‘But you know, darling, it is a job that is never finished. Every day you sell more, our stock changes, and wallah!’ She snaps her fingers.
‘I suppose. But I can finish set-up. You could get a coffee, or…’
‘No no no. There is always so much to be done!’ She touches me on the side of the face, brushing my hair lightly. I shudder, but not because it’s unpleasant. Her perfume is musky and perfect.
I start to put out the sample boxes and make up the float. One of the starburst-shaped price signs has fallen apart so I start to make up a new one. All the time, Eloise ticks her pen against her clipboard behind me, doing sums in her head.
‘Darling,’ she says eventually. ‘Tell me. How are you this morning?’
I turn around. ‘Good thanks. How are you?’
‘I am fine, you know, above my aches and pains.’ Eloise rubs her hip: part of a catalogue of mysterious European ailments she often alludes to. She says, ‘I do not wish to pry, darling, but I have heard about your father. A terrible accident.’
My skin tightens. It makes sense now. Why she’s come in early. ‘Well, yeah,’ I say. ‘It’s…not good.’
She puts a hand on my arm. ‘I am sure it will be all right, Clancy. You tell him I’m thinking of him, and if there is anything I can do to help…’ She trails off, in the way you sort of have to when you’re offering condolences.
I’m actually struggling then to think of when her and Dad would’ve met. I want to ask how she knows about Dad’s involvement in the accident, but it’s not too hard to work out. Eloise and the local florist—a tiny loud lady called Gaby who wears gaping linen shirts—have a regular wine date each afternoon at the Cri, sitting in the corner, shrieking with laughter. Gaby is the central cog in Barwen’s gossip machine.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I’m sure everything’ll be fine.’ I start to think—worryingly—that maybe Mum was right. Maybe I should’ve stayed home.
We spend the first few hours with no customers and I alphabetise the already perfectly ordered sample cards and wipe down the Hollywood mirror—trying more than ever to avoid my reflection, my crumpled car-door hair and mouth-full-of-toothpaste face—and all the while Eloise doesn’t seem to do any inventory checks but instead stares off into the depths of the shopping centre, tapping the pen intermittently on the clipboard. She clucks her tongue at people as they walk past and soon I realise some of them are regular customers.
I start to observe a worrying pattern, which is confirmed just before midday when our first customer of the day finally approaches us. It’s a woman called Raylene McCarthy, who has facial eczema and swears by an expensive cream Eloise recommended to her. She comes up to the counter pushing a shopping trolley containing her rat-tailed twins Bronson and Braden. They’re both little turds who’re in the same grade as Titch, but who make my brother look like a model citizen. Back when I was into skateboarding—by which I mean dressing like a skater—I hung out with their older brother Troy, who was pretty cool. But these kids…jeez.
‘Raylene,’ says Eloise, upping her accent. ‘How are you, my darlink? How are my little bambinos? Growing so fast!’ She waves to the twins, who just stare back, breathing through their mouths. They try to rock the trolley over.
‘Stop it you two!’ Raylene waves a lazy open palm behind her, catching Braden on his ear.
‘What can I do for you today?’ Eloise says to Raylene. ‘Your skin is looking wonderful but I have some new serum from France that could light you up!’
Raylene squints up one eye, the other trained squarely on me. ‘Eloise,’ she says. ‘I would just like to register my extreme disappointment.’ Eloise begins to respond but Raylene holds up a starfish hand. ‘I think in light of recent events, it’s in poor taste to continue to employ certain people.’
‘Excuse moi?’ Eloise puts down her clipboard.
‘No offence to you, Eloise,’ says Raylene, ‘but I will not be shopping here while you continue to employ certain people.’ She swivels both her blackcurrant eyes to Eloise and half-grins like she’s super proud of her tact. ‘I’m sure you understand.’
‘Is that so?’ Eloise’s voice changes. It’s slower and suddenly deeper.
‘Yes, that is so. There are certain elements in this town that need to be discouraged, and I’m not the only one who feels this way. We shall not be supporting businesses who choose to side with certain elements.’
I try my best to stay calm, to not look at anyone, but my heart is nearly thumping through my chest. Bronson has his hands down his pants, rummaging around his Jim Beam shorts with the manic concentration of a hopeful prospector. I hope he breaks it off.
‘Let me make one thing clear to you,’ says Eloise, stabbing the air with her pen, ‘I do not, nor have I ever, supported any level of discrimination or small-mindedness. I respect of course your right to shop where you want, but I disagree one hundred per cent with your reasons for doing so. You can tell anybody you like that I will not be changing any staff here. I will continue, with my current sales force, to sell beauty products of the highest quality to anyone who wishes to buy them.’
Raylene doesn’t say anything for a moment, then scratches her cheek with a quick movement. Her skin flakes off like fancy salt. She didn’t expect Eloise to react like this. She clearly thought her tabloid consumer-power bluff would not be called. ‘It’s all overpriced anyway,’ she says, huffing out her words. ‘You’re welcome to her.’ She flicks her hand at me. ‘Underhills have always been trouble. Tucka’s been a bad egg since forever. A criminal element we don’t need.’
Right, I think, that’s bloody it. I go to move out through the swinging door at the side of the counter but Eloise grabs my arm with a surprisingly strong grip. I snap my head around but she just signals to me with a lowered palm, like, it’s not worth it.
Raylene huffs and turns away. She tries to swing the trolley around back the way she’s come but the twins use their instinctive grasp of resistance physics to push all their weight the other way, rendering the trolley impossible to move. I snort a laugh but Raylene—clearly used to the behaviour of her shithead sons—pushes the front of the trolley instead and wheels it briskly backwards towards the supermarket.
‘Thanks,’ I say to Eloise. ‘You didn’t have to, you know…’
‘The ignorance of this town sometimes!’ Eloise slaps her forehead. ‘I am sorry you had to hear that.’
‘It’s fine.’ I smooth down my shirt like I’m dusting myself off. ‘She’s probably right, though. Maybe I shouldn’t be the, um, face of the business for a little while.’
‘Nonsense! There is nothing wrong with you working here.’
‘But you heard her. Everyone’s going to think the same thing. I mean, no one’s come to the counter all morning.’
‘It will be fine, darling. People will forget about this whole episode in no time.’
‘Maybe. But I don’t want to hurt your business.’
Eloise nods. ‘It’s your choice darling. But please know that I will always want you here.’
My heart breaks. She’s one of the good ones. Which is why I say, ‘I just need to probably be with Mum and Dad. For a little bit.’ Which is sort of true. Maybe.
13
It’s only as I’m walking back through the shopping centre that I remember I have no bike and therefore no way of getting home. I’m convinced everyone I walk past is looking at me, judging me and my family. There’s no way everyone can already know, is there? Surely not everyone can think my dad is guilty without even knowing the whole story? For crying out loud, I don’t even know the whole story.
I get a strawberry Big M from a vending machine, even though they’re cheaper in the supermarket, and go outside to sit on one of the benches near the bakery. It’s so much cooler in the open air. My makeup feels separated from my face by a layer of sweat. I find a napkin in my backpack and wipe as much off as I can. I pull out my iPod—a hand-me-down from Angus with a grey screen so scratched up you can hardl
y see what song’s playing—and navigate to a playlist called Shitty Day 14. My Shitty Day playlists, of which there are nearly thirty, are not—as you might think—filled with songs designed to make me feel better, but rather songs that celebrate sadness and pity. The first one I titled Now That’s What I Call Suicidal! but I thought it was a little over the top.
I lean back on the bench and close my eyes, letting the music wash over me. A heavy weight lands beside me and I jolt alert to see a big blue uniform sitting beside me and inside it Security Officer Reeve Lewis. He points to my Big M. ‘A good drop, that.’
I nod. ‘Aged in a vending machine for six months. Really develops the complexity of flavour.’
Reeve takes off his cap and puts it in his lap. ‘Working today?’
‘Sort of. Well, no. I was. I’m about to go home.’
‘You all right?’
‘Yeah. Just this…thing. The accident.’ I still don’t know how to refer to it.
‘Oh yeah. Right. How’s your dad?’
‘He’s okay.’
‘It’s crazy,’ says Reeve. ‘I used to play footy with CJ. He was a good guy.’
‘CJ?’
‘Charlie Jencke. You probably didn’t know him. He was a year below me. Good winger.’
Reeve left school in year ten, which often makes people assume he’s stupid, or lazy or something. He isn’t either as far as I can tell. He’s a nice guy, and funny. One of the few people I’d consider a friend, even though he’s two years older than me. ‘Everyone thinks Dad had something to do with it,’ I say. ‘Cause he was out on the road.’
Reeve shrugs. ‘Who knows what’s what? It’s just sad. And Cassie, Cassandra Whatsername. She was like, a freak. With her sport and school stuff and whatever.’
‘It is sad,’ I say. ‘But some people…well, so, I was supposed to be working today but Raylene McCarthy—you know, with the twins? She comes up and says no one wants to shop at the Beauty Station because of me.’
‘Really? That’s insane.’
‘I know. Eloise was there so she calmed it down. I would’ve clocked her flaky face otherwise. I feel bad for Eloise. I don’t want her to lose business.’
Reeve shakes his head. ‘Those McCarthy twins. I had to pull one out of one of the public toilets once. He just climbed in and got his foot stuck.’
‘Shoulda left him there.’
‘Too right.’ Reeve looks at his watch. ‘You heading off now?’
‘Yeah.’ I don’t want to tell Reeve about my bike, or the graffiti. Not that I don’t trust him, but I know Mum’d be mortified if the spray-paint thing got around town. ‘Might be off work for a couple of days.’
‘Oh, right.’ There seems to be genuine disappointment in Reeve’s voice. ‘Well if there’s anything I can do…’
‘Thanks, man. I’ll let you know.’
‘Oh, hey, before you go.’ Reeve reaches into his jacket. ‘Quiet day at the print shop. Tran let me make these.’
He hands me a small card. It says Clancy Underhill: Vice-Deputy Beauty Consultant and is surrounded by a horrible border of stock-image illustrated clowns.
Reeve says, ‘Only the flimsiest paper, of course. Only the least legible font.’
I laugh. ‘Finally I can begin my climb up the corporate ladder.’
‘Check it out, though.’ He hands me another one. The same font, but this time Reeve Lewis: Senior Executive Retail Law Enforcement Officer, Esq. He’s got jet fighters flanking his name, and below it, his mobile number. ‘Pretty sweet, right?’
‘Have you actually been handing these out?’
‘Not yours. That’s a limited edition. But I’ve given out a few of mine. Gotta grow my brand awareness.’
‘You idiot.’
I’m about to get up when I notice Buggs’s Monaro driving towards us. My stomach twists. The car slows down, and I can’t see if Sasha is in there because the windows are up and they’re tinted polaroid blue. There’s an empty car space up ahead and I pray that the car doesn’t stop. It looks like it’s gone past, but at the last minute it swings in. The engine growls before it shuts off. I stuff the business cards into my pants pocket. ‘Can you stay here for one sec?’ I say to Reeve.
‘Sure,’ he says. ‘What’s up?’
I don’t answer. Instead I watch Buggs stoop out from the driver’s seat, taking off his cap, smoothing back his hair. He comes towards us, leaning backwards as he walks like he’s moving against a headwind. ‘Nice day for it,’ he says, winking at me. ‘Got up early, myself. Couldn’t wait to greet the day.’ His pushed-down nose makes him look like a scared whippet.
‘Hi Barnaby,’ I say.
Buggs picks something from between his teeth. Rubs the back of the hand over his harelip scar. ‘Clancy,’ he says slowly, drawing out the A. ‘Strange name for a chick. Clancy Underhill. Not a great name.’
‘Better than Barney Pfister, anyway,’ I say quietly.
‘That’s the thing about names,’ says Buggs. ‘They gotta lot of meaning to them. Like Underhill. In this town, that name means shit.’
Reeve crosses his arms. ‘You got better things to do, Buggs?’
‘Not really, retard. You?’
Reeve just sits there, staring at Buggs.
Buggs laughs. ‘Yeah, should get going. Gotta lot of work on. Heading down to Bellie Park, smoke some cones.’ He covers his mouth in mock-shock. ‘Ah no, you gonna arrest me for that?’ He holds out his wrists. ‘Slap ’em on me.’
‘Piss off,’ says Reeve.
‘Yeah, whatever. I’m not the one going to jail anyway. Hear the cops are on the trail of a murderer. Killed that kid and his missus night before last.’ Buggs whistles. ‘Double murder. That’s heavy.’
I can’t say anything. Suddenly I see Dad in jail. Not in a cell, but out in the exercise yard. Orange jumpsuit and a scared look in his eyes. I can’t get the image out of my head. My hands start shaking so I turn them into fists to make them stop.
Reeve stands up, drawing up his full bulk. He says, ‘Piss. Off.’ It sound like he means it.
Buggs laughs. ‘Scary stuff.’ He raises his hands like he’s surrendering. ‘I’m gone. I’m gone. See ya in the papers.’ He winks at me once more with his weird dog face. He gets back into his car, starts it up and reverses out of the spot with another growl of the engine.
Reeve sits back down next to me. ‘You okay?’ he says.
‘Yeah. He’s a douchebag.’
‘Massive. Don’t listen to him, anyway. He’s just winding you up.’
‘Yeah. Thanks for sticking around.’
‘Any time, Clance. You know that.’ He checks his watch again. ‘Sure you’re okay?’
‘Yeah. He’s all talk.’
‘Okay. I gotta go. Time waits for no tan. A wise girl taught me that.’
‘You should listen to her,’ I say. ‘Definitely.’
14
I’m still shaking as I walk up to the payphone outside the Cri. I know Buggs is just being a dick as usual, but I can’t get the image of Dad in prison out of my head. The worst I’d thought up until now was that he might lose his job and we’d have to live off Mum’s salary again like we did when Dad’s council compo ran out last time. Mum had to keep going further and further out of town to get supply work, getting home after Titch had gone to bed. The first time I realised how close to being povo we really were. The first time I’d actually worried about it. For some reason, up until now the worst-case scenario hasn’t yet entered my head: that Dad is actually guilty, that because he didn’t do his job…because of him two kids are dead.
The Cri is officially closed at this time of the morning, but already the shutters are open and there are two grey-faced regulars death-gripping schooners.
The payphone is one of the last ones left in town, with a furry Yellow Pages hanging off the wall on a chain. I go to pick up the handset and it’s then I realise I’ve spent the last of my money on the Big M and I stand there for a few moments listening to the dial to
ne as if it’s going to tell me how to fix this. Mum won’t be coming to pick me up for another four hours. Angus and I aren’t allowed to get mobiles unless we pay for them ourselves, which makes times like this even worse. Angus won’t get one because of some crackpot fear of radiation and government tracking, and all the money I earn goes towards saving for a car.
I lean forward and rest my head on the top of the payphone. It’s probably covered with germs but at this stage I don’t really care. I’ll have to wait or walk home or ask someone for money and all I want is to be face down on my doona. Why isn’t anything easy? I feel the tears coming on and they’re bastards because the more I try to stop them the quicker they arrive.
‘Clancy?’
A familiar voice, and possibly the last person I want to speak to at this particular moment.
‘Clancy, are you okay?’
I keep my forehead pressed to the top of the phone, the dial tone transformed to a repeated bleep, urging me to make a decision.
‘Clancy?’ A hand on my shoulder.
I lift my head up and there’s Nancy. Behind her is someone I can only assume is her mum. They’re both wearing dresses, proper dresses with properly nice modern patterns, the type you can’t and never will be able to buy in Barwen.
‘Hello,’ I say. ‘How are you both this morning?’ For some reason, I’ve gone super formal, as if because they’re both dressed nicely they’ll want to speak like a Jane Austen character.
‘We’re good,’ says Nancy. ‘I just saw you in the phone booth here, and wanted to check…’
Wanted to check why I was leaning my head against something that has probably been vomited on twice in the last twelve hours? Bloody good question. I sniff and wipe my eyes with the edges of my thumbs, in the timehonoured tradition of people who have been caught crying and are trying to pretend they haven’t been.
‘I was just trying to call Mum for a lift and then realised I didn’t have any money.’ I shrug, like you know how it is, even though I’m one hundred per cent sure Nancy doesn’t know how this is. She has probably never used a payphone.
Clancy of the Undertow Page 5