Have You Seen Ally Queen?

by Deb Fitzpatrick

  He nods. ‘It’s cool. I get to surf and fish—on my own, half the time. And I can go up to Perth whenever I want, for weekends and stuff. Got some all right cousins up there. But normally I just hang out here, ‘cos, I dunno, I like it.’

  My mouth drops open and I look straight at him. ‘Were you ... down there the day the whales got beached? Were you helping out?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he nods. ‘Were you there, too?’

  I try not to smile too wide. ‘I thought I saw you,’ I say quietly.

  The sky’s dipping down on to us, way blue. I knew he lived around here, but never this close, and it hadn’t clicked that it was him that evening on the beach with the whales. Before I know it, Rel’s gone inside and got an ice-cream container, and we’re filling it with mulberries, together, and the day has changed all over again.

  ECONOMICS OF LIFE

  I want to go and see Mum. On my own. There’s no point asking Dad if I can; he’ll just want to come, too. So I press the button on the phone for Aunty Trish (Mum’s filled up all the memory buttons, even has 000 saved in case we can’t remember that) and wait while it rings.

  ‘Trish Queen.’

  ‘Aunty Trish, it’s Ally.’

  ‘Ally! Well, won’t your mum be glad that you called. How was school today?’

  ‘Fine, boring. Actually, I was wondering if it’d be okay for me to come over and see Mum.’

  ‘Oh, I can’t see why that’d be a problem, as long as your dad says it’s okay.’

  ‘He said it’s fine.’

  ‘Great, so when will we see you?’

  ‘Well, that’s the only problem. I kind of ... need a lift.’

  I can almost hear her smiling over the phone. ‘No problems, possum, I’ll be round in half an hour.’

  Half an hour—cool. Dad’s meeting a new client today, so he said he’d be late home, and McJerry’s at some McNerd’s place, designing electrical boards, so I’m in the clear. I race down to my room to get changed. If I’m quick, I can still make it to the beach before Aunty Trish gets here. I’m gunna collect some shells and cuttlefish and one of those brown sea sponge things for Mum. Reckon she might need a surrogate bathroom collection while she’s away. There’s no way I’m picking up an old blowie skeleton, though—that’s just wrong. She’ll have to do without until she comes home. She will be coming home soon; I’m sure of it.

  Aunty Trish is so cool. She has Triple J playing on the car stereo when she rolls up. She reckons Mum is getting better, a bit every day, and that she misses us heaps.

  ‘Tell that to Jerry,’ I say, as the trees blur past us, blown away by Aunty Trish’s driving. ‘He’s not so sure.’

  Mum’s reading a magazine when I go into her room, and she gives me a big cuddle on the edge of the bed.

  ‘Since when did you read those trashy magazines?’ I say, grinning.

  She looks embarrassed. Mum reckons it’s really important for people to practise what they preach. Well, usually.

  ‘Yes, fair enough, Ally, I er...’—and her voice drops to a whisper—‘I found it in the loo. Trish likes them. I’m not really reading it, just looking at the pictures.’ She laughs palely. ‘How’s everything? How’re Dad and Jerry?’

  ‘Fine. Missing you, though. When do you ... When do you think you’ll be able to...’

  She looks at the bedspread. ‘I don’t know.’

  Now we’re both looking at the bedspread. I know that was the wrong question. What was I thinking? Stupid idiot. I start talking to try to get rid of it.

  ‘Oh, it’s okay, it doesn’t matter, Mum, we just want you to get better, that’s all—don’t worry about us. Hey, get this: Dad cooks us brekkie every morning and Jerry even makes cups of tea and stuff now.’

  She’s grinning again. ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘Nup. Here, I brought you some things from the beach.’ I pass her the plastic—oops—bag and she peers inside. ‘I thought it might remind you of home. You could put them next to your bed, or something—you know, smells of the sea.’

  ‘Oh, Ally.’

  Her smile’s bending downwards and her chin pulls in the tiniest bit, so I start talking again. I tell her about the mark I got for my English assignment (but not the one I got for maths), and what Ms Carey said about it, and how cool she is, and about stuff that Jerry’s doing at school. Then there’s a bit of a pause, but not a sad one, so I think, okay, now’s my chance, and as she’s turning over the shells in her hand I try to say the right words in the right tone and I end up with:

  ‘Mum, can you—I mean, could you sort of explain to me why you’re sick? I mean, ‘cos I don’t really understand—because no one’s said why, really, and I think it might ... help, a bit.’

  Shite, that was terrible. She’s gunna tell Dad about this, for sure, and then I’ll be in trouble.

  Instead, she looks at me and says, ‘Oh, Ally, there are lots of reasons.’ She sounds tired. She fingers the bag of sea stuff. ‘I’ve ... found things hard for the last year or so. I don’t fully understand why ... I wish I did.’

  ‘Is it ... to do with the accident?’

  ‘I think so. But I was probably always a bit like this.’

  ‘No, you weren’t,’ I say.

  She sits up a bit then and says, ‘Have you heard of capitalism? Have you done that stuff at school yet?’

  Uh-oh. Oh, no. This sounds like the old Mum, with the volume way up, times a hundred.

  ‘Capitalism?’ I squeak. ‘Not really.’

  She takes a breath. ‘Well, it’s the system of economics that we live by here in Australia. Money has become people’s priority. People aren’t happy just to be happy, they have to prove to everyone around them that they’re happy, so they work huge hours in order to have a big house and car and boat, and it’s not until they’re my age that they realise they’re actually having a terrible life.’

  Mum’s eyes are kind of staring at something that isn’t there. I look over: it’s just the wall. I shift a bit on the bed, but she goes on.

  ‘They’re locked into working for the rest of their lives to pay it all off. They don’t have time just to live—to spend time with friends and family, or to explore places they’ve never been, or help people less fortunate than themselves, and, usually, they regret those things when they’re about eighty and it’s way too late. But if they change the way they live, people think they’ve lost it—“gone feral”, don’t you kids say?’

  I open my mouth to respond but she’s not actually interested. It’s a river of words.

  ‘...because no one in rich countries knows any other way of living anymore. No one can remember a time when it was enough to have a roof over your head, and food in your home, and healthy kids and a loving husband. Your dad and I travelled when we were younger, Ally, and I can tell you, people in other parts of the world have a lot less than us and are a lot happier than we are. You can either lead a soulless existence counting your bucks and keeping up with the Joneses, or you can be forever misunderstood by your peers, who can’t see why we won’t buy a plasma screen for you kids. Or you can leave the country.’

  There’s a long pause, because I get that, I do, but I don’t have any idea what it’s got to do with her being sick. How can a money system make you sick?

  She’s looking angry now; she’s staring out the window. I wish I hadn’t asked. I understand everything even less than I did before.

  Mum tries to apologise, says something like You’ll understand when you’re older.

  ‘Yeah, maybe,’ I mumble.

  Aunty Trish pokes her head in, offers cuppas.

  I stare at the door. ‘No, thanks. I’d better get going, if that’s okay, Aunty Trish, I’ve got a science test tomorrow,’ I lie.

  My head’s a spin dryer on full blast.

  Mum jerks out a hand to me. ‘Send Dad my love, Ally, and give Jez a cuddle for me.’

  ‘Okay.’

  As I turn to leave, she says, ‘Don’t think too much about what I said today,
okay?’

  I can hardly look at either of them when I say goodbye.

  I follow Aunty Trish out to the car.

  BOYPRAWNS

  Lunchtime. Forcing myself to plough through some crappy book we have to read for English. As usual, the book is shite. I’d love to know who gets to choose our books; they must be about to fall off their perch, or something. They’re always books about war—guns and bleak landscapes.

  Rel’s coming over, hands in pockets, looking cool. His dickhead mates are on the other side of the oval, watching. I pretend I haven’t seen him and keep reading, except I’m reading the same line over and over, and I have no idea what it says. I check that my socks are pushed down, but not too much, and then he’s here.

  ‘Hey, McQueen.’

  I look up. ‘Rellard.’

  ‘Very funny. How’s stuff?’

  I sigh. ‘Pretty average. You?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He sits down and there’s a distant round of clapping and cheering from his buddies. ‘Shut up,’ he says, giving them the forks. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Not much.’

  He’s looking funny, kind of thoughtful. ‘Nicked any more mulberries lately?’

  I grin. ‘Nah. But before ... I took heaps.’

  ‘Little Miss Piggy, hey!’

  Hmmm. Not really the impression I was going for.

  The oval’s just been mowed, every other stripe is pale green, and insects are cutting sick around our legs and heads.

  Rel says, not looking at me, ‘We’re, um, going prawning tonight, in the estuary, if you want to come.’

  Bejesus. ‘Prawning?’ I’m going hell red.

  ‘Yeah, you know, with nets and lamps and the barbie, and we fire them up, then and there. My folks are right into it; it’s kind of a regular gig.’

  ‘With your oldies?’

  He starts picking grass clippings off his shoes.

  ‘Well, yeah.’

  I take a breath, suddenly aware of how rude I just sounded. He must feel like a complete zit.

  ‘Okay ... well, yeah, thanks.’

  ‘Okay?’ His eyes are big. Maybe I should have said no; he looks shocked.

  ‘Yeah: okay.’

  ‘Okay.’

  This is so embarrassing. ‘So ... how should I ... should I meet you there?’

  ‘Nah. Just come over to my place about five, or something.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Cool.’ He stands up. ‘See you tonight, then.’

  ‘Yeah, tonight.’ Oh my God, oh my God. Tonight.

  PILLOWFIGHT

  Great. I’m in the shit again. Mum rang Dad in a state after giving me the lowdown on the evils of capitalism last night, and now Dad knows the whole story. He’s really angry that I went over there without permission. McSuck Jerry’s flitting around like a real little angel and I just can’t stop shaking my head about this whole ... ordeal. This thing with Mum is too weird. I mean, is she sick or what? And I was only trying to get it all straight in my head, and now look what’s happened.

  Dad said, ‘Ally, you lied to me.’

  ‘But I didn’t.’

  Dark look. ‘You told Aunty Trish that I’d said it was okay to go over there.’

  ‘What, so I need permission before I can talk to my own mum now?’

  I slam down the tomato I’m holding and it splits open, spraying seeds and juice all over the counter. Now I look like a little kid chucking a tantrum. I don’t see why Dad’s so crook at me. I mean, what have I really done wrong?

  ‘It’s not about getting permission—it’s about upsetting her, which is the last thing she needs right now.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything to upset her! She upset herself with all that Marxist crap, raving on like a loony.’

  ‘I know you never intended it, but that conversation really got her worrying, and that’s too much for Mum right now—she can’t cope with any worry or stress, Ally. That’s why it was important for you to get the okay from me.’

  This stupid town, it’s sent my folks bloody psycho, I tell you. None of this would have happened in Perth. Everything was cool there; we hardly had arguments at all. Mum had a garden and Dad virtually lived in his shed. I actually had friends and Jerry could spend his Saturday mornings at the Dick Smith shop. What was so wrong with it that we had to move? I really hate it here, and I hate Mum for making us come here, and now look what’s happened. And I hate who I am—and so will Rel if he gets to know me, not that he will because he’ll have to have something he actually likes about me in the first place, and what will that be? I wish I could ... just be more chilled, and get some cool clothes instead of this crap, and wear jewellery—every day, not just on special occasions—and, well, just feel normal for a change. Ally: a normal chick. Now, there’s a concept.

  My room’s the only place I can be with this burning inside. I pick up a pillow and smash it as hard as I can on my bed. It hardly feels like I’m doing anything. I belt it over and over and over and my arms don’t even hurt. I reach up and try to wipe out the wall, but the pillow only makes a low, lame uummphh. Not the right sound at all for this, for this! I rip down my stupid poster of the Doors—what a joke, like I’m the kind of person who can pull that sort of thing off. Talk about punching above my weight.

  I look at my diary, but I’m too weary.

  I faceplant the bed, the poxy floral pillowslip that Mum insisted on putting on. I’m sick of this deal, I’m sick of it. I’m just gunna lie here and everyone can seriously go and piss off.

  HIS PLACE

  I don’t tell anyone where I’m going. I don’t give a toss. They can think I’m leaving, for all I care. I slam the door, and a couple of maggies waiting for Mum’s kitchen scraps fly vertically off the verandah like helicopters.

  ‘Yaaahh!’ I bellow at them. They might have to wait a very long time for more scraps, and I can not believe I now have to go and meet Rel’s parents. Nice sweet Ally with eyes like boiled eggs and a temper like Satan. Or Hitler. Shite. At least it means I can get out of this hellhole I’m meant to call home. Prawning. Dad’d be jealous, if he knew, and Jerry, too. Good. Suck shite. I’m not gunna save them any.

  I follow the sandy path down to Rel’s place and practise smiling along the way. It feels like someone’s forcibly pulling my skin back towards my ears. Hopefully, Rel won’t notice how weird I look—and hey, weird’s no different from usual, I guess.

  They’re loading up the car when I get there. Buckets, gas barbie, blankets, towels, old sneakers and booties—the works. They’ve got an ancient old beast for a car, a really long station wagon, but it’s in perfect nick, shiny and clean and with perfect leather bench seats and old dials and everything. I’m not sure if it’s funky or totally daggy.

  A woman crawls backwards out of the wagon part and smiles at me. She’s got curly hair and a really nice face; she’s smiling at me. I can’t help it: I grin back at her, despite my garden-slug lips from too much crying.

  ‘Alison? Rel’s inside, sweetheart, just go on in.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I breathe out. That wasn’t so bad. I didn’t even have to say hello to Mrs ... Mrs Who? Jesus, I don’t even know their surname.

  ‘Rel?’ I go into their kitchen, trying to take it all in. There’s stuff everywhere—bunches of flowers and drying herbs, pots and pans hanging over the oven like in magazines, shelves lined with funky pottery and thick Mexican wine goblets, a groovy wooden benchtop (like, a tree sliced in half), rows of cookbooks, and a collection of cats—all sorts—scattered all about the room. Wooden cats, ceramic teapot cats, pictures of cats, cat cushions, pottery cats. A big stripy rug covers the floor.

  ‘Hey.’

  I swing around, my eyes wide. ‘Hey.’

  There’s one of those embarrassing pauses, so I say, ‘Wow—your place is so ... funky. And I met your mum.’

  He nods. ‘Wanna drink?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ I lie. ‘Oh, well, yeah, if you’re having one.’

  He holds up a bottle of or
ange and mango cordial.

  ‘Yeah, fine,’ I say, looking around more because I don’t have a clue what else to say. There are a couple of huge bright paintings on the walls.

  ‘Want some mulberries for the road?’

  The sun’s setting. Orange light cuts into the room. ‘Sure,’ I smile, thinking, yum, while around me, their house begins to work its way in.

  PRAWNING

  I can remember the nights we used to go down to the foreshore and prawn with other families. Jerry was pretty young, but even he came out into the water, and Mum and Dad would each hold a corner of the net and I’d wade quietly behind to see if I could spot the little critters, and try to avoid the jellyfish. But river prawns are see-through in the water. They look like mini light bulbs until they’re cooked, and then they go the kind of pink that only Paris Hilton would be seen in.