18
Sloane’s Breather
“It’s no use sitting there moaning to me, Dick,” said Karen grimly. “If you’re that worried about Sloane, do something about it!”
“It’s just that she’s—”
“YES! We KNOW! Shut up about it and DO something, Dick!”
Dick’s mutter of “sitting around moping all day” died away. He drooped.
Karen took a deep breath, turned on her heel, and marched out.
He came into her study about half an hour later and said meekly: “I’ve made some tea, if you’re hungry.”
“Cold pork sandwiches, would this be?” replied Karen drily, not looking up from her computer. –That had been his last effort. He’d found a so-called German delicatessen that did this revolting greasy, fatty cold roast pork. Very thinly sliced, true. But six thin slices of greasy, fatty pork piled together in one of Dick’s sandwiches made a very thick slice of greasy, fatty pork, didn’t they?
“No, vegetarian lasagna with a salad,” he said meekly
In that case it'd be one of Sloane’s horrible, over-salted frozen lasagnas. Whether they called themselves Lean Cuisine or not, vegetarian or not, they were all the same: really horrible, tasting of nothing but salt and cardboard. Dick’s usual solution to this was to slather them with grated full-fat Tasty cheese.
“Thanks, love,” she managed. “I am quite hungry. Is Sloane home yet?”
“No, tonight’s the night she has to work late at that barmy temp job—that other barmy temp job,” he corrected himself sourly.
Karen sighed. Sloane currently had two temp jobs. The main one was almost sensible in that it was office work, three days a week, for which she was vastly over-qualified, for a bloke with an Italian name, Bill Br-something, who Dick had a suspicion, which he hadn’t failed to voice, had only taken her on because he fancied her—he was married, of course, they all were, weren’t they?—and tonight’s one was even madder, helping out for peanuts at some so-called “tapas bar” that specialised in overpriced drinks and horrid fancy nibbles for the trendy set who didn’t fancy hurrying home after work to a nice hot tea like ninety-nine percent of the population. They’d been looking desperately for someone who wouldn’t mind working at an hour when all the coffee bars were closed and the trendy little restaurants weren’t yet open, so bloody Gail from RightSmart had thought of Guess Who.
“What is the time?” she asked.
“Just on eight,” replied Dick meekly.
Karen had the grace to gulp. She herself had been working at home this week—the firm didn’t mind where the work got done so long as it got done, and it saved on travelling time—but poor old Dick had been slaving away in at uni; he was a full professor and H.O.D. now, with piles of administrative shit on top of his teaching load. “Well, I suppose she’ll be home soon, but let’s not wait for her, eh?”
“Righto,” agreed Dick thankfully. “I thought we could have those tinned pears for pudding.”
That was a very nice brand of tinned pears and she’d been saving them for a special— Oh, what the Hell! What special occasions were they gonna have, after all? Given that Ingrid and Ward’s Baby James’s very recent christening had been fully catered and that Kym’s birthday, which was next on the Manning calendar, hadn’t been celebrated at his parents’ home by the birthday boy himself in living memory—
“That sounds good,” she agreed. “With ice cream, eh?”
Dick brightened visibly. “Right, you’re on! Come on, then, it should just be ready to come out of the oven!”
Well, good, an oven one was marginally better than a microwave one, and it also meant the microwave wouldn’t be spattered with exploded grated Tasty cheese. Karen got up and came and had it.
“Tasted all right, didn’t it?” said Dick on a hopeful note as, Sloane’s portion of the lasagna having been carefully put on a plate in the fridge, he scraped out its container.
Actually it had tasted slightly better than usual. “Yes, it was good, Dick. Was it a different brand?”
Dick looked blankly at the foil container but as of course he’d removed the lid in order to smother the thing with cheese this gave no indication of provenance. “Uh—dunno. Did look a bit different, yeah. Oh, well, good: she must’ve found a better brand!”
Something like that, mm. Karen just nodded peaceably.
Over the pears and ice cream—she’d been mentally planning vanilla but Dick chose chocolate, so she gave in and ate it, not asking how it had got into their freezing compartment because she knew what the answer’d be—she said cautiously: “Dick, I know these temp jobs are stupid, but I suppose they are giving Sloane some sort of a breather.”
“Maybe, but in between them she’s sitting around moping,” he said glumly.
Actually she wasn’t the only one. “Mm. Well, I was thinking. You’ve got this bloody stupid mid-year break coming up soon—why the purblind Powers-That-be imagine the middle of July’s a better time for it than August God only knows—”
“Change for the sake of change, gotta justify their vastly inflated administrative salaries,” explained Dick promptly.
“Yeah, you’re not wrong. Anyway, instead of playing with your pet computer all the break, why not get Sloane away? Take her over to SA, why don’t you?”
Dick’s jaw sagged. “Have you been totally blind and deaf to everything that’s been going on for the last—”
“YES! I mean no, you ape,” she said limply as he collapsed in startled sniggers. “Look, stop laughing, Dick! There’s no need to go anywhere near Lallapinda, in fact you don’t even need to breathe the word, just go to the beach house. Have a few barbies on the beach—stuff yourself with greasy pork sausages to your heart’s content,” she added drily.
“To me heart’s artery-hardening, isn’t it?” replied Dick, looking smug. “Ye-ah... But there’s Muwullupirri, as well. I mean, I dunno exactly what happened between her and Cal—“
“Not for want of trying, though,” replied Karen acidly. “Was that poor old Pete you had on the blower last Saturday?”
“Uh—just a chat,” replied Dick uneasily.
Yeah. A chat at crack of dawn when he thought her and Sloane were still asleep. Well, Sloane had been, thank God—no doubt she was aware that her father was nosy, but Karen didn’t fancy any of the kids finding out just what sort of a nosy, interfering old bugger he was turning into in his old age, thanks.
“Yeah. Well, Muwullupirri’s miles away, Dick, there’s no need to mention it, either, and no reason to think you’ll see hide or hair of any of them.”
“No-o...”
“Well, will Cal want to come over? No!”
“No, but Old Mr W. might— No, he’s getting too creaky,” said Dick with a sigh. “Far too much of a ride for him these days, and Pete was saying he doesn’t even fancy the four-wheel-drive any more.”
Oh, Lor’, he sounded really depressed. Karen bit her lip. “Um, you could always nip over to see the old boy, Dick. There’d be no need for Sloane to go.”
“No need for Sloane to go where?” asked a suspicious voice from the doorway, and its parents leapt in their chairs.
“Uh—actually we were wondering about SA for the mid-year break,” muttered Dick, as his partner-in-life was just sitting there mumchance.
“It’ll be cold, Dad,” warned Sloane.
“Yeah, but I’ll get the wetb—”
“Wetback going!” groaned Sloane and Karen in chorus. They looked at each other, and laughed.
“Well, I will, it’ll be a project for the break!” decided Dick with relish, rubbing his hands. “That is, if ya fancy it, love?” he said to his daughter.
Sloane blinked. “Me?”
“Yes: I can’t get away,” said Karen quickly.
“You mean you don’t want to freeze your arse off while him and Kym fight over the ruddy wetback!” replied Sloane with feeling. “Uh—but there’ll be nothing to do, Dad.”
“That’s the point. Take it easy, give you a breather, eh? Bring a few books, s’pose you haven’t forgotten how to read, after all those years of lady exec stuff? Or tell ya what, you could do some scrapbooking!”
Karen’s jaw dropped. “What?” she croaked.
“You know,” Dick pursued happily: “like what you used to do, Sloane!”
“Scrapbooking? Dad, I haven’t done any of that since I was about seventeen!”
“Sixteen,” muttered Karen faintly.
“Was I, Mum? There you are, then!” said Sloane with a laugh. “You’re mad, Dad! It’s—it’s mindless!”
“It’s all these grandkids, he’s going barmy in his old age,” said Karen, pulling herself together with a great effort. The next thing you knew the bloody idiot’d be reminding the poor girl that she’d cast Cal as the groom and herself as the bride in her bloody scrapbook! “Wash your hands, Sloane, and have some tea. We saved some lasagna for you: I’ll just bung it in the oven.”
“Use the microwave, darl’,” said Dick, momentarily diverted.
“No, thanks, we don’t want it smothered in—“
“Exploded cheese!” finished Sloane with a laugh. “Thanks, Mum.” She vanished.
“Idiot,” said Karen shortly to her misguided helpmeet as she retrieved Sloane’s plate from the fridge.
“Eh?”
“Scrapbooking?”
“Aw.” Dick stuck out his chin. “Well, why not? Be something to do!”
“On those cold winter nights when the silly wetback stove’s still not working and you and Kym between you have managed to make the generator break down again so there’s no electricity? Yeah.”
“He reckons it's working good now,” said Dick valiantly. “Um, well, he’s not living there, him and Andy are in Nearby Bay over the workshop, but...”
Karen sniffed loudly, and bent to the oven.
“Well, I could have a good look at it,” he offered weakly.
She straightened. “Well, yes, you could. But for pity’s sake, don’t mention M or L again!” she hissed.
“M or L?” he echoed foggily. “Oh! Muwu— Uh, no, all right. But I might nip over there by meself.”
“I would,” agreed Karen placidly.
Dick’s jaw sagged but he made a valiant recover. “Righto, then!”
Mm. Now he only had to persuade Sloane to go with him, didn’t he? It was no use her, Karen, sticking her oar in: Sloane always had been her dad’s daughter. It’d be up to Dick.
“He managed it,” she reported limply to Ingrid, bouncing Baby James gently on her knee.
“I thought he would,” replied the new mother placidly, not looking up from her knitting pattern. “Sloane always has liked going round with Dad.”
“Yes, but—” Karen gave up. “Yes, well, if anyone was gonna persuade her, it was him. Not me or you.”
“Mm,” she agreed vaguely. “Oh, I see! Purl three, and then— Yeah.” She knitted carefully.
“I didn’t know you could knit,” said Karen limply.
“Mm? Yeah, Grandma taught me.”
Karen winced. “Right.” She watched her for a while, holding Baby James against her shoulder and now and then patting him gently on the back.
“He has burped, ya know,” said Ingrid into the knitting.
“Mm? Oh—yes. Well, you can go bye-byes, Baby James,” she decided, settling him in her arms. He immediately began to whinge.
“He likes being held against your shoulder, Mum,” said Ingrid into the knitting.
“Righto, then.” Karen hoisted the baby again and the whingeing stopped.
“Or in one of those holders: you know, strapped to your front. Then you can get on with stuff.”
“I always found they got in the way, like that.”
Ingrid flicked a dry glance at her. “Story of your life, Mum.”
“That’s a bit unfair, Ingrid,” said Karen weakly.
Ingrid laughed. “Sorry! It was irresistible! No, well, I should talk, Maria Morrison does all the housework for me, I’m spoilt rotten.”
“Lucky you,” replied Karen, smiling. “Is her name really Morrison?”
“I don’t think so—but she is Guatemalan, not Mexican, she’s told me that. But I think she’s here illegally, all right. Morrison’s definitely his name, but I don’t think they’re legally married. His daughter came round to help Maria the other week—she is his daughter, but not hers, you see—and she let it slip that her mum’s still married to him because she’s a Catholic.”
“How do these people manage it?” Karen wondered idly. “I mean, you could sort of come at it if this was America. But out here?”
“I suppose she came out on a visitor’s visa and then just sank into the woodwork, Mum.”
“But the whole of Australia is wound up in red tape! You can’t even work without a Tax File Number!”
“Yes, you can,” the long-time temp corrected her. “If you’re employed legally your employer has to take out wads in tax, though. But if you take someone on to do housework you’re not even a legal employer, see? You don’t pay their PAYG.”
“What?” said Karen limply.
“Yes. Interesting, isn’t it?” said Ingrid, ceasing to knit and staring thoughtfully into space. “It’s a facet of the woman-is-less-than-man thing. Women’s work doesn’t count, you see. It’s a legal loophole.”
“So—so she's been earning all these years and never had to pay any tax or get a TFN?” fumbled the computer programmer.
“Yep.”
“Well, hooray for Maria Not-Morrison!” said Karen with a laugh.
“Yep! Shall we have some afternoon tea?” she suggested on a hopeful note.
Karen glanced guiltily at the clock. “Well, if you like. Just a cup of tea, dear.’
Ingrid wasn’t listening to her, she was getting up and eagerly setting out the sponge topped with whipped cream and passionfruit and the chocolate lamingtons. The latter, as both parties were aware, were a weakness of Karen’s—largely because, the whole family tacitly recognised, Grandma Andersen despised these easy-peasy good old Aussie standbys and wouldn’t have them in the house.
When the now lightly snoring James had been put into his bassinet, and Karen had had a cup of tea and two lamingtons and let Ingrid foist a slice of sponge on her she said on a guilty note: “I’d better walk home, I think. –This seems to be what ruddy Kitten’s stuffing her face with these days.”
“Mm?” replied Ingrid through her second piece of cake. “Yum! I suppose these passionfruit are from the Territory.”
“Not bottled, then?”
“No, Mum, they’re fresh,” she said patiently. “So you’ve heard from Aunty Ingrid?”
“Yeah: she rang me, would you believe, to earbash me about Kitten’s diet. I dunno what she thinks I can do from here! Not that I could ever do anything to control her when she was right here.”
Ingrid licked cream off her upper lip. “If ya really wanna know—and for pity’s sake don’t let on to anyone I told you—she thinks if she puts the weight back on she might hook Hugo Kent for good.”
Karen’s jaw sagged. “Eh?”
Ingrid had the grace to swallow. “Shit, I’m sorry, Mum, of course you don’t know! He’s—”
“I have worked out he’s Rose Anne’s father, actually,” said Karen grimly.
Ingrid swallowed. “Ward said he thought you must of.”
“Given that it requires only elementary arithmetic and a knowledge of the human gestation period, I should think he might!”
“Mm,” she agreed unhappily.
“Hasn’t it occurred to any of you girls that the poor bastard might have a right to know he’s a father?” said Karen angrily.
“Mm.”
Karen looked at her downcast face, and sighed. “I’m sorry, Ingrid, you’re not responsible for any of Kitten’s bloody shenanigans.
“No. The thing is, Ward thinks it’d never work out between them if one of us tells him, Mum!”
“No,” she admitted, swallowing.
“And, um, well, he was generous enough, but he did treat her pretty shabbily, really, Mum. Not like a—a human being with as many rights as him.”
Karen sighed. “Ingrid, if a girl behaves like a pretty, brainless little doll, that’s how a man’s gonna treat her! –Isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” she admitted, grimacing.
“She’s brought it all on herself,” said Kitten’s mother grimly.
“Well, not all; I mean, there were two of them involved: why didn’t he take precautions?”
“I imagine that was because Kitten said she was on the Pill when she wasn’t,” replied Karen sourly. “Lying’s second nature to her, and always has been. –For pity’s sake put that cake out of its misery, I can’t stand the way it’s sitting there begging to be eaten!”
“What? Oh!” Smiling, Ingrid served her with a second giant wedge of cream-and passionfruit-laden sponge. “It is mostly air!” she said gaily.
“Hah, hah,” replied Karen indistinctly through it. “Boy, that’s better!” she admitted, having swallowed.
“Mum, are you eating, with Dad away?” demanded Ingrid baldly.
“Yes, of course! I had a lovely salad last night!”
“You’d better stay for dinner,” she decided grimly.
“Not if it’s gonna be more cholesterol, thanks.”
“No, it isn’t, I’m watching Ward’s diet carefully. A stir-fry, he likes steak so it’ll be that, but only about a quarter of what he’d guts if it was the usual Aussie slab of steak, with loads of veggies, and bean-curd noodles that he’ll assume are rice ones,” replied Ingrid cheerfully. “So you can stay.”
“Um, yes; well, thanks, dear,” agreed Karen on a weak note. “But just mind you eat plenty of the steak, it's you that needs the iron, you know, not him.”
“Yeah, sure. Um, so you agree, then?” she said cautiously.
“Yes, I just said so. It’ll be nice to eat something I haven’t had to make myself.”
“Not that, Mum. I mean, that we shouldn’t let on to Hugo Kent,”—she swallowed involuntarily—“that he’s Rose Anne’s father, until Kitten’s had a chance to tell him.”
“She’s had plenty— No, well, all right,” she said heavily. “Isn’t he surrounded by minders, though? How does she imagine she’s gonna get near him, fat or not?”
“Not fat, Mum. Just plumper. Well, I dunno, but it’s got something to do with going to Scotland this summer. –Their summer, I mean!”
“Scot— I’m not asking!” decided Karen with a wince.
“No. Actually, Ward’s gonna tell him if Kitten doesn’t manage it: after all, Rose Anne’ll be one soon, it isn’t fair to let it drag on. But he said we oughta give her the chance.”
“No, well, at least Ward can actually speak to him: I can just see the minders springing on any letter any of us wrote and shredding it,” admitted Karen.
“Mm. Um, did you think of writing to him, then?”
“Of course I did, the poor man!”
Ingrid swallowed. “Right.”
“It’s about time,” said Karen grimly, “that bloody Kitten woke up to the fact that men are human, too!”
“Yes, well, I think she may be improving, Mum,” said Ingrid valiantly.
Karen sniffed and stared out of the plate-glass windows. “Sloane as well,” she added.
“Uh—yes.” Ingrid debated pointing out that Sloane was really miserable, and decided against it: Mum was looking pretty down. “Hang on, is that James wailing?” she said, lying in her teeth.
Karen shot to her feet. “You stay there, I’ll check on him!” She rushed out.
Ingrid sat back, smiling. “You can go into the fridge, Maria can have the rest of you,” she said to the cake. “I think you’ve done your bit!”
Over on the coast of South Australia, miles from anywhere, or, as Kym happily put it, miles from nowhere, Dick Manning wasn’t being served sponge cake, or anything like it. “What is this?” he said weakly, having tasted it.
“Soup,” said Kym helpfully.
Sloane glared. “Minestrone.”
“Eh?” replied Dick.
“Soup,” explained Kym helpfully. “Beans and stuff. –Has it got any meat in it?” he asked his sister mildly.
“No! Eat it, it’s full of vegetables, it’s good for you! Or alternatively, don’t eat it, no-one invited you anyway.”
“Vegetables,” recognised Dick glumly, poking at it with his spoon.
Kym took a slice of bread, tore it in half and dumped both pieces in his bowl. “Try some bread, Dad,” he advised, squashing it into the soup with his spoon.
“That improves it, does it?” asked Dick wanly.
Kym tasted it, looking thoughtful. “Uh,” he decided, swallowing. “No,” he clarified. “Bulks it out a bit, though.”
Sighing, Dick took a slice of bread, tore it in half and dumped it in his soup bowl.
“All right,” said Sloane grimly: “get on over to Nearby Bay tomorrow, Dad, and buy some meat, if you’re that desperate.”
“Or alternatively,” noted Kym mildly, “get on out and shoot a kanga.” He sniggered slightly. “Or one of those new cattle of Cal’s! Dunno what they are. Reckons he’s gonna breed from them. But I don’t think ’e’ll be doing much breading from them half dozen steers!” He went into a prolonged sniggering fit.
Dick goggled at him. “You’re not trying to tell us he bought them by mistake, are you?”
Kym wiped his eyes. “Eh? No,” he said weakly. “Well, we don’t think so. Nev Bailey, he thinks he bought them to eat.”
“Would that be cheaper than getting over to Nearby Bay and using the supermarket?” he wondered. “Given there’s him, the old people, and Pete and Hughie?”
Sloane had been ignoring them, with a lofty expression on her face as of one surrounded by tiny babbling kiddies, but at this she blinked and said: “What happened to Quinn?”
Kym took another piece of bread. “His sister’s married a bloke up the Northern Territory that’s managing a place up there—not far from Katherine, I think—anyway, somewhere up there—and he took off to give them a hand. Cal took on a bloke from the Big Smoke called Darren, for a bit, only he was useless. But a bloke from the Department of Ag come up from Adelaide and give ’im a lot of advice on breeding, and there’s a new vet in Nearby Bay that’s not bad, so he reckons they can manage.”
“Is it still the Department of Ag? Thought the cretinous pollies had renamed it yet again?” said Dick hazily.
Kym shrugged. “Dunno, Dad. Probably. But it’s still the Department of Ag round these here parts! Anyway, if ya suss out the supermarket meat prices, it probably is cheaper to buy it on the hoof.”
“What? Oh,” said Dick lamely, recalled to the ostensible subject of the conversation. “Yeah. Um, well, could go tomorrow?” He looked at his daughter hopefully.
“It’s up to you, Dad,” she said tiredly. “You are ostensibly an adult. Go if you want to.” She got up, collected up their empty soup bowls, and dumped them in the sink.
“Is that all?” asked Kym sadly.
“Yes,” replied his hard-hearted sister. “There would have been seconds for me and Dad if you hadn't turned up.”
“I’ll have some bread, then,” he decided pacifically, taking another slice. “Any jam?”
“No, Dad ate it.”
“Any pudding?” asked Dick.
“Not unless you made some, Dad.” Sloane went out on this.
Immediately Kym got up and looked in the elderly high-shouldered fridge. “Nothing,” he reported.
“No. Well, there was some ice cream but that freezing compartment won’t even take a two-litre carton, hadda buy one of them fancy tubs, the small ones, and spoon it into a plastic thingo, and at that it wouldn’t all fit.”
“Good excuse to eat it, then!” replied Kym cheerfully. He peered, but the minute freezing compartment contained only one plastic thingo, empty. He opened cupboard doors, found the Vegemite, and sat down at the table with it.
Dick took a slice of bread and spread it with marg. “Hurry up with that Vegemite. What happened to that chest freezer your mother made me buy about ten years back?”
“Hadda sell it,” replied Kym through bread and Vegemite.
“Aw, right. –Shoulda asked me to wire ya some dough, ya tit.”
“No, well, see, Ma Freeman from Nearby Bay, she come over and had a look at it and said it’d be just the thing for their Mandy—dunno if you’d remember her, Dad, Mandy Baxter, she was, only that clown Shane Baxter, he walked out on her and the kid about two years back.”
“Took the freezer, did ’e? Or did she have to sell everything when she was on her uppers?”
“Nah. Well, yeah, only she moved back to her mum and dad’s place, so it didn’t matter. Only thing is, she’s taken up with Dave Spurling.” He eyed his father cautiously as he imparted this last piece of intel.
“Uh-huh,” said Dick without much interest through a huge mouthful of bread and Vegemite. “Uh—hang on!” he gasped, choking.
Helpfully Kym bounced up and pounded him on the back.
“Thanks!” he gasped. “Give us a beer, for the love of Mike!”
Having just inspected the fridge, Kym was able to remind him: “There isn’t any.”
“Y— Oh. Sorry, old mate, forgot. It’s on the back porch.”
Looking mildly surprised, Kym got up and opened the back door. So it was. “You hiding it from her?” he asked mildly, having retrieved two cans.
“No,” said Dick feebly. “Just forgot to bring it in.”
“Boy, she musta been in a bad mood,” he noted, opening the back door again, bringing it in, and stowing it in the bottom of the fridge,
“Y—um, yeah, she was. –Is,” Dick corrected himself gloomily. He drank beer, and sighed. “Look, before I go completely barking mad, tell me it isn’t ole Dave Spurling ya mean!”
Kym eyed him tolerantly. “I could tell ya, but it wouldn’t be the truth.”
“Ole Dave? With young Mandy?”
“She isn’t that young, she'd be about the same age as Sloane.”
“Yeah, and Dave Spurling’d be sixty if a day! And last I heard there was a Mrs Spurling, large and life and twice as bloody natural! She mighta nagged ’im half to death, and he mighta spent most of ’is time keeping well out of her way, but she was there, all right! What happened to her?”
Kym shrugged. “Come into some dough from her old man—you’ll remember him, Dad, ole Mr Wells, meanest ole bastard this side of the Black Stump, never spent a red razzoo in ’is lifetime, so it all come to ’is kids. So she told poor ole Dave ’e was a spineless turd, words to that effect, might of been nerd, and took off to live with her sister in Queensland somewhere.”
After quite some time Dick managed to croak: “Every cloud has a silver lining, eh? Likewise, it’s an ill wind. Boy, old Mr Wells, eh? Always felt like he was a fixture in Nearby Bay. Talk about the end of an era!”
“Yeah,” agreed Kym kindly. “Won’t be the same without him behind the counter at The Junction servo, telling you the Coke machine’s run out and ’e can’t change a fifty, eh? Mind you, poor ole George Wells, that’s really been running the bloody place for years, he never got the business, only got an equal share with them three girls.”
“Right: Enid Spurling, and Chrissie, that’s the one in Queensland, eh? And uh—oh, yeah,” said Dick, beginning to grin. “Louise. She come up for the funeral?”
“Yep: hung all over with bangles and earrings and I dunno what, the French scent coming off ’er at a hundred metres,” reported Kym with relish. “Ole Dan Cooper, he was there with Pat, and the poor old fella got one sniff of ’er and headed for the high hills. Stayed away for two days solid, Dan thought he’d lost him. –Well, she ponged to high Heaven to a human nose,” he said as his father goggled at him, “what the Hell must she of been like to a dog’s?”
“Oh! Yes, of course, old Pat. Still going strong then, is ’e?”
“Pretty good, actually. This new vet, he’s given him some stuff for the arthritis and done a bit of—true’s as I sit here contemplating this hollow feeling in me middle—a bit of acupuncture on ’im, and he’s been a new dog. Dug a hole under the fence and got into the neighbour’s chook run. Hasn’t tried that one on for years.”
“Well, good,” said Dick on a weak note. “You’d better finish the bread, if you’re still hungry.”
Kym looked hopeful, but replied: “Want some?”
“No, I’m right,” lied Dick.
“Righto, then!” Kym seized the remains of the loaf.
“Um, so if Enid Spurling’s pushed off to Queensland,” said Dick slowly—Kym nodded round the bread—“um, and Mandy’s taken up with ole Dick,”—Kym nodded again—“why the Hell would she need a freezer? Given that Enid made him buy everything that opens and shuts and once it got more than two years old, buy a shinier—”
“Aw! That! Nah, she cleaned ’im out, ya see. Waited till he went off for a weekend’s fishing with his mates, then she got a huge furniture van in and took the lot. Dunno where to. All the way to Queensland, for all anyone round here knows.”
“Or to Adelaide, to the auction rooms,” noted Dick drily.
“Could of,” agreed Kym through a huge mouthful of bread and Vegemite.
“I see,” said Dick weakly. “So him and Mandy hadda start again from scratch?”
“You goddit,” agreed Kym comfortably.
Mm. Sort of. Boy, had Kym taken to country town life, or what? Well—reverted to type, possibly? Dick finished his beer and got a second round in.
“Um, listen, old mate,” he said cautiously after Kym had sunk half of his, “you don’t, um, regret losing Lallapinda, do you?”
Kym lowered his can and gaped at him. “Eh? You been talking to her?” He jerked his head in the direction of the beach house’s shabby lounge-room.
“No, she’s given up on that theme, thank God. No, um, I just thought—well, you seem to like the life out here, and, um, if we still had the place, you could be managing it.”
“I like boatbuilding,” said Kym mildly.
Dick waited but that seemed to be it. “Well, good,” he said weakly. “Um, you gonna stay the night?”
“Might as well.”
“That’s the last of the bread, so it’ll be porridge for breakfast,” he warned.
“Haven’tcha got any cornflakes?”
Dick looked sour. “No, your sister reckons they’re full of sugar and salt.”
“Getting as bad as Mum,” he noted without animus. “Okay, porridge it is! –Want another beer?”
Why the Hell not? Gratefully Dick accepted a third can.
It wasn’t porridge for breakfast, because Kym got up early and caught some nice fresh fish—which he thoughtfully cleaned outside, even though it was freezing out there. They both looked and smelled so good once he’d got them in the pan that even Sloane had some.
“This is the life!” beamed Dick, over his second coffee.
“Yeah, pretty good, eh?” agreed his son. “You oughta give the Big Smoke away, Dad—get on over here for good.”
“Uh—your mother’d go mad with boredom, stuck out here.”
“Leave her behind,” he suggested mildly.
“Kym!” snapped Sloane, turning very red.
“Well, heck, Sloane, how many years they been married? –But if you don’t wanna leave her behind, why can’t she bring her bloody computer and work from here? I mean, the place needs insulating throughout, not saying it’s as warm as your dump in Sydney, even the wetback isn’t gonna fix that,”—Sloane at this gave him a bitter look, but he ignored it—“but you and me could do that, Dad, easy! Andy’d give us a hand, we’re not that busy at the yard.”
“Um, well, she’s used to city life... Well, I can’t honestly say she likes it, but she’s used to it... No, well, if the flaming federal government’d get off its arse and give the bush a decent Broadband service, she probably would come, yeah, but you’re lucky to be able to send a simple email of a dozen words from here, she’d never be able to send her files, Kym!”
“Um, put them on a disc, send them by post? Actually, if you're gonna drive in to Nearby Bay to post something, might as well take it over to the airstrip and get it on a plane, Murray Keating’d take it—”
“To Port Augusta,” said Dick heavily. “Yes. That’s further from Sydney, if you’d look at the map!”
“Yeah, but Murray could shove it on the plane for Adelaide, see, and—”
“Too many variables,” said Dick firmly. “Besides, I don’t actually wanna retire, just yet.”
“Well, think of it for a few years further down the track, Dad!” he urged.
“In the meantime,” noted Sloane coldly, “think about actually fixing that wetback stove, instead of just thinking about it!”
“Um, yeah. Well, buy a few bits and pieces at Nearby Bay!” Dick decided happily, rubbing his hands. “Start on it soon as we get back, okay?”
Sloane looked fixedly at her brother, but he merely said in his usual mild tones: “Okay.”
It was all like that. Kym left his rusty ute at the beach house and they all drove into Nearby Bay together. Dad and Kym yacked on about nothing all the way there. And spent hours in the flaming hardware store, of course. And wouldn’t make any decisions about anything at the supermarket, except for decisions about huge slabs of unwanted beer in the giant liquor section—it was one of those Woolie’s where the liquor section was bigger and shinier than the actual supermarket.
Sloane finally managed to drag them back to the meat section. Dick thought the giant pieces of pork looked good. Kym agreed with him. Sloane thought they looked like twenty percent fat, minimum. Kym agreed with her, too. Dick then thought the fattiest rolled beef roasts looked good. Kym agreed with him. Sloane thought they looked like twenty percent fat, too. Kym agreed with her. Dick then thought the overpriced legs of so-called lamb looked good, twenty percent fat though they were. Sloane pointed out they must have been deep frozen for months if they were lamb, or even if they were hogget! Kym agreed with her, but pointed out that they looked good, though. Dick thought wistfully that they looked like the lamb roasts his mother used to cook. Sloane was just opening her mouth to rubbish this one soundly when a cosy voice said from behind them: “My goodness, it is you, Dick! Yes, your dear mother used to do a lovely lamb roast—with all the trimmings, of course! And Sloane! How are you, dear?”
Mrs Wainwright, who else?
After that it was all over bar the shouting, and none of them got to do any of that. They didn’t want to buy any of that so-called beef, they’d better have a nice lamb roast—no, this one, Sloane, dear, a much better colour—and some potatoes and pumpkin, of course, and these days the supermarkets always had sweet potatoes, they were lovely roasted, too, though Cal’s father claimed they were newfangled, tolerant laugh—and of course, cosy laugh, Dick never had liked roast parsnip! Etcetera. But they mustn’t waste their money on awful supermarket beef, because of course Muwullupirri could send them some over! The pork, Kym, dear? It didn't bear thinking about, what you boys had been eating, and you must promise to come and see us at Muwullupirri more often! Cal had asked Hughie to kill a pig—yes, of course Muwullupirri still ran a few pigs, Dick, dear—and they were going to have a roast this very Sunday, and they must all come over for lunch! Andy as well, Kym, dear. Yes, naturally apple sauce, Kym, tolerant laugh, and roast pork wouldn’t be roast pork without crackling, Dick, would it? Cosy laugh.
“It’ll be a great spread,” Dick predicted valiantly as, after they’d finally helped load her immense trolleyloads of groceries into the Muwullupirri station-waggon, she disappeared with a jaunty wave of the hand and a last cosy laugh.
“Yeah, that's true,” agreed Kym.
Sloane gave them a bitter look.
“She did say she’d do silverbeet,” offered Kym.
“Yeah, that's true,” agreed Dick.
“It’d take more silverbeet than this supermarket stocks in a year to counteract one of Mrs Wainwright’s roast dinners! And pork? With crackling? The woman’s mad!”
Dick cleared his throat. “No, well, she’s used to feeding blokes that’ve been out on the property doing a full day’s hard yacker, love.”
“I dare say. Just remember that you haven’t!”
Dick and his son exchanged cautious glances, but that seemed to be it.
“Is she gonna come, or not?” muttered Kym as his sister disappeared into the chemist’s.
“Uh—think so. Well, her life won’t be worth living if she doesn’t, Mrs W.’d be over at the beach house like a shot.”
“Mm. I wouldn’t mind getting over to Muwullupirri a bit more—well, it’s always a great spread, even if it isn’t always roast pork! And I’d like to see a bit of the old joker, poor old guy—but heck, she doesn’t seem to realise how much petrol it takes, there and back, Dad!”
“No. Been used to the Wainwright dough all her married life, ya see, Kym. Well, you saw her at the check-out: she just waves the plastic and doesn’t even look to see what it comes to; she’ll be the same at the servo.”
“Nice to be some people!” Kym conceded with his easy grin.
“Too right. Uh—look, if they’re short a hand, with Quinn gone, you could think about taking it on. The pay’d be okay—well, not megabucks, but you’d get bed and board, not to mention Mrs W.’s cooking—and you’d have no expenses. Be a good way to save a bit.”
“Yeah, but me and Andy are committed to the boatbuilding, really.”
Dick swallowed a sigh. “That’s all very well in theory, Kym, but in practice will either of you ever be able to support a family on it?”
Kym scratched his chin, looking dubious. “Andy was thinking of moving in with Zoë Hamilton. Well, permanent, I mean: he’s over there most of the time, as it is.”
“This the girl at the Mitre 10? Wayne Hamilton’s daughter? –Right,” he said as Kym nodded. “Well, she seems like a nice girl, Kym, and it’s the only Mitre 10 for a hundred K or more in any direction ya care to name, I’m sure Wayne’s doing okay, give or take the odd rural recession, but never mind she’s got a job there for as long as her dad’s running the place, when the kids come she won’t be able to work fulltime, will she? What are they gonna live on? Andy’s half of what you types make from fixing up the occasional fishing boat for the locals, or the odd dinghy for the summer visitors, or the very occasional boat ya might actually make for a paying customer every five years or so?”
“Yeah, but if I pull out it’ll be harder for him, Dad!”
Dick sighed. “Well, yeah, given that any work he does get’ll take twice as long, but have you even discussed it with him, Kym? How do you know that he isn’t hanging on because he doesn’t want to make it harder for you?”
“Eh? Aw. Never thought of that.”
“No, well, think of it now,” he advised as Sloane emerged from the chemist’s with a large plastic shopping carrier that looked suspiciously full. “Can feminine necessaries take up that much room these days?” he muttered.
His son, not to his surprise, at this turned bright red, gave a silly laugh, and said: “Dunno!”
No, he wouldn’t. Let alone what the muck she had in there would’ve cost. “It’ll be bathroom muck,” predicted Dick glumly.
“Like what?” the tit said blankly.
“You wait. But just bear in mind: they all buy it, and that’s what Andy’s girl’ll be expecting to chuck his hard-earned away on!”
Sloane had overheard this last. “What?” she demanded suspiciously.
Dick sighed. “Never mind. Anyone fancy an ice cream?”
Kym did, and Sloane didn’t, in fact she thought they were mad to even think about it in this weather. Dick didn’t say “You can’t come over to Nearby Bay without buying an ice cream!” because there was no point, was there? Not entirely to his surprise, Kym said it for him. Sloane ignored him completely—well, it had to be either that or bite his head off.
They were almost halfway back to the beach house before she said bitterly: “Why the Hell did you have to accept Mrs Wainwright’s invitation, Dad?”
“Because she’s an unstoppable natural force, Sloane,” replied Dick smoothly—he’d had the time to think out his reply.
Unfortunately Kym went into a frightful sniggering fit at this one, so she remained stonily silent for the rest of the drive home.
They were bathroom things, all right. Not fifteen different kinds of organic, environmentally-friendly cleaner, she’d already bought those at the supermarket. No, there was powder, of course, and a nice liquid soap, the supermarket only had horrible ones; a nice hand soap that Dad and Kym weren’t to touch—neither of them would’ve wanted to, it ponged—and a nice shower soap for her plus and a liquid shower “gel” for her, don’t ask why; a soap on a rope for Dick to use in the shower, plus and a soap on a rope for Kym to take back to his lair to use there—ten to one he’d shove it into the door pocket of the ute and forget it was there—and two bathmats because one’d be in the wash—fluffy, lightweight, fully washable—with a matching fluffy dead thing to put at the base of the bog because apparently it was freezing in there; a quilted toilet-roll holder—beg ya pardon, quilted and frilled—for the spare toilet roll—“the”, they had half a cupboardful, she’d piled a separate supermarket trolley full of toilet paper and paper towels on top of the organic cleaners—some shampoo for Sloane plus and its matching conditioner because the supermarket only had horrible ones and she’d run out—and a shampoo for Dick because he hadn’t brought any; a new shower curtain because that one was a disgrace; air freshener because Dick and his son never opened the window—no, the ones at the supermarket were all— Horrible, yeah, they’d got that. And a nice floral soap dish, with—defiantly—a matching liquid soap dispenser. No! You poured it out of its bottle into the nice dispenser, Dad! Yeah, all right. Dick just led his shattered son gently away and poured beer into him.
“How much must it all of cost, Dad?” he finally managed to croak.
“Don’t ask.”
“Yeah, but I thought she was broke? Well, I mean, she’s given up the job at RightSmart! Why’s she throwing her dough away on this sorta muck?”
Sloane was now actually singing in the shower, miracle of miracles! As she washed her hair with the new muck, probably—that or she was wearing the new flowery shower cap that almost exactly, by an amazing coincidence, matched the floral pattern on the soap dish and the— Yeah. “These aren’t luxuries, old mate. These are basic necessities.”
“Very funny, Dad!”
Dick sighed. “I’m not kidding.”
“But Mum doesn’t fill the place with that sorta crap!”
“No, thank God. All the rest of them do, though. Well, told me yourself that Pete gave you an earful about what Kitten put in his bathroom, eh?”
“I thought that was just her,” he said numbly.
“No. You better warn Andy.”
“I will!” he promised fervently.
Mm. Well, maybe it’d sink in. Though that little Zoë had looked to Dick as if she had her head screwed on pretty firmly, ten to one she’d be bringing the hard commercial facts of life home to bloody Andy before the cat could lick its ear. A much better bet for the pair of them—and Dick Manning wasn’t taking any bets it hadn't already occurred to both Zoë and her dad, there were no flies on Wayne Hamilton—was that Andy could start work at Mitre 10 and in due course take over from Wayne. Franchise, would it be? He rather thought so. Well, that could be managed, if they saved up for the next twenty-five years. Yeah, well, if Kym could be talked out of the ruddy boatbuilding stuff, so much the better.
The Sunday dawned cold but clear—one of those bright winter days that made you glad to be alive. Funnily enough Sloane didn’t look glad to be alive and Dick didn’t feel it, in spite of the prospect of roast pork with crackling. Kym had pushed off home after they’d had a good go at the wetback, but when he turned up some time after breakfast, he didn’t look glad to be alive, either.
“Talk to Andy?” grunted Dick as they waited in the car while Sloane mucked around in the house.
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“All right, Dad, you were right all along, he was only sticking with the boatbuilding because of me!” he said crossly. “He reckons Mr Hamilton’ll take him on at Mitre 10.”
Did he, just? Funny, that. “Good,” said Dick mildly.
“Yeah. So I s’pose I better ask Cal for a job.”
“Uh—only if you want to,” said Dick cautiously.
“I wouldn’t mind, really. Only they’re all old,” he said with a sigh.
Uh—Pete and Hughie were, certainly. Hughie had been at Muwullupirri ever since Dick could remember. Cal wasn’t exactly over the hill, though. Old to a young man in his twenties, presumably.
“Um, Cal’s pretty good value, I’ve always thought,” said Dick with a wary eye on the house.
“Yeah. Doesn’t like Country and Western, though. Will he let me go up to Tamworth for the country music festival?”
Good grief! Dick ran his hand through his rapidly thinning hair—hadn’t all quite fallen out yet, no, but it felt as if it was about to! “I dare say, if you’re up-front about it from the start, Kym.”
“Like, ask him right away? Okay. –He only listens to Classical music,” he added glumly.
“Who does?” asked Sloane.
Kym jumped. “Aw, there you are at last. –Cal. Doesn’t like Country and Western.”
Sloane got into the back seat. “Then you’ll have to form a line of one for your ruddy line-dancing, Kym, won’t you?”
Dick at this one shook so much he was incapable of starting the car.
“Sorry, old mate,” he said feebly at last. “That was a really good one.”
“Yeah, didn’t think she had it in ’er,” agreed Kym mildly. “I’ll drive, if ya like.”
“No, thanks, got more respect for my gears,” replied Dick, hurriedly starting up.
It had been news to Sloane that Cal liked Classical music. They’d gone some distance before she ventured: “What sort of Classical music does Cal like, Kym?”
“Eh? Dunno. Well, Classical.”
“That’s as good as it’s gonna get,” advised Dick over his shoulder. “Nev Bailey reckons ’e plays it to his pet cows, too.”
“Don’t be stupid, Dad,” she said tiredly.
“Uh—no, it's true,” said Dick on a lame note.
“Be the dairy cows. They say it makes them give better milk,” offered Kym.
“Dairy cow, in that case,” noted Sloane drily. “Unless it’s dropped dead, it must be older than I am.”
“Nah, that was the old cow—Daisy,” said Kym promptly. “They had a Buttercup after that and then Mrs W. went and named the next one Belinda—’member her, Dad? She was a good ole cow, a Jersey. Everyone said it’d be too hot for her round here—she came from the Adelaide Hills. But she let the old joker go back to Buttercup for the next one—Belinda’s calf, she was. Great milkers, Jerseys are. Only now they’ve got two.”
“Musical ones,” noted Dick.
“That’s right, Dad,” he said amiably.
“Buttercup and Daisy, then?” suggested Sloane drily.
“Nah, Buttercup, she got too old. Cal, he kept wanting to replace her but Mrs W. wouldn’t let him and then the poor old girl died: boy, there was wailing and lamentations on Muwullupirri that day! –Pete told me,” he explained. “So Cal, he went off to Adelaide and got suckered into taking twin calves off some bloke—dunno if it was the same bloke that supplied the original Jersey or not, but anyway, they are. Hadda wait two years before they were old enough for the AB, they got in a ute-load of that long-life milk muck, Pete reckoned it was disgusting, ya mighta as well use the old milk powder, at least it only tastes boiled.”
“Um, what’s AB?” said Sloane weakly.
“Eh? Aw. Artificial breeding, ya nit. Don’t think anyone was volunteering to truck a Jersey bull all the way to Muwullupirri.”
“Very funny, Kym.”
“It was pretty self-evident,” murmured Dick. “Anyway, to return to our muttons, Cal apparently does like Classical music—yeah. Actually, Nev Bailey mentioned the word Elgar in that connection—didn’t think ’e knew the name.”
Hardy was also very fond of Elgar—Sloane bit her lip.
“Would this Elgar, whaddever that is, be for the cows or Cal?” asked Kym in friendly tones.
“Both, probably,” replied Dick, eyeing Sloane cautiously in his rear-view mirror. “Can be very soothing.” He began to hum.
It was a thing Hardy had given her a CD of. He’d often played it when he came round—in fact he used to hum it, too. “Shut up, Dad!” snapped Sloane.
“Didn’t sound that bad,” Kym objected in tolerant tones. “Cows probably would find it soothing.”
“Look, just shut up about bloody cows!” she snapped.
“Thing is, I might be looking after them. But I will shut up, if ya like.”
“Yes, do,” she said grimly.
Dick cleared his throat, and waited. Sure enough, after a bit she said: “What on earth do you mean, looking after them?”
“Thought I might ask Cal for a job. Well, me and Andy have decided to give it away. He’s getting hitched to that Zoë Hamilton—you know, works at Mitre 10. That’s why he couldn’t come today, actually, they’re having a bit of a family get-together to celebrate the engagement. Not an engagement party as such, that’ll be later,” he clarified.
“Oh, said Sloane feebly. “Well, I’m glad for their sakes, Kym, but what are they gonna live on? Not that you and Andy made enough to support a family, but it brought in something.”
“He’s gonna take over her fulltime job at Mitre 10—see, Mr Hamilton that runs it, he’s her dad—and she’s gonna give Mrs Smithers a hand at the Merrymaid Milk Bar—ole Mr Smithers, he carked it, ya see—that’ll be on Fridays and the weekends—and rest of the week, spell Corinne Jessop at the dry-cleaner’s, ’cos see, Mrs Jessop, she’s letting her run it now.”
“Oh,” said Sloane weakly. “Well, that sounds all right. Um, what happened to that other Jessop girl? Janette—no, Janelle.”
“She’s got twins now, they’d be about two, I think, and they’re driving her mad.”
“What’s the father doing, or shouldn’t I ask?”
“Gazza Riley,” said Kym on a sour note. “Pushed off to Adelaide. He was useless anyway, used to spend all his dough on that ruddy bike of his.”
“Poor Janelle,” said Sloane in a low voice.
“Um, yeah,” agreed Kym uncertainly. “Well, they are nice little kids.”
“Don’t you remember how awful Ingrid and Melanie were when they were two?” she cried.
“Uh—he’d’ve been too young to notice, love,” said Dick. “They were horrible, eh? Well, the terrible twos, don’t they say?”
“Yes,” agreed Sloane, shuddering. “Janelle was working for the hairdresser at one stage: wasn’t she going to go to Adelaide and do an apprenticeship? What happened to that?”
“Pregnant with twins happened, I imagine,” said Dick drily.
“Um, well, she does help out at that place near the Woolie’s, most of the ladies go there,” offered Kym feebly.
“Joelle’s,” murmured Dick. “Been there forever. When I was a kid it used to be called Mr Teazy-Weazy—don’t all laugh at once, thanks—and did the most towering beehives in all of SA. Frightening, they were. The Ma Jessop of the time—Judy’s mother-in-law, she’d of been, Corinne’s and Janelle’s gran—she used to have a beauty: pale apricot. And that sister of hers, what was her name? Aw, yeah: Mrs Vaughan, ole Gazza Vaughan’s wife—well, he wasn’t old back then, of course. Platinum blonde. She wasn’t a short dame: the total height would've been pushing eight feet. Impressive, it was.”
Kym had gone into a frightful sniggering fit. “You’re exaggerating, Dad,” said Sloane tiredly.
“No, I’m not, actually. The Teazy-Weazy bit was after some famous Pommy hairdresser, I think—famous at the time,” he amended with a smile in his voice. “Then later on—well after the back-combing stuff went out, it woulda been—it changed its name. Forget when, exactly. When the twins were little, I think, talking of the terrible twos. Karen took all you kids there one summer holidays—big mistake. Aw, yeah: Annabelle’s, it was by then. The dame that ran it, she was called Anna, and she had this horrible little white poodle.”
“Oh, yes!” cried Sloane. “She called it Belle: of course!”
There was a short silence.
“Ooh, help!” she gasped. “That was the time the twins poured hair dye on the poor little creature!”
Promptly Kym went into another sniggering fit.
“It wasn't funny,” said Sloane on a weak note. “It turned it that awful artificial auburn, the sort with kind of greenish lights in it in the sun.” –Kym was in ecstasy.
Dick cleared his throat desperately. “Yeah. Well, it was a man-hater—not unlike Anna herself, actually, looking back. Nipped yours truly on the ankle.”
“Before or after the twins had had a go, Dad?” gasped Kym. –Sloane gulped.
“Before, it was when I dropped you all off,” said Dick feebly.
Somehow this was the finishing touch: Sloane gave a shriek of laughter and Dick also broke down in sniggering hysterics. The car wove all over the road and he had to pull in.
They were almost at Muwullupirri before Sloane’s cold feet at the thought of having to face Cal had had time to return.
Mrs Wainwright of course answered her front door in person. Sloane had been expecting this; nevertheless she found she was gritting her teeth. Into the bargain the woman was wearing an apron—floral, frilled, of course—and there was a strong smell of roasting pork, so she must have been in the kitchen. Whereas, they saw as they were immediately ushered into the big front room with its lovely, gracious lines and the awful cabbage-rose Sanderson linen curtains and upholstery and frightful mahogany or rosewood fake Queen Anne furniture, Mr Wainwright and Cal were sitting down well within easy reach of the front door. No, well, any feeble attempts on their parts to answer the door would always have been pre-empted, of course: you couldn’t actually blame them for not having beaten her to it, only for being so spineless as to let her take over.
It was pretty plain that Cal had been forewarned, because he didn’t look surprised to see her—or anything, actually. Sloane avoided his eye and sat down meekly to the accompaniment of Mrs Wainwright’s usual burbling and Dick’s feeble attempts to answer the usual enquiries about the rest of the family. Didn’t the French have an expression for it? Something about things never changing. Gail had said it only last week when she’d got out of her that she’d had enough of temping for Bracchi, Jenks: Bill Bracchi kept giving her the eye. Oh, yeah: Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose. You could say that again! thought Sloane acidly as Mrs Wainwright explained gratuitously that Cal’s father’s big chair had been re-covered, and that lovely shop in Adelaide had been able to match the—etcetera.
Mrs W. finally bustled out to the kitchen, which enabled Mr Wainwright to tell Cal to get the visitors a sherry. Many another man might have warned him not to give Dick the sweet muck that his mother liked but Cal’s father only said mildly: “Dick might like the dry one, Cal.”
“Yeah, I would, actually—thanks,” agreed Dick with a grin. “Don’t waste it on Kym, though, Cal.”
“You can waste it on me, thanks,” said Sloane grimly, since none of the wankers spoke up.
“It’s a fino,” warned old Mr Wainwright. “It might be too dry for you, Sloane. –Try her with the Amontillado, Cal.”
The what? Resignedly Sloane let Cal pour her a glass from a bottle that was different from the one he picked up for Dad. He managed to avoid her eye while he did it, but then, she was avoiding his, wasn’t she? Then he handed Dad and his father theirs. Oh, good grief: manners! He’d been serving the lady first! Then he went out to the kitchen to fetch ruddy Kym a beer instead of telling the great lump to get it himself. Then he finally picked up the one remaining glass from the all-male bottle.
“Try it, Sloane,” said old Mr Wainwright with a little smile.
She jumped. “Oh—yes.” No-one else was saying “Cheers” or “Here’s to it” or anything, so she didn’t say anything, either. Um, she sort of did have a vague recollection of having sherry at Muwullupirri before, though not often—and not at lunchtime, come to think of it, but before dinner. Yes, it had been very sweet, that was right, and... Oh, yeah! Cal had said, at least the one time she remembered, maybe there had been others—Cal had said: “Here’s to Mum’s delicious roast dinner.” She glanced at him warily but he was just holding his glass and looking sort of polite. Then she realized that the old man was doing exactly the same thing. Shit, they were waiting for her!
She sipped cautiously. Was it gonna be— Gee! It was dry, all right, but... lovely. “It’s wonderful, Mr Wainwright,” she said dazedly.
“Good,” he replied simply, sipping his.
Dick tried his. “Oh, wow! Tio Pepe, is it, Cal?”
“Yes. We’ve given up trying to get it from Adelaide. Found a shipper in Sydney. He’ll only sell by the case, mind you, but our cellar’s nice and cool, so we thought, why not? Same with the Amontillado. And Dad’s brandy.”
“What about wine?” asked Kym with interest.
“Usually get the Coonawarra reds sent direct from the vineyard,” replied Cal easily.
“That’d be the go: cut out the middleman, eh?” he agreed thoughtfully.
“Sounds good to me!” agreed Dick. “What about whites?”
There was a short silence.
“Well, don’t shoot me, but the Sydney bloke offered us a special rate on a couple of cases of Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand,” Cal admitted.
Mr Wainwright sniffed slightly. “Not over-oaked.”
“Really? Great! I’ll see if I can find some!” decided Dick.
“No, don’t do that, Dick,” said the old man mildly. “We can let you have a case.”
“Thanks very much!” he beamed.
“Dad, not if they only bought two,” said Sloane uneasily.
“No—did Cal say that? No, he got a dozen, Sloane,” said Mr Wainwright.
“Cases, he means,” put in Kym helpfully.
Sloane was very flushed. “Yes, I see. So, um, where does the lovely sherry come from, Mr Wainwright? I mean, where does the man in Sydney get it from? Is it New Zealand, too?”
“Sloane, for God’s sake!” croaked her father. “Look, excuse her, John,” he said to the old man: “the girls all favour sweet muck: if it’s not Bundy and Coke it’s that revolting Irish coffee slathered in whipped cream.”
“Up to you to teach ’em better, I would’ve thought, Dick,” replied the old man drily. “Real sherry comes from Spain, Sloane,” he added kindly.
“Gee, I knew that!” noted Kym.
“Didn’t speak up, though, did you?” the old man retorted swiftly. “Australian sherry’s not worth drinking, Sloane. Never tried the New Zealand stuff, myself, but Cal reckons it’s just as bad.”
“Mum likes the sweet stuff,” noted Cal neutrally.
“Mm,” agreed his father.
“Lots of ladies do,” allowed Kym, apparently getting his second wind. “Maybe I will try it, after all.”
“Not on top of that lager, Kym!” cried his father.
“Aw. Righto, then. Another time,” he suggested, giving him a hopeful look.
Dick sighed. “Kym, I’m not gonna say it for you.”
“All right! Did I ask you to? Um, thing is, sir,” he said to Mr Wainwright out of the blue, “I was wondering, with Quinn gone, could I come and work for you?”
Apparently unmoved, he replied: “What about your boatbuilding, though, Kym?”
“We’ve decided to give it away. See, Andy, he’s got engaged to Zoë Hamilton, he’s gonna help her dad at Mitre 10. And, um, well, we weren’t getting that much custom, really.”
“Mm. It’s a hard life, Kym. You can’t make your own hours.”
“I know!” he gulped, going very red.
“Think he means, you get out of your pit before crack of dawn if you want breakfast, little mate,” noted Kym’s proud father. “Then ya don’t pack it in round twoish ’cos surf’s up.”
“Drop it, Dad! I know that!”
Mr Wainwright rubbed his lean jaw slowly. “Yeah. Well, that’s another thing. We’re a fair way from the sea.”
“I wouldn’t be skiving off to go surfing! Honest, sir!”
“Hm. You don’t get weekends off, on a working station, either.”
“Uh—no,” agreed Kym lamely.
“Hadn’t that one dawned?” asked Cal neutrally.
Very red, he gulped: “Well, sort of! I mean, I s’pose I hadn’t actually— I mean, would I get any time off?”
“He’ll want to go up to Tamworth for the flaming Country and Western festiv—”
“Shut up, Dad!” He looked sadly at Cal. “You don’t like Country and Western, do you?”
“No, but I won’t stop you listening to it.”
“It isn’t just listening, Cal: it’s this ruddy festival—”
“Yeah, got that, Dick,” he agreed mildly.
Now why did that shut Dad up completely? Sloane looked at her father in confusion.
“Well, I don’t see why we shouldn’t try you out, Kym,” decided Mr Wainwright. “What do you think, Cal?”
“Yeah, if you think you can hack it, Kym. The hours are pretty much dawn to dusk, seven days a week. Occasional day off if it’s not mustering—that kind of thing.” He rubbed his jaw in the exact gesture his father had used. “Dare say you could get over to Tamworth, so long as it’s not gonna leave us short-handed. Have to look up the dates, eh?”
Kym nodded eagerly.
“Okay, then, Kym. When do you want to start?”
“Tomorrow?” the old man suggested.
Kym’s mouth opened and shut. Then he visibly squared his shoulders and said: “Righto, sir! No worries!”
Sloane looked at Dad, but he didn’t suggest Kym had better ask how much it paid. No, well, it’d be more than him and his ning-nong of a mate had been making with their blessed boatbuilding, that was for sure!
“Come on,” said Cal, getting up. “Might as well get you signed up. –Can I get anyone another sherry?”
“Why not? Thanks!” agreed Dick.
Sloane still had most of hers, she’d been so absorbed in the drama that she’d forgotten to drink it. “No, I’m right, thanks, Cal,” she said feebly.
“You sure you like it?” he said in a low voice.
Maddeningly, she found she’d gone red. For Pete’s sake! “Yes, it’s lovely.”
“A lady doesn’t need a second glass, anyway,” put in Dick with a smile in his voice. “Since I’m supposed to be wising you up, love.”
“Ignore him, Sloane,” said Mr Wainwright. “I won’t have another, son. You could fetch up a couple of bottles of the Coonawarra, though.”
“Dad, it’s roast pork.”
“Oh, right. The Sauvignon Blanc, then.”
“Mm.” Cal handed Dick his refilled glass and went out, closely followed by Kym.
“Close the door, Kym,” he said from the passage.
“Uh—yeah. Sorry.” The door closed behind them.
“Don’t hesitate to send him packing if he doesn’t pull his weight, John,” Dick advised.
“Yeah,” the old man agreed drily. “How long has he been mucking around with this boatbuilding stuff, now?”
“Well, uh—five years or so, I s’pose,” said Kym’s father uneasily.
“Mm.”
“Mr Wainwright, when they had a job on he did work very hard. I mean, they’d just get stuck in, and not worry about knocking-off time or—or anything like that,” ventured Sloane.
“That’s good. No such thing as knocking-off time on a working station.”
“No,” agreed Dick. “Well, he might need to be booted out of his pit, actually, but apart from that, I think he’ll put in a decent day’s work for you.”
“Yes, and he is the sort—” Sloane broke off.
“Go on,” said Mr Wainwright neutrally.
“Well, um, you might not think so, with him and Andy doing their own thing, but you see, there were the two of them. He’s the sort that likes to fit in with what the male peer group’s doing.”
“That’s true enough, but you can leave out the trendy gobbledegook, thanks,” sighed Dick.
Sloane flushed. “I only meant, if Cal and Pete and Hughie are doing it, he’ll want to copy their example!”
Mr Wainwright’s eyes twinkled, but he merely grunted: “Could of said so. Tell you what, you pop out to the kitchen and see if Cal’s mother’s ready for us, yet, and if she’s not, what say we take a look at old Ollie Emu, eh?”
“Eh?” said Dick.
“Dad, I told you about him! He’s got a limp, he lives in the aviary!”
“She likes him,” said the old man.
“Yes,” said Sloane defiantly, finishing her sherry. “I do.” She went out, to the sound of Dick saying confusedly: “I’m sure she’s never mentioned an aviary,” and the old man replying at his driest: “Probably had your head in your computer at the time, Dick.”
Lunch wasn’t ready, though it’d only be about fifteen minutes, and of course there was time for them to look at the aviary, but don’t let those men talk you into it, Sloane, dear.
“No, I like it,” said Sloane, escaping.
Ollie Emu and Peg-Leg the crow came limping up the minute the old man appeared. Just as well Cal had built the two-door arrangement. As it was, Ollie had to be pushed out bodily before they could enter the aviary proper.
“He’s a lot bigger,” said Sloane.
“Yeah, he’s fully grown, now.” The old man produced some crackers from the pocket of his genuine Outback waterproof coat. The sort they sold for megabucks in the R.M. Williams shops, these days, but Mr Wainwright had had his forever.
Peg-leg then had to have some crackers crumbled for him, but maybe they weren’t enough: he flew up onto the old man's shoulder.
“Ooh!” gasped Sloane. “So he can fly!”
“That’s right. Could fly away, if he wanted to. We did think of letting Ollie go back to the wild, but he can’t run, he’d be no good with a mob.”
“Um, no. Oh, yes: they like to live in huge flocks, don’t they?”
“Well, not huge,” said the old man with a smile. “You ever seen a flock of budgies? –No,” he recognised as she shook her head. “Thousands, maybe tens of thousands. But there’s usually a fair mob of emus living together.”
“Mm. Whenever they show them on programmes about the Outback,” said Sloane with a sudden frown, “the poor things seem to be panicking: they film them from helicopters, you see, and I think they panic them deliberately. Um, most people laugh, because they’ve got a funny run,” she finished weakly.
“Yeah, well, Cal reckons most people are cretins, and I dunno that I’d argue with that one. Panicking emus for a laugh, eh?”
“Mm.”
“No, well, poor old Ollie ’ud never keep up if his mob was panicking.”
“No. –What do they eat in the wild?” she suddenly wondered.
“Not water biscuits, don’t think,” he said drily.
“No! Or stale cake!” she agreed with a laugh.
He rubbed his chin. “Well, I’ve seen him eat grass and weeds. Think it’d be bush tucker: leaves and berries. Maybe roots: seen him digging a bit with his beak, come to think of it.”
“Really?” Sloane looked longingly at Ollie Emu but he didn’t oblige by starting to dig.
“Swans have gone back to their creek,” the old man revealed.
“So they’re better?”
“Yep. Fully fledged, bit of a miracle. We’d’ve kept them if they wanted to stay on, but the cob’s chest healed up and he started flying a bit—wouldn’t leave her, mind. But her feathers grew back and they flew off. They come back every so often for a hand-out.”
“So they can remember where to come?”
“Yeah. Not stupid, ya know.”
“No, they must be very intelligent,” Sloane agreed dazedly.
“Big birds, wide wingspan: dare say they fly for miles in the wild. Well, take Lake Eyre: it’ll be dry for years at stretch and then if there’s a big Wet, it fills up and the birds suddenly turn up out of nowhere. There’s nothing around there for hundreds of miles, just desert. That’s when you’d see huge flocks of budgies, too,” he added with a smile. “The yellow and green ones—that’s their original colour. Can’t stand seeing them in cages, meself.”
“No-o... Though I suppose those ones have been bred as cage birds.”
”Disgusting,” said Mr Wainwright shortly.
“Yes, it is, when you come to think of it,” she agreed slowly.
He gazed off into the distance. “Mm. It’s a wonderful sight... Thousands of ’em, wheeling around in the sky.”
Sloane sighed. “I wish I could see them.”
“Mm?” he said, coming to. He gave her a very dry look. “You could, if you lived here. Cal’d take you Outback, he’s been talking about getting up to Lake Eyre next time she fills.”
Sloane went very red and gnawed on her lip.
“Dunno how you stand it, living in a ruddy town,” said the old man airily. “Well, come on, think lunch’ll be ready.”
Sloane accompanied him back inside silently. Had the whole expedition been so as Mr Wainwright could hint that she ought to be living out here with Cal?
… “Bonzer lunch, wasn’t it?” said Dick cheerfully as they headed back to the beach house without Kym.
Sloane was driving, after the amount of wine he’d had. “Mm.”
“Ma W. was on form. Just as well I had those snaps of Baby James in me wallet!”
“Mm.”
“Cal seemed a bit down, I thought,” he offered airily.
“Shut up, Dad.”
Dick sighed, but shut up.
Next chapter:
https://thelallapindarevenge.blogspot.com/2022/11/mrs-macdonald-gets-surprise.html
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