Big Jack squinted at Tom and appraised his wet hair. He looked Tom up and down for evidence of disarray or disobedience. Finding none, he said, ‘Get me my cigar box … and be bloody careful.’
Tom stared mutely as his fingertips went sweaty and all the moisture in his throat drained away.
‘Go on then,’ said his father, prodding him lightly with the end of the cue stick, his voice already irritated and impatient.
Almost sick with fear and excitement, Tom scampered upstairs to his father’s study where the cigar box was kept. Bringing the cigar box to his old man was a privilege, one usually bestowed on his older brother. Tom would show his dad he could be just as helpful.
The cigar box was inlaid with ivory and mother of pearl. It glinted and winked when it caught the light. The surface was smooth and cool, except for one ragged corner where a piece of ivory had loosened. Carefully, carefully he walked out of his father’s study holding the box with both sweaty hands. ‘Said the Red Queen to Alice, “My dear, here we must run as fast as we can, just to stay in place. And if you wish to go anywhere you must run twice as fast as that.”’ And it occurred to Tom that he too must run and he gripped the little box tighter and took the staircase two stairs at a time. Panting, with some pride, he handed his father the cigar box. When Big Jack took the box, the first thing that he saw was that a piece of ivory had fallen off. His face turned molten and he pulled Tom by his hair and threw him down on the floor. With empty, doleful eyes, Big Jack loosened his belt. ‘“Keep your temper,” said the Caterpillar.’ If there was a rabbit hole in Hungerford Place, Tom would have jumped inside and he would have taken the white rabbit’s glove and made himself so small that no one would notice him and he’d stay there until he was somebody else.
Afterwards, his mother wordlessly handed him a piece of hard-boiled candy, like she did after every bruising his old man dished out. The candy always took hours to suck down to nothing. She offered him no hugs of comfort, no words of solace, just the candy. His fingertips sweated like reloading water pistols and no amount of candy could stop them.
No, never again. He wasn’t going to make himself small for anyone. He felt the borders rising around him again, except this time he wouldn’t fall down the rabbit hole. He sank into his armchair and closed his eyes and pretended he was stepping into the centre of his own life, pretended all the borders were melted away until the pounding in his chest stopped and he drifted into the sleep of kings.
CHAPTER TEN
Flick it. Be quick. Off the benchtop and onto the floor. Her sandaled foot stood ready to crunch at the life and legs of another stupid bugger-off ant. In the cramped galley kitchen of the houseboat, the swelter of trapped heat caused her English words to jumble and slide right out of her head. The groaning, rusty blades of the small ceiling fan created a mean-spirited breeze that simply shifted the humidity within the cabin, providing a tickle rather than a respite from the heat.
Nayeema imagined a tea towel catching on fire, or the hem of her apron snagging on the oven door, or the boiling jug being knocked over. Every minute that she was in this floating hazard, she negotiated a multitude of potential disasters. She greeted the end of each lunchtime session with a sense of accomplishment and elation that she had survived. She worried about the houseboat erupting in flames, or being trapped inside, but mainly she worried about it sinking while she was making someone’s coffee. She fondled her apron pocket to touch the smooth, misshapen grey pebble that she’d collected from the inlet. Good luck didn’t hurt anyone.
The houseboat swayed and sighed gently this afternoon with the rising tide, which flowed from the ocean into the bay. It was a rectangular-shaped vessel with a safety rail that flanked its sides. It had been ingenious of Tom to think of using his houseboat but it strained and groaned with the demands of their little kiosk. At first, the inside of the cabin had reeked of damp and fresh lacquer and bait. Now, it mainly smelled of garlic and cinnamon and melted cheese.
Tom had organised everything. He had the houseboat brought up to Bishops Bay from its mooring on the Hawkesbury River. It was clear that he was a man who made things happen. People didn’t drag their feet around him; they worked for him like they feared or respected him. Nayeema was herself developing a great respect for Tom, though the same could not be said for Goldie. She had learned it was best to keep the two of them as far away from each other as possible.
Always so hot in here. Hot like the hell. In a few weeks’ time, temperatures would start to drop and the heat from the appliances would feel less stifling. But this would make way for another worry: that business would dry up with the cooler weather. As autumn made way for winter, it was hard to imagine that many men working at Serpentine Heights would be coming to the kiosk without the lure of a swim during their lunchbreak. In truth, the kiosk could shut down in the next two months.
The thought of not being occupied with the business of the kiosk made her frigid with dread. The active return system that Tom had implemented was very wow. It gave her a goal, a mission to exceed her hurdle every week. The extra income she was earning was a secret that she kept from Fawzy. There was her drama, right there.
* * *
At first, Goldie had outright refused to work for Tom. ‘He’s a snake, honey. Why would I? After all that’s happened between my family and his. Uncle Frank’s been groaning about Tom Grieves and his family for years. There’s enough bad blood between them to fill up all of Bishops Bay.’
‘But what happened? We don’t even know.’ Goldie’s lack of curiosity about her uncle’s ownership of this beautiful parcel of land was surprising. ‘I think something fishing happened,’ Nayeema said.
‘Fishy,’ Goldie corrected, gently.
‘It is interesting to find out what Tom did that was so bad.’
‘What makes you think it was Tom that was in the wrong? I wouldn’t be surprised if it was my uncle that started the trouble,’ said Goldie, matter of fact.
‘Oh,’ said Nayeema, thrown by this declaration. ‘You know bad stories about your uncle?’ she asked.
‘You could say that.’
‘Do you like your uncle, Goldie?’
‘We don’t get to pick our family, honey,’ Goldie sighed.
‘So we forget Tom and Uncle Frank and we make new history. Tom will pay us a good wage. He gives us a kiosk in a houseboat. It’s a good idea and whatnot.’
‘My Uncle Frank won’t allow it.’
‘Don’t tell him.’
Goldie stared at her, mouth gaping. ‘That’s true. I don’t have to tell him, but he’ll find out. That’s the thing with Uncle Frank, he always finds out. Someone he knows will see me in the kiosk and tell him I’m working for Grieves. It’s a small town, honey. He’ll find out real quick.’
‘This business won’t last forever. Tell Uncle Frank you work in Jindy for a few hours every day. We pay you cash at the end of every week.’
‘We?’
‘Tom makes me manager. I am in charge of paying out the wages.’
‘Hang on … you’re my manager? No way, we’re partners. We make decisions together.’
‘That won’t change. I am manager, yes … but we still make decisions about food together and whatnot.’
‘Tom’s the boss, he’ll make all the decisions.’
‘No. He gives us the houseboat and the wages. Nothing changes except we are all above board.’
‘That’s the other thing about this kiosk. He’s stolen my idea and legitimised everything. Where’s the fun in that? He’s ruined everything.’
‘It’s his pier.’
‘On my uncle’s land.’
They stared at each other forlornly. Goldie was right about one thing. The new houseboat arrangement would test their blooming friendship. She brushed away a tear.
‘Okay, let’s see how it goes. But let’s be clear … Tom Grieves has ruined our fun and I won’t forget it. I suppose he’s paying you more for being the manager?’
Nayeema’s he
art felt pinched, like a marshmallow being squeezed between two biscuits. ‘Yes. He pays me more, but only if we make a certain amount of money every week.’ She was no different to her greedy brothers. They were here with her, charging in her veins.
‘Well, that’s another kick in the guts.’ Goldie fell silent and looked at her fingernails.
The thought of being robbed of Goldie’s friendship was excruciating. Nayeema couldn’t bear it.
‘Honey, I don’t care for the responsibility of running a fully-fledged kiosk for Tom Grieves. And you know what, I’ll take his wage—it’s a pretty good one. Besides, I don’t want to fight about this anymore.’ Goldie’s sharp blue eyes softened and she pulled herself towards Nayeema and they hugged, both laughing.
‘Uncle Frank will find out. You know that … don’t kid yourself with this shop in Jindy story. Besides, where am I supposed to do all the baking?’
‘You tell him that you make for a shop in Jindy. Tell him anything.’
Goldie smiled but the stiffness in her chin made Nayeema fear that something had shifted in Goldie. She owed Goldie so much more than just friendship because this extraordinary situation with Tom Grieves would never have arisen were it not for Goldie. And yet, here she was taking away Goldie’s fun, taking the active interest and all the drama that came with it.
* * *
Nayeema checked on the portion of baked pasta warming up under the hot grill; the thick layer of béchamel on top was starting to bubble and she could hear the soft sizzle of heat working its way through the minced beef and tomatoes laced with chilli, onion, oregano. She pulled out the grill tray and carefully transferred the pasta onto a thin, disposable paper plate, being careful not to get her fingers below the heat patch.
‘Is hot. Be careful,’ Nayeema cautioned, as she passed the plate through the window to handlebar-moustachioed Pete, a regular, who was standing on the pier.
He stooped down to receive it by bending at his hips and knees, his hard pot-bellied stomach refusing to engage in this action. ‘Thanks, Nola.’ He winked. ‘See youse tomorra, love.’
The kiosk was less work than she’d expected. At first, they started with a small menu. Open grilled sandwiches of cheese and ham; cheese and roast beef; cheese and corned beef. Or a baked potato with hot bolognaise sauce poured over the top of it. The potato was Goldie’s idea, the bolognaise was Nayeema’s. Another favourite was the golden cigar-shaped pastries filled with minced lamb, a compromise between a sausage roll and the flaky filo pastries stuffed with meat that she cooked at home. These construction workers were an easy lot to please.
It gave Nayeema confidence to expand the menu. At first, she focused on food that gladdened the heart. This was the sort of food that pleased the tongue and wrapped around you like an embrace. In her kitchen at Hungerford Place, she cooked meals that could be easily reheated in the houseboat, like bamya, an okra and lamb stew that was slow cooked in a heavy pot with tomatoes, garlic, onions, cumin, coriander, a little tomato paste and the juice of a whole lemon. The bamya stew was ready when the liquid had half evaporated and all the aromatic spices were smouldering in the reduced sauce. To eat bamya in the middle of the day could dissolve, however briefly, the pains of the heart like a sweet caress.
Then there were Goldie’s sweet delights. Vanilla slices, with dewy passionfruit icing that she spread delicately over her thin pâte feuilletée, puff pastry. She made custard pies, with creamy and wobbly custard that shimmied with nutmeg on the inside of a firm pastry case; fruit tarts with a thin shell of crisp, crumbly and buttery pastry, filled with crème pâtissière, sweet pastry cream, and topped with the prettiest jewel-coloured summer fruits. She made chocolate éclairs filled with sugary whipped cream; pineapple and cherry upside-down cakes that were both dense and light and glistened with caramelised pineapple rings that she’d baked like a hidden treasure; profiteroles with the puffiest choux pastry; jam rolls with fresh cream, and nectarine frangipane flans bursting with blushing wedges of nectarine and so deeply fragrant with butter, sugar and almond meal that Nayeema could smell the frangipane no matter where she was on the houseboat.
Above one of the kitchen benches was a large rectangular window that faced onto the pier. It was through this window that Nayeema and Goldie passed food and money to the customers. Tom had organised for a stow-away ledge to be built outside the window. When the tide was high, the ledge was flipped up into position to create a servery and their customers would stoop down to the ledge to pay and receive their food. When the tide was low, there was no choice but to let the customers jump down from the pier and onto the houseboat. The ledge would be folded back against the wall of the houseboat. The line of customers would make their way single file into the cabin. This was always a hectic and self-conscious service: owing to a lack of interesting features inside the cabin, the queue of men preferred to watch Nayeema and Goldie as they worked. The houseboat would grunt and sway with the extra bodies. She wasn’t sure how many bodies were capable of sinking the thing and she fretted incessantly when the tide was low. Tom assured her that the houseboat was rock solid. She doubted that very much.
‘Hello, Robbie.’
‘Yeah, g’day, Nomi. What’s good today?’
‘Pasta bake is good. I have falafel rolls.’ She smiled knowingly. ‘This time I make them with only little bit garlic.’
He laughed, his entire sun-creased face crumpling in the process. ‘Ah, yer a good woman for doin’ that. S’pose I’d better thank youse for the trouble and get a fallyfel.’
Nayeema smiled languidly as she processed what he’d just said. There was something very distinct about the Burraboo accent in that it was not distinct at all. She just had to improvise sometimes.
She bent down to reach for a falafel roll as Goldie reached forward. Goldie’s thigh skimmed Nayeema’s backside. Though it remained a furnace inside the cabin, the outside air temperature was cooling, and the days offered fewer hours of light. Goldie continued to wear just a bikini and small, brown beads around her neck. Sometimes she wore a pair of shorts over her small bikini bottoms, sometimes a half-apron strung around her waist. Some of the men were shameless with their stares, but really, she couldn’t blame them when she often had to restrain her own gaze from drifting to her friend’s chest, or especially to her stomach, which furnished an intriguing constellation of freckles, as though a handful of sand had been scattered over her body and some of it had permanently stuck.
She and Goldie had become used to stretching and crawling over each other to reach for this or that. There had been times when Goldie had cheekily slapped Nayeema’s bottom with a little inconspicuous flick of her wrist, but on one occasion she slapped Nayeema’s backside quite deliberately, in full view of a queue of waiting men. ‘Steady on, girls,’ someone had hollered from up on the pier, which met with a riot of laughter. And Goldie had joined them with a relaxed, hearty bellow, while Nayeema’s palms went clammy with embarrassment as she busied herself with the griller and pretended that nothing had happened.
The smoky smell of charred bread crusts thickened in the kitchen as the afternoon marched on. She craned her head out of the window to survey the remainder of the queue waiting patiently on the pier. The worst of the lunchtime rush was over. She smiled at a fat-ankled man waiting next in line. ‘What I can get for you?’ she asked, and allowed her voice to inflect up in the manner of inquisition that was so common here.
At times she had to stop herself from referring to these strange men with a formal prefix. The day she had called out, ‘Your coffee, Mister Stevie,’ the entire line of men had broken into laughter. For days afterwards she heard them heckling with cries of Mister Stevie, Mister Brian, Mister Jacko.
For all of the pleasantries and jokes of these men, Nayeema didn’t know them. She didn’t know who they were, which families they came from, nothing. She knew only the basics: that handlebar-moustache Pete was partial to spicy food; that honking big-nose Stevie liked three sugars in his coffee; that rabbit-te
eth Robbo stared at Goldie in an indecent way; that the man they called Mullet was unnaturally hairless from the crown of his head to the top of his shorts. She was learning to take people just as they were but it didn’t mean she had to trust them.
‘Hello, Mrs Mac, hello, Gerald,’ said Goldie to the elderly lady and child standing on the pier. It thrilled Nayeema that word about the floating kiosk had spread beyond the construction site. Customer diversification, Tom had told her, was good for business. Mrs MacDonald and her grandson came for slices of Goldie’s carrot cake and sultana bread. They were, as Goldie put it, as reliable as her Uncle Frank breaking wind after dinner.
‘I have to leave early today, for Uncle Frank,’ said Goldie, when the line of customers fell away.
‘Oh?’
‘Yeah, he kinda wants me to help him with something at home, you know. It will be killer fun.’ She rolled her eyes. She never elaborated on all the chores and duties expected of her by her uncle.
Nayeema looked through the kitchen window to follow Goldie’s progress as she made her way up the pier and towards the inlet. She looked again, squinting. Nayeema knew Goldie’s stride well, the swing of the arms, the honeyed legs, the white shirt she had just thrown on. Except that she wasn’t alone. She was walking beside a woman with flowing red hair that was almost as long as Goldie’s. Their arms were linked together. Nayeema ran from the kitchen to the entrance of the cabin to get a better look.
The woman with Goldie was wearing a billowing purple skirt that was ankle-length and cinched in at the waist. On top, she wore a small orange blouse that showed half of her back. The same woman had come to the kiosk for tea and cake earlier today. It looked like they were very good friends, the way their hips were touching. Nayeema bit her lip. Goldie wouldn’t lie about needing to leave early to do chores for her uncle. No way. It was nothing more than a coincidence. Goldie’s purple-skirted friend must have been relaxing further down on the pier and when she saw Goldie was leaving, decided to leave with her.
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