‘What do you want me to do with it?’ he stutters. It is the longest sentence I’ve ever heard from him if you don’t count the farts.
‘Oh,’ I say, airily, ‘you could try eating it. My mum makes this fantastic broom stew. If you don’t fancy that, you could stick it up your arse . . . I’ve heard brooms are good for wind problems as well . . .’
So how the hell did Barry get hold of it? He is a PhD student in Engineering. The only music I’ve ever heard him play is boring Latin instrumentals or one hundred times more boring American country singers with a vocal range of three notes. As far as they know, I’m a waitress. Neither of them have ever seemed remotely interested in what I do in my spare time.
‘Which one?’ I ask coolly, taking the paper out of his hands. ‘There are three articles on this page.’
‘The Ms Angst thing,’ he mumbles, less sure now.
I feel him watching me as I calmly pretend to read through the whole article, wondering how I’m going to deal with the situation.
‘No, I didn’t write that,’ I say, eyeballing him coldly, ‘but I wish I had!’
‘What?’ his eyes shift away from mine uneasily.
‘Well, it just about sums up the situation here, don’t you think?’ I say, confident I can say what I like because they won’t kick me out. They need me for the rent. I know for a fact that they had difficulties filling the third bedroom. ‘Neither of you do any cleaning and you barely buy food!’
‘We’re not here all that much!’ he protests weakly.
‘Here enough to eat the stuff that I buy!’ I snap back.
‘Ever heard of discussing it?’ he shouts back in this weirdly deflated tone. ‘We could have . . . worked something out.’ His shoulders suddenly slump, he turns his back, and at that instant a spurt of pure glee fills my head with a mad rush. I have him. I won. The whole thing is hitting home! I’ve got him on the back foot, where he belongs. Then I see that he is on the point of crying . . .
I stop a moment, suddenly appalled with myself. Barry is ugly and awkward and mean with money but . . . to see it laid down in words would be . . . terrible. Wouldn’t it? I have to work hard to shrug off my guilt but I manage. Just. He’s hurt? Well tough! Me too. Scratch the surface and we’re all hurt in one way or another. The truth bites everyone on the bum eventually. Let him deal with it!
I don’t know whether Barry believed me or not, but probably not. All I know is that after that day both of them did a little more around the place, and they bought more food, too. But the atmosphere between the three of us changed from friendly-polite to a weird, charged kind of icy indifference. In my most paranoid moments – I mean late at night with the wind howling around that creaky old dump, and shadows from the trees outside making spooky patterns on my walls – I imagine them sitting out there together in that disgusting little kitchen, eating their canned beans and rice, working out ways to knock me off.
I know I should find another room in some other house with real people. But in some ways, the Hurstbridge place suits me. It’s so near work that I can walk, so I don’t waste time or petrol. Neither Barry nor Stan are home much, so I don’t have to talk to them every day. In fact, most evenings I’m alone in the house until about ten. Barry works evening shifts at a local supermarket and Stan has some job in a bar.
Even so, after eighteen years of family life in North Fitzroy, my existence in Hurstbridge seems bizarre. It’s hard to remember exactly why I moved out of home when I did. What was I running from? What did I think I’d find? Partly, I guess I wanted to see who I might be away from my family. I wanted to get away from all the pretty wrapping I’ve had around me since birth. The clever daughter of an eminent barrister, the dry youngest sister, the niece, the granddaughter, the warm loyal friend. I’d pretty much burned all those bridges before I left but still . . . I needed to find out how I was going to survive without it all. Needless to say, when all the wrapping came off, there were no nice surprises.
I decide I’d better go look for Mum, so I write a message on a piece of paper and stick it under the windscreen-wiper. Then I set off towards the main shopping strip just across the road from the beach. Maybe she’s in one of the little cafés having another heart-to-heart with Charles Manson. Anything is possible. So I walk up and down the entire shopping strip, peering into the cafés, trying to look like I know what I’m doing and that I have a sensible reason to be staring in at people who are sitting around minding their own business. God, what if that creep really has done something to her? What if he’s holding her somewhere? I was the idiot who insisted on picking him up.
I sit down in the shade outside one of the cafés, order an iced coffee and watch everyone who walks past. When a couple of off-duty cops stroll past I’m tempted to run over and ask them what I should do. I know I’m being stupid, they’d only laugh. She’s an hour late! Big deal. There really is no reason to feel so worried. Except I do. Can’t she even get it together to stay alive for an hour while I go for a bloody swim! Calm down, Rose. But what could have happened? Get a grip, you idiot.
This is how I used to feel all the time. For the first few weeks after Dad left, my mother would regularly go missing. Sometimes she’d spend all day just walking around our suburb, going from café to park, to café, to the local library, with this dazed expression on her face. She got so thin and wrecked-looking that we honestly thought she might just keel over one day in the street and die. She kept saying she was okay, that she simply couldn’t stay in the house, needed to walk and that we shouldn’t worry. But she wasn’t okay. She kept losing money and forgetting appointments and being incredibly vague about what she did all day. She’d take the train to Frankston, or Werribee, or Lilydale, get out and have a cup of tea and come straight home again. I know, because I followed her once. Sometimes she’d be out from early in the morning till late at night. Occasionally, she’d bring home some weird, drunken dead-beat or bag lady to stay in our beautifully set up guest room, and it would be Cynthia’s job to get rid of them in the morning. (Something she did with gusto, needless to say!)
My sisters had demanding jobs and kids and boyfriends but I’d just finished school, so I had more time. Looking after Mum became my job. When she hadn’t come back after a few hours I would be overcome by worry and I’d have to try to find her.
My sisters did what they could. They’d rush home, and sometimes we’d go out on these search parties together. Suffice to say, all of them were more suited to the situation than I was. Drama queens, the lot of them! By the end of the summer, I’d developed this constant feeling of semi-panic. Where is Mum? Am I going to find her collapsed in the park? Or under a bus? Or with some creep sticking a needle in her arm? Of course, a lot of other stuff, that none of them knew about, was happening for me at the same time. My sisters would encourage me to head out of town for a surfing break when they could take over the Mum-sitting, but they had no idea what I was actually doing. Minding Mum became a bit of a decoy, a way of not dealing with my own life.
For something to do, I dial Dot at Gran’s. I need to share the fear with someone.
‘Hello,’ my sister answers, warily.
‘Dot?’
‘Rose. Where are you?’ She sounds pissed off. ‘Gran is drifting in and out.’
‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘What do you think?’ Dot snaps back furiously. ‘And I don’t want to be the only one here when it happens! I thought Hilda would be here by now. And you! And Mum!’
‘I’m in Lorne, but I’ve lost Mum.’
‘What do you mean, lost her?’
‘Well, I picked up a hitchhiker and I stopped for a swim and . . .’
‘He’s run off with her?’ Dot jumps in, her mood changing to one of breathless excitement in an instant, as though Mum has suddenly become the main character in a play by one of the ancient playwrights. Sophocles. The tragic tale of a woman who must suffer the humiliation of being kidnapped by the Gods in order to save her family from di
saster . . .
I do have another moment of panic before I remember that I’m talking to Dorothy. Why the hell did I think I’d get any sense out of her?
‘I hope not,’ I say dryly, ‘but I’m starting to worry.’
‘Rose, you are not going to believe this,’ she cuts in breathlessly.
‘What?’
‘Cynthia is coming down tomorrow!’ she declares. ‘And she’s bringing Bruce, and I just don’t know if I’m going to be able to handle it.’
‘But I thought she was working hospitals this week,’ I say irritably, wondering at my sister’s ability to simply change focus. ‘Cynthia is always saying she can’t get time off.’
‘She got two days!’
‘So where are they going to sleep?’ I ask, relieved, in a way, to be diverted from my present dilemma. Gran’s place is a tiny two-bedroom cottage. There will be room for Mum and Dot in the spare room and that’s about it. I’ll sleep in the back of the van.
‘In the same hotel as Dad. Who cares?’ Dot cries. ‘Bruce! She’s bringing Bruce!’
I sigh. Dorothy doesn’t so much dislike Cynthia’s boyfriend as despise him. Mainly for his ordinariness. Bruce loves his sport and beer. He likes to bet on the races and he’s building a house in Keilor as a property investment. His big passion is cycling. But so what? As far as I know, he’s not seriously horrible, and he puts up with Cynthia. No mean feat.
‘Oh jeez, Rose, what are we going to do? How are we going to cope?’
‘Dorothy!’ I cut in sternly. ‘I called you because Mum is missing. Just concentrate on that for a minute.’
‘Oh, she’ll turn up,’ Dorothy declares, dismissively. ‘She’s probably just taken the hitchhiker out for a meal. She’ll be listening to his life story and working out how she can help. You know Mum!’
At that very moment I catch sight of Mum walking towards me with Charles Manson behind her. They’re both laden with plastic bags. I subdue my sigh of relief because I don’t want to give Dorothy the satisfaction of knowing she is right. I watch Mum trying to cross the road. She is looking worriedly around as she hurries over to the van. Yeah, well, you’re over an hour late. Be worried! I take a deep breath and try not to feel so irritated. What does an hour actually matter? After all, I’m the one who said I didn’t want to hurry the trip.
‘Listen Dot,’ I say shortly, ‘I’ve gotta go.’
‘No sign of her?’ she asks sweetly. I just about grind my teeth.
‘I see her now. She’s over at the car.’
‘What did I tell you?’
‘Shut up, Dorothy.’
‘You’re too uptight these days, Rosie,’ Dorothy says mildly, and then sighs. ‘You’ve got to deal with some of this stuff, you know.’
‘What are you on about?’ I ask, irritated all over again on a number of fronts. I hate being called Rosie, for starters. It just isn’t me any more. Rose is bad enough. Apart from that, Dorothy has no right to tell anyone to face up to anything. She is the most unrealistic, impractical, totally vague and dippy person in the whole world! It won’t matter, of course, because she’s so beautiful. There will always be some guy who’ll take care of the practicalities of life for her. But I refuse to listen to let’s-be-realistic lectures from the queen of flake!
‘You know,’ she goes on blithely, as though there is no irony in this situation at all, ‘no use hiding away. That doesn’t solve anything. Get in touch with Zoe. Work things out, sweetheart! And what about that nice guy, Nathaniel? You should contact him . . .’
‘Dorothy,’ I cut in before she can say anything else, ‘when I want your completely irrelevant advice, I’ll ask for it, okay?’
I tell her goodbye and hang up.
As I approach the van, I see that Mum is carrying a number of fancy bags, too. She looks as though she’s been shopping at a menswear store.
‘Mum!’ I call.
‘Oh Rose!’ She is harried and hot and apologetic. ‘Sorry to be so late! We got caught up shopping and suddenly I saw the time.’
‘We?’ I mutter grimly, not trusting myself to even look at the guy. He’s sheepish. I can tell by the way he’s hanging back.
‘Travis and I,’ she says, turning to him with a smile. ‘Come on, let’s put these in the car and we can all get going.’ She looks at me. ‘Did you have a good swim?’
‘So what have you been buying?’ I ask, ignoring the question. I pull up the back of the van so they can put the stuff inside.
‘Oh, we had something to eat,’ she says airily. ‘Then we bought some food to take to the couple looking after Peter.’
‘Peter?’
‘Travis’s son. These people have been terribly good and . . . haven’t asked for payment.’ She looks away, embarrassed suddenly. ‘Just a few things they might not be able to get locally. T-shirts and shorts. A cricket bat.’
‘Right,’ I say, turning to stare at the hitchhiker. He is standing apart from us now, lighting a cigarette, frowning and looking out at the ocean as though this conversation I’m having with my mother has nothing to do with him. He feels me looking and turns to face me with this sly smile.
‘Your mum is one cool lady,’ he mutters.
‘Is that a fact?’ I snarl, slamming the door shut.
The next bit of road, cut into the steep cliff face, is very slow and very beautiful. The ocean is on our left and the rocky cliffs on our right. The traffic is impatient. When I get caught behind a truck there is nothing to do but slow down and chill out. No more wild risks. I’m not even tempted. Mum is very quiet and so is the hitchhiker.
Get in touch with Zoe. Work things out. That nice guy, Nathaniel. Dot’s words fly back at me on the breeze. Sounds simple, but it’s not. Zoe met Nat one night. And that was when things started getting . . . tangled up.
Last Summer, Melbourne
‘I’m a dumb fat-arse and no guy is ever going to like me!’
It’s a Friday night and the excitement over our VCE results is well and truly over. Zoe and I are walking down Swan Street, Richmond, to see a new band playing at the Corner Hotel. She is in a dark mood because some guy she met in the country gave her the flick. As soon as I saw her, I knew the only solution was to get her out to hear some very loud music.
‘So you’re just the drop kick from Bayswater, right?’ I follow up, slowly. ‘Nothing good will ever happen to you from now on?’
She sighs and gives a deep groan.
‘Have I got that right?’ I add, for good measure.
‘Yeah.’
‘You only made the top one per cent in the state with your VCE, but some dumb hick from Albury gives you the heave-ho and you’re finished, right? You’re the dumb-arse.’
‘Oh, shut up about the results!’ she snarls back. ‘You with your bloody perfect score! As though any of it matters if no guy will ever want me!’
‘Come on, Zoe! You’ve had loads of guys interested in you!’
‘Not for ages and ages!’ she moans, and then brightens a little. ‘But you do like my hair?’
‘Yeah, I do, actually,’ I say, relieved to change the subject. She’s had a whole lot of silvery streaks put in and it looks good, but . . . but I’m not in the mood for effusive flattery. We walk along in silence for a while. Come, on Zoe. What about me? is actually what is going through my head. I was pretty geared up to tell her about meeting Nat Cummins, about the party and what happened after it, but her dramas are, as usual, crowding the space between us. She has yet to ask me one single question about what I’ve been doing while she was away.
Should I contact Nat? is what I want to know. But what would I say? Things were a bit knotty at home for a while. But . . . I’d like us to go out now . . . Is it possible to ring a guy and actually say something like that? I am full of doubt. There are probably about five other girls vying for his attention by this stage.
‘Of course my life is absolutely perfect!’ I cut in with a blunt stab at wit. ‘My father has run off with a chick nearly twenty years y
ounger than he is. My mum is, like, dying of sorrow. Then there are the sisters. The sane, reliable, responsible sisters! The eldest one cries all the time and won’t talk to her husband. The next one is plotting revenge and wants to murder the mistress! Don’t laugh. I’m serious, Zoe! And the other one thinks that if only everyone would start reading Dante’s Inferno they’d see the folly of their ways and all the problems of the world would be sorted out in a jiffy! Hey, it all makes absolute sense!’
Zoe snorts a few giggles and her mood lifts a bit.
‘I can’t believe it about your olds!’ she moans. ‘They were, like, my ideal couple! They’re how I’ve always wanted to be when I get old! I love them both so much.’
‘Me, too,’ I say, pleased with her depth of feeling.
‘Who is this other woman? I mean . . .’ Zoe is totally outraged with the idea all over again. ‘I hate her!’
‘Yeah, well,’ I say dryly, ‘you’re not the only one. Hey, come on, let’s go. Give me the lowdown on what actually happened in Albury.’
The pub is packed out. Everyone is here to see a new band, Bye Sky Babies. There has been a bit of a buzz happening around them for a while, so I’m looking forward to it. People our own age, maybe a bit older, are coming in and out through the swing doors. Dressed up. Some a bit pissed already. Yelling out. I begin to feel seriously excited. I haven’t been out to listen to a band since my last birthday. Since Dad left last week, since I met Nat Cummins . . . And we’re eighteen now. We can both legally drink if we want to. When we arrive, there is a boring band playing, so Zoe and I buy the first legal stubbie of our lives, and stand out in the warm street with a whole lot of others to wait.
When Bye Sky Babies come on stage we venture back inside. Standing room only, so we watch from the door as they gear up and launch into their first number. The rest of the crowd is immediately responsive but I hold back. First impression is of a pretty ordinary outfit. Two skinny guys, a fat, sweaty drummer and a tall, plain girl singer in torn jeans, battered lavender boots and a paint-splattered black T-shirt. But by their third number they’re warming up, and so am I. It’s around then that I start to get a fix on what the lead guitarist can do, and I realise he’s not ordinary at all. He’s good. He’s got this wired-up thing happening underneath the main melody and he comes in with little playful riffs at the end of each line, as though he doesn’t know whether to be sad or happy so he’s going to have it both ways.
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