‘I’ll bring it to you in the queue,’ I say quickly.
If I give it to them in front of a hundred witnesses they can’t rip me off, can they?
‘Right, girls, time for the wash basins,’ interrupts the hairdresser, coming up and beaming at us all. Then she looks me over.
‘Hey. You’d look great with blond streaks, wouldn’t he, girls?’
I bolt for the door as they all start cacking away fit to burst. Phew. I look at my watch. Oh, no. It’s five past nine and I haven’t phoned the parent police. I rush to the public phone near the Tattslotto booth and of course wouldn’t you know it, there’s three giggling girls there taking turns talking to someone. I prop and look pointedly at my watch. They keep talking. I cough. They keep talking.
‘Hey,’ I butt in, ‘I have to make an important phone call.’
‘Go drop off a rock.’
So much for cooperation.
‘You can use my phone, mate,’ says the Tattslotto man.
‘Thanks.’
I dial our number. Mum must’ve been sitting on top of the phone because she answers on the second ring.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s me, Mum.’
‘Oh. Sam.’
Well, excuse me for not being Leanne, I think.
‘Mum, you told me to phone at nine and …’
‘Sam Studley. It’s quarter past. Where are you?’
‘I couldn’t get to a phone, Mum. This Tattslotto man in the Bay City Plaza’s letting me use his, and …’
‘Tattslotto? Can you get me a Quick Pick? I forgot.’
‘Mum. You’re too late. It was drawn at half past eight, remember?’
‘Oh, no. I’ve been so busy worrying about Leanne that I’ve forgotten all about … I’ll bet it was my lucky night, too.’
‘Don’t stress, I’ll buy you a scratchy. I’ll be home in about twenty minutes, Mum.’
I hang up. The girls are still hogging the public phone.
‘I’d report em,’ says the Tattslotto man as he sells me a two dollar scratchy. ‘But there’s no law about talking forever on a phone in this country. Hope your ticket’s lucky.’
‘Yeah. Thanks.’
I shove it in my pocket and take off for the bus stop. I should really explain about Mum and Tattslotto. She’s got these two dreams. One is to win big bucks on her weekly Quick Pick, and the other is that some long-lost rich rellie’ll cark it and leave us piles of money. Well, I guess without something hopeful to cling to life gets pretty miserable if you’re a deserted mum slogging away in a hot bread shop with two teenage kids.
I just make it onto the bus as it’s pulling out and fling myself into an available seat.
‘Hey. Stud.’
It’s Chani and Brooke. No sign of Mel.
‘Hi.’
‘Did you catch up with Belinda and Cathy?’
‘Yeah.’
Suddenly I’m tongue-tied. I don’t know what to say. As I’m racking my brain, Chani smiles at me and my stomach does this flip-flop. I know what it is this time, not indigestion, but the beginning of L.O.V.E.
‘Are you still working at Strapper?’ she asks.
‘Yeah.’
I start telling her all about sanding surfboards and mending dings and watching surf movies. Now my tongue’s untied itself it wants to keep unravelling like a huge ball of string. She listens with rapt attention, so I tell her about the Torquay junket and unreal waves and suddenly we’re at my stop.
‘Oh. Must go. See ya.’
I stand on the kerb and watch the bus roll down the road. She’s a very good conversationalist, that Chani, I think, as I walk up our driveway and idly notice that Steve’s car’s parked next to the garage. I reckon I’ll ask her to a movie next Friday; there’s a surfing one on, and seeing as she seems rapt in surfing (well, she was in the summer surfing elective with Belinda and Cathy, I remember) she’s probably a cert to say ‘yes’. I hope so: I don’t think I’m in the mood for a rejection at the moment. I go into the kitchen and Mum’s just finished making some pancakes. Steve’s sitting at the kitchen table looking at Mum like he could eat her and not the pancakes. He’s really mad about her which sort of stuns me a bit.
‘Hi, Sam.’
‘Hi, guys. Hey. I’m starving.’
I sit next to him and Mum puts the piled plate on the table with maple syrup and this whipped butter she’s done in the blender.
‘Oh. Here’s your scratchy.’
Mum starts rubbing at the numbers and manages to blob maple syrup all over the ticket.
‘Here.’
Steve passes her his hankie. She wipes off the syrup and stares at the ticket. She blinks. Then she passes it to me.
‘Am I seeing things, Sam?’
I look at it. Two dollars. A five. Three twenty fives … thousands … Three twenty-five thousands?
‘Er … you look, Steve.’
Steve peers at it. Then he looks at Mum.
‘You’ve just won twenty-five thousand dollars, love,’ he says.
And Mum slides onto the floor in a dead faint.
Steve grabs her and props her up and forces some cooking brandy (medicinal purposes only) through her lips.
‘You okay?’
We both hang over her.
‘Did I hear right? We’ve won twenty-five thousand dollars? We’re rich?’
‘Well, it’s all relative, I guess,’ grins Steve. ‘If you’re a millionaire twenty-five thousand’s a drop in the ocean. If you’re dead poor, twenty-five thousand’s a fortune.’
Well, guess what? We’re in Category Two. ‘Twenty five thousand. We’re made!
‘That’s it,’ says Mum. ‘I could drop dead tomorrow worrying about that louse of a Leanne and she could inherit it all.’
‘Half,’ I point out reasonably.
But Mum’s zoomed into the bedroom.
‘We’re outa here,’ she says. ‘Up to Melbourne. The Hilton. I’m shouting. Meal, room with spa, champagne …’
I look at Steve.
‘Mum, I don’t think so, unless it’s breakfast. It’s ten o’clock.’
‘And I’ve got to do night shift, remember? I’m filling in for Rob Barnes because his wife’s just had a baby,’ goes Steve. ‘Why don’t we settle for downtown excitement for tonight? Come on, Sam. We’ll go Mexican, eh?’
So we end up going to Mexican Memories and stuffing ourselves with tortillas and enchiladas and nachos, Cokes galore, and Mum drops four cocktails and goes off her face. It’s a top night. Then Steve drives us home and goes off to do his night shift.
The next day Mum’s got a mega headache. She groans and moans all the way to Torquay and when I slam the car door outside Strapper she holds her head like it’s going to fall off. She’s not used to fancy cocktails with about three spirits in each. I hope the alcohol’s out of her system. That’d be all we need, Mum to lose her licence for drink driving just when we’ve won twenty-five thousand. Still, it’s nine o’clock and she finished her last cocktail at twelve … nah, she’d be zero for sure.
‘You’re looking happy for a change,’ says Ant, so I tell him all about Mum’s big win.
‘Ah. Maybe you won’t want to work here for peanuts now?’ he teases.
‘It’s twenty-five thousand, not twenty-five million.’
‘But you’re on a roll. You’d better buy a ticket for the Tuesday night draw.’
Don’t know about on a roll; I reckon luck just brushed by and we copped a bit.
Then in the middle of an important ding repair Mike comes in to tell me that someone called Cooja’s on the phone and it’s urgent. So I rush out. I never take personal calls at work so Mike doesn’t seem too annoyed.
‘I’ve got the cash from me uncle in advance,’ he says, ‘an I’ve talked me cousin into droppin it round to you. He’s comin to Strapper at four, okay?’
He crashes down the phone before I can tell him about Mum’s win. But then maybe I shouldn’t rush round telling everyone. Someone
might hold Leanne for ransom if the word gets out, and Mum’d be dumb enough to pay up. Anyway I’ve got a hassle of my own, so much that I’m overwhelmed. I’ve got to mind 320 dollars till I can get to the queue. Then I’ve got to pray that Belinda and Cathy don’t lose it or get it nicked by some maniac. But I guess the Studster can cope.
Cooja’s cousin rocks up with the cash in an envelope with my name and address all over it (probably in case I lose it, but who’s going to be honest enough to return it, anyway?) I shove it deep into my jeans pocket and keep checking it’s there every five minutes till knock-off time. Mum’s waiting and she doesn’t look quite so fractured.
‘Have a good day?’
‘Yep. Did you?’
‘I planned what we’ll do with the money. Pay ten off the house, fix up the car, put a bit in the bank for a rainy day, and go on a holiday to Bali. What do you think?’ Twenty-five thousand’s gone pretty quick. Still, it’ll give us a kick-start away from worry and poverty for a while.
‘Mum, can you drive past Myer? I have to give something to Belinda,’ I say when we reach Geelong. So Mum double-parks in Malop Street while I dive out and search the queue. They’re three quarters of the way along, tucked up on two deck chairs with sleeping bags, an esky, thermoses, books, and junk for Africa. They must’ve had a removal truck to bring all the gear. There’s Chani, Brooke and Mel, too. If I’d known Chani was going to be in the queue I could’ve short-circuited Belinda and Cathy, but too late now.
‘Here,’ I go, waving the envelope, then I break it open and count the money in front of them all, just in case.
‘Three hundred and twenty. Right?’
‘Sure. Not a problem, Sam.’
Belinda grabs the money and stuffs it into a money belt she’s wearing round her waist. Well, it’s safe there so long as no one mugs her. I can’t do any more. But what worries me as I walk away is the way they’re cacking themselves to death!
LEANNE
*
Two of them, both young cops, almost identical, but one’s got a moustache. They walk up to our car and flash a torch through the window.
‘Licence?’
Amos hands it over. I’m thanking my lucky stars that Ty isn’t in the driver’s seat.
‘This your car?’
‘Nah, man, it belongs to a mate.’
‘Name?’
‘Kingsley Farone.’
‘Check the rego for verification, Paul.’
One cop goes over to the Walloper Wagon and fiddles round, presumably with the radio.
‘Right. All out.’
‘Why?’ goes Ty, but Danny digs him in the ribs.
We stand near the car while the cop with the moustache searches it, lifting the bonnet, chucking stuff out of the boot onto the ground, until he’s joined by the other one.
‘Car belongs to Kingsley Farone. Noosa’s checking owner substantiation of its whereabouts.’
I can feel myself getting angry as Moustache-Face searches Amos, Danny, Ty then Alicia. As he runs his hands over me I feel like slapping his face. Isn’t there some law against cops, male ones, feeling up girls?
‘Hey,’ I go. ‘I …’
Alicia kicks me, hard.
‘Handle,’ she hisses, as the cop stares at me.
‘Yeah?’
‘Nothin.’
‘I’ve seen it all,’ goes the cop to his mate. ‘A coon with red hair.’
I can’t believe I’m hearing this. I’m going to lose it right here on the highway and rip this guy’s eyes out. But Danny’s hanging onto one arm and Alicia the other. I’m breathing so hard I’m nearly choking up, and I’m shaking so much with boiling anger that I think it’s all going to spew out like a volcano.
‘Who do you …’
The radio crackles and the one with the moustache goes back to the cop car.
‘They’re clear,’ he calls back. ‘But I think this car needs checking out. Doesn’t look too roadworthy to me.’
But then the radio crackles again and he bends to take the message.
‘Accident up the road. Let’s go.’
He sounds disappointed.
‘Get this stuff off the highway,’ says the other cop who’s still standing with us, and points to the mess they’ve made. ‘And stay out of trouble until you cross the border,’ he adds. ‘We’ve got your number.’
He goes to the car, they both get in, and with rubber burning they roar away. I sag against the side of the Holden. I’ve heard about police brutality and police victimisation but it’s always been in connection with crowds out of control or ex-crims.
‘We got off lightly,’ says Danny calmly, starting to replace the stuff in the boot.
‘Yeah. If they hadn’t got a call they’d have slapped a canary on this old crate for sure.’
‘But why …’
‘You heard the gentleman. We’re coons. Easy targets. We’re used to it,’ says Ty bitterly.
‘But … searching us?’
I shiver at the memory of the cop’s rough hands.
‘Drugs.’
‘But … they can’t …’
‘Look, we’re on a highway, no witnesses, they can do what they like,’ says Danny. ‘That’s life. The best thing to do’s stay cool and keep your mouth shut. They want you to argue or swear or fight them. That gives them an excuse to really do you over.’
‘The same thing happens to some whites, too,’ says Alicia, ‘or didn’t ya know? If you’re driving a hoon car with mags or a V8. Or if you’re a P-plater in an old car you’re a target. Or if you’re ridin a Harley you’re a target. That’s the way it is.’
I’ve got to do something about this. When I get back I’m going to have a good talk to Steve. He’ll be able to take some action.
‘All cops aren’t creeps,’ I go. ‘This Steve guy who’s seein my mum, he seems okay, I guess.’
‘Course. There’s a few real good ones. There’s a few medium ones. And there’s some real mongrels,’ says Danny. ‘Same as teachers. Same as lawyers. Same as all sorts of people. There’s good. And there’s bad.’
‘Right. Everything’s back in the boot. Let’s go. ’
‘Ya reckon we’d be better off the highway?’
‘Yeah. I’ll take the back road, I think it’s the next left,’ says Amos, who seems to know his way round Australia. Well, at least this part.
‘Wait till we hit Victoria,’ says Alicia. ‘You ain’t seen nothin yet. Every jack in the state knows Danny.’
‘Shut up. You’ve got a big mouth.’
He sounds really angry. Alicia’s eyes widen with surprise then she shrugs.
‘Okay, okay, man. Sorry.’
Danny looks at me.
‘I used to be pretty wild, but I’m sick of all that stuff. I just want to get on with it and be left alone. Now I’m goin back I’ll get into one of those Skillshare courses or somethin, try and change things. I’m fed up …’
He lets his voice trail away.
‘Aw, Danny, you’ll never make it,’ goes Ty. ‘You give up burgs and nickin cars and runnin the gang? What ya goin to do for money? What ya goin to do for excitement? What about all ya friends?’
‘Don’t listen to him. He’s only a bit punk,’ says Amos. ‘Get straight, man, or it just goes down hill. You’ll end up in Pentridge or worse, with a bullet in ya guts …’
‘You sound like a repeat from the elders, man.’
‘Yeah, well maybe they’re right. Can’t change the system from inside a jail, can we?’
I’m in the back of this car but I may as well be on Mars. It’s a different world and I can’t even start to understand their anger and bitterness, except for when that ignorant cop called me a coon. But I’m not, I’m not an Aborigine or a Maori or a Torres Strait Islander, that’s the whole point, so it doesn’t hurt me like it hurts these guys.
We zap along road after road, twisting and turning, till we’re back on the highway, sun’s getting up, and it’s time for breakfast. I’m embarrasse
d that I haven’t got any money but these guys seem to be cashed up.
‘I’ll leave you here,’ says Amos. ‘I’ve got clan to visit. Bart’ll be drivin you to Melbourne. We’re meetin him here in half an hour, so let’s eat up.’
I’m starving. It’s amazing how sitting in a car for hours can make you want to eat.
‘I’ll pay you back,’ I go to Danny as he orders for me—ham and eggs, two rounds of toast, orange juice and a coffee.
‘Forget it.’
But I know I’ll pay back the cash. I don’t like to owe anyone.
Alicia just has toast. Danny cereal, a mixed grill and toast. Ty, who’s built like a grass snake, has two lots of cereal, steak, eggs, sausages, eggs, toast, and two large juices. I’ve never seen anyone so thin pack away so much food in one sitting.
‘He’s got hollow legs,’ jokes Amos, who’s just had toast and coffee, not much for a man of his size.
‘The skinny ones always eat the most,’ says Alicia. ‘That’s what Mama Jane used to say when …’
Her face clouds and her eyes get this shuttered look.
‘Which one was that? Three or four?’ says Ty.
‘He means foster mothers,’ explains Danny, as I look blank. ‘See, even though my mum was drunk all the time, I still lived at home. She’s off the grog now, though, been off for two years but it wrecked her liver and she can’t remember simple stuff. But Alicia here …’
‘More mothers than a footy team,’ says Alicia.
I hope she finds happiness when she finally makes it up north. I’m the reason why she’s not on her way directly instead of sitting in a diner somewhere in southern New South Wales eating breakfast with me.
‘What about you, Ty?’
‘What about me?’
‘Family?’
‘What’s is to ya, Whitey?’
Whoops. Bad mistake.
‘Ty doesn’t talk about his family,’ says Danny, ‘so, tell us about yours, Leanne.’
‘Yeah. What’s it like bein rich and white?’ says Ty.
‘I dunno. We’re poor. Well, not real poor, just medium. We’ve got this house that’s falling to bits, and an old car, and Mum’s got a part-time job which helps. My dad split five years ago and I guess I’ve blamed Mum for not fighting to get him back. And I fight with Mum most of the time, and … I fight with my brother Sam … he’s thirteen … and I’ve got a granny and … uncles and aunts and …’
Living With Leanne Page 11