‘Orange. Pink. Purple.’ Mum slides onto the chair next to me. ‘Who cares?’ She shakes her head and sighs heavily. ‘Who’s the mad one? How’d you ever know?’
Suddenly Dad’s back at the door, rifle in his hands, face smiley smooth. He lifts the gun. ‘Think this is funny?’
‘Don’t be stupid…Mick…’
A shot explodes in my ears and eyes, piddles my pants, the smell of bonfires and Guy Fawkes, rabbits in spotlights, their sad floppy ears. But when I open my eyes, Mum’s right there, staring at a hole above our heads where plaster is drifting down like snow. At the door, Dad looks cocky.
Mum reaches to the sink, grabs a saucepan and hurls it at his head. ‘Get out!’ she screams.
Dad ducks into the laundry porch. When the saucepan bounces off the door, he pokes his head back in. ‘Rotten shot.’
Mum throws the saucepan lid. ‘Get out and stay out!’
Now she grabs the jam dish. It hits the wall high up and Dad laughs a crazy laugh, and then I see the dish sliding slowly down the wall with a snail trail of apricot jam following behind. It hits the skirting board and topples onto the floor. I think of snail shine on the morning path. Of Chicken McCready jumping on snails and the way their green stomachs ooze out.
When I look back, Dad has gone.
I hide in the leaves of the kurrajong tree. I hide in my reading and writing and sums. I hide in my Sunday-school singing and Mrs Bullfrog’s big bosom breathing the hymns, that same secret bosom I’ve seen at the lake without her pink-strapped brassiere. I hide in the stillness that flattens the sea before the storm comes, in the cloud of black ducks that spreads like an inkblot across the white sky. I hide in Miss Taylor’s kind eyes. I hide.
*
‘For once in your life, just do what you’re asked and take her with you.’
Dunc says they can’t dink me, not carrying the net and bucket. Pardie opens his mouth to speak but Dunc frowns him into silence.
Pardie has grown red fur on his face. In the light from the window, he shines like an angel with a halo. I have stuck my Sunday-school stamp into my Jesus book. It is the Rock of Gethsemane stamp and Mrs Bullfrog gave it to me because I knew it took three days for Jesus to rise again. Dunc doesn’t go to Sunday school because it’s for Methodists and we’re Catholics, but the priest only comes once a month so Mum says, what does it matter, she was a Methodist before she got married. Dad says we’re descended from apes and anyone who thinks there’s a Heaven or Hell needs their head read. There are a lot of redheads in Burley Point—Jude and Pardie Moon, Mr Sweet and his son Kenny, even Blue Daley is a darkish kind of red, which is why he’s called Blue. Redheads are always called Blue.
Mum narrows her eyes at Dunc. ‘It won’t hurt you for once.’
Who will win? The Demon Dunc or The Phantom Mother? Who will take the Jungle Girl into the Deep Woods where the pygmy people live?
Pardie saves the day. ‘It’s all right, Mrs Meehan, I’ll dink her.’
‘We’re not taking turns,’ warns Dunc as we wait for Mum to make sandwiches. ‘She’s all yours, the whole way.’
Outside the Institute there is a poster for a film called Oklahoma. Pardie says he wouldn’t miss it for quids. Dunc rides ahead, skidding around Lanky Evans as he crosses the street. The sea is a bright autumn green, with the boats all riding their moorings; soon it will be the end of the season, no more fishing until next spring. After Stickynet, the wattles are bent over the road in a long tunnel. The sun shines through in dappled patches and Pardie’s hay fever makes him sneeze even though there are no flowers. At Big Tree turn-off, the farms are a green rug all around and Dunc on the road far ahead. When we arrive at Five Mile Drain, he’s already tying meat onto strings.
I squat on the edge of the canal and watch the water swirling towards the sea. There are skater beetles catching a ride, a spider on a leaf, even a dag of wool from a sheep. Dunc’s legs next to mine are brown and scabby. After we’ve caught nine yabbies—two of them mine—we eat our sandwiches on top of the bank and there’s a happy buzz in the milkweed and an old black crow watching from the other bank. When a tractor starts up on the range, Dunc tells Pardie it’s probably Uncle Ticker and why don’t we leave the yabbies in the bucket and take a look at his ditch?
As we ride beside the lake, three pelicans fly so low over our heads that we can hear wind through their feathers. Pardie says they’re flying home to their breeding grounds with their bellies full of fish from the reefs. Dunc says they mate for life and maybe one of them’s a young’un and they’re coming home from Lake Eyre. Pardie says the fathers sometimes peck the young ones to death, but the mother feeds them with her own blood and after three days they come alive again.
I wonder if Dad’s orange-bellied parrots could fly to Lake Eyre for a good feed. If parrots mate for life like pelicans? If parrots peck their babies to death, and if they come alive after three days like Jesus did? There is too much to know.
At the top of the lane that leads to the ridge, Uncle Ticker has fenced a viewing platform but there’s not much to see. The tractor has cleared all the trees and there’s white rock underneath. Pardie says it’s got a long way to go and wouldn’t a bulldozer be better? Dunc says a Caterpillar with a double winch and blade is just as good. He says before long they’ll be blasting right through the rock. It’s hard to see who’s driving the tractor—Uncle Ticker or Chicken’s uncle who works at Bindilla. The swamp is a purple-green sea far off to the fence line. I think of all the snakes that must live in those reeds and I’ll be glad when they’re gone, whatever Dad says about parrots. Dunc says when Uncle Ticker’s finished he’ll have himself another thousand acres so it’s not such a hair-brained idea.
Pardie lobs a rock into the ditch. ‘Who says it is?’
Dunc lobs a rock too. ‘My Dad, for one.’
And suddenly they’re both firing off rocks as if it’s a fight with no rules and there’s nothing but rocks raining down on the ditch until the tractor turns and trundles towards us and we tear into the bush on the other side of the road, crashing through bracken and banksias, wattles and heaths, running fast, me in the middle where it’s safest from snakes, running fast to keep up, my legs scratched by branches and slipping on rocks, Pardie laughing and sneezing close behind.
We stop in a small clearing surrounded by black yakkas and wild cherry trees and a giant muddy gum growing beside a big rock. The sound of the tractor is now far off. Dunc says there’s a cave around here, millions of years old and full of fish fossils because once it was under the sea. He says an Abo used to live there, and maybe still does. I can hear my heart thumping loud in my ears and I can feel the sea breathing in the grass under my feet. We sneak around looking for the cave, whispering so the Abo won’t hear. Everything is warm and quiet like a secret and I have a feeling of being watched by someone like God who knows all my hidden thoughts.
Suddenly there’s a loud rustle in the bushes and we turn with a fright in case it’s the Abo. It’s an emu! Staring at us with crazy bold eyes and, as we stare back, not breathing, not moving, its long neck pokes at the air like a stretched question mark. Then Pardie sneezes, sending it sprinting off in a flap, our laughter chasing it into the scrub far away.
Pardie’s freckles are bright against his pale skin, his eyes wide and as crazy as the emu’s. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
Dunc doesn’t argue and leads us over logs and dead branches, me in the middle and my mind full of black men with spears, and snakes and emus that could peck out your eyes, all of it mixed up in the panic of following. We are almost clear of the scrub when Dunc stops. There on a fallen tree is a beautiful green and blue bird, twittering and talking in a pretty bird voice. Georgie Porgie Georgie Porgie, it says, clear as a bell. One step at a time, Dunc moves forward, the bird still talking: Georgie Porgie Georgie Porgie. Closer, Dunc reaches out with his hand and the bird steps onto his fingers and walks up his arm. Dunc says it’s a budgerigar which is really a small parrot, sometimes cal
led a lovebird. He says it must have escaped from a cage and might not survive in the wild. He lifts the bird to his face and makes kissy sounds and the bird nuzzles his lips and whistles happily. In the same quiet voice, Dunc asks me if I’d like it for a pet. I’m so surprised that I don’t answer but Dunc tucks it inside his shirt anyway. He says I can keep it in the cage he found at the tip and used for the rosella that died. He says I’ll have to clean out the cage every day and give it a name. That’s easy, I say, Georgie Porgie, that’s his name.
When we get to the bikes, Dunc says he’ll dink me because it’s downhill all the way. I’m surprised for the second time and climb on the bar in front of him. We coast down the hill, gathering speed, Dunc singing ‘Rock Around the Clock’ and Georgie Porgie squeaking inside his shirt.
At the bottom, Dad’s jeep is parked by the side of the road, half-hidden behind a she-oak. His binoculars are trained on Uncle Ticker’s tractor. Dunc stops singing and rides past without stopping, pedalling faster, faster. The sky is enormous, blue without one cloud. I won’t tell Mum we saw Dad. You can forget everything if you want to.
Dad comes home from the Coorong with a train full of brumbies for bait and there is buck-jumping at the station stockyards.
Aunt Cele and Pardie’s mum are sitting on the rail opposite Lizzie and me. Next to Aunt Cele is that Lewis woman who is married to Mr Lewis with the ginger moustache and the war medals on Anzac Day. Lizzie says if they’re going to kill the horses for bait they should do it straightaway and not play rodeos with them, they are poor dumb creatures and they don’t know what’s happening. She says she’d rather go and get a Paddle Pop. Or we could spy on Wanda the Witch. I tell her I want to see my dad ride.
The horses are boxed in the stockyards behind the goods shed. I can smell their horse terror; it is the smell of salty plains and blue skies and men with lassos. The smell shivers through the air in loud snorts and terrified whinnies and mixes with the noise of everyone cheering.
Dunc and Pardie are working the gate with Bullfrog Fraser. First out is a horse with Chicken’s brother, Sid, on its back. Sid is older than Chicken but he is soft in the head and hardly has time to look surprised before he’s sitting in the dirt looking silly. Next is Pardie’s dad. He rides halfway round the yard before he’s off too. Then out gallops a black horse with Dad hanging on by a rope, no saddle, no stirrups, no reins. He is the best rider, everyone says. His horse tears around the yard as if it’s trying to find a way out. It has a mad frightened look in its eyes and froth falls from its mouth. Then it stops. Dad hangs on. The horse whinnies, lowers its head and kicks up its hind legs. Dad leans back and waves his arm in a circle to balance; the horse rears and paws at the air and then lowers his head and snorts at the dirt, and still Dad stays on.
Everyone goes crazy, whistling and cheering. My heart is giddy with hope for Dad to win. I shout into the rodeo ring, which is really a square but I don’t care because my Dad can win, I know he can. Again he gallops past and dust full of sheep poo and cow dung flies up in my face. Right in front, the horse twists and thuds into the fence, making the railings shake, making us jump to the ground just in case. And as I climb back, I see Dad on the ground.
‘That’s the winning ride or I’m a monkey’s uncle,’ says Denver Boland into the loudspeaker. ‘Good on ya, Mick. Bring on the next rider.’
Dad finds his hat in the dirt and walks to the gate, waving and doing little bows. Then I see he’s bowing to the fence where Aunt Cele and Pardie’s mum are sitting. Although Aunt Cele has her camera, she’s not taking photos. She is laughing with that Lewis woman as if they are best friends, and that Lewis woman is making loud whistles with her fingers stuck in her mouth. The sun shines on her shorts and long legs; it shines on her waving hand and turns her hair into a ginger frizz as if she is a rowdy angel without wings. As if she is the rodeo queen. And Dad is waving to her.
Her. It is her.
Straightaway I jump down from the railing and follow Lizzie through the goods shed where the trains stop to unload. Aunt Cele comes up behind.
‘Long time no see. How are you, Sylvie?’ She reaches out with long arms and lifts me right off my feet, pulls me around and cuddles me close. ‘See your Dad win?’
I snap open her hands and break free of her tricks. ‘No,’ I say, as I scramble onto the platform. ‘I didn’t.’
‘We did,’ says Lizzie, climbing after me.
I push her. It feels good and I push her some more. ‘We didn’t.’
‘Not the best place to play in here,’ says Aunt Cele.
On the platform, I am taller than her. ‘We always play here.’
She shrugs and smiles but I don’t smile back. We watch her lope through the cutting and out the other end of the shed.
‘Don’t push me,’ says Lizzie, pushing me back. ‘You were rude to her. Isn’t she your auntie?’
‘She’s not even a cousin. She’s nothing to me.’
*
Once there was a girl Phantom. She was the twin sister of the seventeenth Phantom and her name was Julie Walker. When the Phantom was injured, she took his place. She had her own costume and mask and gun. She could do everything the Phantom could do. The female of the species is more deadly than the male, she told bandits before she shot them dead.
‘Don’t tell her that!’ says Dunc.
‘I’ve already told her,’ says Pardie.
6
The invitation is hot and important in my hand. I run on the road. Left. Right. Jump on the grass. Jump off again. I pass Mrs Scott’s house next door and wave the invitation but she doesn’t see. She is talking to Mrs Winkie. ‘You give them your blood and they want more.’ Mrs Scott has no blood in her face. She looks like Faye Daley’s albino rabbit with blue eyes instead of pink.
Mum is polishing the floor again. ‘I’ve been invited to Colleen Mulligan’s party,’ I tell her but she’s waltzing around the bedroom on her polishing cloths. ‘Colleen’s having a party,’ I tell her again. ‘I have to take a present.’ But she’s off in a cleaning dream and tells me to wait outside till she’s finished.
I sit on the back step and show the invitation to Georgie. It has balloons and laughing clown faces that make him whistle and bop all around his cage.
‘I have to take a present,’ I tell Mum when she shakes out her dusters at the back door.
‘But you don’t even like her, do you?’
‘That doesn’t matter.’ I follow her inside. ‘Everyone’s invited.’
‘Who’s everyone?’
Doesn’t she know anything? ‘The whole class. Everyone.’
She smells of Wunderwax and Turf cigarettes. ‘I’m starting work at Trotter’s Cafe next week. Wednesdays and Fridays. It’ll be a bit of a change. After school, Mrs Daley will look after you. Understand?’
‘What about the present?’
‘I’ll think of something.’
Something is a pair of nylon knickers, beige, with a bit of lace. ‘They’re too big,’ I tell her on the day of the party. ‘They’re yours. I saw them in the drawer.’
Mum wraps them in tissue paper and knots them with a blue ribbon. ‘She’s a big girl. They’ve never been worn.’
Lizzie’s present is smaller. She won’t tell me what’s inside. ‘Wait and see,’ she says as her mother drives us to the party.
Colleen lives at the end of Bog Lane, past the soldier-settler farms and the marshy bit that drains into Lake Grey. For miles the wattles are blooming sugary gold. Over the cattle ramp, the driveway to Colleen’s house is lined with Christmas-tree pines. As soon as the car stops, Colleen comes running, followed by half the kids in our class. ‘Welcome to my party,’ she says like a parrot before grabbing my present, then Lizzie’s. ‘Come and see what I’ve got.’
Colleen has her own room. She has a bed with iron ends, frilly curtains at the window, even curtains covering the dressing-table legs. Her presents are spread on the bed. A yellow petal bathing cap and a pink plastic manicure set. The new S
ecret Seven book. The new Archie, Superman and Phantom comics, tied together with a red ribbon. I hope she wants to swap them with Lizzie or me because I now buy my own comics with money from collecting bottles. There’s also a velvet headband and gold Jiffy slippers, a new hairbrush with a ballerina on the back, a set of hairgrips with coloured ends, a Violet Crumble that’s probably from Chicken.
Colleen holds up Mum’s kickers. ‘They’re…nice.’
Chicken snorts and pokes Roy Kearney. I catch Colleen giving her best friend, Shirley Fry, a raised eyebrow look. While Colleen opens Lizzie’s present—Mickey Mouse swap cards—I slide the knickers under her pillow.
We play Pin the Tail, Brandy, Tag and Apple Dip, and then stuff ourselves with fairy bread and lamingtons. We sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to Colleen who turns pink and can’t blow out the candles in one breath. When she cuts the cake, Chicken says the knife has to come out clean or she has to kiss a pig. Mrs Mulligan says it’s not pigs, it’s a boy, so it will have to be Chicken. Everyone laughs and Chicken’s freckles turn red. The knife comes out clean and Colleen looks pleased but Chicken says Phew so many times that everyone knows he really wants to kiss Colleen.
Mrs Mulligan hands out slices of cake wrapped in paper serviettes and the cars arrive to take us home. As Lizzie and I are leaving, Colleen comes running, waving Mum’s gussies above her head.
‘These are too big. I’ll have to change them for another size. Can you ask your mother where she got them?’
‘I told you,’ I say as soon as I walk in. ‘I told you they were too big. Now what are we going to do?’
‘She might forget,’ says Mum.
She doesn’t.
‘My mother wants to know,’ says Colleen next day at school. I take a Phantom leap from the bench under the cypress pine but miss and feel my shin crunch against the timber edge. Looking down, I’m pleased to see a lot of blood.
‘She’s bleeding!’ yells Shirley Fry. ‘Someone get Miss Taylor.’
The Lost Child Page 5