Six Impossible Things

by Fiona Wood

  ‘ “Yes, Mum”,’ the person corrected.

  ‘Yes, Mum, what is it?’

  ‘There’s a good documentary on in a few minutes on early Renaissance art.’

  ‘Pass.’

  ‘I wish you’d speak in sentences.’

  ‘I’m not interested in the documentary.’

  ‘How do you know unless you come down and look at it?’

  ‘Instinct.’

  She must have put her earbuds in again, because her mother turned up the volume to say, ‘How can you study with that thing on?’

  ‘I’m not studying. It’s holidays . . .’

  Then her mother must have left, shutting the door after her.

  ‘. . . you cow,’ Estelle added.

  ‘I heard that.’

  ‘Give the woman the geriatric audiology medal,’ Estelle said.

  ‘I heard that, too,’ her mother said, from the other side of the door.

  ‘Well if you’d just go away you wouldn’t hear anything!’

  ‘If you keep listening to that thing at high volume you won’t hear anything by the time you get to my age.’

  ‘I don’t give a shit.’

  ‘Right! You’re grounded! You do not use language like that to me!’

  ‘I didn’t know you were still there. Why are you still there?’

  ‘To remind you that you should be doing homework. I don’t know why I’m spending money on those Alliance classes otherwise.’

  ‘So, stop. It’s not like I asked to do them.’

  Her mother obviously gave up and left.

  There was enough streetlight seeping in through the round window to allow me to creep out without tripping over anything. But then there was the problem of the packing boxes. They’d been easy enough to push through, but how was I going to manage the reverse manoeuvre? I stacked them together and leant them against the wall. I crawled through to my side of the attic and tried to slide the boxes back over the gap, but it wasn’t possible from this side. I needed . . . string. I switched the torch on and started searching. I found a long piece of cord attached to a folded curtain. I ripped it off and took it back to the gap. Climbing through again, I looped the cord around the boxes. Then when I backed through the gap I could pull and jostle them into the right position, and carefully pull the cord away from the boxes and back through to my side. I listened – nothing fell. I rolled the cord up and left it on the floor for next time.

  It probably should have worried me that I was planning so coolly to trespass again, to spy. How did that mesh with wanting to be good? Not at all, apparently. Stick it on the list to worry about later.

  I noticed a tiny cardboard box on the floor next to the wall. There had been a couple in Estelle’s attic, too. I picked it up: ‘Poison. Keep out of reach of children and animals. Pest Control is our business. Rodent Poison. Do not handle.’

  Estelle’s parents must have had the eradicators in. I went downstairs and reported a clean bill of health for the attic.

  There was another visit to the attic. But that’s the one I can’t talk about.

  9

  WITH FRED GONE, I’m back downstairs, still hungry and rummaging for more food. I know it’s to do with growing so much, but there’s not a single time of the day I couldn’t happily bolt down a couple of burgers or meat pies, if they happened to be handy.

  ‘There’s nothing to eat!’

  ‘There’s bread. And fruit.’

  ‘We haven’t even got any good fruit. Those apples are ready for the compost,’ I mutter in a hunger-induced grump. ‘And there aren’t any chocolate biscuits, or muffins, or chips, or Shapes.’

  ‘They’re luxuries now, I’m afraid.’

  ‘We don’t even have good leftovers any more!’ I close the fridge door very firmly.

  ‘Because we eat what we buy now, and there’s certainly no fat in the budget to throw good food into the compost.’

  She’s getting angry now, or upset, so I back off before it develops.

  Our life has come to this. We’re stuck on the essentials iceberg, watching all the good stuff float past on the luxury ice-berg. They used to be joined.

  When she suggests we make muesli bars I agree with feigned enthusiasm and genuine hunger. It’s not too hard. You mix oats, sugar, flour and coconut with some melted butter and honey – we use golden syrup, because it’s cheaper – press the mixture into a tin and cook it.

  ‘Your dad rang.’

  I don’t respond.

  ‘I understand how you must be feeling, but at least he’s making an effort to stay in touch. Other fathers would have given up long ago, faced with the wall of silence.’

  How can she understand how I’m feeling? I certainly don’t. But I can’t be bothered asking for enlightenment – it would just mean more talking. Shared adversity is supposed to be a bonding experience, but it’s not kicking in for us yet.

  ‘If he wanted to see me so much, he could have moved into this dump with us.’

  She puts her arm around my shoulder and gives a squeeze. I lift my elbow out so she can’t get too close. ‘He’s trying.’

  ‘It’s his fault you’ve got to do all this,’ I say, looking around at the kitchen, the catering-sized containers of flour and dried fruit, the extra wide oven, the range of cake tins that will eventually produce those graded, multi-level edifice wedding cakes.

  ‘I don’t mind. I’m a very good cook. I’ve found a premium-priced, high-profit-margin niche item to specialise in. I have experience in marketing. The bank has enough faith in me to give me a start-up loan. It’s all under control.’

  You can hear how relaxed she sounds.

  She’s still running on the post-separation adrenalin surge. Reality hasn’t quite hit. Unfortunately, there’s only me to lend a hand when it does. I’ve googled this. She needs to express her anger so it doesn’t lead to post-traumatic stress disorder, manifesting itself in anxiety, depression and, ultimately, substance abuse.

  She watches as I plough through half the batch of muesli bars.

  ‘You need to express your anger,’ I say.

  ‘Where would that get us?’ she asks, smiling for some reason.

  I don’t want to go into the whole substance abuse risk scenario, in case it makes things worse, so I change the subject.

  ‘What’s for dinner?’

  ‘Vegetable and chick pea curry with rice.’

  I groan, on the inside. She makes this by the vat. It’s nutritious, satisfying and cheap. That’s the official word. But I’m sick of the sight, smell and taste of it. Pasta alla-nothing-much-on-it and soup with a lot of bread are the other new staples. Juicy steaks, big roasts with lots left over for sandwiches, and once a week takeaway are fuzzy-edged memories.

  She fixes her X-ray eyes on me and pounces just as I’ve settled into a nostalgic scan of my favourite takeaway food.

  1 Margherita pizza.

  2 Meatball sub.

  3 Nachos. Hold the sour cream.

  4 Hamburger with the lot. Hold the beetroot.

  5 Pad Thai noodles and chicken satay.

  6 Fish and chips.

  ‘So how was school, really?’

  Fish and chips catches me unaware, my throat jams with a lump of solid tears, remembering the smell of vinegar, ripping into the burning paper parcel, the cypress pines along the edge of the park, the pier, my dad . . . how many times have we done that?

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Talked to anyone yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You will make friends, Dan.’

  ‘Is that an order?’

  She chooses to ignore my rudeness. ‘It’s hard for people to get to know you unless you speak.’

  ‘I was planning to transmit messages using only the power of my brainwaves. I guess I’ll have to rethink that,’ I say. That’s pissy, but it comes out before I have time to edit.

  She gives me the compressed lips, narrowed eyes ‘you’re being difficult, but I’m saving my anger for the big iss
ues’ look.

  I’m spared the next onslaught by a knock at the back door. It’s the stables guy. He looks like he’s in his late twenties, about ten years younger than my mother. He’s got a slight cockney accent – sounds like it dates back quite a while but he’s kept it cooking along because he thinks it sounds cool. A wanker for sure.

  As they go through their introductions – he’s called Oliver – he admires what my mother’s done with the kitchen.

  ‘I wouldn’t have recognised it, Julie. I can see great things happening here.’

  What is he? A mystic or something? The wedding cake psychic?

  Then they yap on about Adelaide. And he’s showing no sign of leaving.

  ‘So, it’s just the two of you here?’ he asks.

  What’s it to him? Is he planning to rent out the empty bedrooms?

  My mother nods. ‘Rob and I separated recently.’

  Oh, no, personal over-disclosing.

  Uncomfortable pause.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me being out there,’ Oliver says. ‘I feel like a bit of an interloper.’

  You got that right, buddy.

  ‘Not at all. Please don’t think that for a minute. Adelaide adored Lettie. And she was terribly fond of you.’

  ‘It was mutual. She was an amazing woman.’

  Now I’m going to puke.

  Oliver looks at me. ‘Lettie was my grandmother.’

  ‘Right,’ I say. Like I care. What is he still doing here? Trying to crack onto my mum? Get an accommodation upgrade from the stables to the big house?

  I try to figure out what sort of work he does based on his clothes. He’s wearing jeans, a funny blue-black colour, a green bean jumper with very long sleeves that halfway cover the backs of his hands, and black riding boots with red elastic. Straight blonde hair parted on the side, dull metal framed glasses . . . I’m tossing up between filmmaking and architecture.

  ‘What do you do?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m a trend analyst and forecaster,’ he says.

  ‘Which is what exactly?’

  ‘Dan.’ It’s the ‘rude tone of voice’ category reprimand but I can tell Oliver is way too sure of himself to be offended.

  ‘I plant myself in a city, spend time on the streets and in clubs and bars watching and talking to people to check out what they’re wearing, eating, drinking, talking about and listening to, what toys and gadgets they’re playing with. Then I make some recordings, take some pictures, shoot some footage – write it all up, show advertising agencies and their clients, and by the time I’ve done the presentations I’m ready to go away and take a look somewhere else. So I basically help advertisers chase their tails.’

  ‘What a fun job,’ my mother says.

  It does sound good but this guy’s impressed enough with himself without me joining the fan club.

  ‘I’m taking the dog for a walk, ‘ I say.

  Howard stands stiffly and walks slowly to the back door. He looks a bit . . . annoyed. Tail down. Aren’t dogs supposed to be up for a walk any time, night or day?

  ‘Look, he must know what “walk” means,’ my mother says.

  ‘Not a lot Howard doesn’t know,’ says Oliver, patting him on the way through.

  Howard’s tail goes up. He shakes his head and stands tall – as tall as a little dog can, anyway.

  My motive in taking Howard out is mixed. I’m also hoping to run into Estelle. A marrow-chilling half hour later there is still no sign of her. Strange the way you can feel relieved and devastated at the same time. I head for the shopping strip – I have to try to get a job. The shops are mostly cafés and specialist food shops, homemade pasta, an organic greengrocer, a few clothes shops, an art gallery. Then there’s the op-shop, a hardware shop and a newsagency. A tram squeals around the corner as I tie Howard to the leg of a bench and steel myself to approach the op-shop for work. I can’t believe my luck when they hire me on the spot, Tuesday and Thursday after school. Easy!

  I’m heading for home when people start spilling out of a tall doorway between two shops. They look about my age, chatting away to each other. I notice they’re disabled, mostly Down syn-drome, I think. And Estelle comes out behind them, walking with a girl, holding her hand.

  Estelle’s smile is a mile wide. She has light brown hair that’s dead straight, parted in the middle and tucked behind her ears. Her hair gleams; she must wash it every day. Her ears are neat and pretty. Her eyes are dark blue or grey. I haven’t had a long enough look yet to tell.

  When she sees me, the smile amps down a bit – no mistaking it – but she can’t avoid me. I’ve walked into the group, and these kids are milling around, joking with each other, saying their goodbyes – they’ve got all day. Estelle is trapped. It’s probably the only reason she says ‘hi’.

  ‘Who are you?’ asks the girl she’s with.

  ‘Phyllis, this is . . . I’m sorry, is it Dan?’

  ‘Dan it is,’ I answer. Dan it is? What do I sound like? A leprechaun? This is bad.

  ‘He’s moved in next door,’ explains Estelle, probably hoping to make it quite clear to Phyllis that that is the only reason she’s speaking to me.

  ‘Adelaide’s house?’ Phyllis checks.

  ‘That’s the one,’ I say. Again, with the language. Couldn’t I have said ‘yeah’? Now I sound like a game show host.

  ‘She died in her bed,’ says Phyllis.

  ‘Yeah.’ Now I pull a ‘yeah’ in entirely the wrong place. I sound heartless, the sort of guy who couldn’t care less where some old lady dies.

  I’m desperate to prolong and preferably improve the quality of my time with Estelle, so I volunteer a bit of information, which is not an easy thing for me to do. ‘I just got a job.’

  ‘Where?’ she asks.

  ‘The op-shop.’

  ‘Volunteer work,’ says Phyllis. ‘You’re nice to help out.’

  The obvious had escaped me. Not for the first time. Of course the op-shop doesn’t pay people. For someone supposedly smart I am the prize idiot of all time. I feel my face going red and blotchy with foolishness, and hope it might pass for the effect of the cold wind.

  ‘Yes, I think it’s just really important to make an, er . . . contribution. I’m looking for paid work too if you hear about any.’

  ‘We’ll let you know,’ says Estelle. She’s about to walk on, and I make a second herculean effort to keep her with me.

  ‘Where were you coming out of?’ This is killing me; I sound like English is my second or possibly third language.

  ‘It’s a studio program,’ says Phyllis. ‘Artists work with us, up there.’ She’s pointing to the first floor, above the shops. Then anticipating my next question: ‘They don’t need anyone.’

  ‘Except me,’ says Estelle. ‘But that’s volunteering too.’

  ‘Did you two meet there?’

  They laugh.

  ‘No. Primary school,’ says Estelle.

  ‘Do you know what’s happened to Adelaide’s dog?’ asks Phyllis.

  That hits me over the head like a gigantic cartoon frypan, with a ringing clunk.

  Howard! I’ve completely forgotten about him. He’s still tied to the bench across the road – if I’m lucky. If he hasn’t already been picked up by the RSPCA or dognapped.

  ‘He sort of comes with the house. Only, I’ve left him over there . . . Gotta run,’ I burble, taking off, almost collecting a cyclist who spews a stream of vivid abuse in my trail.

  It is such a relief to see old Howard, patiently sitting there. He gives a sharp bark as I untie him.

  ‘I know, I know. Dog ownership for dummies: take dog out, bring dog home.’

  Usually it’s the human who trains the dog. But when Howard wags his tail, I’m the one responding to the approval, and remembering for next time.

  Estelle and Phyllis are heading off and I’ve missed my chance to walk with them. Although, with my level of smooth moves, I don’t know how I would have managed the three abreast, plus dog on lead, walk
and talk without tripping over someone, probably myself.

  Howard and I mooch on home, checking all the windows for real jobs. The only one is in a clothes shop and says ‘retail experience essential’. Mrs Nelson at the op-shop waves as we walk past. I wave back, feeling like a complete knob.

  By the time we get home my mother and Oliver are looking pretty damn chummy, with an almost finished bottle of wine on the table. He must have supplied it seeing as wine is a luxury. From the way he looks at me – sympathetic, understanding (why does everyone think they understand?) – I can tell she’s blabbed the full family catastrophe. What is the woman on? We don’t even know this guy. After years of warning me about it, has the whole stranger-danger concept suddenly escaped her? Do I have to do all the worrying around here? Yes, and yes, apparently. And what happened to the notion of privacy? Stuff that’s my business, stuff that I might not want to share with the whole world? Out the window.

  I can’t believe my ears when she invites him to stay for dinner. Thankfully, he’s got other plans. What would Dad think? Well, of course, he wouldn’t care. If he did, he’d be here, going through all this crap with us. Instead of . . . I don’t know what he’s going through by himself, but it’s his choice. So screw you, Dad, I hope you feel as shit as I do. But still somehow I feel a whole lot worse thinking of him by himself.

  I try to escape straight after dinner, but no such luck.

  ‘Dan, you’re not going anywhere; I need your help,’ says my mother. I stay, but she’s cracking it now because I said ‘whatever’. She hates that word. Her rave goes on in the background while we give the kitchen an almighty scrub down and I wonder about my dad. How is he going? Where’s he staying? Is he hungry like me, now there’s no money? How often does he think about us? Should I talk to him when he rings? How long will he keep trying before he gives up on me? Before he drifts off, another iceberg that used to feel so securely attached?

  ‘Dan, watch what you’re doing! You’re flooding the place.’

  An exaggeration. I tipped one bucket of water over the floor. The way they wash down decks, in movies. How else do you wash it? Since I was little we’ve had a procession of nice Mrs Somebodies doing all our dirty work around the house, so it’s not as though I’ve participated in this sort of thing before. Does she think it’s instinct? Are babies born knowing this stuff? Is it contained in our DNA? I doubt it.