90 Packets of Instant Noodles

by Deb Fitzpatrick

  ‘Yep,’ I nod.

  ‘Righto, then, well, I’d best be off,’ he says, picking up his ravioli pan.

  ‘Okay. See you round maybe.’

  More squinting. ‘Maybe,’ he grunts, and disappears back into the ferns and gums, leaving me standing on the edge of the swimming hole, wondering if I was just in an episode of The X-Files.

  I hear twigs snapping. I guess not.

  18

  Snack time. Cheese on toast. (I have to admit, the mere sight of instant noodles is beginning to make me feel a little queasy. There’s so many empty packets now that I had to scout around for a special rock a couple of days ago to put on top of the pile to keep them down. They crinkle away at me in the slightest breeze.)

  Dad’s letter’s lying on the table, still unopened. His next one has probably already arrived, and I haven’t even read this one. Rude of me, eh. I put the kettle on for a cuppa and sit down to read it.

  Dear Son,

  Hope all is well at the cabin. I trust there are not too many types of fungus thriving? And I bet your feet and legs are hardening up to all the walking—you’ll probably come back with legs better than Cathy Freeman’s. Now that would be a welcome change around here!

  Life at home is pretty quiet without you. It’s strange to be in the house on my own again—I imagine this is what it will be like when you move out of home for good. It’s quite peaceful, I must admit! I’ve been spending the evenings going through my old records. Got a new needle for the turntable, finally. It’s been a bit of a trip down memory lane, so it’s probably better you haven’t been here to suffer through it. No Kings of Leon or Powderfinger.

  I didn’t tell you before, because it was a bit of a family embarrassment back when it happened, but I thought you might appreciate this story now you are down at Strattan’s. I spent a year living in that old place right after I left school. My dad was determined that I become a doctor, seeing I’d done well in science and maths and because—and I think this was his main reason—I was the only boy in the family. The thing was, I couldn’t have thought of anything worse than all those needles and organs and the boring textbooks you had to read to be able to do it. I couldn’t imagine myself being a doctor. I didn’t want to disappoint my father but I knew I didn’t want to study medicine, so instead of making a decision I fled to the cabin right after I matriculated. I just wanted to have my own space around me with my own thoughts in my head. Dad’s opinions left no room for anyone else’s. I’d got to the point where I didn’t know what I thought about anything anymore, least of all what I wanted to do with the rest of my life, and I had to find that out. I wanted to know what I thought. Dad was a great guy in some ways, but he was incredibly dominant and it was difficult for me to really be myself and flourish with him around. Aunt Rhonda had a rough time, too, but she was younger, and a girl, so he wasn’t so wrapped up in her having a career. In fact, I remember him saying that he thought she should go to secretarial college and learn to type before she married and had children. If it hadn’t been for Nanna Strattan, who said, ‘Not on your damn life will she waste hers filing her nails!’ Rhonda would probably be some washed-up receptionist now. I can’t even imagine her doing anything other than running her bookshop, can you? Anyway, I hitched down to Collie and hiked in to the shack. I’d been there a couple of times before but I still managed to get lost on the way and ended up bush-bashing my way through the forest until I got my bearings. The Bibbulmun Track didn’t exist back then like it does now; it was just a rough trail Aborigines used—no signs or markers or huts or anything, and white people didn’t know about it, let alone use it as a tourism thing.

  Well, you know how it is, it was pretty strange to be in the cabin at first and I often wondered what the hell I’d been thinking going down there at all. But after a while, when I realised the place was safe and food wasn’t so very far away, and there weren’t any vicious wild animals out there like people said, I started to really enjoy it—all the space around me and, more importantly, the new space in my head. It was an amazing time for me and I reckoned I learned more from that one year out in the bush than I have in any other time in my life. I learned how to look after myself with very little and I pursued my own ideas in between lighting fires, possum-watching and exploring the forest. The swimming hole was my favourite place in the world (not that I’d been anywhere else in the world!), and I went there every day to swim and relax. I hope you’ve found it by now. That’s where I got all my best thinking done, on those river banks. Of course, it had a big impact on my getting into bush conservation as a career. You should have heard my father when I told him ... he was not happy.

  I guess that’s enough from the old man for one week, eh? Don’t forget that if you have any hassles or want to talk about anything, just call home reverse charges. How’s that budget going, anyhow?

  Take it easy, big guy,

  Lots of love,

  xx Dad xx

  Something’s burning. I almost knock the chair over, trying to save my toastie. It’s the last bit of cheese I have left until I haul my butt back into town and stock up again. It’s burned, but only at the edges, so I sling it onto a plate and sit back down again.

  I’m pretty shocked at this revelation from my old man. He’s never mentioned Pop wanting him to become a doctor, or spending a year down here. It’s funny imagining him here on his own, too. But a year! Jesus Christ, that would have been hardcore. I shake my head, feeling the pain. I’m surprised they didn’t discover him dead—of boredom. But good on him, for leaving, for doing what he had to do. That would have taken guts. How harsh is that, to not be allowed your own way at that age? Dad’s never been a control freak: he’s the exact opposite. I mean, you know what the rules are in our place but I generally get to live my life how I want to, more or less. He never lectures; he reckons you have to learn from your own mistakes. I’ve always thought it’s been great, and Craggs gets hell jealous when he comes over. He reckons it’s a good scene, and so do I. But this letter ... it’s made me wonder, maybe that’s too slack, or something. I mean, maybe Dad’s trying so hard not to be like Pop that he’s gone too far the other way. And maybe that’s why I’m such a fuck-up. I dunno. That makes it sound like it’s Dad’s fault, and that’s not right, either. I’m the only one making the decisions here. Aren’t I?

  19

  I kill some time in the shop today. I want to check out the full range of what I can buy, rather than just heading straight for the instant noodles. There’s only so many of those things one human being can eat—after a while, they start tasting like plastic string. Even the odd cheese and cracker in between doesn’t trick this ole dog.

  There’s a deep freeze I haven’t noticed before. I peer in. Frozen meat. Chicken legs, steaks—sausages, even. Sausages! Some kind of fish. Looks nasty. And pet meat, fishing bait. Frozen vegies. Some of it looks half a century old.

  ‘What are you after, love?’ the woman calls out to me.

  ‘Oh, I’m just looking,’ I say, and add, ‘thanks.’

  ‘No worries, just let me know if I can help with anything.’

  It’s weird, being in charge of what I eat. It’s made me realise how little I can cook. Like, nothing. I’m going to have to raise the bar a bit. I think I’ve got instant-noodle constipation.

  I wander around looking at what’s on the shelves. Bickies—I’d forgotten about them! I put a packet of Kingstons into the basket, on top of the barbie pack chosen from the freezer. (I need meat, man!) Then I get to the chips and crackers section. But five bucks for a big bag of barbecue Samboys—come on! I take one of the small packets for $2. Tins. Tuna, salmon, sardines, baked beans (yes yes yes), beetroot, peas, baby carrots, corn ... I pick up a small tin of corn. Fibre. Could help.

  I grab a packet of pasta and a jar of Paul Newman sauce. From the fridges I take a carton of milk and a square of cheese. I see the fruit. Aah, fuck. I mean, fruit. Really. I look suspiciously at the apples, oranges, bananas and pears, and turn aw
ay. I turn back. Dad’s in my head. I take a banana and a pear. And two spuds.

  On my way to the counter I grab a four-pack of AA batteries for the old torch. They’re $9! The thing had better bloody work, at that price.

  The woman passes me the police register to sign and date while she rings up the stuff on the till.

  I eye the stuff I’ve bought once I’ve done the paperwork, and consider my backpack. I open the zip to a full smile. Tins at the bottom, I spose, and the spuds. The sauce can slot in down the side. I jam the milk down the other side. Cheese can sit on top. Fruit right on top, unless I want pureed pear and banana smeared on everything. I look at the chips—they have to go right on top or they’ll be shards. And then I see the Kingstons. For fuck’s sake. I pinch the packet at the neck, knowing they’ll be swinging from my hand for the entire way. I breathe out, trying to be cool. It so doesn’t matter, and yet it does, you know? Hiking 17 k’s with a packet of Kingstons in your hand and squeezing a bag of Samboys to death. The whole thing sucked.

  As I leave the shop, a truck passes, spraying me with road grit. Of course.

  20

  Two—or is it three?—weeks go by in a strange, slow blur. I sleep, I wake, I make food, I fix things, I write letters (some of which I don’t send, thank Christ), I get letters (some of which confirm that there’s a whole lot of living going on out there that I’m missing out on). The stack of paper is lower now, put it that way. The stack of noodle packets isn’t. They crinkle like crazy insects when the big gusts come through. A piece of tin on the roof chimes in when I’m up for a blowy night, when the trees start eggbeating overhead.

  But it’s a couple of branches arching over the shack that I worry about when the wind really gets up. It doesn’t take much imagination to figure out where they’ll fall if they snap off. They’re big swinging branches. Some of the lower leaves tickle the roof every now and then; make grating sounds that aren’t natural, somehow. I wake to them uneasily. It’s not nice.

  I’m feeling a fixathon coming on. Must be that extra cup of tea I had for brekky. I’m thinking rope ... looping a length of rope around the dodgy branches, pulling them away from the shack and tying the other end to another (solid) tree. So, if they break, they’ll be yanked towards the strong tree rather than just dropping on the roof of this joint. Simple, eh? Genius, I reckon.

  21

  ‘Oh, what the—’

  Something’s eaten right into one of the bags of pasta, through the plastic and everything. There’s pasta shapes lying at the bottom of the shelf and rat poo everywhere and I make the decision that enough is e-fucken-nough. I rummage through the shack’s junk pile and pull out the live trap. It’s quite big, could maybe fit a cat or a puppy, but it’s gunna have to do until I go to the shops and buy some rat traps. I put a hunk of cheese inside and a couple of stale crusts of bread, leave the trap right beside the food shelf, and get back to making myself a snack.

  Another trip to town. And I remember to ask the woman in the shitty little shop about mousetraps.

  She chuckles. ‘They’re one of my best sellers,’ she says, pulling a couple off the shelf behind her.

  I won’t even go into the hike back. It’s hideous. Too many kilos in my pack. Again. You’d think I’d have learned by now.

  Correspondence news: two in, three out. One from Bella and one from Dad. I haven’t opened them, yet. I want them to last. They’re my only form of entertainment out here, until next week, anyway. I’m really glad for them, despite all the crap I gave Dad about it before I left.

  Dear Dad, I think. Can you believe your letters are my new night out? I’m spending tonight with yours, and am gunna save Bella’s to take down to the pool tomorrow. Gives me something to look forward to. Pretty tragic, eh.

  But, just quietly, I’m stoked she keeps writing.

  And now to rodent news, I report loudly.

  I’m glad of those two mousetraps I bought, as when I got back here it was very bloody obvious that I’d not caught any mice or rats in my cage-trap. Which is not to say the cage was empty. I’m looking at this thing right now, wondering what the hell I’m going to do with it, does it bite, where’s its mum, and many other things that unfortunately it can’t answer.

  It’s a baby fox. Or a midget fox. I mean, it’s kitten-sized; it’s young. It’s got grey fur and a toilet-brush tail, and has just been sitting there looking at me for the last hour. It ate the cheese and stale bread; they were gone when I got home. Now it seems to be wondering what’s for dessert. I’ve got a very dented apple here, must be weeks old, but I’m worried that this guy might go for me if I open the cage door.

  I’ll have to deal with it a bit later. I’m absolutely shagged—in the tired sense, sadly. I need food. I look at my pack. It’s bulging with all the stuff I bought today. It came to nearly fifty bucks this week, which I can’t figure out, seeing as I didn’t buy anything expensive.

  Tonight: macaroni cheese, à la instant packet. It’s probably ralpho but hey, it’s easy, and there’s only Joely here to impress.

  The fox has been curled up snoozing, but just having it in here has made it hard for me to chill completely. I half expect it to wake up and cut sick and try to get out of the cage or something. Eventually, after tea, and while it’s still asleep I lean down and open the door to deliver the rancid apple. It works until I pull my hand out too quickly and semi-slam the door and the little fella wakes up. He’s all freaked out for a minute until he sees my offering. He sniffs it and then rips into it like it’s some kind of fox caviar, holding it down with his front paws. He’s hungry. Maybe he needs something to drink, too, but what do foxes drink, for Christ’s sake? Hanrahan never taught us that one. I fill an old plastic container with water and put it down on the ground not far from the cage. Experiment time. I go to the front door of the shack and open it and a million moths fly in, which solves one hypothesis but not the one I was testing. Then I open the door of the trap, creep back and wait to see what happens.

  Nothing. Nothing happens—for a minute or two, anyway. He looks pretty scared in there but he’s sniffing the air, trying to catch the scent of whatever is on the breeze. I’m sitting on the floor a few metres away. After about a century he stands up and shakes himself like a dog. He looks at me and then at the bowl of water. He starts coming out, very slowly, stopping every few steps to watch me. He heads over to the water and laps it up, splashing the stuff everywhere, until the bowl is nearly empty. Then he makes a sort of gurgling, burpy sound in the back of his throat and I think he’s gunna barf it all back up, but he swallows it down and yawns, thank god. He points his nose to the forest air coming in the door and stands there a few minutes, twitching and alert. Then—and this is the incredible bit—he turns around and walks back to the cage, goes in, curls up, and settles down to sleep.

  What is this? Am I getting adopted here? I stare at him with my gob open, thinking, Go and visit your mates, you idiot, go and be where you’re meant to be, go and stalk things in the night and watch out for whatever it is that eats you. Oh, and if you see any numbats, come back and tell me, will ya? But he’s not going anywhere and I spose I need the company as much as he does, so I leave him and rest my weary limbs on the fungal couch, with the old man’s letter.

  Dear Son,

  Hope this finds you well. Thanks for your last, received seconds before I finished dialling the Youth Crime Taskforce—but don’t worry, I hung up just in time. Ah, sorry, that’s not very funny, is it. I’ve been a bit low on humour these last few days. But it sounds as though you’re getting used to life out in the bush, lack of music and all.

  It’s been a bit of a strange week, to be honest. Your mum has some news. Bit out of left field, really. She wanted to tell you on the phone but seeing you’re away I figure it’s only fair you find out now rather than in a couple of months’ time, after it’s all over. Sitting down? She and Scott are getting married. They’ve been thinking about it for a while, apparently. They’re having a private ceremony—
just the two of them—next weekend. Your mum was worried about what you’d think, and asked me if I thought they should wait until you get home, but I thought in some ways you might prefer it to happen this way. I mean, I know Scott’s not your favourite bloke, so this gets you out of having to celebrate something you might not be all that happy about, right? I hope we’ve done the right thing by you, Joel; she really does care a great deal about what you think. She loves you so much, you know.

  I have to say, I was bowled over by the news. Maybe you won’t be that surprised—you’ve spent more time with the two of them than I have—but I had no idea your mother was considering remarrying. I decided after the divorce that I was never going to say ‘forever’ again, because I no longer believe that it’s possible to say it in a meaningful way. I think the whole concept’s bogus when you take into account human nature, which is extremely fickle. Obviously, I did once believe in the notion of forever-and-ever-amen, and obviously there are some things I can say ‘always’ to, or ‘I promise’—like loving my son or mowing my lawn. But in reality, I don’t believe that it’s possible to project how you will feel in, say, twenty years’ time, let alone in fifty or sixty. You change so much as the years go by—I am a very different person now than when I was eighteen (thank God). My opinions have changed, as have my likes and dislikes, and my beliefs. Anyway, how did I get on to all this? I’m waffling. Oh yes: remarrying. Well, following my own argument I shouldn’t even promise that I won’t ever remarry, because I might change my mind!