Milk Fever

by Lisa Reece-Lane

  She buys some steaks and chicken breasts, then heads across the road to the greengrocers. With all this good meat and vegetables and some exercise she’ll be fit and healthy in a couple of months.

  Mrs Fatori is behind the till. ‘How do you like it up here, Julia? Have you settled in yet?’

  ‘Almost.’ She selects half a dozen red apples, some baby potatoes, broccoli, and bananas and puts them in a bag. ‘Do you have any rocket, Mrs Fatori?’

  The older woman laughs and shakes her head, as though Julia’s made a joke. She bends down behind the counter and Julia can hear her talking in a soft cooing voice. The children inch closer.

  Oscar leans over the counter, his legs swinging. Amber giggles.

  ‘What are you kids looking at?’

  ‘The fattest dog in the world,’ Oscar says, laughing. ‘Look at it.’

  Mrs Fatori rubs the ears of a scruffy brown dog lying on its side, with a round stomach and pronounced nipples. When the dog scratches its ears, Mrs Fatori straightens her legs with a groan and begins to weigh the fruit and vegetables, pressing the numbers carefully into the till. ‘She’s not fat, love. Bella is going to have puppies soon.’

  Oh no, the dreaded ‘P’ word.

  ‘I’m sure Mrs Fatori has good homes picked out for them already.’ Julia gives the older woman a meaningful look, which obviously gets misinterpreted.

  Mrs Fatori winks back at Julia and says, ‘I’m sure I can save a special one for your kids.’

  Oscar and Amber dance around on their toes, high-fiving each other.

  Julia acts before the excitement escalates. ‘Sorry, guys, but no puppy.’

  ‘Why not?’ Oscar frowns up at her.

  ‘Well, for a start they take a lot of looking after.’

  ‘No, they don’t.’ Mrs Fatori is obviously on the kids’ side. ‘If you train them properly they’re good as gold. And dogs are wonderful for kids, everyone knows that. They even have them in nursing homes and hospitals.’

  And fruit shops. ‘You don’t know of any good cafés around here, do you, Mrs Fatori?’ Julia angles her back so she can’t see the kids’ grumpy faces.

  ‘Molly’s takeaway does a nice mug-o-chino. Tell her I sent you, and she’ll probably chuck in a biscuit too.’

  ‘Ah … thank you.’

  ‘Your husband doesn’t need more space for his healings, does he? There’s a lovely flat above the shop here. Just had it painted.’

  Julia shudders at the thought. They’re in enough debt with the yoga studio. ‘Not for the moment,’ she says. ‘But he might need it soon; if the yoga takes off.’

  Julia pays and leaves. And stands for a moment in the street.

  No coffee in this town, she realises. No café lattes or flat whites. No long blacks or short macs. Nothing that can calm her mind, soothe her nerves or energise her body.

  From where she’s standing, she can see the drinks and ice-cream signs, indicating the takeaway shop. She knows, without asking, that they won’t understand the art of making coffee. They’ll serve her something tasteless in a big mug.

  What have they done, moving here?

  Adjusting the shopping, she heads back towards the car, squinting against the sharp white sun.

  ‘I want a puppy,’ Oscar says, his hands on hips, ready and braced for an argument.

  Julia stops walking, pulls out the biscuits he insisted she buy and gives him two. ‘Here,’ she says. ‘Have a biscuit instead.’

  Julia

  She tips a can of peas and corn into hot water and takes another mouthful of wine. Her hands still smell of bleach and her fingertips are puckered from scrubbing. Two scourers, three toothbrushes and a bottle of cloudy ammonia later and still the shower has lime marks around the lower tiles. Perhaps she needs something stronger. Paint stripper? Caustic soda?

  The potatoes are taking ages to cook; this ancient gas stove is nowhere near as efficient as her last one. One side of the chicken is still raw; the other side was burnt a quarter of an hour ago and has filled the house with black smoke, setting off the smoke detector twice, so she was forced to climb a chair and hit the thing with her fist until it stopped screaming.

  Worse still is the fact that she can’t find a plumber to install her espresso machine, despite ringing every single one of them in the local directory. Too busy, booked up, only doing commercial work at the moment, sorry lady.

  Must think positive, she admonishes, and the words are delivered by Bryant’s upbeat voice inside her head.

  Life can be easy, joyful and fun.

  Life can be easy, joyful and fun.

  Oscar bumps into her as she takes the knives and forks out of the drawer.

  ‘I don’t have anyone to play with,’ he says.

  ‘What about Amber?’

  ‘She’s stupid.’

  ‘Don’t call your sister stupid.’ She closes the drawer. ‘Could you put these on the table for me, please?’

  He sighs and crosses his arms over his chest. ‘I’m too tired.’ He does a slow motion slide down the cupboard and flops onto the floor.

  ‘Go to bed then, if you’re that tired.’

  She puts the cutlery on the table in a pile; let them sort it out themselves. She pours a little salt into the peas and the lid comes off the container, spiralling a white mountain into the centre of the pot. ‘Shit.’

  ‘You shouldn’t say that. Daddy says it’s swearing.’

  ‘Where is Daddy?’

  ‘There’s something special on TV.’ Oscar’s two missing front teeth make him sound like he’s doing a Daffy Duck impersonation.

  ‘Could you ask him to come in here, please?’

  He sits up, pouting. ‘I told you, I’m too tired.’

  The pot with the salt boils over in a hissing fountain. The room stinks of smoke. She can hear Bryant laugh at something from the other room.

  She finishes off her wine and pours herself another one. She’s not even hungry. If it was up to her, if she lived alone, she would take her glass out onto the veranda and watch the cows grazing until it was too dark to find the wine bottle. ‘I need a break,’ she says under her breath.

  Oscar eyes her reproachfully. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing sweetheart, go and tell Daddy that dinner is ready. And ask him if he’s seen the tea towels.’

  There is no way to disguise the fact that her cooking is miserable, like evidence at the scene of a crime. Observe, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit fifteen: the over cooked meat, the excessive use off at and salt, observe, if you will, the careless presentation, the burnt edges …

  ‘Dee-licious, Mummy,’ Amber says, being a good little girl, spooning large mouthfuls of the salty peas into her mouth.

  ‘Don’t eat too many of those,’ Julia says. She’s going to have to find her recipe books, pronto. The Jamie Oliver one; the kids always liked his recipe for lemon-stuffed chicken, although she can’t remember packing the book now.

  Bryant makes a show of sawing through the chicken. ‘What is this?’

  ‘Pheasant,’ she says.

  He pats her on the hand. ‘Funny Mummy. So kids, what do you reckon? Did this meat used to have feathers, fur or fins on it?’

  ‘Fins.’

  ‘No, feathers,’ Amber says.

  Julia looks down at her own plate and chews on the inside of her lip.

  ‘By the way,’ Bryant says. ‘I’ve invited a few people over for dinner Friday evening. Don’t look like that. Just something simple. I could always fire up the barbeque if you feel pressured. You would only have to make a salad or two then. Perhaps your famous chocolate cake.’

  Oscar has spilled half a bottle of tomato sauce over his plate and now sits with his arms crossed, sulking.

  ‘What’s the matter, buddy?’ Bryant asks. ‘First day of your new school tomorrow. How exciting is that going to be?’

  ‘I hate school and I hate this.’ He pushes the plate away and stares up at the ceiling.

  God, what a m
oody kid. She loves him more than anything in the world but he is so angry all the time. And only seven. What was he going to be like as a teenager? At his last school there were children from broken homes, kids with alcoholic mothers and aggressive fathers, and they were little angels. She looks over at Oscar: his wide blue eyes, his dirty face and messy brown curls, the way lines mark his forehead from frowning. What’s he thinking that makes him so angry?

  Bryant says, ‘Phew’ and pushes his plate away. ‘By the way, I went into the CFA office this morning and signed up as a volunteer. I think they’re happy to have me on board with my medical training and all. I only have to do a few tests and exams and then I’ll get my own pager. Hey, kids, how will it be having a fireman as a daddy?’

  Their eyes widen in admiration. ‘Cool,’ Oscar says. ‘Can I come with you?’

  ‘Me too,’ Amber says.

  Bryant laughs. ‘Sorry, guys. But I’ll be the first one on the scene if ever you two need rescuing.’ He pushes his chair back. ‘Right. I’m going to relax for a minute or two. Leave the dishes, Julia. I’ll do them for you later.’

  The kids follow their daddy out of the room.

  Julia fills the sink with hot water, squirts washing-up liquid under the tap and puts the cutlery into the water. Bryant offers to wash up most nights, but always leaves it until the next morning, or the next evening, or not at all, and Julia can’t bear to start the day with a pile of dishes waiting.

  When they first moved in together, when she was pregnant with Oscar, Bryant wouldn’t let her do anything; no housework, cooking, shopping. It had become a tender kind of joke between them, Bryant treating her like a queen: propping pillows behind her head, massaging her feet. She wasn’t even allowed to make her own cup of coffee in the morning.

  It had also been embarrassing, like the time they went shopping at High Point. They had bought a mountain of stuff and Bryant had insisted on carrying every box, bag and container: under his arms, across his back, weighing down his shoulders. He had struggled like a donkey along the aisles, through the food court, up and down the escalators, back to their car, quite happily, with Julia walking empty-handed beside him. He’d kept asking, ‘Are you okay, sweetheart?’ ‘Are you okay, darling?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Bryant, let me carry something.’ The stares from the other shoppers had made her blush. Perhaps if she’d been noticeably pregnant, it would have been all right, but at the time she’d barely shown, and just looked lazy.

  ‘No, my darling,’ he’d insisted. ‘You’re having a baby. You need to rest.’

  She stares out of the window. A passionfruit vine covers the top of an old chook shed. A lopsided washing line filled with sheets. The sky is a deep red colour above the rows of fruit trees, and against the barbed wire fence at the back of the property, she can see the outline of cows, grazing. It really is quite beautiful. She should feel blessed. This is a chance to start again, a peaceful place to patch up the little holes in her marriage and nurture the kids.

  From the lounge room she hears the faint TV sounds of an orchestra playing one of the Mozart piano concertos. She can’t remember which one.

  Before she realises what is happening, her body has lowered itself into a demi-plié. Obediently her stomach muscles tighten, her neck lengthens. With her hands resting lightly on the sink, she pliés again, deeper this time. It feels awkward; she’s lost the sharp control of her body she once possessed, and her turn out has diminished, but muscles long forgotten twitch with recognition. God, she can almost hear the rattle of the practice piano, the swish and hush of tendu-ing feet, smell the resin and sweat. She tries a slow développé out to second position. Not bad. A bit weak perhaps. But not bad, considering the break she’s had.

  Mozart is abruptly replaced by the pummelling of African drums.

  She stands up quickly, embarrassed, looking over her shoulder in case anyone is watching. What on earth does she think she’s doing? Plunging her hands back into the soapy water, she rubs the scourer in determined circles against the pots and pans until Teflon starts to come away from the frying pan. She catches her breath and quickly turns the pan upside down on the drainer.

  ‘Kids,’ she shouts out. ‘Time for bed.’

  Whines from the other room. Bryant will be sympathising with them no doubt. She grabs two toothbrushes, Buzz Lightyear and Pocahontas, dabs them with toothpaste and takes them into the front room.

  They’re all watching a program on Africa where a lion sneaks towards a herd of unsuspecting wildebeest.

  ‘I don’t think this is very suitable for Amber.’

  ‘She’s fine.’

  ‘She’s five.’

  Amber is watching the screen, transfixed, barely breathing, her eyes wide.

  Bryant ruffles his daughter’s hair. ‘She loves it,’ he says. ‘It’s educational. And it’s nature.’

  Julia goes to look for pyjamas. Labelling the boxes before they packed would have been a good idea, now she can’t find anything. She picks up the ones they wore last night and takes them into the front room.

  The lion begins to rip apart one of the wildebeest, pulling its teeth away from the body in fibrous red strings, chunks of meat large on the screen, blood over its chin.

  ‘Mum, you’re in the way,’ Oscar says. ‘I can’t see.’

  ‘Well, it’s bed time. And Daddy shouldn’t let you watch this.’

  The phone rings and with a groan she gets to her feet, placing the pyjamas on the couch beside them. ‘I want you both dressed by the time I get back.’

  It’s a yoga enquiry. The woman sounds like a sex-line operator, sultry and husky-voiced, and wants to know what time the early morning classes begin and what she should wear.

  ‘Clothes,’ Julia says, noticing a large puddle of milk on the floor beside the kitchentable. She frownsat herself. ‘Sorry, I mean comfortable clothes, something you can move about in …’

  Bryant walks up beside her and holds out his hand. ‘For me?’ he asks and she passes him the phone.

  She listens to him from the lounge room doorway.

  He laughs at something the woman says; his voice is warm and low. ‘I look forward to seeing you.’ For a moment Julia isn’t sure if he whispers something else because there is a pause between his last sentence and the handset being replaced in the cradle.

  Tom

  I can’t get the image of him out of my mind. What is he doing here, this man? His energy is peculiar; thickly woven and slightly iridescent. It appears as though he’s wearing a suit of happiness, something that I can’t see past. Does he take it off from time to time? I wonder. Or is his optimism knotted into his core. I like him. But why would he come to Lovely, when he could have stayed some place else? It intrigues me. Lovely is beautiful and full of music, but most people don’t know this. The locals don’t seem to hear it; they call Lovely a forgotten bus stop. But perhaps this man hears the music of the lake and trees like I do. Lovely might have called to him. A shiver of excitement travels up my spine.

  Mother is at the sink, talking in that generator-like drone of hers, where the words become one long blur of noise. Rosy May and Blackie, the cats, stand on either side of her feet, staring up at her, listening dutifully. Mother no longer troubles me since the man arrived. Even her food tastes okay, and I wolf down the bacon sandwich she makes me.

  ‘What’s given you such an appetite?’ she says, watching me.

  Today I even eat the crusts.

  She shakes her head and scrapes the bacon rinds into the dog’s bowl outside the back door. Whicker, Dad’s cattle dog, still hasn’t returned so next to the woodpile there is a pile of food scraps in his bowl, which the cats will sniff their noses at, but reject on principle, to make a statement to the other farm animals that there is nothing of worth about the dog. I’ve seen Blackie take swipes at Whicker’s twitching paws, while the poor dog is sleeping. They stalk him through the long grass and hiss at him if he should happen to walk too close to them. Whicker continues to wag hi
s tail when he sees them, bewildered by their animosity and disdain for him.

  Mother puts the kettle on to boil. ‘Wilson’s got the ute stuck up in Wandinvale, so he won’t be back until tomorrow.’ She wipes at the counter and drops the cloth in the sink. ‘You want my opinion; I reckon he’s hungover. Should never have hired him in the first place but your father won’t be told.’

  I imagine Wilson drowning in a sea of VB cans and cigarette butts on the back of his ute, his face lobstered by the sun, white spit drying in the corners of his mouth, perhaps a black eye from a pub fight. I remember him being drunk at school too. When Wilson was twelve, the headmaster had pulled his face out of the toilet and sent him to the sick bay to wait for his father to take him home. But, when they finally managed to get hold of Wilson’s dad, he was drunk too and the pair of them had left the school grounds arm in arm, laughing and falling down together.

  ‘I thought I might go into town,’ I say.

  She waits for a moment, watching me without speaking. After a while she purses her lips and picks up a faded pot holder. World’s Greatest Mum, it reads. I don’t remember buying her that. She takes the kettle off the hob and comes to stand at my side.

  ‘You weren’t planning on getting into mischief, were you?’

  I squeeze my knees together under the table, scared to answer.

  ‘Hmmm?’ She places the kettle over my head and I can feel the heat radiating down onto my crown. ‘Tell me the truth now, Tom.’ Her voice is soft, the kettle so close that the flesh along my parting feels as though it’s peeling.

  ‘I wasn’t,’ I say. ‘I promise.’

  She takes the kettle back to the stove. ‘What then?’

  ‘I … I was going to do yoga.’

  ‘Yoga?’ She makes it sound like something obscene. ‘What on earth do you want to do that for?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Don’t you go anywhere near those city people. They’re weird.’

  ‘They seem nice.’

  She lifts the kettle, then slams it down abruptly, making the water sway. ‘Don’t make me punish you, Tom Leadbetter!’