I casually step into the water and swim a few strokes away, putting extra space between us. ‘Smoking makes your breath smell and rots your guts,’ I say.
He sucks deeply on the cigarette and laughs. ‘I ain’t kissing anyone soon and my guts are my business.’
I don’t want to talk to this bloke. I could paddle across to the opposite bank and ignore him. And if he tried to follow me by walking around the reservoir, I’d swim back across. Or I could just practise my Italian on him. Stronzo! Faccia a culo!
‘Is the dog yours?’ he asks, and grins.
A chill goes down my spine. My eyes roam to where I last saw Buster. I could call out his name, but that would show this bloke I’m worried.
‘What dog?’ I say.
He flicks the butt into the water; it sizzles on the surface.
‘Easy come, easy go, kid,’ he says.
‘My name’s George,’ I lie.
He laughs. ‘Yeah, sure it is. I’m Rodney. I boost cars and dump them out here, after they’ve been stripped.’
I can’t tell if he’s joking. There are always burnt-out wrecks at the end of the bumpy fire trail. I think of his solid silver lighter.
‘Do you set fire to them?’
He scratches his three-day growth. ‘It gets rid of fingerprints.’
He takes out another cigarette. Before he lights it, he offers the pack across the water.
I shake my head. ‘It’s what killed my dad. It’ll do you in too.’
He spits into the water, a big solid glob that floats on the surface. ‘Don’t tell me your troubles, boy.’
He takes a step closer to the water and then stops, looking down at the hole in his shoe. He shakes his boot and curses. His fingernails are dirty and broken, like he’s been ripping the cars apart with his bare hands. A crudely drawn tattoo of a snake curls up his neck. He looks down at the water and grimaces. He can’t swim. I’m sure of it.
‘Soon you’ll start wheezing and coughing,’ I say.
His eyes look down at the rocks near his feet. Is he going to use me for target practice? I take another step further away, ready to dive under if I need to.
‘It’s an awful death—’
‘Shut up, boy! Shut your fucking mouth before I …’ He glares across the water. His fists are clenched.
I dive under the surface and swim a few metres further out. I can tread water for hours if need be. I open my eyes; the water stings my lids. I wipe them as I look towards the bank. He’s standing there with both hands on his hips.
‘What gives you the right, boy?’ He paces along the edge of the reservoir. I hope he doesn’t see my bag under the ferns. He points at me and swears before taking another drag of his cigarette.
A funnel of smoke drifts away.
I close my eyes and see my dad lying in bed, coughing into a handkerchief, the stubble on his sunken cheeks. He made a sucking sound as he breathed, like the wind blowing through gaps in the wall. I sat beside him for days, my feet up on the mattress, listening to him sleeping. When he woke, I’d hold his hand and tell him how much school I was missing on account of him. That’d always make him smile. He’d ask me to get him some water or a magazine from the shops, offering a few coins he kept in the jar by his bed. Mum would bring him takeaways on a plate. He wouldn’t eat much, passing me his plate and telling me not to waste it.
Rodney says something I can’t hear. When I don’t answer, he walks away from the bank, kicking rocks with his worn-out boots. He picks his way slowly around the edge of the reservoir, trying to act like he’s not interested in where I am.
He picks up a rock and motions to throw it at me. I dive instinctively, swimming deep and listening for the splash above my head. I stay under as long as I can.
When I surface, Buster is standing on the bank, barking at me. My eyes scan the shoreline.
Rodney’s gone.
Buster runs along the shore, his tail wagging furiously. He takes a step into the water, then quickly backs out.
The clouds have blown east, leaving an infinite blue. I float on my back and let my ears dip below the waterline. A fly buzzes around my face but doesn’t land. The crows start up in the gum trees again and Buster keeps barking.
Nearly two years ago, Mum sat in the lounge room watching Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? I sat beside Dad as he slept, listening to Mandy from Chapel Heights win a fortune. The crowd cheered as she answered every question just right, as if it was all planned beforehand. When she won the big one, I stood up to watch as her two kids raced from the audience and hugged her tightly. The cameras zoomed in for a close-up. Mandy hovered somewhere between tears and laughter.
I turned to share the good news with Dad. He was still and lifeless, his mouth sagging open. I touched his cheek and shivered.
In the lounge room, Mum called Mandy a lucky bitch.
I leant over Dad and kissed his forehead. I wanted to whisper how much I loved him, but the words stuck in my throat. It was too late. I’d missed my chance. I kissed him again and hoped he knew.
I went to the bedroom door. Mum turned around to tell me about Mandy’s win. She knew immediately what had happened. She switched off the television. Mandy’s life was changed forever. Mum wrapped her arms around me. We stood in the doorway, between Dad and Mandy.
The priest at the funeral made a speech promising Dad was in a better place, nearer to God. All of Dad’s work mates squirmed in the pews. His place wasn’t in heaven; it was behind the counter at the bottle shop, telling jokes and offering tips on the races that no-one in their right mind would accept.
When the crowd filed out of the church, Mum and I stood either side at the exit, shaking hands. Dad’s boss gripped my shoulders and promised me a job when I finished school – said any son of Bruce Saunders was always welcome at the Railway Hotel.
Mum and I drove home in silence.
For all of my life there were three of us in our house.
Now there were two.
3
Mum arrives home late and throws her handbag and car keys on the kitchen table. They skid to a halt beside my camera, the SD card filled with the evidence of my day. Twenty-four shots of North Katoomba, including the blackened wreck of a Mazda2, just like Mum’s car, on the bush track leading to the reservoir.
Mum walks across and touches my forehead.
‘It’s my stomach, Mum. Remember?’
She removes her hand, kicks off her shoes and opens the cupboard, staring at the shelves. ‘I need to go grocery shopping.’ She sighs.
‘What’s for dinner?’ I ask.
‘There’s leftover pizza in the fridge,’ she says.
‘I gave it to the dogs.’
‘What dogs? We don’t have any dogs.’
‘Geez, Mum, it was so stale, not even the dogs would eat it!’
She removes the clasp from her hair and tosses it on the table.
‘We don’t have any dogs,’ she repeats.
I take a deep breath. ‘It was probably full of bacteria or …’ I can’t think of what else is bad for humans to eat.
‘It’s still food,’ Mum grumbles.
I shrug. It’s been like this since Dad was unable to cook anymore. I still miss his meals. He used to boast that he had one hundred and one sauces for pasta just floating around in his memory. He never used recipes. Like every good cook, he made a hell of a mess as he prepared the meal, pushing the scraps aside or letting them fall on the floor. We’d sit at the table and Dad would open a cheap bottle of wine and pour it like it was French champagne before bringing the steaming bowls of perfectly cooked pasta to us. Mum and I would take turns to clean up after the meal. It was worth it, to taste Dad’s cooking.
Mum grabs her handbag and car keys.
‘Not pizza again, okay?’ I say.
‘Well, I don’t like rice,’ s
he says.
She stands at the door, waiting for me to decide what we should eat.
She’s going to buy fish and chips.
‘Anything but fish and chips, Mum.’
‘Come on, darl. Fish is good for you. You need protein.’
She leaves the front door open and walks to the car. In the kitchen, I fill the sink with hot soapy water and wash the plates and glasses, stacking them on the sink. I look at my reflection in the window. My hair is brown and messy. I have crooked teeth, a broken nose from basketball years ago and blue eyes under heavy eyebrows. Not one piece of my jigsaw-puzzle face sits right.
I pick up my textbooks from the lounge, carry them into my bedroom and toss them on the mattress. Outside my bedroom window is our neighbour’s plum tree, ripe with fruit. A few of the branches lean into our yard. I run out the back door and fill a plastic bag with plums. So what if I take a few from their side?
In the kitchen, I place them in a bowl on the table. I wash one under the tap and take a tentative bite. The flesh is ruby red and the juice dribbles down my chin. Almost as good as Mr Rosetti’s mandarin.
The screen door slams.
‘Luke, sit down and eat before it goes cold,’ Mum says.
She unwraps the fish and chips, sprinkling extra salt over everything. ‘I got Greek salad as well.’ She picks up a piece of cucumber and puts it into her mouth with some chips, to mask the taste.
‘What sort of fish is it?’ I ask.
‘Barramundi,’ she says.
‘Really?’
‘Flake, Luke. Barramundi was twice the price and half the size.’
‘Shark.’
‘Better us eating them than the other way round.’ She smirks and spreads the pile of chips across the paper.
‘Could you not stick your hands in my food, Mum?’
‘They’re too hot, darl, you’ll burn your mouth.’
‘How was work?’ I ask, to change the subject.
Mum rolls her eyes. ‘I’m the slowest person on staff.’
Mum’s employed at one of the tourist hotels near Echo Point. She’s the only Anglo on the cleaning roster. She reckons everyone else comes from the Philippines and has old-fashioned names like Grace, Beatrice and Agnes.
‘The girls help me out whenever I’m behind schedule,’ Mum adds. She spies the bowl of fruit. ‘Did you steal them from Glenda’s tree?’
‘I harvested from our side,’ I say. ‘You could bake a cake.’
She shakes her head. ‘Fruit should be eaten raw.’
‘I miss Dad’s cooking.’
She carefully blows on a chip. ‘Maybe I’ll buy a recipe book,’ she says.
Her fingernails are freshly painted bright red.
‘Are you going out tonight?’ I ask.
She pretends to look meaningfully into the Greek salad before answering. ‘Just for a quick glass.’
We both know what my next question will be.
‘With the girls from work,’ she says. ‘I owe them a few drinks.’
Mum wears her favourite blue dress, with the narrow waist and black belt. And black stockings, high heels and too much foundation. She kisses me on the cheek. I smell lavender.
‘I won’t be late, darl,’ she says.
She waits for me to comment on how she looks. I don’t understand why she dresses up to go to the pub. Why she tries to look her best for her girlfriends. Blake and I do the exact opposite, deliberately choosing odd socks, untucking our shirts, boasting about how long we’ve been wearing the same jocks.
‘You look good, Mum.’
She smiles.
Mum and Dad bought our house a year before I was born, after Dad won a bundle betting on a long-shot trifecta in the Melbourne Cup. Mum made him put a deposit on this shack before he blew it on the next race meeting. They filled the house with furniture from Vinnies, and twelve months later I came along. I was two days late. Mum reckoned I knew what I was getting myself into. I tell her that’s why I’m often late to school; it’s in my genes.
Dad worked at the Railway Hotel in town. ‘The oldest bottle shop attendant in the world,’ he boasted. The pub kept him on because he knew all the customers and never fiddled the till, even when we were short of cash. After his first round of chemo, his boss hired a uni student to do all the lifting while Dad sat behind the cash register. Eventually he had to quit. As a leaving present, all his work mates bought an each-way bet on horse number seven in every race at Moonee Valley on the mid-week card. The ten of them sat around the public bar and watched Dad’s present run last or next-to-last in race after race. ‘Sometimes luck’s like that,’ Dad had said.
I wander aimlessly around the house for what seems like hours. The television promises instant stardom, if only I can sing or dance. There’s no dessert in the fridge, just lots of leftover Greek salad. I could bake a plum cake, but I figure you need more ingredients than fruit.
It’s midnight. Mum and her friends must have found a bar that stays open late. The lights are out at the Grady house. I sit on the lounge and lace up my sneakers before shrugging into a black jacket, grabbing my camera from the table and walking out the back door, which I leave open. No burglar is stupid enough to target our house. On the footpath, I look up and down the street before scampering across to where Mr Grady’s ute is parked on the road.
I turn my camera’s auto-flash off, adjust the settings for low light and snap a few photos of the ute, focusing on the sticker of a football team I hate on the back window. Scattered along the dash are invoice books and a supporter’s cap of the same footy team. On the passenger seat is an esky plastered with stickers of beer and the Southern Cross. A shovel and a few tools are thrown on the tray top.
In their front yard is an aluminium boat on a trailer. Written on the side is its name: Shipfaced. I crouch down low and take a photo of the Grady letterbox with a dent in the side, the boat and the open window in the front room with the curtains flapping in the breeze.
Mum told me Mr and Mrs Grady have been married for twenty-eight years. So long together, even without children.
I hear the grind of tyres on bitumen and slink low behind the ute. A taxi pulls into our driveway. Mum slams the car door and walks unsteadily up our path, high heels in hand.
A dove coos above my head, scaring the heck out of me. The bird sits on the powerline, looking down at me, judging. That’ll teach me for spying on people.
4
I can’t pull the same trick twice, not even on Mum. In the morning, I dress in grey school shirt, matching trousers and a pair of running shoes, instead of regulation black leather. I go to the cupboard in the kitchen and hunt around for a piece of paper.
In my best adult handwriting, I compose a note:
We bought my joggers from Kmart after Dad died. Mum got a new car and I got cheap running shoes. After two years, the shoes are worn and smell of too many sweaty laps of the oval during PE.
I fold the note neatly and search for an envelope. I’d have more chance of finding vegetables than stationery. I stuff the note in my back pocket, grab my schoolbag and head to the front door.
‘See ya, Mum,’ I yell.
Her hairdryer answers from the bathroom.
Outside, Mr Grady’s ute is gone and the front curtains are still open. Mrs Grady, dressed in her nurse’s uniform, waves at me as she walks to the gate. She wears her hair done up in a bun, as tidy as marriage.
‘Did you think of the boat’s name?’ I ask, pointing at the runabout.
Mrs Grady laughs. ‘My husband has a thing for stupid names,’ she says. ‘It was that or Knot Working. Knot spelt with a K.’ She rolls her eyes.
Occasionally Mrs Grady brings us fillets of mackerel her husband has caught on a good day, packed in ice. Mum tries to slip her a few dollars, but she always waves it away. The fish taste as fresh as the ocean.
Blake’s waiting for me on the basketball court at school. He’s tossing the ball from one hand to the other, flicking his wrist so the ball spins sideways. Blake is captain of the school team. He’s the only player who knows the smart way to the basket; the rest of us just chuck and hope for the best. When he sees me walking across the court, he bounces the ball my way. I catch it awkwardly, my schoolbag making me clumsier than usual.
‘You pot one from there and I’ll call Pakula a dipshit to his face,’ he grins.
‘You don’t have a lot of faith in my skill,’ I answer, measuring the distance to the ring. I’ll be lucky to hit the backboard.
‘You got nothing to lose,’ Blake says.
‘Only my pride,’ I answer, before tossing the ball back to him without taking a shot.
Blake sets himself up and loops the ball through the air, straight into the basket.
‘You did that just to show off,’ I say.
‘I did that because I can,’ he answers. ‘Best out of three?’
I shake my head and wander off the court to sit on the retaining wall, tossing my schoolbag at my feet. Blake pots another basket.
I remember looking at the school photo. Blake and I were standing together in the third row while the photographer, a man in rolled-up jeans, riding boots and a cowboy shirt, took ages adjusting the camera on the tripod. Blake kept whispering, trying to convince me to go cross-eyed when the shot was taken. But I was busy studying the photographer’s camera. It must have been worth thousands, just to take photos of a bunch of unwilling schoolkids. What a waste.
A day before my fourteenth birthday, Mum and Dad came home grinning from ear to ear, both a little unsteady on their feet. I wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or the amount of money they’d won at the races. Mum gave me a sloppy kiss and a warm-cheeked hug while Dad stood in the kitchen with his hands behind his back, swaying. After I’d escaped Mum’s clutches, Dad stepped forwards and presented me with a package, wrapped in newspaper and string.
‘Sorry about the paper,’ Mum said. ‘The newsagent was closed by the time we left the races.’
The Bogan Mondrian Page 2