by Rose Hartley
‘You don’t like Jono?’
‘Have you met him?’
‘I see your point,’ he said.
‘He’s completely awful. He treats her like a servant.’
‘Why is she marrying him?’
‘The usual reasons. She loves him.’ The growl of a motorbike cut the air. I picked a sprig of jasmine from a fence as we passed and waved it under his nose. ‘Jen always looks at the world as a friend. She actually believes people wish her well, and the craziest thing is they do. Everyone except Jono treats her like a princess.’
‘Maybe that’s why she likes Jono. He’s a challenge.’
‘He’s too dumb to be a challenge. No, he’s familiar. I should have said, everyone except Jono and her own family treats her like a princess.’
‘Didn’t her parents buy her the house?’
‘It’s not the same thing.’
We turned into Charlotte Court. The caravan sat exactly where I’d left it, slightly askew in the car space. I spread my arms.
‘Well, here we are.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Wow, nice place.’
His gaze was fixed on the house behind the caravan, a beautiful modern wood-panelled two-storey feat of architecture.
‘No, not there. There.’ I pointed more firmly. ‘The caravan.’
His eyes swivelled to the little silver turd. ‘Huh.’ The caravan’s corrugated aluminium shone under the streetlight. Dan eyed me as if I’d said I kept my toenail clippings in jars.
‘Isn’t it cute?’ I said. ‘It’s all sixties and trapezoid.’
‘A caravan?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You bought this?’
‘Couple of days ago.’
‘I thought you were broke.’
I shrugged. ‘Money comes, money goes. You want to see inside?’
Now that a bed was mere metres away, my vagina had taken over my thinking. I needed to get Dan on top of me. This could be the start of my new life. Free meals. Drinking and shagging all night. If my caravan’s a-rockin’, don’t come a-knockin’.
Dan let out a short laugh. ‘Hell, why not.’
I opened the caravan door and ducked my head to step inside, tripping on the top step. Dan followed me in. The streetlight shone in through the broken window, but it was still quite dark inside and since I had nowhere to plug in an extension cord to make the light work, I used the torch by the bed to illuminate the caravan. With an interior that was ten feet long and six feet wide, it didn’t offer much room to move. We slid onto the tiny vinyl bench seats facing each other. Our knees touched.
‘So, this is it,’ I said.
‘You’ve got no power?’
‘I’ll get an extension cord at some point.’
‘And steal electricity?’
‘Yeah, I guess,’ I said.
He eyed the floral curtains and the sink. ‘Is that a pump tap?’
‘Um, yeah, I think. You can put a little water tank in below the sink.’
‘Huh. Cool. Have you put one in yet?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I only bought it a few days ago, and I don’t know how.’
‘I could do it for you,’ he said.
Was he trying to get in my pants with the offer of handiwork? I hoped so. There was a good buzz going on between my legs. Dan looked very fine. Tall and warm and smooth. Like he’d be heavy on me if we lay down. His full cheeks had a coating of blond stubble, which made them look less cherubic and more manly.
He frowned at me. Why are frowning men so hot?
‘Why are you staring at me?’ he asked.
It was warm in the caravan with the door closed. The heat spread to my cheeks. The caravan needed to be christened with a good, proper roll on the vinyl bed. With my right forefinger I traced the line of loosening linoleum on the tabletop. My left hand crept under the table and up Dan’s thigh.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked.
I smiled at him. There was no way I’d stop now I’d started. He’d have to throw me off and run if he wanted to leave. I reached his zip and rested my hand there.
He stood up suddenly, hunched over so he wouldn’t bang his head. Crap, he was going to leave. He looked at the door and I was filled with a deep rush of self-loathing. Then he cleared the distance between us, pulled me out of my seat and onto the table, and kissed me. He was not a bad kisser. No tongue, just pressure. I pressed my hands into his sides and squeezed my thighs against his hips.
I was just feeling some heat run down from my stomach to my knees when the fold-out table collapsed under the weight of my arse on it.
‘Whoops.’
Dan lifted me up off the floor and led me over to the bed at the back of the caravan as if nothing had happened and laid me down. He pulled off my dress, pressed my knees apart and put a clumsy hand between my legs. He wouldn’t make the top five of my lovers because of his lack of dexterity, but I predicted that he’d probably make the top fifteen. At least we weren’t upright in an alley and I wasn’t fumbling around with his zip and injuring him by accident. Compared with my sexual experiences of the past year – that is, Sean’s style of lovemaking, which had earned him his nickname The Stal: hard and fast and grunty – Dan would almost certainly be the better option. When he pulled off my undies and lay down on me he was indeed heavy on me, in a good way.
We were lying together slightly squashed on the narrow bed, my naked butt resting uncomfortably on brown vinyl. His hard-on pressed into my lower belly through his boxer shorts as he kissed me slowly. The buzzing between my legs became more urgent, anticipation fixing my body taut. He pulled away.
‘You’re really horny, aren’t you?’ he said.
‘Dan.’ All tension fizzed out of my body. ‘Do you know nothing of women? The word “horny” is about as welcome to my ears as the word “herpes”.’
He grinned, unperturbed. ‘You practically jumped me.’
I sighed and flopped my arm out to one side, hitting the caravan wall. What was his problem? He kissed my forehead and pulled his arm out from under me.
‘Wish that happened to me more often,’ he said.
‘Well, why don’t you just have sex with me then?’ To my horror the desperation was clearly audible in my voice.
‘To be honest, I’m kind of enjoying your frustration.’
‘Well, screw you!’
‘Nah, not tonight,’ he said.
‘Why not?’ It was outrageous. There I was, naked and ready on a vinyl bed, and he didn’t want to take advantage of the situation.
‘You’ve had too much to drink, and I don’t want to reward you for cheating on your boyfriend. I’m holding out in solidarity with Sean.’
‘What, are you having trouble getting it up?’
‘No!’
‘You’ve got tickets on yourself, anyway,’ I said. ‘Like you’d be doing me a favour? From what I remember you’re kind of clumsy.’ Hopefully he’d forgotten that I was the clumsy one.
‘That’s not fair!’ he protested. ‘I was drunk.’
‘Well, prove it then.’
‘Prove what?’
‘That you can screw properly.’
‘Jesus Christ, woman.’
I raised my eyebrows at him. The sound of a drunk spitting in the gutter outside came through the busted window, and a breeze ruffled the faded curtain.
‘Yeah, all right, just let me take a piss first,’ he said. He looked around. ‘Where do I go?’
‘Uh, outside, I guess.’
He shook his head and rolled off me, arranging the boner in his boxers so it wouldn’t stick straight out. He poked his head out the door before stepping out. The sound of splattering on concrete wafted in. It seemed to go on and on, like rain trickling down a gutter.
That must have been what lulled me to sleep.
The cold plywood wall was pressed against my butt cheeks when I woke. I was naked and furry-tongued, lying on my side, a headache splitting my forehead. Trying to move made it painfully appar
ent that the skin of my outer thigh was stuck to the vinyl bed.
‘Ugh.’
Next to me, Dan was asleep with his mouth open. He was still wearing his boxers and his hair lay tousled over his forehead.
He stirred as I sat up. ‘Morning,’ he said, and stretched.
I tried to remember what happened.
‘What did we do?’ I asked. I was buck naked. Why hadn’t we gone back to Dan’s house, for God’s sake? Why did we come back to sleep in my caravan? Dan angled his eyes slightly to the left, as if he was embarrassed to see me naked.
‘I came back in last night and you were passed out.’ Dan began putting on his clothes. ‘I was gonna get a taxi home, but then I thought I’d just stay here and walk to my car this morning.’
‘Huh.’
I hoped he would leave soon so I could sneak into Jen’s house and use her bathroom. Dan was not in a hurry, however. He started opening the cupboards above the sink and inspecting handles.
‘If you’re looking for coffee, I don’t have any. Or a kettle. Or electricity to power the kettle.’
‘Nah, just checking the place out. It’s well built.’
Great. I started pulling on my underwear, moving gingerly as a tight band of pain in my forehead throbbed with each movement. My mobile rang just as I hooked my bra together. I fumbled around on the floor, finally locating the mobile under my dress.
A disembodied voice introduced herself as Judy from Centrelink, inducing a shiver of dread that ran over me like a huntsman spider.
‘Maggie Cotton? We’ve had a tip-off that you’ve been living with your partner for the last year,’ she droned.
I could imagine the owner of the voice painting her nails purple and clacking her bangles on the desk as she cradled her phone in the crook of her neck. Just a feeling I got.
‘A tip-off from who?’
‘Sorry, I can’t disclose that. Can you confirm that you have been living with a partner?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘My boyfriend died.’
Dan’s head shot up, startled. Dear God, why did I say that? Why hadn’t I just said no, I was not living with anyone? Dan was staring at me in disbelief.
‘It – it was a skiing accident,’ I continued, trying to bring a little waver into my voice and hoping like hell it sounded genuine. ‘It happened in New Zealand, a year ago.’
Crap, is there even snow in New Zealand at this time of year? Why didn’t I just say it was a car accident? Dan’s expression had morphed from disbelief to disgust.
‘Well, that’s interesting,’ Judy droned, ‘because I was just on the phone to one Sean Quinn and he sounded very much alive.’
‘Wait, do you mean the tip-off was from him? My arse of an ex-boyfriend dobbed me in?’
Judy cleared her throat. ‘I can’t divulge that information. Mr Quinn’s income means you shouldn’t have been claiming the full amount of your study allowance for the past year. You’ll have to repay the money and we may issue a fine. Are you aware that lying about your living arrangements is fraud?’
Dan brushed past me impatiently and buttoned up his jeans while Judy went on to inform me that I would be receiving a letter from them shortly, elucidating the exact amount of money I owed.
‘Your repayments will be docked from your Newstart Allowance until the full amount is paid, or until you begin working full-time, at which time you’ll have the payments docked directly from your pay. Once we’ve calculated the amount owed you’ll be put onto a repayment plan.’
‘What if I don’t get a job?’
‘The debt will remain until you do. Indexed to inflation. I suggest you get a job.’ I detected a note of victory in her voice.
By the time I hung up Dan was fully clothed and fuming.
‘By God, you can lie, woman. What was that?’
‘That was Centrelink, and they didn’t believe me.’
His eyes were burning through me, making me feel more naked than I was. I pulled on my dress.
‘Why did you say your boyfriend had died?’
‘Because I was trying to get out of paying a debt.’
‘But you could pay for a caravan.’
‘Well, now I never have to pay rent again.’
He rubbed his face. ‘You’re going to live in this thing? Here?’
‘While I’m kicked out of Mum’s, yes.’
‘Oh, really? How? Do you need to go to the toilet right now? Eat, drink, shower?’
‘I’m fine,’ I said.
Now I just wanted him out. The full weight of terror from the phone call was beginning to sink in. I wasn’t just out of an income, a university degree and a home. I had a debt, and a potential fraud case.
‘Maggie, you are all kinds of weird,’ Dan said. And then he left.
Chapter 9
It was a hot, sticky night when I was arrested for public urination.
I’d been in the caravan for two weeks and had bought candles and an extension cord. Each night after the houses that looked onto the laneway turned out their lights I snuck onto the front verandah of the fancy wooden townhouse and plugged the cord into its outdoor power point. Then I boiled the kettle (Jen’s spare) for a cup of herbal tea and fried up bacon and eggs in the cheap electric frypan (also Jen’s spare). I rarely used the light in the caravan so as not to call attention to myself, but when I did I closed all the curtains and read for a little while before bed. I had bed sheets (borrowed from Jen), a mug, plate, cutlery and a tea towel (purchased from the Nicholson Street Angels’ op shop). I did my laundry at the laundromat on Smith Street. I kept an esky under the fold-up table and filled it with ice to keep my bacon, eggs and cider cold, and leant a hand mirror against the splashback, where I did my make-up and plaited my hair when it got greasy.
I was a little worried about Dot, who was still angry at me for dragging her out of Sean’s cute little terrace house and Mum’s cat palace. She’d left two long, vicious scratches down my left forearm and spent most mornings crouched on the laminate folding table, flicking her grey tabby tail from side to side and staring at me with hard yellow eyes. Sometimes she wouldn’t come home all night, and I couldn’t leave the caravan door open for her, so who knew whose verandah she slept on. She was probably getting feeds from the neighbours, who no doubt thought she was a stray, and would likely go feral soon.
My main worry, though, was the bathroom. It wasn’t so bad while Jono was away in South Australia and I could use Jen’s bathroom, but while he was home I found my options compromised. He tended to sit on the couch playing PlayStation for most of his time off, so I couldn’t just waltz in and out of Jen’s back door without him noticing. Tonight the problem was pressing. The caravan was a hotbox. I needed to pee and shower and eat something decent, but all I could do was lie on the vinyl and sweat. The telltale signs of Jono’s presence were visible over the back of Jen’s fence: a man’s jacket draped lovingly over a chair in the garden, an empty beer bottle beside it. But I still had a key to Jen’s place. I weighed it up. What was worse, peeing in the street or seeing Jono’s face? The answer was obvious, so I went outside and squatted in the gutter in full view of my neighbours’ windows.
I hitched up my jeans and darted back inside, flopping on the bed to think. My next Centrelink payment wasn’t due until next week, so I had to make $12.87 last five days. There was only one way to do that without starving or listening to Jono talk about his new cock piercing. Stretched out on the vinyl, stomach rumbling, I called my mother. She answered on the second ring.
‘What do you want?’
‘Hi, Mum.’
‘How’s the caravan?’
‘Oh, it’s great, it’s great . . . listen, how about we take a short break from our agreement and you let me come home for a few days? I started a new job recently and I think it will be easier at home until I’m all set up in the caravan. Plus I need to get some clothes.’
Mum paused. I felt her battle. She was divided between her fury at me for spending the bond money on the cara
van and curiosity about my new job. I already knew which would win.
‘What job did you start?’ she asked finally.
‘It’s for a charity. Doing admin three days a week.’
That should put her in a good mood. A daughter with a respectable job working for a charity, that’s something she could boast to her friends about. Never mind the living in a caravan part, nobody needed to know about that. I wouldn’t tell her I was volunteering, either. And I would never, ever tell her about the Centrelink debt.
‘No,’ she said.
I nearly dropped the phone. ‘What?’
‘I’m glad you’ve got a job, but the answer’s no. You can’t come home. You spent the money I gave you on a caravan, so now you have to live in it. That’s the deal.’
‘Mum!’
‘I – argh, shit.’ Her voice went muffled.
‘Mum?’
‘Nothing, I just fell through the floor. Ow.’
‘What, in the living room? The rotted bit?’
‘No, in my bedroom. The floor’s rotting out there too.’
I had a brilliant idea.
‘Mum, I know a builder.’
‘I don’t need a bloody builder.’
‘He’ll probably check out the floorboards for free, and he’ll give you an honest quote for what it would cost to get them fixed.’
She was quiet.
‘Mum,’ I continued, ‘if you don’t get those floors looked at you won’t have a house to live in soon. You’ll be sleeping in a termite nest.’
‘Yeah, all right, bring him round. But you still can’t stay here.’
‘No worries.’ I could pick up my clothes and begin the process of wriggling my way back into her good books. I hung up and lay on the bed, wondering how to convince Dan to check out Mum’s floorboards.
The police officer, when he knocked, was young and handsome and pink in the cheeks from the afternoon sun. He stood on the asphalt, blinking from the light that bounced off the aluminium when I flung open the door.
‘Hello there,’ I said. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Do you live here?’ He straightened his shoulders in an attempt to look authoritative.
‘Yes.’
‘And,’ he pointed to the gutter, ‘is that your urine?’
