The Grand Tour

by Olivia Wearne

  ‘Faggots,’ one spat.

  Neil smiled lamely. ‘I’m a woman.’

  ‘Well, yer merkin don’t go under yer nose, madam—supposed to cover yer pussy.’

  Cue snickering from the Greek chorus.

  Bernard attempted a different approach. ‘Piss off, why don’t you.’

  Cue goading oohs from the Greek chorus.

  ‘Don’t swear at me, ya fucking prick.’

  Bernard was considering how ‘piss’ didn’t really count as swearing when he felt the impact to his cheek. Someone had hit him, here, on a public street, at four-thirty in the afternoon. He glanced at Neil, cowering beneath his arms as two louts rained punches on him. Another fist collided with Bernard’s back then an iron ball slammed into his kidneys. My god, they’re hitting me from behind! A second blow to his cheek reminded him to shield his face. He raised his arms and experienced a sudden and shockingly intense pain in his testicles. Bernard spiralled to the ground clutching his searing balls. The hurt raced inexplicably through his body and began ringing in his ears.

  A newcomer shouted, ‘Oi! Fuck off, ya little shit-stirrers!’

  The adolescents detached themselves from their prey and loped cagily off down the street in much the same way they had arrived.

  Bernard slowly unravelled. He looked at Neil and saw a small bald man helping him to his feet. Neil had come out the worse: his face and neck were patchy and florid, either from recent blows or evidence of high emotion, and blood ran from his nose onto his T-shirt, to cover the baby in a maroon blanky. ‘Little shits, little fucking good-for-nothing dickheads! Arseholes! Waste of fucking oxygen …’ he seethed as he pressed the hem of his T-shirt to his seeping nose.

  Bernard twigged. New Zealand. Of course.

  Their wiry saviour glanced over his shoulder. ‘You all right there?’

  Bernard nodded. He eased one hand away from his crotch. A belated spasm went ricocheting through his testes.

  ‘Got ya in the lolly bags, did they?’ the stranger observed. ‘Pack of mongrels.’

  ‘Lowlifes,’ Bernard agreed.

  ‘They’d kick your head in even if you was from Tattersalls come to give them their winnings. The only reason I’m not hurting is ’cause they know I keep a massive bloody machete behind the bar.’ He gestured at the neighbouring pub. ‘Better yet, they know I’m not afraid to use it.’

  Neil dabbed at his nose. ‘It’s true. It’s about two-thirds the size of him.’

  ‘You folks are lucky they poured milk on their Weeties this morning, things get real disfiguring when they’re on the turps.’

  Neil’s mobile burbled, oblivious to the ordeal its owner had just endured. ‘Shit, I’ve got a session.’ He turned and re-entered the radio station, where the employees evidently paid little heed to innocent people being brutally beaten on the footpath.

  ‘Do you think I should go to the police?’ Bernard asked the publican.

  ‘If you’ve no other plans for the evening, why not?’ A smile revealed stained teeth to match his complexion. ‘You been out of the news for a while, eh, Bernard? Crime’s down in this city, or didn’t you know?’

  ‘So you’re telling me not bother?’

  ‘I’m saying if you feel like passing a few hours with the cops, have yourself a free cuppa, then be my guest. A bit of tea and sympathy is about the most your likely to wring from the experience. Me, I don’t have the time to tell them what to jot down in their blank spaces just cause there’s a rare and regrettable incident in my bar every Friday and Saturday night.’

  The man returned to his pub, stopping to assist a flannelled gentleman, stooped so severely as to give the impression he was searching for change on the doorstep, across his hearth.

  Bernard walked gently back to his car, eased himself into the front seat and drove away, sitting high on his buttocks with his knees well parted.

  The vertical staircase gave him pause for thought; he clung to the banister and eased himself up to the summit.

  Mia was at the kitchen bench intimidating the kettle. ‘I was just about to make some chicken soup.’ Her version of chicken soup consisted of white powder sprinkled from a sachet, which the addition of boiling water turned to a lumpy emulsion.

  Bernard found the prospect comforting. ‘Sure, why not.’

  She upended the jug over their mugs and immediately the apartment was engulfed by the tang of imitation chicken.

  ‘You look sick,’ she remarked once they were seated.

  ‘I’ve had a rough afternoon.’

  ‘Me too.’ She blew across the surface of her mug. ‘Jim’s depressed.’

  ‘Who isn’t?’

  ‘I think he might actually be; he’s on medication.’ She sipped her soup in a self-satisfied manner. A Jim manner; she’d obviously spent the day in his presence.

  Not to be outdone, Bernard blurted, ‘I’ve just been beaten up by a pack of local thugs.’

  She eyed him suspiciously. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously. Young ones, you know the type, travel in packs, spit on the pavement, holler insults and pinch old ladies’ handbags.’

  ‘You don’t look beaten up. Why’d they hit you?’

  ‘Because they’re moronic inbreeds who don’t have the mental capacity for any action other than violence.’ He sipped his salty beverage.

  ‘Did you report it?’

  ‘Pointless, I’d be wasting my time.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve been assaulted, you have to tell the police. What would you do if someone attacked me?’

  ‘That’s different, you’re … tiny.’

  Mia flared her nostrils. ‘I thought you were going to say elderly for a minute there.’

  ‘And get beaten up a second time? I was about to refer to your gender, but then why shouldn’t women be entitled to a random shit-kicking too?’

  ‘Because you shouldn’t hit a woman, everyone knows that, it’s practically a commandment: thou shalt not raise a hand to a defenceless female. Unless you’re married, in which case it’s domestic and you can unleash holy hell because she burnt the dinner.’ She rapped on the table. ‘Come on, show me what they did to you.’

  Bernard stood and gently lifted his shirt. Mia gasped. He tried to view the damage over his shoulder, causing further discomfort. She softly ran her fingers, still warm from holding the mug, over his back. ‘Is this a footprint?’

  ‘Probably, I was on the pavement, they kicked me in the balls, the little bastards!’

  She stroked his grazes. ‘Do you want me to take a look?’ Her eyes dropping to his groin.

  ‘Can I take a raincheck?’

  They returned to their seats. ‘Do you really think it was random? It’s strange they spared your face.’

  ‘Would you rather they hadn’t?’ He waited as she gave the notion some thought. ‘This was not your early-edition-news-watching variety of thug.’

  ‘My Granny Nance would have loved this,’ Mia said. ‘All her ranting about the Youth of Today would have actually been realised.’ She shook her fist. ‘Hanging’s too good for ’em.’

  ‘Got to be cruel to be kind,’ they recited simultaneously as though sharing a punchline in a nineteen-fifties sitcom.

  Mia had moved in with her grandmother because she found living with her parents unpalatable, something akin to eating plain mashed potatoes: it wasn’t unpleasant but you wanted to be done with it as quickly as possible. Her father was an insurance broker, her mother a shopaholic. Mia considered it unfortunate that her mother was opposed to illicit substances in all their nefarious forms. She argued that a benzo habit would have been cheaper to maintain.

  Mia’s big brother, Kevin, was a resounding success in every facet of life: education, moneymaking, marriage and breeding. Alas, his dullness quelled his parent’s desire to live vicariously through him. Instead, they focused on their wayward daughter, attempting to direct her adolescent existence from the self-enslaved comfort of their suburban lounge room.

 
Mia decamped to take up residence with her curmudgeonly grandmother. They lived in a state of enjoyable misanthropy, until the cancer secretly feeding off Nance’s bowel progressed to take possession of her lymphatic system. Mia arrived home one evening to find Nance in her armchair, her finger poised atop the mute button, as though she’d heard death creeping up on her.

  Bernard was embarking on his second whisky when Lucas showed up. Mia, crossing from the kitchen with a half-empty container of dip, glanced at his ill-fitting nylon suit and demanded he change. ‘Just looking at you in that abomination makes me feel itchy.’

  When Lucas retuned, more comfortably attired, Mia brought him up to speed on Bernard’s misfortune, working enough spin into the story for Lucas to side with her.

  ‘I have to say,’ he mused, pumping his cracker like a piston up and down in the dip, ‘it does seem kind of petty to go to the police and report that a teenager kicked you in the balls.’

  Mia twisted her entire torso around to face Bernard, demonstrating to Lucas that she found his observation unworthy of comment. ‘You know what your problem is?’

  ‘There’s a pain in my crotch.’

  Mia blinked languidly.

  Bernard could tell by the tilt of her head he was in for a character analysis. ‘Could you give me the condensed version?’ he suggested, hoping to get the jump on her—he would have swapped candour for polite repression any day.

  She finished chewing a cracker and licked the salt from her thumb. ‘You’re a stubborn old fart.’

  ‘Guilty as charged.’

  She gave a throaty laugh and reached for his hand to squeeze it in camaraderie.

  Bernard risked glancing at Lucas. The sight of his forced grin, coupled with the uneasy look in his eye, made the whole assault worthwhile.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Ruby rose at dawn, ending the torment of a sleepless night. She planned on walking to the convenience store for milk, unable to face the morning without her cup of tea. As she was inserting her stockinged feet into her Hush Puppies, she noticed a slip of white paper had been posted under the door. She switched on the overhead light to read.

  ‘What is it?’ Angela asked, her head poking above the frill of her doona. ‘Is it Carol?’

  Ruby stepped over and placed the note in Angela’s waiting hand. She appreciated the notch of concern that cleaved her friend’s brow.

  I called you because I needed a mother—not a babysitter.

  Your services are no longer required.

  PS You are the coldest mother that ever lived.

  Angela read over the note again. ‘She’s quite the drama queen. The coldest mother … you’re the kindest person I know.’

  ‘Not necessarily—not to her.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I was scared of Carol. Right from the start, everything she did frightened me. I was completely in her control.’

  ‘Are we talking about baby Carol?’

  ‘Baby Carol, toddler Carol, teenager Carol … It’s terrifying, the ability they have to hurt you. You feel so much. You’re so raw.’

  Angela glanced at the note again. ‘I take it she wasn’t the easiest girl.’

  Ruby shook her head. ‘To put it mildly … And I didn’t help by giving in to her every whim. I was so terrified of confrontation—of the tears and the tantrums. I simply gave her whatever she wanted.’

  ‘Spoilt.’

  ‘Rotten.’ Ruby needed to sit but there was no available chair to drop into; even looking back from this great distance made her wobbly. She hadn’t felt unconditional love toward her daughter, but rather angst and trepidation.

  ‘So, you mollycoddled her. That hardly makes you cold.’

  ‘I was angry. I wasn’t affectionate. I would have been better screaming at her and making up with cuddles, rather than nursing my bitterness.’

  ‘You should tell her this. She’s a mother now—she might understand.’

  Ruby grunted; she wished she’d found the note after going to buy the milk—a black tea would probably tide her over.

  ‘So what now?’ Angela asked, throwing back the doona.

  ‘Leave, I suppose. There are other caravan parks nearby. There’s that Goldfields one Mrs Bronson mentioned …’

  ‘Carol’s just feeling sorry for herself. She doesn’t actually mean it.’ Angela slipped her arms into her robe. ‘Have to talk to her. Clear the air.’

  Ruby sighed. ‘There’s no point talking to Carol. She doesn’t listen. She never has. Or she chooses what she wants to hear to use against you at a future date.’

  ‘And what about Izzy?’

  ‘She’ll have to make do. I’m only in the way.’ Ruby watched her friend wave the kettle in the air, checking its water content. ‘You know, the last big blowout we had was over Izzy. I gave Carol a lecture about being too tough on her. She was always sniping at the poor girl. Everything Izzy did seemed to provoke her. I tried to explain that being silly is just what children do. It’s how they’re programmed. You can’t expect a toddler to speak and behave like an adult.’

  Ruby watched Angela crook the kettle beneath the tap. She lifted her voice to compete with the gushing water. ‘It was as if Carol was punishing the girl for being a child—for being beyond her control. And the madder she got, the more Izzy recoiled from her, which only enraged Carol further.’

  Angela returned the kettle to its station. She opened the tea caddy. Ruby knew there was something she had to remind her of, but her reverie was overwhelming: Carol was disappointed in Izzy for not being perfect, for not compensating for all the other letdowns in her life. Izzy became an enemy, another adversary in an already hostile universe—just as Ruby had been.

  She recollected herself and broke the news gently. ‘There’s no milk, I’m afraid.’

  Ruby walked down to the office to settle their bill. A buzzer made a distant drone somewhere in the adjoining house. Ruby met Jesus’s eye, gazing down at her benevolently from inside His gilded frame, hands pressed together in prayer, His nightgown freshly laundered. On a happier occasion, she would have joked with Angela about how they’d got His blusher just right.

  Mrs Bronson thrust open the accordion door. ‘Ruby—thank heavens, I thought it might be a real customer.’ She was sorry to hear they intended leaving. ‘I had it in mind to drop by this evening and take you up on that drink offer.’

  Ruby did a passable job at feigning regret. She let it be understood what a fine, upstanding woman she thought Mrs Bronson was, hoping any moves to swell her Christian pride might go some way toward helping Izzy’s plight. ‘I’ll be sure to pass on a good word about the Ballarat Happy Campers Caravan Park as we continue our journey.’

  Mrs Bronson, capitalising on a final opportunity for a whinge, said she’d be thankful if they would. Any small amount of publicity, even as trivial as word of mouth, would go some way toward keeping the place afloat. ‘It’s such a struggle, managing on my own. I couldn’t possibly find the time, or money, for publicity on top of all my other obligations.’ Her voice rose in volume in order to reach her listener, now slowly backing out of the office. ‘All the best for your little holiday. Where was it you said you were from again?’

  Ruby arrived back at the Winnebago to find Angela missing. Just as she was preparing to head out in search of her, the woman in question heaved into the trailer and collapsed upon the couch. ‘Terrible,’ she panted. ‘Just terrible.’

  Izzy had materialised in the Winnebago’s doorway while Mrs Bronson had Ruby barrelled up in the office. Angela had tried to break the news of their departure gently. Izzy burst into tears, complaining how unfair it was. Angela attempted to hug the child but was truculently pushed away. Angela, flustered by the girl’s anguish, struggled to explain—should she blame Carol? It didn’t seem right to badmouth her to Izzy.

  ‘She pleaded with me to stay. I told her we’d still be nearby. Then she just went berserk. She swore at me. I told her not to be naughty. Perhaps I shouldn’t have scolded
her? She ran away before I could say anything more.’

  Angela had attempted to go after Izzy. She walked around the caravan park, hoping to recognise a pair of shoes or some washing slung from a makeshift line. She checked the playground and the games room but the girl had disappeared.

  The Winnebago sat behind a line of four-wheel drives; it was school drop-off peak hour. Every now and then, tired of waiting, a back door opened and a uniformed pupil clambered out and dashed to the footpath, joining the line of juveniles ambling through the gates. Ruby and Angela sat stonily, lower lips pensively jutting, in soundless communion with their thoughts. Neither felt particularly inclined to discuss the events of the past few days. There would be ample opportunity to pick over the carcass when they weren’t feeling so deplorable.

  They arrived at their block of units to find them eerily quiet, not a workman to be seen. Angela poked her nose through her front door and gasped. Where were the boards? Half the living room had some kind of plywood underflooring. Through the other half, the absent half, she could see down to the cement foundations. And the dust! Sawdust and plaster dust and concrete dust and plain old dirt dust: every surface was clad in a fine grey fleece.

  She stepped off the patio. ‘Mine’s a bombsite,’ she called to Ruby, whose expression informed her she’d just beheld a similar chaotic vision. ‘Shall we drive back to the caravan park?’

  Ruby’s response was ready-made, having settled on it while surveying the uninhabitable state of her lounge room. ‘No. We’ll go to the Goldfields Retreat.’

  ‘Is that the fancy one—the one Ingrid hates?’

  ‘I’m sure she was exaggerating when she said it was booked solid.’

  Having stationed the Winnebago at the Goldfields Retreat, the vacant bays on either side confirming Ingrid had been rather liberal with the truth, Ruby and Angela thought they owed it to their woes to indulge in a lavish lunch. Acting on a recommendation from the park’s receptionist, they partook of an expensive, undersized meal at a winery restaurant. ‘Leave them wanting more is not a term that should apply to dining,’ Ruby grumbled, unwrapping the mint on her saucer and placing it on her tongue.