by Bill Condon
Mum’s reaction was the dead opposite. It didn’t help that she was in one of her moods again. When she got that way she couldn’t handle the tiniest problem without losing it.
‘If you don’t go to school you go to work. That’s the end of it. Forget about what your father said. He’s not the one who’s looked after you all your life. He’s got no say in it. You work!’
After the ribs job I went out cutting lawns with a mate. He’d just got his licence. We did up his brother’s ute. Mum coughed up for the money so I could go halves in the repairs. We wrote on the back of the ute: Bri and Guy — the Mower Men. My mate’s name was Liam, but ‘Guy’ rhymed.
I didn’t quit that job. We had about a dozen regular lawns and were sure to get more. We talked about doing tree lopping and landscaping. It was all happening. No fortune in it, but I had dollars for the first time in my life. Even Mum was happy. Then one day Liam didn’t show up. I found out a few days later that his dad had come back for a visit, and Liam went off with him to Queensland. They’d taken the ute with them. Our ute. Good riddance, I thought. I didn’t want anything to remind me of him.
Liam had been my only mate. I didn’t understand how I could go through all those years at school and come out with only one friend. But I did it. It wasn’t too bad, really. I liked to be alone. I just wish I had a choice about it.
Around three in the afternoon I was awake. I lay there thinking about Liam, my life, my new job. My hands were stinging — blisters coming through from wheeling trolley-loads of milk all night; the numbers were still whirling round in my head — twenty-four 600 millilitre cartons per crate, five crates per stack. And I still felt so tired. God, I hoped this wasn’t the real world.
4
I raided the fridge. There wasn’t much to choose from. I had some pickled onions and a bit of cheese on Turkish bread. Had to slice off mouldy green edges from the cheese. Same with the bread. The place was falling apart. Mum tended to let things slide sometimes. When that happened it was usually a sign that she was sliding too …
It was stinking hot outside. My bare feet stung as I stepped onto the path that led to the shed. The grass was long but so much cooler.
The shed was a converted double garage. Dad and some of his mates had put in the plumbing, and even a phone so he could ring up his bets on the TAB.
Dad was listening to the races on the radio.
‘Go you good thing! G’day, Bri. Go! Go! Yes! You little beauty! What about that, eh? Just got the daily double. It was payin’ around fifty bucks. Stupid me only had it the once. But still, it’s better than a kick in the backside.’
‘That’s great, Dad. But didn’t you say you’d given up betting?’
He took a swig from a coldie, and peered at me over the top of the can. ‘Jeez, you musta got yer memory from yer mother. I coulda said somethin’ like that. A man says all sorts of things when he has a bad day on the punt. But life’s a gamble, young fella. Anyway, you’re just worried that I’ll spend all me dough down the TAB and have nothin’ to leave yer in me will. I know what you young blokes are like. Bloody gold-digger, you are.’
I tossed a cushion at him. It whacked harmlessly into the side of his head. He buckled at the knees as if he’d been king-hit.
‘Go easy! You’ll knock all me brains out — I haven’t got many left as it is.’
I flopped onto the yellow lounge that I remembered us having when I was little. The vinyl had a long, widening crack in it. The stuffing poked through and I could see the rusted springs. It didn’t matter. I always made straight for it when I was with Dad in the shed. I suppose it took me back to when we were a family. Dad planted three pine trees at the front of our house. One for each of us. I remember that pretty well. They were spindly things. Mum was sure the wind would blow them away. But Dad said they were strong, just like us. He sat me up on his shoulders and Mum held my hand.
Now every time I walked past the trees I thought of that day. Sometimes I felt like getting a chainsaw and chopping them down.
I was ten when Dad and Mum split. They were so different it was a miracle they ever got together. Well, actually it was a singles club, if I was to believe Dad.
He used to let me in to lots of secrets when he was full.
‘They called it the Parachute Club,’ he slurred one day. ‘Because everyone got a jump.’
When you’re my age it’s hard to imagine your parents ever had sex — especially with each other. The way Mum censored every video or DVD I brought into the house made me think she was a nun and I was a test-tube job. But according to Dad, it wasn’t always that way.
‘The old girl got herself pregnant with you,’ he said. ‘So much for bein’ on the pill. Tell yer true, son, I was all for gettin’ rid of yer. But yer mother, she wouldn’t have a bar of it. She was havin’ you right or wrong. I don’t think she gave a stuff if I hung around or not. A man could’ve done the moonlight flit, but I’ve never believed in that. You do the crime, you do the time, that’s what I always say. So I was stuck with yer.’
Dad drained his beer and reflected on what he’d said. He must have realised that he could have phrased it a touch more delicately.
‘Not that havin’ you’s been such a bad thing, mind you,’ he added. ‘You been a good kid … no brains and ugly, but apart from that …’
As I’d got older, Dad talked to me more like one of his mates. No brains and ugly was okay. I gave as good as I got.
‘You wanta beer, Bri?’
‘Yeah, okay. Thanks.’
He threw the dead marines — the empty cans — in the garbage tin, took a live one out of the fridge and lobbed it.
I waited for the private joke we went through every time he gave me a beer. For a moment, as he buried his head in the form guide, I thought it wasn’t going to happen, but when I opened the can he looked up …
‘Don’t go dobbin’ me into your mother, will ya?’
‘No way, Dad.’
‘And you’re only havin’ the one.’
‘Because it’s bad for me?’
‘No. Because I’m keepin’ the rest for meself.’
We knew our lines like actors. It was reassuring to hear them again. It meant life was normal, or as normal as it could be when your dad lived in a shed in the backyard. He was out there because he couldn’t stand living with Mum.
I asked him once why they ever bothered getting married.
‘A man’s not right in the head, mate,’ was his answer. But after he’d chewed it over, he said, ‘Nah, that’s unfair. She was all right back then, yer mother. I was probably a better bloke, too.’ He shrugged. ‘She went off her rocker. I got on the drink. Ancient history. Ancient bloody history.’
Life was one long argument when Mum and Dad had been together. Dad always wanted the quiet life, no hassles.
‘A man’s better off livin’ out in the shed,’ he used to say.
So that’s what he did.
I sipped at the beer. It tasted like medicine to me. I only drank it because of Dad. One of those father and son things.
‘So Bri, me boy, how yer been? You look like yer just rolled out of bed. You haven’t been off with some young sheila, have yer? Not that I mind. About time you got yer end in.’
He’d forgotten all about my job, even though I’d made a point of telling him before Mum. It didn’t bother me.
‘I started work at the milk factory last night. I’ve been asleep all day.’
‘Is that right?’ As if he was hearing about it for the first time. ‘So you’re a workin’ man now, eh? That must have been a shock to the system. Good, was it?’
I started to tell him about it, but then it was time for another race.
‘Keep talkin’, Bri. Got a trifecta in this one. I’m listenin’ to every word yer say. Go on.’
He turned up the volume.
5
It was after six when Mum got home from work.
‘So what have you been doing all day?’
‘Nothing. I zonked right out. Slept for hours.’
Mum worked in a fish and chip shop. She was always moaning about it. I’d stopped listening a long time ago. We got on okay most times — tolerated each other, that’s the best way to put it. Some days were worse than others. She was pretty messed up. Depression. More ups and downs than a rollercoaster, Dad said. But he was out in the shed so he could escape. I was with her all the time; saw the whole show.
‘Dinner’s in the oven.’ I didn’t mind fooling around in the kitchen. ‘Won’t be long.’
I’d learnt to cook when I was much younger. Only the basic things, mashed potatoes and sausages, pasta, eggs — I was famous for my scrambled eggs. Sometimes Mum wasn’t up to cooking so it came in handy.
She opened the oven door and took a whiff.
‘Baked potatoes. Chicken drumsticks. Hmm, it smells good, Brian. Thank you.’
Mum liked to have dinner at the table, liked to talk about her day, my day. She never shut up — except when she was really down. Expected me to listen and even seem interested in her babble. I used to listen once, but now I’d heard it all before and I was sick of it. I ate in front of the TV and did my best to ignore her. We had nothing to talk about anyway. We could have come from different planets. And every day we grew further apart.
After dinner I went back to bed.
‘Wake me at ten, will you?’
‘So you’re going to work tonight?’ She walked into my room. ‘You’re not tossing it in?’
I couldn’t bear to have her call me a quitter again.
‘Just wake me at ten. All right, Mum?’
‘Sure.’
‘And will you drive me in?’
‘The chauffeur is always ready.’
‘I’m sorry if it’s too much trouble for you. I’m getting my licence soon and then you won’t have to.’
‘I wasn’t complaining, Brian. I was having a bit of fun, that’s all.’
‘You were being sarcastic.’
Mum put a hand in front of her face, as if she was blocking off any angry words that might fly out.
‘I didn’t mean to be.’
She paused in the doorway. For the briefest moment her face was soft. It was like, forget what I say, forget how I sound — this is how I feel. She’d gone way past being able to say anything like that to me, but it was there in her eyes. Just for a moment.
‘Yeah, I’m gunna give the job a go for a while. I probably won’t stay for long, but I will try. Okay, Mum?’
She nodded briskly as if taking an order for fish.
6
It was easier making the walk to the back dock that second night. I didn’t feel like every eye was trained on me. The afternoon cleaning shift were still working. Some of them swept the floors. A few in white overalls clambered around inside giant milk vats, hosing them out with hot water and scrubbing them. The place was lit up and the conveyor belt was at full throttle. Steam hung in the air over the vats. You almost needed fog lights to get around.
My workmates were in the office — Bob on his stool, a smoke permanently plugged in, Norm and Eric wrestling with the pages of a newspaper.
‘Go to the Personals, Normie,’ said Eric.
‘I’m getting there. Jeez, you must be desperate.’
‘Bloody oath I am.’
Norm opened the paper wide across the desk.
‘Mental age of six, the pair of yers.’ Bob pushed the paper away from his bookwork.
Norm looked up. ‘You start unloading the trailer, Bri. We won’t be long.’
‘Okay.’
I was willing but not very able — I couldn’t see the trolleys. I strode around on the dock as if I actually knew where I was heading, but every path I took was fruitless. Eventually I gave up.
‘Um, excuse me, Superst — um, Bob.’
‘Yes, lad?’
‘I can’t find the trolleys anywhere.’
Bob had pale blue eyes. When someone stares at you for a while you notice things like that. It was like he was thinking ‘Is this kid really that thick?’
When he finally looked away, I followed his eyes to the trailer that I’d walked past six times. It had three trolleys leaning in front of it.
‘Oh, sorry. Don’t know how I missed them.’
‘I know what you mean. They are a bit hard to see. Just as long as you didn’t fall over them.’
Bob took a puff of his smoke, then held it between his fingers as he gave me another burning look. This time I noticed that the top of one of his fingers had been lopped off.
‘I reckon we should call you ‘Dreamy’,’ he said.
Eric’s head bobbed up from the paper.
‘Dreamy, yeah. That suits him.’ He grinned and gave me a thumbs-up sign. ‘You got a new name, pally.’
‘It’s not as good as what Supers calls you, Ek,’ said Norm.
I glanced across at Bob, waiting for the name.
‘Rattlehead, that’s what I call him. Fits him like a glove.’
The trace of a smile flickered across Eric’s face. Then he neatly turned the spotlight back on me.
‘Dreamy.’ He chuckled. ‘Good name for him, that. Spot on.’
* *
I left Norm and Eric to their newspaper while I wheeled milk from the trailer into the cold room. I was glad to do it. I still felt awkward around the others. Work ate up the time and allowed me to hide. For years when I was younger I’d avoided looking anyone in the eyes. Kept my head down, my hair long in front. I used to cop it from the teachers at school — ‘Look at me, son! Look at me!’
Mum was forever on my case to look up. Dad would always stick up for me. ‘For Chris’sake, Ruby, let the boy be. He’s shy, that’s all. He’ll grow out of it.’
But I knew it was more than shyness. I wanted to be invisible. If they didn’t notice me at school, I didn’t get into trouble. If Mum started talking too loudly at the supermarket, or singing, or abusing some checkout chick, or rushing up to a baby and making huge ga-ga noises — whatever dumb thing she did — I could fall back into my own little world and stay safe. The only problem was that the more I hid, the better I got at it, and the harder it was to stop.
Pushing a milk trolley was like mowing lawns. I didn’t need to think about it, could shut the world down for a while, escape from people and veg out on daydreams.
I had a couple of daydream topics I kept returning to: I played out scenes in my head about Mr Smith. Instead of being tongue-tied, I’d be armed with a witty come-back for everything he threw at me. I’d humiliate him in front of the class, like he’d done to me. I knew it was all a bit of a wank, but it was the only way I was ever going to beat him.
My other favourite topic was, of course, sex. This could be a risky one to daydream about when I had control of a milk trolley, because if my imagination was really firing well I could easily wheel the trolley and its load of milk right off the edge of the loading dock. But I figured the risk was worth it.
My mind drifted back to Emma Freeman. The other girls in the class fell into two categories; the ones who didn’t notice me at all, and the ones who noticed me in the same way they might notice a desk or a chair, or something they’d stepped in. I got a different feeling from Emma. Nothing concrete, just a hope that maybe …
She hadn’t been at our school very long and I’d never had the nerve to bowl up to her and introduce myself. But we met in other ways. I had many secret looks at Emma while we sat listening to a teacher’s droning. Once or twice she’d turn to me as I stared, and, in my haste to look away, I’d almost swallow the pencil I was chewing. Another time in the library she’d sensed me looking at her and our eyes met. It was intense, like there was no one else in the world except us. Emma looked curious — not as if I was some rare exhibit at the zoo — but maybe curious to know me better. I thought I saw a glimpse of a smile, but I wasn’t certain. I should have talked to her then; instead I hurried away as if I’d been caught peeping through her bedroom window — which, by t
he way, was another one of my favourite daydreams.
One day I picked up the local paper and there was Emma’s photo on the front page. Before she left her old school she’d been chosen to go to Canada on an exchange program. I cut the photo out and stuck it up on the wall near my bed. I expected that was the closest to my bed she’d ever get. But then luck came my way. Her name was on a list of kids who were going in an anti-war march. I put my name down too — to impress her, of course. I had to get up early and go by train into the city. Only the thought of Emma kept me going.
There were thousands at the march, but eventually I managed to get a glimpse of Emma. She was holding a ‘No War’ sign above her head. I could have easily made my way through the crowd to stand next to her, but when it came to the crunch I was too chicken. If she’d seen me she might have talked to me. That in turn meant I might have had to talk to her. I wasn’t ready for that. And there was a far worse thought in my head: what if she saw me and didn’t talk to me? I definitely wasn’t ready for that. So instead of going over to say hello I hung around at the back of the march, actually hoping she wouldn’t see me.
A lot of guys had girls from school they hung out with. Everyone knew they were having sex. If you weren’t having it, you were a loser. You might as well just give up. Sometimes I thought they should have a photo of me in the dictionary, next to ‘loser’.
Whether she was doing it with someone or not, Emma was no loser. She had close-cropped red hair and was tall and skinny like me, only on her skinny looked good. It was hard for a new girl at school to break into the little groups the others had formed, sometimes years before, so she kept pretty much to herself. I could never work out what was on her mind as she sat in class, often staring out the window. Wild sex with me, I hoped. Nothing wrong with hoping. I really didn’t know anything about her. Except that I liked her; liked the sound of her voice. It was gentle somehow. Just from the sound of it I knew Emma was kind. That’s one of the things you look for when you’ve never had a girlfriend and you’re way short on confidence. You want a girl who’s forgiving and slightly blind when it comes to your many faults. Okay, completely blind.