It’s me, I’m Cathy!
It was a good while later when she opened her eyes to find Brian Ryan Junior doing the white man’s overbite. ‘Sorry about the sheep.’ He leaned in to say this; must have just had a mint; would have totally ruined her mood if she hadn’t noticed the cute boarder in the corner. He was liking what he was seeing and she was liking being it.
It was The Boarder, as it turned out, but Fran didn’t know that then.
CHAPTER NINE
Nine Days before the Fire
Fran realised she was driving home from The Captain’s at ten km an hour, and that she was afraid. The Boarder was coming to Ash Mountain. She hadn’t seen him for nearly thirty years. She had hoped to not see him for another thirty.
Nurse Jen’s car was still in the driveway, but Vincent’s ute was gone. She checked her phone – and Vincent had texted:
Heading off F Face – your dad seems settled w the nurse. Remind V to confirm her bus time tomorrow. See you Friday and ring any time, here for you xx
Fran drove on fifty metres and turned right into Dante’s. She knew she shouldn’t rely on her son’s friendship so much, but she did. He was the only person she felt no shame with. ‘The Boarder’s getting married up the road next Monday,’ she said as soon as he opened the door.
His apron was covered in tomato. ‘I’ll settle the sugo,’ he said, ‘you pour the wine.’
A minute or two later they were in the back garden, although ‘garden’ might have been too strong a word. The half-acre was filled with her son’s enthusiasm for new projects and his lack of interest in old ones. ‘I’m an ideas man,’ he said if ever asked. ‘I’m not supposed to follow things through.’ This year was all about lettuces, pottery, chooks, and tomatoes. He was also drawing up plans to turn the rusty old water tank into a treehouse; part of a long-term mission to make his property an artist’s retreat and outdoor gallery.
Fran lit one of the cigarettes she’d hidden in Dante’s shed.
‘Why would he be doing it here, in Ryan’s Lane?’ he said.
‘He might want to see his bastard son, show off or something, make amends, the prodigal father.’
‘Or he might want to see his slutty ex-girlfriend,’ Dante said.
‘I was never his girlfriend.’ She was slutty though. ‘Hey, guess where Vonny’s going tonight – the Blue Light Disco.’
‘She’s unlikely to get knocked up, at least.’
‘She’s going with Rosie Ryan.’
‘Is Rosie gay?’
‘Dunno. Be great if Von’s got a weekend pal here. So, do you want to see your long-lost father or what?’
‘No.’
‘We could hide behind a tree and watch them come out of the church.’
‘Not a good plan. He won’t have given us a second thought; honestly, Mum, there’s nothing to see and nothing to worry about. I’ll stay out of his way, but if I bump into him I’ll stay calm.’
‘I won’t manage that.’
‘No,’ said Dante. ‘You should stay well away. You should go to Bali.’
‘I’m never going to go to Bali.’ She’d never go anywhere ever again.
‘Shut up, yes you will.’
‘Is it seven already? Promised I’d take Gramps to mass. By the way, no more dealing to your grandfather.’ Fran butted her fag and headed inside to the bathroom, where she had her own toothbrush. ‘The Boarder probably assumes there’s no way I’d still be in this dump,’ she said.
‘I like this dump,’ said Dante.
Fran spat out toothpaste, wiped her mouth, and kissed her son’s forehead. ‘Yeah, but you’re a dickhead.’
CHAPTER TEN
Nine Days before the Fire
DANTE
Vonny was getting altogether too cool to talk to her big brother every day. He’d tried several times and she wasn’t answering. He stirred the Bolognese and messaged her: Guess who’s getting married in town next Monday?
No time 4 this, Vonny typed.
The Boarder
He still hadn’t piqued her interest. As in THE Boarder, my biological father
Holy shit
Still not important enough for her to call.
Will you come have a squiz with me at the church? I just want a look?
Course
Don’t tell Mum.
They must have said this to each other a million times over the years.
Obv!! Xx, Vonny replied.
Dante was cooking for the girl whose dating profile was on his screen. Tattooed Tiffany who ‘eats anything’.
He tasted the Bolognese – it was not special enough for Tiffany. He cooled some on a saucer and gave it to Garibaldi, who seemed to agree.
Dante went outside and picked some rosemary, basil and a sprig of thyme. He checked there was water and seed in his bird stand. His faithful dog followed him to the chicken hutch, where ten happy chooks lived the good life.
Howie in particular looked very healthy, Dante thought, picking him up. ‘Hey Howie!’ He then placed the chook on the chopping block and, axe in hand, swung once and severed Howie’s head.
Vonny had become a vegan when she saw him do this. She told him she still had nightmares that there was a ginormous headless chicken running round and round her house.
Dante waited till Howie slowed, then carried him and his head inside.
Cacciatore, he was thinking.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Nine Days before the Fire
Gramps was grumpy when Fran got home and no longer wanted to go to mass. ‘I’ve decided to take up Satanism,’ he said. ‘“Do what thou wilt”.’
Fran and Nurse Jen agreed he would probably change his mind. He’d never missed mass. Even when he was in hospital he had Father Frank do home deliveries. Nurse Jen agreed to stay on till 8.30, and Fran ended up in the second back row of St Michael’s with Gramps on a Stick beside her in the aisle. He hadn’t turned his iPad on yet. He would.
Fran always went to mass when she visited her dad, and always hated it. Nothing had changed in thirty years. If she could, she went to the Saturday 7.30 pm mass, because it was the fun one, in relative terms. Sunday 8.30 had its good side – it was fast, forty minutes at most – but this was outweighed by the ungodly hour and The Mons’s grim reaper sermon, which always led to seven days of depression. Rumour had it The Mons had been sent to the parish in the eighties to ‘keep an eye’, but the official story was that he had family in the area. Sunday 10.30 mass was the big show, run by Father Alfonzo in Fran’s childhood and adolescence, and by Father Frank after Father Alfonzo was arrested. You had to wear something decent to the 10.30. It was always either boiling or freezing and always went on for at least ninety minutes.
As ever, it was standing room only at the Saturday 7.30. The seats were mostly taken by farmers and their young ones, many of whom would be dipping sheep in the morning. Teenagers whispered and giggled at the back, some of the girls wearing a conspicuous disposable layer, no doubt on top of their ta-da outfits. They’d have somewhere to go afterwards, like the Blue Light Disco, and according to Verity O’Leary there was a pancake night on at the church hall to raise money for the proposed new statue. ‘Many of us feel,’ Verity said as she took a pew, ‘that Bert should be replaced by something – and someone – sturdier.’
Halfway through a letter from St Paul to the Corinthians, Gramps’ voice bellowed from his screen: ‘Did you bring ten dollars for the collection?’
Sister Mary Margaret, five rows down, gave Fran a dirty look.
Pervy old witch.
‘Yep,’ Fran said, turning down the monitor’s volume and joining a synchronised sitting-down. It was time to watch people line up to eat the actual no-kidding flesh of the saviour.
‘Body of Christ,’ said Tricia Gallagher’s twenty-six-year-old daughter, whose skirt had been tucked into the bottom of her undies all the way from the tenth row up to Father Frank. Someone should have told her. Maybe Fran should have told her. Ash Mountain wasn’t a kind pla
ce.
‘Body of Christ,’ said Mrs Ercolini, hands cupped to receive her Jesus-meat.
Oh dear – Sister Mary Margaret had taken to the stage and was conducting a choir of very poor singers. In the past, this was the only part Fran enjoyed, but they were singing a modern, happy-clappy number and it was impossible to join in.
It was only 8.05. If her dad switched his monitor off again, she’d sneak out. If he didn’t, perhaps she could manufacture a malfunction and sneak out anyway.
And stand. And Our Father who aren’t in heaven, Holy Spirit, Amen, Sit, Stand, Sermon.
Father Frank always enjoyed his moment on stage, and so did all the footy fans in the congregation, which was almost everyone. Every week he relayed a special moment from The Bombers’ latest game, as if it was going to be a metaphor for something, but it never was. Father Frank just liked talking about the footy.
The end was in sight: it was time for the ‘peace be with you’. Fran turned to shake the hand of the person she’d been sitting next to, realising it was The Captain’s thirteen-year-old daughter. What was her name again?
‘Peace be with you, Mrs Collins,’ she said.
‘Please call me Fran – I’ve forgotten your name!’
‘It’s Cathy.’
‘Peace be with you, Cathy. Where’s your dad?’
‘He’s not into God.’
She liked that The Captain wasn’t into God. ‘You need a lift home?’
‘Mrs O’Leary’s taking me after pancakes, but thanks.’
The collection plate had arrived. Fran didn’t have the ten dollars her dad insisted on donating each time; she had two. She put one in and passed the plate to the woman sitting behind her, careful not to make eye contact in case she knew her too.
Mass had made her nauseous – Father Frank and Sister Mary Margaret always turned her stomach. Back at the house, she saw Nurse Jen off, surprised at how quickly she’d changed her opinion of the woman; an officious old bag was exactly what she needed right now.
Fran found herself kissing her sleeping dad’s forehead the way she did with Vonny and Dante. He was her baby now, too. She walked back along the thin hallway, one end of which was lined with bookcases, and wriggled her fingers at the Biscotti tin on the middle shelf. After her mum died, and if no-one was within earshot, she always said ‘Hey Mum, love you’, when she walked past the ashes, which were to remain on the middle shelf until her dad was also in the tin. Eventually, the ritual softened to a finger wave, the mantra said inside her head.
She poured herself a sherry and sat at the kitchen bench. In three decades, the house had changed about as much as mass. The same books were on the same shelves, including classics like War and Peace and Pride and Prejudice, and one entire bookcase was dedicated to the Encyclopaedia Britannica, which her dad still preferred over Google. For as long as Fran could remember, every question she asked her dad ended with the same response. For example, age eleven: ‘What does ‘rags’ mean? Tricia said Melissa smells cos she got her rags.’
‘Get me M, Franny,’ he’d said, taking up position at the end of the dining table as she reached for the gigantic, burgundy-leather, gold-embossed volume. He searched for the correct page while she made him a fresh cup of tea, excited to discover the meaning of rags, which had something to do with the letter M.
The tea had to be just right: ‘Heat the pot, the steel one next to the toaster, not the ceramic one on the shelf, which pours poorly and should be taken to the Op Shop or thrown out. Heat the cup, cup not mug, put half an inch of cold milk in the cup – full cream, not half, not skim; cold, not hot, not warm – and half fill the pot – half – with freshly boiled water. Two bags of Tetley’s best in for two minutes, Franny, one hundred and twenty seconds before the slow pour. Do not meddle, do not rush – perhaps use a timer – do not wriggle, and for God’s sake do not squeeze.’
Apparently, her mum was crap at tea, didn’t take it seriously at all. Coffee, well that was another matter. Fran was torn. She’d probably choose tea anytime after lunch, or if she needed to diffuse an awkward moment – like if someone had just died. However, first thing every morning she needed coffee the way her mum did, downing it warm and in one like the drug that it is.
Fran worked best with clear directions, and her dad was always appreciative. She had made the perfect brew while he prepared to read all about menstruation, glasses hanging off the end of his patrician nose. He turned to the correct page with freshly scrubbed fingers that lapped the thin paper, air wafting towards his thin nostrils. The Encyclopaedia Britannica smelt glorious, even when it was about to inform you all about fanny blood. Information was a luxury back then. Probably why Fran never had much.
Now, sitting with her sherry, she stared at Gramps’ favourite mismatched set of crockery, which was on the dining table, ready for the strict three-course breakfast he was hoping to make himself six months ago and would never get to make again. The house smelt of toast crumbs. Even if she cleaned the toaster, tray included, and the rest of the kitchen, it still smelt of toast crumbs. Once fresh and pleasant things, they were very disagreeable when stale and stuck inside a low-ceilinged seventies box, its windows suffocated by dense fly-wire screens. You could either have air, or no flies, and Gramps had chosen the latter.
There was another smell too, perhaps the small compost bin by the sink that no-one had fed to the garden since the stroke. Or the dirty water in the bucket under the shower, with indescribable floaties on top. Fran got up and emptied both onto the shrubs in the thin strip of back garden, most of which had already failed to survive the summer.
The house was dirty. Maybe it always had been. Back at the kitchen bench, Fran wrote on the back of an unopened Simply Energy bill: DEEP CLEAN HOUSE, adding a moment later, PAY ELECTRICITY BILL. She closed her eyes and took a moment to be mindful. It was so quiet. She was so alone.
She was failing to be mindful, her lip was trembling.
Boom!
The noise couldn’t have been the ostriches – their low-pitched mating boom was only heard by special people, the way mosquitos are only heard by young people, and thankfully Fran was neither.
Another boom, and she realised it was the fly screen on the front door. She snapped it locked and shut the main door behind it. It hadn’t cooled much since dusk, so she switched on the fan in the living room and returned to the kitchen bench to cry – no, she didn’t need to cry, she needed to ring Vincent, who would always be here for her.
She met Vincent at the insurance company when he invited her to his farewell party. Over the years, she’d moved around departments, eventually settling as a clerk in investments, the coolest division in the building, where suits played with money and had long, drunken lunches and sometimes got arrested for insider trading. The coffee was good and so was the staff room. There were doughnuts at 11.00 and drinks in South Melbourne at 6.00. The social club organised skiing trips and wine tours that were apparently a lot of fun. Fran liked the vibe of investments. It was interesting and happy, but not so much that work would ever bleed into her weekends ‘with the boys’ back home.
Then along came Vincent from sales. He’d only just joined the company, and was already leaving to study housing policy. The audacity of the guy. She was jealous.
Despite the brevity of his employment, everyone loved Vincent, and an elaborate and expensive farewell party was thrown by the social club. Fran and Vincent danced so hard they were dripping in sweat, and one or both of them thought it a good idea to go outside to cool down. Sometime after that they made the mistake of having sex – several times. Immediately realising they were not meant for each other in that way, they became best friends for nine months before becoming parents for the rest of their lives. They had lived and coparented together until twelve months ago, when their daughter scolded them for staying in all weekend, yet again:
‘You’re holding each other back,’ Vonny said. ‘You should both at least try and find your soul mate. What about passion, what abou
t passion?!’ Vonny was into true love. Her favourite movie was The Princess Bride.
Vincent moved to a terrace around the corner the following month. They’d since agreed to take turns to walk his dog, but often ended up doing it together. They shared disastrous dating stories (Vincent had been on three dates, all of them bad, while she’d been on seven, three of them good but only for a few hours). They texted and messaged each other all the time. They visited each other a little too much. It was all very grown up. It was easy to be grown up about falling out of love if you never fell in it.
Fran lifted the handset of the ancient mustard phone and pressed three buttons before realising she’d forgotten the rest of Vincent’s mobile number. She hung up and thought hard for a moment before dialling again.
She was about to give up when a woman answered. ‘Hello?’
‘Oh hi, sorry. Is this 0491 570159?’
‘Yeah, hi. Is that Fran? It’s Constance here. Vinnie’s told me so much about you.’
Vinnie? He hated being called Vinnie. As did Vonny, who vetoed it. ‘There will be no rhymes in this family,’ she had said.
Fran had heard nothing about Constance – stupid name. ‘Is Vincent there?’
‘He is. He’s in the shower.’
Fran looked at the clock – 9.55 pm. Vincent never showered at this time. ‘No, no, it’s fine, just tell him I rang to say thanks for yesterday.’ She hung up before Constance had finished her sentence and almost leaned into the desire to howl, stopping herself and heading to the desk, where she read over the day’s log book and added various items to her various lists of things to do.
Ash Mountain Page 5
