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‘Who said so?’ Anger starts to rise inside me. I remember I started thinking about bush pigs after Melissa and Jake began joking about them. ‘Where did this come from, anyway?’
He doesn’t answer. His steady breathing makes my hand rise and fall as he drifts back to sleep.
Next morning I’m waiting for them at the breakfast table with a pile of bacon on a plate and the spatula jutting from my hand. Melissa and Jake both sit down at the table without speaking, without looking at the bacon. I dish the crispy strips onto buttered toast, slop on scrambled eggs from the frying pan and hand them a plate each.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask. ‘What’s this bush pig business?’
‘Nothing.’ Melissa has her stubborn face on.
Jake’s eyes begin to redden. The circles under his eyes are even darker today. The heat went on and on all night until even the bugs got exhausted and stopped making noise at about four in the morning. There was an occasional crack as the tin roof shucked off the heat of the day and the house settled and sighed. Not only did no one sleep properly, I’m also feeling the effects of my romantic night with Johnny Walker, and I’m in no mood to be messed with.
‘I don’t want silence or sulking or tantrums. Tell me what it’s about. Who called you a bush pig, Jake?’
Silence. My throbbing head. Jake and Melissa stare at their plates. The crispy bacon is wilting, the eggs are getting cold, the toast is going soggy. The urge to shout is rising in me and I want to smother it – I must not become a shrieking single mother.
‘So…’ I lighten my tone of voice. My back is still to the children. ‘I’m not cross. I want to know, that’s all.’
‘I had a project on bush pigs,’ Melissa says.
‘Then why would Jake be upset?’ I turn around to face them, my expression a mask of control and calm.
‘I called him a bush pig.’ Melissa shoves a blackened curl of bacon into her mouth as if that will stop me asking her questions.
‘Is that it, Jake? Did your sister call you a bush pig?’
Melissa’s staring so hard at Jake he’ll start sending off smoke in a minute. He crosses his hands over his lap.
‘I need to go to the toilet,’ he says. Little liar.
‘It’s true! It is, Mum. I did call him a bush pig. I’m sorry.’
Something smells here. I’m sure she’s lying. But she’s as stubborn as her father. I turn to Jake.
‘Lies come back to bite you on the bum. You know that, don’t you, Jake?’
‘I want to go to school now,’ he says for the first and probably last time in his life. ‘Did you put a banana in my lunch?’
The boy is obsessive. I take the banana out of his lunch box and open Melissa’s.
‘I’m not having it!’ she yelps.
‘What is it with bananas and this family?’ I say. ‘They’re good nutritious food and they’re cheap.’
‘They stink!’ Jake and Melissa say together.
By the time I’ve finished the washing-up, Melissa and Jake are ready to head off. I drop them at school and drive on to the Neighbourhood House, sweating in the hot morning sun.
At ten thirty my sister Tammy calls to let me know Mum’s in hospital in Melbourne.
7
‘What’s that noise?’ Jake has an unerring knack for asking awkward questions.
He leans down and peers under the seat between his legs, sits up and cranes his neck, looking around the corridor. I reach over and poke him to be quiet.
‘Mum, your bra is creaking again,’ Melissa whispers crossly.
‘Sshh,’ I tell her.
‘It’s creepy, Mum. You should throw it out.’
‘I’m sure you’d be very happy to have me arriving at school to pick you up with my breasts flopping around.’
‘Oh, disgusting.’ Melissa looks as if she’s about to faint.
‘You’ll have these troubles soon enough, my girl.’
‘No, I won’t, because I’m never buying underwear at the two-dollar shop.’
I was sure I’d never told anyone about buying that bra at the two-dollar shop. It seemed such a bargain until the creaking started. Even with that, I thought it was a waste to throw it away.
‘You can go in now, she’s decent,’ the nurse calls from the doorway of Mum’s room.
Jake runs in first, calling out, ‘Hi Nanna!’ Melissa and I follow more slowly. Jake stops as soon as he gets in the doorway and sees his nanna tiny and yellowish in the big hospital bed. He backs up and presses against me. Melissa stands rigid at our side. Their nanna’s bed is one of four in the room. Two are empty. An ancient man with a liver-spotted head is snoring in the one diagonally opposite.
‘Hi Mum. How are you feeling?’
She turns her gaunt sallow face to me and frowns. ‘Did you bring me a Milk Tray?’
I produce the box of chocolates with a flourish from my handbag and pass it to Melissa. ‘Give these to your grandmother, sweetie.’
‘My name is Melissa,’ my gracious daughter answers.
‘Give me the chocolates, girl,’ my even more gracious mother says. ‘I’ve been waiting for them since eleven o’clock.’
‘Are you sure you can eat those, with your liver?’
My mother reaches for the nurse alarm button.
‘OK,’ I say, taking the box from Melissa and tossing it on to the bed. ‘So how are you feeling?’
I send Jake to the vending machine next to the ward for a packet of chips while Mum tells me about my sisters, Tammy and Patsy. Tammy visited yesterday with her three immaculate children. Tammy brought a hand-knitted bedjacket, five novels, a basket of fruit and best wishes from her husband Rob, who is smarter than Einstein and a better businessman than Bill Gates – apparently Bill could learn a thing or two from Rob about point-of-sale software. One of the children had written a poem for her nanna.
‘Melissa, do you want to read your cousin’s poem?’ I ask sweetly.
Melissa smirks into the magazine she’s picked up.
My other sister, Patsy, visited with her friend. Mum thinks that Patsy’s friend would look so much nicer if she lost some weight and started wearing more feminine clothing. And took care of that facial hair, for God’s sake. Then she might be able to get a man.
‘Speaking of which, have you heard from thingo?’ she asks.
‘Nope,’ I say. ‘So when do you get out of here?’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘We’re in a motel.’
‘It’s horrible,’ Melissa says. ‘The bedspreads smell of cigarettes. And they’re baby-shit yellow.’
‘Melissa!’ I protest, but she gives me the as-if-you’ve-never-said-it-yourself look.
‘You could always stay with Tammy. They have a six-bedroom house.’
They do have plenty of room at the house and we did try staying once, but Tammy and I discovered that these days we can only tolerate two hours of each other’s company before sisterly love turns sour. It became clear that she thinks her wealthy lifestyle exemplifies cultured good taste and mine has degenerated into hillbilly destitution, while I think Tammy is living a nouveau riche nightmare while I represent a dignified insufficiency.
Tammy’s husband rarely comes home because he’s so busy being successful. When he does arrive he’s late, and Tammy’s favourite nickname for him is ‘my late husband’. ‘Allow me to introduce “my late husband”,’ she announces to startled guests. Her husband smiles distantly and gives her a shoulder squeeze like she’s an athlete. Last time the kids and I came down we ate luncheon – not the meat but the meal – at their place on the Sunday. Jake swallowed a mouthful of the smoked trout and dill pasta and before it even reached his stomach he had puked it back into the plate. It looked much the same as before he had chewed it, but the sight of the regurgitation had Tammy’s delicate children heaving and shrieking. ‘Haven’t they ever seen anyone chunder before?’ Melissa remarked scornfully on the way home.
My mother turns her attention to Melissa. ‘And you, young lady, are you doing well at school?’
Melissa looks at her grandmother with an arched eyebrow.
‘Yes, Grandmother,’ she answers.
‘I won’t have any granddaughter of mine being a dunce.’
Melissa turns her head and gives me a dead stare. I can’t believe she’s only eleven.
‘All right,’ I intervene briskly, ‘let’s talk about you, Mum. How are you feeling? When do you get out?’
‘I’m yellow, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
‘Can I get a packet of chips too?’ Melissa says, so I give her some money and tell her to find Jake while she’s at it.
‘Good.’ My mother pushes herself upright in the bed as soon as Melissa has left the ward. ‘Now the children are gone we can talk. I’m going to sell up and move to Queensland, the Gold Coast. Albert’s bought a house on the canals with a swimming pool and a sauna. My liver’s packing up. I don’t know how I got this hepatitis thing, but I can only guess it was from your father all those years ago. That lying cheat. Apparently it’s contagious. You and the kids had the test like I told you?’
‘Yes, we’re fine. Who’s Albert?’ I am incredulous.
‘He’s from the bingo. He’s no great catch, I admit that, but who else is offering me a house in the sunshine?’
‘Not the one with the five Chihuahuas? The one you used to make jokes about?’
‘Having those dogs doesn’t actually mean he’s homosexual. He’s quite virile for an older gentleman.’
‘Oh, Mum, enough detail. And why can’t you say this in front of the kids?’
‘You need to tell them in your own time. I know they’ll be upset I’m leaving, but when they get older they’ll understand.’
‘I’ll break it to them gently.’ I don’t want to point out that we only come down to Melbourne at Christmas and her birthday anyway.
‘Tammy and Patsy’ll miss you,’ I say. ‘And the junior poets.’
My mother almost smiles before she says, ‘I love Tammy’s children dearly, you know that, Loretta.’
‘I know.’
‘Anyway, when I sell, I’m giving you a few thousand dollars. Don’t tell Tammy or Patsy. You need it, they don’t.’
From down the corridor comes a long howl, followed by grievous sobbing.
‘They torture people in here, you know,’ Mum says. ‘The nights are hell. The screaming and moaning, it’s like being inside a horror film.’
I have a bad feeling that I recognize that howl. But rather than spoil the moment, I think about the good things.
‘A few thousand dollars?’ I say.
‘Depending on the price I get for the flat. You’ll get something, anyway. Five or six thousand maybe.’
A holiday for one – or two? – in Bali, I think. Or an air conditioner. Or both! A proper haircut and blonde tips! A bra that doesn’t creak! Champagne and sloppy French cheese and pâté! Silk knickers!
‘I expect you’ll want to spend it on the kids, but keep a couple of dollars for yourself, won’t you. You could use a bit of smartening up. Any men on the horizon?’
‘Actually,’ I say, ‘there’s a rather good-looking mechanic who definitely has eyes for me. He keeps himself quite clean, too.’
‘As opposed to that grubby old junk man you hang around with?’
‘Yes, as opposed to Norm, who has his own special standard of hygiene.’
‘And has this bloke asked you out?’
‘Not yet.’ Needless to say, he hasn’t recognized yet that he has eyes for me. I wonder if I am talking about Merv Bull? Have I developed a crush? Am I becoming Helen?
From down the corridor, the howling and sobbing is growing louder. I can’t avoid it now.
‘You need to look for your mother,’ I can hear a woman telling Jake. ‘Open your eyes, dear.’
‘Loretta, you should give up that political hocus-pocus you’ve got yourself into. Put your energy into finding a partner and a father for those children.’
‘The Save Our School Committee is precisely for “those children”. Anyway, we’ve had a win. The minister for education’s coming to Gunapan in a few weeks. We’ve got a chance to change his mind about closing the school.’
‘Is he married?’
Jake’s sobbing, very close now, startles awake the man in the bed across from Mum. He raises his spotty head and shouts, ‘You buggers! You buggers! Get out of it, you buggers!’
‘Shut up,’ my mother calls over at him and he stops immediately.
‘Nutcase,’ she says to me. ‘Every time he wakes up he thinks the Germans are coming for him.’ Mum lets her head drop back on to the pillow and stares at the ceiling. ‘The Gold Coast. I can’t wait.’
‘So when do you go?’
