by Lindy Dale
“Can you leave it please? It was weeks ago. I promised I wouldn’t do it again.”
“And you can stay away from That-Slut-Courtney too. I saw you talking to her before.”
“Aww, come on Sash’, give me a break. She’s a nice girl when you get to know her. She’s had a bad rap, that’s all.”
“Yeah, and I’m Princess fucking Mary,” Melanie retorted, pointing the index finger that was still holding her drink in Simmo’s face. “That-Slut-Courtney’s a piece of work and you’d do well to listen to your wife and stay away. Or we’ll all be helping her to change the locks on your front door.”
The group fell silent, each one of us too scared to speak in case Mel continued her tirade on us. Either that, or we were mulling over what she’d said. She was right. Even though I’d had no first hand dealings with her, Courtney had proven herself to be something of a handful in the past. Her reputation definitely preceded her. And Simmo did seem to spend a lot of time chatting with her. I’d be worried if it were Sam.
“So what’s the real reason for this event, Simmo?” Mel enquired after a minute. “It’s a very expensive way to get a shag.”
Sam burst into the conversation, brimming with faux innocence. “We’re doing it because we love you and we know the Annual Dinner is a boring boy’s night for you.”
“Fuck off, Sam. As if any of us believe that crap. You know full well its ploy to get us off your hands so you can sit at the bar and drink or play up while our backs are turned. None of you ever dance except the poor little first year lads. And that’s because you pay them.” She sniffed the air and pulled her coat around, craning her neck to view the back. Her face was like death. “Shit. Have I burnt my coat again? When in Christ’s name are you men going to get some decent fucking heating in here? Honestly. I’ll pay for it myself if money is the problem.”
Kirby leant over and pecked Sam’s cheek. “Don’t listen to her, Sammy. She’s got her period, I think. It’s like, so sweet, that you would do this for us. It’s going to be such fun choosing a new frock.” She twittered and picked an invisible something from the crown of his head.
“Well, I’m not tossing another grand away on a bit of material without inspecting it this time,” said Rambo. “That dress you had at the dinner last year was bloody appalling. Your arse looked bigger than Womble’s.”
Kirby’s mouth dropped. She turned to her boyfriend, blood draining from her face. “It was a Lisa Ho original. It was beautiful.”
“On Jennifer Hawkins, maybe.”
“Are you saying I’m fat?” Kirby sucked in her non-existent stomach and pulled herself up to her full five feet two.
“No, I’m saying those jeans are so tight I can see the outline of your pubes.” He indicated Kirby’s new skinny-leg pants.
“Rambo!”
“It’s the truth and I don’t want the lads gawking at your bits. Even if they are hot. They’re mine.” Rambo muttered and checking his watch, wandered away.
Okay, only slightly territorial and more than a little mean.
“Does he always speak to her like that?” I whispered to Sam.
“He’s just annoyed because Womble made some crack about Kirby’s crack.” Sam chuckled at his own humour.
“But he was so mean.”
“Look, I’m not saying anything but if you wore jeans that tight I don’t know if I’d be happy either.” And with shrug, he went to gather the lads for some other sort of drinking challenge. God help me.
*****
A Boat Race in a rugby club has little to do with boats. Or water. But a lot to do with drinking, so I was to discover. Apparently, it’s a kind of relay where the winners are the first team to drink their beers without spilling a drop and placing the empty glass upside down on top of their heads. Yes, its childish and silly, but every man in the Hornets club took great pride in being part of a winning ‘boat’ and Sam didn’t seem any different. As they positioned themselves to play, he turned and gave me a cheery wave. Warmth flowed through me as it did every time he looked at me. He really was sweet and I was glad I hadn’t broken up with him. After our little talk, he’d been trying hard not to say rude things to people’s faces. I mean, who could stop someone from voicing their opinion in private? I didn’t want to do that. It took all the fun out of the things he said. I watched him laughing with his mates and stirring those on the other side of the table amiably. There was something about him that set him apart from the rest of the crowd, a big heart that drew people to him. He was the type of guy everyone liked—funny, intelligent, loyal and with me, at least, trustworthy. He was almost the kind of boyfriend I'd always dreamed of having. It had simply taken some coercion for me to see it.
As this touchingly romantic thought crossed my mind the whole table of boys erupted. Womble began to dry reach into his tracksuit pants and Rambo paled to an extremely unattractive shade of green. Faster than anyone could say ‘fart’ Sam was alone, in the centre of the room. The crowd parted, dispersing itself to the safety of corners or windows. This was not the usual adoring way it moved when my boyfriend arrived. What was going on?
I heard Johnny’s muffled voice from where he’d hidden his face inside the crook of his own elbow. “Sam! Fuck that stinks.”
“It smells like rotten garlic and chilli.”
“It’s worse than when my dog eats raw meat.”
“Your arse is fetid,” Womble moaned, his face twisted into some sort of contorted defence device.
Sam laughed some more. That fact that people were dying around him meant nothing. It was all part of the hilarity. “Sorry. It just happens.” His grin turned to that devilish smirk and I knew something bad was about to pop out of his mouth but I couldn’t stop it. Even glaring at him across the room wasn’t going to stop it.
“Anyway,” he added. “You can’t blame me. Millie made chilli for dinner last night. I didn’t want to eat it, but you know how it is. You gotta be kind when they make attempts in the kitchen.”
What the hell?
I was going to kill him for this. I couldn’t cook. He couldn’t blame me. I was lucky to know how to burn toast.
Forty pairs of eyes turned in my direction. Mel excused herself; mumbling something about having to leave for fear she might throw up in her mouth. And Sam? He was roaring with laughter. He didn’t care that everyone was glaring at me like his flatulence was my fault. Redness crept up my chest and neck and into my cheeks. Anger, melded with embarrassment, gnashed my teeth together. Sam didn’t notice. He was too busy playing the clown.
By now, the stench had drifted to where we stood but Sam—walking back to me, tall and proud—was relishing in the havoc his bum had caused. The whole episode was a mighty joke. “Honestly, Sam, do you have no control over your bodily functions?” Sasha mumbled from beneath her scarf.
“It’s, like, utterly putrid. I’m, like, totally going to be sick,” Kirby said, and raced gagging to the ladies, leaving a swirl of fluff in her wake. The look she gave me as she ran past said it all. I’d worked so hard to make a friendship with these girls and in thirty seconds Sam had managed not only to ruin it but also to drag me, embarrassingly, into the situation.
“What did you say that for?” I was so cross he’d blamed me, I could’ve hit him with my wine glass.
“What?”
“You blamed me, you bastard.”
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not. Everything is a joke to you. You’re revolting. If you have to do it, could we at least have some warning?”
“Or better yet, go outside where we can’t smell it,” Sasha said.
“At least I’m memorable,” Sam replied, grabbing me and attempting to kiss me.
“Get off me! Don’t come near me.” Still annoyed, I averted my head and, oh shit, crashed, nose first, into the corner of the trophy cabinet. The beloved First Grade Cup of 1975 flew from its pedestal and on to the floor. It landed upside down and shattered into miniscule pieces I was sure could never be glued together.
&nb
sp; Oh Shit.
The room was suddenly quieter than a morgue. Heads craned to see what the dreadful crashing had been. Mouths opened and closed in horror. Womble stopped mid-jug and was looking at the pieces littering the floor. A tear welled in the corner of his eye. “Fuuuck.”
“Now see what’s happened because of your tomfoolery?” I hissed.
Sam pulled a face as we bent to pick up what remained of the precious trophy.
“Not a good move, babe,” he whispered, giving my hand a squeeze of compassion. Or was it humour? I couldn’t’ tell. My vision was blurred from the gas in the room.
“No,” I glowered, through gritted teeth. I had a feeling this was worse than his announcing to the entire club I didn’t know who John Eales was. My lip began to quiver. A fractured sob escaped my lips. Tears stung at the corner of my eye. This was the last straw. “And it’s your fault. This would never have happened if you just behaved like an adult. Now, I’ve broken the god damn trophy.”
“Please don’t cry Mill’,” Sam begged. “You’re not to blame.” His big green eyes looked hurt at my pain. His finger reached out to soothe the graze on my nose. Blood was dripping down it and onto my coat. I swiped it away, only managing to smear it further across my upper lip and cheek. This was the worst day of my life.
“I think I should go home. That way I can’t break anything else.”
But Johnny had heard me. Kneeling down, he pulled a hanky from his pocket and dabbed delicately at my nose. “It’s okay, Millie, you don’t have to do that. We all know it’s not your fault. There,” he smiled softly, “All better.”
Without another word he began to crawl on all fours, retrieving the pieces of trophy and putting them into a bag to be sent to a mate of his who ‘worked wonders with metal.’ Carefully, he lifted, inspected and placed each piece into the bag as if it were the rarest jewel in the world. Then, at last, he stood and slung the bag over his shoulder. A sympathetic look suffused his face. “Ignore Sam. The bastard does it all the time; it’s a bloke thing, we’re used to it.” He put his free hand down to help me up. It wasn’t like him at all to be so sweet and, well, un-sleazy. I attempted a smile. I wiped my eyes and sniffed. At least Johnny would talk to me. He was quite calm about the whole thing.
“And don’t worry about those other idiots either, they’ve got the brains of ants. It’ll be forgotten in five minutes.”
Satisfied that the crisis was over Johnny turned to Sam, slapping him squarely between the shoulder blades. “That was one of your better ones, Sam. Sasha went blue in the face.”
Sam smirked proudly. “Yeah, I thought so. Now bugger off with that, can’t you see I’ve got a woman to placate.”
Johnny left to put the bag in his car. It was strange, I thought as I watched him go, so strange how he’d changed since the night he’d ripped my top. He should have gone ballistic at me but he hadn’t. His reaction had been the same as Sam’s. Comforting. Gentle.
Considering the thought, I buttoned my coat to leave. I knew when I had outstayed my welcome.
“Where’re you going?” Sam asked.
“Home.”
“But Mill’, they don’t care. Really they don’t.” He motioned to the rest of the room who had gone back to their business. The girls were back by the fire and Womble was organising another boat race. “Please don’t go. I want you to stay. I miss you when we’re apart.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.”
Somewhere in my mind I realised that it was true. In fact, this could be the perfect moment to turn the catastrophe into a ray of sunshine. “If I stay will you keep your farts in your pants?”
He nodded.
“And stop feeling Kirby’s tits and commenting on her bum? Ever?”
Sam pretended he was considering the idea.
I slapped his arm.
“Okay, okay. It’ll be tough but okay. If you stay, I promise to only comment on your tits, which are very nice by the way.”
I shook my head in resignation but secretly I felt I’d had a win. Still, I tried to look stern. “Can you at least try to be a bit sensitive to other people? Asking that girl when the baby was due wasn’t nice.”
“But it was funny.”
“Sam.”
Sam kissed the top of my head and hugged me to him. “Oh, alright. But only for you, Mill’, only for you.”
“Thank you.”
“I’d do anything for you, you know I would.”
Things were changing. And it had nothing to do with that trophy.
15
We’d reached the ‘business end of the season’ and winter in Perth was colder than it had been for the last forty-seven years, or so the weather bureau said. All I could see was rain and, on the odd occasion, a slash of fog that ran along the Stirling Highway as I drove Paige to school or came home from a shift, late at night. I couldn’t have given a fig less. Underneath my skin it was as hot as Hades. Sam was my boyfriend. I had sixty-five thousand, seven hundred and nineteen dollars in the bank. I’d been allowed back into the Pandora shop after signing a declaration that I’d never ogle or kiss the glass cases again unless I was buying something. Life was brilliant.
To end the rostered part of the season, the boys had gone on an ‘away’ trip to some godforsaken part of the countryside. I knew it was only for a day and Sam had promised to be good so I was, sort of, okay with it. I mean, I trusted this new improved version of Sam. It was other women I didn’t trust. They were like leaches when I was out of range and between them and the devil—whose name was Mischief—I was a little worried. Sam and Mischief worked closely together, it seemed. It was something to do with Sam’s sarcastic nature, I was sure but when Mischief was around Sam rubbed people the wrong way in the name of humour. They didn’t get it. What they did get was angry and Sam was often on the receiving end. I couldn’t name the number of Saturday nights in the recent past when we’d been ejected from venues because Sam had incited some sort of riot with his words, then laughed all the way home.
After enquiring about the nature of the day, I was informed that womenfolk did not attend ‘away’ trips. I hadn’t bothered to ask why. All I knew was that I found myself, after finishing my dinner shift, sitting in a booth at The Lederhosen with Kirby, Melanie and Sasha. Kirby had told me on the phone, that it was customary for the ladies to gather in one place to wait for the lads and tonight The Lederhosen had been designated that place. I had a feeling they’d come to peruse my second place of work so that they could gauge whether I was suitable friend material but I didn’t say anything. I was happy to have something to do on a Saturday night when Sam was away and Alex had been struck down with a case of tonsillitis.
Kirby handed me a champers, as I slid into the booth next to her. “Like, totally quaint uniform, Millie. Frills are like, so, this season.”
I looked down at my red checked dress. I was like Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz next to her. Only Kirby was wearing the sparkly shoes. “Should I go and change? I have spare clothes out the back.” Not that I felt like changing. After being up all night for the last two nights with the twins and a nasty case of gastro, putting party clothes on was the last thing on my mind.
Mel shushed me with her hand. “We don’t give a flying fuck what you’re wearing, hon’, sit and relax. Anyway, the boys will be back soon. I’ll bet Sam loves it when you wear that little number.”
I grinned. It did look like something you’d see in a German porn flick starring Naughty Helga.
We sat waiting and waiting. And waiting. These road trips were very long and tedious, or so I was told. It hadn’t occurred to me that Bunbury was only two hours so by car and that the boys should have been back by nine. And as we waited we talked about all manner of inane things.
“Why girls don’t go on the trip?” I asked. I couldn’t get a sensible answer from Sam. All he’d muttered was something about tradition.
“Girls don’t go, Millie, because girls stay and keep the home fires burnin
g,” Sasha explained. Peevishly, she rapped her fingernails on the table. Then she pulled out her phone, checking for missed calls. Again.
“And make salads for barbecues,” Kirby added. “I make a totally divine marshmallow and mango. I’ll have to email you the recipe. It’s like, unreal.”
We stared blankly at her. Sometimes it was quite difficult to follow Kirby’s train of thought. She was on a different platform to the rest of the world.
“It’s one of those unwritten rules,” Mel explained. “Like the one that says girls can’t be in the Boat Race Team even though most of us can down a beer faster than the boys. It isn’t the done thing. It would make them less manly and us less girly.” The others nodded sagely. They’d been part of the club a long time. They’d witnessed many a girl come and go who couldn’t keep up with the program. So far, broken trophies aside, I was faring well.
Kirby shifted in her seat. “The boys like to get away so they can, like, do whatever it is that men do when we’re not around.” She didn’t seem to care that Rambo was off doing whatever with whomever. What happened on the road, stayed on the road unless you got tagged on Facebook the next day. She was never going to hear about it.
“Don’t you worry?”
“They go on a ‘tour bus’ that leaves loaded with alcohol and returns loaded with various bits of junk collected on the journey, like… um … town signs, bollards and, once, a hideous one hundred year old statue,” she said, matter-of-factly. “What’s there to be concerned about?”
“Oh, I don’t know, the fact that it’s stealing?”
The others gawked at me in disgust. Boyish pranks were not in the realm of criminal activity. They were, well, boyish pranks.
“Don’t be silly. As if Bunbury would miss a sign or two. It took six months before that misplaced statue made the news. Not that it matters anyway; the Hornets are banned from the town centre after Sam ran down Blair Street with a lit newspaper between his butt cheeks. Apparently, his display did little for the café culture they were trying to cultivate.”