‘I will not take money from the government, Calma. I will not. I was brought up to work for my money. I will not be a bludger and neither will you!’
‘How many times, Mum? How many times do we have to have this conversation? It’s not bludging. It’s what we’re entitled to. It’s what you pay taxes for . . .’
Mum grabbed the sides of her head in both hands as if trying to physically stop the words from entering. But I wasn’t going to let that happen.
‘And if you stopped being such a bloody martyr for a while you might be able to spend some time with me. You know, do what mothers and daughters are supposed to do. Have a relationship, talk, that kind of thing.’
That got through. Mum brought her hands down. Tears of pain, or rage, made her eyes glisten. Her fingers curled into hard knots.
‘So it’s all my fault, is it? Is that what you’re saying? That if I spent more time with you, you wouldn’t be getting into trouble with the police?’
‘Well, there’s a bit of truth in it, isn’t there? Other people that I know have parents who talk to them, care for them, look out for them. They have parents who are there. I don’t have anyone. I hardly ever see you. How do you suppose that makes me feel? I’ve got a mother but I forget sometimes what she looks like. And, okay, I don’t go without stuff. But even you, Mum, even you must know that’s not enough. Give me less stuff and more time.’
Mum got up and stomped around the kitchen.
‘You’re too bloody smart for your own good, Calma
Harrison. You think it’s that easy? You don’t even know how much the rent is on this place. You don’t know what a bill looks like. You have your aircon on all night, but you never think how much money it costs. Look around. Do you see plenty of things? New microwave? A dishwasher? Hell, no. Do you know the last time I went out? Do you know the last time I bought myself some clothes? Well, neither do I! And it’s not because I’m stashing the money away somewhere. We spend what I earn just keeping a roof over our heads and food on the table. So don’t lecture me about finances, ’cause you know nothing about it. God, do you think I wouldn’t spend more time with you if I could? Is that really what you think? And I’ll tell you another thing. You’re not going to blame me for this. I’m not taking responsibility for your behaviour, do you hear?’ I jumped up out of my chair. I wasn’t going to let her have the advantage of the moral and physical high ground. And anyway, if I didn’t start moving, physically, the emotional energy would be hard to sustain. We faced each other, like boxers, both bloody and battered but unable to stop swinging.
‘No, Mum. Don’t take responsibility. Why break the habit of a lifetime? Just keep earning the money. But don’t think that entitles you to the right to ask me what’s happening in my life. Because that’s the one thing you haven’t even tried to earn!’
I thought she was going to hit me then. I even flinched in anticipation. But she kept her hands at her sides, though I could see the effort it took. Her voice, when she spoke again, was cracking at the edges, splintering under a weight of emotion.
‘So I haven’t earned the right to an explanation? I don’t deserve to be told why the police came to my workplace to tell me that my daughter is behaving in a criminal fashion? I don’t deserve to know?’
‘No. I don’t think you do!’
‘Well, what about this Kiffing boy? The police said you had been – what was the word? – “associating” with an undesirable character, a young man known to them as a criminal. He’s got a police record! Did you know that?’
‘I don’t care, Mum! I don’t give a crap about any of that.’ I was suddenly aware that I was shouting at the top of my voice. ‘Kiffo’s a friend. He’s been there for me when I’ve needed him.’
‘Are you sleeping with him?’
I leaned close in.
‘Mind your own damn business! That’s the kind of thing that a daughter might talk about to a mother. And until you start behaving like a mother, I’m telling you nothing.’
She hit me then. A sharp crack across the side of the face that twisted my head around. The storm had broken. There was a silence. My cheek felt numb and then it tingled with the onset of pain. I turned back to face her. Her expression was wide, frightened, as if she couldn’t believe what had happened. I could see that she was saturated with sorrow. It was oozing from every pore. Her hand crept upwards towards her mouth in contrition. But I was hardened. I had my grievance now and nothing was going to take it away from me.
‘Calma . . .’
‘Go to work, Mum,’ I said quietly. ‘Just go to work,will you? There’s nothing else to be said here.’
And I walked out of the house. As I opened the front door, I could hear great gulps of grief coming from the kitchen. The sound of her tears as I left was like a song of victory. I felt washed of guilt.
AUGUST: Primary school, Year 6.
You watch the three young men and feel as if you are intruding. Part of you wants to walk away because you are embarrassed, but another part wants to stay. You have never seen your friend look so happy and you are curious.
‘She’s not my girlfriend,’ says the red-haired boy. ‘She’s just a friend.’
‘Let’s get a photo,’ says his brother. It has to be his brother. The resemblance is too marked.
‘Like the camera?’ says the man with the tattoos. ‘Our latest acquisition. Japanese job.’
He takes photos of the two red-haired boys and then you and your friend are persuaded to stand up against the school railings. You feel shy as the shutter is clicked. But you also feel good.
‘It’s important to keep a record,’ says the older red-haired boy. ‘Memories are sometimes all you have.’
Chapter 17
Kiffo takes charge
I want you to think well of me. Whoever you are. But I also know that it’s pretty unlikely you will be feeling very charitable towards me right now. I don’t blame you. I acted very badly. I know that. But you need to understand a couple of things. The first thing is that I didn’t have to tell you everything. I could have toned it down, made myself look more reasonable than I was, and you would never have known the difference. So now you know. I can be a real cow. But at least I’m an honest cow. The second thing is that I think some allowance should be made for the stress I was under at the time. I was terrified. I can’t even begin to describe how I felt when I saw that police car outside my house.
[Constable Ryan – Capricorn. You will find that your reputation as an easygoing, paternal figure is severely jeopardised as a consequence of scaring the crap out of impressionable and possibly misguided young women wearing glasses. ]
Have you ever been in an argument where you’ve just got more and more unreasonable and unfair and cruel, simply because you’re angry and frightened? If you have, then you’ll understand about that crazy urge to hurt the very person you know you’ve wronged. I don’t know why. All I know is that I felt it strongly. I think, in Mum’s situation, it would have been sensible to have left the whole business alone for a while, given me time to chew on things before leaping in with recriminations. At least, that would have been the best theoretical option, the textbook approach. I also know that it’s an option I wouldn’t have taken. Too volatile, that’s me.
Anyway, I left the house ablaze with indignation – me, that is, not the house. Mind you, given the heat generated by the argument, it wouldn’t have been surprising if smoke had been pouring from the roof. There was only one place to go. Only one place I wanted to go. After what Mum had said, I had to see Kiffo, if only to punish Mum further. Besides, where else could I go? As far as friends were concerned, I wasn’t exactly bursting with options.
I wasn’t even aware of the journey. The adrenaline rush was still going strong and I knew it would take time to subside. I covered the ground like a thing possessed, probably pushing old ladies out of my way for all I knew. Before I had time to think I was outside Kiffo’s house, storming up the path towards the front door. I had
my hand raised to knock when I heard it. The sound of voices raised in anger told me I wasn’t the only one having difficulties with a parent.
Now. Imagine this is a survey in one of those teen mags.
You have just turned up at your best friend’s house and hear a fierce and personal row going on between your friend and his or her parent. Do you:
a) leave quickly and never mention it again because you are worried about embarrassing your friend;
b) walk away, but remain close in case your friend needs to talk to you;
c) intervene and attempt to act as a mediator between the two parties;
d) put a glass against the door and listen, with your tongue poking out of the corner of your mouth?
You go for b), right? Gets you ten points and ultimately a character description along the lines of, ‘You are a true and trusted friend with the emotional maturity of a forty-three-year-old marriage counsellor.’ You’d go for b), but you’d actually do d). Am I right? All right. Just as long as you don’t get judgemental on me.
Actually, I didn’t need a glass. A soundproof booth would not have cut out the grisly details. This is what I heard.
[Parental Advisory Warning: The following scene contains strong language and medium level violence but, thankfully, nothing in the way of nudity. It is not recommended for audiences under the age of fifteen. ]
Kiffing Senior: You’re a ****ing lazy ****, that’s what you are. A pile of ****. Get the **** out of this ****ing house.
Kiffing Junior: **** off, you ****** ****. Call me ****ing lazy! That’s ****ing rich, that is, you ****, you ****** old **** bunch of ****.
Kiffing Senior: Just like your ****ing brother! A useless piece of ****. Go on, ****ing **** off, you *****.
Kiffing Junior: Don’t you ever, ever mention him to me again, or I’ll ******** kill you, you ******!
Kiffing Senior: **** you and your ****** brother! ***** and ***** the *****, ****** and ****** with ****all the *****, ****** ****ing ****!!
Inanimate object: Smash!
The door burst open and a familiar hunched figure swept past me as if I didn’t exist. Within seconds, another figure appeared at the door. He yelled a farewell to his son that, roughly translated, meant, ‘I no longer consider you the favoured fruit of my loins and your reappearance in this household is not something that I am anticipating with any great enthusiasm.’ Kiffo halted briefly to answer with something along the lines of, ‘I no longer respect you as a paternal caregiver.’ Roughly translated, you understand.
Standing there, I came to the slow realisation that I was unlikely to be invited in for tea, muffins and a chat about the weather. This was confirmed by Mr Kiffing looking me up and down and then requesting that I leave the immediate environment. A believer in economy of language, he communicated this in only two words. I took his advice.
[Mr Kiffing – Aquarius. Family troubles are in evidence today and complications may ensue. You will find that your customary excellent communication skills are compromised by prodigious blood alcohol levels. Still, **** it. ]
Catching up with Kiffo took some doing, but finally, puffing hard, I got into step. He didn’t take any notice of me but kept muttering under his breath. From the little I could decipher it was clear that he wasn’t thinking about what to buy for Father’s Day.
‘Kiffo!’ I said. ‘Hang on a moment. I can’t keep up with you!’
Only then did he stop and turn to look at me. It was as if he hadn’t any idea that I was there at all.
‘Calma,’ he said, his voice fragile around the edges. ‘Where did you come from?’
‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘Let’s just sit and get our breath back.’
We had arrived at a small park. I say ‘park’ but it wasn’t really anything so grand. Just a square of sparse, wilting grass, with a couple of sad, rusted swings in a corner. I doubt if any kids played there, but judging by the state of the ground the local dogs had adopted it as their communal loo. We wandered over to a concrete bench and sat down.
I decided to say nothing about the mild disagreement between father and son. That’s part of the problem with Kiffo. Some things are conversationally out of bounds and it doesn’t matter what you do, you’re never going to break through the barrier he puts up. I don’t know – I still don’t know – how I could feel so close to Kiffo, so intimate in a way, yet be excluded from so many important parts of his life and his past. Sometimes, I guess, you just have to ride with it. You know, accept people for what they are, because if you push it too far, you drive them off. And then you really are alone.
[That was a statement written by Calma Harrison, authorised by the Federal Committee of Staggeringly Unoriginal Homilies on Human Relationships, Canberra.]
We sat for a while, stewing in our own worlds. I knew there was precious little chance of Kiffo initiating a conversation, so I started. I told him about the interview with the police and the argument with Mum afterwards. He scratched his head thoughtfully. It was like he was glad to have a change of mental environment.
‘You’re not taking all that seriously, are you?’ he said.
‘Well, I thought I might, Kiffo. You know, when the police come along to your house and threaten to lock you up for committing a crime, then – call me old-fashioned if you like – I thought I might take it just a bit seriously!’
‘Nah. They’re bluffing.’
‘I don’t care, Kiffo. I don’t give a stuff! If they’re bluffing, then they’ve succeeded. I throw in my hand. Game over.’
‘So you’re out, is that it? You’re not going to try to get the Pitbull?’
‘I thought that was what you wanted!’
‘It was.’ Kiffo ran a hand through his hair. ‘It was. But . . . it’s like you said, Calma. We’re in this together now. We’ve come too far.’ He looked uncomfortable, his eyes flicking everywhere but never making contact with mine. ‘I . . . I need your help.’
I nearly fell off the bench. For Kiffo to say something like that he must have been desperate. It was like him confessing to buying Nikki Webster CDs. I glanced over. He was sitting forward, his hands nervously interlocked. If ever there was going to be a time, this was it.
‘If you’re serious, Kiffo, then you’ve got to stop lying to me,’ I said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You and the Pitbull,’ I said. ‘What is there between you? What happened in the past? Tell me that and I’ll believe that we are truly together on this.’
That shook him.
‘I . . . I don’t want to talk about it, Calma,’ he said.
‘Then you’re on your own.’ I meant it, too. I couldn’t keep on with this, not with half-truths and half-stories. So much for my resolution not to push! I waited. After a time Kiffo sighed.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Yeah, I’d seen the Pitbull before she turned up at school. Years ago, in Primary School. My . . .’ He shook his head. ‘I saw her with . . . family, you know . . . before all that stuff happened. We went to her house, just the two of us. Twice, maybe three times. I sat by myself, while she and him . . . I dunno what they did but I didn’t like her then and I don’t like her now. I didn’t trust her. That’s it. That’s all.’ He looked at me and there was agony in his expression. ‘I don’t want to talk about it anymore, Calma.’
I put my arm around his shoulder. You might not think it, but that was more information than I had been expecting. For Kiffo, it was like baring his soul. And it made sense to me, knowing what I did. I could see more clearly what was driving him on.
‘Okay, Kiffo,’ I said, gently. ‘Count me in. What are we going to do?’
Kiffo sighed and leaned forward on the bench, head down. There was a long silence while he contemplated a dried-up dog turd between his shoes. Finally, he leaned back with the air of a man who has come to a momentous decision.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘You can’t go near the Pitbull. And I can’t stake out her place by myself. Not every night. So, it’s time to call
in a professional. It’s time to pay a visit to Jonno.’
Chapter 18
Jonno
It is not often that the discerning buyer can find a property of this potential at this price. The well-established gardens boast some unique decorative features, including a burnt-out Holden and an amusing assemblage of ancient motorcycle skeletons and their rusted constituent parts. A delightful counterpoint to this rococo landscaping is the rockery, imaginatively comprising empty beer bottles and pizza cartons. For those who might feel that art is intruding too much on nature, there is also a palm tree that, with a little TLC, might not yet prove to be terminally diseased.
And the landscaped gardens are just the beginning!Right from the moment you push over the gate and prop it up against the wall, you cannot help but be impressed by the domicile itself. All expense has been spared to make this a quality home. The front door is just one of the surprises in store. Rather than hanging it at right angles to the doorframe in the conventional fashion, the enterprising owner has cast it at a jaunty angle, thereby allowing any available breeze to naturally aircondition the living space! And isn’t it often the case that homes exclude the outside world rather than embracing it?Well, in keeping with the traditional architectural designs of Bali, this home’s living space is a continuation of the great outdoors, with gaping holes in the flyscreens, walls and roof ensuring tropical living at its finest!
I gaped at what was, presumably, the place where Jonno lived. There were buildings in Baghdad that had received multiple doses of laser-guided missiles and were in better shape. Kiffo and I walked up to the door, kicking aside empty VB bottles. I grabbed him by the arm.
‘Who is this guy, Kiffo?’
‘Someone, all right?’ he said, not altogether helpfully. ‘Someone we need. Just let me do the talking, Calma. Jonno can be a bit funny with people he don’t know.’
I had a bad feeling about this. Something told me that Jonno was not going to be the kind of guy you’d want to have a conversation with about the current state of Australian ballet or the latest contenders for the Booker Prize. This impression was confirmed when Jonno finally came to the door after Kiffo’s repeated hammerings.
The Whole Business with Kiffo and the Pitbull Page 13