Dust

by Christine Bongers

  ‘Brothers are like mushrooms – an acquired taste. Moreish, when you get used to them.’

  Glenda drew back. ‘Since when? I always thought they drove you nuts.’

  ‘Look, I’m not saying I want any more. Five’s enough, believe you me. But they do provide more entertainment than your average girl –’

  Glenda shot me a pointed look.

  ‘Sorry, they do.’

  Punk’s victorious glee when he shot the mouse in Mum’s kitchen made me grin. ‘And they’re – I don’t know – uncomplicated, I guess. What you see is what you get.’

  A sudden vision of Punk punching me, and stalking off after I damn near killed him made me squirm. ‘And they don’t hold grudges.’

  Glenda looked unconvinced but conceded they had one good point.

  ‘At least they don’t steal your clothes all the time. My sister drives me crazy. Any time I want to wear something it’s in the wash or on the floor.’

  I couldn’t see Big Hairs in my hot pants, somehow. I still wore them all the time, so I guess I hadn’t been scarred for life after all. ‘Brothers don’t compete for the bathroom either. Dad’s the only one that hogs the mirror, trying to get his hair to sit right for church.’

  ‘I can’t get near our bathroom. Trish lives in it.’

  ‘And they hate shopping so I always get to go with Mum and they couldn’t care less if she buys me something or that she spends her whole life making me new outfits.’

  ‘You lucky cow. My sister complains if I get new jocks and she doesn’t. Mum says it’s easier to buy us both nothing.’

  ‘They only care about dumb things like who gets to bat first, who’s first to spot the make of a car at night from the shape of its headlights, and whether their team wins the Sunday night football.’

  Glenda skewered me with a searching look. ‘Sure you want the new baby to be a girl?’

  ‘Sure I’m sure. What do I look like? A masochist?’

  She seemed to accept that that was as close as we’d get to reaching an understanding on the impossible subject of brothers.

  I stubbed out my fag, unable to take my eyes off Punk, bouncing happily like Tigger on the bright, bright grass, while the impossibly blue sky baked a crust on the rising dough of our lives.

  Murray Noonan caught me up at the bus stop. ‘Hey, ’Celia, you met my brother yet?’

  The tall figure leaning against the fence veed a peace sign at me. He looked vaguely familiar, standing there talking to Janeen Kapernicky.

  I’d barely spoken to her in weeks. She had a knack for disappearing: into books, the library, front seats of classrooms and buses. She was an invisible stitch in the fabric of high school life; imperceptible among the assorted paperclips, rusted pins and bulldog clips holding the place together.

  Murray grabbed my arm. ‘Russ is taking a car-load of us out to the Jambin dance this weekend. You going?’

  It clicked. The fall of blond hair glinting in the dark outside the hall, the tall bottle of beer tipping down the stubbly neck. The van. Dad marching us past. It seemed a lifetime ago.

  I pulled away. ‘Dunno. Probably.’

  ‘Ex-cell-ent.’ Russell peeled away from the fence, Janeen flushing at his side. He was an elongated version of Murray, with a drawn-out drawl and ridiculously sleek hair, hanging, straight as sticks, down his back.

  ‘Do you lay-dees need a lift?’

  That made me laugh. ‘I think I’ll be right.’ I could just see Mum and Dad letting me out for the night in a curtained panel van.

  Janeen murmured something about walking and stepped past me into the doorway of the bus, her hand on the rail, eyes on Russell Noonan.

  ‘Be seeing you, lay-dees.’ He cocked a thumb and forefinger at us. ‘Def-in-ite-ly.’

  Mr Luck had his eyes closed, savouring his last smoke before driving, reluctantly letting each exhalation go with a sigh.

  He was a much cleaner smoker than Mr Blinco, removing his filter tip before speaking, tapping it neatly into the ashtray on a stand he’d bolted next to his seat, and cupping it in his palm until he finished talking.

  He whipped the cigarette out of his mouth as we swung into the bus and gleamed at me, the corners of his grin filled with gold.

  ‘So your Mum’s had the baby!’

  I counted four gold teeth bracketing his smile. ‘Not yet, Mr Luck. Due Monday.’

  I hefted my bag onto the overhead rack.

  ‘I think you’ll find she had it today.’

  ‘No, she didn’t. I just saw her this morning and she definitely didn’t have a baby with her.’

  ‘Yes and I just saw her at lunchtime when I was visiting my daughter up at the hospital and she definitely did have one with her then.’

  A thrill exploded deep in my chest and pumped shock waves down my arms and legs.

  ‘She’s had it! Omygod! What’d she have? A girl? Did she call her Anna Simone?’

  ‘Nah. A boy. Cute little fella. Full head of black hair …’

  I collapsed into my seat. Another boy. Another brother. Number Six.

  The demon number clanged in my head like a death knell – Six Six Six – as Numbers One and Two pushed their way down the aisle: One to his usual seat in the back row while Two stopped and eyed my deflated sprawl.

  ‘So you heard the big news.’

  Punk’s curly dark lashes were so wasted on a boy. Despite their length and density they had never obscured a single thought that ran through those creek-coloured eyes. They’d watched my whole life unfurl and reflected it back in searing intensity: fast-flowing, flash-flooding, dappled, swirling, rippling and occasionally, deep and still, like now.

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’ Something flickered in their depths before he looked away. ‘One more won’t make much difference.’

  He moved off down the aisle to the last empty window seat, his words tossed back over his shoulder.

  ‘We don’t need another girl anyway. One’s enough for this family.’

  More than enough.

  But I couldn’t tell where the words came from. Him or me.

  A sudden breeze told me we were moving. But I felt stuck. Bogged in the mud of my brother’s eyes. Going nowhere. Still Sisless after all these years.

  ‘What are we going to call him?’

  It was hard to see much, with eight of us pressed up against the window of the hospital nursery. A lot of swaddling, a mouth in danger of slipping sideways off his face and an absurd amount of black hair.

  Mum looked good though, craning over Lick’s head, her bump miraculously transported to the bunny rug on the other side of the glass. ‘I’ve always liked Andrew.’

  There was a moment’s silence while everyone drew breath.

  ‘Andy! No way!’

  ‘Andy Pandy’s coming to play … La, la la la la la, la. We’re not having an Andy Pandy in this family!’

  ‘We need something cool like Matthew or Justin or Jason or Luke.’

  ‘Yeah! Cool Hand Luke! That’s what we’ll call him! He’ll be the coolest dude in Jambin!’

  Mum withdrew quietly, heading back up the corridor. She didn’t seem to care much about getting her own way, preferring to keep her powder dry for the major battle of just getting through life with constantly warring kids.

  Weet-Bix rules, Vita Brits sucks. Milo’s chocolossal, Quik’s crap. Don’t buy Kellogg’s Corn Flakes; Skippy Corn Flakes stay crunchier in milk. What’s better: Choc Chip or Butterscotch Brickle? Uncle Toby’s Oats or Breakfast Delight? Tapioca or sago pudding?

  She sailed above all that, leaving the rest of us wading hip-deep in endless arguing. She had long ago staked out a neutral corner in our war zone.

  Which was just as well, because there was no way we were going to let her foist an Andy Pandy on the family.

  Urky.

  She came home Sunday.

  I didn’t much care about missing the dance; I was happy just to hand back the washing and cooking. Not much had happened on the cleaning front,
just the usual washing up, a quick sweep out and a sparkling fridge door courtesy of Dad’s best attempts to make things nice for Mum’s return.

  We’d all tired of fried potatoes and sausages and were celebrating with a leg of lamb so big it could have come from Lamby: though if Mum didn’t get it in the oven soon, it would have to be breakfast.

  The new baby slept in a bassinet in Mum and Dad’s room. So far we’d only been allowed a quick unrevealing peek.

  Mum rubbed the lamb carcass with salt, shoved it in the oven, tipped a gunny sack of potatoes into the sink and started peeling. Just as Krakatoa erupted.

  Punk turned up the TV. ‘Jezuz! Doesn’t that thing come with a volume knob?’

  ‘Is he all right?’ A worried Wart popped up out of the couch. ‘What’s the matter with him?’

  ‘He’s hungry.’ Mum grabbed a bottle from the fridge, plonked it into a jug of hot water and headed off. ‘And he’s no louder than the rest of you were.’

  She was back a moment later with something red-faced and squirming that looked and sounded like an angry glove puppet fitted with a hidden loudspeaker.

  How she could hold it that close to her ear was beyond me. Then she lobbed it my way and I found out. It was like trying to hold an air-raid siren disguised as a warm floppy fish wrapped in a bunny rug.

  ‘Support his neck!’ That was Dad’s idea of helping. ‘You want it to snap right off?’

  Well, no. But I was having a bit of trouble figuring out which bit to hang onto. The bunny rug slipped to the floor, which at least let me see what I was dealing with here.

  Every bit of him was stiff apart from that floppy damn neck. He was so mad he was quivering. His mouth was a hot angry hole. I could see clear down his throat to the little fleshy thing that hung down over the back of it, vibrating with a fury that was truly awesome.

  He was one angry little man and to prove it he took a deep breath and hit a note so high he snapped his own vocal chords and the scream ended up somewhere only a dog could pick up.

  In the blessed second of relief, Mum shoved in the bottle and Mr Angry dissolved into a sucking machine that stared straight at me. His warm brown eyes looked worried and the lack of trust offended me.

  ‘You think I’m going to take this off you? Get real! Man, I’m never taking this bottle out if that’s all it takes to shut you up.’

  He didn’t believe me and sucked so hard a jetstream of bubbles cut across the bottle from the teat to the rapidly expanding empty end of the bottle. I was a bit worried he was going to inhale it, glass and all, and pulled it out to break the suction. He looked devastated so I shoved it back in and grinned at him. Already smart enough to know I couldn’t be trusted.

  I brushed a finger over his cheek and caught my breath. His skin was so soft it felt more fluid than flesh. I traced it with a fingerprint. Softer than the little dandelion heads of Sooty’s newborn kittens. Softer than the velvet pads below their tiny papery claws. Softer than the baby powder drifting up from his feathery crown. So soft I wanted to sink into him like he was sleep, drift off into his biscuity baby warmth, bury my face and breathe him in.

  I opened my eyes. He frowned and swatted at me in an irritable spastic jerk. He bumped my finger and snapped a hand-lock round it. What a grip. He hung on to it like it was his and he wasn’t ever going to let it go. I wiggled it and he frowned harder, tightening his grip.

  He’s not going to let me go.

  Something hard in my chest slid down and melted and in that moment I forgave him. There and then. I forgave him for being a boy. For giving me six brothers. For making me Sisless forever.

  My heart curled up around that little fist and my lips moved against his downy crown and it felt like a kiss. And I forgave him for everything.

  chapter 27

  Glenda and I were late down the stands.

  Mrs Richards, our tank of a Phys. Ed. teacher, had us picking up rubbish so she could sneak in a uniform inspection without straight out asking us to bend over and prove we were wearing bloomers under our sports dresses.

  So we were hokey-pokeying with knees-bent, knees-bent like models from the June Dally-Watkins School of Modelling and Deportment that Susan Johnston with a ‘t’ went to in Brisbane over Christmas. (They’d taught her how to cross her legs like a lady and how to bend in a miniskirt and she’d been generous about handing on the knowledge, despite there being little call for it, apart from the odd bloomer inspection.)

  Mrs Richards wasn’t impressed. She just made us clean up the whole parade ground – standing there with one hand on her hip, the other swinging a whistle round a cocked finger, making her look like a little teapot, short and stout – until a gust of wind bent to her evil purpose and we were up the port-racks pulling bloomers over our jocks before you could say Mrs Richards is a perv.

  Morning tea was just about over by the time we finally made it down the stands. The boys didn’t even notice us arrive – they were all crowding round Murray Noonan, laughing and yahooing about something that went on down the dam on Saturday night. Something I couldn’t quite catch, until a sudden gust of wind whipped up their words and flung them in my face like a slap.

  ‘…and she’s like I love you and Razza’s going for it and Mozzie’s next and then she’s telling him she loves him too. Like it’s about the sixth guy that’s done her and she’s still trying to smooch up to them like she’s their girlfriend or something and everyone’s laugh– WHAT!!!’

  Roderick Slade slammed an elbow into Murray’s ribs and nodded in our direction.

  The world shrank in on me. My skin buzzed like it was electric, all the nerves erupting on the surface. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe through the bile souring my throat. I could only stare at Murray – mutty Murray – who was too thick to hide his stupid grin.

  ‘Morning, girls.’

  His face was flushed, a spray of tomato-seed pimples sprouting across his sweaty jaw. I bit back on the bile, and forced out some words, any words, my voice flat and thin.

  ‘Who’re you talking about?’

  Michael Mastonio sniggered. Kevin Mudge shouldered him quiet, glanced up at me, then looked away. Murray leaned back on the stands, his arms outstretched as though he had nothing to hide.

  ‘Nobody.’

  The next words came out hard. Sharp enough to get under his ribs and find his heart. ‘You’re a gutless lying arsehole. Who was it?’

  Glenda caught the flicker in Murray’s eyes and grabbed my arm. ‘Come on. Let’s go. They’re morons. Don’t worry about it.’

  I shook her off, something building in my chest. ‘I want to know.’

  Whatever flushed through Murray’s eyes had sunk to the bottom. He shrugged. ‘Some fat chick. Who cares? I don’t know who she was.’

  ‘Yes, you do. Who was it?’

  ‘Why do you care?’

  My chest was too tight to answer. But I did care. I wanted the name that was being tossed around like it was meaningless. I wanted to take it off them and put it away somewhere safe. I couldn’t bear the thought of this miserable lot keeping it to themselves as though they owned it, pawing it with their grubby hands and passing it on, sniggering and gloating. Stringing out an ugly act endlessly with each repetition.

  Michael Mastonio giggled again and the ticking bomb in my chest exploded.

  ‘You think that’s funny? Chucking off at some poor girl who’s so desperate she thinks she can get some sort of affection from the likes of you and your scummy mates? You think that’s funny?’

  Glenda tried to pull me away.

  ‘Because it’s not! It’s pathetic! Pathetic that anyone would do that to someone. Pathetic that anyone would want to skite about it later and pathetic that a pack of losers who weren’t even there think it’s something to laugh about!’

  Their heads snapped up and swivelled round at Murray Noonan.

  Oh my God. You were there.

  The bell rang, releasing them. Stampeding them back up past F Blo
ck to the classes they normally shrank from like vampires from the light. Murray made a show of not hurrying, of ignoring us as he gathered together his Drum, his rollie papers, his Bic lighter.

  I felt Glenda’s hand on my arm. ‘Come on. Forget them. It doesn’t matter. Let’s go.’

  I jerked my arm away. Everyone was turning alien on me.

  ‘Yes. It does matter. Doing that to someone matters. Chucking off about it later matters. And if you think it doesn’t matter, you’re as bad as they are.’

  Glenda’s pout thinned.

  ‘Hey, don’t get up me. I didn’t make her go down the dam with half a dozen guys in a panel van! It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that’s going to get you in trouble.’

  She stalked off, leaving me alone with Murray Noonan. He loomed over me, his eyes flat and hard.

  ‘So where were you Sat’dy night? Thought you were coming to the dance?’

  I shrank away from the stale heat of his breath, but that just drew him closer. He leaned in, hissing.

  ‘Your mate was looking for you, but you never showed. So she came out the dam with us.’

  Now I wanted him to stop, but his voice kept going.

  ‘That fat chick from out your way.’

  He threw the last words in my face, shoved a burning handprint into my shoulder and was gone.

  Kapernicky.

  Happy now?

  Sounds rolled over me – a distant stampede of shoes on wooden decks, a sudden shriek, laughter, sharp words from a teacher – but none of it loud enough to block out the echoes in my mind.

  ‘…trying to smooch up to them like she’s their girlfriend –’

  Trying to get a pack of creeps to love her.

  ‘…Be seeing you lay-dees…’

  Laughing, not seeing the darkness behind the fall of blonde hair, the tortured syllables …

  ‘Def-in-ite-ly.’

  I doubled over; desperate to get enough air past the tightness in my chest, past the gut-clenching thought of Janeen, caught up in the stupid cruelty, the ugly laughter –