by Erin Hortle
‘His hands? Well. They were some hands alright.’
Lucy grins. ‘Keep it PG, Flo.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
As their chatter roams from Gray to Jem and then back to Harry’s silent presence about the house, something shifts in a way Flo can’t quite pin down. The atmosphere between them becomes bold, open and giggly, in a way that makes Flo feel years younger. She feels a recklessness in her chest that she suspects is exaggerated by the fact that there’s something so bizarre about knitting breasts, something so poignant about it, and something else—something strange. And then something shifts, and it’s like the mood somehow detaches itself from the conversation. She says: ‘Right. Got the nipples ready. Let’s get started. The main thing is we need to make sure we knit at the same tightness so they match, so what I’ll do is, I’ll copy your tightness: you just knit.’ She says it business-like, but it doesn’t feel business-like; it feels as though she’s skimming along the surface of something more complex.
She realises what the sensation reminds her of: it reminds her of wheat. Whenever she sees yellow wheat rippling with soft shifts in hue as billows of wind trace across a paddock, she imagines what it would be like to be able to fly, to be able to surf the wind and let her fingers skim the surface of the wheat touching the heads, only just, and something in her stirs, in a similar way that some pieces of music cause her to stir. Not all music; only certain songs they play on Classic FM. Every now and then a song will burst out of that dusty little radio, which is perched on top of the old Tas oak cabinet in the kitchen, and it will build and build, thrumming in the air about her as she peels potatoes or bottles jam, and something inexplicable inside of her will swell, too. And then, as the music hits its climax, there’s something about it, something in the air, that feels somehow sad; and as Flo listens, something deep inside her mellows and sighs in time, and in sentiment, with the music.
It’s as if she’s listening to music, or imagining herself skimming wheat—that’s how she feels, what she feels, simmering away beneath what Lucy’s saying now.
‘Okay. Here’s your colours.’ Lucy slides a pile of wool that’s oceanic greens and blues across the table to Flo. For herself, she keeps fiery reds, oranges and yellows. ‘I think we should start with the darkest tones around the nipple and then work our way out,’ Lucy instructs, as she takes up the nipple and needles that Flo has passed to her.
Like music, like they’re skimming wheat—that’s what’s bubbling beneath Flo’s own words as she instructs and coaxes Lucy. ‘Now, put two stitches on each of the needles. Yep, that’s it. Okay, we’re gonna start our first circle. Knit into the front and the back of the first stitch, the second is just knitted plain. Next round, a slightly different increase. This is called the make-one. I’ll show you slow. Yep, that’s it. Okay, now continue on every needle, knitting until there’s one stitch left, then do a make-one with the last stitch and you keep going. Yep, that’s it. No, no, that last stitch shoulda been in the back there. Here, I’ll fix it for you.’
Lucy proffers her web of wool, and Flo reaches out to take it. Arms outstretched, they both start when the door bangs open, to reveal Harry clutching a red crayfish. He murmurs a hello then holds it up to show them, looking for all the world like a cat bringing a bird home to its owner. As if on cue, the cray begins to thrash, clapping its tail and flexing its spiny legs. At this, Flo experiences a rush of nostalgia so intense it borders on déjà vu.
‘Gawd, it’s like having your father back,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘You remember Lucy?’
‘Course.’ Harry nods, Flo notices, somewhat evasively. He doesn’t quite look Lucy in the eye but rather seems to sift through the room for something else to occupy his attention. Spying their empties, he mumbles, ‘Need a refill?’
‘Yeah, why not?’ Lucy says brightly. He nods again, and shuffles into the kitchen.
‘I’ll have one too,’ Flo calls to his retreating back. Turning to Lucy, she says: ‘That’s the thing about having a bloke back in the house. There’s always booze around.’
Flo finds herself waiting with bated breath as she listens to Harry go about his business in the kitchen: the clanking of pots, the tap spluttering on, the patter of water on metal, then the fridge door opening and closing.
He reappears with three stubbies, and passes one to Flo, then Lucy and, still standing, lifts the third to his lips and sucks at it in the exact same way he used to suck at his pop-top drink bottle at half-time when he played footy. As he draws it away, it makes an unplugging sound and a foamy head rises to fill the bottle. He puts it down on the table, and disappears back to the kitchen. Lucy catches Flo’s eye, and they both begin to giggle for no reason at all as the sound of running water stops. Flo hears the click click click of the gas-top. She fights for composure as Harry wanders back into the room, reclaims his beer which has now settled, sits in Gray’s chair, stretches out his long legs and rests his feet on the table beside the mound of wool.
He looks from Lucy to Flo and seems only now to notice what they’re doing.
‘What’re you knitting?’ he asks.
‘None of your business,’ Flo says. But to her surprise, Lucy answers at the same time: ‘Breasts.’
‘Oh,’ Harry says, and at the word, his eyes track to Lucy’s chest. As he takes in its flatness, a crease appears between his eyebrows. Flo has a feeling he’s only just now realised that Lucy has no breasts, and she feels strangely proud, as if it’s proof her son isn’t a sleaze.
Harry’s colour rises, presumably as he realises that they’re both watching him stare and he looks down at his beer and begins to scratch at the label with his thumbnail. Flo darts a glance at Lucy, who’s still watching Harry with an amused little smile.
Harry’s brow and lips twitch ever so slightly. It’s as if they’re playing out the words filing through his mind, and the longer the silence goes on, the more he blushes.
Finally, he asks: ‘Sorry if this is a weird question, but, did you used to have them?’
There’s something about his phrasing—Flo can’t help it, she hoots with laughter.
Lucy smiles, says, ‘Ye-es’, and Flo feels the tension crescendo. It’s a tension that’s outside her. It snaps and crackles about her, in the air between Lucy and Harry. She feels like a spectator at a footy game: so invested, so involved, but sidelined. She can’t control anything; she can only watch and feel.
What will he say next? she wonders eagerly.
By now Harry’s as red as the crayfish he’s about to boil to death. He manages a slight, apologetic grin as he plunges on.
‘Can I ask what happened?’ He darts a glance at Lucy, then looks back to the beer in his hands.
‘Do you want the long story or the short story?’ Lucy asks him quietly and unguardedly.
Flo finds herself hoping that Lucy will tell the long story. She knows it in part, of course, being there and hearing Lucy talk the other day. But she wants to hear Lucy thread it together as a whole, to hear Lucy choose the words that will tie the octopuses to the breasts to the cancer.
She could’ve predicted what Harry would say—truly, it seemed impossible that he would give any other answer—but still, she feels disappointed when he mumbles: ‘Give us the short story.’
‘I got breast cancer, had a massive boob job, then threw myself in front of a car to save an octopus,’ Lucy says simply, then raises her beer to her lips and drinks from it, eyeing Harry as she does so.
Flo notices that Lucy’s beer is now finished, and something makes her take up her own and drink deeply to keep up with Lucy, who seems somehow to be driving the evening. Although to where, Flo isn’t sure.
Harry finally looks Lucy in the eye, brow furrowed. And Flo sees it happen: something in him shifts, loosens or tightens—she’s not quite sure. He relaxes his guard, but his whole body seems to snap taut as he becomes engaged, no longer flopping listlessly in his chair. He, too, lifts his beer and drinks assertively, until the bottle is em
pty. He puts it on the table, smacks his lips—in that, he’s Gray, through and through, Flo thinks with a pang—then he announces: ‘I’m going to stick that crayfish in the pot, grab myself another beer and, if it’s not too much trouble, I think I’d like to hear the long story.’
‘It’s not too much trouble,’ Lucy says. ‘It’s good for me, I think, to talk about it.’ As Harry disappears into the kitchen, Lucy turns to Flo and explains, a touch defensively, that she’s been reading feminist memoirs about breast cancer. The writers of these memoirs talk about how prostheses are used to hide the disease and so silence women’s experiences, which makes suffering from breast cancer an isolating and almost shameful experience. ‘They reckon that fake boobs are more about making other people feel comfortable when they look at you, rather than you feeling comfortable with your body, and once you look “normal” again, you’re supposed to carry on as if nothing happened,’ Lucy says, ‘and that was totally how it felt for me. Except I couldn’t carry on. These women—they urge other women to be open about their experiences to make it visible. I’ve decided that I’m going to try to talk about it if people ask, even though it feels a bit weird. I mean, I don’t even know Harry. But he asked and I don’t think it’s something I should be ashamed of.’
Flo frowns. She isn’t entirely sure she understood all of what Lucy said—she’s a bit beer-blurred. What she does understand is the sentiment behind the words; she understands that Lucy feels the need to justify herself to Flo, not as Flo, but as Harry’s mother. Flo isn’t quite sure what to make of this. On the one hand, there’s something reassuring about someone on the outside casting her in the role of Harry’s mother, because it means that even if it’s all a bit strained with Harry, that’s how others see her. But at the same time, by defending her conversation with Harry, Flo feels like Lucy is forcing her out in a way that makes Flo feel like she’s crashing the kids’ evening. All of a sudden she feels old again and stupid almost, for thinking that Lucy would want a friend more than thirty years her senior, for thinking that Lucy would want Flo for anything other than generational know-how.
Flo’s old. She’ll know how to knit.
‘The thing is,’ Lucy continues, this time sounding almost apologetic, ‘it’s hard to make yourself talk about it. So far I’ve only really been able to talk with my shrink and the woman who’s doing my tats. I guess with her it’s easy because we’re spending so much time together and she’s busy so I can just prattle on, kind of like how hairdressers are so easy to talk to, you know? Doing stuff makes it easier for people like us to talk, don’t you think?’
Elation surges through Flo.
People like us.
Gawd. What’s with her tonight? She’s all over the place like a madwoman’s shit.
From the kitchen, Harry calls: ‘Either of youse want another beer?’
Lucy and Flo exchange a glance, and together chime: ‘Yes please!’
He walks back into the living room with three stubbies, frosted with condensation, threaded through the fingers of one hand. He passes one to Lucy and one to Flo, then sits back down in the old chair and props his feet on the coffee table, then looks at Lucy expectantly.
Harry never had much of an imagination, not even as a boy. He’d never deviated from the Lego instructions. That’s not to say he didn’t have a curious mind, but his curiosity was limited to the world of what could be known. He liked clean answers to his questions, and when he found he couldn’t get them, he would try his best to stop thinking about the bits that remained a mystery, and unpack thoroughly, systematically, and if possible, manually, the bits he could understand. When he asked, ‘Do bees know that they will die when they sting you?’ and his uncle Brent—whom he saw as an authority on such things because he had a couple of hives at the time—couldn’t provide him with a satisfactory answer, he stopped pondering the question, asked if he was allowed to help extract the honey, and came to know bees through that process instead.
He listened attentively as Lucy told him about her ordeal and the fact that he couldn’t fully understand all of her experience didn’t bother him at all. He didn’t pass judgement. It wasn’t even an option for him to do so, because he didn’t know what it was like to have breasts let alone lose them, didn’t know what it was like to have cancer, didn’t know what it was like to be gawked at as a woman. He couldn’t comprehend the idea of having a child grow inside his body, and so couldn’t comprehend the disappointment of losing that particular future and couldn’t comprehend that sense of bodily loss that Lucy was describing. What he did understand, though—the bits he latched onto and so came to know Lucy through—was that she’d had a bloody rough trot, that for some reason his mother means a lot to her, that she’s in some way unhappy with how Jem’s been about the whole thing, and that, for some reason, this last bit makes him glad.
‘Well,’ he says into the silence. ‘I’ll be.’ He gets up, walks into the kitchen, grabs the bottle of whiskey from the top of the fridge, three glasses from the cupboard, and walks back into the lounge. He sits down, pours three shots, raises his glass, says: ‘Well, here’s to your future health, then,’ and immediately cringes at himself.
To your future health? Fucking hell. Could he have sounded any more lame? But they all shot anyway. Lucy cringes, then grins at him, and he grins back. Maybe it wasn’t that bad a thing to have toasted.
‘Jesus,’ his mother says, pulling a face and shivering with the alcohol. ‘I haven’t done that in a bloody long time.’
‘Onya, Flo,’ Lucy says.
‘So,’ Harry muses. ‘You threw yourself in front of a car to save a pregnant octopus.’
‘Yep,’ Lucy nods. ‘And you know what? I’d do it again.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Well, not the getting hit by the car bit, but if I was down there and saw an octopus on the road, I reckon I’d help it.’
‘Oh, you’re a good Samaritan, you are,’ Flo says, waving her hand at Lucy. Harry notices her cheeks are blooming. Never mind shots, how many years has it been since he’s seen her drink this much full stop? If ever. Unlike many of his mates’ mothers, she was more of a shandy-out-of-a-vegemite-glass-type mum when he was growing up. Apparently she was pretty wild in her youth, and it seems she’s branched out a bit these last few years, but still, it’s a rare occasion that she’d get on it like this in front of her kids, no matter how old they now are.
‘But you know what? I’m one too!’ she announces. ‘If I see an echidna crossing the road when I’m driving, I stop, and I flash my lights at oncoming traffic.’
Lucy laughs. ‘You’re a legend, Flo.’
‘Yes,’ Flo agrees solemnly, ‘I am.’ Then she winks and says: ‘But it’s also because they’re a little rough on the old tyres.’
‘Let’s drink to Mum’s tyres,’ Harry says, and they do.
‘How ’bout you, Harry?’ Lucy chirps. ‘Are you a good Samaritan?’
‘Um. When I get boarfish in the net I throw them back, ’cos they mate for life? Dad always used to,’ Harry adds. ‘Does that count?’
‘I reckon it means you’re a top bloke,’ Lucy says. ‘You and your dad both.’ She pours three more shots, and raises her glass. ‘To top blokes.’
‘Aye, aye,’ Flo chimes in. ‘To top Seaborne blokes!’
‘And to the Seaborne matriarch,’ Lucy adds, tilting her glass to Flo, who chuckles merrily. They clink their glasses and drink.
‘Seaborne matriarchs, hey?’ Harry says thoughtfully. ‘Terrifying women, the lot of ’em.’
‘Oh, come off it.’ Flo flops her hand at him. ‘We’re not terrifying. We’re formidable. There’s a difference, you know.’
‘Fucking oath there is,’ Harry mutters, and Flo and Lucy both grin. ‘Hey, speaking of matriarchs,’ he continues. ‘Remember when you and Auntie Mandy used to do Easter mutton-birds? And you wouldn’t let any of the blokes go along with you? There was always something real mysterious about that to us kids.’
‘O
h, it was good for Mandy and me to have something that was just ours. Good for Mandy in particular, then, to have something that was hers, away from Ronny. He’s Mandy’s ex,’ she explains to Lucy. ‘And a mean old prick he was too.’
‘You used to go mutton-birding?’ Lucy asks. ‘Are you Aboriginal?’
‘Nope, but it didn’t used to matter. We used to eat them heaps as kids. And then they brought in all them regulations so me and Mandy used to just do it once a year, for Easter. It was brilliant. We’d roast a big batch up and everyone’d come over and we’d have a big bonfire into the night. There was always a heap of kids running round up to mischief. It was real festive, you know? But then we got a new cop down here and he was a stickler for the rules and it wasn’t really a secret that we did it, so we had to stop.’
‘You can apply for a licence, can’t you?’ Lucy asks.
‘It’s bullshit that we have to,’ Harry mumbles. ‘Bloody red tape’s robbed us of our tradition.’
‘Bloody Greens,’ Flo mutters, ‘locking Tassie up.’
‘It’s bullshit,’ Harry adds. ‘I mean, what’s more Tassie than an Easter mutton-bird feed?’
‘So what, you just grab them out of their holes and wring their necks?’ Lucy asks Flo.
‘Pretty much.’
There’s a pause. Then Lucy says: ‘We should do it.’
‘What?’
‘Easter’s coming up. We should do it for you guys: for old time’s sake. Just this once. C’mon.’
Flo and Harry both gawk at her. She grabs the bottle, pours three more whiskeys, looks Flo and then Harry right in the eye, raises her glass to her lips and throws it back.
Fuck. There’s something so sexy about her in that moment: flushed cheeks, a kind of reckless, defiant glint—or perhaps bloodlust—shining in her eyes. Harry can’t help himself. He grins, raises his glass and shots his whiskey too. ‘I’m in,’ he says.
They both look at Flo. ‘Ah fuck it!’ she gurgles, waving her hand sloppily. ‘I’m in too.’
Harry pours another round, and lifts his glass towards the middle of the table.
