by Jessie Cole
‘You want me to help you deal with your hair?’
Sophie has curly hair, a light brown, and it gets tangled real easy. Since she’d been out of action it had turned into one big knot.
She looked at me then, like she hadn’t in days. Her forehead was still bruised and the skin around her eyes was puffy and red, more lined than before the mongrel left, but her eyes were clear. Clear and sad. I could see my sister was back.
‘Mema, that would be grand.’
The truth is, I’ve always had a thing about my sister’s hair. Something about the way the curls snake their way around my fingers makes it seem alive. When I was little she’d sit there all still and thoughtful while I tugged and played and plaited. Her hair bounces and springs when she moves—it’s impossible to pass her by without tweaking one of her curls and watching it spring back into place. My hair is the opposite, dark and heavy like a horse’s tail. I usually wear it in big fat plait down my back. There’s nothing dancing about it, but when Sophie’s feeling bright she tells me it shimmers like a waterfall in the night, and I should love what I’ve been given. Sophie says my dad had hair just like me. Her dad had curly hair and mine had straight, and she says I should be thankful ’cause that was his gift to me. That and the old raincoat. But I’m not sure it’s much to celebrate, though the raincoat does come in handy.
‘You go in and soak for a bit. I’ll come in soon.’
The baby was sleeping in the bedroom but Rory was awake. Hamish was tucked up on the couch, trying to read one of Mum’s books, ignoring Rory’s advances as best as he could. Old Dog had snuck inside. We usually tried to keep her out on the veranda when she was wet, and even when it stops raining she takes a while to dry. I could see her tail poking out from under the couch, giving her away. I started packing up some of Rory’s toys, clearing up floor space, but I was watching the two of them. Even though he was only little, Rory talked quite a bit. He usually gave a running commentary on whatever he was doing. Sometimes it made perfect sense and other times it didn’t. Probably you had to know him pretty well to get the drift of his talk-stories. I liked his funny, croaky voice, even when I didn’t quite know what it was he was saying, but every now and then, when the day was especially long, the buzz of his endless words could get inside my brain and I’d wish he’d stop.
‘Come and give me a snuggle, Rory,’ I said, feeling bad for wishing he’d be quiet. Rory was finely tuned to the frequency of feelings. He’d know about yours before you were even aware of them yourself. You had to be on the ball.
He stopped talking and looked at me with his big dark eyes. ‘No!’ He lifted his chin. ‘No snuggles!’
I held out my arms but he just shook his head. He could turn in an instant. Happy to sad, gentle to angry—mercurial. I wanted him to stay calm ’cause if he got frustrated he’d harass Sophie in the bath.
‘What’s Nanny cooking for dinner?’ I asked him. Any mention of food would usually do the trick.
‘Dinner?’ Rory repeated and then he was off to the kitchen, quick as a flash.
I laughed and Hamish glanced up at me from his book. The Ibis would always respond to the lure of food.
‘He’s a talker,’ Hamish said, like he was fishing around for something to say.
‘He talks it through,’ I replied. ‘Everyone does.’
‘Not everyone.’
It was true. He didn’t. ‘You’re quiet. No one knows what you’re thinking.’
‘Nothing worth reporting, that’s why.’
I wondered about that. Other people’s thoughts. All those knowns and unknowns.
Hamish turned a page of his book and then sat up and stretched. Watching him, something in my belly dropped. He had a stillness about him most of the time, so when he broke into motion it seemed like a revelation. I wanted to look away but I couldn’t. Men had never been of much interest to me. I guess I saw them as just passing through, and I’d always been more immersed in the familiar, the enduring. Hamish was probably the most just-passing-through man I’d encountered, so it was strange that he should capture my attention.
There was only really the couch to sit on in our lounge room. Usually we all squashed on together, but I was hardly going to do that with Hamish, so I kept standing there, wishing there were more toys to clean up.
‘Do you want to sit down?’ Hamish said, shifting over a little.
I glanced at the space beside him—his arm stretched out along the back of the couch. Moving towards him would be like stepping into his embrace. ‘What’s the book?’ I asked instead.
‘Just something I picked up off your shelf—an old mythology book.’ He held up the cover. ‘I’ve never read much mythology.’
‘Yeah? Mum was crazy about it at one stage.’
I hoped she wasn’t listening from the kitchen ’cause I knew she’d yell out and tell Hamish about my name. It was one of her favourite stories.
‘She the reader?’ Hamish tilted his head towards the bookshelves.
‘Well, the books are hers, but we all read them.’
I looked at the books, higgledy-piggledy, sagging on the shelves. The damp made everything warped. Some of the books had absorbed the water like sponges and sat bloated on the top of the rows, unable anymore to fit. When she was my age, Mum had done some kind of degree, travelled around a bit, then headed up here with Sophie’s dad to start planning the revolution. There was a bunch of them, all buoyed by hope, thinking they would find a better way to live. Sophie says back then there were always parties. They’d pack mattresses into the back of their station wagons and all the kids would crash in the car when things got too much. But there was none of that now, the books were the main things left.
‘How many of you are there?’
‘In my family?’ I paused. ‘There’s four boys between me and Sophie.’
He seemed surprised. ‘Four brothers?’
‘Yep.’
There was an old school photo of the boys on top of the bookshelf, obscured by a pile of books. I reached up and pulled it down, dusting off the spider webs. It was a shock to see their faces, still kids in primary school. Freckles and scruffy hair. Familiar and foreign all at once. I handed the picture to Hamish.
‘Max is the oldest.’ I pointed him out. ‘He’s probably the quietest of the lot.’ Max had the same dad as Sophie. ‘Then Caleb. He’s the one with white hair. Everyone called him Snowy.’ I didn’t know how to explain who had which dad—who was more related to who. ‘Then there’s Sunny, he’s a ratbag.’ I touched a finger to his cheek in the photo. Out of all the boys, Sunny had played with me most. He was already seven by the time I was born, so he’d always seemed grown-up, but looking at his childish face, I saw how small he’d once been.
‘Snowy and Sunny?’ Hamish asked, smiling a little.
‘Yep.’ I knew it sounded funny.
‘And who’s the littlest?’
‘Jonah.’ In the photo he looked babyish, missing front teeth, the collar of his school shirt frayed and worn, handed down so many times before it got to him. ‘They’re all big now, though.’
‘Four brothers, that’s almost half a footy team.’ He handed the picture back to me and looked around, and I guessed he was taking in the size of our house. ‘They moved out of home?’
‘Yeah, ages ago. Boys take up so much space.’
His blue eyes flashed up at me for split second, like he’d taken offence.
‘Not you, though,’ I added.
‘Thanks … I think.’
Part of me wanted to stay there near him but part of me wanted to run. It was an uncomfortable feeling. I wasn’t used to it. So I put the photo back where I’d found it and went into the bathroom to check on Sophie.
One of the dads remade the bathroom before I was born, and he did a good job too. It was a longish space, and the bath was set into the floor, right at the far end, so it dropped down next to the low window and all you saw from inside it was the bush outside. Sophie looked peaceful, but I knew
that it might not be long before the baby woke.
‘You ready?’ I asked.
She turned her head real slow. ‘Yep. Work your magic, Baby-girl.’
My sister always called me that. Even now I was grown up. I guess I’d been a baby to her for so long. It sounded especially strange when there was an actual baby girl in the house.
I came and sat on the edge of the bath and my sister moved forward so I could get to her hair. Picking up the jug we used for the babies, I dipped it in the bath. Sophie leaned her head back and I poured the water over her. I loved the way, even when it was wet, my sister’s hair resisted straightening. I wondered about the structure of curls, what made them so unwilling to take another form. There was probably an explanation and if I searched hard enough I’d find it, but sometimes not knowing was almost as nice.
Sophie bent forward, resting her cheek against her upright knees, turning her face away from me, towards the window. I squeezed the shampoo in and massaged it through her hair. Rinsing out the soap, I added the conditioner. Sophie turned towards me, eyes still closed, her mouth upturned at the corners in a half-smile.
‘You and your hair obsession,’ she murmured. I reached out for the wide-toothed comb. ‘You should let me wash your hair one day, Mema.’ Sophie opened her eyes and looked up at me. ‘I know you won’t.’
‘I don’t like people touching my hair.’
‘I know. You’ve been like that since you were born. You wouldn’t let any of us touch your head at all. Mum let you run around like a scrappy-looking puppy until you finally started brushing it yourself. You were a sight to behold.’
‘I know. There are photos.’
‘Yeah, I took them, silly.’
Once I’d got the knots out, Sophie went right under the water and shook her head from side to side. Her eyes were squeezed shut, small bubbles of air hanging about her nostrils. I wanted to see if her spirals would stay curled under water, but it was hard to tell. Watching her through the screen of the water was like peering into another realm. She resurfaced and lay there a minute, resting her head on the bath rim. I had always watched Sophie like a hawk, but I wouldn’t like it if she examined me that way. When you’re the youngest in a big family, you can get away with being unseen. It was what I liked best about being Baby-girl. Luckily, Sophie never seemed to mind me staring at her.
Mum burst in then, the baby on her hip and a wooden spoon in her other hand.
‘Rory’s helping me cook,’ she said, pushing her hair off her forehead with the back of her hand. ‘You’ll need to take bubs.’
I reached out and she handed me the baby. Lila was the baby’s name, but none of us called her that. She wasn’t really a person yet, I guess, and the name just sounded odd. She was wriggly on my lap, and I knew she’d start bellowing soon.
‘Shall we put her in the bath? She’s a bit sticky.’
I leaned down and sniffed her head. Little babies have that smell. It builds up fast. A kind of cheesy, clammy smell, especially in summer.
‘Yeah, strip her off and hand her over.’
I untangled Lila from her clothes and pulled her nappy off. The closer to naked she got, the stiffer her body—like the clothes had given her something to relax into. I was used to the way babies worked, after Rory. I wasn’t worried I would hurt her. Even though Lila was delicate, she didn’t seem otherworldly. She seemed hardy, like an animal, I guess.
Sophie sat up and I passed Lila over. Instantly the baby snuffled around for Sophie’s breast, making little grunting sounds. Sophie squeezed her nipple between her fingers, guiding it towards the baby’s mouth. When Lila finally got it, the sound of her gulping milk echoed around the bathroom.
‘You’d think she was starving,’ Sophie said. ‘Funny little gutso.’
‘Yeah, Rory was a more refined eater at that age, remember?’ It was true. Rory had breastfed quietly, like it was a dainty, private matter.
‘I know and look at him now.’
She was quiet a minute, then she looked up at me. ‘Poor little buggers, Mema. Like the rest of us. No dad.’
Sophie had never spoken much about her fella. Before or after he left. Like it was a terrain not fit for words.
‘It’s not so bad. We’re alright, aren’t we?’
‘Speak for yourself.’
The baby was pointing her little toes and then flexing them again. Sophie held them together lightly between her legs, and then it looked like the baby was nudging to get back in. Nudging with her toes to go back where she came from.
‘I still can’t believe she came out of there,’ I said.
‘You always say that.’
‘Well, it’s not self-explanatory.’
Yesterday I’d watched Bessie’s calf being born, but the whole thing still seemed like a mystery.
‘Mema, ever since you were little you’ve wanted to know everything about babies. You’re never going to know if you never have sex.’
It had become a bit of a joke in my family that I’d never get around to doing it. ‘So you keep saying.’
‘You should give Billy a go.’
Billy was a young bloke in town who’d asked me out once a couple of months back. An old friend of Sunny’s. He did odd jobs and maintenance stuff for the council and he was often working on the road. We’d always known each other, just from living in the same place, but I’d never paid him much heed. Then I happened upon him on one of my walks and he called out to me—‘Hey, Mema!’ He was working on someone’s land, chopping down a tree, all sweaty and covered in wood dust. ‘What’s three foot long and fucks a chook?’ This question startled me. It came out of nowhere. I just looked at him and shrugged.
‘An axe,’ he answered, and then he asked me out to dinner.
Sophie said he was just nervous and that’s why he told the joke, but I said no anyway, though I liked him well enough before that.
‘Billy is …’ I was thinking of the way Hamish rubbed the place just at the base of his neck, that it was the only sign he ever gave of feeling stuff.
‘Alright, for your first time round.’
‘I hardly ever see him anymore. He avoids me.’
‘Hell hath no fury …’
My sister was sounding more like her old self with every passing minute. She reached down and broke the suction of the baby’s lips on her breast with her little finger, lifting Lila upright so she could burp. The baby looked disorientated, and I guess it would feel strange to be always moving unpredictably through space.
‘I hope she doesn’t poo. Bath and baby poo right now is not my idea of fun.’
We’d seen this before, a few times. It basically meant starting the whole bath process again.
‘Do you want me to take her and get her dressed?’
‘Just let me wipe her quickly with a washer,’ Sophie answered.
I handed my sister the wash cloth, and she smoothed it across her baby’s skin, swiping it over all the creases, gently prising up her arms and neck to clean all her delicate baby crevices.
‘She’s wonderful, Soph,’ I said.
‘I know.’ Sophie’s voice was soft, like she was mesmerised. ‘She’s perfect.’
When she finished cleaning Lila, I bundled her up in a towel and took her out to find her some clothes.
6.
Half of my mother’s pottery shed was filled with unglazed, unfired pots. They were majestic things, large and curved and white. She didn’t make just pots, but huge plates and platters too. When they were fired they’d come out deep, dark colours, but I liked them just as much this fragile white. It was the same with most things in flux—I liked the caterpillar just as much as the butterfly.
Mum would disappear for days at a time, throwing pots almost bigger than her arms could span. Watching her at the wheel was like glimpsing the world at creation, like she held a whole universe in her arms. She taught me to use the wheel when I was small, and I can throw a pot as well as the next person, but throwing pots like Mum requires a
strength and stamina that most people don’t have. It’s a gift, or that’s what the gallery man says when he comes on his buying trips.
When the next day came out sunny, Mum headed to her shed straight after breakfast. Sophie bundled the babies up and took them back to her own cabin, so it was only me and Hamish left in the house. I’d been up early to check on the calf and let the chooks out. The water over the bridge was still too high to cross, but it wouldn’t be long now. We’d be able to get out tomorrow.
With the sunshine out, Hamish was restless. I sat at the kitchen table, the old dog at my feet, but Hamish paced around, patting his empty pockets. Endlessly checking the time.
‘I can’t believe you don’t have internet.’
It was the second time he’d said it that morning. I wasn’t sure how to respond. I guess I didn’t know what I was missing.
‘Why’s it so important?’
‘You know, emails and stuff.’
‘Not really.’
‘You don’t know what an email is?’
‘Yeah—I mean, it’s a message sent on a computer.’ I knew that much. ‘But I’ve never sent one.’
‘You’ve never sent an email?’
‘No.’
Hamish stopped moving and stared at me.
‘Come on, you must have sent one once … somewhere along the line?’ He sounded disbelieving. ‘What about at school?’
Because we didn’t have a working computer, I’d done all my school correspondence via plain old mail, but I didn’t want to tell him that.
‘Nup.’ I leaned down and gave the dog a scratch behind her ears. She was a scraggly old thing, smelly but familiar. These days she didn’t ask for much—a pat here and there and a bowl of food. She hardly left the house. I couldn’t remember a time when her big brown body wasn’t sleeping somewhere in a corner—ears twitching, dog-snuffling through her dreams.
‘That’s amazing.’ Hamish shook his head. ‘I would have thought everyone under the age of fifty would have sent an email.’
I was trying not to feel affronted. ‘What about all those people in remote areas?’