by Ben Hobson
‘Not bad, hey sweetheart?’
She kept playing. She hadn’t started speaking yet—nothing beyond dad, really—but he knew she would soon. He knew, too, that it was important to talk to her normally. No baby talk. Get her learning the words right from day dot.
‘Better get home soon, I reckon.’
But he was reluctant to leave. He looked at the sun as it sank over the falls and he let his feet dip beneath the cold water. When Amy started to shiver, her chubby legs quaking, he picked her up and cuddled her to his chest again. ‘Sorry, sweetheart. Didn’t think.’ He swaddled her in a towel and got into the car, put her on his lap and drove down the dirt road back to his waiting family, eyeing the kangaroos that lined the side of the track.
The house had all its lights on, as did the shed. The verandah, though, was still in half-darkness, making for an odd contrast. As though they’d forgotten he was out. A pig carcass swung from the hook at the end of the verandah, near his room, illuminated by the lights behind it. Clearly fresh. Probably Brendan’s doing.
The shed shone so bright in the dark he had to squint as he approached. He shielded his eyes. The shed was enormous, bigger than the house. He could see Brendan in there through the gap in the front door as he pulled up. He would be out there working with him soon, he knew.
On hearing the car, Brendan stopped what he was doing, wiped his brow with the back of his gloved hand and came outside, clomping towards the car. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘Boolarra,’ Sidney said, as he got out of the car with his daughter.
‘Yeah, well, you’re doing the rest of the bloody night yourself. I’ve been out here since early on.’
‘You didn’t wake up till past lunch.’
This made Brendan laugh. He came towards Sidney and wrapped his brother in a headlock.
Sidney, cradling his daughter, couldn’t push his older brother off. He scrambled to keep Amy safe, being as gentle as he could with her beneath his brother’s aggression. Noticed his brother’s hands were bandaged, close as they were to Sidney’s eyes, some of the blood on the knuckles leaking through. Beating on somebody, or something. ‘Watch it! Brendan, I’ve got Amy.’
‘You gonna keep going by yourself out here or what? I need a break.’
‘After I get her down.’
‘After you get her down. Where is she? Come here, sweetie.’ Without asking, he levered the infant from Sidney’s hands. The rough way he handled her made Sidney give her up quickly, more concerned for her welfare than his own. She snuggled into her uncle, who, much to Sidney’s dismay, she seemed to love dearly. ‘Look at her, mate, she’s freezing her arse off out here. What’re you doing takin’ her swimming this time of year? Look at her.’
‘I’m taking her in for a warm bath. Give her here.’
‘Reckon she needs her mum.’
‘She’s right. Alright? Give her back.’
Brendan, grinning, swung her up in his hands above his head and held her there, as though he were a child playing with a ball. Sidney, too short to reach, made no effort to jump and retrieve her.
‘I’ll go and get Dad.’
Brendan laughed at this. ‘Yeah? Go on then. Go and whinge to bloody Dad, see if that changes it.’
Sidney folded his arms. Brendan was right. Whingeing wouldn’t help. So he watched his tiny daughter waving her legs back and forth, beginning to cry. There was an anger deep within him. This mongrel—his brother—harming Amy to prove a point. It took all he had to keep from attacking. No use, anyway. He’d be pulling at his brother’s arms and his brother would be laughing, holding her up there longer.
‘You gonna do the rest yourself then? And have it out there tomorrow in the car by yourself like you need to?’
Her crying was getting louder.
‘Fine. Yes. Give her back.’
Brendan swung the baby back into her father’s arms. Sidney cradled her to his chest. ‘You arsehole,’ he said.
‘Grow a set, would you? Come out after you give her to Sarah. I need a break.’
‘I’m putting her down.’
‘Just give her to her mum.’
‘It won’t take a half hour and I’ll do the bloody rest, alright?’
Sidney walked inside the house. His mother was already washing up, her feet squared before the sink, a dripping stack in the rack beside her, tea towel draped over her shoulder. She didn’t turn to greet him or his daughter. ‘You eaten?’ she asked.
‘We ate before we left.’
He took Amy into their bedroom and was immediately engulfed in the musty smell of weed smoke. He coughed, and so did Amy, the little hack painful to his ears. His wife languid over the bed, head tilted back and upside down, her hair a dripping octopus over the carpet. She grinned as she saw the two of them and drew again on her joint and the embers glowed and shadowed. Her eyes opened wider. ‘Where you two been, eh?’
‘What the hell are you doing, Sarah, smoking here? You can’t let her cough all this garbage into her lungs.’
‘Oh, calm down, Sid,’ she said, and rolled onto her front. She kicked her legs up and put her head in her hands and then dipped her head down and squeezed the back of her neck. ‘You sound like my mum sometimes.’
‘Don’t smoke this stuff in here. It’s bad for her.’
‘Give her here.’
‘Don’t smoke in here, alright? Look. She’s coughing.’
‘Bit of weed won’t hurt her. They give it to some babies as medicine.’ She grinned again. ‘Used to be you’d give babies a bit of bourbon to put ’em to sleep. Sent me right off, Mum said. Weed’ll probably help her settle. Give her to me,’ and she held out her arms, waiting.
Reluctantly, he handed Amy over, who seemed unaffected by all this, apart from the coughing.
‘At least put the bloody joint out.’
‘Alright, alright, Mum.’ Sarah licked her fingers and pinched the tip. The smoke still in the room hazing the ceiling, the lights. He hated the smell, had always hated it. Brought him closer to his childhood and all the hell of it. Odorous memories easier to step inside.
He grimaced at another smell. ‘She needs to be changed.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
‘You coming outside later on?’
‘Why?’
‘To help.’
‘Brendan rope you into doing that again?’
Sidney sighed. It made his wife laugh.
‘He can say anything and you bloody jump like a mongrel dog, Sid. Stand up to him.’
These words next to his daughter’s ear.
‘Come keep me company?’
‘Maybe. Might just watch TV after I get her down.’
‘You reading to her?’
‘Yes,’ she said, sounding like a chastised teenager. ‘I love her too, you know. It’s not just you in this.’
He let them be, shutting the door on the smoke and his family. He spared one last look in at his daughter and regretted not telling her that he loved her dearly and thought of her always and that he would take her away from this place, the three of them, and they’d live somewhere cleaner, free from smoke. But of course he couldn’t say it. He knew it would never be.
FOUR
SHARON WORNKIN
Her son like a minister before the crowd. They were engulfed in his gestures; watching him, waiting, like he would lead them to some deep revelation, that he’d burden them with meaning. Him with beer in hand, smiling. He lifted his glass, raising it as high as his arm could reach, and held it there. The crowd leaned forwards. He tipped the glass, let the beer fall to his lips, and miraculously started drinking without spilling a drop. They watched while he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, veins in his neck. The cheers erupted so loudly when he finished they startled her. Peter cupped his hand around his girlfriend’s waist, who laughed along with the rest and stared at her man with clear adoration.
Sharon looked down at the beer in her hands, the frosted glass beading water. Had she ever looked
that way at Roger? Look at how Cassie Cahill looked at her son. He kissed her, pulling her hips forwards to press against his own. The room roared again. Onlookers not invited to celebrate her son’s eighteenth were pressing at the edges. The Newbury pub was always noisy, but rarely like this. The walls that odd maroon colour; the place smelling of beer and wet carpet. Of old farmhands come straight from work. Cow and hay and sweat.
Sharon moved to the edge herself and rested her beer on the table in front of her between sips. It was an odd thing, this celebration. She hadn’t felt close to her son in years. The edge of the rabble felt about right, about where she should be. She felt like she was watching an episode of Neighbours, on the couch––impossible to reach through the screen.
She’d tried. She really had. The last few years she’d sought to coax him out of whatever teenage shell he’d ensconced himself in, but he just didn’t want to have anything to do with her. Mum wasn’t necessary. Hadn’t been for years. She sipped at her beer, tried not to dwell on it.
After witnessing her son’s first legal beer, the group dispersed a little. Some of the regulars who Sharon knew well eyed her as they passed. Hard to see what it was they wanted to communicate. The old buggers.
Across the room she saw Roger near the happy couple. He put a hand on his son’s shoulder and looked him in the eye a moment and laughed, said something she couldn’t make out. Kept looking around. A flighty dog. Didn’t seem to listen to whatever Peter said and quickly found something else to occupy his attention.
Soon it was time for speeches. Some signal was passed from person to person and all turned slowly, shutting their mouths, waiting for her son to speak. Peter seemed embarrassed. He smirked and looked sideways at her. She tried to nod, not sure he’d seen. Peter looked around, probably for his father. Sharon couldn’t see him either.
Peter inhaled and held his breath, as he used to do as a child when he was steeling himself for something difficult. Leaping over the chasm between the two wooden pillars out the front of his primary school, smacking his shins into the corners if he didn’t give it his all.
He let out his breath and said, ‘Thanks for being here, all of you.’
Raucous cheering, which didn’t take long to die down.
‘You wouldn’t be here unless you meant something to me.’ He stopped. Then, ‘I don’t know, is that it?’
He looked at Cassie for support. She just smiled up at him.
‘Do I need to say more?’ he asked the room.
Sharon shook her head. This was the moment Roger might say something, might step forward and say something about his son, offer something of himself. Might risk a little. Who knew where he was. Sharon looked at her feet, then back up at her son. Maybe she should say something. Peter wouldn’t want it, would probably be further embarrassed, but who gave a damn. Come on. Stand up.
Instead, surging through the crowd, which parted to allow him, strode Ernie Cahill. A purpose in his gait, and certainty as he placed his arm uninvited around Peter’s shoulders. Ernie had a grin on his face and his bald head shone; his eyes lit up. ‘Can’t let this young man talk about himself, can we? Where’s Roger?’
From the back of the room: ‘He’s in the toilet!’
‘That’d be bloody right,’ Ernie shouted, to more laughter. Then he looked at Sharon. ‘You mind if I say a few words, Mum?’
She raised her glass as everyone’s eyes bore holes in her. ‘Go right ahead,’ she managed.
The crowd turned from her as one. Instant relief. Strange how much shame she felt doing something so simple.
‘Now, this fella here, when he started dating my Cassie …’ Ernie began. The room clapped and cheered. ‘He seemed a bit shy at first, a bit awkward, you know. He was playing guitar and I said to him, “How you going to pay for my grandchildren playing that bloody thing? No money in that, is there?”’ He scuffed Peter’s hair. ‘You remember that, mate?’ Peter looked abashed and proud at once. ‘And he said, “Never promised you grandchildren. You watch yourself or you won’t get none.”’
More laughter, including Ernie’s.
‘I wasn’t sure about this bloke before, but I was when he said that. Because this is a man who sticks up for himself, who doesn’t take shit from nobody. And he won’t let nobody come at my Cassie. He shows me respect every day, he’s a proud worker and I’m proud to know him. You did well, Roger––you outta the toilet yet? Sharon, the two of you raised a fine boy. So here’s to Pete. May you forever stop playing that bloody guitar.’
The crowd laughed, clapped, drank their drinks.
As the party continued, loud and comfortably chaotic, Roger found the chair opposite her, grinning that grin of his. He was already drunk. She shifted in her seat, keenly aware of how the jeans she was wearing pressed into her stomach. He leaned over the table, sloshing liquid, trying to land a kiss on her neck. She let him, grimacing.
‘Oh come on,’ he said. ‘Loosen up, would you?’
‘I’m a cop, Roger. I’m not about to start getting drunk in front of people.’
‘Bloody stick up the arse. You’ve always had it. Even before you got the badge.’
He sat back awkwardly, his feet sticking out, getting in people’s way. She looked at her glass.
‘Come on, sweetheart. Get into it a bit. You only gave me one kid. We’ll only be doing this once.’
‘Like that was my doing,’ she said, quiet as she could.
‘What?’ he said, shouting over the noise.
‘Nothing.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘You said something.’
‘It was nothing. I said … I said I know Pete’s our one kid. I know.’
‘Alright, so loosen up a bit.’
‘I’m fine.’
He grunted, quickly moved off, seeing somebody more interesting at the bar. He’d been like this for years. Drawing everything he was from the people he surrounded himself with. A sad man, lonely, unloved by his parents. Look at him now. Laughing, the people nearby grimacing, him feeding off their energy like so much rust. Just sad. Yet she struggled to separate this man from the one she’d fallen in love with. And she had loved him, she believed that. They’d had a few good years. No telling where this man had come from. Was it something she’d done?
She remained seated at the table. A few people walked by, congratulating her on her boy, clapping her on the shoulder. Always something awkward in how they approached her. A certain type of distance––she was a cop, after all––and something else she found difficult to place. Her gender seemed to soften the men and harden the women. The women thought her too tough to be womanly. The men thought her a joke they couldn’t enjoy. So as their hands gripped her shoulders, she found herself internally shrugging them off. And yet she never physically followed through. Their words found polite ears, a smile, a reply of thanks. She felt like an overfull kettle, their congratulations so much extra water.
Opposite her the gigantic frame of Ernie Cahill slumped into a chair. He looked like a farmer but never spoke like one. His voice was always soft, making you lean in.
‘You alright there, Sharon?’
‘Just thinking.’
‘About your boy?’
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘About him, about life. You know.’
‘I do,’ Ernie said. He sat back in his chair, swigged from his glass. Sighed and plonked it down on the coaster, wet with sloshed beer. ‘Mine’re all grown up now. Cassie’s the only one left with a twenty-first to look forward to.’
Sharon nodded. ‘They’re good, the two of them, aren’t they?’
‘Yeah, they seem to be.’
Sharon sat forward. ‘What was it like for you and Esther?’
He grinned at this. ‘What do you mean?’
‘When you were young.’
‘I know that. I mean, in what way?’
‘Forget it.’
‘No,’ Ernie said, laughing. ‘What do you mean, what was it like for us? With what?’
‘Just …’ she
said. ‘I don’t know. Just leave it.’
‘Bit moody, are we?’
She knew what he meant by that. He was better than most blokes, who’d outright say it. On your rags, or some other disrespectful thing. He was smiling, softening it, maybe pity. To avoid cowering beneath his grin she looked around for her son. Saw him near the jukebox, selecting a song. Cassie’s arm over his back, the two of them giggling. It seemed to Sharon as though she’d been married forever. Had she ever been so free? Or even seemed that way?
‘You all set for tomorrow night?’ Ernie asked. His soft voice had grown even softer.
‘Yes.’
‘You talked to all your blokes?’
‘We’ll all be together.’
‘Doing what?’
She sighed. ‘I’m throwing them a party.’
Then, ‘Where’s the patrol car going to be?’
‘There won’t be one tomorrow.’
‘Alright. Good, that’s good.’ Ernie sank back in his chair.
‘I don’t know why you even bother asking.’
‘Just one of those things, Sharon. Wouldn’t want one of your boys caught in a spot where we’d have to do something about it.’
Roger stumbled by, bumping into her. He placed his hands on the table to steady himself.
‘What’re you two talking about?’
‘Nothing, mate,’ Ernie said. ‘Get back to your celebrating.’
Easily dismissed, her husband. He looked at her as he left, arching an eye, smacking his lips. She knew he’d demand to know later.
As he staggered away she said, as quietly as she could, ‘We’d never come up near where you trade, you know that, Ernie. No patrol.’
Ernie leaned forward. He put both his hands on the table, clenched the fingers of the right. ‘You just remember what you know now, Sharon. Not another cop in this town knows where we conduct our business. If anyone was to come up there and bugger it up, we’d be up shit creek. And it’d all flow back down here to you. You think I give a damn you’re a woman? You think that matters to me when my family’s at stake? If I’m in that creek then you’re in there with me, same as any bloke. Pulling my boat by your damn teeth.’
