Michael didn’t come to sit with me at recess.
‘What happened?’ asked Maddie. ‘Did you piss him off on the weekend or something?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘But I’m about to now.’ And I marched right up to where he was sitting with his mates. I tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Can I have a word, please?’
He stood up and we walked a few steps away. His friends were looking at us and laughing.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked.
I sighed. ‘Look, I’m really sorry about the weekend. But why won’t you answer my texts?’
He shrugged. ‘Why should I? It’s not like you actually like me.’
‘What are you talking about? I had to take my dad to the doctor!’
He snorted. ‘Sure. Why couldn’t your mum take him? Why couldn’t he go by himself?’
I saw red. A blinding, furious red. ‘Because my mother was hit by a bus and she’s dead,’ I hissed. ‘And because my father is completely blind. Thanks a lot, Michael.’ And with that, I turned on my heel and walked back to my own friends.
‘Great job,’ said Maddie. ‘He looks really pissed off.’
But then she saw that I was in tears, and she took me to the bathrooms to clean me up.
I still felt pretty bad at lunch, until my phone beeped. I took it out from my pocket. It was from Michael, and it was just one word.
Sorry.
I glanced over to where he was sitting. He was looking at me. I texted him back.
Whatever.
He came over to our table and sat with me for the rest of lunch, and we joked and talked and laughed until the bell rang. I felt better than I had in a long time.
I was continuously smiling for the rest of the day. Even beige Mrs Peters couldn’t dampen my spirits. I talked to everyone on the bus, and waved goodbye to my friends when I was dropped off on the usual corner. I turned to walk the block to my home, but then I saw something that made my heart stop. Above the unit was a huge, grey cloud of smoke. I dropped my bag and started sprinting. As I neared the unit I saw a crowd of people standing outside. Desperately, I searched their faces for Dad’s. He wasn’t there.
‘. . . there’s no car in the garage, and no lights on, so I reckon there’s nobody home,’ one of the men was saying. ‘And if there was, they would’ve got out by now.’
I felt cold. None of them had gone in. Dad was still in there.
I looked at the flames licking at the roof. I braced myself and, ignoring the shouts of the bystanders, rushed forward. I wrenched the door open and nearly choked as smoke poured out. ‘Dad!’ I shrieked. ‘Dad!’
The smoke billowed everywhere, threatening to smother me. Taking a deep breath, I ran inside. I couldn’t see Dad anywhere. Flames were dancing all over the place, and I could hear cracking sounds in the roof. Rushing through the lounge room, I continued to cry out. Finally, I heard the sound of coughing from the kitchen. I stumbled through the door, my eyes stinging from the smoke.
‘Dad!’ I yelled. I saw him through the thick haze, trying to find his way out of the room.
‘Grace!’ he said through his coughs. ‘Let’s go!’
We began to feel our way back to the front door. I could feel the almost overwhelming heat increasing. There was no light because of the smoke, and everything was black. I couldn’t stop coughing.
I breathed a sigh of relief. We were halfway through the house, nearly at the door – but then the roof collapsed in front of us. Sparks shot up, burning my face and arms. I glanced down and saw that my school dress had caught fire. It was nearly impossible to breathe.
‘Grace! We have to keep moving!’ Dad yelled.
I wonder if, like me, he thought we were going to die. But we continued, turning around and heading, through the unbearable heat, for the back door.
Suddenly I heard a crack from above us. Looking up, I saw the plaster on the ceiling crumbling. ‘Shit . . . Shit! Dad, come on!’
We dived through the closest doorway into my room. Behind us, the roof beams collapsed, trapping us inside. We would have been crushed. I looked around my room, desperate. Everything was burning – my bed, my wardrobe, my desk, my books . . . I knew we had to get out. Seizing a heavy encyclopedia from the shelf and ignoring my burning hands, I threw it at the window. The glass shattered easily. Kicking out the flyscreen, I helped Dad out. As soon as he was safe, I followed him. I cut my hands and knees on the broken glass as I crawled through the window, but I could immediately feel the relief of the clean air when I was outside. Safe. Alive.
‘Dad!’ I cried, hugging him hard.
‘You’re so brave, Gracie,’ he said, wrapping his arms around me.
Gradually I became aware of cheering, the cheers of the people who had been watching on. I looked over. Mr Armstrong was there, clapping and grinning broadly. I saw Mrs Dimopoulos, bawling her eyes out and clasping her hands to her heart. The firemen finally arrived in their red trucks – not red for anger, or red for fire, but red for safety. One of them came up and clapped me on the shoulder.
‘Well done, lass,’ he said. ‘You’re a right brave young lady.’ He looked up at Dad. ‘Are you both all right?’
Dad nodded wearily in the fireman’s direction, then grinned. ‘You’re a bit late, mate.’
The man laughed and clasped Dad’s hand. ‘Ambulance will be here soon,’ he said. ‘Congratulations on surviving, both of you.’
Dear Mum,
Everything sort of came together in the past few days. Dad and I were in hospital for two nights. They gave us cream for our burns, fished out the glass from my bloody hands and made sure we didn’t have some kind of horrible disease from inhaling too much smoke. And while we were there, Dr James came to visit.
‘David,’ he said, ‘I’m putting you in a safe home with someone who can take care of you.’ He glanced over at me and winked. ‘Grace here is more than capable, but she’s busy with school. How did the fire start, by the way?’
Dad looked sheepish. ‘I left the stove on.’
Dr James laughed. ‘There, point proven,’ he said.
Dad shook his head. ‘Ah, I knew you’d turn this against me.’ But he was smiling, and I knew he’d realised it was for the best. Mrs Dimopoulos visited us as well, and brought us homemade biscuits.
‘Now then, Grace,’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘Don’t tell your nurses about this. They’re not exactly . . . nourishing.’
I promised I wouldn’t and Dad and I shared them. They were a mile better than hospital food.
Everyone at school has been acting like I’m some kind of hero.
‘Idiots,’ sniffed Maddie yesterday. ‘It’s not like you did something actually worth staring about.’
But then she punched me gently in the arm and grinned like she was proud that I was her best friend. Mrs Peters asked to see me after class. She tearfully told me she was awfully sorry about my ‘situation at home’ and excused me from all homework for the rest of the term. Which is funny, because now I’ll actually have the time to do it.
Dad and I have moved into a group home, which is basically a house which we share with other people. There are three others living with us – two elderly ladies and another blind man who is about sixty. There’s also the group home staff. One of the ladies is called Nadia, and she’s very pretty. But even though Dad can’t see that, I think he likes her. A lot. I have a great room to myself, which is quickly filling up with gifts from people we know, and even some strangers who heard about what happened. It’s amazing how nice people can be.
Michael and I finally went on our date at the movies. It was great, but I didn’t notice much of the actual film. Michael kept sort of bumping my arm, then pretending he didn’t mean to. In the end, I just took his hand for him. He looked up and grinned at me sheepishly. We stayed like that for the rest of the movie.
And so Dad and I have come to realise that happy isn’t just one colour. It’s a rainbow: yellow for joy, blue for serenity, red for laughter
and green, because we have everything that we could want. Maybe we have no money, and maybe we lost all our possessions in that fire, but we have each other. We are together.
And that is all we need.
About the author
Eleanor George is the eldest of six children living in the northern New South Wales city of Tamworth. She is a student at high school, and ‘Colours’ is her first piece of published writing. Eleanor loves writing and has been mentored along the way by fantastic English teachers. She hopes to continue to learn and develop her writing skills in all genres.
The Surprise
Laura McPhee-Browne
Highly Commended
Mal still meets us at Mum’s place for dinner every Sunday night. It’s the one night of the week that we all see Mum at once and she loves it, will put on a roast if she has the energy, and fuss around with her hair and makeup. Mal always brings something, and most of the time it’s what we end up eating. Sometimes he just plonks heaps of chip packets in the middle of the table and opens up jars of salsa for us to dig at. Mum always shouts at him, ‘You’ll spoil everyone’s appetite! I’m making corned beef!’ But she can never get the timing right, and while the gravy grows a skin on the stovetop and the potatoes start to smirk in the oven, she’ll put a huge red hunk of beef on to boil and we’ll wait three hours while it floats in the bubbling salty water, only to have Mum slice off a bit and announce that there was something wrong with that butcher anyway, and wouldn’t we all rather just have some more wine and if anyone’s still hungry Mal can go and grab a pizza from that place with the really good chocolate mousse.
This Sunday is the same. Mal arrives right on six o’clock in an ironed mauve-coloured penguin shirt. He smells of fabric softener and shaving gel and when I kiss his cheek hello, it feels how it always does: warm and almost smooth. He doesn’t just take off his shoes and sit down like a guest would but does the rounds, hugging and kissing my brother Kane and my sister George hello and then disappearing into the kitchen to hug and kiss hello Mum, and to help her climb a few rungs down off the wine ladder she’s reached the top of because of all the excitement.
We’re already sitting at the table when Mum comes out to tell us what’s for dinner.
‘I’ve made the stuffing for the chicken already, so it only needs a little while in the oven and there’s peas on the boil and I’ll peel the potatoes and cut up the carrots while you all have a catch up out here.’
George rolls her eyes so violently her shoulders roll too, and even Mal sucks his cheeks in trying not to laugh.
‘You’re roasting the chicken?’ Kane asks Mum, his forearms long and tanned along the table.
‘Yeah! You like a roast. I thought I’d do a roast.’
Mum’s wine glass is almost empty. I can’t tell if she’s slurring.
‘But roasting a chicken takes ages, Mum. If the peas are already on they’ll be soup by the time the chicken’s ready. And I’m hungry.’
As usual, it’s Mal who tries to sort it out.
‘Don’t worry yourself, Suze,’ he says quietly and calmly, his hand on Kane’s shoulder like a coach’s on a boxer. ‘I’ve brought over some dips and biscuits and some of that flat bread that Georgie loves. And I think there’s a big hunk of cheese in the fridge from last week that we can carve away at. We don’t need a chicken. Bring out those peas and we can eat them as a sort of appetiser.’
Mum is getting so quick to give up on dinner that she’s already sitting down next to George, topping up her glass.
‘All right, fine,’ she says. ‘I don’t know why you always bring so much food when you come. We’ll have to eat it anyway, otherwise it’s just a waste.’
‘You know what?’ Mal says, looking around the table to catch the eyes of me and Kane and George. ‘I’ll go and turn the peas off and serve them up if they’re ready. You just relax yourself there, Suze.’
What would sound like sarcasm from anyone else’s mouth sounds like kindness coming from Mal’s. He’s in the kitchen whistling and quietly banging around with pots and pans before any of us have finished our next swig. He’s good like that, Mal. The way other people aren’t.
‘He doesn’t have to do that, you know.’ Mum is red and she’s holding the wine glass really close to her face, almost in front of it, like she hopes it’ll shield her from our stares.
‘Shut up, Mum,’ George snarls.
She hates Mum most of the time and it gets worse when Mal’s here. It’s like he’s all shiny and polished and Mum’s tarnish shows up even more when he’s near her. I want to change the air in the room: open a door and wait for the drink and the scorn and the disappointment to whoosh out and away into the night.
‘George, come on. Mum tried and there’s lots of food and it’s nice to all be here together.’ My voice is pleading, I can hear it getting higher and faster and I’m looking at a clump of old pasta sauce on the tablecloth to avoid George’s clear blue gaze.
‘Fuck off, Maree.’
George swears a lot. Mal used to try to encourage her to use more constructive language, back when he lived with us, and slept on a corner of Mum’s bed, but she never stopped and it sort of suits her anyway.
‘Fuck off, George,’ says Kane, always eager to be involved. ‘Maree’s trying to keep this thing slightly fucking civilised.’
I want to tell them both that being civilized isn’t yelling at each other over the Doritos, but Mal’s back, and he’s carrying a huge bowl.
‘Here we are, some good old-fashioned greens.’ He plops the bowl right down in the centre of the table, full up to the edge with steaming peas.
Mum kisses her teeth.
‘Oh, you didn’t have to cook up that many.’
‘That’s how many were in the pot of water, love.’ Mal’s voice is like a dollop of butter on a hot baked potato.
‘Can’t even measure out the fucking peas,’ I hear George say under her breath.
I stand up and lean forward with the spoon to serve.
Mum has three kids. I’m the first one, the one that she made with the love of her life who died when she was twenty-one and I was a twinkle. The love of her life was called Henry, and Mum says he ‘was kinder than Mother Teresa at Christmas’.
Then there’s Kane, seven years younger than me and born when Mum had a little heart left in her for parenting, between her job at the medical centre taking blood from strangers and the hangovers. Georgia was the last one, and she barely had parents. Mum was thirty-nine when George came out in the car on the way to the Royal Women’s, where she was being monitored for being a pregnant woman who drank way too much alcohol. She’d had enough of telling little people what to do, and let Georgia go wild from the moment she could crawl. I made sure Georgia didn’t fall off the edge – of the couch, of the trampoline, of the earth. Mum smoked Benson & Hedges to curb the cravings and picked her fingernails off.
It was Kane that Mum was in awe of. When she’d had a drink and I came for tea, she would tell me how beautiful he’d been as a baby, with his head full of hair and cat smile. I tried reminding her that I’d been there, that I’d held him more than she had, that I’d changed his pooey nappies while she’d slept with a photo of my dad in her yellow-tipped fingers, but she didn’t really listen. It was weird – George hated her, and Kane pretended he didn’t care either way, but I just wanted her to be okay, and I worried about her, often in the middle of the night with my hot water bottle burning my feet or the fan blowing my hair into my mouth.
Mal was no one’s real dad. He and Mum had split up pretty soon after she’d had Kane to some guy from the hardware store on Grace Street who I guess she must’ve bonked in the back office or in his car or hers, because we never met him and Mum said he was ‘bloody attractive but a bloody idiot’. Mal had just hung around anyway: to drop off tins of formula or cook up saucepans full of apples or potatoes to mash for Kane’s dinner, and to be the only thing like a dad we’d ever had. When Mum met Trent and got pregnant with Georgia,
Mal was still there, buying her Peppermint Crisps when she craved them, and staying in the spare room to watch Kane and me when she went out with Trent to the pokies, coming back with raspberry lemonade lips. He’s always been there, and he’s always made it clear to us all how much he loves us, and cares about us, and how he’d do anything for Mum if she’d only just let him. My favourite thing used to be watching Mal’s face when Mum was talking, the way it’d crease in just the right places under the weight of his most tender smile. Now I look at Mum instead, to see if she notices.
It’s Mal who comes up with the idea. Mum’s been completely scared of turning fifty for years, and for the last few months she hasn’t even been talking about it, probably due to complete denial. I’m over at Mal’s house for coffee on Saturday morning, helping him with the crossword and trying to get him to talk about himself for once when he stands up to get the milk and exclaims as he’s walking to the fridge, turning quickly around to face me again and clapping his hands.
‘Maree! I forgot to tell you about my idea! For your mum’s fiftieth! I thought maybe a surprise party! She always used to tell me how no one had ever really surprised her, except Georgie when she came out too early on the way to the hospital, or Kane when he came home early from school that day he cut the top of his finger off and popped up from behind the kitchen counter with the finger stub waving at her, pretending it had always been like that – ’
‘Except she’d had a few wines and just laughed like a crazy person until he told her it was real – ’
‘Yeah! So anyway, I thought it’d be just lovely to give her a nice surprise. Just a few of her friends and us and Kane and George, here at my place on the Saturday night. You’d have to get her over here thinking I was making dinner or something, and then she’d have no idea and everyone could jump out from under tables and behind couches like they do in the movies and she’d love it!’
Hope: An Anthology Page 5