by J. C. Jones
Through her eyelashes, Pip watched Senior Constable Dunlop and the other cop march across the room. They were walking straight towards her! She squeezed her eyes shut, expecting to hear her name any second. A hand fell on her shoulder and she jumped. Her eyes flew open and she stared up into the worried face of a woman she didn’t know.
‘Who are you?’ she said. ‘You’re not with the Spring Hill Scorpions, are you?’
‘Um, no,’ Pip answered, her eyes on the two police officers. Suddenly, Senior Constable Dunlop caught a whiff of the vomit and veered away. Pip relaxed. ‘I was sitting here and the nurse thought I was sick too.’
‘Well, you might want to wait somewhere else so you don’t catch this stomach bug.’
‘Okay,’ Pip said and handed her the bowl.
The cops had vanished down the corridor, so she shouldered her pack and sauntered out the sliding hospital doors and into the fine evening.
You Want Bugs with That?
It was just starting to get dark when Pip strolled through the hospital car park, wondering about what she was going to do next. According to the wall clock inside the hospital, it was seven o’clock, which was usually the time that she made dinner for herself and Sully. Mostly they had fried eggs or sausages or beans on toast. When they’d had a winning day at the races, before Sully started feeling so tired all the time, they would sometimes ‘splash some cash’, as Sully called it, on chops, or even takeaway. Those were good days.
Pip fingered the cash in the Barbie wallet. She had forty-two dollars and fifty-five cents left from their last win a couple of months ago, which she’d been saving for groceries to tide them over until Sully’s pension arrived. She needed to eat, though, and going to a burger place would give her time to think about what she was going to do next.
She chose Fast Eddie’s because it was big and there were heaps of kids. Most were with their mums and dads, but some older kids were on their own in the queue, pushing and shoving and shouting at their mates. Not wanting any trouble, she avoided them and stood behind a man with two little girls wearing the kind of fussy frocks that would look ridiculous on Pip – not that she’d ever had or wanted one.
The queue shuffled forward and Pip ordered a burger and chocolate shake. It was still her birthday after all. She found a table in the corner and a newspaper. Out of habit, she looked for the racing guide, expecting that this late in the day it would be long gone. Usually someone had stolen it by lunchtime.
Today, for some reason, they hadn’t, and Pip read it with interest. Sully had always liked a ‘flutter’, which was what he called gambling on horses. Pip had gone to the races with him since she’d been quite small. She still remembered the first time, sitting on his shoulders as the huge horses thundered past with tiny jockeys on their backs, and people pushed forward screaming and waving.
The noise and colour and atmosphere made it very exciting. But Sully wasn’t very good at picking horses. Usually he lost all his money and more, and when he lost, the only thing that made him feel better was drinking. That bit Pip didn’t like. When she was small, she had been very scared when he left her alone at Number 3 Greene Lane to go down the pub.
When she was seven, she had watched a man go crazy happy at the races. ‘I won! I won!’ he had screamed. That was the day she’d realised you could win money as well as lose it – although most people lost most of the time.
By reading the racing guide in the paper and watching the racing news on TV, Pip had become quite good at picking horses. She knew all about odds and tracks and form, and since she was eight, she and Sully had done a bit better. As a result of Sully’s changed fortunes, he rarely got crazy drunk although until recently he had still liked to amble down to the pub of an evening.
Today, she read the guide as she munched her burger and slurped her shake. Most of the horses she knew of, and there was one in particular that interested her. She was a three-year-old called Tall Poppy and had been a runner-up a few times. Some of the people at the races said she was ‘up ’erself’, which meant they thought she looked better than she was. But Pip thought she looked like a champion with her gleaming chestnut coat, long legs and fierce eyes.
‘Finished, kid?’ a man said, interrupting her thoughts. He was young with a stubbled face and stained T-shirt with a rude slogan. Before she could say no, he had grabbed the racing guide and headed for the door.
Annoyed, Pip stared down at the part of the newspaper he’d left behind. The photos on the open page showed the inside of a very nice house with a huge sofa that you could spread out on to watch the equally big TV. The backyard had a big green lawn surrounded by flowers and in the corner was a trampoline that looked brand new.
According to the paper, you could buy it for $1.15m+, which Pip knew was a lot of money – much, much more than she and Sully had won at the races even if you added all the good days together. Pip knew Elliott Street was at the other end of Spring Hill, where posh people like her classmate Matilda Browning lived. It was as far from Greene Lane as you could get and still be in Spring Hill.
Thinking hard, she finished the last bite of her burger and drained her shake. Matilda was rich. She never said so but Pip could tell. Still, she was friendly and tried to be nice to Pip, even when the other kids sneered at her messy hair, second-hand clothes and white-bread Vegemite sandwiches.
Pip looked outside. It was pretty dark now, and she was starting to get tired. As she couldn’t go home until Sully got better, especially now the cops might be watching the house, she really needed to find somewhere to sleep. Ginger, who was seventeen and had been homeless for three years, always said if you were living on the street then choose a nice street. Elliott Street was almost certainly a nice street if Matilda Browning lived there.
Right now, it was Pip’s best option. She might find an unlocked garage or shed, and even if she had to sleep in a park, she probably wouldn’t be hassled the way she would be if she hung around here much longer.
The rowdy teenagers she’d noticed when she’d first come into Fast Eddie’s were still hanging around by the doors sniggering at everyone who went in or out. It was the only exit, so she would have to hope they left her alone. First, though, she needed to pee. And perhaps she could make her trip to the bathroom doubly useful . . .
When she’d seen to business, she left the loos, pushed the door open and stepped out into the car park. A kid with a thin face and long nose nudged his mate in the ribs. His mate, who had fair hair cropped close to his skull and a balloon-like face with a million freckles, sized her up.
‘What’s in the pack, then?’ Freckles asked.
‘Stuff.’ Pip tried to barge past, but they and their other two mates were crowding her, blocking her escape.
‘What stuff?’
‘My stuff.’
‘What if we say it’s our stuff?’ Long Nose challenged.
‘You can say what you want, doesn’t mean it’s true.’
‘If we take it, it’s ours,’ said a kid with greasy brown hair and a tattoo of a snake running along his arm.
‘You’ll have to get it first,’ Pip said, again trying to push past.
The boys shoved her back. ‘Hand it over,’ said Freckles.
‘Maybe we should leave it, boys,’ said the fourth kid, nervously. He had short, spiky black hair. ‘People are watching.’
‘Let ’em,’ said Long Nose. ‘Give us the bag, monkey-face, or we’ll bash you.’
Pip shrugged. If they wanted it that bad, they could have it. ‘Okay.’ She let them snatch the pack from her and watched them race across the car park, yelling with glee.
Turning, she picked up the plastic bag containing her stuff that she’d left inside the door, and headed in the opposite direction.
She hoped the boys didn’t look or sniff too closely at the pack’s contents before they stuck their hands right into the putrid, cockroach-infested garbage she’d stolen from the bins around the back.
Imagining it, she grinned as she
headed for the nicer side of town.
A Place to Call Home
It was almost nine by the time Pip reached Elliott Street, and quiet in a way that Greene Lane never was on a Sunday night – or any night, really.
There, old cars raced noisily up and down, burning rubber, while in the houses people screamed and TVs blared until the early hours of the morning. Here, the only sound was the breeze in the trees in the park on the other side of the street, until a cyclist called out, ‘Lovely evening,’ as he pedalled past.
Pip was so startled she stopped and stared after him, until she realised that she herself was being watched by a large cat that lay sprawled lazily on a cane chair on the porch of the house she stood outside, Number 30.
‘Lovely evening,’ she said to the cat. It sat up, still watching her, and swished its tail back and forth. ‘I’m looking for a warm shed to sleep in tonight. Any ideas?’
Slowly the cat stretched its front paws out and hopped gracefully down from its seat onto the small neat lawn where it watched her, unblinking, keeping its distance.
After a minute, Pip waved goodbye and continued on down Elliott Street, concentrating on the garages she passed, but they all appeared to be locked up tight.
A second later, something soft bumped her ankle and there was the cat, snaking its way past her legs. It turned back and rubbed along her other leg until she reached down to stroke it. Then it darted ahead into the night.
Sighing, Pip trudged on. If she lucked out on sheds or garages, she would have to find a corner of the park to curl up in.
Just beyond the next street lamp, something was sitting on the path. She walked closer and saw the cat, tail twitching. It was staring intently at a house, Number 78. Going up to it, Pip turned to see what it was looking at and noticed the For Sale sign. It was the house in the paper. She looked down at the cat. It looked up at her from odd-coloured eyes – one blue and the other gold.
‘It’s probably locked,’ she said, bending down to pat it. It avoided her hand and darted back the way it had come, probably to its nice comfortable chair on the porch.
Pip looked around. The street was empty again and no lights shone in the windows of the house. Cautiously, she went to the front door and knocked. When she got no answer, she walked quickly down the side driveway to the garage at the back.
It was locked. She knew people didn’t leave doors unlocked in expensive homes like Number 78 Elliott Street, even the garage, but she still felt her shoulders slump. It looked like she was heading back to the park. At least it was spring so the nights were mild, and she probably wouldn’t freeze with her jacket on.
Pip had started to walk back down the driveway when she happened to look across the backyard. The trampoline from the photo was missing, but otherwise the house looked the same. It had wide glass doors that almost invited a person to take a look inside, and she really wanted to see the huge couch and TV – to imagine what it would be like to sprawl out in comfort to watch The Simpsons instead of squinting through the confetti on the old box that was all they had at Greene Lane.
Pressing her face to the glass, she could just make out the couch, although the TV was no more than a dark blur on the wall. But the couch! It was so long and deep and cushiony, and she was so tired. As she yawned, she tried the door, which slid open.
Scarcely able to believe her luck, Pip slipped into the room and slowly closed the door behind her. It was warm inside, the glass having trapped the day’s heat. She dropped her bag and sat down on the edge of the couch. It felt so welcoming, like a hug. It was . . . luxurious, a word from last month’s spelling test.
Sinking into it, she kicked off her shoes and rested her head on the arm. Something tickled her nose and she realised a light blanket was draped over the back. Perfect. She gently pulled it over herself, snuggled in and closed her eyes.
Pip wasn’t sure if it was the sun on her face that woke her, or the urgent need to pee. Either way, for a very brief moment after she sat up, she wondered where she was until the events of yesterday tumbled back into her brain.
Racing through the house in search of a bathroom, she found a kitchen and small laundry downstairs, as well as a study with a desk and chair and a whole wall of shelves with, strangely, just a few books in them, and a toilet with no soap. Upstairs, she opened the first door she came to and discovered the bathroom, which was blindingly white, with morning light reflecting off every surface. They should have a sign outside saying ‘sunglasses required’, she thought.
As Pip washed her hands with soap that smelt like flowers, she looked at herself in the mirror. The hamburger had left a smear of tomato sauce on her cheek and her hair was sticking up on the left side. Wearing the same clothes she’d slept in, she looked scruffier than ever.
Her mouth felt furry so she got her toothbrush and paste. As she cleaned her teeth, she gazed at the huge shower and thought about how nice it would be just to jump in. At home in Greene Lane, she took a shower most days because she knew she had to, but the mouldy walls and tepid trickle were not exactly inviting. Hesitating only a moment, she turned a tap and water hissed out, almost immediately hot.
Hastily stripping off, Pip jumped into the shower, shrieking as the hot water plastered her hair to her head. Now this was a real shower! The soap in the shower was the same as by the sink, and there were smart-looking matching bottles of shampoo and conditioner. Luxurious! She repeated the word several times as she squirted a generous helping of shampoo in her hair. After rinsing it out, she used the conditioner, and while she waited for it to give her mop-head a Matilda Browning gloss, she soaped her body from top to toe. Then she rinsed for ages and still the water ran piping hot. Amazing!
Feeling squeaky clean, she dried off using a fluffy towel and dressed in clean clothes downstairs. In the kitchen, the fridge was large but empty, except for a bottle of fizzy water. She was thirsty, so she drank it straight from the bottle, while she opened and closed the cupboards and drawers. Strangely, they were all bare. She couldn’t even find a fork or spoon.
The kitchen did have food though – one sort of food anyway. On the kitchen bench stood a square bowl of oranges perfectly arranged in rows. Pip counted them. Nine. Would anyone miss one?
She decided that possibly they might, as they were so precisely positioned. But her stomach was grumbling and food was supposed to be eaten. She got her Barbie wallet from the plastic bag and dug out a dollar, which she put in the bowl to pay for the orange she devoured.
Oh, it was good, the juice dripping down her chin and into the sink. Luxurious!
In the distance the town hall bell sounded eight o’clock. School started at nine. She was going to be late if she didn’t get going soon! She rushed around putting her shoes on and tidying up. Quickly, she stuffed everything back into the bag, let herself out and ran up the driveway to the street.
Suddenly, she stopped, remembering that she couldn’t go to school today. The cops might be looking for her and it would be humiliating if she had to be hauled out of class. Plus her uniform was back at Number 3 Greene Lane.
A car horn beeped behind her and she whirled around to see a big four-wheel drive pulling up. The passenger window slid down and Matilda Browning’s face smiled out at her. Oh no!
The Spelling Test
‘Pip! I thought it was you.’
Pip gulped. ‘Hi.’
‘Do you want a lift to school?’
‘Um, no thanks, I’m okay.’
‘Don’t be silly. Get in,’ Matilda insisted.
‘Well . . . okay.’ When they got to school, Pip would just make an excuse about going to the loo and disappear. No one would notice. She climbed into the back.
‘Pip, this is my dad, Michael.’
‘Hi, Mr Browning. Thanks for giving me a lift.’
‘You’re welcome. I didn’t know Tilly had a friend in Elliott Street.’
‘Oh, I don’t live here. I was just . . . visiting.’
Matilda turned around in her s
eat as far as the seatbelt would allow. ‘That’s cool. We sometimes visit my auntie in Canberra. It’s really fun there. Have you been?’
‘N . . . not this year.’
‘Are you staying with your auntie?’
‘Um, no. I’m staying with . . . someone else.’
‘You aren’t wearing your school uniform,’ Matilda pointed out. She swung her sleek blonde hair back to reveal tiny gold studs in her ears.
Pip tugged at her own bare earlobes. ‘No, it’s . . . a long story.’
‘I like stories. Especially yours, when Mr Blair reads them out in class.’ Matilda turned to her father. ‘Pip’s really imaginative, Dad. Mr Blair says so. And she’s the best speller in the class. She was the only one who spelled “vagrant” right the other week – and she knew it meant a homeless person.’
Pip turned and looked out of the window. Was she a vagrant now? The house on Elliott Street wasn’t her home, just somewhere she was borrowing until . . . until what? Until Sully got well and she could go home? But what if he didn’t?
Pip squeezed her eyes tight shut. She didn’t want to think about that.
‘Are you okay?’ Matilda whispered as they pulled up outside Spring Hill Public. Her hazel eyes were sympathetic.
Pip gave her a jerky nod. ‘Thanks for the lift. Thanks, Mr Browning.’
‘No worries, Pip. Next time you’re visiting Elliott Street, ask your mum if you can come and say hi. We’re at Number 30.’
She and Matilda scrambled out of the car. Mr Browning told Matilda he would see her in ten days when he got back from a business trip in Perth, then drove off with a wave.
‘You have a cat,’ Pip blurted without thinking, once they were standing on the footpath.