‘So what happened then?’
‘Mum wasn’t used to having anyone living with us, someone who expected her to do things with him. Dad didn’t have a job or anything, so he had all this free time. He expected us to eat dinner together every night, all these courses he’d make — I never knew men could be cooks like that and, yeah, they were great meals, weird sometimes but really good, but not every night. He didn’t like Mum going out to Women’s Lib meetings at night, said we should all be a family, and he got upset when Mum marched in the May Day parade because he thought May Day was communist, but it isn’t! Not the way we do it here. We just didn’t fit together,’ said Fish desperately. ‘He was okay. But we weren’t the family that he was pretending we were. That was a lie too. They were lying all the time, both of them, and not admitting it!’
‘And then?’ asked Jed gently.
Fish picked up a loose bit of coconut with the tip of her finger. ‘I told him so,’ she admitted. ‘And I said I wished he’d never come to Australia, and he was making Mum and me miserable, and couldn’t he understand that I was Australian. I said, “Don’t you understand?” And he just said, “Yes.” Just yes and walked out. No one has heard anything from him since. And Mum yelled at me, even though it was what she’d been thinking too, and I yelled back and she wouldn’t even say she was sorry, said it was all my fault. And I rang Gran and said I couldn’t stay with Mum any more . . . And Gran brought me here,’ her voice broke, ‘and Mum hasn’t called, so there must still be no word from Dad and I didn’t mean it! Or I did mean it, because it’s true, but not like that. I don’t hate him or anything. I . . . I like him. I just wanted him to see things as they really were.’
‘Which is a good thing,’ said Jed quietly. ‘But it can be hard too. Fish, I think your father is okay.’
Fish scrubbed her hand across her eyes. ‘Why do you think that?’
‘Your mum must know that there’s been no report of his death or the body of an unidentified man being found or of anyone answering to your dad’s description being in hospital. The police would check all that. And your dad survived the war and getting here on a leaky fishing boat. I think he’s as tough as his daughter.’
‘But I’m not his daughter — well, I am in that way . . .’
‘I loved my father, but I didn’t like him,’ said Jed.
Fish tried a smile. ‘I like mine. But I don’t love him. You can’t love a father in less than a year. Not one who’s so different.’
‘I expect you will though, one day.’
Fish looked back down at the shreds of coconut again. ‘I suppose. Maybe. Yeah, one day. And, okay, maybe I do love him a bit already. He’s really nice most of the time. And clever. And interesting. But I don’t want to live with him. And I’m not Vietnamese.’
‘And I’m not Polish.’
‘What?’
‘My dad’s name was Skellowski. I shortened it to Kelly after I left my stepmother’s place. He was Polish. He came out here when he was a kid with his parents. But I’ve never felt Polish. I don’t even know any Polish food.’
‘Beetroot soup with sour cream,’ said Fish automatically. ‘And chlodnik — that’s a cold cucumber soup.’ She flushed. ‘We did the foods of different countries at primary school. But we didn’t do Vietnam.’
Jed scrambled to her feet and dusted off crumbs of lamington. ‘I love beetroot soup and hate cold cucumber soup. Don’t know if that makes me more or less Polish. Feeling any better now?’
‘Sort of,’ admitted Fish.
Jed smiled. ‘Found the Gibber’s Creek psychopath yet?’
‘You don’t think there is one, do you?’
‘No.’
‘Anyway, no, I haven’t. Not yet.’ Fish wondered if she should tell Jed about old Mrs Lee and the bodies on the beach. But the old woman had hidden that for maybe eighty years, except from her friend Matilda. It wasn’t Fish’s secret to share. ‘I’m going to see a man called Pete Sampson on Monday.’
‘Good,’ said Jed. They began to walk along the track back to Dribble.
‘Why? You think he’ll have some useful information?’
‘No,’ said Jed, still smiling. ‘But he’s got stories you’ll never hear from anyone else. Mustering brumbies up in the high country and how Matilda came to own Drinkwater. His father was the farm manager at Matilda’s first little farm, and then later at Drinkwater. Pete Sampson was even at Gallipoli. I love listening to him.’
‘Have you ever asked him about missing people?’
‘No,’ said Jed.
‘Then maybe you’ve never heard the right stories.’
Chapter 26
Raffle Results
Winner of the RSL Meat Tray Baffle this weak is Mrs Thelma Uttridge. Congratulations, Thelma! Proceeds to the Gibber’s Creek Legacy and thanks for the donation from Tubby’s Fine Meats.
FISH
Saturday was book club and ‘bring a plate’ for the Greats. Not the same book club: the aunts were in the women’s book club, discussing Colleen McCullough’s The Thorn Birds, while the men’s book club’s choice that month was a Patrick O’Brian book, which probably none of them would have read.
‘But at least one of us will have read the blurb,’ said Great-Uncle Joseph jovially, selecting the bottle of red that it seemed was the main purpose of the club.
Gran was going with the great-aunts, and Fish was welcome to come too. She’d even read The Thorn Birds. It was okay, but she didn’t want to discuss it, especially with a group of women who might resent forthright opinions from a fifteen-year-old. And after that, Gran and the Greats were going to visit Sam, and she didn’t feel right joining them for that either.
‘Have lunch at the Blue Belle,’ suggested Great-Aunt Mah. ‘There’ll probably be other people your age there too.’
Who she wouldn’t know, but maybe if she looked friendly, someone would speak to her. ‘Okay,’ said Fish.
She went to her room to change into her best flares, instead of the paint-splattered ones, then checked her hair in the mirror.
No! Black roots! She looked ridiculous with black roots! And she hadn’t brought any hair dye. There was only one place in Brisbane that stocked it, so there’d be none in this place. She couldn’t go out like this!
Fish grabbed a pair of scissors from her bag and hacked at the pink. Short black would be better than black and pink . . .
She stopped, staring at herself. She looked like a shaved poodle! This was a disaster!
Someone gave a muffled cough, which might just have been a laugh, from the doorway. Fish swirled around. ‘What?’ she demanded.
Blue held out a cloth bag, tied with a drawstring. ‘Would this help?’
‘Nothing will help,’ wailed Fish. But she opened the bag anyway.
A wig. A good one that felt like real hair. Blonde. Curls. This must be from way back in the circus days. Fish pulled it onto her head, then risked a look.
Oh, wow. She looked incredible! Why hadn’t she ever thought of blonde before?
Great-Aunt Blue really was smiling now. ‘I used to wear it. Still do, sometimes. It suits you.’
Fish gazed at herself again. Pink hair had looked great with her brown skin, but blonde curls were spectacular! And they matched the gold fish on her T-shirt too. ‘You really don’t mind if I wear it?’
‘Of course not.’
Fish grinned at herself in the mirror.
An hour later she was sitting at the Blue Belle Café, looking fascinating in her blonde hair, fish T-shirt and flares, reading Barbara Tuchman’s A Distant Mirror, all about the fourteenth century, and hoping someone would notice how gorgeous she looked.
It was a funny café: mismatched chairs and tables, a courtyard where kids and dogs played, and a blackboard menu that ranged from hamburger to zucchini soufflé.
Fish chose the hamburger. It arrived towering over the plate, about half a kilo of beef, sauce, beetroot, pickled zucchini and salad overflowing what looked like a home-made bun.
It also came with a knife and fork.
Fish ate a quarter of it, watching the other customers: women who had clearly put on lipstick and good shoes to ‘come to town’, just as the Greats and Gran had; young mums eating quiche and salad, gossiping while keeping an eye on their kids outside; and a table of teenagers with milkshakes who Fish would have liked to talk to.
She opened her book instead.
‘Er, excuse me. Can I join you?’
Fish looked up. A boy about her own age stood at the table, short brown hair, tanned skin, neat but slightly worn white shirt, blue jeans. Not interesting looking, but at least he was male and a teenager.
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I’m Fish Johnstone.’ She waited for the usual reaction to her name, as well as to her blonde wig.
‘My name’s Woad Smith.’ He looked as if he was waiting for a reaction too.
‘That’s a plant that blue dye comes from, isn’t it?’
He looked surprised. ‘No one else has known that. Except Dad, of course.’ He nodded to Broccoli Bill, who was carrying a box of vegetables across the courtyard towards the back door of the café. His waistcoat was spangled today.
‘That’s your dad? He looks cool,’ said Fish.
‘Yeah? You don’t have to live with him,’ said Woad.
O . . . kay. Reassessment time. ‘It must be interesting growing up in a commune,’ said Fish encouragingly.
‘Only if you like weeding, mulching and plaiting garlic.’
‘Oh,’ said Fish. She tried to think of something else to say. Woad seemed to find her hamburger far more fascinating than her.
‘If you’re not going to finish your hamburger, can I have it?’
‘Of course!’ Fish shoved it over. ‘Don’t you get enough to eat on the commune?’
‘We get plenty to eat. But Dad and Nan are vegan. And Dad believes in barter, not money and the “First World capitalist economy”, which means I can order what I want here in exchange for the fruit and veg. Just as long as it’s not meat.’
Woad stared at the hamburger as if breathing in its fleshiness, then demolished it in ten seconds.
‘Um, would you like another?’ offered Fish.
He flushed. ‘No, thanks.’
‘It’s okay. My great-uncle gave me fifty dollars.’
‘No, really. I shouldn’t have asked in the first place.’ Woad looked even more embarrassed. ‘I’d better go.’
‘Does your dad need you to help make the other deliveries?’
‘No. He always does them himself.’
‘Then stay here. That’s if you’d like to,’ she added hurriedly. She was beginning to kind of like him. ‘Do you need him to give you a lift back to the commune?’
‘No. I’ve got my own bike. Made from three different bikes Dad found at the dump,’ he added in a mutter. ‘Then painted stripes on.’
Which sounded great, but not if his son was embarrassed by it. And her dad had never done anything embarrassing to her, except existing, she thought as Broccoli Bill crossed the courtyard again, his arms now empty. Which was not Dad’s fault. Plus she’d liked him. And was beginning to admire him. And was discovering she missed him . . .
Suddenly the chunky woman who ran the café slid a plate in front of Woad. Another hamburger, this time minus the salad. She winked, then headed back wordlessly to the kitchen.
‘I think she’s decided you don’t have to be vegan,’ said Fish, trying not to laugh at the expression on his face. And his name, because there was no way it wasn’t funny. ‘Do they call you Toad at school?’
Tactless plus, she realised as soon as the words emerged. She had a genuine boy in front of her who had asked to sit with her . . . okay, he’d been interested in her hamburger, not her, but even so . . . and she’d suggested a name even worse than the one he’d been given.
But he just said, ‘Yep.’ He bit into the hamburger.
‘Change it. I changed mine.’
‘You wanted to be called Fish?’
She shrugged. ‘I was six.’
‘I think it might be easier to change your name when you’re six. Everyone knows my name now.’
‘So what?’
He stared at her over his hamburger. ‘What should I change it to?’
‘What’s your middle name?’
‘Eucalyptus,’ he said gloomily.
‘Easy then. Your initials are WES. How about Wes?’
‘Which already is my name, at least in a way,’ he said slowly.
‘Yep.’ She held out her hand. ‘Good to meet you, Wes.’
He grinned and shook it. ‘Glad to meet you, Fish. Hey, how long are you staying down here? Are you going to be coming to school?’
‘I don’t know how long we’ll be here. Only another few weeks, I think. Gran wants to go and stay with her sister too, up at Rocky Valley. You know my family?’
He nodded.
Now what should she say? Carly had been out with a boy two times, and she said finding something to talk about was the worst bit, that and working out if he was going to kiss you and, if he did, where did you put your noses? There was no point asking Woad — Wes — about missing people. He was too young, and from what Great-Aunt Blue said, even his father had been here less than ten years.
‘Hey, is that what you’re reading?’ he asked. ‘I borrowed it last year from the library. Have you got to the bit yet about the plague travelling on the ship?’
She nodded. ‘It’s fascinating, isn’t it? How the whole of England changed just because of a disease. And now we’re getting rid of all the major diseases like smallpox and malaria.’
‘Bet we don’t,’ Wes said. ‘I bet some new disease is going to spring up. That was the whole point about the plague. It was new, well, new to England anyway. Just like the flu in 1919 — that was a new strain. I bet there’s an epidemic of something new in the next ten years.’
‘What do you bet?’
He grinned again. ‘A hamburger. But you’re going to have to come back to get your hamburger if you win, or pay up if you don’t.’
‘You’re on,’ said Fish, grinning back. Just wait till Carly hears about this, she thought. Talking to boys is easy . . .
Chapter 27
Correction: The winner of the annual Gibber’s Creek chainsaw sculpture competition was Jim Headmore, not Headless. Apologies, Jam!
SCARLETT
The sink was full of dirty dishes. Alex was happy to wash up, but only when someone asked him to. He didn’t seem to notice mess. Or maybe he thought that pixies came out at night to clean it up. She supposed his grandmother had done the housework when he was young, and in her experience, everyone in a communal house like the one he’d been in before he came to live with her left the washing-up ‘to soak’, until the crud dissolved or the saucepans evaporated with the end of the universe. Wanting a clean house was a shameful example of the ‘white Protestant work ethic’, though everyone she knew who wasn’t white, or Protestant, also preferred their dishes clean . . .
Scarlett dumped her bag in her bedroom, then wheeled out to clean up the sink before she put dinner on.
Pepper steaks, she decided, because Alex loved pepper steak, and it was quick to make. She shoved a couple of potatoes in the oven, checked there was sour cream in the fridge, noticed two bottles of beer that had not been there when she went out and there was no milk and bread left, and they’d need both for breakfast. She rang through a short but urgent shopping list to be delivered before the shops shut at six pm, then got to work with the suds.
Coffee mugs, with dried sludge at the bottom. Yuck. Alex refused to drink instant coffee, and though he was right — it didn’t really taste of anything — at least it didn’t leave a mess. Dinner plates with gravy stains, glasses with . . .
She stopped, gazing at the glass in her hand. A glass with a lipstick stain. And not her colour lipstick; nor had she left a lipstick-stained glass behind her when she’d left for home.
Home, she thought. I love Alex. Of cours
e I love Alex. But Dribble is still my home.
Fish would say that was significant. And I am thinking of Fish because I do not want to think about lipstick. Pale pink lipstick, just like Barbara wears . . .
Barbara had been after Alex since their first year as students. He’d admitted sleeping with her ‘a few times’, whatever that meant, in that first year too . . .
The door opened. ‘Wonderful, you’re back. I’ve missed you.’ Alex loped over and kissed the top of her head. She thought of Jed’s words and grabbed his hand, then rose, almost completely steady now, and held her mouth up to his. He hesitated, then kissed her, a firm brief kiss, tasting slightly of the curry he must have had for lunch, that left her wanting much, much more.
‘How was Jed?’ He moved over to open the fridge, took out a bottle of tomato juice, poured himself a glass, then added Tabasco. ‘Want some?’
‘Yes, please.’ She carefully washed the offending glass and put it in the rack. ‘Jed’s much better.’
‘Was she sick?’ He sounded surprised.
‘Badly depressed. I didn’t realise. Julieanne’s going down next weekend, but I’ll go back the one after. Jed seems okay now, but it’s easy to slip back into depression. I am not going to let that happen again.’ She decided not to mention the police inquiry adding to Jed’s stress. It was just too complicated.
‘You may be little, but you are unstoppable. Depression’s hard. But if anyone can keep Jed steady with all she has to cope with, it’s you. I’m sorry — I shouldn’t have been so dismissive about your going down there. Let me know if there’s any way I can help.’ He kissed her head again as he passed her the spiked tomato juice.
I may be little, she thought, but in a few weeks I am going to walk across the living room with no walker to steady me. Maybe you will look at me differently then. ‘How was your weekend?’
The Last Dingo Summer Page 15
