Screw Loose

by Chris Wheat

  ‘What do they believe will happen to you?’ her mother asked.

  ‘I suppose they think I’ll turn Hindu.’

  ‘What a wonderful idea,’ said her father, laughing again.

  ‘Now Georgia, are you enjoying your new school?’

  ‘It’s great,’ she answered. She decided not to mention too much about Tamsin. ‘I’m doing a school-based apprenticeship with Mr Deare, the maintenance man. He’s really excellent.

  We’re putting a roof up soon.’

  ‘Jolly exciting,’ said her father.

  The car now slowed to a halt in front of a cow, which was eating something from the road. As they waited, Georgia saw a little girl squatting in a gutter, sifting slowly and meticulously through a pile of refuge – mostly discarded cardboard and plastic, by the looks of it. The child appeared to be searching for something. Georgia looked away then glanced back, and the child was chewing.

  She said nothing to her parents as the car moved on – this was their country, not hers.

  Finally they reached a freeway. The car sped up, and the purring engine and the blurred scenery beyond the windows lulled her parents to sleep. Then Georgia’s eyes closed, too, and her brain shuffled images: people on the plane; Tamsin’s face when they’d said goodbye; Tamsin explaining angrily that her mother wouldn’t let her travel; the little girl squatting on the road sorting refuse.

  These images formed a disturbing loop to a soundtrack of honking and far-off shouts, which was finally broken by a distant voice. Her father’s. ‘Are you thirsty, Georgia?’

  She opened her eyes. She was thirsty, but she shook her head. She just wanted to get into a bed. The chauffeur must have understood what her father had said, because the car suddenly swerved towards a roadside vendor and he got out and bought three cans of Dr Pepper, passing them through the window without making eye contact. A crowd gathered around the parked car and watched them drink.

  ‘Ah, delicious Dr Pepper,’ her father said when he had finished.

  ‘It’s very hot in India,’ her mother murmured, ‘but the rooms in the fort are quite cool. It’s built on a hill and catches the afternoon breeze.’

  The car started again, and her parents returned to their slumber. The three empty Dr Pepper cans rolled around on the floor. Georgia stared out the window; fields and villages rolled by.

  About an hour later, they came to a stretch of road along which whole families seemed to be living in small tents. Each family had a pile of rocks, which they were breaking with little hammers. As the car slowed again, Georgia watched the women smashing rocks the size of her fist into rocks the size of matchboxes. Children, too, were working with their mothers.

  Slowly, family after family rolled past her window, heads down, hammers beating. Georgia now felt a kind of panic.

  This was so strange, so unlike anything in Australia.

  Her parents began to stir and apologised for having nodded off again. They were approaching the fort. ‘There it is! The ruin on the hill.’ Her mother pointed.

  ‘Ruin!’ her father scoffed.

  ‘It’s four hundred years old,’ her mother said.

  The fort looked as big as the Sydney Opera House. It was impossible to believe it had anything at all to do with her. Four or five stories high, it was constructed from brown-and-white stone and was surrounded by a wall. Huge gates in the wall swung wide as the car approached, and two men ran to close them as the car passed through. The men stopped and saluted, and the car drove between two stone elephants.

  ‘Home at last,’ her father said, and pointed into the distance.

  ‘We once used that lake as our landing field. Your grandfather had a seaplane. It was much faster, but it became ridiculously expensive to maintain, and I had to let something go. The fort is a huge responsibility to maintain.’

  ‘All that is the fort?’ Georgia asked.

  ‘Eighty-two bedrooms,’ said her mother.

  While the car glided through trees and green lawns, upon which she saw peacocks strutting, and passed the lake jostling with waterbirds, she lost sight of the fort. Occasionally she saw someone sweeping leaves or pushing a wheelbarrow, and there was a small boat with brightly coloured sails gliding across the lake’s surface. When she noticed the monkey tribe whooping in a huge tree, she gasped. This definitely wasn’t Clifton Hill.

  ‘This is your home,’ her father smiled.

  ‘And your elephant awaits,’ her mother added, inclining her head towards her daughter conspiratorially.

  The car turned into a stone courtyard, and before them was a line of men in white, standing in the sun. Both doors of the car opened simultaneously, and her parents climbed out. She followed her mother. It was hot, and the men in white greeted them with bows and broad smiles and brilliantly embroidered umbrellas, one of which was immediately lifted over her.

  Georgia took her first shaded steps towards the enormous open door.

  ‘The fort will seem very large,’ her mother said, taking her hand. ‘We would hate you to get lost, so you will sleep in a room near us. Actually, it is called the Princess’s Room.’ She squeezed Georgia’s hand in her own.

  Georgia didn’t know what to think; she just wanted to sleep.

  She wasn’t scared, but she definitely felt as though she was in the wrong place.

  They were in a marble entrance hall and their footsteps echoed. Before them was a huge stone staircase. They climbed it together. The walls on either side were painted with dancing women and peacocks and tigers and elephants: bright pictures, but the paint was flaking.

  ‘The pictures are very old and need restoration,’ her mother explained.

  Through an open window on the staircase, Georgia could hear the calls of birds and the screams of monkeys. Then came the amazing sound of a trumpeting elephant. ‘They’re giving him a bath in the lake,’ her father told her.

  She desperately needed to sleep, but she smiled at him. She wished she could turn to Tamsin and ask her what she thought of the smells and the sounds of India; the stone floor on which their feet clattered; the flashing teeth of her parents’ grinning servants; the cool, sweet-smelling silence.

  Her room was marble like the entrance hall and was perfumed with jasmine. Georgia looked first for a computer. Her father had warned her in the car that her mobile would not work in the fort, but said she would find a telephone in her room and that they had the internet. The telephone, she noted with amazement, was decorated with what looked like rubies.

  ‘Ace phone,’ she said.

  ‘Frightfully ace,’ her father responded with a grin.

  ‘My darling, we will have some people over for afternoon tea in a couple of days: a young gentleman who would just love to meet you’ – her mother smiled – ‘and his parents.’ Georgia felt a twinge of suspicion. ‘Please get into bed now. We will wake you later. Meanwhile, the kitchen staff will make you some lunch and bring it up on a tray.’

  Both her parents kissed her, and she lay down on the soft bed and wondered about the young gentleman. They knew she was gay. Perhaps she should have said more about Tamsin earlier. She had mentioned her very warmly in several telephone conversations before she arrived, though, and they’d said she would be very welcome.

  Surely they weren’t thinking …of course not.

  Georgia closed her eyes and fell into an exhausted sleep.

  PORNO

  CHELSEA HAD JAMMED a chair against the door handle and climbed into Zeynep’s bed, taking the pillow. They had been in the laundry most of the evening, and Zeynep had secretly fed her falafel and salad. When her parents and Mehmet had gone to bed, both of them had crept down the hall to her room.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Chelsea whispered.

  Zeynep was lining up Chelsea’s shoes with her own. She put her finger to her lips. ‘Don’t whisper so loudly please, Chels.’

  Chelsea shook the doona vigorously.

  ‘Chelsea, you’ll need to move over a bit,’ Zeynep whispered as she tried
to get into the bottom of her own bed.

  Chelsea looked at her sharply. ‘Is that your sleepwear, Zeynep? I used to wear pyjamas like that in Grade 5.’ She wriggled a little but barely increased the available space.

  ‘Tracksuits aren’t very attractive either, Chelsea – at least that’s my opinion.’

  The knives were out.

  Chelsea’s dark eyes fixed on her from the other end of the bed. ‘Zeynep, I am homeless. These are my homeless clothes.

  If I weren’t in your bed now, I’d be alone at the Hilton. Which would you prefer?’

  ‘In my bed,’ Zeynep answered quickly. She tucked Moonie in beside her.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘My bear.’ Zeynep folded her dressing gown into a neat pillow. ‘Could you move over a tiny bit more, Chelsea?’

  ‘It’s congested enough in here without a bear as well. Is it male or female?’

  ‘It has no sex, Chelsea. He’s just Moonie.’

  ‘He’s just Moonie. Does your mother know about this?’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  Chelsea sighed. ‘I’m supposed to coach the rowers tomorrow.

  I’ll have to cancel. A coach needs to be on the ball for her team.’

  ‘Do you want to see Angelo’s calendar?’

  Chelsea sat up. ‘You didn’t tell me you already had one!’

  ‘Shhh! He gave it to me as a kind of dress-up present.’

  ‘Dress-up?’

  ‘He’s not supposed to have me; he has to have a Cockatoo girlfriend. Or they’ll sack him from the team.’

  ‘What, pray tell, is a Cockatoo girlfriend?’

  ‘One that’s been checked out and approved by the Cockatoos.

  Not like me. They think I’m a lap dancer. So I’m going to dress up in disguise, like a guy. In Josh’s clothes. And Angelo is going to pretend to go out with Matilda. Craig said he doesn’t mind; he and Angelo had a boy-to-boy talk.’

  ‘WHAT?!’

  ‘Shhhh!’

  Luckily her parents’ bedroom was at the other end of the house. Mehmet’s was next door, but he slept like the dead as soon as the light went out.

  ‘Matilda? I’m about to throw up. Why her?’

  Ignoring the whispered questions, Zeynep got out of bed and took the calendar from its hiding place among her school books. The Boys Come Out To Play: The Pick of This Year’s AflDraft, it was called.

  Angelo was rather shy about it because he wasn’t wearing any clothes, but you couldn’t see anything and he looked quite nice. She flipped over to May: Angelo Tarano displays his immaculate handballing skills. She presented it to Chelsea.

  Chelsea gasped.

  ‘Be really quiet, Chels.’

  ‘Do you have a magnifying glass, Zeynep?’ She angled the shiny paper and peered closely at the photo.

  ‘Chelsea! You can’t see anything.’

  ‘Come on, Zeynep. There’s something in that shadow, and I intend to find it.’

  The photographer had set the pictures up so that a shadow fell across the footballers’ secret men’s businesses. Zeynep had checked them all – but not with a magnifying glass.

  ‘Angelo didn’t know they were going to be naked. He’s a bit embarrassed about it.’

  Chelsea was flipping through the other pictures. ‘Goodness gracious me,’ she gasped. Then she held the photo of Angelo up again, close to her face. ‘I’ve got a magnifying glass at home.

  We could photocopy it and blow it up.’

  ‘Chelsea!’

  ‘He is your boyfriend. You have a right to look. I’ll take this calendar and have the photo enlarged for you.’

  ‘No.’

  Chelsea put the calendar down on the floor beside the bed and settled down again.

  Zeynep turned off the light and snuggled down, too. Sleeping head to toe was not easy; Chelsea’s feet were quite close to her mouth.

  ‘We won’t get foot-and-mouth disease, will we?’ Zeynep whispered into the darkness.

  Chelsea was silent for quite a while.

  ‘That’s a cows’ disease, Zeynep. Are you calling me a cow?’

  ‘No. Sorry.’

  ‘I will leave. The Hilton has much bigger beds…’

  ‘I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Once I had everything. Now I have nothing. No father, no boyfriend, no bed.’ Chelsea’s voice began to choke.

  ‘It must be so hard,’ Zeynep whispered. ‘And you’ve left your Barbies behind.’

  ‘Yes, my Barbies.’

  ‘You could sell them.’

  ‘I could not. They mean a lot to me.’

  Zeynep tried to help. ‘But you need some money now. They’re only dolls. It’s not like they’re friends you can talk to.’

  Chelsea was silent again. Zeynep wanted to hug her, but that would mean hugging her legs, which would be strange.

  The chair at the door suddenly rattled!

  Zeynep froze.

  ‘What’s the matter with the door?’ Zeynep’s mother called.

  It rattled again.

  ‘Who is it?’ Zeynep asked.

  ‘Your mother, crazy girl. What’s the matter with this door?’

  The chair scraped across the carpet and the light went on. Her mother was standing in her nightwear with her eyes popping.

  ‘WHAT’S THAT IN YOUR BED! WHY ARE YOU UPSIDE DOWN?

  Zeynep’s heart was pounding. ‘Mum! This is Chelsea. She hasn’t got anywhere to sleep tonight. She’s my best friend at school. You know Chelsea.’

  Her mother stared angrily at Chelsea. ‘IT’S THE WHISKY GIRL!’

  ‘Excuse me!’ Chelsea sat up.

  Zeynep’s mother would never forget the time Zeynep had come home drunk from Chelsea’s place.

  ‘Chelsea’s had an argument with her mother. She wants to stay here tonight. Please let her.’

  ‘Her mother knows she’s here or not?’

  ‘Please, Mum. Chelsea’s parents split up. Her mother is going to tranquillise her with a dart.’

  Zeynep’s mother stared at Chelsea. ‘What’s this you’re talking about? You’ve had whisky again?’

  ‘No, Mum.’

  ‘Go home. Sorry, go home!’ Her mother was waving her hand at Chelsea, shooing her off like a stray cat.

  ‘She can’t, Mum. She has nowhere to sleep.’

  Mehmet now looked in, his eyes screwed up with the light.

  Then her father appeared.

  ‘Who’s this girl!?’ he yelled.

  ‘It’s Chelsea, Dad! She hasn’t got anywhere to sleep. Is it okay if she sleeps here tonight, please?’

  ‘What’s this?’ Her mother was bending over.

  ‘It’s mine!’ Chelsea lunged at Angelo’s calendar.

  ‘PORNO!’ screamed her mother.

  Chelsea jumped in. ‘That’s my calendar. Angelo gave it to me. He’s in our class at school.’

  Her father grabbed the calendar from her mother.

  ‘That’s not porno,’ Mehmet said. ‘That’s sad. Soccer players don’t do this crap.’

  Chelsea jumped in again. ‘Angelo Tarano gave me this calendar. He’s very famous. May I have it back, please?’

  Snaps for Chelsea. She was a true friend.

  Zeynep’s father looked furious. He was pointing at his daughter, and his face was screwed up. ‘Now you will really go to Turkey, and you really look after donkeys there with your grandma!’

  Chelsea sat bolt upright. ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t speak, Whisky Girl!’ Zeynep’s father was shaking his finger at them both now. ‘That’s it! That’s the final chance! I will buy the ticket next week. You will look after donkeys for the rest of your life!’

  Chelsea was furious, too. ‘This is feudal! I’m a visitor. Don’t call me Whisky Girl again.’

  Zeynep’s father’s moustache was shaking. ‘Devil girl. Go!’

  Chelsea stared at him. ‘Mr and Mrs Yarkan,’ she said coldly. ‘Please go back to bed. I have no intention of leaving. You will need to cal
l the police if you want me to leave.’ She lay back down, pulled the doona partly off Zeynep and closed her eyes. ‘Would you mind turning the light out?’

  Zeynep couldn’t even look at her parents. It was the donkeys now for sure.

  NEARLY

  DOMESTICATED

  THE DAY AFTER Chelsea Dean ran away, Craig Ryan crept along a lane and climbed Matilda’s back fence. Matilda used the lane too, when she wanted to avoid the crowds of tourists that sometimes surrounded her house. They were there now.

  At times she did use the front door and show off to the tourists on the footpath, catching tennis balls they threw, signing mangas and playfully gnawing the Dingo Girl soft toys they gave her. But not this morning. His girlfriend had rung him (she had trouble texting) and asked him to come over because the Sunrise team was doing a live broadcast from her front garden.

  The news had exploded in the media a few days earlier: her parents had begun a fight on rival current affair shows, each blaming the other for Matilda’s condition, and had proceeded to conduct a long-distance argument that had enthralled the whole country. Experts took sides; people in the street took sides. According to Matilda’s father, who had been interviewed as he sat fishing off a jetty in Cairns, her mother had made the whole story up to draw attention to herself and strike it rich. The Sunrise team was there to uncover the truth.

  Matilda opened the back door. Craig had never seen her looking so down in the dumps. Licking wasn’t his thing, but he licked her today because she needed it.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked, putting his arm around her shoulders.

  ‘My dad reckons my mum is forcing me to be the Dingo Girl for money,’ she said sadly, leading him into the lounge room.

  ‘My dad was on A Current Affair, and he said I was only in the desert for twenty minutes, not four years. He said my mum is rich. We’re not rich, are we?’

  Craig looked around the room. On the wall there was a big framed photo of Inspector Rex. They didn’t seem rich, but they should be: she got heaps of royalties from Dingoes’ Dinner and all the Dog Grrrrl mangas and the Tourism Australia advertisements screened in Japan.