises she has saved a fortune, more than half what she usually spends on her grocery shopping and that lifts her spirits. It goes to prove how many unnecessary items they were purchasing in the city.
Inside the butcher shop she is welcomed by a hearty man who treats her like a long-lost friend. ‘Just moved up here, love?’
‘A couple of days ago.’
‘From the city?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I reckon you’ll like it here, love. And let me tell you, you can’t get meat this tender in the city. No way. They’d kill for lamb this tender down there. They put chemicals in everything to make it last longer, but it ruins the meat. Now, what can I get you? The sirloin is particularly nice today.’
Milk Fever Page 2