‘Because most people don’t find themselves tied in the particular knots you’ve managed to tie yourself in,’ Clem says. ‘But most people have pretty unique stuff going on, I think. Anyway, are you going to open the rest of them? Ever? Or just shove them all down your top?’
‘How’d you know I was doing that?’
‘It was poking out of your bra, genius.’
‘You were looking at my bra?’
He flushes and looks away.
‘Stop fidgeting, Clem, you’re making the whole table jump.’
‘I’m thinking,’ he snaps, his foot drumming against the table leg.
I tilt my head. ‘Clem?’
‘I just . . . okay. I have a confession.’
‘A confession?’
‘A confession. I know about Fairyland.’
‘What? How? Did Matthew tell you?’
‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.’
‘How’d you find out? How long have you known? Have you told anyone?’
‘I went to drop something by your house a few days ago.’ He won’t look at me.
‘Clem . . .’
‘I won’t tell anyone. I won’t say anything to Lara or Zin. It goes in the vault with everything else.’
‘Don’t be mad at me!’
He clenches his jaw. ‘I’m not mad.’
‘Not you, too! Taylor’s not talking to me about the letter stuff and now you’re mad about Fairyland. Far out – I was still getting used to the idea. It was a shock! Having so much hit you out of the blue stings pretty bad, Clem. Anyway, you can’t get too high up on your horse. I’m sure there’s stuff you don’t tell me.’
‘No,’ he says. ‘There’s not.’
Across the street I can see Matthew walking along, hands shoved deeply into his pockets. Whenever I’ve seen him around Fairyland, he’s been down at the river. It doesn’t take a genius – self-actualised or otherwise – to realise that he’s hiding from his dad and that his dad likes to know where he is. Not in a concerned-parent sort of way, but in almost a predatory way – the way a cat watches a mouse or the way a tiger watches a gazelle. (I’ve been watching documentaries on the paid television channels Clem has at his house. It’s good to know about the natural environment.)
‘It’s different for you,’ I snap, as Matthew disappears around a corner. ‘Your family’s normal. You’re not grappling with this stuff.’
‘My life’s pretty easy and uncomplicated, hey?’
‘Well, you’re not living in a caravan park because your dad gambled away your house, or trying to work out whether to contact your biological mother.’
He looks so miserable, hunched over his milkshake, that I sigh. ‘This isn’t about you, you know?’
‘I know that.’
‘Good.’
‘Good.’ He fiddles with his glass. ‘It just . . . it kinda hurts, you know? And I’d care if I’d hurt you, that’s all.’
‘Fine,’ I say, slurping up the last of my milkshake. It’s the first time Clem and I have ever bickered like this and I can taste the strangeness of it, right down to the last milkshake bubble.
***
The River Pub has become a sanctuary, even if it does leave me smelling strongly of grease, meat and detergent.
The chef, Tamara, yells a lot, but it’s a broad sort of yelling. And anyway, I’ve grown up with Taylor – yelling is her usual way of communicating.
Matthew sometimes works the same shift as I do, clearing the tables and sweeping and mopping while I work my way through the dishes. Sometimes he helps with the dishes, too. A few times his father has come into the pub during a shift and he’s hurried into the kitchen while Tamara or Stu tell the man to get lost. We don’t talk much, particularly on the days when his father comes looking for him.
I like that everything comes into the kitchen covered with grease and wilted salad and smears of sauce. And I like that I can clean it. I like that everything can be scrubbed away and sanitised. I like that the dishes – the bowls and plates and cutlery – look just how they did to begin with.
The only thing about the River Pub I don’t like is the sound of the bells and the clang of coins when someone wins at the pokies. If the bistro’s really full – which isn’t that often – sometimes I can’t hear it. But mostly, I can. When it happens, it fills me with a sort of helpless rage that makes me scrub at the plates and pots so hard that Tamara chuckles at me. ‘Jeez, Stell. Easy.’
Stu often gives Matthew and me a meal at the end of our shifts. I feel particularly bad about Taylor coming in and yelling at him. It’s not his fault if people come in and use the pokies too much. I’m not allowed in there officially, but I can see a corner of the room from where I’m sitting at the bar. The bright colours and flashing lights. How maybe they’d feel like they were flashing just for you if you were lonely enough, bored enough.
‘I’ve tried, you know,’ Stu says.
‘Sorry?’
‘I’ve tried to get rid of them. The slots.’
‘Oh.’
‘I hate them.’ He stretches. ‘But I’ve pushed it as far as I can and, honestly, I really need this job.’
‘I get it,’ I say, as somewhere in the room someone wins and there is the sound of ringing bells and clattering coins and I know the lights will all be flashing. ‘I really do.’
***
Clem’s waiting for me outside the River Pub when I finish this afternoon’s shift.
‘Hey,’ he says. There’s a giant pot of umbrellas just inside the front doorway of his parents’ house, but he’s walked here in the rain. His t-shirt’s soaked through.
I cross my arms. ‘Hey.’
‘Can I see your place?’ he asks, his voice very small. He’s unusually still, too. Clem’s never still. It’s almost like he’s holding his breath. ‘I want to see it. Please.’
‘Alright.’
We pause at the gateway and Clem stares up at the archway with it’s broken words. airyla d.
‘Don’t say anything.’
‘I didn’t!’
We walk along the gravel road to my family’s home. Clem walks closer and closer to me until his arm’s bumping mine. He’s wearing the belt I made him. I keep an eye out for Richard, but I guess he’s helping his mum with her jewellery. Cassie waves from outside her place.
‘Arvo, love!’
‘Hey, Cassie.’
Everything seems strange, walking in with Clem. I even go the long way around so we don’t have to go near the tennis court or the green pool, but I take him past lots one to five. I want him to see them. I want to shock him a little. But, more than that, I want him to realise that our place is actually pretty good. We walk along the edge of the swollen river. Clem doesn’t say anything else until we reach the bench by the water. I sit down, but he stays standing up. He bounces on the balls of his feet and kicks at the dirt. He inspects the closest vegetable beds. ‘These are cool.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Who do they belong to?’
‘No one. Everyone. People all pitch in – means the families who are really struggling have access to fresh food.’
‘Right. That’s good. Right.’ He runs his hand along his jaw.
‘Clem?’
‘How could you not tell me about this?’ he murmurs. ‘I could’ve helped.’
‘How? How could you have helped?’
‘I don’t know.’ He paces in front of the bench. ‘However you needed me to. There’s so much I could’ve helped with.’
‘I said I was sorry. And I am.’
He sits down on the edge of the bench and stares out at the river. ‘I could have given you some money. You shouldn’t have been worrying about that and getting a job on top of everything else. It’s way too much to be juggling.’
‘I don’t need charity.’
‘It’s just money. It doesn’t mean anything.’
‘It can mean a helluva lot when you don’t have any, and you can’t pay bills, and you’re not
sure where you’re going to live.’
‘That’s why I could’ve given you some, Price. I’m not saying it’s not stressful, but it doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t change who you are.’
I throw my hands up. ‘You have no idea what it’s like.’
‘I’m not saying that I do!’
‘Everything’s so simple for you, Clem. It’s so damn easy. You know exactly who you are and where you fit in and what you want.’
Clem gazes at me. ‘Yeah. Being a Chinese–Japanese teenager in Sutherbend with ADHD and parents whose only goal for me is to get a degree and a white-collar job is a walk in the park. You can be really dense sometimes, Price.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Everyone has stuff, you know?’
‘Just stop, Clem.’
We sit in silence for a while. Clem gets up and starts pacing in front of the bench. ‘Matthew Clarke lives here, doesn’t he?’
‘Yeah. His dad manages the place.’
Clem raises his eyebrows and I know he’s thinking of the weeds and the potholes in the roads and the windows of the cabins blocked in with plastic and cardboard.
‘Stop it,’ I snap.
‘I’m not doing anything!’
‘You’re judging!’
‘I’m not judging! I’m just wondering what a property manager actually does.’
I shake my head.
‘It makes sense, you know. How he does more extracurricular stuff than anyone, but doesn’t seem to actually like any of it. Like – I’ve never seen anyone look at a soccer ball with such pure hatred, but he never misses a practice. I guess it gets him out of this place.’
‘I guess so.’
‘Do you have much to do with him? Matthew?’
‘We work together at the pub. He’s nice.’
‘That’s why he walked you home from Lee’s.’ Clem rubs at his forehead. ‘Right? You were living here then?’
‘I’ve been here since before school finished.’
‘Wow.’
We glare at each other and then Clem sighs and scoots closer to me. He’s very still and I know what an effort that must be for him.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Forget it.’ I stand up. ‘I’ll show you where I’m living.’
We walk silently to the cabin and I see Clem wince at the annex and the jungle wallpaper and the stained wicker furniture. This space has started to feel like home, but with Clem pulling faces and then trying not to, I feel the same despair I’d felt the day we moved in.
We watch a movie we’ve seen a million times before. ‘Zin would love it here,’ he says.
‘Don’t you dare tell her.’
‘I won’t. I’m just saying, she’d love all the flowers and fairies and stuff. She’d probably come over and help. You know her mum’s banned her from working in the garden anymore? She’s run out of room, so she’s started digging things up to put new things in. It’s driving her mum nuts.’
‘Don’t tell her.’
He sighs. ‘I already said that I won’t.’
I make chocolate milk. We don’t talk while we drink it. I’m not sulking or anything. I’m just reflecting on things. The cabin’s empty and it’s the first time I’ve wished for it to be full and noisy. Clem looks at his watch. ‘I’ve gotta go drop something at my mum’s office. You wanna come?’
‘No. Thanks.’
He just stares at me with this helpless look on his face. Then the door bursts open and Richard’s in the living room. ‘It’s Jube! He’s been bitten by a snake!’
‘Who’s Jube?’ Clem asks.
‘The Fairyland dog,’ says Richard. He grabs my hand. ‘Ginny and Matt have taken him to the vet – we need to try to get money to cover the bills. The vet does his best to keep things down, but it’s going to be a lot. Thousands, Matt reckons.’
I rub my head. I feel panicked and force myself to take a deep breath. Panic. Dismay. Shock. As I label each feeling, I feel calmer. I wish people listened to me about this stuff. It works.
‘I’ve gotta go,’ Clem says, looking oddly stressed. ‘I can come back? After I drop the stuff off?’
I don’t reply. I’m busy pulling on my shoes. ‘How much do we have so far?’ I ask Richard.
‘About a hundred dollars.’ Richard shakes the tin he’s carrying and I can hear the jingle of loose change.
I nod. ‘Well, I’ve got some. Jube can have it.’
Richard smiles. ‘Awesome!’
Across the room, Clem moves his arm as though he wants to pat my head, but he stops himself and walks out of the cabin, and I turn so that I don’t see him walking away down the road.
***
I feel weird after Clem goes. I thought I’d feel relieved, but I don’t. I just feel sad. Frustrated. I don’t really get why I’m so angry with him. I just am. He doesn’t understand and can’t help me, and I wish he’d stop trying. I don’t even have words for the tangle of feelings, so I compartmentalise. I focus on Jube.
As we walk towards the front of the property, Richard’s tin clanking between us, I stop to tie my shoelace. ‘Where’d he get bitten?’
‘On his leg.’
‘No, I mean, where in Fairyland?’
‘Oh – out the back of the pavilion, where the grass is super long. Matt’s kicking himself – he’d been meaning to mow it but hadn’t got around to it yet.’
‘It’s not his fault.’
‘Try telling him that.’ Richard sighs. ‘Okay – I’ve pretty much done Muriel, Trisha and you. How about we start at lot one and work our way up?’
‘Lot one?’
Richard shrugs and pushes his wet hair out of his face. ‘Worst thing they can do is say no.’
The man in lot one has long hair and not very many teeth, and Richard stands as far back from the door as he can. ‘Jube’s been bitten by a snake. We’re collecting money for the vet bill.’
‘Ain’t got no money,’ the man says, shutting the door. A moment later, he opens it. ‘Hope the critter’s okay.’ And slams it shut again.
‘Knew that’d happen,’ Richard says, completely unruffled. ‘C’mon.’
We work our way slowly along the row. Lot two is a woman who speaks to us through the window, and lot three is a man who smells so strongly that Richard holds his breath as he counts some change into the tin with shaking fingers.
‘I hate that bloody dog,’ says Ron from lot four. ‘He digs up my potatoes.’
Richard raises his eyebrows. ‘You grow potatoes?’
‘I grow potatoes,’ Ron says gravely, handing Richard ten dollars and shutting the door crisply in our faces.
Lot five is empty and lot six is a tired-looking woman, who doesn’t look much older than me, with a baby on her hip and a toddler pulling on the hemline of her top. She listens gravely and then nods and gives Richard a handful of change. I peer into the home behind her as much as I can, trying to picture Matt and his dad there. It’s dark, though, with the curtains drawn over the windows. All I can see is a sagging roof and the bright glow of a kid’s show on an old television set.
‘You know, when Bryony busted her leg open, Jube came in and sat with her for two days. Just sat and kept her company. Made the world of difference. Keep me posted, yeah?’
‘Oh, I will. Thanks, Cora.’
According to Richard, lot seven is where Esther and June are living, the two sisters who are only staying a week and keep pretty much to themselves. A tall, elegant-looking woman answers the door and listens intently as Richard explains about Jube.
Behind her, I can see a slightly younger woman curled up on a mattress in front of a portable fan. She doesn’t look up at us, even as her sister opens her wallet and gives us a twenty.
‘I hope he’s okay,’ she says.
‘Thanks, June.’
She nods and shuts the door.
Lots eight, nine and ten are empty, but Richard scribbles notes and leaves them wedged in people’s flywire doors. He leaves notes on windscreens
and poking out from under worn-out welcome mats.
‘Richard!’ Muriel yells across Fairyland. ‘It’s Matt calling!’
Richard and I jog to Muriel’s cabin, where Richard takes the phone. ‘How is he? Yeah. Yeah. Alright.’ He glances at the tin. ‘Nah. I dunno how much . . .’
I count it quickly. ‘Nearly two hundred.’
‘Nearly two hundred,’ Richard says into the phone. ‘About half of Fairyland. A lot of people are out, so I reckon we’ll get a rush in at dusk. Alright. Bye.’
‘How is he?’ Muriel asks, handing us both a glass of lemonade.
‘They reckon he’ll be okay.’ Richard drains his glass and wipes his mouth with his hand. ‘How good is that?’
‘So lucky your dad found him, Stell,’ says Muriel.
I choke on a mouthful of lemonade and Richard thumps me on the back. ‘My dad found him?’
‘Sure – he went with Matt and Ginny to the vet.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ Richard says.
Muriel nods. ‘He was in the pavilion and heard Jube yelp.’
I shudder and drain my glass. ‘We should keep going,’ I say. ‘Thanks for the drink, Muriel.’
***
After Richard and I have knocked on the door of every home in Fairyland, I walk to the pavilion, thinking about Dad. There’s an exercise book open on one of the plastic tables. I flip through it. Some of it’s scribbled notes on all the jobs he’s heard back from – people and numbers and dates and when he thinks he can follow up. The other pages are just rows and rows of dollar amounts and I can’t tell if it’s what he’s lost or won or a mix of both. Maybe neither, just a hopeless attempt at projecting something he thinks he can control.
I grit my teeth and shut the notebook. Compartmentalise. Compartmentalise.
‘Stell?’
I startle. It’s Dad.
‘How’s Jube?’ I ask.
‘He’s got to stay in there for a bit, but he’s okay. We got him there in time.’
I nod. I pass him the notebook and sit down on a chair, wondering if he’ll sit down next to me and try to explain what he’s written. Or what he’s feeling. Or anything. He slowly turns around and heads out into the damp dusk. I watch as he walks across Fairyland, pausing for a bit too long before he goes into our home.
How to Grow a Family Tree Page 13