This could be a stress response. I should be worrying about where we're going to live, or the fact that Mum knows I've been going to the track with Bryce Cole. I'm not really worried though. They're not going to kick us out. Not really. We'll build a fort.
Dad will come back. He'll have won lotto. He'll give the sheriff the money in a briefcase, like in the movies. Okay, maybe not like a movie, but something will happen. Mum can go down to the bank and talk to the manager, and if we have to, we can just move back into a smaller place.
Sheriff-schmeriff. They can't come in and remove us forcibly. We live in the first world. We have civil liberties. I learned about it in legal studies.
Bryce Cole slips his fingers into his breast pocket. He unfolds a wad of notes and counts them onto the kitchen bench in front of my mother.
Four hundreds and six fifties.
Mum puts her hand over them, but she doesn't say anything.
'Rent in advance,' he says. He slaps his hip pockets and the car keys jingle. 'I was going out to get some takeaway Chinese. Would you like some?'
Mum is sitting very still with the piece of paper still held out in one hand and her other hand resting on the notes on the bench. She looks stiff, as if she's a shop mannequin.
'Thank you. You have no idea what a difference this will make.'
'I have an idea,' he mumbles, and then he leaves.
I can see why porn is bad, how drugs are bad, and why drinking is bad, but I don't get how gambling is like that. It's not dirty. It's fun. No one gets hurt, or sick, and no one is being exploited. Everyone who's there makes their own choices about how much they can afford to spend. If you're not willing to lose it then you just wouldn't bet it in the first place. What's the big deal?
8
GHOSTS
It's after ten when Bryce Cole gets back.
'Did you actually go to China to collect this meal?' I ask him as he sets the plastic bags down on the bench.
He cocks an eyebrow at me. 'You should reserve your smart-alecking till after you've been fed, don't you think?'
My brother comes out of his room to eat. I imagine him being drawn by the Chinese food smell as if he's in a cartoon, where the scent is a grey, wafting line that grabs you by the nose.
Most nights we lean against the kitchen bench eating cereal, or something microwaved. Mum can't sell the microwave because it's actually built in to the cupboard. Tonight we stand around the dining room table. Mum sold the chairs. She would have sold the table too, but you have to take the legs off to get it out the door, and she's just not that handy. It feels almost as if we're a proper family except that it's Bryce Cole instead of Dad. Dad would be making us tell him about our day and then complaining about me talking with my mouth full, but Bryce Cole doesn't say anything, except after Will eyes the last spring roll, he says, 'I'll wrestle you for it.'
Will starts to size him up, and then all the lights go out.
Mum fumbles around in the kitchen drawers for a moment and then strikes a match. She stands a candle on the kitchen bench. Bryce Cole breaks up his six-pack of beer. He hands one to Mum, but she shakes her head and pats her tummy. He passes it to Will instead. Mum doesn't protest. He holds one out to me, but I wrinkle my nose. They take the beer and candles into the lounge room.
When I put the leftover Chinese in the fridge, the light doesn't come on, and I can't see, but it doesn't matter. I'm not going to knock anything over, because there's only milk, jam and margarine in there anyway.
After I've rinsed the plates I join them in the lounge room. We sit silently in a semicircle around the empty TV unit.
The last time we had a blackout was on a Saturday afternoon. Dad rang the electricity company. He said you should always be a squeaky wheel. He said to get what you want in this life you need to be proactive.
The lady from the electricity company said they had scheduled work to do and that it would only be a few hours. Dad got really mad, because he thought they should have let us know in advance. The lady from the company said that if you let people know then that just gives them something to complain about. He was purple with rage when he got off the phone and he marched around the house pointing out all the things we couldn't use.
Mum, Will and I had jumped in the pool. Dad came out every few minutes to report on the electricity not being on, but by the time we got out of the water the power was on again and Dad was flicking through the Foxtel channels, trying to pretend there was something important that he wanted to watch. He had it on BBC World News, but when he thought we weren't listening he switched over to Everybody Loves Raymond.
Bryce Cole takes a sip of beer, and then he settles into his chair. He's not a squeaky wheel. He goes with the flow.
'Who knows a ghost story? Willem?' Mum prompts. She isn't a squeaky wheel either. She sees a glass half-full – even if it's actually an empty glass.
'I'm not telling any dumb story,' Will mumbles.
'Don't look at me,' I say quickly.
Bryce Cole is scratching the stubble on his chin again. 'Did you know there was a horse who carried almost seven kilos over his weight-for-age to win the Melbourne Cup? That was in 1930. In 1932 this same horse travelled from Australia to San Francisco by ship, and then by road eight hundred kilometres to Agua Calientes in the hot Mexican summer. Full winter coat. Runs on a dirt track, with a heel injury and steel bar shoes. Can you imagine it?'
Mum lies on the lounge listening. The candlelight makes wavering shadows on the walls. Will wraps his arms around his shins and rests his cheek on his knee. Bryce Cole takes another sip of his beer.
'This horse didn't just win. He came from last place to two lengths ahead, and clocked the track's best time.' Bryce Cole shook his head. 'Big, red thing bought for one hundred and sixty guineas. Must be the greatest athlete this country has ever seen. Can you see him in your mind's eye? Eating the track. Leaving the others in the dust. He wants to run. He'd burst his big old heart for you. Can you imagine it?'
I close my eyes. I can imagine the tall, ugly horse, chewing on his bit, ready to run, and it sends goose flesh up my arms.
'Yeah yeah, we learned about Phar Lap in year three,' Will says. 'That's not a ghost story.'
'Yes, it is,' Bryce Cole replies.
'How is it a ghost story?' Will scoffs.
'Phar Lap's dead, so he's a ghost,' I say.
It's gloomy inside the house. Outside there are puddles of light from the streetlights filtering through the trees, and glowing rectangles in our neighbour's houses. I sigh. The blackout is just our place, then.
After a while, Bryce Cole says, 'It's not enough to be dead. He also has to haunt us.'
9
HYPO
Declan is sitting at his kitchen bench with his hands over his eyes. His parents are out, so I can show him the surprise I've been promising.
I'm rattling around in the fridge. It's so full that I have to take things out and rearrange them to fit it all back in again. It looks so fresh and good. I see so many things I want. I'm even eyeing off the leftovers. When I'm finished there are two tall glasses on the bench.
'Okay, you can open your eyes now.'
Declan stares at the glasses. He lifts one to his lips and takes a tiny sip. 'You mixed the beer with lemonade.'
'That, my friend,' I say with a flourish, 'is a shandy! It's a real drink that you can order at a bar. At the track today I was telling Bryce Cole about how we don't like beer and he bought me one of these. It's nice, isn't it? Nicer, anyway.'
'Yeah, but it's still the wuss's option, isn't it? It's like the grown-up version of a fire-engine.'
I stare at him and then I take the two glasses and tip them down the sink. 'You are so determined to ruin everything. You know something, Declan? You're a great big fun sponge – you suck all the good energy out of the room, and what leaks out of you is stinky, wallowing misery.'
'I'm SICK!' he yells. His hands are shaking with rage. He's blinking rapidly.
'Yeah? Well,
I have some problems too, in case you hadn't noticed. Maybe once in a while I might be the one who needs some support!'
Declan thumps the bench with his hand. The tremor has moved up his arms. 'Okay, Jenna-Belle, how about I pay for everything when we go out somewhere? How about I just give you two or three meals a week for six months! Is that supportive enough for you?'
'It hasn't even been six months!' I shout. It probably has, though. 'Besides that's not the support I want from you. It's not money. There has to be emotions in it, or it doesn't count.'
'JUST SHUT YOUR . . .'
And then he falls off his chair onto the ground.
Of course he's faking it, but he hit his head really hard on the tiles.
'You can get up now,' I tell his fake-unconscious body. 'You think a shandy is a wussy option? Passing out to win a fight is way more pathetic than that. Declan?' He's not getting up. 'Declan? Now you're just trying to freak me out. I'm not biting.'
I take advantage of this distraction to make myself a sandwich – cheese, lettuce and pastrami. I was going to add tomato, but when I slice it I can smell that delicious sweet, acidy tomato smell, and I can't help myself. I eat it as if it was an apple.
I prop myself on the stool next to where Declan is lying and eat the sandwich. Declan's mum has bought proper bread from a bakery. It's soft in the middle and crusty on the edges.
It's the most amazing sandwich. I guess that's one good thing about being povvo. We've always had so much food in our house. I used to hang off the pantry door for ages and wouldn't see anything to eat in there unless all I had to do was open the packet. Now I can imagine a meal out of almost anything. Three months ago I wouldn't have eaten a tomato as if it was an apple. I wouldn't have considered a sandwich unless someone else made it for me. I'm beginning to wonder if Willem and I might have been a little spoilt that way.
I dig Declan in the side with my toe. He still doesn't move. Now he actually is freaking me out.
I kneel on the floor and shake him, but he's all floppy. I need to get my mum. I head for the door and in two seconds I'm through our back door. 'MUM!'
I can't find her. I run from room to room. I stop in the lounge room and look out the window. She's there on the lawn. Her hands are in her hair. There's a tow truck in the driveway, winching up Mum's car.
The screen door hits the wall as I push past it and bound down the steps.
Her face is wet with tears and her mouth is pulled into a grimace. 'They can't take my car,' she whispers. Her eyes are desperate and weary.
'Mum, I need you!' I say, shaking her arm. 'It's Declan. He's collapsed. He won't get up.'
'I'm sorry, sweetheart, but I just can't deal with this right now.' She clasps one hand over her mouth and the other rubs absently at her belly.
Bryce Cole is beside me. I didn't hear him approach. He's frowning. He has his hands on his hips. I grab his sleeve and drag him towards Declan's house.
In the kitchen he gathers Declan up in his arms as though Declan's just a little child. Bryce Cole is trying to run, but the weight drags him down so that he's hobbling. I hold the door open for him, then run ahead to his car. I open the car door and he drapes Declan across the back seat, and climbs into the driver's seat.
I'm shouting out the window as we drive away, 'Mum, ring Declan's parents! Mum!'
I can't tell if she's heard me. She's watching them tow her car away.
Grey's Anatomy is my favourite show of all time. Everyone is gorgeous and they rush around removing bombs from people's abdomens, making love in tiny storerooms, delivering quintuplets, or doing brain surgery while exchanging witty banter and sexual innuendo. I had no idea just how many illnesses can be fixed with a quick brain operation until I watched that show. So I was looking forward to going to the hospital with Declan.
Even on All Saints stuff happens. But all the excitement must occur behind those big rubber doors hospitals have, because where I'm sitting nothing is happening – there's just a row of chairs in front of a TV, and a water cooler, and several old people and a few mums with toddlers. Nobody has a bomb in their abdomen. I don't see any conjoined twins. There's no amusing wordplay.
There's no shouting to be heard over the wailing of people with unusual medical conditions, or even over the storeroom lovemaking. I definitely don't see any of that. I don't think I would want to because there are no gorgeous doctors. The doctor who came to ask me about Declan was a short, Egyptian-looking, older guy with a little mo. He looked more like Hercule Poirot than McDreamy. Very disappointing.
Dr Poirot thinks that Declan is my brother and Bryce Cole is our dad. We fill in forms and he asks us some questions about Declan's collapse.
'And what had Declan been eating or drinking?'
I look at Bryce Cole, glad that my mother was too traumatised to come along. She still hasn't said anything about me going to the track, either. She's been distracted.
I tell Dr Poirot about the shandy.
He asks me if there were other symptoms that I know of, so I tell him about Declan's dry mouth, blurred vision, fatigue and weight loss. Dr Poirot nods and takes his clipboard away.
'What's wrong with him?' I call after him.
Dr Poirot stops. 'Looks like he had a hypo. Have you heard of hypoglycaemia? He would have been better off if he'd finished that shandy. I have to do more tests, but I strongly suspect your brother has diabetes.'
'Declan really is sick?'
He will be so thrilled. I'm glad it's not cancer.
Bryce Cole is reading a magazine. He looks happy. I'm wondering why he's so pleased with himself, so I ask. I shouldn't have. One of the things I liked about him the most was the fact that he didn't say anything.
Bryce Cole tells me that for his whole life what he's really wanted is to live in a big house with a beautiful wife and a pair of healthy kids. Then he shoots me this look, and it creeps me right out, because it's true. He's just slipped into Dad's place – except for the sleeping with Mum, which may come along in time. I don't know.
I turn to Bryce Cole when I'm in trouble. I hardly even think about my dad really. Bryce Cole is a hero because he gave me money to play with at the track, and he gave Mum that money to get the debt collectors off her back.
Bryce Cole has bought us.
10
WAITING
Declan is beside himself with delight. He couldn't be happier if the doctors had told him he had Ebola. In fact, from Declan's point of view, diabetes is even better than Ebola.
I huff. 'Declan, you're not allowed to make yourself collapse all the time.'
He grins. 'Did you know I have to have injections every day?'
Declan will enjoy giving himself needles. It's painful and tragic, and at the same time a bit gross, which sums him up, really.
'Guess what else? I'm not allowed to drink beer, so I don't have to pretend to like it.'
'Goody for you.'
He wriggles in the bed, getting comfortable. He's wearing one of those blue hospital smocks and it suits him. I'm wondering if he'll be allowed to take it home. They've washed his guyliner off and he looks sicker.
Declan says, 'Now comes the part where you have to admit that you were always wrong and I was always right.'
My mouth drops open. 'That is so unfair! I have always supported you.'
He narrows his eyes. 'You humoured me, but you never truly believed. Get me some water, will you?' He holds out his plastic cup. There's a tag around his wrist with his name on it, and it freaks me out. It's a label in case he gets lost, like a dog, or in case they forget which patient he is and lop off his leg by mistake.
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