‘I punched a whole bunch of people, but they had it coming. I swear.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Martin’s voice turned hopeful. ‘Was it Tyrone?’
‘I punched a wall.’
‘Did it do something to offend you?’
‘No. Just the wrong place at the wrong time. This book looks really great. Thank Elaine for me, will you?’
‘Yeah, yeah. Now go. I’ve got to lock up.’
I jumped up, tucking the book under my arm. ‘Thanks, Martin.’
‘Don’t punch any more walls.’
Outside it was cold and dry. I walked home because my hand was throbbing. Once inside, I sat down and tried to watch television but couldn’t concentrate. I kept thinking about the cove and feeling waves of sickness wash over me like something tidal.
Evie came home, inspected my hand, told me that it looked fat and went out to play with her best friend, Bubs.
The back door clattered shut behind her. I took a couple of paracetamol tablets and sat back down to watch television. It was the news, but I couldn’t concentrate. My hand was throbbing too much.
Biddy came home, planting a kiss on my head, like she always did. And she went into the kitchen for a drink, like she always did. And she sighed as she flipped open a magazine. And it was a happy sigh, a relaxed sigh. Like it always was. And I knew she’d get up in a little while and start rummaging through the cupboards and the fridge because it was Sunday and Sunday was Biddy’s Dinner Night.
And I loved that I knew these things. I loved how calm and measured and predictable Biddy was. People said things were predictable like it was a bad thing, but when you’d lived in chaos, predictability seemed almost magical. It was magical, knowing what someone was going to do before they’d done it. Sometimes, the wonder of it was enough to make my breath catch in my throat.
And on other days it drove me crazy.
I’d never been able to predict my mum. Her unpredictability was the only thing about her that was predictable.
Biddy got up and started rummaging, like I knew she would. My dinner night was Monday, but I was such a tragic chef that it had turned into a sort of fast-food night that I paid for. Even Evie was a better cook than I was, and she wasn’t even allowed to use the stovetop yet.
‘Where’re the frozen peas?’ Biddy called.
‘Here,’ I said, my voice coming out very flat. I’d taken them back out of the freezer when I’d come home.
Biddy came into the living room and I heard her suck in a breath. I realised I was offering her the bag with my gumpy hand. Gumpy was my mum’s word for things that were damaged, that were broken. Don’t sit on that chair, Pearlie! It’s got a gumpy leg!
‘Oh, you poor dear. What happened?’ Biddy murmured, running a finger lightly over my hand.
‘Punched a wall.’
‘Oh.’ She sat down next to me. ‘I see.’
‘It’s not as fun as it looks.’
‘This is true,’ she said. She inspected it. ‘You know, you should really get this X-rayed or something.’ She pulled a face. ‘It doesn’t look good.’
‘Gee, thanks.’
‘Any particular reason why you decided to punch a wall? Did the wall do something bad?’
‘No.’ I didn’t want to tell her about the cove. Or the clay mermaid. Or how I wasn’t sleeping. She was always so nosy.
She slipped her arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze. I tensed up, but didn’t move away.
‘Are you okay? Apart from work and the – umm – hand thing?’ she asked. ‘You seem a bit on edge and you’re very dark under the eyes.’
‘I’m okay,’ I said. ‘Just tired.’
Biddy’s face shifted and I wondered if she’d heard me calling out in my sleep, too. Calling out for Jamie. ‘I’ll start dinner,’ she said, squeezing my shoulder again as she got up.
I sat for ages. Still trying to follow the news on the television. Still trying, even though I knew that I couldn’t.
The back door slammed as Evie and Bubs, chatting loudly about dinner, came in.
My eyes fell onto the pretty framed photo of Mum, the photo I’d felt too weird about taking to school for that stupid school assignment. Someone had put it back in its usual place, staring out at the room. Watching everything.
I couldn’t remember where the photo had come from. Whether it was something Dad or I had grabbed in the days after she’d died. Or whether it was something that Biddy had dug out from the boxes of things Dad and I had hastily packed at the house near the school, the one which had seemed suddenly too big, too quiet, filled with rooms that neither Dad nor I had wanted to go into.
I jumped to my feet and strode over to it. The frame had been a wedding present from one of Biddy’s aunts. I picked it up, and then I let it go. It shattered, almost like a wave of water. And I thought of the glass shattering at the café, and for a moment my chest tightened and I felt panicked and dizzy.
I told myself I was just startled. I hadn’t done it on purpose. Not really. I’d broken Biddy’s beautiful frame by accident. And now I wanted to stamp on the shards of glass and rip the photo to bits.
I didn’t though. I shot out of the house. It was getting dark. Normally I’d run along the beach, but I was still reeling from Ben’s drowning story. The beach felt like something bruised that hurt when I prodded it. I didn’t know where to go. I just stood out there for ages, and was unsettled by Tyrone pulling up in the driveway. The brakes squeaked as he stopped.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked, but not as though he really cared all that much.
‘I’m going out. Out!’ I said, and started walking.
Tyrone glanced at me and then shrugged. He went up the path, pausing on the verandah and peering in through the window. As I looked back from the driveway I could see Biddy staring down at the broken frame like a puzzle she couldn’t quite work out.
I heard the sound of Tyrone’s car starting up and I walked a little faster down the road. ‘Did you do that?’ He pulled up alongside me as I walked and opened the window. He sounded intrigued rather than accusatory.
‘Mind your own damned bee’s wax, Sylvester,’ I said. Sylvester Tyrone was something he’d been called a lot at primary school. I didn’t think it was that funny, even back then, but I knew it annoyed him and that was what counted.
‘Where’re you going?’ he asked, still cruising along at walking pace.
‘Out. Anywhere. Probably Oak Hill.’ The local pub’s name popped into my head. Not that I was allowed to drink there, but it had a fireplace and a lot of naked bricks and high ceilings and a barman who didn’t care if under-age kids hung out there, as long as we stayed off the booze. Sometimes Loretta and I would order a Coke each and sit sipping them, pretending we were drinking scotch.
‘Get in. I’ll drive you.’
‘No thanks.’
‘C’mon, Gwen. It’s ages away.’
‘No.’
‘Alright, suit yourself.’ He kept idling along next to me with his squeaky brakes going on and off. I gritted my teeth.
‘Fine.’ I climbed in and pulled on my seatbelt. ‘You’re really annoying.’
We drove in silence for a while.
‘What happened to your hand?’ he asked.
‘I punched a wall.’
He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye and I huddled closer to the door. ‘Stop looking at me,’ I grumbled.
He turned right at the junction, which took us into town. It was calm and quiet outside. ‘Why’d you punch the wall?’
I inspected my hand, but couldn’t see much of it in the jumping streetlights. He changed gear. ‘Seriously. Why’d you punch it?’
‘None of your business, Sylvester.’ I wanted to clap a hand over his mouth to stop him talking.
‘You really think that name bothers me, don’t you?’ He sounded too amused for my liking.
Don’t smack him. Wait until he stops at the lights. ‘It does. Don’t lie.’
‘What m
akes you say that?’
‘You used to be awful when I called you Sylvester back when you were in year six. Don’t think I’ve forgotten.’
‘Oh, yeah. Hard to keep track sometimes, isn’t it?’
‘Just drive,’ I said grumpily.
We pulled up in the pub’s parking lot.
‘Are you crying about your hand?’
‘I’m not crying.’
‘You look like you’re about to.’
‘For once in your whole life, just shut up,’ I said, swallowing hard and looking out the window. ‘Anyway. I’m here now. You can go.’
‘I’m coming in.’
‘Just go away.’
‘I feel like a drink!’
I rolled my eyes and climbed out of the car.
Inside there was no one I knew. I went to the bar without waiting for Tyrone and ordered lemonade. The smell of the place soothed me, although I’d die before I told anyone – even Loretta. That stale alcohol smell. I could see my mum next to me on the couch, drinking beer after beer, even though I couldn’t have been much older than five or six. Sometimes the skidding back to my childhood was unpleasant, but right now, I needed it.
I was suddenly so furious about that, though. Furious that while other people had memories of parks and puppies and hand-cut fruit salad, I had memories of shattered glass and the smell of beer. The fury shocked me. I’d never been angry about those things before. I sat back on my stool.
‘Feeling better?’ Tyrone asked, sitting down next to me.
‘Go away.’ I kept thinking of him and Amber and it made me so mad. Why couldn’t she find a guy who wasn’t my stepbrother?
He didn’t look remotely hurt or upset. He smiled and made a show of getting comfortable on a bar stool next to me.
I had a mouthful of lemonade, holding it in my mouth until the bubbles started to sting my cheeks.
‘Why’d you come here with me?’ I asked. He was sipping on a Coke and watching the band setting up in the corner with vivid interest. ‘I was fine on my own.’
‘Hmm . . .?’ he asked without looking around.
‘Why are you here?’
‘Dunno. But isn’t this nice?’ Tyrone said. ‘Hanging out together? With hardly any hitting or swearing. I guess this is what they mean by sibling bonding, eh?’
‘No.’ I turned my back to him.
We sat in silence for a while. I was so mad about Mum that I couldn’t even think about her. I visualised a box and imagined squashing her into it. With the clay mermaid and the smashed glass and everything else that reminded me of her. Another of Mr Blended-family-therapist’s ideas.
‘Do you ever wonder what was wrong with your mum?’ Tyrone asked, fiddling with his soft drink. Like he knew I’d been thinking about her. He’d always been good at knowing what I was thinking. It drove me nuts.
‘Shut up. My mum was fine.’
He frowned. ‘That’s not what Mum said. She told me your mum was a whacko.’
I slugged the rest of my lemonade and signalled to the barman for another. ‘Biddy never said that!’
‘She did. How else would I know? Your mum got arrested all the time.’ He frowned. ‘That sounds pretty whack-job to me.’
‘Martin used to help her out, that’s all! You didn’t even know her!’ I said. ‘She was brilliant. She was artistic and beautiful and clever. She was so clever, Ty! And she loved me. She loved me and Jamie so much and . . .’ I stopped and stared at him. ‘Why do you do this? Why do you have to torture me with everything?’
He just looked at me.
‘Seriously. Why?’
‘I’m just joking around, Gwen.’
‘Well, it doesn’t feel like joking around. I hate it. Just don’t talk about my mum or Jamie, okay? Just don’t.’
Tyrone looked uncomfortable and muttered something.
‘What?’
‘I said, I’m sorry.’
‘Well, good.’
‘Fine.’ He had a mouthful of cola. ‘Gwen?’
‘What?’
‘Do you ever get mad at her?’ he asked, really quietly.
‘Why does everyone ask me that?’ I closed my eyes. I squashed away the flood of anger I’d felt stepping into the bar. ‘No. I’m not angry with her. I just miss her.’
‘Why, though?’ he asked. I didn’t think he was trying to needle me. Not this time.
I just shook my head. My phone buzzed a text. The bar was one of the places in town that got pretty stable reception. Loretta was asking where I was and I groaned. ‘Crap. I was meant to be meeting Loretta.’
‘We can go.’
‘Nah, I’ll just tell her where I am. She likes it here.’ I texted Loretta back and then sighed. I gave up trying to shove my mum into an imaginary box. ‘I do miss her, Ty.’
‘Loretta? You saw her yesterday!’
‘My mum.’
‘Oh.’ He paused. ‘So, what do you miss about her?’
For a moment, he was so like Biddy. Except he wasn’t trying to fix me. He didn’t care about making me better the way his mum did. And for once, I didn’t mind answering.
‘I miss her being mine. Biddy’s not mine. She’s yours and Evie’s and Dad’s.’
‘She’s yours too,’ Tyrone mumbled. He looked a bit chastened, though. And I remembered the ways he used to pit himself against me in the months after we all moved in together. How there was an endless war, where Biddy always chose Tyrone, as much as she gentled me and loved me. He got the bigger pieces of food and control of the television remote. He got the first hug. He got to choose the bedroom he wanted, and was not very happy when the roof above mine sprang a leak and he had to share it with me for a while.
‘I miss her mermaid stories.’
Tyrone blinked. ‘Mermaid stories?’
‘She was obsessed with mermaids.’ I frowned. ‘I mean, sometimes she thought they were real, and that was a bit freaky. She thought there was a conspiracy about keeping them under wraps. But mostly she just loved them. I reckon I’ve seen The Little Mermaid a hundred thousand times.’
‘That’s a lot.’
I propped my cheek against my hand. ‘Did you know The Little Mermaid’s real name was Den lille havfrue?’
‘It’s what?’
‘It was written in Danish,’ I said.
‘Oh.’ He frowned. ‘You’re such a nerd.’
‘In the real version, every step she takes feels like she’s being cut with knives and in the end the prince chooses someone else and she dies.’
I had a beautifully illustrated picture book of this version. I wasn’t sure where it was. Mum had given it to me. He chose someone else and she died. My eyes suddenly prickled and I swallowed down my lemonade hard.
Tyrone blinked. ‘That’s not very Disney.’
‘It’s not Disney! It’s Danish!’
‘You know a lot about mermaids,’ Tyrone said. ‘You could go on a game show.’ He yawned. ‘Mermaids could be your special topic.’
‘Ben told me about the cove today.’
Tyrone sat up a little straighter on his stool. ‘What?’ he asked, his voice sharper than I thought it’d be.
‘Ben told me about how this boy drowned down there. It’s so sad.’
‘Oh.’ He relaxed. ‘Yeah, that is sad.’
‘Did you know about the boy drowning?’
He looked uncomfortable. ‘No.’
‘I didn’t either. How could we live so close to the cove and not know?’ I shook my head. ‘Anyway, I’m just really down about that.’
He cleared his throat. ‘Yeah.’
‘Look at you two! You’re not hitting each other or anything!’ Loretta sat down at the bar and stared at us. ‘You’re both really growing up.’
‘Oh, shut up,’ said Tyrone. ‘It’s all the beer fumes. They’ve mellowed her out.’
Loretta’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Really?’
I saw them look at each other and then at me, and I scowled at them and sat back in my chair. ‘My
mum loved mermaids!’ I said.
‘You’re slurring,’ Loretta said.
‘Definitely slurring,’ said Tyrone.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. ‘I am not slurring! I haven’t drunk a thing!’
Loretta smiled at the barman. ‘Can I have a lemon squash, please?’
‘You should hear the bands play here when they have the under-age nights,’ Tyrone said. ‘They’re great.’
Loretta didn’t bother saying anything. She just gave him her death stare and then gasped as she noticed my hand.
‘What happened?’ She poked at it and grimaced. ‘That is gross.’
‘I punched a wall.’
‘Repressed rage.’
‘Go away.’
We sat there for a while longer. I felt fuzzy and weird and my head hurt and my hand hurt and I kept thinking of The Little Mermaid and how depressing it was. I needed to sleep. Maybe I’d be able to tonight, but I didn’t think so. Not really.
I yawned. ‘Can we go home?’
‘You coming?’ Tyrone asked Loretta.
Loretta nodded. ‘Yeah, sure. I’ll stay over.’
They both stared at me. I stamped my foot. ‘Stop looking at me.’
‘She’s working through some things,’ Tyrone said. ‘She’s processing.’
I jumped up and down. ‘Let’s go.’
Loretta put her arm around me. ‘We smell like a brewery.’
I wasn’t sure whether to be offended.
Martin slowed down his car as we walked across the car park. ‘Ty, get over here,’ he said.
Tyrone groaned and ambled towards the car. ‘Whatever it is, I didn’t do it!’
Martin pulled up, jumped out and thrust a breathalyser at Tyrone. Tyrone blew into it.
‘Good,’ Martin said, as the reading beeped up. ‘Haven’t stolen any more horses, have you?’
‘I didn’t steal anyone’s horse!’
‘And how are your – uh – manly parts?’
‘Not great,’ Tyrone said, wincing. ‘Thanks for reminding me.’
‘Loretta’s mum calls them little men,’ I told them.
They all stared at me. I hiccuped and Martin rolled his eyes. ‘Lord give me strength.’
‘She’s only had lemonade. It’s the beer fumes. I don’t think he’s ever cleaned his floors,’ Loretta said.
‘That pub should be shut down,’ Martin muttered.
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