Then she pulled up short as she found her way between cars and saw who they were staring at. Shit! It’s ’er!
What happened? What did she do?
Fuck all, mate. This fat cow told her she was a freeloader and a darkie and a terrorist and she just started to cry and ran out.
That all? No diff from school.
Nah, and nothing different from what you say all the time!
Yeah, but I’m in her class and entitled. And I’m a darkie as well! Well, a different kind, but to them white prick teachers, a darkie.
Jeez. Shame, eh. Hey girl, you gunna stop crying or what?
Then the girl, Mira, put her hand on the car bonnet, lifted herself up and dusted herself off.
You okay, sister? said one of the boys, who was considerably younger than the rest. I reckon that mob have been giving you shit. You should give it right back to ’em.
Mira smiled, though she fought to keep control of her tears. Yeah, she said. I should have said something back.
Then Monica said, Nah, the bosses would have given ya the sack if you’d done that.
Might be better, said Mira. It’s horrible working in there.
Not much work in this town, girl – if you’ve got work, ya wanna keep it.
But she still shouldn’t take shit like that, said Amy, the second eldest of the crew. If ya let ’em do that to ya, it’ll get worse and worse.
That’s true, said Monica. She was leaning against the roof of the car, contemplating it all, when some bastard bloke yelled out, Hey, get off my car, you lot!
Okay, okay, mate, hold ya horses. We’re going.
And grouping around Mira as if protecting her, they shuffled her off to the trolley. One of the boys said, Hey look, some of the shop people are pointing over here.
They’re pointing at me, said Mira. If I don’t get back to my till, they’ll sack me, if they haven’t already.
Well, being seen with us ain’t gunna do you no favours, said Monica, as she pulled out packets of crisps and lollies and even a can of Coke from beneath her jacket in full sight of the staff. One good thing about having big tits is that you can stack heaps underneath them! And all but Mira laughed. She was walking back to the shop. But she glanced back over her shoulder and gave them all a nod and a smile which they knew meant thanks and sister and brother and a lot of other stuff no one else could ever translate, ever understand.
*
So ya didn’t lose ya job then? said Monica, her foot holding the trolley in place.
No, I am on first and last warning.
That’d be right. Want a whirl in the trolley?
Mira shook her head and crossed her arms and looked to the ground.
Yeah, I understand, said Monica, now pushing the trolley back and forth and keeping the rest of her body as still as she could. I just do it for the kids. I mean there’s fuck-all … oops, sorry, shouldn’t use bad language around you.
It’s okay, I don’t mind.
I don’t mean no disrespect or nuthin’ … just that my mother’s always swearing and carrying on and it’s kind of rubbed off. Anyways, I just control the trolley for the kids because it’s dangerous and without me they’d do really crazy things. I mean, there’s stuff-all to do in this town and the weekends are long and hot and boring. You’re lucky to have a job, being still at school and all. Even if it’s with those racist pricks. Do you know they called the cops on my nephew for pinching a chocolate frog!
Yes, I asked them not to call the police but they told me to mind my business. I couldn’t do anything.
Of course you couldn’t, sister. Who can? Who gives a stuff? Anyways, the kids’ll be here soon, and we’ll be heading up and down the hill.
It’s dangerous. You could get hit by a car.
Yeah, a cop car. They come around and try to catch us and say the trolley is private property and say we could go to juvie for taking it off shop grounds and I just point at the dozen ladies pushing their trolleys down the street to their cars. What the …, I say.
I’ve got to go now, I have to be there fifteen minutes before opening. Why are you here so early? I usually don’t see you guys on Sunday till the afternoon.
Stuff at home. Don’t want to be there. And the kids would start at dawn if I let ’em!
Okay, said Mira, looking back up from the ground and half at Monica’s face. They were the same height but Mira felt much smaller. She noticed that Monica was staring hard at her and she wanted to pull her hijab further down, to cover her face. Okay, she said again, I’ve got to go … Monica.
You can call me Mon, Mira. Hey, sister, why is it ya never speak to me at school?
And then Mira was turning towards the red brick warehouse-sized supermarket with its red letter sign half falling off, and spew over the front doors from the night before, which tall gangly Craig Spillane from their year was starting to clean off, looking like he was going to puke all over the puke. He turned and went, Urrghh, and saw the girls and made a rude sign, then, half embarrassed, moved his hand in the air like a bird, pretending he hadn’t done anything at all.
That guy’s up himself, said Monica, putting her hand over her mouth in mock shame, but Mira had already vanished around the side under the bent palm tree, heading in through the loading bay to her day of judgement.
*
After she finished work, Mira liked to walk home along the river. Down from the shopping centre, down the small hill where the trolley gang did their stunts, past the fast-food place, cutting through an alleyway to the park, then to the riverbank and the path, from where she’d watch the white swans do their circuits around a small island covered in a tangle of paperbarks with branches full of spoonbills and cormorants. The river was low and smelly, but she loved it. It was one of the redeeming features of the town, she told her younger brothers, who were constantly taunted at school about their sister wearing her hijab, and wanted to go down to the Muslim school in the city. But their father was a doctor at the hospital and they would be here for at least another year. Make the best of it, Mira told them – learn from the river. And there are some nice people as well. The boys, who were excellent footy players, and lauded by all for being so, nodded their heads, though they couldn’t make sense of what she was saying about the smelly old river.
Mira watched the swans, then walked past the suspension bridge and past the artificial nesting island, and was about halfway towards the town library when she heard a groaning down the bank, from the silty water’s edge. Up against a swamp she-oak, her sandshoes in black mud, was Monica, her head bleeding. A pair of coots were offshore in the shallow water, sailing towards her, then away, towards her, then away.
Hello? Hello? Monica – Mon – are you okay?
Monica looked up, squinted, confused, and said, Who are you? Whaddya want?
It’s me, Mira … are you okay? You look like you need help.
I don’t know, I just don’t know …
Let me climb down and help.
Mira slid down to Monica and gently asked her to look into her face. Monica, confused, said, What? Who are you? Why have you got a scarf on, it’s so bloody hot.
Now, said Mira, I want you to close your eyes, then open them and let me look.
Monica did as she was told, sinking further into the mud.
You’re concussed. You will need to go to the hospital. My father is working there this afternoon, he will help you. We must stop this bleeding. And then Mira removed her hijab and wrapped it around Monica’s wounded head. She helped Monica out of the mud and they both crawled back up the bank. When they reached the top, Monica said, The other kids are okay. I remember that. I was pushing the trolley back up the hill. On my own – the lazy liddle buggers like to make me do that. And then something hit the trolley. A car maybe, and someone yelled. And then I went down, and then I was chasing the car screaming blue bloody murder, and then I was here.
Monica felt her head. Then she looked at Mira. Hey, Mira, you’re bloody beaudiful, you know.
I know, Mon, but don’t tell anyone, will you?
*
Just before Mira began her shift on Sunday, she wiped her till down with spray cleaner and a cloth. She positioned herself in a comfortable but ready-to-serve way, took a breath, adjusted her crisp, clean hijab, and waited for the doors to open and for her first customer to come through a few minutes later with a litre of milk or a packet of toilet paper. Rushing in to pick up an essential first thing.
Two other women were on the tills, which wasn’t usual first thing on a Sunday. It was normally just two of them. They talked through Mira about the town netball team’s big win on Friday night. Mira felt both that she was being watched and that she was invisible. She knew both of these middle-aged women, but neither had ever addressed more than a few words to her. Then a voice came from the one behind, and it went, We ’ear you were naked after work last week, luv …
Mira stood still.
Hey, Mira, luv, what’s this talk of you stripping off and flauntin’ yaself through town last week?
It went through the back of Mira’s head and straight across to the till she was facing, where the other woman was twisted round to receive the conversation, or the dregs that made it through.
Yeah, the other one said, They’ll lock ya up for public nudity, and on a Sunday as well.
Yeah, Sunday’s a holy day in this country, luv, didn’t ya know that?
She wouldn’t, Ange, she couldn’t, could she, comin’ from one of those Mooslum countries?
Nah, she couldn’t. Bet ya dad the good doctor gave you what for, for strippin’ off.
Your dad, the doctor – or so he calls himself. Wouldn’t want his creepy hands on my body.
The women on either side of Mira roared with laughter, and then one said, Though maybe he prefers his own daughter.
The first person at Mira’s till was Monica. Behind her were her family and all the kids and her uncle, who had a reputation around town as a tough man. A shearer. A really tough man you didn’t want to get on the wrong side of. Even the cops said G’day to Merv. The two women on the tills knew him well. No one had heard or seen these people come into the shop, so attuned to their cause were they. Mira had blocked everything out, placed her senses in shutdown.
Hey, Mira, where are ya? You in there, sister? Just brought me family and me mates along to introduce them to ya. You know, so the rest of these low-life that work here kind of know who ya are. You know, these good citizens who would dob in a kid for a chocolate frog, hey, Uncle.
Uncle pushed forward, took a creme egg from the stand by the till, and said, I am buying this for my nephew. And then he took another one, and said, And this one, girl, is for you. Then he said, I don’t know if you eat these things …
Mira said, That’s really nice of you, and after she’d rung it up she gave it to Monica and said to Uncle, I hope you don’t mind if I give it to my best friend.
Uncle said, Nah, girl, I don’t mind at all. Well, you look after yerself … and you let Mon know if ya have any problems. This is an ugly town most of the time, but it can be okay as well. Why don’t you and ya family say hello next time me and my mob are having a picnic down the park. I’ve seen you down there.
Yes, I like it down there.
So do we. And then he turned slowly from one woman to the other – they were transfixed – and then back to the entire shop where the shelves were being topped up and the shift manager was hovering around, and other customers were standing unsure whether to queue at the tills or not, and he said, at the top of his voice, his arms around Monica who had stitches and a bandage on her forehead, her long black hair swept back as a declaration of control and presence, Well … howz it gunna be, people? How is it gunna be around here? Hey?
And then Mon leant across the counter and squeezed Mira’s hand, and her whole family and all her friends and Uncle with the creme egg for his nephew filed through, and Mon called back, real loud over her shoulder, Got some trolley-riding to do, sister! Have a good one!
TUNNELLING: A BACKYARD STORY
Black coastal sand was easy digging but it also easily caved in. So he shored it up. He considered himself a first-rate engineer. Into the hole in the hedge, then up with the trapdoor and down into the tunnel. By crawling on his belly for the length of his father, he came to the main chamber. Overhead were the boards of a packing case – he’d dug the hole, covered it with those boards, and covered them with sand, then tunnelled out under the edge. He’d done it backwards. In the chamber, he groped around for his torch, which was placed on a fruit-box shelf, and lit up his inner world. He could hear his father yelling out, Get in here now and clean up this bloody mess! No way, Jose! He was secure. His father was never around and knew nothing about the boy’s realm, the tunnelling … he never went down past the hedge. In fact, he didn’t go beyond the back door. Always working working working. To keep Her Highness and Little Lord Fauntleroy in the luxury to which they are accustomed! The boy didn’t even really know what his father did – he went away and carried a large case with him that had a flip-top lid. The boy had tried to force it open once, but it was locked and if he’d tried any harder it would have broken and he would have copped it. The boy thought of his mum mowing the back lawn with their hand push mower, which she had to oil and work back and forth over the springy buffalo grass. She no longer had to pick up the dog poos before mowing – his dad had taken the dog somewhere to be put down because it carried on late at night and kept him and the neighbours up till all hours. The boy had never heard the dog – Tilly – bark at night. Not once.
To stop the walls of the chamber caving in, the boy had lined them with wood and hessian and bits of tin. Still, he was careful not to put too much pressure on them because he could always sense the loose sand moving and trying to find another way to sit, to come to rest. It felt very alive in there, in that airless place. At first he’d almost suffocated in the clammy heat and wondered why it didn’t stay the same temperature, like the cave at Yanchep. But it didn’t. It was cold and then got stuffy and hot. But he was no amateur – he inserted a breathing pipe, a hose attached to an old-fashioned snorkel that bent around and had a marble in a cage to stop the pipe when under water. He removed the floating marble, and had the curve hidden behind the hedge. When it got really stuffy, he took a breath through the pipe. Some air did come in through the tunnel, through the cracks in the trapdoor. And when no one was around, he’d leave the trapdoor wide open. He could even hear the birds in the hedge through it. Plenty of air came in that way. Anyway, this was an ongoing project. He had plans to expand beyond the chamber, to make deep tunnels under neighbours’ fences, to venture out into the street. He would make a ventilation system and a lighting system, and would have secret doors and more chambers. He was planning it all in his bedroom in the old school exercise book he had left over from last year. He hid it under the flap of carpet in his built-in wardrobe.
His dad’s voice had gone somewhere else. Maybe to the front door – the boy could hear muffled, deep-voiced yelling. The trapdoor was shut but he could still hear something. That’d be his dad. He wondered why his mother didn’t speak about his father – her husband – when the red-faced yelling man was away. He was always away. But the boy and his mother weren’t really close. Close? That was the word his father used when he yelled at Mother: You’re bloody close enough to that Wally you work with at the library desk! Effeminate little git. I mean, what’s a bloke doing working in a library? Good thing he’s got something missing or I’d go down to sort him out. I’ve seen you when I’ve come in to check on things … thick as thieves, really close, gossiping like old women. The boy and his mother weren’t close.
The boy didn’t consider himself a Morlock. The Time Machine was his favourite book and favourite film. He had a copy his grandmother had given him – a pristine copy he kept on his bedhead. But down in the chamber he also had a spare copy he’d ‘acquired’ from the school library. He read it by torchlight – his eyes gro
wing bigger and bigger! This one was full of bits of paper marking the best bits – bits bringing a delicious scariness deep below the surface, which he didn’t really find scary at all. He wasn’t going to eat the Eloi! Not that he knew any Eloi, though some of the girls at school might have performed the role okay. He felt himself going stiff and started humming and la-la-la-ing to change his mind, take it elsewhere. Back to the Morlocks, who definitely didn’t do that to him though he did like their tunnels.
His father was a big man. When the boy was very small, the big man made him hang off his flexed muscle. Feel the strength in that muscle, boy … not bad for a man who spends so much of his time travelling. Gotta work out, he said, picking up a chest expander and puffing so much his eyes looked like they were going to burst, and his very red face went purple and dripped hot water. Work out, work out, work out! Then the big man would call the boy’s mother over and grab her and squeeze her in front and behind and she’d half laugh at first, then say, The boy! and that’d make him hurt her and push her towards the bedroom and then he’d slam the door and the boy would go to his room and crawl under the bed and put his fingers in his ears and sing ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ over and over.
One time the boy had been in the chamber and two things happened almost at once. The torch batteries had finally ran out of puff and he’d had to dig the spare batteries out of his pocket – he’d come prepared! – and undo the head of the torch and fit the batteries in the dark, feeling for the ‘positive’ bump, and gently swirling his finger around the ‘negative’ indentation of each battery before dropping them down onto the spring in the tube, compressing it all together before twisting the head back on. Then there was a noise above, and suddenly as he flicked the torch on, the packing-case roof bowed down and sand poured through the cracks, and footsteps crunched away through the long dry grass that had grown over the top. He heard a strange voice saying, Bit of give under there … could twist an ankle – watch out. Then it resumed. So, you want this cleared out, no problem. Why are you selling, if you don’t mind my asking? And then he heard his mum say, I don’t want to leave, not really, but my husband has been offered a job in the east. In Ballarat. Well, not Ballarat, that’s where we’ll be living – he’ll be travelling around the region, selling. He’s a salesman, your husband?
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